The Sun has long sunk beneath the distant marble horizons. For now, it seems as if it will never cast its golden gaze on the lands below again. Despite the lack of heavenly fires there still lingered some light far above the gray soil. The sky was woven with thin strings of silver mist that glistened like pearls under the faint moonlight. That mist was the perfect prey for merciless foreign winds that scavenged those empty skies for an unknown purpose. They would snatch the strings and carry them in their possessive grasp for untold distances until they too would grow tired and fade in the reaches of the old sky. No one could foresee the arrival of this eternal night, not even the gods who ruled over this land in the archaic era. From the very inception the soul has resented the dark. In this lost world most minds were claimed by the chilling hollowness of the night and the thought of creatures that lurked in the unknown, creeping trough the peripheral vision, ever present, just so slightly out of sight. Fear, primordial fear materialized right in front of their eyes in the form of the sentient abyss. There was no final battle or cataclysmic catharsis that engulfed the world. No melancholic conclusions or ironic twists to neatly give the soul peace. The end was silent, marked by the world falling asleep. The very reason grew irrelevant, fallen in its own undecipherable delirium. All that once was, now was no more. Those who endured were left alone in the night. Alone and free to fend and think for themselves, eyes wide open, staring into the darkness. Free to interpret the withering memory of morals and meaning. Free to intertwine the dream of their own with the dream the world itself had conceived.
And one such traveller in the night arrives, marching trough the dust-ridden fog that loves to suffocate the soil below. The voyager at hand was wearing warn out robes that had lost their colors years before the eternal night. The fabric was light, allowing the creature to move swiftly along the ruined road. Underneath the fabric one would not be mistaken for recognizing the distinct tint of flashes of cold steel. It was a somber sight, spotting a creation such as this one wandering this forsaken world. Constructs, or as they were commonly known as automatons, were a cast of ancient creatures that had no flesh or blood, no soul to call their own. Instead their inner workings were a complex mixture of gears and cogs, precise mechanical levers and tin clocks. Unlike any common machine, automatons were blessed with the gift of thought. They were thinking machines, their purpose not of a physical kind, not needed to labor until late hours in dimly lit tunnels beneath marble mountain peaks. They were created with a primal urge to aid in creation of the arts. They were a canvas, a flawless tool for their masters to channel their skills and vision in a perfect form. Common machines were the first ones ones to perish, as they were reliant on their creators to survive, for their mechanisms to be maintained. Automatons, however, were able to maintain themselves, any malfunction they would swiftly fix. Another trouble had swept and taken most of their kin. The greatest burden of all was their mind they had to carry. Sea of ideas and thoughts, unkept, untamed. Savage was their mind, no one to shape it, no one to channel the chaos. It was a paradox, creatures created from precise mechanics and logic lift in a world that had lost its senses, an absurd nightmare. This travelling automaton still seems to function properly in its eerie solitude. Yes, some portions of its metallic skin had become covered in layers of rust, but it was still able to effortlessly maneuver trough the humid darkness. Several tools were neatly hanging by its belt, attached to the metallic vessels body with improvised stitches. The hooded construct was clearly not associated with strings and needles during its prime. To try to understand its purpose we would have to look at another object hanging closely by the tools. A marble plain mask. This machine was an actor. His kind once revered and celebrated, they were on the world's podium, manifestations of characters people loved, hated, cried for and showered with applause. The emotions and overwhelming adoration, the thing that drove these mechanical actors to live, the reason why their core felt warmth. Now there was no script, only the endless journey, a path in the darkness that automatons had to carve out themselves. Blank pages. The construct and its struggle felt deeply human despite its artificial nature. Soon the road grew increasingly damaged by every step. Pebbles scattered among shiny debris. What used to be the road could not be distinguished from the surrounding scorched ground. The construct has stopped in its track, its oversized robe gently waving in the wind. Besides the rhythm of the mechanism, a gentle cyclical song of its insides, the only sound that pierced the silence was the light rattling of the tools pushing each other around. The automaton was staring in the distance, slowly processing the layout of its surroundings. As far as the eye could see there stretched an empty meadow. Once lush grass lost all its color. The strains of golden hay had become dull, the royal tint bleached out and replaced by blank tones of white and grey. Long ago this place was a fertile farmland, traces of life it once housed sparse and vague. The construct had left the old trail, walking by the unkept bushes and tall grass until it had found a spot to rest. It did not really need to follow the road, after all the grand voyage it took part