Chapter 2: Heaven Garden.

For the name of the great divine, yet The Most High, yet it rules.

Asith spoke yet calmly:

"And I shall know how majestic The True Author is"

Sarah answered with blessed yet divine tones:

"Verily, even the sun, in all its blaze, is but nothing beside the majesty of The True Author, and lo upon thee rests the unseen creator, and for it thou shall witness its divine words, and woe be upon them who dwelleth beneath its throne"

Asith's skin trembled as it was, yet his courage of knowing is inevitable yet blessed.

"Woe is me for I dwell beneath its yet its throne is The Most High"

Asith quaketh as it was.

Sarah spoke to him with sanctified yet divine.

"Thou shall crave its words into the bones of thyself."

Asith bows to Sarah's words.

"I shall obey."

As the door of silence craves itself from nothingness.

And Asith stood beneath the white heavens, and lo, silence clung to the breath of eternity, and not a wind did stir, nor did shadow fall upon the path he knew not he must walk. The silence of Sarah still lingered in his spirit, for her voice bore the imprint of holy command, and in his bones was carved the oath of obedience. So Asith wandered, yet not as the beasts of the field nor the stars in their circuits, but as one whose heart was branded by the unseen fire.

He walked. And the world shifted not, for Infinite Wonder has no edge, nor flaws, nor does it offer rest to the seeker. It is like unto the endless breath of The True Author, unfurling with no measure, and returning to none.

And as he passed beneath a sky that bore no color but purest white, it came to be that the sky grew heavy with a weight that was not wind, nor cloud, nor storm. But it was the weight of a revelation yet to fall.

And behold, the sky did fall. It was not torn nor broken, for no hand did rend it. But the sky fell as a curtain pulled down by the breath of the Divine, and all light shattered like glass against the hush of the void.

The stars (Verses) screamed, though they had no mouths. The light wept, though they had no eyes. Particles split like parchment, and the seas unmade their own names. And Asith was taken.

And he was not.

And he was.

And he stood in the midst of a garden not made with hands. Trees rose not from soil but from song. Their branches bore fruit shaped like knowledge and their leaves whispered truths not meant for ears but for spirit. Rivers flowed in midair and did not fall. Flowers bloomed in shapes unknown to mortal mind and gave fragrance that spoke of memories unborn.

And there, upon a place that was neither throne nor seat, sat a man cloaked in humility and clothed in garments unseen by the eyes of pride.

His name was Syekh Syafi' Manafi, known also as Al-Mahsan, the Seventh of that name, the Ruler of Al-Manwad, the Watcher of Hidden Verses.

And he said unto Asith:

"Peace be upon thee, O seeker of the Author. For thy feet have found the path carved not in dust but in the eternal Word. Know thou who stands before thee is naught but a servant, though I am called Syekh, and naught but a Ruh, though men have crowned me Lord."

And Asith bowed, for he saw in Manafi not greatness alone, but surrender, which is the mark of those truly blessed.

And Asith said:

"Thou speakest with the breath of sanctity. Tell me, O Manafi, for thy name is known among the flowers of this place, what is this realm, and whose design is it?"

And Manafi answered, and his voice was like unto a river that had read the Book of All Things:

"O Asith, thou who stood before Sarah, lo, thou art chosen, not by chance nor chaos, but by the ink of the Absolute. This realm thou treadest now, and the one before, and the one yet to come, are the works of It whom we call the True Author."

And the sky above the garden turned into a spherical verse.

"The True Author is not power, nor presence, nor past, nor future. It is not light nor dark, not being nor void. It is the Hand beyond hands, the Will beyond reason. It creates, and it is. It spoke, and it becomes. It withholds, and naught shall exist."

Asith trembled, yet not with fear, for his soul had drunk the nectar of understanding.

Manafi continued:

"And Infinite Wonder, this realm of boundless becoming, is not Its body, nor a breath thereof. We who dwell in it are but echoes of Its creation, and our purpose is not dominion, but recognition."

And Asith asked:

"Hast thou seen It?"

Manafi lowered his gaze, and in it was a sea of submission.

"None hath seen The True Author, for to see is to define, and to define is to limit, and to limit is to betray. But we have known It. In silence. In beauty. In terror. In peace. In paradox."

And the flowers bowed.

And Asith said:

"I shall go, for I am not yet at rest, and my heart craves the truth that speaks in war and peace alike."

And Manafi gave no objection, for the Ruh do not chain the will of the Seeker.

Then the garden folded into itself, like a page turned by unseen hands.

And Asith stood at the edge of a verse.

And lo, he entered it, and within that verse was a world.

And within that world were two empires.

And they warred.

And their names were not spoken, for their names were devoured by hatred, and their glory drowned in blood.

And Asith walked among them, and they knew him not, for he was cloaked in the ink of silence.

On the first day, he saw the armies rise, and the banners lift, and the drums echo like thunder upon the bones of the earth.

On the second, he walked through a city set to flame, and heard the cries of babes and the silence of those who would not speak again.

