Matin

From a specific distance, the igneous bloom of Elesarp revived a very old memory: Light low on the horizon, smudged by charcoal clouds and attenuated by the remoteness of winter. He thought this projection of his undertaking more than coincidental. Somewhere in that burning carcass hid the heart of dawn.

Closer, that hideous redoubt was a mighty pillar of sempiternal flames, retching up a melanotic nimbus. Its cacophony the aubade of an aeon's ghosts.

He knew of a postern safe from the blaze, and there met a hermit armored in garbage, equally as surprised to meet him.

Plainly, he requested, "I am for the doyenne. Do you know where I can find her?"

Bemused, the hermit answered, "I know where she can't find me."

"Are you one of her children?"

The other shrugged, ignorant or careless of that question's threat. "I am one of yours, Alastor. " Then mulled, and evenly confided, "Go to the Edifice of Cydonia. Call her name: Akasha."

"So I will. But that was not her name before."