by T. C. Edge
No, aside from his freakish size and strength, a result of his genetically augmented physiology, he really is just a man. A cruel, flawed, and evidently simple man at that.
My quip, however, doesn't garner a response. It seems the oaf is incapable of sparring with me verbally, even though being talked to by a lowly 'Fringe rat' like me must be sensationally humbling. At any other time, he'd probably march right in and throttle me with those great paws of his, but right now, he can't.
No, my faithful public awaits. We wouldn't want to disappoint them.
But it's not just you, Amber, comes a voice inside. Raymond will die today, and so will his friends.
I lower my chin at the thought. A reverential bow that Krun seems to take as some sort of victory. In actual fact, I'm thinking only of those brave men who tried to make a change, tried to open people's eyes to the truth of these lands. They will die and be quickly forgotten, purged of their 'sin' upon those pyres.
But I won't forget.
And nor will I forgive.
The sound of trumpets outside floods through the window. I look up sharply, my heart running into a steady beat.
"Ah, it's time," says Marlow, looking far too pleased about that fact.
I nod, solemn, but somehow anxious to get to this done.
And without prompting, I begin walking towards the door.
20
My face is set stoic, refusing to crumble and break. I hold my eyes on a single spot as we walk down a long, dimly lit stone passage, heading for the light that floods the end, blinding me to what lies beyond.
The noise of the crowd begins to grow as we approach the glowing sunshine, Marlow walking once more at my side with his followers behind, Krun all but filling the entire tunnel as he stomps along a little way back. I steady my breathing, refusing to let my legs shake too vigorously, as we pass through the light and into the late morning air.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, for them to take in the grand square from this new, ground-level vantage. Ahead, people gather in their colourful attire, blurring together into a dazzling display. A quiet seems to take hold as they turn to look upon me, a pathway created between them that leads towards the stone stage, erected at the square's core.
I stare at that stage, and at the pyres set atop it, refusing to link eyes with the Children of the Prime all gathered around. I don't want to see those sneering, imperious expressions. I don't want to be looked at like I'm nothing.
I'll show them what I am, I think. I'll show them all that they're no better than me...
The silence spreads as I step down towards the stage, led by Marlow and his cohort. Then, gradually, a general murmur builds again as I near, the people displaying their mutual disdain. I hear it building around me, and beyond. It seems to be spreading from all corners, from those watching me, witnessing my arrival, and those too far away to see.
I realise what's happening as I get closer to the stage; there, from the other corners of the square, I see three other groups approaching the platform. My eyes fix immediately to the sight of Raymond, eyes baggy and encircled by dark shadows, body wrapped up in a muted white cloak like mine, rope belt fixed around his waist.
His wizened frame looks so feeble, but his face refuses to wilt. Chin high, he sets his gaze on the stage and, like me, refuses to engage as the crowd begin to hurl their abuse, showing their true, uncivil - and very human - colours.
From the other corners, Raymond's allies are led. Like me, all are escorted by their own High Worthy, their own version of Marlow; heads shaven, faces crippled by constant, fraudulent smiles. And behind, four beautiful girls, with a soldier marching along for company at the rear. Not colossal like Krun; men of other talents, other abilities. And likely no less cruel.
The four of us approach, the crowd growing more vocal in their complaints and bitter insults, indignant at the idea that we, so low as we are, would dare call into question their divinity.
Ahead, I see a set of stairs in each corner, leading to the four pyres set above. I turn my eyes on Raymond once more as we grow near. Instinctively, he looks at me as I do him, managing to lift a consoling, supportive smile. I see him nod, see those eyes that say, 'everything will be all right'. And in that gaze, I sense a man happy to die for his beliefs. A man not fearful of what awaits him or his friends. A man only sad to see me, so young, so seemingly innocent, caught up in this vile iniquity.