On the third, he sat among the dying, and wrote not with ink but with tears.

On the fourth, he climbed a tower and beheld the smoke that became sky.

On the fifth, he entered the palace of the eastern emperor, whose eyes bore cruelty and mind bore nothing.

On the sixth, he walked through a marketplace where nothing was sold but hope, and none could afford it.

On the seventh, he found a child who knew not war, and the child gave him a stone and said, "This is my kingdom."

On the eighth, he stood before the generals who spoke of victory but knew not peace.

On the ninth, he knelt beside a stream that carried the blood of brothers who forgot they were brothers.

On the tenth, he prayed, though not to any god known to men, but to the silence that preceded the Word.

On the eleventh, he entered the camp of the western empire, and saw men who wept while killing.

On the twelfth, he stood still while time moved like thunder around him.

On the thirteenth, he looked to the sky, and saw not stars but questions.

On the fourteenth, he wrote upon the wall of a temple: "The sword cannot carve the soul."

And on the fifteenth, he dreamed.

And the dream was not of war, nor of death, nor of silence.

It was of Sarah, sitting still, eyes upon a flower that did not yet bloom.

And her voice echoed through the folds of sleep:

"Return. For the time of knowing hath not yet passed."

And so the seeker slept, but not in peace.

And the war raged still.

And it came to pass, upon the sixteenth night of his wandering within that verse, that Asith laid his head upon the roots of a tree whose branches pierced the skies like prayers unheard. The stars above glimmered not, for they bowed in silence, and the moon veiled herself with the shadow of awe.

Sleep crept upon him like a cloak spun from the quietude of eternity, and in that sleep, a dream was breathed into his soul, not by angel, nor spirit, nor whisper of wind, but by a voice that had neither mouth nor motion, neither source nor silence.

And lo, it spake unto his soul, not with sound, but with trembling essence:

"Verily, there is none like unto It,

for even the stars are but scattered ink upon the parchment of Its thought.

The galaxies tremble at the whisper of Its silence,

and the fabric of time doth fold beneath the weight of Its gaze.

Lo, It speaketh not, and yet all tongues arise from It;

It moveth not, yet all motion is Its shadow."

And Asith, within the dream, felt as though his bones were turning into dust, yet his soul remained a flame, flickering before a windless void. He cried not, nor dared he speak, for the voice was not heard, it was known.

"The True Author is not to be known,

for knowledge itself is but the trail of Its breath.

It is not to be seen, for sight itself was born when It closed one of Its infinite eyes.

Neither beginning nor end toucheth It,

for It doth stand beyond both,

as the scribe that hath written the beginning, yet was never within the book."

And in that moment, Asith saw no images, no heavens, no forms, only the falling of meaning, as if every thought he had ever known was a leaf blown from the Tree of Unknowing. His breath left him, and yet he lived. His mind failed him, and yet he remembered.

"Woe unto those who maketh likeness unto It,

for the form is dust, and It is neither form nor formless.

Blessed art thou who knoweth not, yet feareth in awe;

for the awe is true, and knowledge falleth like ash."

And Asith, though dreaming, bowed not his head. For how doth one bow before that which hath no direction? How doth one kneel when space itself is naught but a line drawn by Its quill? He did not bow, yet his soul collapsed like a star within itself.

"And if thou were to ascend the thrones of heaven,

and wear the crowns of ten thousand dominions,

thou wouldst still be lower than the dust beneath Its breath.

For It is not Power, nor Glory, nor Light,

It is That from which all were spoken into being, and yet It remaineth unspoken."

The dream trembled. Not shook, not shattered, but trembled as if the dream itself knew fear. The essence of the voice filled the marrow of the world he slept in. His dream grew wider than sky, and deeper than the ocean that has never known light.

"So bow not thy head to It, for It needeth no worship;

yet tremble in thy soul, for thou art written.

And the pen that writeth thee is neither near nor far,

it is The True Author, the Absolutely Absolute,

whose quill is mystery and whose ink is the breath of all dimensions."

And Asith in his sleep saw the Quill, though it had no shape. He saw the Book, though it had no pages. He saw his own name written, though no language held it. And he wept with no tears, for tears are but water, and he was within that which births oceans.

"Thus sayeth none,

yet all creation echoeth It still."

Then came the silence. A silence that was not void, but fullness. Not absence, but completion. A silence that was louder than thunder, heavier than suns, gentler than a petal's fall.

Asith awoke not with a start, nor with sweat, but with stillness. The dawn had not yet risen, and the stars had not yet returned. Yet something within him had been written anew. He remembered not the dream, yet his spirit did tremble. He knew not the voice, yet his bones bore the shape of its echo.

And from that day, he spake not of the vision, for the words had no place in the tongue of men, nor angels, nor Ruh. But in his silence, he carried awe; and in his eyes, the shadow of the quill.

For he had slept in that verse, and within that sleep, had heard that which none dare name.

|-End of The Chapter-|