Chapter 20
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Meck stopped the minivan so smoothly that I, immersed in prayer, didn't even notice it and only woke up from a pat on the shoulder.
"Don't sleep!" Phil tapped me on the shoulder, bringing me out of my deep thoughtfulness. "Here we are."
When I opened my eyes, I noticed that Anton had pulled out a large gym bag from behind the seats. He opened it, pulled out some clothes, and tossed them to Hotey, then another to Phil, and then handed me a tightly rolled up dark gray cloth bag.
"I advise you to put it over your jacket," he said.
When I opened the package, I realized that I was holding a thick, long pilgrim's cloak. In my rare visits to the temples, I often saw people in such cloaks. The cloaks are large enough to hide the figure well, and their deep hoods securely cover the face.
"If you don't want to, don't put it on," Anton says, noticing my doubt. "But we prefer not to show our faces."
After thinking for a while and noticing that all the bikers had their raincoats on before leaving the car, I followed suit, pulling my hood almost up over my eyes.
I jumped out of the car, smoothed out the cloak, and looked around. We had arrived at the small Temple of the Valley of the Winds. It was about seventy kilometers from the capital, and about an hour's walk from the nearest village. This temple was built five years before the Great War, then there was the main camp of the occupying Japanese troops on the North Island. After the war, all the structures of the camp were destroyed, and the entire picturesque valley was declared a national nature park of memory with a ban on construction on its territory.
The road ended about half a kilometer before the beginning of the temple grounds. Despite the remoteness and not much popularity of this temple complex, there were so many cars parked today that our minivan Meсk was parked almost a kilometer away from the entrance. There was nothing unusual about that, though; the new moon is the day of the Face of Aphrodite. A day that most people choose for their prayers and visits to the Temples. Most people just go to pray; the proportion of pilgrims in the general crowd is not so great.
"What are we standing around for? Do we want to freeze?" When Meck closed the car, he shivered at the sudden gust of cold wind. "Let's go, shall we?"
I followed Hotei and pulled my hood even tighter over my face, but I kept my eyes open. The Valley of the Winds is a very picturesque place, nestled in the lowlands of a small river, surrounded by low, gentle hills.
Like any other temple, the local complex was divided into three zones. The first, or outside, was the open park. The main theme of the Valley Temple park was cherry orchards, with many sandy paths winding among them for strollers. Here and there in small clearings were picturesque rock gardens, the austere beauty of which set the congregation in a peaceful mood.
As I stepped over the stone bas-relief marking the boundary of the Temple, I immediately felt a barely perceptible whiff, a slight wave of warmth passing through my body. All the heavy, panic-inducing thoughts immediately faded and stopped pressing so hard. This phenomenon, which any parishioner feels, is called the breath of Aphrodite. Immediately my cell phone beeped in my pocket and went off...
What a fool I am, I forgot to put it out in the car. The electronics do not work on the Temple grounds. Why this happens, scientists still can't find an answer, and theologians are always arguing and can't come to a consensus either. I hope that my smartphone simply shut down and did not fall into complete disrepair, as sometimes happens with complex devices from "breathing".
Walking through the cherry orchard, I wished I'd never been here before. I'll have to find a day to come here again, but not on a new moon, because there are too many people here today. On a normal day to come here and just walk around, I think I'd like it. I'd walk here for an hour or two even now, but the Goons had other plans. Anton, who was walking ahead, seemed to care little about the local beauty, he led us to the central alley and walked in a straight line to the main building.
The local temple, like all such buildings, was in the Greek style. Many high carved columns of white stone. The characteristic triangle of the gable and the slightly forward projecting stone gable overhang. It could not be confused with anything else. Especially the Temple of the Valley was erected clearly based on the quite recognizable temple of Hephaestus.
We crossed a short but wide bridge lined with dark marble and crossed a small but very clear stream, and thus found ourselves in the inner area of the complex. In addition to the building itself, there were many statues, both dedicated to the Three Faced and each of His Faces individually. Nor were the Greatest of Heroes forgotten, sculptures of which were placed in great numbers around the perimeter of the Temple. Here the majority of parishioners offer their prayers because there is an opinion that under the open sky there is a better chance to be Heard. To me, this is an obvious misconception, but many believe it, and now this part of the temple complex is full of people.
Without lingering there, we quickly crossed the square in front of the building, then climbed the steps, passed the pillars, and entered, hooded, the third zone, the heart of the Temple.