My feet reach the steps. Up the first I go, knees beginning to shake, pulse beginning to rise. I draw a long breath to calm myself, half stumbling as I climb the ten steps to the summit. The crowd grow clearer as I go, their true extent coming into view. From the corners of my eyes, and right ahead, I see the blur of colour spreading around on all sides, thousands of people gathered to see us burn.
As one, we're led to our pyres. The stack of wood looks much larger from up close, smelling so sweet to my nose. I'm reminded of the pinewoods back home, of the tranquility of the lake. Of my grandma's cabin in the woods. Of those I love, and a life that's been torn apart so quickly. One I ever struggled against, and yet now only wish to return to.
I'm drawn to the centre of the pyre, stepping up onto a little stage set among the wood. Marlow moves around my back, drawing my hands around the wooden stake that sits vertically through the middle. He ties my wrists in place as I stand, looking out over the crowd. I arch my neck to the left and right, and see Raymond, and his friends, being set in place as well.
A sense of pride fills me at the manner in which they hold themselves. None show the fear that must be flooding their veins. None call out, or weep, or crumble in the face of the febrile crowd before them. They must have known, when they spoke out as they did, that such a fate might befall them. And, unlike the vast majority of the Fringe, these men gaze upon the residents of the Olympus and, just as I do, see only men, not gods.
Marlow finishes tying my wrists, my simple robe hanging loosely around my frame. He shows no emotion on his face as he passes me by once again, stepping down from the little stage I stand on, moving back off down the steps where his four followers await.
All kneel on the ground before the residents of Olympus, heads bowed low. I scan ahead and see others doing the same, the entire stage encircled by the Worthy, dressed in their simple grey cloaks, kneeling in prayer. And through the din of the crowd, I hear them humming in unison, mumbling the recitals spoken all across the Fringe.
I stare down at them, these lost, enslaved people, and imagine that the likes of Raymond and his allies have it better than they do. Better to die here on your feet than live like them on your knees...
Lilly enters my mind at the thought. My eyes sweep through the crowd, half expecting to see her. No, she can't have been incorporated into these ardent followers so quickly. She must only have arrived here days ago, if that. Surely she'll have to go through a process to assimilate. To, perhaps, determine just what sect of the Worthy she'll belong to.
But still, I search. My eyes work left and right down the line of kneeling men and women, the crowd a blur of colour behind them. Every hue, tint, and shade I can imagine merges into the cocktail, like a sea of flowers, sweet smelling and beautiful to behold, but with thorns and spines and ugly roots hidden below.
I search, but see only a series of bowed heads among the grey-cloaked Worthy, humming, murmuring their prayers. The crowd continue to grumble their disdain and disgust, hundreds, thousands of voices merging into one. I find my eyes lifting as I stand there, fixed to the stake, swaying my gaze across these hateful people.
Are they all this cruel? I wonder. Are they all so superior as to think us so beneath them?
No, comes an answer, as my eyes take in the faces, finally letting myself look upon individual facades. I see, amid the expressions of disgust and detachment, those of something else. Faces of people who, perhaps, aren't quite so inclined to hate. Faces of people who don't look on our people with such an haughty air.
And then, as I continue to look upon t
hem, my eyes take in a face I recognise. A face I hate with a fiery, unquenchable passion. Those cold blue eyes, and calm, arrogant visage. Those thin, unsmiling lips and flat stare.
Ceres.
I lock eyes with the man who began it all, standing right there at the front, about as close to me as he could get. His expression is as I so often see it when he comes to Pine Lake: unconcerned and aloof, emotionally impassive. Yet when he sees my eyes fall to his, I see those flat lips work up into a smile, as if showing me, once more, that he can feel joy.
And there in his eyes, as there was before, there's something a little more. An understanding of something beyond all this. A knowledge that suggests he knew all this would happen. That ever since the failed branding in Pine Lake, he expected to see me right here, right now, tied to this stake upon this stage.
