Chapter Fourteen, Apotheosis III
23rd of Sun’s Descent, 1328 CE
Morning sighs exhaled a palpable shift in pressure over the temple’s folds. The breath of sunrise relieved them of the tenebrous tension there. Monumental procession wound around the grand case, slinking up the threshold of clouds for this historic occasion. The Sentinels broke their backs against more human gusts, thanklessly tiring to contain the flood of people through the mountain pass; all eyes eager to be sated on the Living Lord. Those who had beat their chests for him, hearts loyal to Drakkon tasted glory on tips of their tongues. Those who’d cast doubts held their heads down in reverent shame. All in mesmerized reticence and reserved anticipation to be participating in a ceremony of such unrivaled gravity.
Irreproachable majesty suffused all aspect of the summit and every member of the march to it. Halo of empyrean virtue defeated the first frosts of winter. Here where, save for call of ceremony, only eagles & shamans dared dwell. This sanctum, not fully enclosed, was covered by pillars that looked like granite spears holding in surreal rites. This magnificent tabernacle, built with balance & beauty of the elements in mind, received their bustling worship.
In the center Gaahl, Ligeia and Surrellius were posed on dais. Every arrival shifted about searching for Drakkon who was still nowhere to be seen. A diminished Elder burnished scepter of ancient origin before all. He addressed them through whispers into Ligeia’s ear, his mouthpiece.
“Children of this ancient land! Your Elder’s ailing heart still flutters with joy to see the life blood of our people flare, so profoundly alive! Yet this old Keeper’s breath flees from us and thus must be laconic in this address... I hereby proclaim High Pontiff of our Primus inter Sagus, Surrellius. He shall be Keeper of the Key to Holy Ty-Drasil! His will shall preside over the affairs of this sacred order. That no matter what occurs in these tumultuous times in the world below our traditions shall be upheld with utmost reverence!”
The Elder passed holy rod over to his successor. Behind them the oracles and sages poised behind shrine started musical litany of supplication. Yet the applause of the crowd at this announcement was tepid. Dulled with disappointment for this not being the momentous moment they waited on. The politics of the temple castes had meagre appeal among most who did not call the place home. But if Surrellius was irked by this lukewarm response to his triumph he did not show it. At least his faithful sang to him. The newly anointed master of the temple kept up his front of solemn reverence. He stepped down among his acclaiming sages, making way for the pivotal event.
Gaahl signaled ordained oracles to ignite the suttee ahead of the terrace. The flames illuminated the faces near, rearing golden & green light. In blur of motion, the barricade of sages & shamans at the back parted for Drakkon, with Azarra behind him. He and his mother were arrayed in gleaming robes of purest white thread, captivating the eyes of all as they advanced to the center.
The Lord in his splendor incited a bout of shivers. These palpitating waves were borne not from exposure to the elements but from pure marvel. And the unshakeable notion that the realm of the unknown now crossed into actuality. The breadth of divinity apparent for all to be enraptured by.
“Behold! He whose arrival is foretold in the Eddas walks amongst thee this holy hour! The heavens motioned proclamation that the Living Lord indeed appears! Bearer of the Light of Creation! The sky ablaze with empyrean word! A sign to anoint Him! This hour, this strangest and most profound, that dawns on us shall require of us no ease of service but the most trying of all our charge. The Waning of the World is upon us. Behold the tablet of our age shaken clean that new writ be scribed! We must take up this hallowed mantle with faithful devotion. That with it we rise to the task which I beckon, the Lord, bring upon us! I grant him bear the sublime sword that the shroud of the serpent be cut, as liberated ribbons!”
The Lord-to-be took to the dais, face composed of tranquil assent. While his mother diverged from his course to make conference with a small circle of sisters. The shaman bowed low his head. Leaned to Ligeia to use her voice as his but not before a look of shocked consternation flashed across at what he asked her to speak. She posed a pithy query in response to Gaahl’s whispered mandate, quelled by piercing glare through that one viable eye. After a murmured sigh she conceded to his whim and projected it aloud.
