The Logos: The Meletic Testament (Chapter 17 The Last Speech)
đź“ś Chapter 17: The Last Speech
1. I remember that morning with a clarity that time has not dimmed—the air was cool and fragrant with the scent of olive bark, and the earth beneath our sandals still held the dampness of dawn.
2. Asterion, though weakened by illness and age, had summoned us to the grove where he once taught with vigour, and we came not only as students but as witnesses to what we knew would be his final address.
3. The grove, once a quiet sanctuary for discourse and reflection, was now filled with unfamiliar faces—citizens, sceptics, and wanderers drawn by the rumour of a dying philosopher’s last words.
4. Although many had never studied under him, they came with a reverence born not of faith, but of curiosity, hoping to hear something enduring before silence claimed him.
5. I, Heromenes, stood amongst them with a heart heavy from the weight of impending loss, knowing that this man had shaped my mind more than any scroll or statue ever could.
6. Asterion stood beneath the broad plane tree, his cloak wrapped tightly around his frail frame, and though his body betrayed him, his eyes remained sharp and unyielding.
7. His voiced thin but resolute then addressed us—You have gathered, not for me, but for the truth I have spent my life pursuing through reason and reflection.
8. The grove fell silent afterwards, as if even the birds had stilled their wings to listen, and the rustling leaves seemed to echo his every word uttered.
9. He continued—I am no prophet, nor priest, nor servant of any unseen realm—I have never claimed communion with gods, nor sought favour from their altars.
10. —I am a man who has watched the stars with wonder. The same stars that one night witnessed my birth. I have questioned the wind with scepticism, and measured the world not by myth, but by its own unfolding logic.
11. —Meleticism is not a creed to be recited, nor a doctrine to be defended—it is a lens through which the natural world reveals itself without ornament or illusion.
12. —As Meletics, we do not bow to gods, nor do we curse them; we simply acknowledge that they are no longer necessary; born of fear and longing, and not of stone or breath. We no longer have the need to be a flock with a shepherd. We have outgrown that need and become our own shepherd.
13. —We observe the world as it is, not as we wish it to be, and in that observation we find a kind of quiet dignity that no god can bestow.
14. —To accept the world without divine purpose is not despair—it is liberation; for it frees the mind to seek truth without constraint.
15. Though his voice faltered, Asterion’s gaze remained unwavering, and in that moment, he seemed more alive than ever before.
16. You ask what I believe, and I tell you this: I believe in the stone beneath my feet, in the air that fills my lungs, and in the fire that warms my hands—he said, pausing to draw breath.
17. —I believe in the body, in its frailty and its strength, and in the mind that questions even as it fades.
18. —I believe in the cycle of decay and renewal, in the way the fallen leaf nourishes the root, and how death gives way to life without ceremony.
19. —Nature does not require worship—it requires understanding, and that is the only reverence I have ever known to give it.
20. —And in that understanding, I have found clarity—not certainty, but clarity—and that is enough to guide me amidst the uncertainty.
21. He paused for a moment, his hand resting lightly on his knee, as though steadying himself against the weight of his own words, and the grove remained hushed in anticipation, as the crowd watched.
22. The sun had begun to rise higher, casting dappled light across his face, and I noticed how the lines of age had deepened, yet his expression held the serenity of one who had made peace with time.
23. I have never claimed to know the final causes of things—nor have I pretended that the universe owes us explanation or comfort—he confessed.
24. —What I have sought is not certainty, but coherence—a way to live that does not depend on unseen powers or promises beyond the grave.
25. —The world is vast and may appear indifferent, and yet within its indifference lies a kind of beauty; for it allows us to shape meaning from our own observations and choices.
26. —I have watched the seasons turn, the rivers carve their paths, and the stars shift across the heavens, and in all of it I have seen no divine hand, only the rhythm of nature unfolding through the Logos.
27. —To live without gods is not to live without wonder—it is to marvel at what is real, and to find awe in the tangible rather than the imagined or supernatural.
