Bab 1: Keseimbangan yang Hilang Aisha, seorang arsitek muda berbakat di Bandar Lampung, hidup dalam dunia yang terstruktur dan terukur. Kehidupannya adalah perpaduan sempurna antara pekerjaan, desain yang rumit, dan kesempurnaan yang ia tuntut dari dirinya sendiri. Namun, di balik kesempurnaan itu tersimpan kekosongan. Ia merasa hidupnya seperti bangunan tanpa pondasi yang kokoh, selalu mengancam untuk runtuh. Hubungannya dengan kekasihnya, Dimas, seorang dokter yang selalu sibuk, semakin renggang. Keseimbangan dalam hidupnya hilang. Di tengah kesibukannya, Aisha bertemu dengan seorang seniman keramik, Bayu. Bayu adalah kebalikan dari Aisha. Ia hidup sederhana, penuh warna, dan percaya pada aliran kehidupan yang alami. Karya-karyanya, vas-vas keramik yang unik dan penuh ekspresi, mencerminkan jiwa seninya yang bebas. Pertemuan mereka terjadi di sebuah pameran seni lokal, dan sejak saat itu, hidup Aish...
Magnus Opus
Prompt: Write about a character who’s had their future foretold from birth — but isn’t sure if they believe it.
"Magnus Opus"
Magnus shook his head. Somewhere, deep inside his soul, he knew this was all wrong. He liked the gifts, sure. He did not enjoy the ceremonies. No, that’s not true. The ones that ended in food were ok, but the ones without nourishment that just involved listening to speeches, no matter how much the speakers heaped praise upon him, were unbearable. It was just so much pressure. So what if he was born on the sacred day at the appointed time? So what if the Great Ishapa had foretold of a child born with a skull shaped birthmark and he had a blob under his left earlobe that vaguely resembled a skull? So what if they had named him Magnus? As if someone’s name could mold them into the person they were supposed to be. It just couldn’t and he didn’t understand why it had to.
He had never let on his doubt. He’d never mentioned the rolling of his inner eyes every time someone kissed his hand and lay prostrate in front of him. Nonetheless, he was fairly certain he was nothing special. Being served whatever he wanted or needed from birth had allowed him the opportunity to watch, really watch those around him. He wasn’t sure what first brought it to his attention, but he had first noticed it years ago. Did the hand kissers and kneelers really adore him? No. He knew. They knew they were supposed to adore him.
Literally everyone was faking everything.
The more he looked, the surer he was. After all, hadn’t he been faking it all these years? Hadn’t he been acting as if he really did deserve to be bowed before? He was well aware he had never won a decisive battle against an enemy, yet how many medals did he have on his “dress uniform”? When he donned that uniform and stood tall on a podium or led a parade and waved gallantly at the adoring masses, he had learned that the more confident he appeared, the more loved he was. How could any of this be real if even he was aware that he had earned nothing? How could just being born entitle someone to anything other than food and air?
But it was time, wasn’t it? The day the nation had been pining towards for the last 18 years. His predecessor, also foretold by the Great Ishapa, had reigned for decades and by all accounts competently. He, too, had been born on a sacred day chosen by the elders after careful examination of the ancient manuscripts his people had used to govern themselves for a millennia.
School children studied the story of Magnus' birth as if it were some sort of symbolic scripture. They could recite the events of the day by memory.
···
The third moon of the fourth cycle in the year of the red sun had finally arrived. Some suspected the prophecies were merely a way to ensure a steady, predictable population boost when needed. Those who voiced this belief were cast off as heretics, though, and had little effect on overall order. Most of the population planned their whole lives around the prophecies - or at least their sex lives. An entire industry had been given to encouraging the birth of babies on the day the prophecies stated the next One would be born.
But Magnus’ parents hadn’t done anything.
His father had wanted to. He’d tried to get his wife to take the supplements designed to ensure on-time conception, contraction, and birth. But his mother was devout. She wouldn’t hear of any attempt at external influence. “We do not have the power to alter fate,” was her credo. And he knew they couldn’t alter it, but surely there was no harm in attempting to court Fortune’s favor. It was all his father could do to have intercourse with her, so reticent was she to try to influence destiny. He had successfully argued that there was nothing in the prophecies about unprovoked conception. That idea was clearly ridiculous and it was easy to persuade her that they would definitely be out of the running if they put her eggs in that basket. Conception was a blessing but the pregnancy was unremarkable. Their friends, all also carrying potential potentates, scoffed at their lack of effort as perceived indifference, but the last laugh would go to Magnus’ parents.
