87th Day of Summer
Ten miles into the Bronze Woods
14th Bell
Ten miles into the Bronze Woods
14th Bell
Razkar knew it had to be the woods. He'd heard of the Temple To All Gods, and thought it to be a fine idea, but beseeching the grace of Myri in such a place, all white marble and barbarian styles, not a hint of green nor a crowd of shining skull staring at him from the walls... it was blasphemy.
The Myrian had passed the place on his way out of the city. The barbarian lands could be as inclusive as they wanted to be; Razkar came from a different people, and they had different ways.
We need not stone and silence to commune with our Goddess-Queen. But the location... that is important.
His people. Her people, too. The Myrian shook his head abruptly, making Mrrko whinny gently in surprise. A few passerbys did the same but then looked away just as quick, not wanting to catch the half-naked savage's eye. Even with the end of Summer mere bells away, Razkar was clan only in his sandals, loincloth, harness and cloak.
But that would change soon, too. The caravan was heading south and that would improve things, keep it from being like the frigid north... but still. Shirts, armor, even hats... Razkar was not looking forward to it.
Fast on the heels of the angry head-shake, a smile bloomed on the Myrian's face like there were too personalities fighting for control. He remembered, one time, far away and long ago when she'd rolled her yellow slit eyes and smirked at him.
"What do you care about the cold, Eagle? You'll never leave the hanging water of the jungle."
The smile died as he passed through the Main Gates. So quick, like it was a flower crushed by an iron-shod boot, some terrible truth or fear quelling any happy remembrance. Unbidden and unwanted, the paper in his purse became heavy, a leaden weight pulling him down to the dirt, all his fears whispering at once-
Mrrko whinnied again, and that time Razkar swore he heard a concerned timbre to it. He reached forward and petted the doe-eyed animals snout, pointing them toward the woods. He looked up and saw the brown and green smudge on the horizon, bristling with countless branches and trees. Many would look upon that treeline and feel a primal dread in doing so; genetic memories of foliage hiding monsters and beasts that would destroy and devour primitive Man.
The Myrian rode towards it, not with fear, but with hope; for he was born of that chaotic green.
There he would find some peace, and perchance, if Caiyha and Myri blessed him, balm for his distant friend.
++++++++++
"Goddess-Queen... Mother of My Ancestors... Light of the Myrians... please... hear me..."
Myrians, contrary to what many believed, were not "godless" savages. They would often admit that, yes, they were savage, but do deny the gods was to deny their mother and queen and she whom their existence depended on. Without Myri, they would collapse into tribes and clans and the chaos of the Dark Times. They were worse than the Valterrian to the Myrians, because even during that apocalyptic event, they had Myri's light to guide them.
Razkar made one for himself now. A light in the darkness of a barbarian land.
Mrrko was hitched to a tree a hundred feet away, peaceably stripping a blueberry bush. On his back was Razkar's gold-filled purse and every other trapping of this barbarian world he had with him, save for what he had as trophies, strapped to his body, hanging from his neck or sewn into his cloak.
He had walked to a clearing, deep and covered by a canopy of leaves and... and he had felt a whisper of home. The humidity wasn't even close, the ground was not thick with vines and even here, one could see a hundred paces a head of them with ease. Not so in Falyndar, but... it was enough.
The Myrian piled the kindling together into a tent-like pile, then struck sparks from his gladius until the dry moss caught, smoked, then...
He waited for the greedy flame to eat the base of the wood; watched the top collapse into itself, fresh food feeding the ravenous flames. Black eyes stared into the dancing, twisting inferno, light dancing in them. Of his own accord, his hand slid to his loincloth, withdrawing the frayed paper stuck there.
It was yellowed, now, old and crumpled and near-collapsing along the seams where it had been folded and unfolded countless times. Razkar had lost count of how many times he'd read it. He didn't want to look at those words again... but knew he had to...
"Cast eyes upon your son, Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, Son of Yurta and Zek, who has served you with love and loyalty... know that he craves your wisdom and your life... but not for himself..."