28. The body is our temple, the soul our guide, and the mind our sanctuary, and in tending to these things, we honour life more truly than any ritual—he professed.
29. —I have taught you not to fear death; for it is no enemy, but a companion that walks beside us from the moment we are born, silent and patient.
30. —Death is not punishment, nor reward—it is the final transformation, the return of our elements to the earth from which they came.
31. He paused before continuing—And if there is any eternity, it lies not in the soul or body, but in the influence we leave behind—in the thoughts we inspire, the kindness we show, the questions we provoke.
32. —I do not ask you to believe as I do, for belief is a personal matter, shaped by experience and temperament, but I ask you to think, and to think deeply for yourselves.
33. —Let no priest or emperor tell you what is true—truth is not decreed, it is discovered, and it often dwells in places that power fears to look.
34. —The rise of Rome and the spread of new faiths may change the customs of men, but they cannot alter the nature of reality, which remains untouched by dogma.
35. —You will hear manifold voices in the years to come, some promising salvation, others demanding obedience, but remember that freedom begins with the courage to question and the path we follow.
36. —Meleticism does not offer something that cannot be understood—it offers clarity, and with clarity comes accountability, for you must choose how to live without the lingering shadow of fear.
37. —I have lived long enough to see temples rise and fall, doctrines flourish and fade, but the olive tree still grows, the sea still moves, and the stars remain. For they have been loyal to me, as I have been to them.
38. —These are the semblances of the Nous, and they ask nothing of us but attention and respect. Look into the mirror of your souls. There, you will find the truth that you seek, at last.
39. —If you must submit, let it be the act of learning, the pursuit of understanding, and the cultivation of compassion grounded in reason than in gods. This is not a full submission like the Christians to their god. Instead, it is the embrace of life.
40. —For in these things mentioned, I have found more inner peace than in all the hymns and sacrifices of men. Seek this inner peace in you all, and you will discover the way of the truth.
41. The breeze stirred the leaves above us, and for a moment it seemed the grove itself was listening, as if nature had paused to honour the clarity of his words spoken.
42. I have never feared the silence of the universe; for it is in that silence that we are free to think without reproach, to shape our lives without celestial instruction—he said.
43. —The myths of our ancestors were born from wonder and fear, and although I do not embrace them, I realise that I am no one to tell another, what to believe. I inherited them without my consent. I have since then chosen a different path in life.
44. —Let others speak of divine justice and eternal souls—I speak of the justice we create through reason, and the legacy we leave through our actions.
45. —The soul dwells in us. It is this one thing that we give to the mind’s movement, the breath of thought, the spark of awareness.
46. —And when the body fails, the spark fades—not into another world, but into the soil, into memory, into the quiet continuation of nature’s rhythm witnessed by the Logos and by us.
47. —I have watched the dying with open eyes, and I have seen no angels, no omens—only the gentle surrender of flesh to time, and the dignity of the final breath of life.
48. —There is no shame in mortality, no failure in decay—it is the price of having lived, and the seal of having belonged to the world as a mortal.
49. —You must not seek to escape death, nor to conquer it, but to meet it with understanding, as one meets a familiar traveller on the road.
50. —And until that meeting comes, live fully—not in the pursuit of eternity, but in the pursuit of the truth, and of the beauty seen in life than the illusions of a heaven that we already have before us on this earth, if we only sought to preserve it than destroy it.
51. —Listen closely, when I say to you all that the rise of new faiths will tempt you with rewards, with promises of a paradise and threats of damnation, but do not trade your reason for fear. For if you do, then you forsake your soul, before you forsake the body and mind.
52. —For fear built on illusion is fragile in substance, and when it breaks, it leaves the mind defenceless, unable to face the world as it truly is.
53. —I have taught you to observe, to question, to doubt—not because doubt is an end, but because it is the beginning of wisdom.
