The Last Pantheon: of spiders and falcons

by Jason Jones

  “Carician Myths.” I speak the title with whispered words as my eyes glance at it upon the shelf. My mind wanders with thoughts of forgotten immortals, one in particular, the one that led to my return. “Myth and religion, the difference being a sizeable army and tally of conquests, nothing more.”

  I sit outside and await the morning sun, same as every morning for more than three years now. I take my nights below the keep, in my study with books and candles, all alone in secret. The walk from there to here, it is a haze to my mind, each day, as if I travel from one world to another. Counting the days, they have not previously mattered, but now they certainly do. Though why I feel that, I cannot truly answer.

  The fading green moon, Gimmor, recedes in the dark eastern sky, trailed by the crescent white moon, Carice, a bit further south. Twilight dew has dampened my open robes, they cling to my calves with a sticky cold grip. The sun's first orange light holds me, then fires into the dawn sky, awakening my lands from the small castle to the grazing fields. Brilliant, fire-orange, and rich light it is, peering over the west, warming in less than a moment. The light and the symphony of noises that follow put me at peace. Birds, owls, farmhands, and within a short time, the rest of the world stirs and reminds me that I am alive and not alone. Every morning I wish for the same, just a small moment of peace without fear or regret.

  “Would that all who live know what dwells upon our moons, what truths are of the sun they see, and what awaits them when the body and spirit part at the end. All would live most differently, if at all civilized as such they are now.” I speak to the rising and falling bodies far above as the sky shifts color with their change of guard.

  I arise content from the green, wet, grass and quietly walk into my home to get my sleeping son from his crib. The black robes with faded blue arcane designs I wear drag in the wet foliage behind me, and the leather sandals are moist under my feet. Vague and foggy recollections of my nightmares still cling like mud in my mind, dripping off as I wander. Some were mere dreams, yet some were more than that. Some are memories of my past life. I fake a yawn, one of those motions not truly necessary as the yawn stifled before forming, yet I go on with it as if it had. Wishful thinking that it may help distract the dark thoughts from my waking head. Curses are not fooled so easily.

  Dark blue skies give passage to lighter blue, the light blue that matches my son’s eyes as I pluck him from sleep. He is quiet, so still, possessing an unspoken understanding that makes me wonder. Every day since he was born, over a month now, we have had this bond and this routine. We watch the sun rise together while the priests of Alden from nearby Gillian tend to his mother. This is a special time just for us when the rest of the world does not exist quite yet. I try to have gratitude. That is a hard notion for me, for all I have suffered for untold centuries. And still am suffering, it would seem.

  Alessandeir reaches for my long hair with his little fingers. My hair is streaked gray now and going straighter in these few years from its previous curls and youthful waves. Youth, age, how old am I actually? The thought goes through my mind with laughter not my own. In the mirror I would say perhaps thirty five seasons, give or take, and Agarian by my skin hue and face. They believe I am Lord Sodom Azarris, a long lost Azarris relation at least, yet Shanadorian heritage a reflection would not confirm. Deep brown hair, tinged with reds and grays would denote Kivanite by blood, yet my blue eyes would say otherwise. My beard, would I try to grow it again, comes with a mash of crimson, black, silver, and golds, a true deception of lineage that not even I can fathom. The taller and robust blonde men with straight shots of hair and beard of Shanador, they would know their own, so I am a hushed mystery no doubt. My first name is all about me that is no lie.

  “A mystery to even yourself, at times.” I whisper to my ears alone as I walk small steps in the morning sun that’s western climb greets us once more. “Besides a library of secrets and forgotten words, and centuries of exile in immortal damnation, what is it that you really know?”

