Chapter Eight, Show of Miracles
16th of Duskcrest, 1328 CE, Hearthfarrow Square
Azarra bristled amidst an agitated bustle crowding the square. Amassed bodies built a bulwark of shouts and wailings flung against one another in a cage of senseless clamor. With no one speaker prevailing in volume or argument over the other the town green grew thick with confusion and stress. Begrudged factions splintered by segregating sentiments screamed back at those of different opinions. Something tense was occurring or about to. Pitch pooled under divided peoples, waiting to be struck aflame.
She sliced through the rowdy mass, knifing openings between people. There upon stone table, the communal offering place lay Dahlia. Blush drained from once lively face; a cadaverous stillness was hers with skin like pallid stone. Breath didn’t push from her bosom nor were there sly motions beneath her eyelids. Her sleeping beauty a graven symbol of Death’s plundering of the maiden.
Several menders of mundane means hurried around the deadened girl. Their herd of banal medics and idling soothsayers looked worriedly to the town elder, Elisara, for direction. The old woman dressed in modest robes, looking more a travelling preacher than an Elder, spotted Azarra.
“Mother Azarra, come! Have you ways of healing this poor girl? She hastens departure from her flesh, which becomes as cool stone. But her spirit has not subsided to true dark just yet. We cannot make sense of her condition or its cause. This physic suggests ‘tis the bite of a snake, while the soothsayer calls it a fresh curse flung from Elderath’s more malicious sister. Talk of omens rules over reasons. The crowd’s curiosity courts a temper. One growing more contagious the longer they are deprived of answers.”
Azarra looked Dahlia over with distraught and perplexed mien. “What happened to her? How long has she been like this?”
The town elder answered seriously. “She frenzied a speech, full of apocalyptic drivel, before frothing & falling. Her spell took her midst ramblings of the Dread Serpent overtaking the moon. An augury that if we did not renounce the old ways and seek a ‘greater’ patron deity then Vizzarion’s dread maw would devour us. Then she collapsed. From fever to stasis.”
Azarra offered cool observation. “The mob out there is scared, stoked by uncertainty. These people have fevered need to have their fears denied or confirmed. Her coldness stirs confusion.”
“Aye, they want for answers. The fate of an unknown waif suddenly enfolds that of all the square.” Elisara explained. “Our physics are not versed in any magick or herbalism that might help, only the basics of bones and bruises. Her condition is so... unnatural. Can you cure this queer affliction? I would offer whatever herbs might help would that we had them but-”
A Farrowkin retainer budged in, irritated. “-The stores of our herbwoman are gone! Just after the first waves of upheaval that came with the Bear. We wager the theft belongs to those Ferali savages. So upset by the death of their warlord that they’ll smile at any slight they can still fling at us. Well, others say ‘tis judgement from the gods for letting the feral ones through our-”
Elisara bid him hush before addressing Azarra directly. “We need not lick the flames to test the heat, boy. Careless blame and reasonless grievances will only ignite cycle of wrath between our clans. Alas, it is so when it comes to our alchemical stores. Our wise woman is fled from our sight, unable to hold her head up in face of failure. As is, we are ill supplied to handle this, whether it be prophecy or poison. If you cannot save her, we understand, but at least help shine understanding of what curse this could be. The hearts here must know they are not to be marks of transferable curse or a new plague!”
“A shameful & lamentable course regarding your herbwoman. And this.” Azarra bit her lower lip. “I may have some herbs. Last of our gifts from Hy’Drasil, offerings of an Andrasil tree that could relieve this ailment of hers.” An arced brow of suspicion from the Farrowkin asked her to explain her source, though the man dared not pose his question aloud. She pulled out vial of crushed leaves and another filled with strange oil. She spread the oil about Dahlia’s forehead, eyelids, and lips. Slipped a noxious philter beneath her nostrils. Then pried her breathless mouth to place crushed leaf, the residue of resurrection, on her tongue. “Alas, only the Fates know whether her lot is to live. We must hope the Hels do not claim her for their nether tide.”
