Sovereignty

Hereditary power, power seized by the manipulation of earthly desires. Feuds inflamed and hatreds stoked. Class and caste. The domination of the weak. The rape of chaste justice. This figure contains all of these worldly crimes.

The vicious, black triangles—are they blades? fangs? the wicked barbs of spears?—can only be the instruments of a state made mad by its own power. Whether interpreted as police badge or military medal, the statement the figure makes is the same: You Must Submit. The negative shape in the center is nothing more than a new “crooked cross,” an antiseptic swastika. You Will Submit. Note the “talons” surrounding this icon. Their purpose is to remind the people that they can be removed. They can be plucked from the crowd. And within the sea of the State, every drop is invisible. Submit.

The wise practice obedience through resistance.

Martyr

The massed forces of Man at his most foul—the brazen, the proud, the faithless frauds—descend from every corner. Within, the center withstands the crush of fear. And lo! Still the light shines! Within its cloister, even within the airless space left behind after defiance’s flame has flickered, Truth still glows. It fills its chamber as the censer fills a cathedral.

We imagine the weight of heathen ways, of idols made of brass, in the forms arrayed around the heart of this figure. The shapes—sickeningly corporeal (carnal, even)—gather like bubbles in oil. They choke, they sting, they press and twist. As long as truths still prove themselves in every breath, all is for naught.

The faithless cannot stop a faithful heart.

Apostasy

The serenity of the Center! Simplicity, balance. All things equal, thrilling to the echoes of a golden ratio, precursor to all that is worthy of worship. As pure as numbers, the initial state bears witness to nothing less than itself. And how plainly this serves as a metaphor for the Self. Such then is the pain—the self-effacement—of the betrayal visible in this figure.

The points that stretch and deform and finally puncture the sheltering sphere as surely as arrows pierce the flesh—caltrops for the hooves of Heaven’s horses!—are the outward marks only. Beneath the scars is a kink, an imperfection, a misgrown bone so bold it nearly reeks. Surpassing even blasphemy in its enormity, the twisting seeks to claim territory already bequeathed, like a raven atop the Temple. Walk away, heretic! We’ll be the better for your absence!

The renouncer inherits a ruined kingdom.