54. —Let your thoughts be like the river—always moving, always reshaping the land, never stagnant, never confined by the banks of dogma or faith.
55. —The gods of Olympus have grown quiet, and the new god of the Christians speaks loudly, but neither has answered the questions that nature and the cosmos have revealed.
56. —Why do we suffer? Why do we love? Why do we seek meaning in a world that offers none by design?
57. —These are not questions for faith alone—they are questions for minds, for hearts, for those brave enough to live without the promise of immortality. For those people, who walk the path of the way of the truth.
58. —Meleticism does not pretend to solve the ancient mysteries—it teaches us to dwell within them, to find peace in the unknown, and to build meaning from what we can know. How can we live in accordance with life and with each other, if we do not unravel its truths and ours?
59. —I have found joy in the study of stones, in the flight of birds, in the laughter of students beneath these trees, and that joy has been enough to make me realise that these things exist within the face of mortality.
60. —If I have given you anything, let it be the courage to think freely, and the strength to live honestly, even when the world demands belief and rewards.
61. —The stars above us do not speak with divine authority, yet we have learnt to read them—not for prophecy, but for presence. For the quiet laws of the Logos that govern their motion reflect the living presence of the Nous.
62. —So too must we read the world—not for signs of divine will, but for the truths that emerge when we observe with the utmost care and think without imposed fear.
63. —I have walked amongst the priests and sceptics, kings and beggars, and I have found wisdom not in titles, but in the questions they dared to ask. You see, it is the walk that leads one to the way of the truth. A truth that must be lived—not merely believed.
64. —Beware of those people who claim certainty, for they often seek power more than truth, and obedience more than understanding.
65. —The mind is not a vessel to be filled with doctrine—it is a flame to be kindled with enquiry, with wonder and with the courage to revise itself.
66. —Let your beliefs be grounded, like the soil around a growing structure—strong enough to support you with the pillars of philosophy, but never so rigid that it cannot be changed.
67. —The world is not perfect, nor is it cruel—it simply is, and it is our task to shape our lives within it with grace and wisdom.
68. —I have loved this life not because it promised me eternity, but because it allowed me to think, to feel, to share my thoughts with others along my journey.
69. —And now, as I feel the weight of time upon me, I do not regret the absence of divine reward—I am content with the presence of honest memory.
70. —If you remember me, let it not be as a prophet or a sage, but as a man who tried to live without illusion, and who found beauty in the search.
71. —The grove where we stand will outlast us, and the stones beneath our feet will bear no names—but they will have witnessed our thoughts, our laughter and our learning.
72. —That is enough for me. To be a witness of To Ena is not to be a witness of a god. Instead, it is to witness the fresh dawn, the twilight, the moonlight and the twinkling stars. For it is in those things and more that I feel the presence of To Ena, the One. The Logos opens my eyes, and the Nous captivates my view.
73. —Do not mourn my passing as a loss, but as a continuation—like the falling of a leaf that nourishes the soil for future growth.
74. —I have planted manifold ideas, not sheer dogmas; I have offered manifold questions, not divine commandments.
75. —Let others build their temples—I have built conversations, and they are no less sacred. Learn to appreciate the ordinariness in life.
76. —When you speak of me to others, speak not of my appearance, but of my wisdom; for that is what I cherished most. I do not need to be reminded of my appearance; for I know that I am poor but humble.
77. —The gods may be silent, but the world is not—it speaks in the wind and waves, in the eyes of those who dare to listen to their echoes. For To Ena, is One, and we are awakened by those echoes.
78. —Listen well. It does not belong to a kingdom in heaven, but to the every day man and woman on this earth who listens.
79. —Think of me not as the messenger who came, but as the one who became the message.
80. His final words to the crowd were—And live the way of the truth; for the truth will set you free. Not to be immortal, but to learn to live as a mortal. Divinity is only a shadow to the truth. Your life is a guiding light that is revealed.