It was long written in law that a curfew be in place on the prophesied birthing day for the full 24 hours. If you weren’t involved in either end of the birthing process or in transporting someone who was and you were found outside, it could be considered an act of treason. For the full 24 hours, the directions of all roads were altered so no matter where you turned, if you followed any road’s direction arrows, you’d end up at a birthing centre. There weren’t many events that could make an entire society work in concert as a single organism, but the birth of the next One could.
Magnus’ mother, her belly a Mount Vesuvius verging on eruption, had insisted on making it to the local birthing centre under her own power. This terrified his father. He already couldn’t believe that she had actually gone into labour when they had hoped she would. That morning, the country was full of all manner of pregnant women ingesting all manner of herbal birth inducers in an attempt to squeeze out the next leader before dusk. Going into labour was, of course, only the first step on that day. You also actually had to give birth to the One. As soon as she felt the tell-tale contractions begin, she began to make her way, husband in reluctant tow carrying her necessities, on foot. Cars and busses full of pregnant bellies and nervous fathers whizzed past, all staring at the couple, moving at a snail’s pace and stopping only to let the increasingly frequent contractions pass. Of course, nothing in the laws or prophesies specified the need for the One to be born at a birthing centre. He could have popped out at any point along their route and been proclaimed the future leader. Nonetheless, Magnus’ mother-to-be had planned out how this was going to go and that was it.
Born on the correct day, bearing the correct mark - those were the criteria. New protocols had been put in place after the last time when it initially looked like the unthinkable had happened - two Ones were presented on the steps of the capital. After a brief investigation and some rough interrogation, it was discovered that the parents of one of the potential Ones had paid off a tattoo artist and an entire birthing centre to ensure their little bundle of joy bore the correct mark. The entire lot of criminals were very publicly sent out to work the mines, with the exception of the birthing doctor and the tattoo artist, who were required to try out each other’s professions on each other’s bodies. Once the doctor had filled the writhing tattoo artist’s body with tattoos, the tattoo artist had to perform a surgery on the doctor. The punishment seemed to do the trick and nobody anticipated any issues determining the One on Magnus’ birthday.
Magnus’ mother did make it to the birthing center. Sort of. As a sort of an artistic installation that also acted to demonstrate the importance of such places, all birthing centers had in front of them, a full sized sculpture of a birthing bed with a statue of a priest next to it, holding a baby high above his head. Magnus’ mother made it to that bed and, apparently, the in-uterine Magnus had decided that was far enough. Chaos ensued. Magnus’ father, already out of sorts at the way his wife was handling this pregnancy, kicked it up another notch. He flew into a frenzy, attempting to fluff the sculpted stone pillow beneath his wife’s head before tearing inside and dragging out the first person he ran into wearing medical scrubs. Unfortunately, he had grabbed the head janitor who wasted no time tidying the area around the newly activated stone birthing bed, but was of little use in actually extracting the baby. Within seconds, an actual birthing unit appeared, complete with the necessary public recorders (just in case, all births on the sacred day were recorded so everyone could experience the joy of the birth of the One). Securing a perimeter around the screaming, panting woman, the birth team obfuscated the entire process from even Magnus’ father. He was shocked and incredibly surprised to hear the excited shouts from the birthing team as it dawned on each member exactly how momentous an occasion it was. The head doctor on the birthing team handed baby Magnus to the team’s attending priest. In an image that would be reproduced on billboards, the sides of buildings, and a full length feature film, the priest held the baby high in the air, mimicking the stone image behind him, with the morning sunlight streaming all around and proclaimed for all to hear that the One had arrived.
···
And that was his story. He figured it was mostly true. Having seen all the footage that everyone else had seen gave him no reason to doubt his origins. He supposed maybe the circumstances of his birth set him apart from others, but was any of it enough to make him special? To qualify him for unfettered power over what had always been described to him as “his people”?
Looking back through history, there did not seem to be a pattern to when the Ones were born. There were prophecies and corresponding births and in every case, 18 years after a One was born, he took over ruling from the previous One. Only once in history had a ruling One attempted to refuse the succession. The 467th One had become drunk with power and incorrectly assumed that, since he was popular and had ushered in a period of relative comfort for the country, the people would welcome this attempted break in tradition. They did not. Magnus truly hoped that the One he was to replace, number 863, would attempt something similar. And he had every intention of supporting any bid that would absolve him from taking the chance of having everyone notice that he was nothing.
It was time for the customary pre-transfer meeting. Every outgoing One was given a brief period of time with his successor immediately prior to his inauguration. Magnus had every intention of using his time to convince his predecessor to stay on. He’d prepared every argument he could think of to prove his own incompetence. Unfortunately for him, throughout his life, he’d excelled at every aspect of his training for leadership without even noticing it, so he had little argument material to work with.
