He almost felt like Takua the Chronicler again, wandering through the night desert. The stars here were strange, so unlike the ones above the island of Mata Nui. He felt at peace though, more or less like his old self. Toa Takua even had a catch to it. As he walked through the cool night, he let his head slip up to the stars, wondering if there was someone else at the end of an endless ocean staring at the same stars.
Up ahead was a campfire, a billowing tower of smoke coming from the three towers of what used to be Tesara that spiraled into the dark purple sky. That was the checkpoint for the night, and soon it would be time to retire. He wondered if the Toa Nuva were there, and what had happened to them. They were hard to track nowadays, almost blending into the crowds of Matoran and Agori that mixed through the new villages. The entire point of their revolution was to promote peace, but their deeds shouldn’t be forgotten.
Kapura walked with him, hands running along the outlines of the pack on his back. A little tablet was in there, but the information was quite large. It always seemed to be that way, he supposed. Great things come in small packages, Pohatu once told the Chronicler’s company. Funny, how now that idea was being brought back to him. He simply shared Takanuva’s hope, that the Toa Nuva would soon come back to rise to legends once again.
By Alex Humva:
Beacon, oh beacon, guide my way, keep me from going astray
I carried two buckets in my hands, one filled with fish, the other with water. Walking barefoot up the craggy shoreline, I smiled at the tower door came into view. It stood fifty meters high, on the tallest buff for twenty kilometers. Dusk was upon the world, so my arrival was timed perfectly. I put the buckets down, pulling out a key from my loose pockets, sliding the lock open and, in turn, the door. Carrying the buckets to a small stove, I began delicately de-boning my catch, getting a roaring fire going in the stone contraption. I had three fish on a rack in no time, placing them inside the box to cook for a while.
Then I began to climb the stairs. I had seen these stairs every night now, but they never lost their majesty. To the common person they were put a bunch of craggy, moss filled bricks, but to me, they were my home. A fortress to protect me from the world and those who would see me elsewhere. It made me remember my life, my life before I came to the tower. Such a pitiful existence it had been, in the servitude of another. Here, I was a servant to the world, doing everyone a favor. I had one of the most important tasks of them all.
I reached the final level, the room filled with a great many mirrors. Picking up a torch from the wall, I gazed out at the dark ocean, smiling at the starry reflection. Then I lit the center piece, a well of oil, and light filled the room. A great, brilliant light that would blind anyone unprepared. It was beauty incarnate, a guiding light to the world and its travelers. It could be seen for leagues upon leagues, and I was the one who would keep it going. I was the one who would make sure no one died this night, or the next.
So I laid down in a room filled with light, the brisk cold air flooding in, and I sang. I sang to the night and the stars. I sang to the life that would be guided tonight.
There was a slapping sound as Jason’s palm attacked his forehead viciously. In front of him, nicely sizzling, were a half dozen bacon strips. He turned the heat of the stove off with a growl. It was Friday. Worse, it was Lent, so he couldn’t simply substitute another sacrifice. Great. A rare weekday to himself, and his planned breakfast was spoiled. The aroma of the food made his stomach growl. He forced himself to relax, smiling at the absurdity of it all. There really wasn’t any problem, he thought as he put the bacon away in the refrigerator for later. He could just eat something else. Or fast: it was Lent after all. With this resolution in mind, he closed the door of the refrigerator and walked away humming. It was a beautiful morning, and he had wanted to go on a walk. That at least wasn’t forbidden him…
He paused as he passed the diner. His nose twitched, an a ray of excitement shot through him as he sniffed; he wasn’t sure if the smell of his failed breakfast had stuck to him or the diner was cooking bacon. A lot of bacon. His hunger from earlier returned in full force, and he looked wistfully at the diner, a beacon of his longing. With a groan he kept on walking.
The pan was still on the stove when he got back, and for some strange reason the entire kitchen smelled like bacon. He was forced to wipe his mouth as he hurried out of it. Either the world was conspiring against him, or he was going crazy. He knew one thing though; he wanted bacon. Badly.
It was more than the smell of bacon that haunted him that night as he got into his car. Strips of bacon seemed to be hovering in the corners of his eyes, on the seat next to him. He forced his utmost willpower to focus on driving. It was a miracle, he believed, upon arriving at his local church that he hadn’t gotten into an accident. He caught himself as he offered a prayer of thanksgiving to St. Bacon. Again he slapped his forehead, trying to bring himself back to reality. The Stations of the Cross were not a time to be worshiping bacon, dammit!
As he pulled into his driveway, his main recollection of the Stations was that the church smelled like bacon, and the priest seemed to be talking about it constantly. He was sure he had not imagined the plates of bacon on the alter.
He staggered into the house, and came to a halt in the kitchen, staring at the refrigerator.
Somewhere inside that unearthly box was bacon. Six whole strips. His mind turned them over, imagining every aspect of them, their smell taste, feel. He jerked his hand away from the door of the refrigerator before he could open it. It was still Friday!
Hours ticked by as he sat on a chair facing the refrigerator. It seemed to gleam in the dim lighting, like some unearthly beacon. A beacon with bacon. A bacon with beacon. His mind had ceased functioning, and he was sure that he was not imagining drooling.
The clock struck midnight.
A crazed howl burst out of Jason’s mouth.
The door of the refrigerator was slammed open, and there was a sound of clattering and dedicated eating.
It was Saturday, and the bacon could not last.