Eilert shook his head; Sturm really was amazing. To study shades to such an extent, to find a way to draw out the souls of those consumed and give them new life...such an idea would have been eternally beyond him. Part of could easily see how they would regard Sturm as their benevolent creator if they knew just what he did to create them.

Though, part of him knew all too well now the trouble such devotion could bring. "People can do great and terrible things when they believe it is the desire of their creator," he commented.

It wouldn't take much to figure out who else he was referring to...

"Indeed . . ." Sturm replied with a sigh.

He knew exactly what Eilert was talking about--and truth be told, he was even able to cite examples of Ersatzshad acting horribly because they thought it was his will. Unfortunately, that which those few Ersatzshad thought was his will was nothing more than off handed comment he made during a fit of frustration. They took his word seriously--they took his word like one took God's. Sturm never wanted that sort of responsibility.

And unfortunately, there really was no solution to it. At least, not one that Eilert or Icsorue would have been fond of.

Once they came to this, Sturm felt uncomfortable talking about it anymore. Silver was dead and gone--his plot was no more, just like the horrors nearly committed in Sturm's name were brought to a close.

"Eilert . . ." Sturm began as he changed the subject, "The solution Icsorue is after . . . it is only a temporary fix. I hope you understand this . . ."

More than likely, Eilert did--and more than likely, Icsorue didn't. Even if she thought about it, she probably refused to acknowledge those thoughts . . .

"Today wasn't a cause of this," he indicated towards his body weakly, "It's been dying on its own for the last month. Slowly . . . but surely. Pushing it only sped the process . . ."

He nodded slowly; Sturm himself had said it would slow the degradation, not stop it. He didn't like it, but while he could potentially heal any physical injury--if he could get the Glyph of Regeneration to work in reality--he could do nothing to stop that kind of ailment. Trying it might even speed it up.

"...That's...why I said you're a fool. Only a fool would busy himself so much he could not even take the occasional nap."

Another sigh escaped him; he felt old now, too old. Like he was lecturing some young student, and Sturm himself was not a young man by any means.

"Loathe as I am to admit it, I think...I can understand how you feel. To know you are to die, to have known it for some time...and to know you have lived as best as you were able...such a thing can bring peace, even as those around you despair."

Eilert was correct in that judgment. Sturm was a fool for what he did and what he put his body through, everything which was killing him now. But in the end, it was a requirement. Any amount of time he lost would have let Silver go one step closer to completing his goal. For Sturm to stop the man, he needed to work as much as humanly possible--even if he had to manufacture drugs to allow him that ability, and even risk death to continue.

"Indeed . . ."

Eilert's past wasn't a pleasant one. It was just the same as this, only prolonged for a lengthy span of time--most of Eilert's life, in fact. He tried to make the most of it, and died feeling that he'd lived a full life, only to experience horrible disappointment when he awoke again.

"But given time, I suppose . . . and preparation," Sturm thought aloud, "It could lessen the blow. At least . . . one can only hope."

Hope. That was it, that was the key. Eilert thought the same when he was dying--but in the end, his wife still committed suicide. There might be a difference here, though. Icsorue and Eilert would continue to exist where Sturm did not. In the best case scenario, they'd have each other for comfort, if it was ever needed. For Icsorue, that might well be a requirement . . .

"Hope," Eilert repeated. He closed his eyes in contemplation; that was the word he'd been searching for. If there was one word that encompassed everything he lost, everything he became, it was that one. After reawakening as an Enigma, he'd felt as though there was nothing more to look forward to. Having a task to fulfill was all that kept him functioning, for not having one caused his mind to wander onto subjects he'd rather not dwell upon, and so he busied himself with research and practice when he had time to spare.

"I'm not sure I feel that even now."

He reopened his eyes, leaning his head back so he was looking at the ceiling. It was difficult to believe from his pale face that he was well into middle age--quite possibly Silver was the only Enigma that was older than him. However, because of his body's condition, having died from disease, it stopped aging; he only looked to be in his mid thirties, which was less impressive considering he died in his mid-twenties.

And now he felt even older, with the memories of the first thirty or so years of another life also in his mind. "But perhaps...if I can not feel despair...for the time being that will be sufficient."

And now . . . it was Sturm's turn to feel old.

