Cinna, the Moth Priest who Never Was

A month of seclusion is enough to temper the brain, to leave it thirsty for input without dulling intellectual capabilities. Cinna had tempered himself thus for his Final Readings, as had all of the Cult. However, his story is unique, for he has no story anymore.

The day had come. Cinna untied the binding of the scroll and began to unroll it. It may have been his newly tuned senses, but something was different about the moment. In all of his previous readings, Cinna had regarded the Elder Scroll as all of the Cult had: an artifact of knowledge. This time, the experience was like unraveling the script of an old playwright: precious and profane, a favorite recited in taverns across Tamriel, but also inane scribblings of a long-lost tongue. A juxtaposition of forbidden metaphysics and dry parchment. A concentration of time and power. Was it fear that Cinna felt?

Silly. He had performed the Penultimate reading. He had prepared his mind for a month. He firmly held the scroll open and fixed his eyes upon the parchment.

For a moment, that was all. It was dry parchment with inane scribblings of a long-lost tongue. The Final Reading was like any reading: interpretation does not happen to the reader; it is developed through careful perception and criticism.

The scribblings were roughly circular with lines scratched throughout. Like a spider's web, Cinna observed. There were more distinct figures scattered amongst the network of rings. Perhaps they were pictograms?

There was symbol rather close to the center of the parchment which drew his curiosity. It was a Sun. Then the parchment became distorted, and it could have been a sundial instead. As the parchment began to quiver and undulate, Cinna made out seven more pictograms around the center. A flower, a coin. All were roughly circular, as was the parchment itself in its growing distortion. At the same time, they were only letters, shifting from a's and b's to the script of the Falmer, the Dwemer, and the Daedra. Sometimes they vanished entirely. When this happened, the lines and circles became arrows. Was it a map?

With that notion, the parchment grew still rounder, until it seemed rounder than a circle, taunting and coaxing Cinna's mind with its rotundity. More symbols became apparent towards the outer circle. With the inner pictograms, these symbols formed a circlular orientation and gyrated. Their acceleration was dizzying. Cinna remembered his arrival in the Imperial City. In a carriage drawn by two horses, the world had darted by just like this.

It was a wheel. It was dry parchment with inane scribblings of a long-lost tongue. It was a wheel. It was all in his mind. It was a wheel. It was Aurbis. It was a wheel.

The colors of the room all lumped together, vanishing before they could become a paradox. The sounds, smells, tastes, and touches did the same. Cinna was the wheel. And Cinna was not Cinna.