Still no semblance of life stirred in Dahlia’s state. With every second Azarra grew increasingly nervous. But when she turned to the elder to speak it was with confident, inspired directive. “If her puzzling malady is of divine making then only Drakkon can reverse this comatose scourge. Allow me to make way for His arrival. I shall go with haste.”
Guardsmen beat their pikes on the ground and hollered at the tumultuous brouhaha. Azarra scampered through the congested path towards the proscenium archway that divided Hearthfarrow from the greater stage of the waiting world. Her heart hastened with steep steps away from the square, throttled by the prospect that her timing with the antidote could be off. Rushed past her doubt that she’d blundered the formulae and mistakenly killed her disciple. And that gnawing terror of what might pass should any discover the fraudulent nature of the stasis and untwine the thread of Drakkon’s claim to divinity.
As always, her son was to play a pivotal role in the course without knowing himself as an actor. He must be fully convinced of his Will while acting in accordance with the path she subtly set. Always a precarious tightrope to walk, with the plunge beneath growing more perilous.
Delphine heralded her Lady’s coming, dropping to her knee. “Mother Azarra approaches!”
Everyone bowed in deference but for their Lord, who gave her a welcoming nod. His mother appeared afflicted with worry. Enervation eclipsed her elegant gait with a flustered flush. He flourished concerned upon studying her state and clasped her close.
“There is a predicament in square that requires your intervention. A woman of augury has been struck by an invisible bolt, that many are convinced hails of the gods. I believe the Dreadful bite of Vizzarion didst creep upon her. You must display your power & save the poor girl! Save the town from their pagan fears! Infuse your will, channel intent in incantation and perform a miracle this day!”
Drakkon contemplated as Azarra bid those bowed to rise. Facing his companions, he affirmed his mother’s plea. “I must away to rescue! Remain here, for we do not need storm the village square. Remember, we are guardians of peace and protectors of the old ways, not conquering warmongers as such sight would have us seem. I will travel faster with fewer around to ground me.”
The Lord set small selection of companions but as they made for the town Baron caught up to give plea. “Please, your Lordship. May I humbly request to join your party in this endeavor? I get the inclination more such awe-inspiring moments are to come and for that I wish to witness your procession. Let me with you that I may wield my talent & artful recollection as you carve the story’s course.” To this he nodded reluctantly, accepting that the bard was indeed useful even if his cavalier attitude was at times abrasive.
Drakkon and his companions parted sea of faces to arrive at the slab where Dahlia slept, inanimate. The crowd’s hushed murmur circled his advance like a halo of whispers. Some among them gawked. Many mouths were agape with weariness, worry and, for a few, fear that this newcomer should succeed and thus force change upon them. Others sensed failure and were frightened of the lad’s transformation into another tyrant usurping the void left by the Bear. Most of the Ferali warriors gritted scowls at the detested killer of their chieftain. Yet these unhappy vagrants clenched anger more with Heron, Kassan’s next of kin who conceded them to further humiliation. Watching him led along as trained dog, sitting when told to by new master.
Elisara cracked her stave against the green stone. She stepped from the pedestal where Dahlia’s pale frame lay. Her motions silence the droning susurration of the mob. Drakkon remained stoic as he moved to the center. The sullen faces spectating mirrored the gray sky, whose clouds readied despondent tears. Some – within the Ferali contingent - would say heaven’s mask was yet in mourning for their lord’s fresh defeat. But the voice which suddenly challenged the arrival came of wizened widow. A bitter crone, yet resolute in her convictions, who stepped out from the array to point finger at Drakkon. She cleaved through hush with audacious accusation, proclaiming his wrongs as the reasons for their ill-winds.
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“You, blasphemer, are the cause of this! Your hubris hangs high over her head! This is a plague from the true gods. They punish us with righteous blight! A curse upon your pretense – a spiritual paralysis – to strike hearts which hold you over them! It shall spread until we denounce this pretender! You deserve a stake not a crown, you profaner of the pantheon!”
This rancid exclamation provoked whooping and cries of consternation, awaiting inevitable retaliation. Drakkon’s sentinels itched for their scabbards and moved towards the weird woman, red with indignation she spewed. But as their severe intent was nearly upon her their Lord raised a halt with booming directive. “Do not harm her! What would I be if not able to stand against empty accusations? The woman only speaks her mind. Misguided though she is, I shall meet her words with a demonstration not deaf sword.”