"It's difficult, that--hard to grasp, and even harder to hold onto," Sturm replied, "But in the right people . . . one can find hope."

If there was anything Sturm learned in his life, it was that. His world was a small one, too, like Eilert and Icsorue's--but he found hope in his allies, his creations--the Ersatzshad, his friends, and all those lives he felt compelled to protect. It was a lesson, however, that one simply had to learn on one's own. Eventually, though, if a person could live long enough, they'd find hope in a sea of despair--hope, perhaps, in another person. A wife, a child, a friend, a foe, or perhaps even a total stranger.

Those words were something only an old man could have come up with--and they were perhaps amongst the most meaningful words of advice Sturm had ever given.

They were also perhaps the last words he could muster right now, too. Sturm's head was leaned back against the wall and his eyes were closed. When he spoke, his words were quiet and cracked. He was losing the battle to sleep at last. It could've been anywhere from seconds to minutes before sleep finally took him, but the threat was very real, and Tyrian Sturm was no longer fighting against it.

Eilert nodded; he knew this to be true. But Sturm himself was one of the two people now who gave him any kind of hope, and all signs pointed to his death looming in the near future...and even sooner, if the Pink Enigma didn't hurry.

Noticing that his friend's silence wasn't the same as before, he turned to see him about to nod off. "Tyrian, please!" he pleaded urgently, placing his hand on his shoulder and shaking--though he could not muster the energy to do so with any appreciable force. "Hold on a little longer...if you go before Icsorue returns, she will never forgive herself. And...there is still much I would speak with you about, that I could only share with you."

Would Icsorue understand the visions he saw, appreciate the choice he'd had to make? He wasn't sure; she wasn't dumb, but she did not think in abstract very often from he observed.

Sturm was roused somewhat by Eilert's interference.

"I--"

He opened his eyes regretfully. He'd felt sleep coming just moments before Eilert took his shoulder and weakly pushed against it, to rouse him from a brief moment of almost slumber.

"--will be fine. Don't worry . . ." Sturm whispered, ". . . Icsorue will come. I have, perhaps . . . hours. There is . . . time . . ."

Was it that he would die if he closed them for too long? After having gone so long without sleep, he couldn't imagine sleeping anymore--but it was a latent desire, now. He'd gone through so much for the world's sake, sacrificing six months to do continuous work. Such length of insomnia would've been horrifying to some, but it was a worthwhile venture for Sturm, who could create the means to allow for such dedicated research.

Sturm could barely think about it anymore. At any other time, he might have been afraid to fall asleep, but now, with his battered and worn down body, it was the only think he could think of.

"I just . . . need to rest . . ." he continued tiredly, trailing off with his last syllable.

"I see. My mistake," Eilert apologized. Part of him had jumped to the conclusion that Sturm meant that if he fell asleep he'd die, which was obviously somewhat improbable if organ failure was the ultimate problem. But he was not an expert on medicine, and lately his suspicion of disbelief had greatly extended.

He gave Sturm one of his slight smiles. "Then get some rest, Tyrian. Icsorue will return soon, and I have little doubt if she can't handle the injection herself she'll wake you up. Perhaps even if she can."

If anyone had earned their rest, it was him. Though...Eilert himself was exhausted as well. His own limits may not have approached those of Tyrian Sturm, but they'd still been stretched to the breaking point today. (It was really just one day? It seemed like a lifetime.)

Without the company of his friend, he too would soon drift to much needed sleep...

A millennium ago, an organization was established. It was founded on a smaller conglomerate of people: the Guardians of Utopia. This small conglomerate entirely comprised the known first bourns of the world, the first direct descendants of Dormon. It was they that locked away Oblivion; the dark sister world of Utopia--it was they that stood as a tribunal before the ever searching mystery being, the creature known only as "The Exile," who sought the darkness of Oblivion.

They, the Guardians, a collective existence well over four thousands years old.

But with the threat of The Exile, who pierced their bindings of Oblivion, leaving behind a single hole through which any could pass-- a whole they, themselves, could not bind; the Guardians understood the futility of a compact group with compact ideals. They needed to expand.

And so, the organization of Enigmas was born.

The Enigmas, an organization devoted to the world in the most perverse of senses. They didn't cleanse the world of malicious existences, nor did they police the world's leaders, the benevolent and tyrants alike. But they had their hands in it. They had their hands in everything. The Enigmas--they never began with that name. It was instead given to them in a conspiracy theory concluded by one man that mysteriously disappeared soon after.

