Dear Axopatomsá Kobsarká-Eråsís tal Niksubvyá,
Those were the pages of my journals that described how I rose to power.
I was so young in 1865, and I hardly knew any of the things that I take for granted now. In 1869, I moved onto my next journal and censored as much as possible. It was a balance because my daughter would need to see enough to guess at what truly happened, but not enough to be dangerous. I wrapped the journal you hold now in waterproof cloth and used fingerprint technology to keep prying eyes from looking in. No one should bother hunting for my other journals. If there is a skill I possess in excess, it is self-censorship.
Now, I have a second daughter, you — the one who will read these words first.
My child, i xetåm lịberås mosmur, my Toma, you were born on 9 Hikol 1892. I ascended to the Presidency of the International Congress on 1 Khinekol 1892. I have plans, many of them ambitious, and you are one of them. Truly, all of Niksubvya is ascendant: Kitesrati is now the Governor of Narahja, we have three Niksubvya senators, and a good number of us work outside of the home at all levels of politics.
You are a miracle brought by the will of Tsemanok. The family will accept this in time, as I am far old to have had you and have every reason to believe that you will bring great honor to our family.
Toma, this is the story of a heartbeat. It began before I was born, when Sehutañi took ler first breath. The heartbeat raced in that Progressive Movement elevator when le touched my hair. It ended on the execution platform. Each of the actions we undertake pushes the next generation forward or pulls it back. We are so many racing hearts, a globular cluster humming with gravitation.
For the first decade after that assassination, when Kitesrati and I walked down Kisera Street, I thought I saw Sehutañi rush towards the Progressive Movement headquarters. This only happened during spontaneous summer showers when the trees were in full bloom.
The dreams continued until the night of your conception: Sehutañi stood at the foot of my bed, and ler heart beat so loudly that the windows rattled. The death-prayers should have prevented apparitions. I visited ler ashes monthly and libated rivers of blood.
If you are reading this, my sunbeam, I am dead. I hope that it happened when I was old and that you have blossomed, ksibja-plucker, and watched me pull Ameisa so far forward that an ocean of inertia will prevent it from regressing back. I hope that you have married well and that you have had godlike children with whichever spouse you have chosen. Niksubvya is a name written on the vault of Heaven.
I have curated these words for the masses because they deserve to know what happened. Share it, if you will. Keep it close if you must.
Do with this what you will, but remember that you will always be legitimate to me.
1 Poråkol 1892
[A note accompanying the journal’s publication: Axopatomsa Eråsis glabdesu. Dof tëæmlaek mamgukofa mosjefenga. T’eikniphaomæ klesælịru kul makra dåmịmla av sanmoksuösaịru omnibh. Glabdeml mök lịbånibhæ̈ paänxa, dokusa kubhu tazai radåmfæva länglabdeml? Hjenähjas oxikanælaeroneu ịkur besu. Murhjas rịbhælaịrruịr. Ku fædeis murhjas oxikanælaịrru. Axopatomsa Eråsis glabdesu. Kækyåv moru glabdesu.]
[Author’s final notes for those who are reading: It’s done. Wow.
Thank you so much for reading. You all rock. So, if you like what you’ve read, feel free to share this with others, talk about it, rate it, describe it as a package unto itself.
I’m planning a different podcast set in the same universe several decades after Epiphany is set, and the best way to know when it’s ready is to follow me elsewhere.
Again, thank you!]