Decoded from Captor 225, retrieved at the base of the Dead Sea by special agents. Mission title: undisclosed. Date retrieved: unavailable. Captor's report on "Birth of an Eternum" - suspected account of celestial witness to the origin of "Eternal Stream" phenomena. References to birth, death and resurrection of Christ have been docoded.
Message (decoded) as follows:
Picture a small, incandescent bead threading a course through an ocean of space. As it proceeds, it leaves in its wake a solid white line upon which is etched an indelible memory of its passing. This bead; unwavering slug of metal, bore the name of "Time". The solid white path on Time's tail was called "History". The two were seldom on speaking terms. Time would press forward on relentless path to nowhere, with History, lone, silenced and subdued, dragged along as naught but an effect of Time’s happening. Lead and follow were the order of the day; a clear distinction between head and tail, master and slave, dictator and drone.
I, the Captor of all things done, doing and yet to be, stood from afar observing the couple; for aeons I peered, with meticulous eye, with wondrous gaze. Onto He who had set them, breath and motion, The Architect of all that be, I quested: “Are Time and Tail never to find their parity? Alien to each other, an abyss lies between them. Time, I have found, kills everything he meets, and behind him sputters the corpse of his victims, of which, paradox of all, is born History, his son. History it seems, in the eyes of time, is a son of incorrigible nature; the insalvable sinner left behind to his death. Great Master of all, I would be honoured to behold, of Time, the unveiling of your will.”
The Master smiled. In pensive poise, he leaned over to His Son, and gesturing gently, whispered to His mind in words and whistles beyond my reckoning. The Son, awestruck by His Father’s plan, made visible His steadfast nod of approval. Intently I watched as He rose in ardour; a child-like manner to his mettle, as he made off on path towards Time itself. My interest piqued, I gestured to The Architect, who drew close to my shoulder saying “Look carefully. What is about to unfold will be witnessed only once.” I took the ledge as a vantage point, shifting in search of squared view and steady gaze.
Then I saw Time, cycling through mounds of matter, building and tumbling things…all that is born, that be, that exists. Upon his arch he erected monuments…mountains and mastodons, megaforms of all sorts, living and non-living. From arch to underbelly they shifted at the mercy of Time, thinking to himself; “This too…shall die.” He maintained, in cyclic fervor, the delicate balance of life and death. At once, he gave mothers to men, then men to mothers, then both unto earth, then earth unto blossoms, and back. For “this too…shall die.” Kings mounted thrones and stern structures of governing men. Clerics forged temple towers, teachers built academies, and thinkers…ideologies, mindscapes and metaphors. “This too…” thought Time, “this too shall die.”
Then came the Master’s Son, as all things wrought of Time…a creature of flesh and blood, of human heart. And Time, as all others, had raised him from the helpless of creep and coos to stature befitting a man of wisdom. Then came the appointed moment, when Time, by custom, would level him to nothing. “And this too…”, thought Time, “this too…shall pass,” said the Son, fulfilling the words of Time itself. Freighting death, Time unleashed upon the Son’s flesh every ruinous force imaginable. Scourged at the Pillar, his skull pierced of thorns, Time saddled upon him the burden of all History. Anguished and bleeding, the Son fell thrice; stripped of all strength as Time pressed further.
“You are finished!” declared Time. “It is finished”, the Son returned. But Time was unaware that the “it” being spoken of, was actually Time and the effect of its happening: ruin, defeat, death, corruptibility and hopelessness. Mustering all that was left of his strength, the Son stood erect, and with the gentlest motion of love, outstretched his arms on either side as a human cross. Exhaling his last, he surrendered to death, allowing himself to be dragged and crushed under the weight of Time. For three days, Time sat firmly upon the Son’s corpse, wrestling with sinews and bone that somehow, miraculously, refused decay. Time had unknowingly met its match, and beyond its match…conqueror. On the third day I witnessed what no human eyes have beheld. Have you ever seen, in the realm of nuclear science, the moment of a neutron’s collision with an isotope? There it was, in blinding burst of light, that the Son split the bead of Time in two, and from the fissure that became, appeared to rise above a tomb.
“Impossible!” said Time, disgraced and defeated. “Possible!”, said the Son, now the master of Time. Commanding the twins, he said onto the first: “Run forth. Take my blood with you, and never stop running. To Eternum, let the future know that I Am.” Having declared this, he turned to the second, saying: “Go back. Back to your beginning of memory. To Genesis…to first light, reconcile History. Renew him, you son, with the life of my blood. Wash over his blunders, heal his wounds, correct his error, refute his falsehoods. Then, he shall know worth, for salvation has come. The Eternum is born. Love conquers time.”
From thence, the twins born of Time’s great fission set a course at the poles that became of either outstretched arm. History and time were born afresh, coequal with all that ever shall be. And whenever the twins grew wistful of Time, they would look back to the place where they began, to see not each other, but the Son their Master, whose outstretched arms are love; a love that is, and is an Eternum.
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