81. When his voice fell silent, the grove did not stir. No bird sang, no breeze moved. It was as if the world itself paused to honor the stillness that followed his final words. Words that did not belong to a divine prophet, but to a mere man with a vision and message.
82. We did not speak for a long time. Each of us contemplated our thoughts, as if afraid that speech might shatter the fragile clarity he had left behind.
83. I remember looking at the younger students—some with tears, others with furrowed brows, all changed. Not by grief, but by the weight of what they had heard.
84. Asterion had not only given us answers. He had given us inspiration—to doubt, to think, to live without needing the world to be more than it is in its essence.
85. For me, it was as if a veil had lifted. I had spent years chasing certainty, hoping that philosophy might offer a final truth, but he showed me that truth is not a destination—it is a daily practice.
86. In the days that followed, we did not build a shrine to commemorate him. We did not carve his name into stone. That would have betrayed his teachings of Meleticism.
87. Instead, we gathered in the grove each week, not to pray, but to speak. To question. To continue the conversation he had begun.
88. His death would not end the school—it would refine it. We became more honest, less concerned with reputation, more willing to admit what we did not know.
89. Some people left, seeking divinity in the temples of the gods or the faith of Christianity, but those persons who stayed became something rare: thinkers who did not fear the unknown. They became Meletics.
90. I have often wondered what Asterion hoped we would become. He never said, but I believe he wanted us to be free thinkers—not just from indoctrination, but from the need to be right.
91. His final speech was not a farewell. It was a lasting seed. And although he did not live to see it bloom to its fruition, it has grown in each of us who heard it.
92. Even now, weeks later, I return to that grove. I sit beneath the same trees, and I speak aloud—not to summon his presence, but to remind myself of the man who taught me how to think and seek the way of the truth.
93. The world has changed. New gods rise, old ones fall. Empires expand and crumble, but the questions remain. The gods of myths were still honoured. The Nazarene has brought faith. However, Asterion had brought something greater that was awareness.
94. And so do we change—the quiet inheritors of a philosophy that asks not for belief, but for courage.
95. Courage to live without illusions in a world, where we could unveil the way of the truth.
96. Courage to love without guarantees in a world, where we could open our hearts to our minds.
97. Courage to die without fear in a world, where we could profess then our mortality.
98. Asterion gave us that and more in life. He never once commanded. Instead, he taught.
99. And in giving us his wisdom and philosophy, he became more than a mere teacher.
100. He became the philosophical voice we carry within us, whenever we choose to live honestly.
101. I have lived wisely since that day in the grove. The world has grown louder—more gods, more wars, more proclamations of truth shouted from marble steps.
102. But I have grown quieter in my mien. Not from weariness, but from understanding.
103. Asterion taught us that philosophy is not a shield against suffering. It is not an ascent to a heaven.
104. It is a way of walking through the world with eyes open, heart steady, and mind unafraid.
105. I did not understand that fully when I was young. I thought wisdom would make me invincible.
106. But it has made me something better as a man: wiser, and still willing to learn about life.
107. There are days when I miss him terribly. Not just his voice, but his presence—the way he could sit in silence and still make you feel heard.
108. The way he asked questions that made you uncomfortable, and then stayed with you until you found your own answer.
109. I have taught many students since his passing. Some brilliant, some lost, all searching.
110. I do not speak of Asterion often. Not because he is forgotten, but because he is everywhere—in the way I teach, in the questions I ask, in the silence I allow.
111. But once a year, I return to the familiar grove. I sit beneath the same olive tree that witnessed our dialogues.
112. And I speak—not to him, but to the memory of what he gave us as a sage and teacher.
113. Not certainty that men claim to know. Not eternal salvation, but the courage to live without either.
114. The grove has not changed. The stones are older, the trees taller, but the questions—they remain the same.
115. An eager student once asked me—why do we come here? The city has libraries, forums, temples. What wisdom lies in silence?”
