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Land of Dichotomy (Original Fantasy). Chapter 2 - Elon I.
🕑 Added 2025-08-14 15:47:16 +0000 UTCLook at that, there's named characters in this. Also, be careful. You'll cut yourself on this chapter.
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Chapter 2 - Elon I.
Sophoril
4618 - 1st spring, 21.
THUMP!
THUMP!
THUMP!
The sound was deafening. The hard leather soles of the boots hammering against the stone. The clinking metal of shifting armor and the screams and cries of the peasants pressed against the buildings lining the side of the street, cramped, pushing, and suffocating. It was a loud, fluctuating wave of noise, constantly rising and shifting, yet never distinguishable. Gratitude, joy, and prayers, so many fucking prayers, poured onto the seemingly unending column of marching men, praising and begging in the same breath, for fucking everything imaginable.
Not that they ever got any answers.
The spectacle burned to gaze at as well. The high noon sun reflected off domed metal helmets and shimmering, almost alive, notes of light dancing across mail-clad chests stabbed the eyeballs like damm knives, making the lids squint nearly completely shut and causing everybody to look like fucking morons. The contrasting colors were little help: the mirror-polished armor of the soldiers, the varying shades of brown from the onlookers, and the dull brown, gray, yellow, and red of the buildings in the Outer Ring.
Worse, it was happening everywhere. The damm line of lookalikes stretched from the fucking Setting Gate, through and past the Middle Ring, only to eventually pass between the rare sight of the open gates of the Sun Gate into the Inner Ring to present themselves at Dawn's Chapel. It was a sight that truly brought to light the number of men the Forward Forces contained.
It was spectacular.
And yet, upon a hill next to the palace, a gathering of four people stood, facing the opposite direction.
“This is stupid.”
“Does continuously complaining about it make it more intelligent?”
“No, but it keeps me amused.”
“And why do we exist but to be sources of amusement for you?” The two talking were both males, tall, and similarly dressed, and yet somewhat a study in contrast. The taller of the two was a giant of a man, standing easily head and shoulders above normal, and as wide as a child was tall. Straight hair of spun sun rays lightly framed his face and came to rest atop his broad collarbone. His bright blue eyes peered out of a kind and handsome, though weathered, face. One who was used to smiling, while his darkly tanned and broad jaw shone cleanly.
The epitome of a man, honestly. His voice was loud, confident, and boisterous, the kind of voice that shook your bones when he raised it, made men bow their heads in inferiority, and women drop to the floor with spread legs.
His armor was magnificent, golden plate adorning him from foot to collar with the breastplate carrying the symbol of the Guardians of the Light, a sword stabbing a downward-facing crescent moon with the sun behind the hilt. His pauldrons displayed his loyalty as well, the symbol of the Great Fire adorning them, though the symbol was faded and hard to make out. Finishing the ensemble was a great, flowing cape of sunset red hanging down his back, the same symbol as on his chest sewn on it in thread similar to the shade of his hair. Each piece was free of scratches and newly polished, as he made sure every morning, lest his Squire had his spine ripped out of his fucking ass, the useless cunt.
A hulking two-handed sword hung by his hip, as wide as a handspan and nearly the length of a man. The pommel held a large round diamond, set in a gold fastening with the leather grip stained red, a golden cord wrapped in a spiraling pattern down the length. The crossguard was complicated, twisting before returning to straight and twisting again. It was a marvelous piece of craftsmanship. The sheath was dark leather with a complex array of what seemed to be vines, in yet more gold, twisting its way around it. One of his hands rested on the handle lightly, the thoughts of his blade making Elon consider the one who designed Divider for him.
The other man was similarly of above-average height, of course, not to the incredible extent as himself, and where he was wide, this one was slender. His pale, flawless skin seemed almost luminescent, and his naked chin, high cheekbones, straight nose, and pointed jaw shone. Orbs of molten sun, and with a similar intensity, one of the origins of titles such as the Blessed, peered out beneath thin, gently curved eyebrows. They contrasted starkly with his short hair, which seemed to almost absorb light as it came into contact with it, yet still managed to appear glossy and soft to the touch.
Truly, he was a man of incredible beauty; the blonde found no shame in admitting that, if girly and soft. His delicate, almost effeminate looks caused more heads to turn than they did not. His voice matched his appearance well, being rich and deep, with a melodious quality that took off the edge. The larger of the two almost did not mind having to listen to the countless overcomplicated lectures.
His posture enhanced his appearance, his back straight and shoulders set, feet planted firmly in line, and gauntlet hands clasped behind him. He looked like a prince, a king, a ruler serenely surveying his lands, far more so than Elon himself had ever done, despite which of the two was actually royalty.
The armor he was clad in, however, added an edge of brutality to his image. Flowing along the lines of his body, the blood-red steel made little attempt at hiding what it was. The apparel of war. Unadorned with ornaments, the steel was smooth, and though it was nearly unpolished, it was well maintained and meticulously kept free of any dirt, allowing its dull surface to shine unopposed. The only nod to vanity, or perhaps merely to stave off potential problems, was the same crest upon his chest as his friend, though it was nearly as faded as Elon's shoulder crests. Blackened cloth and mail were visible in between the gaps of the plate, making the whole assembly rather foreboding, if not any less majestic.
