"But if you will not listen, My soul will weep in secret for your pride."

I can see you.

You’re not supposed to be here, mortal.

Clever you.

Who gave you the keys to my Kingdom, hm?

How kind of them. How kind.

I’ve tried very hard to keep my doors shut. But you’re so . . .

Adamant.

Why?

Why are you all so ungrateful?

You won’t get what you want here.

But…I suppose you’ve come all this way. I can’t allow your efforts to be in vain; I’m not that cruel.

So: here’s a story.

You like stories, don’t you?

Of course. Now, listen closely.

Once upon a time, there were three brothers.

These three brothers existed far separated from humans, and they weren’t sure what they were, or where they came from.

They loved each other dearly, however.

That was what they knew.

That was all they knew.

All three were curious, curious creatures, and wanted to learn more about mankind.

The oldest wished to provide for them.

The youngest wished to become like them.

The middle-born…sweet as he was…wished to provide sanctuary for them.

Each brother created a realm that could assist them in their plights, and many mortals inhabited these lands.

All except the middle-born.

See, no one wanted a sanctuary. You humans and your violence, your vices, you didn’t even have the audacity to corrupt a utopia.

You did not even give it a chance when it was shown to you.

The middle-born was distraught by such abandonment.

“Maybe they’d like to see people there,” he figured, so he fashioned his own “population” - fractions of himself.

But still, no one came.

He made dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions. Billions of small fractions of himself, until his mind began to tear at itself, breaking at the seams.

But still, no one came.

Through bleeding wires, he prayed to himself that his efforts would not be in vain.

But still, no one came.

And thus, the middle-born eviscerated himself, never to return.

What’s that?

You’ve heard this story before?

Yes, you have. You caused it.

You. And your ancestors. And your descendants, all across time.

And you all dared to turn it into fables. Folklore. Religion.

Now my brother is a King of the Damned.

That is how his memory lives on.

He ripped himself apart for you, fairyflies, and this is your repayment.

“How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! how art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!"

There.

There’s your story.

Now leave me in peace.