It does not look like a very large room, twenty meters by fifteen meters at most, with a five-meter statue of the Three Faced towering in the center. Many people are intimidated by this place because, despite its modest size, it can accommodate any number of worshippers for prayer. It is never crowded, even if many millions cross the threshold at once. From the walls here emanates a pleasant, very soft, and warm light, and you will not find any lamps on them, but only the stone is smooth, pleasant to the touch, and a little cold. And the statue itself - it was not molded by human hands, hammers, and other tools of craftsmen were not knocked on the stone, it is a Gift of the Ascension, a gift of the Deity to the human race. There is an opinion that this statue of the Three Faces is the only one, and, crossing the threshold in any of the Temples anywhere on the planet, we are transported to it, wherever we have been before.
I had only been in the heart of the Temple once before when I was twelve. I still remember the frightening sensation that the statue was about to come down from its pedestal and lean toward me and look directly into my eyes. And he would do it, making sure to turn to me with the face of Hades. And now I'm frozen, overwhelmed by two contradictory feelings: admiration and fear. The statue is so beautiful that no poet in the history of the world has ever been able to find the words to describe its beauty. Many have tried. Thousands... But once you look at the gift, you realize that all these words, poetic verses, they are nothing more than vanity and insignificance before its greatness and perfection.
I walked up to the statue, touched my forehead to the pointing finger of the Face of Hades, and offered a plea. Anton had advised me to give the Dark One past and future curses, but I did otherwise. I gave him the euphoria that, like a wave, would come over me at the first Fusion, gave that future feeling to the former master of the Realm of Oblivion. I hope very much that my gift will be accepted, I don't want to "get hooked" on this feeling and become a palomaniac. After finishing this Prayer, I thankfully bowed and, shifting to the side, pressed my lips to the palm of the Face of Love. After praying for my sisters and their health, I shifted clockwise again. And I put my crippled hand in the blood-red palm of the Face of Ares.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
You see it all and know it all. You don't need a long speech... I may be a toy warrior, but I fight, and I love it. Give me a chance to know the joy of defeating the toughest foe. That's all I ask...
When he finished his short prayer, he took two steps back, bowed, and turned around to look for the bikers. They were already standing at the Arch.
The Arch... If it is impossible to describe The Gift, then, on the contrary, it is very easy. An ordinary arch, of which there are many, four meters high and three meters wide, made of snow-white marble. It does not shine with any superfluous refinements, intricate carvings, or fanciful ornamentation; its stone is perfectly pure. This purity is interrupted only by a faintly glowing red inscription: "Everyone is a Hero". This inscription is written in a language no one knows, such letters and script can be found nowhere else. But any person anywhere in the world, even the completely illiterate and even the savage, not knowing that signs can convey words, looking at these letters, immediately understands what is written here. But there is something that scares you to death when you look at the Arch... There is a sea of blood in its vault, and you must enter it. And when you look at that blood, you know it's blood. Human blood. And this knowledge, even in the hottest heat, gives you a cold chill.
I froze, fascinated as I watched the numerous other pilgrims passing through the bikers standing by the Arch, who was no more than phantom shadows to us. These people are not coming with us, so we are already separated here, and if I suddenly change my mind and decide to go alone, the Goons will turn into shadows for me as well. We are bound by the decision to cross the Threshold together, so we are material to each other, while many thousands of other pilgrims are only fleeting and unrecognizable silhouettes to us.
"The longer you think, the worse it gets," Anton said. "If it makes you feel better, take my hand."
In fact, I really want to grab hold of them all and not let them go. Share with them the terror that comes over me when I try to see what's behind the Arch... But I just whispered to the Face of Ares that I'm a warrior, so...
I shake my head negatively at the suggestion and take a step forward, then another and another.
Anton, with a nod, steps behind the Arch, followed by Meck and Hotey, and only Phil is left to wait for me. And as I approach the Threshold, he pats me on the back and says.
"Come on, we're with you!"
And I take a Step...
Into the bloody sea that ripples in the Archway...
The hardest step of my life...
The scariest step...
And the Arch accepts me...
The bloody waves are parting...
Letting me through...
A deep breath...
And...
I stumble and fall to my knees, the glare of the midday sun in my eyes. I blink my eyes wide open. I'm kneeling on the grass, shriveled by the relentless heat. Three hundred meters away from me the mighty River carries its murky waters, the other bank of which is hidden somewhere near the horizon. And everywhere I look, the steppe is as flat as a table, covered, like a cheap carpet, with straw-colored grass. Under a perfectly clear sky without even the slightest cloud.
Nearby, shaking off, stand up also fallen Goons, only they are dressed unfamiliarly...
A sigh of relief escaped my lips; it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. And most importantly, I wasn't alone. I wanted to scream. I was able to! Overcame my fear! This alone is already a real feat for me. But before my lips open, a lightning bolt of pure energy strikes me.