  Talking to myself again aloud, and then realizing it, yet answering in my mind may be true madness. I begin to wonder if it is the end of such a condition, or perhaps my true age is catching fast, and this is but the onset. I know the age of my son, but only the powers that be know my age, since myself, and all those that I have known before, have been forgotten. Men did not live this long or get second chances such as this. No dragons nor elves could recall the ages I have lived through, yet not been a part of, since I had not been here for the changing of civilization. Nations now have built and broken around cities that were young when I was sentenced, and the banners and crowns of glory to them all, they mean so little to me. Even my wife does not know these things, although I tried to explain it to her, once. Best leave my tales of purgatory and immortal debacle to rot with me in the end.

  Two thousand years I was sentenced, and now here I am. For what? To lose everything again?

  Looking down, my slate blue eyes meet the gaze of my son’s brighter blues, I entertain the thought that my infant son might know. So fragile in my hands he is, so innocent.

  “Perhaps you know all about me then, do you not, my son?” I say in the playful tones meant for children.

  My baby boy smiles and gurgles some inaccurate babble, hoping for more conversation from his father. And I have gifted him with such for many hours of all his days, every morning thus far.

  A yawn warns that my embrace and warmth has made him too comfortable yet again. Son in arms, I try and think of my home, this new family, and try to count my blessings in peace and serenity. It is difficult to forget the past, even sitting on a lush, warm country keep outside the city of Gillian in early winter. It is warm and clear in southern Shanador this time of year. A flurry of snowflakes may threaten here and there, but nothing covers or lasts of the cold as the Misathi Mountains seem to keep it south. Little stirs here so far from any major city or war either. Safety and solitude, all my needs met, and yet I cannot feel whole from it, not at all. They are taking her, my Gabrielle, and vengeance has found me, I am sure of it.

  The breeze has caught my mind wandering to darker times and I can sense my wife in pain. I can hear her move even one hundred feet away inside the castle walls. Strange that she inspires uneasy tension in my mind. Answers, I need answers to what is truly happening around me, or perhaps what will happen. Some pray, as my wife does, for guidance upon awakening. I will not. Who would listen to me? The gods have abandoned me long ago and the damned would see me dead a thousand fold should they find me alive and well.

  Sodom, that is a bit extreme, I think.

  Yet it is true. There is little left in this world for me, except for what I have just recently begun. Hopes to protect it in hiding and have something to fight for, these cares fester in my chest. There is little peace to be known for men such as me, and I know no one like myself to share this loneliness with. Most, like me, find their peace under the earth at the end.

  Share what you know with your son. Then you may find peace.

  More voices and impulses form into words not of my conscious design. Perhaps tis madness I have assumed after all, and it is time to end it. I smile at the thought of death, and of how many times I cheated it. Visions of devil women, warrior demon lords, and snarling dragons of hells unknown march through my memory with fire and pain. I do not fear them anymore. I am free. Now, age is catching up, and I feel I have much yet undone and few years to do it in. I do not know how to enjoy life, but have to try, for time is moving for me once more. My hopes lie with the little one in my arms, in redemption. I will not let my son make the same mistakes I made as a young man. My guilt subsides and I choke the depression back with another smile. Even with the grin I watch my back and peer around to see if anyone, or anything, is watching me. I feel it, what it may be I have no idea, but it cannot be good. My thoughts go to my wife, struggling to live, and condemned to solitary time with the supposed holy men who are trying to help.

  “Time to see your mother m
y son. Perhaps we will all take a nap together, and after that I will tell you a story.” I whisper a small falsity.

  My eyes close in hope, I turn my head and open them. I want to see the priests waving me into my foyer, a wave that would tell me her sickness is found and cured. It has been two weeks and she has only gotten worse. My eyes open. The holy men have the door shut still, which means we cannot be near her. Every morning the same. Time to pretend I know how to care for a baby boy and occupy the day, as the priests will surely again advise. I see his eyes open once more, my son has come to full awareness under the sky. Crisp winds of Shanador in winter blow across us both, we look to each other, and we know.

  “Ahh, you are awake now, are you? You missed the sunrise again, but we have sunset as well, do not worry.” My baby boy smiles, enjoying my words, wanting more, though he has no idea what I mean, nor will he recall the conversation later. I hear the door open and my teeth grit together. My chest stops moving. I cannot breathe. I see Alessandeir’s eyes look toward the door just as my own form stinging tears.