“Know ye: Even as the coming days shall be trying; tight with tribulation, I declare that this: my blessing of ascension, calls for no mundane means either. I invoke the Rite of Rebirth and commit this dying body in offering to the Great God, Drakkon! Know this must be done, as Keeper’s final command, so that this life’s blood - this dithering heart - shall be given unto the flames to feed the undying, eternal dragon of the firmament!”
Jolts of astonishment coiled through the attendees. This was a rite known largely in legend, thought of as mere myth. Azarra too was beside herself. At Ligeia’s woeful behest a trio of oracles intoned hymn trimmed with motifs of sacrifice, finality & joyous rebirth. This chant was echoed by the rest of the Temple’s curates. First their call came as awkward warbling, almost dissonant to the ears, being as this hymn was one taught among the castes yet ne’er performed outside initial teaching. Then shambled intonation stabilized in tune of hypnagogic patterns with rapturous concert.
The oracles removed the Elder’s cowl, revealing gaunt chest barely of this world as is. The old man’s dignified pose did not dither despite the cold. One of the sisters produced an athame that glittered subtly with rubied starlight bejeweling rim. Offering it to Gaahl, he blessed it red, before handing it to Drakkon. The venerable shaman clang to the young Lord’s shoulders, firmly for his withered frame. He whispered, an utterance for the deified man’s ears alone. Those divine eyes glistened with understanding. Nodding respectfully, he surveyed the ceremonial dagger with dutiful intention.
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One of the sisters carefully placed ornate chalice beneath the arms, for collection of the gushing sanguine essence of the shaman. Gaahl exposed his wrists. Grimly, Drakkon indulged by sliding whetted edge along veins, slicing ritualistically. He then pressed the knife against chest, aiming at heart. With a dignified acceptance the Elder let plunge it beneath his bark. Carved out the ebbing pump of the noble soul.
This gruesome ritual was met with committed acceptance, a surreal calm, save few guttural spasms drowned out by the mob chanting ghoulish cheer. Those revelers presented stained cheeks and quivering throats. A choir of wolves resounded from atop the nearby mountains, as though the pack he’d tended to so lovingly in life instinctually knew and lamented the passing of their kindred soul. Mourned their master, asking the Wilds to bid him farewell.
Drakkon wrenched out his heart from the surgical cleft. Staring into the bloody pulp he drained the cascading drip into chalice. Macabre stain leaked for funereal rite. Then the sisters of Sight flocked to the staggered body. Catering to the shell, his soul fled to make a case for his deliverer to the outer gods at their gates. Sent now to where the Fates would receive this soaring spirit and mark the kindling of his Materia to bless that deliverer doubly for every drop left to him.
Alabaster robe blemished by the taint of trickling blood, Drakkon returned the gored athame to the sister. Lifting his gaze to the encircling pilgrims, his iris still stained by inordinate dosage. Frozen fire fixed behind his eyes, too bright (and yet cooled by timeless passage) to be of same shape as those caught in glare. A Sight of searing Judgement, looking through the fabric of those struck by it. All spellbound, he recites his purpose in voice raining thunder over the sea of music, his backing chorus.
“By winds of astral creation, I commit this pious soul to the Holy Fire! Vessel burns that True Heart travels swifter to the threshold of the Highest, where he is awaited. Know that this blood, spilt in sacrifice, is that of all our people! From ashes of elden pyre we usher in the genesis of a new aeon! In these hands I carry thine hearts too. I give them back to you, freely, that they might be offered truly to the Flame. Be renewed by my seal; Give unto the flame by which we are re-forged! For I AM the Voice of Living Light & Lord of this World!”
Transcendent rite bloomed & vow voiced, the Living Lord brought chalice to his gullet and drank in ritualistic frenzy. Sanctimonious fervor elated at this, as the oracles committed the shaman’s limpness to balefire before the dais. Its fumes grasped at the atmosphere as they sifted up the unsealed ceiling of the dome. Drakkon then gave the remnants of the pontiff’s heart to the flames, taken with glee. When acts of ceremony were sufficiently enacted the humming ceased and a lugubrious silence besieged the shrine. A broad breath, heavy with momentum of what transpired, laden with an underlying unknowing of where this all would lead.