His guards peace-tied their sheathes & tucked their chins in embarrassment. “Know that I am no tyrant nor charlatan. I come to lift the veil from your eyes. You are spiteful from faithless cynicism, pruned lass, yet I forgive you for it. I show you the Divine in me; that you may live with promise of abundance. That Light which will heal her can be in you, as it runs through me!”
He took to the pedestal. Crouching low he waved his hands over the corpse-maiden, reeling in to read her energy. Azarra watched uneasily, splitting lip with enough nervous pressure to tear tissue and leak blood. She cursed herself for not testing the formula & affect before this move. Suspended in all possibilities of how this could go awry. Ah! I hate this damnable unknowing!
Sealing his eyes, Drakkon concentrates. Had her malady originated from a chemical intemperance? Or was this a curse engraved on her form from the tablets of Fate? If he could reach within her being and realign her essence with infinite consequence her body would heal itself.
“I, Drakkon, sculptor of materia of worlds from void of non-being, hath sailed across the breadth of infinity into body to nourish earth. My birth into form is for and of you. I come before you as, maker & deliverer, vessel of and to Rebirth!
The hour of Dawn returns! Let Eos be realized in you, few faithful! I, whose throne sits beyond the brim of the cosmos, grant new Light & plenty paths! You who were shaped from the dust of stars and framed by earthen crib through Supernal Will, I bid return to me! Embrace the earth, your Mother, and know I bring Heaven upon it! Come forth from your corridor, this mortal prison! Join in Renewal! Hear with heart’s ears that you are my Progeny, children of Fire, and shout this acclaim! Behold my gift: Resurrection of immortal self!
For I am the way to new life beyond Death’s gates! If only the doors of your heart are open to my radiant Sol! Be beyond the bite of Dread’s serpent! Suffer not Malderath’s kiss but return to her sister, Elderath! The voice of thy maker calls! Receive new breath!”
Plentiful parties observed in reticent suspense, waiting for any vital signs to shake the waif’s stiff plank. Their craving for a miracle elongated over what felt as hours tensed into few moments. Azarra’s heart refrained from beating. Inert, forsaking breath. Waiting for Dahlia to stir induced sharp panic. The panacea of herbal remedies ought to revive her, at the least give whiff of restoration for her complexion. Yet no such wave washed over her frigid countenance. The inkling of shrinking away (from befalling retribution) flirted with her thought.
Every pair of eyes in the ring bore into Drakkon. Staring to pierce the facade. What could the cause of his failing here be? Was he naught but peddling warlock of mere martial means? Even expressions of devoted pilgrims and wonderous wayfarers fractured into funereal chagrin. His own sentinels near sneered at their Lord with misgiving.
The pragmatists among them worried less for the strange girl and more about the spread of enigmatic blight. Perhaps the crude crone was right, and the accord of the gods would be pestilence. That
widow wept. Palms pressed in prayer, she beseeched the gods to reveal themselves through fury and absolve the town of deific imposter.
Drakkon chose not to see their scrutiny. He shut his eyes, seeking place untouchable by spears of doubt and enmity. There he communed, repeating mantra of confidence to permeate the halls of his mind. Azarra’s comely form and warm grandeur manifested within. From that core she whispered wisdoms. A phrase her corporeal voice had uttered ignited insight. He hammered pursuing pulse of this intuition and altered his approach.
One hand to his heart, the other lifts palm to the sky, angling towards glowering clouds. As the resonance of his voice reverberated about the square the sheer force of his intent froze all, arrested by his tree-felling tone. They took notice and beheld him.
“Vizzarion! Thou dreadful serpent of the nether! Leave this poor girl and take with thee thine obscene toxins or I shall force thee into the flames! I shall drain the venom from thy lips, O sleeping soul! I shall take it from thee & bear thy burden as mine own! Let it pass into me, whose blood cannot be tainted by devious spit! I shall dissolve this noxious vein and breathe out its curse. Thereafter I shall imbue you with breath of newfound zeal!”