in was completely optional and with no certain goals. For, as far as anyone was concerned, its final resting place could even be this simple clearing under the withered oak tree that it had just found. And so, it rested for a while, letting its form relax under the faded leaves that still clung to the dry branches. It shook its head awkwardly, adjusting to the newfound comfort, running its old cold hands trough monochrome flowers. "Place in time to seek out peace." The machine grew silent; its mechanical gaze locked on the frozen petals. Its voice was pained and tired. "When will I find anything alive in this barren wasteland? It is a somber feeling, yet somewhat comforting. Strange is that thought which I cannot place." It stopped speaking again only to let out a dry chuckle that sounded like thousands of tiny bells chiming. Speaking to itself while no one was around, which was a common occurrence, was a habit it developed during the long journeys. It cringed slightly, even in this inhumane predicament aware of how absurd it looked, rambling to itself. This time it stayed silent and slowly took a blade in its hand which previously accompanied the other tools by its belt. The blade was small, but sturdy, or better described as a chisel. In its other hand the tired automaton was holding a piece of walnut wood. If there was any usable material for carving alongside its path, the machine would do its best to secure it for later use. One of its pastimes was carving various characters from works of literature and most importantly plays it once took part in. Knights, scholars, mages and illusive pilgrims. Kings, gods, prophets and struggling soldiers , they were all characters that its kind embodied, bringing life to countless pages of masterful writers. These characters in their whole were just a minuscule portion of what a soul represented, of what a mind made possible. In all their literary complexity to the actors they had grown pretentious. Caricatures of human emotions, wants, longing, hopes and dreams. Perception clouded by someone else's emotions and ideals. Perversion of depth of the experience of living. They were as vast as the ocean, but as shallow as a puddle. Some automatons weren't of the sound mind. They were rather expensive to create, and their numbers never surpassed hundreds, unlike other machines that were counted in millions. It was a shame that many of the thinking constructs have succumbed to existential dread and let their fury manifest in acts of destruction. They weren't weapons, but they could conjure up dangerous amounts of chaos if they wished so. Some have disassembled themselves, some alone and left to rust, not knowing what else to do, some in the middle of their theatrical performances. Letting the literary tragedy overtake them in one last act of ecstasy. Others have removed their masters from the domain of living. Vengeance was their fuel; their core powered by pure determination and resentment. Luckily, this old automaton wasn't fueled by such grim emotions and instincts. It resented its creator and lots of human attributes, but it would be false to assume that its intentions were anything else but pure. The poor construct was lonely and confused. Fear was a constant part of its existence. Fear of continuing to exist as it is, fear from change and most prominently fear of death. Death was a taboo for any creature found in this weird land. The automatons had no place in the world's cosmology, no promised afterlife. By creation they shouldn't be able to posses a soul. Death was something final, no second chances or divine judgments. There was no known afterthought given by the divine for the mechanical kind. Their worries didn't use to be so grand before as they had their art to tend to. And so did our automaton. Acting, that sweet metamorphosis gave it purpose. Passion overshadowing the forbidden questions and putting its mind in a cycle of comfort and bliss, at least on the surface. The passion was real, but the peace was manufactured. Maybe it was its creator, its master to blame. How was a creature as flawed as a simple man able to create perfection? Automatons were precise, but they couldn't be perfect. The lone machine already realized the limitations of its shell. That didn't mean it would give up trying to feel something else that emptiness in its chest. "Weird. It is surprising that I'm still functioning. That my gears are still running. By any estimate I should have rusted over and faded away years ago. The world itself has lost its fundamental laws. It is as if I am traversing someones dream." It looked around itself while carving the piece of wood. "No one left to remember. Countless souls forgotten, countless stories lost. For an automaton, would being forgotten even make a difference? Would it make a difference for me?" It played with the wooden carving in its hands. "Cynical questions, plaguing my mind, playing games with me. No matter what, I will endure. I made that promise to myself. I hope the oath will not be broken." The carving had become a small figurine depicting the Marble King, one of the characters from old tales any plays. It seems that he was still remembered. A fictional life so important that it had outlived lives of so many real people, and even the memory of its creator. Suddenly the dark bushes nearby rustled. The automaton froze. Again that agonizing impulse, that primal instinct; fear. The land had no laws or regulations. It could be a scavenger, a mechanical marauder. Looters weren't uncommon. Broken machines looking to prolong their own survival could go as far as attacking their