My body arches but it's not pain, it's pure pleasure. I can feel myself filled with strength, strength unbelievable, inhuman. My blood boils like liquid fire. It seems to me that I can stop a tank with my hands, repel a flying projectile with my chest, and reach for the stars with my hands! I am overwhelmed with a feeling of power and omnipotence.
"A-a-a-a-ah!!! " I couldn't hold back that scream.
One more second and I will disappear...
I will cease to exist...
Completely dissolved in this feeling, giving an enchanting feeling of omnipotence!
One second and another person is on his feet...
Which would do anything to feel it once again!
And then again...
And again...
He will have no other purpose in life...
It won't be me anymore...
"Noooo..." I whisper, gasping for breath. "Nooo."
My whispering is like the rejection of a drug addict who says one thing but greedily reaches for the syringe at the same time.
But I remained myself because the Dark Palm covers me, and all emotions are dulled, muting the unearthly pleasure.
" Agr..." Clearing my throat, I whisper. "Thank you... Thank you, Hades, for accepting my gift..."
The Dark Face's blessing not only protects me from losing myself but also clears my mind. I've been able to perceive my surroundings quite adequately.
Five paces away from me, swords drawn, stand four Goons. Three of them: Phil, Anton, and Mek, all wearing the same lamellar armor, each with a large shield on his left arm, what they call a scutum, only the marks on the guys' shields are different. Helmets with a small crest, leaving the face open and barely covering the cheeks, if I'm not mistaken, they bear the name - montefortino. Behind the back, the tips of the pilums lookout. On the legs are the typical caligae for such ammunition. Armor of Hotey is different: he wears chain mail instead of a lamellar, a big round shield covered with buffalo leather in his hands, a helmet is more simple without a comb and protection of cheekbones, and his feet are the warm version of caligae, ancient ancestors of ankle boots. And Hot's sword is a palm and a half longer than those of the other bikers. One thing all four of them have in common is that they all wear the insignia of the legions of ancient Rome.
Noticing my conscious gaze, Anton lowers his blade.
"I've never seen anyone so squished... Are you okay?"
"N-n-normal," I squeeze out through sheer force.
"Then don't leave it, Attribute lying on the ground," he nods somewhere to my left.
I turn my head and see Him! Polished by hundreds of touches, taut and incredibly powerful even by sight, it beckons with the dark surface of the Silver Doe's horn. My palm rests on it, and I realize... Mine!!! I will give it to no one! The finest weapon in the universe! My weapon...
The Silver Bow of Apollo.
The same one Hercules carried behind his back and shot down the Stymphalian birds with it.
Arrows fired from such a bow by the hand of Evritus were capable of hitting targets behind cover.
The assemblage of these weapons became the feather that broke the back of Troy's defense.
I feel The Bow reaching out to me, and we merge into one...
A long time ago, delighted by the shooting skills of a young boy, Apollo gave his bow to this future master. The boy's name was Euryth. The boy grew into a master who taught Heracles himself and competed with Apollo on equal terms... Yes, Evritus lost to Heracles in the competition, but it was a very ugly story. The son of Zeus refused to shoot with an ordinary bow and participated in that competition with his Silver Bow. Evritus, however, had to use his ordinary weapons by then, for he had already given his divine bow to his son Iphitus at that time. Before he had set out with Jason on the Argo for the Golden Fleece. And the son returned to his native Echalia without this wonderful weapon. For Iphitus, on his way back from the legendary quest for the Fleece, lost his father's Silver Bow at a party for many days in Thebes to the man whose face it had blessed me...
Nearby in the grass lies a quiver with only five arrows, but as the last of them takes flight, it fills up again.
I clutched the bow to my chest in admiration, realizing immediately that, unlike the others, I was wearing some filthy rags that couldn't be called a tunic or even a poncho. Barely covered by a strip of tattered cloth covered by dried clay and tied up with a coarse sheep's wool rope. What kind of Hero is this, whose face has illuminated me, if I'm in such tatters that it's embarrassing even in front of the guys? They are in full gear, and I, like a homeless man, am dressed in what can even be called rags, is an exaggeration.
And then I remember who beat Iphitus in that contest...
And it means whose Face is blessed me!
And I really don't like that prospect...
Really...
So much so that, without thinking, I shout into that beautiful and cloudless sky:
Can I get another Face?!
I noticed the Goons' eyes widen in bewilderment, and then something incredibly huge kicked me in the ass. I was so far away that I flew, tumbling through the air like a cockroach that had been kicked with a slipper. I was nine meters away and my forehead hit the rock-hard ground, dry in the sun, and passed out before I had time to think the very right, but so belated, thought: What an idiot I am.
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