The paper whispered and crackled as he opened it. He dragged his eyes down to read the words crawled there, Myrian runes scratched and hacked into the parchment with haste, as if in desperation or while the author was running at full tilt.
Was that what happened? Were you fleeing? What did you do, Wolf?
| Eagle, I know Myri will never forgive me...but I hope that someday, you might. -Wolf |
The Wolf and The Eagle. Their fangs knew their pet names for each other but they dared not utter them out loud; they were for each other, and that was that. Tinnok had to make that clear at knuckle-point on one occasion; Razkar contented himself by pounding a cocky braggart from his own fang who called her the "Wolf-Snake" into the sand of the Training Yard.
"G-Goddess..."
His voice was breaking already, choking on the worry and sheer terror that fearful ignorance can inspire. Not knowing... gods... how did you even begin to handle that? A scrap of paper, a handful of words, flung across the world to a distant corner where he couldn't help, couldn't fight for her or defend her, could do nothing but-
Razkar bowed his head and bit down hard on his cheek, letting his chloer rise and fester in his mouth. He had to get this out of him; he wouldn't let it taint his acts under the slowly setting sun, fire crackling expectantly before him.
"... Goddess... I speak on behalf... of Tinnok of the Tempered Steel..."
His eyes did not move from the flames, channeling his words into it as much as his gaze. She lived in there... both of them. His Goddess and his Wolf. Solitary as her namesake, a long wolf but an oddity by her very nature, for she was part of a race that had such strength through clan, army, fang and nation.
Have you forgotten that? Was it... so hard, without me or Aya there? Goddess, forgive you? How can I forgive myself now I know... or don't know?
"Blessed Myri... you are revered as the Mistress of War, full of flame and steel and blood... yet I know and have seen your wisdom, your boundless love for your thousands of Children, spread across this world..."
His hand extended slowly, almost like some other force was pulling it there. A hundred times was enough. The words were burned into his mind as much the gnosis on the back of his neck and the ink on his flesh. Some small part of his cried out and cursed her, only to be shouted down.
Such pain you have bought to me... but what of your pain? Goddess, please-
"... please... Myri... pleas and begging fall often on your ears and are never answered, for in such ways are found no victories, nor glories... so I ask ins-instead..."
Again his voice cracked, a desperate savage in the still sea of slowly dying green, withering leaf by leaf as the end of the yer fast approached. The paper caught and he felt something hard in his throat, choked down along with his eyelids that crushed the moisture that threatened to spill out.
Not a drop. Not a tear. She would despise him for it.
Both of them would.
"... instead I ask... for remembrance... of a girl who... who achieved victory, every day of her life... who was tainted by rape and the blood of the Ancient Enemy from before she emerged from her mother's womb... but gained glory for you, hunting that same enemy in your jungle..."
The male fell to his knees before the flames, holding the burning paper cupped in his hands like it was so precious, limbs not so much as twitching as the parchment curled and twisted, blackened until the ash scorches his palms.
"Goddess... remember Tinnok, called Wolf by... by one who loves her... who shed blood with her, and was saved by her in the Deep Darkness..." The words died to a hushed whisper, eyes shining, gnosis steadily, softly throbbing as if in answer. "Bring her to your light... that she may know she is loved by you... and was never beyond your grace."
The hiss of iron on leather sighed around the clearing, knife ran over his palm, ash soaking into it and perhaps marring it forever. But Razkar did not shirk from the pain, nor the thought of a permanent reminder of his fears that day. He held his clenched fist over the flame and listened to the sudden sizzle as his life's blood dripping and boiled in the flames.
"I am... unworthy, Myri. A breaker of of vow to one of your Children. Punish Tinnok not for my sin. If... If punishment is due... visit it open me, and let she who has struggled for so long... find peace... and forgiveness..."
The fire burned. The branches creaked and wind whistled lightly in the leaves. Mrrko trotted in circles and still there was that sizzle. His gnosis throbbed... but Razkar could not hear an answer in its divine touch.
He waited until the fire burned to nothing, then he left. The answer was not important, perhaps. He had cast his blood and his words into the ether.
Now it was in the hands of Blessed Myri, and her wayward daughter.