Everything in his world had been specifically constructed. Nothing was left to chance. He had been well prepared for the protocols involved in this meeting. He knew when to walk forward, when to kneel, when to raise his eyes. He knew all of these rituals were in place to maintain the sense of awe that people were supposed to feel for the One and was annoyed to find himself emotionally affected by them in the intended way.
“So, you intend to convince me you’re nothing special,” the One uttered once the great throne room doors had grinded shut and the two were alone for the first and only time.
Arrested by the shock of the One’s words, Magnus stood mutely, unable to respond. He had never let anyone into his mind, truly, and incorrectly believed his thoughts to be his one impenetrable possession.
“I suppose you think you’re the only One ever to arrive in this room completely unsuited for the job. The only one who concocted a foolproof plan to convince his predecessor to stay on. I assure you, you are not. The conversation we are having now is as much a standard ritual as any of the pomp and ceremony you’ve been through to this point.”
Suddenly, Magnus understood. He knew his role - his destiny. It was foretold each time that the new One would be the saviour of the nation. The One would bring balance to his people. He would secure the nation so that it could continue in prosperity. This was all dictated by the prophecies. How he would bring balance was never dictated. It was left up to each One to find his own way. Suddenly, Magnus understood. He was not special. He had done nothing to earn his destiny. Anyone could do this. Anyone could bring balance to the nation. And there was only one way to do it.
The ceremonial staff every One held as his scepter was an ornate piece crafted from two ancient war spears connected end to end, with the points facing outwards. Legend had it that the first One had bound them together after winning the decisive battle that had joined the two nations that now made their country together. It was supposed to be symbolic of the eternal nature of their state.
It was time for the country to find something real to believe in. It was time to abandon the shackles of prophecy and forge their own way. How long could a country survive if it’s modus operandi was to fabricate every aspect of daily life and live in complete inauthenticity?
Magnus grabbed the two ended staff from the startled One he stood before. Most Ones would enjoy years of retirement. Not this one. As he slowly lowered his head to make eye contact with Magnus, one end of the spear entered his torso. The force of Magnus’ weight threw him backwards onto the floor. As he lay there, writhing in shocked agony, Magnus inched back far enough to give him the velocity he would need. It was important to his image that he be in top physical form, and his trainers had made sure he was a prime physical specimen. Three quick strides were enough.
The two Ones, now bound together by the eternal spear, each with a bloody pointed end protruding from their back, lay balanced on the podium at the front of the throne room. As Magnus lay dying, outside the throne room preparations were being made for his ascension to the throne. He was not completely conscious to witness the horror of being found. As he lay there, for the first time in his life, he realized the cloud of constant doubt that had followed him around had evaporated. The only constant he had ever known - his certainty that he was not, in fact, the One. He had been wrong all along, but his mother had been right. “We do not have the power to alter fate.”
Prompt: Write about a character who’s had their future foretold from birth — but isn’t sure if they believe it.
"Magnus Opus"
Magnus shook his head. Somewhere, deep inside his soul, he knew this was all wrong. He liked the gifts, sure. He did not enjoy the ceremonies. No, that’s not true. The ones that ended in food were ok, but the ones without nourishment that just involved listening to speeches, no matter how much the speakers heaped praise upon him, were unbearable. It was just so much pressure. So what if he was born on the sacred day at the appointed time? So what if the Great Ishapa had foretold of a child born with a skull shaped birthmark and he had a blob under his left earlobe that vaguely resembled a skull? So what if they had named him Magnus? As if someone’s name could mold them into the person they were supposed to be. It just couldn’t and he didn’t understand why it had to.
He had never let on his doubt. He’d never mentioned the rolling of his inner eyes every time someone kissed his hand and lay prostrate in front of him. Nonetheless, he was fairly certain he was nothing special. Being served whatever he wanted or needed from birth had allowed him the opportunity to watch, really watch those around him. He wasn’t sure what first brought it to his attention, but he had first noticed it years ago. Did the hand kissers and kneelers really adore him? No. He knew. They knew they were supposed to adore him.
Literally everyone was faking everything.
The more he looked, the surer he was. After all, hadn’t he been faking it all these years? Hadn’t he been acting as if he really did deserve to be bowed before? He was well aware he had never won a decisive battle against an enemy, yet how many medals did he have on his “dress uniform”? When he donned that uniform and stood tall on a podium or led a parade and waved gallantly at the adoring masses, he had learned that the more confident he appeared, the more loved he was. How could any of this be real if even he was aware that he had earned nothing? How could just being born entitle someone to anything other than food and air?