Countless centuries passed in perception of gulf between dreadful lull and when the motion for coronation came. Azarra’s song soothed the spell, re-emerging from the monotony of hoods & lapsed jaws, towards her son. She shooed the grieving hush with tilting aria. Swiftly all ears pined at her siren song. Her melodious wave brushed back burdensome sorrow & concerns of the morrow.
Hers was an ancient verse: the mythic hymn of Drakkon – thundering flame of creation - the primeval song first recited by the god’s first incarnation ages ago. A litany praising when he taught mankind how to wield fire and forged loving, hopeful communities of his children. The canticle tapped into something buried beneath time & dust within all in attendance. Some lent their own voices, a primordial part of them extracted & enhanced by stunning prayer-song. Tune of a bygone era shared unifying wonder in melody, distant yet familiar, weaving captivation over the tribes to transcend all difference. Bewitching song spindled them into a single, unbreakable thread of magnitude once unthinkable.
Azarra, aglow with pious resolution, could not fully conceal her inner ecstasy at this apotheosis. The Mother of the Divine brought forth crafted crown to rest upon her progeny’s brow. The child whom she’d cursed in her heart, citing him as the rotten fruit of he who wronged her and a sign of the world’s brute enmity, she now blessed before all. She thanked her fortune that the gods – and the sheer merit of her endurance; careful planning and training of that seed - rescued her from abyss. Her fate, mirrored in shimmering crest.
The crown: an effulgent, wiry creation. A splendid circle, linked to twig thin wax sticks hidden above head; topped with a cousin sap of the eternal brazier. Alit by striking of stone, these hovering orbs burned around his head, protected by a glossy circle, not grazing his mane nor temple. Slick retardant lathered over his tamed hair, that no follicle was endangered by this illumination. Halo of pale fire capped shroud of divinity. The slow, steady burn of the secret sap lapped at the air but never its wearer.
The affect would endure enough to mesmerize the already enthralled congress. Commanding this aesthetic, Azarra contemplated, shall keep them enthralled for far longer than the sight lasts. Iconic imprint of her design branded their minds. Through her bard, Baron, that emblem would be known by yet more. Shaped of orbit to retain its glitter through his pen and tongue. Generations might hear of this moment, this crown. Though the songs and their meaning might bend in the far future, too obscure for her to even wish to see. For that road ahead harbored clouds, heavy with questions and portends of how this could yet turn to destroy her.
Before this unquestionable splendor all knelt. Performing pledge of reverence, the clans shed furs for the mantle of the Drakoni. And those few who, in secret, did not wish to submit to this rule still did so outwardly. Perhaps out of fear of what this newly proclaimed God and his control over the majority could do should they dare resist the fiery clout beholden now to him and his ethereal crown. Behind him Azarra could steer the course of history, she told herself. Remind him of who brought him into the world. Who allowed for this reformative conquest through she who suffered to bear him. She was his to shape. And They through Him.
Meanwhile in the mind of the young Lord unreal blur muddled inner airs. Noise & faces meshed by distortion. What Lived through him de-realized itself from him. While still faintly anchored in subconscious, the rest of experience rolled over him; the hubbub smashed in singularity. And then irreverent laughter near crackled, cackling mad, beneath his mask, bent by a repressed amusement.
This disparity whirling in centerpiece head was caught in passing by that songster-scribe, Baron, who too observed this crux: the Lord can never again be seen as too like them. Caught in the gauze of glory, he must be always above. To see mundane man in place of their demigod would stain his reign before it flourishes anything truly lasting and immortal. But all the same, he mustn’t become too distant a deity among them. The artist’s poetic framing must paint over that gap, to bridge it. Although pride propelled his passion to strum song, Baron equally considered a bead of worry. An epic for the Eddas, his tune could be, but perhaps those later verses may grow to encompass a darker key.