'cause everyone else has one and it feels weird for me not to have one. Plus it doesn't change anything I do ever.
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Nacht Ihr Vater is extensive.
His network nebulous yet shaped, for as water fills a container, so too does he fill the universe. He has lived for millenia, cheating Death of his single tally for unfinished goals, worked towards for longer than a species would ever survive in as dangerous universe as he dwells in. He is ever busy, working on a grand scheme which will fill all things, grander than time, extending beyond matter and energy, more prevalent than space itself. When he is done, when all is complete, he will remember building this. He will remember, and he will be still, for he does not cherish his own being, fraught with tedium and confusion.
Ihr Vater does not suffer confusion.
But he accepts that it is necessary, for however brief a moment as it will be done unto him, and he does not fight it. He embraces confusion, the universe astounding him; he cherishes his weaknesses, his mishaps, the overwhelming incorrectness of his thoughts. They serve him as would a slave a master; a hound, a hunter. And he learns from them, forever bound to them in an endless struggle to outdo, to be alone. He wishes only to be rid of them.
Yet still, he embraces them.
But one digresses, on such a thought as that. It becomes unnecessary for any to know his inner workings, for all you care to know is his story, forever long and yet completed.
Ihr Vater was born in Germany, circa 1850. In his glorious homeland, he was a perfect citizen but for one everlasting flaw. Born unable to speak, a mutation which only represses in the presence of humanity, he survived only by her grace. Held aloft by the soft breath of civilization, warmed by her blankets not earned, not deserved, he made it to 1934. Over-aged wine grows vinegar; Ihr Vater grew knowledge. He had accumulated more than any one man should, but still, he was frail, old, and dying.
The Nazis did not seek him out, his knowledge unbeknownst to them, nor did he them, their small presence too insignificant for whatever short time he had left. It was by simple coincidence that they joined, and by simple coincidence, he was given too much. The universe works in so many ways, and for just one action to be thrown, all would be lost. But in your universe, his universe, the actions went correctly. He built himself over the past century, so he built for the Nazis now, their fervor fueling his resources, his knowledge fueling their schemes.
But underneath it all, he had his own goals, mirrored by all in the fascist regime: to rebuild his glory, his nation's superiority, to show that all born in that small speck of dust were better than all the rest born elsewhere upon it. He became so engrossed in this dream that he could not die. His mind would not allow it, even if he were able; his memories too vast, too great to ever be stamped out. He considered death many times, accepting it throughout his mortal years, knowing he could never pass on his cursed genetics, but when those years had passed, he shunned it. He defeated it, as he has all obstacles, and has not conceded since. Not even he knows if he will ever embrace the unknown of death, though he often considers it.
But he must build.
And he builds ever more.
By 1944, he had grown disillusioned with the Nazis. Mein Kampf sounded like a child berating schoolmates for indecencies, not a glorious future for his homeland to be built upon. The Final Solution seemed not to improve his countries stability, but only to weaken it, rooting out Germans from Germans, focusing not on nationality, but heritage. Many fervently patriotic men were killed, not for his homeland, but for a single man of it.
1945 came none too soon. Even as Japan backed out of the Axis, Ihr Vater had moved on. Germany was not the country he once idolized, Deutsch was not a language of glory any longer. He did not, does not, regret his actions, at any point in his life. He does not hate the Nazis, or what they stood for. He simply does not consider them any longer. They are human, and humans are as humans have been, for his life, for others' lifetimes.
With the Cold War's ending, he moved to the Americas, beginning in Canada in October 1993, and later the East coast of the United States in the early 21st century. At various points he was a scientist, a scholar, a warrior, a madman. He made many discoveries, but there was one which he could not make with his current resources, alone as he had been for half a century. He had to once more rely on a grouping of sentience, a notion which made him feel fear, the first in a long while. He moved to Rhode Island, to a place called Paragon, where wondrous new dimensions were opened daily. He hoped, he prayed, he dreamt, for a reality he could call perfect. As he searched for a German world, he came upon many which were exactly as he hoped, but with consequences none could predict. He numbered and cataloged each, and he rejoices in some of these memories. Of course, in each dimension he found himself - some precisely the same, others completely different, but most somewhere nicely in-between. In a majority of the realities, he was dead; in some, he prospered new life. His mutation, random as it will be, was different quite often, and he envied some. He disliked others. But he brought to 'Primal Earth' a select few, and only those willing; through them, he sees much. They are linked, being of the same sentience, and so they are intertwined in this world and others. The search for a perfect Earth lasted him well into the 25th century - but even he grew weary of new worlds, for after a while, it stood to him that it was all the same: humans are as humans do.
And so he left.
In the year 2420, he was bereft of resources, out of wits, and plumb tired. No dimensions could he find wherein Germany was glorious the way he envisioned it. It seemed to be an impossible outcome of any consequence. So he broke. He did as he saw humanity do in all situations, and for it, he was outcast. Unable to die, forgoing his mortal shell for immortality long ago, he was exiled. Brought to ruin by humanity for bringing ruin unto humanity, he was blown into the deepest recesses of space.
With naught but memories to live on for five centuries, he dwelled in his own mind. He could not perceive, he could not test, he could not live, save for what he had lived before. His memories became him; he became memory. And one hour, one second, of his life, he could relive billions of ways, and it all came to one absolute truth. He thrived on this truth. He began to live under this truth. And with this truth in mind, he became the truth. As memories and thoughts, truth and fiction all became one, he became one with them. He was the Truth. He was True. Nothing but He could ever be known to be true or not.
And from this fact, he thrived. And thrives yet.
He builds.
And builds yet.
Forsaking humanity, he builds only to build. When he is done building, he will remember building.
When he has done being, he will remember being.
But he does not build for Germany any longer. He builds for the Truth.
From time to time, he will use what he has built to return. To go through the linearity of time is no large matter for him, and through it, he builds even more. He builds new memories. He builds old memories. He built all memories.
And he builds yet.
Subject: The Ihrs, as it were. 
Thu Nov 10, 2011 9:54 pm