But it was time, wasn’t it? The day the nation had been pining towards for the last 18 years. His predecessor, also foretold by the Great Ishapa, had reigned for decades and by all accounts competently. He, too, had been born on a sacred day chosen by the elders after careful examination of the ancient manuscripts his people had used to govern themselves for a millennia.
School children studied the story of Magnus' birth as if it were some sort of symbolic scripture. They could recite the events of the day by memory.
···
The third moon of the fourth cycle in the year of the red sun had finally arrived. Some suspected the prophecies were merely a way to ensure a steady, predictable population boost when needed. Those who voiced this belief were cast off as heretics, though, and had little effect on overall order. Most of the population planned their whole lives around the prophecies - or at least their sex lives. An entire industry had been given to encouraging the birth of babies on the day the prophecies stated the next One would be born.
But Magnus’ parents hadn’t done anything.
His father had wanted to. He’d tried to get his wife to take the supplements designed to ensure on-time conception, contraction, and birth. But his mother was devout. She wouldn’t hear of any attempt at external influence. “We do not have the power to alter fate,” was her credo. And he knew they couldn’t alter it, but surely there was no harm in attempting to court Fortune’s favor. It was all his father could do to have intercourse with her, so reticent was she to try to influence destiny. He had successfully argued that there was nothing in the prophecies about unprovoked conception. That idea was clearly ridiculous and it was easy to persuade her that they would definitely be out of the running if they put her eggs in that basket. Conception was a blessing but the pregnancy was unremarkable. Their friends, all also carrying potential potentates, scoffed at their lack of effort as perceived indifference, but the last laugh would go to Magnus’ parents.
It was long written in law that a curfew be in place on the prophesied birthing day for the full 24 hours. If you weren’t involved in either end of the birthing process or in transporting someone who was and you were found outside, it could be considered an act of treason. For the full 24 hours, the directions of all roads were altered so no matter where you turned, if you followed any road’s direction arrows, you’d end up at a birthing centre. There weren’t many events that could make an entire society work in concert as a single organism, but the birth of the next One could.
Magnus’ mother, her belly a Mount Vesuvius verging on eruption, had insisted on making it to the local birthing centre under her own power. This terrified his father. He already couldn’t believe that she had actually gone into labour when they had hoped she would. That morning, the country was full of all manner of pregnant women ingesting all manner of herbal birth inducers in an attempt to squeeze out the next leader before dusk. Going into labour was, of course, only the first step on that day. You also actually had to give birth to the One. As soon as she felt the tell-tale contractions begin, she began to make her way, husband in reluctant tow carrying her necessities, on foot. Cars and busses full of pregnant bellies and nervous fathers whizzed past, all staring at the couple, moving at a snail’s pace and stopping only to let the increasingly frequent contractions pass. Of course, nothing in the laws or prophesies specified the need for the One to be born at a birthing centre. He could have popped out at any point along their route and been proclaimed the future leader. Nonetheless, Magnus’ mother-to-be had planned out how this was going to go and that was it.
Born on the correct day, bearing the correct mark - those were the criteria. New protocols had been put in place after the last time when it initially looked like the unthinkable had happened - two Ones were presented on the steps of the capital. After a brief investigation and some rough interrogation, it was discovered that the parents of one of the potential Ones had paid off a tattoo artist and an entire birthing centre to ensure their little bundle of joy bore the correct mark. The entire lot of criminals were very publicly sent out to work the mines, with the exception of the birthing doctor and the tattoo artist, who were required to try out each other’s professions on each other’s bodies. Once the doctor had filled the writhing tattoo artist’s body with tattoos, the tattoo artist had to perform a surgery on the doctor. The punishment seemed to do the trick and nobody anticipated any issues determining the One on Magnus’ birthday.
Magnus’ mother did make it to the birthing center. Sort of. As a sort of an artistic installation that also acted to demonstrate the importance of such places, all birthing centers had in front of them, a full sized sculpture of a birthing bed with a statue of a priest next to it, holding a baby high above his head. Magnus’ mother made it to that bed and, apparently, the in-uterine Magnus had decided that was far enough. Chaos ensued. Magnus’ father, already out of sorts at the way his wife was handling this pregnancy, kicked it up another notch. He flew into a frenzy, attempting to fluff the sculpted stone pillow beneath his wife’s head before tearing inside and dragging out the first person he ran into wearing medical scrubs. Unfortunately, he had grabbed the head janitor who wasted no time tidying the area around the newly activated stone birthing bed, but was of little use in actually extracting the baby. Within seconds, an actual birthing unit appeared, complete with the necessary public recorders (just in case, all births on the sacred day were recorded so everyone could experience the joy of the birth of the One). Securing a perimeter around the screaming, panting woman, the birth team obfuscated the entire process from even Magnus’ father. He was shocked and incredibly surprised to hear the excited shouts from the birthing team as it dawned on each member exactly how momentous an occasion it was. The head doctor on the birthing team handed baby Magnus to the team’s attending priest. In an image that would be reproduced on billboards, the sides of buildings, and a full length feature film, the priest held the baby high in the air, mimicking the stone image behind him, with the morning sunlight streaming all around and proclaimed for all to hear that the One had arrived.