Certainly not taking his own cape of a color not unlike the giant's hair into consideration.
His weapon was equally unassuming compared to those around him. The hilt was plain and unassuming with a grip of black leather, wrapped with gold cord like Divider and the other Guardian swords. The crossguard was two straight bars given a slight twist towards the end, where they widened before closing into spikes, and the pommel was a circular lump of highly polished metal of the same color as the rest. It rested in a simple dark sheath.
The blade was quite long for a one-handed sword, yet short for a long sword and rather narrow as well. Elon really had to refrain from making it more impressive when designing the fucking thing, yet he knew Zez would appreciate something more understated. He was humble that way.
Though the blue-eyed man had not been able to help himself from a little fun poking. It was only proper that the weapon reflected the user, and with Zez so obsessed with doing shit all fucking properly and righteously, there was no better name than Justice's Song. A delicate blade, for a delicate man.
The giant laughed, the sound causing the others to lean away slightly in a move that spoke of long familiarity, “A fact I have been trying to get you to accept for years now,” he announced jovially, a great big smile splitting his lips and his armor chinking as his chuckles faded into a sigh.
“But in all seriousness, who the fuck decided that mirror polish was regulation?” he continued, the slight whine in his voice at odds with his bulging frame.
“I believe it was Prophet Ardnios VI in 3856,” the third male announced from the end of the row. As was the theme with their little family, he, too, was wearing armor, the same radiant gold as the largest, and bearing the same symbols, but the difference in maintenance was obvious. An unusually wide arming sword hung at his hip, the grip perfectly fitted to his hand and the same golden wrap. The pommel, however, was unlike the others, being semi-circular, with the flat towards the grip, and containing a ruby gem. The guard caused fucking headaches with the dark metal twisting and turning, a variety of images engraved across the length, the bright orange scabbard just as complicated.
He was not as good-looking as the others, his face gaunt with protruding cheekbones and his complexion a pasty color. A large crooked beak of a nose, bushy eyebrows set above close and brooding eyes, and with his brow perpetually worn down by a scowl, he was an off-putting little shit. His voice only made this image worse, being hoarse, nasally, and low with disuse, cracking at the volume he had to bring it to be heard. His posture matched, with slumped shoulders and a bent back. Boring, brown hair, short and straight, lay limply on top of his head, and a scraggly, unkempt beard hid his jaw.
Despite the incredible armor and weaponry he carried, he came off as closer to a fucking bandit than a Knight.
“Incorrect, Ardnios was the one to introduce uniform equipment among the infantry, and later the rest of the forces, but it was Calocia the Bright that decried that metal must be polished to the most reflective state to, and I quote, ‘Show the infidels that the Great Fire burns everlasting within us, and the grace of our Lord is always with us’, end quote,” Zezun stated in a musing tone, gaze never leaving the scenery in front of him.
The giant's brow furrowed in thought.
“Was he the one with the decapitations, or the one bathing in blood?”
“Neither, he was the one with the statutes.”
“Ah, they all tend to blend together, though perhaps it would be easier to remember if I could hear myself FUCKING THINK!” he bellowed towards the moving masses behind him, his fellows flinching away from the unexpected assault to their eardrums.
“Do not fucking do that, you cunt”, the fourth and final member of the group shouted back in a harsh, clipped voice.
Her dark blonde hair was cut short, framing her heart-shaped face, and her green eyes seemed to be sparkling, while her small nose was scrunched up. She was attractive, in a normal sort of way. If her personality was not bitchy and generally shit, Elon would have fucked her. Her most attention-grabbing feature by far, however, was the long pale scar that stretched from the left side of her frown-bearing brow, down through her eyebrow, barely passing her nose, and ending at her rounded chin, splitting her lips on its way through. That could be solved by taking her from behind, however. Good ass too.
Combined with her intensity and the contrast with her tanned skin, the wound made her appearance rather formidable, even with her being short as shit.
Completing the set, she too was clad in armor, red-tinted orange covering her from neck to toe, the marks covering her domed breastplate and shoulders fainter than the other two, but still clearly distinguishable, and her cloak light red. A sword hung by her hip as well, very long and quite narrow, with a similar grip to the others. The seemingly standard round pommel capped the end of the blade, and the guard was plain with a slight widening at the ends. The scabbard was unadorned as well, having merely been stained black. He could almost have respected that if Zezun had not done it first.
“Such foul language is unbecoming of a Lady,” the large man sneered back, upper lip curling back to reveal a hint of teeth. The female's eyes practically lit on fire at the jap, and she opened her mouth, about to launch into another tirade, no doubt, when they were interrupted.
“ENOUGH!” the dark-haired man exclaimed, voice firm, and with such authority that disagreement was not an option, “Elon, stop antagonizing her, please, and Thabita, stop responding to it.” The woman named Thabita immediately snapped her mouth shut with a click and turned her head away with a snort, while Elon rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, but kept quiet.