Drakkon declared this with mystical fervor. Then he took the hand cusped over heart and brought it to Dahlia’s. Leaning in he brought his mouth to hers with air of lordly succor. He blew cosmic intent into the faint young woman draped across the stone. That she would return to life as the ceremonial words suffused out his kiss. Drew upon peculiar balmy taste & odd fragrance infused along the fringes of her lips. He pressed restoration, exhaling vibrancy into her lungs.
Dahlia’s eyelids fluster, regaining a portion of awareness. A brush of rose returns to her pale canvas. Living coloration returning to her face steadily. Dithering movements of her dreaming started rapidly toward awakening. A precipitous gasp escapes her as she re-animates. Her death-shut lids flicker opened. Blush leavens her face. She wore befuddled expression of a mind still blurred. Yearling orbs widen, still too stupefied to discern what had happened. Until she recognized her healer in the foreground of murky awareness and pounces to him.
Dahlia, arisen, hugs her savior. Wrapping herself around the musculature of his body, raking him & her soul with grinning compassion. Invigorated, Drakkon elevates his arms to welcome the horizon, to encompass the dream. His mind: clear as the facets of her being crystalized before him. Her flowers unfolding toward the sun of his aura. Their touch defeats storms; drab blockade of clouds retreats from solar spears. The gulf of the crowd gives way to empyrean beams. Releasing her, shade hurries away as he heralds Living Light, proved as his.
Arms reached to bring the firmament’s fire unto them. The young Lord gave fiery fervency to them. His roaring sermon delivered its audience to a plane beyond that earthly stone upon which he sang it:
“My Will is to alight every mind as beacon of luminous knowledge. Under my Sign, my Aegis, you shall be free of sickness! Instead of famine and drought you shall taste knowledge – to read & write and know thy own thought, that its glow is that of Divine creation!”
“To till the fields as stewards and study alignment with nature. I promise a new era, to lift this hearth to the empyrean mount of the gods! That my ascent is summoned by the planets, this earthly temple is erected for thee! Together we will reach from ripe Elderath to bridge this clime with the grand seat I descend from. To lead you I must dwell among you! I come as shape of man that I may observe through worldly eyes and know your pains & pleasures as mine. I swear to ye and my kin in the stars that my Will is the Way. Let my flesh be the trail you follow to that garden, its fruit!”
Azarra prayed in relief. Amazed that she too had been caught in the swell her son shook over this human tide. Elated that her machinations had not been found out. That her disciple lived. But then cynicism tapped her spine. A reminder that this was all thin, penetrable veil of illusions. That momentum would only surf more tension at its unveiling.
A brilliant cascade of infinite frames gave starry depth to Dahlia’s pupils. But envy flashed across Azarra’s hue, to see her disciple cling to her son. To see them raised upon crowning platform, revered objects – more than human. Her aura flickered covetous green. But that feeling soon dissipated against Drakkon’s pulsing goodness & Dahlia’s graciousness. All that power flowing unto him is but a reservoir for my use. A wellspring of mine own willpower. I, who deserve such reverence, elevated myself through his height. ‘Divine’ course shall shape rivers, mountains, valleys... and that course shall go where I aim...
Whether out of genuine repentance or trembling limbs of old age the outspoken widow who’d spat such vitriol fell to her knees before Drakkon. Her rattling bones shaken by miracle, she recanted her prior denial and praised him. Her spite replaced with piety, she abased herself before the Great God. Knowing him in her heart. Her adjuration rippled through the congregates. All took a knee, bowing in veneration.
Drakkon stepped away from the stone bed, Dahlia’s hand at his side. He offered absolution to the crone, pressing free hand to her forehead. The warmth of the Lord she’d rejected who yet received her caught her weeping. Her tears wet others’ cheeks in the crowd. Even those Ferali vagrants who formerly verged on swearing Heron’s death for his signing up with this spectacle found themselves abruptly turned into acolytes. Apostles all. Those few who remained doubtful kept their skepticism secret. Lowered their heads away from the array’s unalloyed adoration at being transformed into part of the whole of the holy herd.