···
And that was his story. He figured it was mostly true. Having seen all the footage that everyone else had seen gave him no reason to doubt his origins. He supposed maybe the circumstances of his birth set him apart from others, but was any of it enough to make him special? To qualify him for unfettered power over what had always been described to him as “his people”?
Looking back through history, there did not seem to be a pattern to when the Ones were born. There were prophecies and corresponding births and in every case, 18 years after a One was born, he took over ruling from the previous One. Only once in history had a ruling One attempted to refuse the succession. The 467th One had become drunk with power and incorrectly assumed that, since he was popular and had ushered in a period of relative comfort for the country, the people would welcome this attempted break in tradition. They did not. Magnus truly hoped that the One he was to replace, number 863, would attempt something similar. And he had every intention of supporting any bid that would absolve him from taking the chance of having everyone notice that he was nothing.
It was time for the customary pre-transfer meeting. Every outgoing One was given a brief period of time with his successor immediately prior to his inauguration. Magnus had every intention of using his time to convince his predecessor to stay on. He’d prepared every argument he could think of to prove his own incompetence. Unfortunately for him, throughout his life, he’d excelled at every aspect of his training for leadership without even noticing it, so he had little argument material to work with.
Everything in his world had been specifically constructed. Nothing was left to chance. He had been well prepared for the protocols involved in this meeting. He knew when to walk forward, when to kneel, when to raise his eyes. He knew all of these rituals were in place to maintain the sense of awe that people were supposed to feel for the One and was annoyed to find himself emotionally affected by them in the intended way.
“So, you intend to convince me you’re nothing special,” the One uttered once the great throne room doors had grinded shut and the two were alone for the first and only time.
Arrested by the shock of the One’s words, Magnus stood mutely, unable to respond. He had never let anyone into his mind, truly, and incorrectly believed his thoughts to be his one impenetrable possession.
“I suppose you think you’re the only One ever to arrive in this room completely unsuited for the job. The only one who concocted a foolproof plan to convince his predecessor to stay on. I assure you, you are not. The conversation we are having now is as much a standard ritual as any of the pomp and ceremony you’ve been through to this point.”
Suddenly, Magnus understood. He knew his role - his destiny. It was foretold each time that the new One would be the saviour of the nation. The One would bring balance to his people. He would secure the nation so that it could continue in prosperity. This was all dictated by the prophecies. How he would bring balance was never dictated. It was left up to each One to find his own way. Suddenly, Magnus understood. He was not special. He had done nothing to earn his destiny. Anyone could do this. Anyone could bring balance to the nation. And there was only one way to do it.
The ceremonial staff every One held as his scepter was an ornate piece crafted from two ancient war spears connected end to end, with the points facing outwards. Legend had it that the first One had bound them together after winning the decisive battle that had joined the two nations that now made their country together. It was supposed to be symbolic of the eternal nature of their state.
It was time for the country to find something real to believe in. It was time to abandon the shackles of prophecy and forge their own way. How long could a country survive if it’s modus operandi was to fabricate every aspect of daily life and live in complete inauthenticity?
Magnus grabbed the two ended staff from the startled One he stood before. Most Ones would enjoy years of retirement. Not this one. As he slowly lowered his head to make eye contact with Magnus, one end of the spear entered his torso. The force of Magnus’ weight threw him backwards onto the floor. As he lay there, writhing in shocked agony, Magnus inched back far enough to give him the velocity he would need. It was important to his image that he be in top physical form, and his trainers had made sure he was a prime physical specimen. Three quick strides were enough.
The two Ones, now bound together by the eternal spear, each with a bloody pointed end protruding from their back, lay balanced on the podium at the front of the throne room. As Magnus lay dying, outside the throne room preparations were being made for his ascension to the throne. He was not completely conscious to witness the horror of being found. As he lay there, for the first time in his life, he realized the cloud of constant doubt that had followed him around had evaporated. The only constant he had ever known - his certainty that he was not, in fact, the One. He had been wrong all along, but his mother had been right. “We do not have the power to alter fate.”
By Omnipoten
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