My staring contest with him seems to last a lifetime, interrupted only as the murmuring in the crowd suddenly dies down. I tear my eyes from Ceres and find that a figure is approaching down the walkway between the crowd, heading for the steps up onto the stage. From the corner of my eyes, I see others, four of them approaching from all corners of the square, one for each of us upon the four pyres.
All dressed in vibrant, fiery red robes, they approach in unison and climb onto the platform. I crane my neck to get a look at the others, and see three men and one woman among them. Their cloaks of stark crimson seem to shimmer and shine under the late morning sunshine, the crowd going almost deathly silent as they take positions right before us.
I stare upon the man set ahead of me, his eyes appearing similar to mine, almost glowing with a golden hue. His hair, blond, flows in waves down his head, his face handsome and youthful, jaw square and cleanly shaven. He looks at me, those eyes of his regarding me in a contemptuous, dismissive fashion. And from his sleeves, I see a glow begin to form around his fingers and hands, the veins within beginning to flame.
A Fire-Blood, I think, staring at the man. They're all Fire-Bloods...
The young Elemental stands before me, seeming to await some summons. I glance to my right, where Raymond's pyre is set. The Fire-Blood ahead of him is doing the same, standing right in font of him, tall and intimidating, his own hands starting to glow.
For a moment, nothing seems to happen. Then, suddenly, I notice the crowd all beginning to turn. They do so as one, all looking off to the hill that rises up ahead, to the great staircase of marble that disappears into the mist above.
The silence deepens, the shuffling of thousands of bodies ending abruptly. All look up, arching their eyes up to the skies, staring into the low hanging clouds that envelop the steps. A moment passes, and nothing happens. I feel my breath holding within me, my heart racing as the bizarre, ethereal spectacle unfolds.
And then, gradually, the clouds begin to clear.
The mists, as though blown away by some magical, mystical force, part in the middle of the stairs, seemingly pressed away to the sides by an invisible wind. A great temple is revealed as the mists begin to clear, the home of the Prime up at the summit of the hill.
A staggering building, perfect in its design and symmetry, fronted by thick white pillars and with a triangular roof, surrounded by detailed carvings and wondrous, intricate sculptures. And there in the middle of the roof, at its widest point, I see the symbols of the Prime, signifying perfection, unity, and the destructive powers of the gods.
The mists clear further, the people silent, the tops of the steps, and the courtyard beyond, revealed beneath the clear blue skies. There, standing upon the top steps near the summit, I see figures gathered, watching from afar.
I look upon them but see little detail; men and women, a couple dozen or more, standing in beautiful robes of various colours. They seem separated by rank, those higher up the steps of greater significance, the most important Children of the Prime.
His Chosen.
I squint, trying to take them in, and see a jet back figure, mighty in size and proportion, standing right near the top. I know immediately who I'm looking at, though his face is difficult to see.
Perses, the great Herald of War, taking his rightful place alongside his master.
His fist. His hammer. His great weapon of destruction.
The very man who brought me here.
I narrow my eyes as I look at him, and then lift them further back. A patch of mist seems to hesitate there, hovering around the courtyard at the top of the steps outside of the temple. Gradually, it begins to disperse, revealing a final figure. I find my breath held inside me as the silhouette appears, murky and indistinct within the fog, clearing as it fades away.
And when it does, a frown of shock falls upon my face, my eyes staring and unable to blink.
The silhouette splits into two.
Two figures step forward to the edge of the courtyard, both dressed in white garments that seem too bright, too pure for this world. They shine radiantly under the sun, a man and a woman, perfect in shape and figure, their beauty visible even from this distance.
I stare at them, unable to turn away, awed by the spectacle, the moment. And in my mind a single thought dawns.
The Prime is not a man.
The Prime is both man, and woman.
21
I stare, eyes fixed on the pair, wondering how I never knew before.
A man and a woman. The concept of unity. The Children of the Prime, adopted by both a mother and a father.