That man theorized that all the world's powers and governments were connected by a singular entity, an Illuminati, a guiding hand to all powers.

And he was right.

At their peak, the organization of Enigmas had under their belt ninety percent of the world's known powers. The rest of the ten percent was subject to eradication. It could be said that their existence was both an evil and a good, a neutral that wavered from one direction to other, from good to evil, depending entirely upon their leadership: the Guardians and the Prime Directors under them. Their methods differed with time, but their primary goal remained the same: to enforce the boundaries of the worlds, and prevent organized humanity from pushing those boundaries.

While the organization may have been founded on the Guardians, by the Guardians themselves, only one Guardian at a time ever took charge of the organization. The others were committed to a sleep, guaranteed to persist until it was time for another to arise to take the place of a current weary Guardian, or until the worst case scenario came to life: a Guardian was killed. Then, and only then, was it imperative that they were replaced. Amongst those ancients was Selena, the active Guardian during the final years of the Enigmas.

They were nestled into the former home of the Guardians, the Sky Temple, a mountain born fortress expertly concealed from the rest of the world. There, they were kept warm. There, they were kept a secret.

For a thousand years, the enigmas choked the world, stifling its ability to both heal and better itself and the last Prime Director was the very caricature of their organization.

The Silver Enigma.

He hadn't a name, only an ambition. In his acting years, he subtly choked the life out of the world around him. Enigmas killed and destroyed just as much as they controlled, and just like their control, the world could not pin the guided events of catastrophe upon their cloaked organization. As Prime Director, amongst three of the most influential acting Enigmas under the Guardian, he set up events with a world plan in mind, and until it came to his time to turn his malevolent plans upon the organization, everything fell as he planned.

The acting Guardian, Selena, was killed.

The other Guardians were roused from their slumber by her demise. As they crawled from their scattered locales, they were greeted cloaks . . . and daggers.

And at last, Silver had his fellow Prime Directors removed. The Gold Enigma was removed at the hands of her pupil, guided by Silver's singular ability: to brainwash any he stood near, and present their orders as unconscious and absolute. The Gold Enigma was presumably killed--and the Purple Enigma before her was driven out. But unfortunately for Silver, he failed to kill that man: Tyrian Sturm.

Time was their test, Silver and Sturm's, both vying to complete their plans before the other. Silver, to bring about the annihilation of the world and Sturm, to stop the Silver Enigma.

And it was Sturm who succeeded in that test--but not alone. In the end, he could only provide the gun. It was on Eilert Draugr, the oldest active enigma next to Silver, to pull the trigger.

They saved the world from the Silver enigma, but at the cost of hastening the condition of Sturm's, an inevitable death from excess in which he pushed himself. It was, however, the risk he intended to take. Eilert Draugr and Icsorue Lahmendt fought for each other and Sturm, their fellow Enigmas fought for their right to continue to be, and Tyrian Sturm fought for all of their rights to exist-- each individual man, woman, and child, to have the right to breath, live, and grow in a world that they, themselves, could mold, if they desired.

This world is as capable of good as it is evil. Always, there will be the imperialistic tyrant, the genocidal madman, the pedophile warlord, and all those that hurt for the sake of merely causing pain. A world without them was impossible. Pain was unavoidable. But as unfortunate as it was to find yourself the victim of these people or the inheritor of these pains, the world is better off. The knowledge of pain and war allows for the comprehension of peace and prosperity.

Paradise, in its raw ideal, is an impossible dream. Eden cannot exist.

The most we could ever ask for is to stand on this side of paradise.

The world we have today.

Eight days following the defeat of Silver, Tyrian Sturm passed away.

He never had the chance to see the betterment of the world that he gave his life for--but he didn't need to. That night, hours before he passed away in his sleep, Tyrian Sturm dreamed of what was to come.

And he was at peace.

There were still battles to come, and there always will be. The world will never cease to change. Its end will come, someday, perhaps someday soon, but it is an end that will be but a metaphor. Humanity will not cease to be. Nothing, in fact, will die off forever. They will only change, for that is the way of the world: a continuous cycle, a perpetuating revolution.

And someday, this, too, will come to pass.

But not today.

And not for thousands of generations to come.