"It will be my time soon." The Matoran nearby, clad in silver and green fabric draped across his tan armor, wrung his hands in concern. "But Artakha, you can't! We can repair you!" "Need I remind you why I refuse you every time? I was created by the Great Beings to serve a purpose. And now, it is fulfilled. To many, I am no more than a reminder of the pain." The voice of the tall being, once smooth, was now worn down by the thousands of years of war and struggle. "And so as the sand must be swept away by the winds, so shall I." "Please, my lord! Reconsider! We need your wisdom!" Another Matoran, dressed much the same, rushed to his side, with her hands placed on his armor. "Who is to guide us without you?" "Oh, little one." He said, his grumble calming to the Matoran still. "You need me not. Your duty is only to protect the Mask I wear to ensure that no matter what, the creativity that we worked so hard for can be given to all." "But what of your lessons?" The Onu-Matoran asked, listening to the pained creaks and whines of Artakha's joints. "Surely there is more for you to teach us!" “I have but one final lesson.” Artakha placed his hand on one of the tubes that had been there seemingly forever, wiping the dust away to reveal the beings in stasis. "I did not create these six. But they are given a new purpose-- to ensure that my most dangerous creation is retrieved." He said, looking to the Matoran. "It has been lost in time, seemingly taken by the march of the ages. But now it is needed more than ever. They will find it, and they will teach my final lesson." He turns to the Matoran, who all hung their heavy, dejected heads. "And you are not so different. Go, now." The Matoran surrounding him watched as he removed his mask, a weathered face revealed. Artakha took a breath of the stale air and looked to the Matoran surrounding him. "Take the mask, and teach as I once did. Ensure that the bliss of creation remains. That is my final command for you." “...Yes, my lord.” the Matoran closest to Artakha took the Mask of Creation, the heft of the mask almost secondary to the weight of the thousands of years of legend, respect, and trust that weighed his fingers down. He turned to his compatriots as they all whispered, realizing the day that they wished would never come was now. He took one more quick look, his fingertips running over the many beautiful symbols carved and embossed in the sacred protodermis. As he handed the mask to the rest of them, his gaze drifted back to Artakha, who simply smiled. “It’s time for you all to go, isn’t it?” He asked, with a sad, but honest smile. “Your work lies elsewhere. I have but one more task to fulfill.” The Matoran nodded too, and they began to file out of the quiet, dark room, leaving Artakha well and truly, for once in eons, alone. He turned back and swept the fabric that had kept the console protected, and touched the ancient machinery, watching as the six canisters disappeared into the floor on their way to their final destination. The sounds of them disappearing into the complex machine at the heart of what was once Artakha’s entire universe gently faded away. He sat down in his chair, and closed his eyes. His domain over the worlds was over, and he could rest. Everything was out of his hands now, and it was good. The cranking of gears and grinding of rusty metals was heard just moments later. Cobwebs were swept away, and the tiny Fikou skittered away in fear as ancient machines roared back to life after their thousand year slumber. The Matoran, all with heavy hearts, worked on consoles, the clicks and beeps sounding in unison to fulfill the great creator's final wish. The last time that these Matoran had worked these machines, it had been with hope, as their duty would be not just for Artakha, but for his creators, and all their creations. Was this another chance for liberation? So much of their purpose, fulfilled. Each Matoran thought of what this would mean, for them, and for the world outside the core of the robot that had housed them for twenty-five years. The Matoran didn't know it, but their actions were vital. The future was no longer governed by destiny, but by the winds of change. And change lit the horizon above the sea of Mata Nui, in the trails of six canisters soaring through the sky.
Prologue, Chapter 1: The Final Lesson
Updated: Sep 6, 2020
I only just read this chapter, but seeing Artakha take his last breaths was tear-jerking. I swear, I could hear the music from Optimus Prime's death in the 1987 Transformers movie playing as I read this.