It seems, though I never expected it, to make sense. Even those statues that we came across on the Sacred Plains, disappearing up into the fog, came in a pair. I'd thought, when we came across the first of them, that it was of the Prime, only to realise it was actually a woman. Yet there was another, not far away.
The male counterpart, the perfection, the symmetry.
And those symbols now...they make so much more sense.
Up above, outside the temple, the Prime watches down from above. The Prime male, the Prime female. The mother and father of this new world of gods, their robes so brilliant and pure that they shine brighter and more dazzlingly than the sun above.
It is, much as I hate to admit it, an astounding sight to behold. The temple, magnificent and grand, sitting atop the hill. The Heralds and the Chosen, dressed in their resplendent robes, men and women of formidable power standing upon the steps. The Prime, man and woman, radiating with white light, at the centre of it all.
For a moment, I stare, stunned into submission.
For a moment, I become a believer.
And then the shroud of madness fades from my mind, and I see Raymond once more from the corner of my eye. I rip my gaze away and look at him, see his own eyes staring down, refusing to meet the figures of the false gods above.
Stoic to the last. Defiant to the last.
I decide to follow his lead.
I drop my eyes, turning them down to the wooden stage I stand on, the stacks of kindling piled beneath. The Fire-Blood stands right there before me, his golden eyes turned up towards the summit of the hill, his robes of red shimmering gloriously under the sun. His hands continue to glow, fire running through his veins. I can sense the heat emanating from him, wonder if those robes are designed to withstand it, to remain intact when other garments would be set ablaze by the furnace within.
I continue to hold my gaze down, the moments stretching out endlessly, suffocated by an almost spiritual silence. A strange atmosphere seems to pervade the entire gathering, all looking to the great temple above, to the two figures of the Prime, the high gods of this city, this region, this realm.
My resolve falters once more, my breathing beginning to grow heavy. I gradually lift my head, feeling compelled to do so by some strange power. My eyes once again take in the great sight that looms above me, centring on the figures in white, standing so perfect, so still, an image of unity and symmetry atop the world.
Then, as I watch, I see them move. The man, standing on the right, lifts his right arm. The woman, on the left, lifts her left arm. They do so toge
ther, mirroring the other's movement, as though their minds are linked by some strange bond, their actions oriented by a single direction, a single being.
Up their arms go, lifting high and a little to the side, palms open and fingers splayed. The radiance that accompanies their white robes seems to glow about their exposed flesh, their forearms and hands revealed from their sleeves as they lift towards the skies. For a moment they hold that position, before falling in a single, flowing move, perfectly in time and choreographed.
The spell seems to break, the crowd coming back to life. A shudder of energy wafts over the throng, and the people begin to turn once more, looking back towards the stage. I feel my lungs burning with a sharp, full intake of air, thousands of eyes, judging and cruel, falling back upon me and my poor companions.
And there, among them, I see Ceres once more, his cold eyes unblinking as they stare right at me.
A warmth starts to flood me at the sight. At him, and all those around him, watching this horrid event unfold with such dispassion, such a lack of caring, of humanity. Hands locked behind my back, my insides begin to boil. An energy, wild and untameable, calls out from somewhere deep, ready to flow through me, to erupt like a waking volcano.
I hold back the urge, closing my fists tight. My eyes tear away from Ceres, from the callous eyes that surround him. I shut my own and steady my breathing, refusing to lose control. The crowd begin to murmur more loudly, an anticipation spreading, as I sense the Fire-Bloods moving into position.
"Don't be frightened, girl," comes a voice. It's smooth, though crackles around the edge, like the sound of burning flames. I open my eyes and see the young Fire-Blood before me, casting that golden gaze on my face. "It won't last long. Promise. The pain is only momentary."
I stare at him, hating him, unable to tell if his words are genuine, intended to comfort me before my purification begins. I refuse to accept that idea. The framing of his eyes, superior, arrogant, makes me know he longs to hear me scream. Longs to set my flesh ablaze and enjoy the torment I suffer.