116. I smiled faintly. —Wisdom does not always wear robes or speak in verses. Sometimes it waits in silence, until you are ready to hear it.
117. A female student leaned forward. —Did Asterion speak here in this grove? The others say this is where he gave his final words.
118. I replied—He did. Not as a prophet. Not as a priest. As a man who had lived, and thought, and loved the truth more than his wisdom.
119. And what did he say to you?—The female student asked, as her intrigue had increased.
120. I paused, then address the question—He said that the gods may be silent, but the world is not. That truth is not given—it is grown. That to live without illusion is not despair—it is freedom.
121. Did you believe him? The female stundent continued her questions softly.
122. —Not at first. I wanted certainty. I wanted the world to make sense, but over time, I saw that his way was not easy—but it was honest.
123. And now? Do you still question the world that you live in?—The male student asked.
124. I looked up at the sky at that moment—Every day. That is how I know I am still alive.
125. The female student whispered—Then teach us—not what to believe, but how to live.
126. I rose slowly then responded—Then listen—not to me, but to yourselves. To the questions that wake you in the night. To the doubts that make you uncomfortable. To the silence that asks nothing, but offers everything.
127. I walked afterwards to the centre of the grove and placed a small stone on the ground.
128. I told them that Asterion left no shrine. The grove was his legacy. Not in stone, but in thought. Not in worship, but in wonder.
129. One by one, the students began to leave. They placed stones beside mine—not as tribute, but as a gesture of shared enquiry. Not as a prophetic reverence, but as one displayed for another human being.
130. I whispered to myself quietly—He is not gone. He is the question that never ends.
131. The grove is silence again. The stones remain where they were placed. The sun has dipped below the hills.
132. I stood apart, watching. The students gather in a loose circle, uncertain but thoughtful.
133. One of them would step forth. His voice was hesitant, but clear in his words expressed.
134. —I used to think philosophy was for intellectual men. That the sharpest mind would win, and the rest would follow.
135. I answered—Asterion never wanted followers. He wanted thinkers. And that’s harder.
136. —It means I can’t hide behind his words. I have to find my own as I journey along my path. And I’m afraid. Not of being wrong—but of being honest.
137. I fully understood his concern and his determination to seek the way of the truth. I told him that fear was only a thought in his mind.
138. Dione a female student joined him, placing her hand gently on one of the stones to ponder.
139. —I’ve spent years trying to believe what others told me. That the gods watch us. That virtue is rewarded.
140. But when I think of the message of Asterion, I feel something I haven’t felt before—she acknowledged.
141. —Not comfort. Not certainty. But an inner peace that dwells with one.
142. Peace in not knowing. Peace in asking what life means and how to live.
143. Another male student named Zenodoros spoke from the edge of the circle, intrigued by the conversation.
144. —My father is a priest. He says questions are dangerous, when one does not know what is being said. But I think silence is more dangerous. The kind that comes from fear.
145. I listened to him speak his mind, and I told him that is more dangerous to the soul to not speak the truth.
146. —Here, in this grove, I feel brave enough to speak. Not because there a few people around me when I come, but because I find myself here than in any other place.
147. I was a man inspired and believed that I had be an inspiration for others, as Asterion was for me.
148. —Then speak. Not to please me. Not to honor Asterion, but to honour yourselves.
149. —Let this grove be not a place only of memory, but of motion. Of minds in motion too.
150. The students begin to speak freely—sharing doubts, hopes, observations. The grove becomes alive with thought.
151. Dione who had been listening then proceeded to ask me—Will you return again?
152. I smiled and said—Perhaps. But whether I do or not, you must continue. The grove is yours now.
153. —Not because I give it to you, but because you have earned it—by questioning.