  “Lord Sodom? Lord Sodom Azarris? Lady Azarris calls for you milord, best come quickly.”

  My mind told me it was her voice, but in truth it was that of an old man, full of morning rasp and old age that hushes my name. I turn to step toward the doors and Alessandeir begins to cry again. Not for lack of care for his mother, but for the attention and words I give him in the morning. He knows not what is happening.

  Clouds drift in white and orange as time stands staring at me. I hand Alessandeir to one of the priests and his cries echo as if far away. Each step I take is a heavy one. My stone keep seems a tomb already. Up the stairs, past ancient tapestries that carry no meaning for me, and into our bedchamber I meander without breathing. I can hear the cries from my son. Whispering priests in blue and white robes hold golden feathered crosses and pray as I pass them. I fear to admit that I know what this means. And there she is.

  I think for a moment there is movement, short inhales and exhales. I try to see a sign, a wink, and my mind wants to see these things. Surely my heart as well. My eyes gaze over her freckled Harlian skin. I brush my hand through her golden curls. Black veins stare at me from beneath her skin, the mother of my son, and neither of us move. I know then that she will not take another breath. My trembling fingers close her eyes for I can not hold that stare, it is a stare with no end should I let it be. I feel her skin cool to the touch, too cold, and I close my eyes.

  I arrive outside on the northern hill once more, how, I cannot recall. My eyes feel as if they are sore from tears, yet I have none now. I want to scream into the air and over my lands of green hills. Alessandeir in my arms halts that desire. He is crying, the milk bladder is in my hand, yet I am frozen still.

  “Just you and I now, son. Just us.”

  More crying, yet he will not take the milk from me. He wants to fight for it, he wants words and tales, providing milk is not enough. He wants his mother, Gabrielle, and that I cannot give.

  Tell him why you are here, share what you have seen. Assure him all will be fine.

  Why did you take my wife from me? Why Gabrielle? I respond back to my mind, to the voice not my own that has taken occasional residence.

  I look for the voice, a man's voice. It is not mine and there is not a priest within earshot. The only sounds are a morning breeze and my son fussing. I take deep breaths now, trying to stop my trembling lip and the spasms in my face from resisting sorrow.

  “Very well, I see you are stubborn like me. Would you care to hear a story then? A short one, I do not wish to upset your mother. Although, mild disobedience is to be expected.” I comfort him, for how can I tell a baby his mother is dead. I look around again, one eye upon Alessandeir, the other in search of the source of the voice I hear. There is nothing, just us, and I look down with a smile only to him.

  My child smiles, relishing all the words and facial expressions of his father. He knows not how false I have to force myself to be. Moments like this one, are what keep me alive and wanting to carry on. The only being in this world that cares for me now is here in my arms, though his mother lies forever still in our bed. This is it, it is all I have, the only thing to live for.

  Gray and white beards appear out the corner of my eye. I knew there are prayers and many things that need to be done. Yet I need a moment or three with the morning, with my son. I want them to leave, to come again when my son is rested and I can breathe again. But that is not to be.

  “Yes, good priest, just a little longer, my son wishes to hear a story,” I call back finally, see the bow and nod from the corner of my eye, and I feel it. They stand, three of them, feathered crosses in hand. They will wait as statues, ones I cannot ignore.

  Words begin to form in my mind, then they arrange themselves into a beginning, and finally weave through my distress into a story. Not one of my two thousand years damnation welling out a tale of horror. Not one word of the mysterious immortal woman I barely remember from my days long ago, before purgatory. But one I have seen grow since, a mortal tale, filled with the majestic. Something that has a bit of hope, for so little remains about me that would uplift a spirit, and so I struggle to find the words.

