“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” - Oscar Wilde

We have existed since the dawn of mankind, the seekers of light, empowered by its embrace. Since our conception, we've been ridiculed for our connection with the only true deitical entity. Do you not believe me? Allow me to tell the story, of a man; a ruler, a King among men lost in the annals of history to repress the order of Light. The natural order of things was rendered unbalanced by the successes, the legacy of the man in question. The first lesson and light seeker can learn is the one related to the first to see it, of which his birth name we shed and dub Lux Aeterna; Eternal Light.

- The Order of Light, Volume One

"Sir? We should be arriving soon." A young man, no older than twelve years old said aloud. On the horizon, a small field located on the Tigris river bank. The man, simply smiled down on the little boy, twirling the sword in his hand between his fingertips. A slight chuckle escapes his throat as the party, that consisted of him, the boy, and two others, marched closer to the field.

The walk had lasted for a good thirty more minutes, before they were even within ear shot of the field. Two men tended the field, their eyes, minds, and souls preoccupied with ensuring their long term survival that they did not even notice the immediate threat. Studying the two, watching them work, he slowly raised his hand up and pointed at the man that stood to his left. From there, he slowly turned his arm so that he was now pointing at the field tender that stood closer to the river. Nodding, the man charged, sword in hand to the man who didn't even see it coming.

Before the man in the field could even react; the sword pierced his stomach and the blade dug itself deeper and deeper into the man's body before being yanked out. The lifeless corpse starts to fall forward, before the swordsman places one hand on its chest and pushes. It falls backwards, landing in the Tigris with a splash. Droplets of blood disperse across the area around the body, staining the river red, if only for a moment.

Seeing the events unfold not even six feet in front of him; the second field hand tried to flee, before the second swordsman appeared in his path. Looking on from yards away, the little boy and their leader nodded their heads in approval. Reacting a split second quicker however, the field hand threw a punch that connected with his attacker's jaw and knocked the sword away. The attacker fell to the ground, and his would be victim rushed to the sword, picking it up before turning around and standing over his body. Hesitation sets in, but finally he stabs downward and plunges the blade into the attacker's chest. Laying on the ground, sword handle sticking out of him, he grows weak. Bright red blood rests on his sun kissed skin, heating up more in the light of the sun. His eyes grow heavy, drooping down, but before it fades entirely to black, he's left with one image.

The sword, belonging to his leader, slicing open the Adam's Apple of the field hand and releasing a surge of maroon blood that glistened in the light of the sun.

"Come with me," a voice, calling from beyond the very essence of the world, the universe, or even conscious thought beckoned. The blackness, the dark void of nothing that everyone sees when their eyes close, lit up. Subtly at first, a flicker at what he perceives to be the bottom. Strengthened by the attention it received, the light begins to transform. White light, faintly flickering in the black abyss soon became a dim glow. Growing, expanding, not stopping until every corner of the blackness he could see was nothing, but a dazzling array of colors, the bright spectacle inviting him.

Imploring him, to open his eyes. To resist the urge to keep complacent, to fight the need to stare at the lights more, for there exists a plane of existence that devoted itself to just that. That, which he would see if he just opened.

His.

Eyes.

Now go, you know what you must do."

Indeed, the man did. Walking toward the field once more, the river well within his sight and the weight of the man floating down stream pressing down on his shoulders. Standing on the edge, staring off into the water also, was the man who had killed the floating man. A man he would've viewed as a friend, a comrade, so little as moments before his enlightenment. Now?

Now he was nothing more than a profligate, a sinner, worth nothing more to him than the faintest speck of dust in the wind. In fact, the dust was much more, hospitable to him now.

No words, just a smile, a nod, and hard shove. The murderer falls into the river with a splash louder than his victim's. Finding himself sucked deeper and deeper into the river, he tires to resist, however futile it may be. Our enlightened soul merely stands there, and watches as the man gets pulled underwater and resurfaces, time and time again. That is, until the time in which he sinks, and doesn't come back up. Dusting his hands off, the savior turns from the scene and marches down the dirt to his next destination:

The house, adjacent the field.

The interior was filled with shrieks and shrills, cries of agony and shame. There, he found the captain, his former leader. The man, he used to respect forcing himself upon a woman who looked not even old enough to bear children of her own. Still a child in her own right, still a child.

Taking the man's sword from the ground, and tapping him on the shoulder, our enlightened ruler returned the favor that his former leader performed upon the man who's online crime was defending himself.

The maroon hued blood flew from the captain's mouth and painted the savior's skin.

His story ended in the same way our savior's began.

Life in works in ways mysterious to most, does it not?