154. The students nod. A quiet understanding passed between them as they looked at each other.
155. I walked to the edge of the grove, then turned one last time. Not out of curiosity, but out of instinct.
156. Asterion did not only inspire his students and others. He gave us and them the courage to live without him.
157. I exited slowly, leaving the students beneath the trees, their voices rising like wind through the leaves.
158. The incomparable grove still remains—not sacred, but alive in the mind of those individuals who come to it.
159. It was never difficult for me to reach the grove. What was more difficult was to leave it.
160. When I did leave it, it was never intended to be a farewell, but how odd is life that gives us irony in life.
161. The students have taken the grove as their own, and I no longer guided them—I only listened.
162. They speak with voices that reveal the way of the truth, but they speak. That is enough to know of their courage.
163. Asterion’s philosophy was never meant to be preserved—it was meant to be practiced daily.
164. Not in scrolls or monuments, but in the way one walks through the world with open eyes.
165. I have watched it take root in the students and others—not as doctrine, but as disposition.
166. They do not merely quote him. They echo him, unknowingly, in their questions, their silences, their courage.
167. That is the true inheritance that was left behind by Asterion—not his words, but his way of thinking.
168. A way of thinking that does not seek to conquer mystery, but to dwell within its truth.
169. A way of living that does not demand meaning, but creates it through attention and care.
170. And yet, I wonder in the back of my mind—was Asterion ever truly amongst the living?
171. He walked with us, spoke with us, laughed with us, but he always seemed to belong more to the threshold than to the hearth.
172. His eyes held the weight of someone who had already made peace with the end that would come with his fate.
173. He did not fear death because he had already invited it into his thoughts, made it a companion rather than an enemy.
174. Perhaps that is why his teachings carried such gravity—he spoke not from the hunger of youth, but from the stillness of acceptance.
175. And yet, in being so close to death, he taught us how to live and never be ungrateful to live.
176. Not with urgency, but with clarity and awareness. Not with ambition, but with honesty.
177. His life was not an eternal flame—it was a steady lamp, lit not to dazzle, but to guide with his wisdom.
178. And now that lamp has passed to us. A lamp that was intended to be a symbol of his philosophy.
179. We carry it not in our hands, but in our minds—in every moment we choose thought over fear, enquiry over obedience.
180. Asterion is gone, but his light remains with a quiet flame that gradually burns, as a testimony to his life.
181. I do not know how many years remain in me. My hands become unsteady, at times. My thoughts wander, but one thing stays clear which is the message of Asterion.
182. Not his face, which time has softened, nor his voice, which memory distorts—but his presence, which thought preserves.
183. He is with me when I hesitate before speaking, when I choose silence over the certainty in words.
184. He is with me when I walk alone, and the wind moves through the olive trees like a whisper of reason.
185. I used to fear that his philosophy would fade—that without him, it would dissolve into sudden abstraction.
186. But I see now that it was never about him. It was about the space he opened in others.
187. A space where thought could breathe and expand into the horizon of the future.
188. Where doubt was not weakness, but strength. And from that strength, I could walk forth.
189. Where death was not an impenetrable wall, but a mirror that reflected my mortality and life.
190. I have come to believe that Asterion lived as if he were already dying—not in despair, but in discipline.
191. He wasted no words. He chased no illusions. He loved the world not for what it promised, but for what it revealed.
192. And in that way, he was more alive than any of us. He was conscious of his existence.
193. He did not seek immortality as others did in life. He sought integrity through his character.
194. And he found it afterwards—not in the whims of fame, but in acceptance to thought.
195. I have tried to follow him, not by sheer imitation, but by continuation in my knowledge.
196. I have failed often. I have doubted even more, but I have never stopped thinking or searching.
197. That, I believe, is what he wanted for me to do. Not to resign myself to just knowledge.
198. I knew that without wisdom, my knowledge was reduced to what I knew.
The mind like the motion of the waves, must continue.
199. And as my mind begins to slow, I find comfort not in answers, but in the questions I leave behind for others to philosophise.
200. Asterion is gone. I shall soon follow, but the grove remains—and in it, the quiet flame of thought still burns in the memory of his last speech.
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