  “Let us see here, little one…” I rock my son back and forth, keeping my hair away from tugging fingers as best I can. “Almost ten years ago, or thereabouts, while I was in….elsewhere let us say, there was a great push for reclamation in a cold kingdom to the south of us. The long walk of Saint Tarumin had banished the western flood centuries prior, as was prophesized. You, you do not even know where it is I am speaking of. This is no way to begin.”

  I walk circles. “Here, my son, is Shanador, land of stallions and shields. It is the largest kingdom on Agara. The very heart of the continent, with plains and mountains, and all the great cities and rivers. You shall know them all one day.”

  Alessandeir giggles as I point north and wave my hand. He is curious, so I show his eyes where I direct my words and free hand. A little motion, some excitement, and he is all too aware.

  My fingers flash east. “And there, not too far away, is Harlaheim, the old kingdom of the crown and rose. Marshes and rolling hills they claim, with elegant wines and honor and great noble kings of old. Your mother was from there.”

  Choking down my tears, I point north. “Kivanis and Rugeness, the lands of witches and old superstitions lies there, where my family was from, long ago. There is learning and scholars that walk both darkened streets and temples high. Yet, their ties to northern Altestan have never been fully cut, and for their prides and histories, they fail themselves. The realm of the rod and tome, noble and learned, yet their poor are hardly more than slaves in comparison.”

  His eyes are ablaze with blue fascination as I whirl around. “Caberra, land of rich tobaccos, fast ships and strong aged wines of the great crimson trident, that is northeast a bit. The daring swordsmen and mighty armadas are beheld to that coastal nation between the Soltaic Ocean and the Carisian Seas, a nation often at war.”

  “There, to the northwest far away, would be Armondeen, land of the talon, lance, and scepter. Long have they broke from Shanador and sought their own glories, to many a failure and war. Intolerant and wicked behind their noble causes, I would not bid you to Armondeen for any reason, son.”

  “Due west even further would be the island nations of Yallah and Falligarde. Even further north is the mystical Jal Adeen where mighty desert princes rule the magical nights. North, there, we shall not speak of the north, my son. Altestan does not deserve words from even my lips.”

  I stop with my hand west, from where the floods came and covered everything for thousands of years. I think of the priests, the lost cities there, and I remember. Saint Tarumin, the messiah of Alden they say, he had walked the lands four centuries ago and the waters lowered back to the ocean. He united the nations of Agara they said, and then Altestan had him murdered.

  “We will not speak of the west either son, not yet.” I knew the west
, the ancient west that is, and knew it well. It was there I fell also, yet death by enemy hands may have been better than what I was dealt. Prophets of the Gods, warlords of Alden, and the dark deaths that Altestan sent along the once rising west, I had been there, seen it with my own eyes, long ago.

  I turn my head south toward the Misathi Mountains and wince as the winds bring cool winter air to my face. “South, Alessandeir, that is where we will begin. It is cold down south, not like here. They have snow and ice nearly half the thirteen months. Beyond the broken lands of old Willborne, the sundered kingdom of the wyrm and sword, there is the southern frontier. Over the Bori Mountains, it grows chill and bereft of comforts to but the hardest of Agarian men. We shall begin in Chazzrynn, the land of the black falcon.”

  “Milord, your wife and her passing must be handled.”

  I look to the priest that crept up so close, he looks down from my gaze and stares at his sandals. After a few moments, he walks back toward my keep. The other two retain their patience and wait. I wipe the tears that have fallen silently down my cheek. I think back to her, the vision of her still form, yet I continue to speak. Alessandeir stares at me as if he has questions he can not articulate. Even if he could voice them, I doubt I could answer.

  “Lord Azarris, if I may.”

  “What is it?” I grit my teeth to keep the pain back as I speak.

  “There is much to handle, and quickly, to further misfortune and grief. The plague that has come from Caberra to Gillian via trade, it has a second contagion.” His words are soft from behind the gray beard, as if his white and blue robes have perhaps whispered them from their folds.

  “You told me a week ago that after the veins showed and the chills took that no further---“