brethren, scooping up their insides and snatching their cogs. Our automaton could easily become a pile of scraps for another construct to tend to its mechanical wounds. It was careful, it was fearful, but it would be a mistake questioning its bravery. It still sat there, waiting, scanning its surroundings. All terror has blended in this one moment. Did the automaton accept defeat? It hadn't seen anyone in what felt like decades. The time has stopped for the poor construct. And then, the wait was cut short, the fear replaced with confusion and amazement. There, out the dark thicket, emerged a creature that could only be described as a bright beacon of blinding light. In a plain white dress, there stood a lost human child. A small girl that seemingly traversed this world alone too. Her eyes filled with sorrows and unbelievable depth for someone so young, but more importantly filled with warmth the automaton had forgotten existed. Maybe it never knew of such sensation. They both stared at each other. At first, the automaton had pulled itself away. It relaxed steadily, leaning closer. "Greetings?" The machine's words were gentle, aware of how fragile the little human was. "You may come closer.", it stuttered. "I won't cause you any harm." She moved with divine grace. Providence had taken care of this child, her innocence the shield from incoming darkness. The girl could feel, she knew the lone construct had only purity in its intentions. A weak human, so trusting, so open and a seemingly cold, reserved machine shy, skeptical of the nature of this encounter. The enchanted automaton wanted to believe in innocence, it wanted to accept and embrace purity. The following moment was woven in a marvelous tapestry, a memory they would never forget, a memory they could never forget. This girl was confidently standing right in front of the now not so lone automaton. Their eyes were locked on each others gaze. Human eyes, filled with grand colors of vastness and mechanical eyes, fatigue and yearning for closeness piercing trough the artificial lens, hoping for recognition and belonging. Every doubt has melted, the automaton has melted, its mechanical heart open and vulnerable. The automaton has shifted closer, face to face, referring to the girl with care. "Little one, are you as lone as I am?" The girl didn't speak, her gaze strong and clear, she smiled and nodded. The automaton shyly blinked. "Would you mind sharing a moment in time with a simple machine such as me under an ancient oak tree?" The girl sat besides the automaton. She scooted a bit closer seeking some closeness. The automaton yearned to protect and care for this being, a need to become a guardian of something it perceived as sacred. A small act of kindness and trust. "Little one?" She would fall asleep in its arms. The construct kept her safe with a sense of parental duty, with a sense of longing, with a sense of love. For the first time in its life the automaton could feel the primordial warmth around its core; peace.
The road was vast and endless. Following its tracks there was our automaton, this time in the company of the small girl, his entire world. It should have surprised him how fast they formed their bound. But he didn't waste his time to bother. Every moment, every tick of his clockwork heart was being spent treasuring the presence of the little creature. He had been built as an actor, without a mask he was faceless, envisioned as a literal canvas, made to be one, reshaped into something else, reshaped into himself. The masks have lost their use, discarded by the same oak tree. His feelings couldn't be called artificial. He truly cared for her; his mechanism bathed in warmth of belonging, warmth, love, he could feel it. He thought that he would stay alone forever. He thought he didn't need anyone, that he was better off alone, far away from anything human, far away from anything that would make him question his nature. He feared he would hurt others out of reckless selfish need to be wanted and to crave someone else's love. He feared he would end up chained by needs and worries, yet the loneliness was driving him more and more desperate, thoughts running wild, mind plagued with lack of meaning. Purpose had been a distant memory before, an idea that could never be realized until that moment. He looked at her smiling, and she would look back, she would smile back. He stopped letting fear creep inside him. He accepted what he was, who he was. They were perfect, two old friends, two souls that had known each other from their very inspection. The fog didn't seem so menacing anymore. Even then, when the world has stopped functioning and when reason had lost its meaning there was beauty hiding in plain sight. Flower petals scattered all around, droplets of water shining like thousands of tiny moons, whisps of stardust dancing in the wind, archaic roots hiding their arcane tales, pebbles engraved with footsteps of everyone that had ever followed the road. There was no goal, only two souls sharing a moment in time. It was liberating, it was fresh, it was something eternal. He was free to love and not let himself be taken over by pretentious heroism and false sense of righteousness that had always been present in his plays. She was his lighthouse. She let him experience humanity; she let him experience himself. And so, underneath some other old oak tree, among the flowers of some distant field, at a moment in time, in a land without meaning and order, with a friend in his embrace even our automaton made of cold steel slowly let himself be claimed by the soothing streams of incoming dreams.