The unnaturally beautiful man sighed, while the last merely snickered, properly getting hard from seeing them in trouble, the sadistic twat.
The leader turned his attention towards the commotion behind them and considered it, “They are nearly at The Pit,” he stated after a moment.
“You heard the man, shake your asses. Get away from this fucking sun as well. Day has barely started, and I am sweating my balls off already.” Elon said, his good mood restored so fast one had to wonder if it ever left, and started forward, his steps eating up the distance at a phenomenal rate. The other men followed wordlessly, while a brief grimace flashed over Thabita's face before she followed suit.
Though, of course, she ignored the order of silence immediately to bitch again.
"Do not talk about your balls, I will fucking hurl."
"Do you want to see them instead? They have something for you to replace your breakfast with."
Zez's half groan, half sigh stopped her rather predictable response, something about cutting them off. She glared fiercely at the largest of them, but kept her mouth shut, thank Azia, even if he understood why she did so. It was not fun when the Commander started pulling out the disappointed attitude.
The path took them down the grass-covered hill and into a collection of trees and plant life, too small to be called a forest, but of a decent size nonetheless. The woods had an old feeling to it, unkempt growth everywhere except the path, the trees rising above them at an incredible height with trunks the width of eight men. Birds chirped up in the canopy as it cast its ever-present shadow down on the shrubs and smaller cousins of the giants, and nearly every bush shivered with life, creating a choir that finally soothed the remnants of the racket they had left behind. It had rained not too long ago, the ground smushing beneath their feet. A thick, fresh, and earthy scent was carried upon the wind, the air light from the recent release.
He was not usually one to enjoy nature, yet he had become fond of that piece of it, if for the sheer amount of fucking he had spent there, even as a child hounding his Guardian predecessors.
The silence did not last long; Elon was not one to endure such. ”So, we are finally filling the last slots?” he directed the question backwards, at no one in particular, but knowing who would answer it.
“Indeed, both male. The first is named Emric Grimtore, 17 years of age, and son of Padac Grimtore, who is one of the higher-standing wine merchants, which may help explain a young age, though we cannot rule out merit. The other is Clavin Shar, formerly Berson, who has seen 32 winters and is of no significant family. Father was a member of the Forward Forces for 3 rotations before he passed in a skirmish with bandits,” Elon winched, not an honorable death, “and his mother worked for Mobric before her death 4 years ago,” the leader among them continued, a sour note entering his voice at the last name.
“Ah,” the golden-haired and golden-clad man announced, grimness evident in both his tone and in the grimace that flashed across his face. That fuck.
Elon did not for a second question whether the information about the newbies was correct. Zezun would not allow that to occur. Though it was really fucking annoying to hear that even the Commander was not sure why they had been allowed to join their ranks.
That meant his father was up to his usual bullshit.
“Is that going to be a problem?” Gom interjected quickly, ever the paranoid, bottom-feeding ratface.
“Potentially. We will have to keep an eye on the situation,” Zez responded, his tone even again. Elon did not see what the problem was, honestly. If the new guy harbored some kind of revenge scheme, they would take care of it. The others were too skittish for it to go any other way.
“So we are going to have to put up with some small spoiled shitstain because his daddy is important? Fuck that,” Thabita piped up from the back, finding something to moan about as always. Why, oh why, could she not just shut up? “I am going to kick his ass first chance I get,” she continued, her voice harsh, as it always was.
“Do not overstep, Tah,” Zez cut in, hen-mother that he was.
“Yeah, just be quiet and docile, like a proper little Lady. Besides, you of all people have nothing to say about using one's family influence to get ahead.” Gom’s mocking nasally voice just made the insult even worse. It was a good one, though, Elon thought, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“I will rip off your fucking balls and-”
“We are here,” Zez ended the brewing argument, prematurely, in Elon's opinion. The only thing better than watching those two go at each other was something strong to wash it down with. And some naked, sweaty company. And spending time away from them. But his friend was right, they had indeed arrived.
The trees and growth thinned out, and the dirt path they were treading widened, and as they rounded the last turn, a great stone monument rose towards the sky. Diagonal sides of smooth grey rock stretched above their heads, concealing what took place on top, with only a wide staircase as a blemish.
Despite the height, the tip of an incredible behemoth of a building of glass and white was visible, peeking over, radiating reflected light like a beacon. Colorless marble stretched towards the heavens, while at the top, a ball of what looked like fire rested.
A natural line formed in preparation for the stairs, Elon falling back to allow Zezun to take the lead, into step behind him, while Thabita and then Gom brought up the rear.
In silence, they climbed with calm and measured steps, despite their haste. It would not do to arrive out of breath, after all, that would be unbecoming. Already, they could hear the murmurs of the crowd they were approaching, the last stomping feet, and the fading sound of scraping metal against metal as people found their places.
When they crested the stairs, the complete scale of the platform they now stood upon became clear. Giant three-tiered walls of stone, with seating for thousands and thousands, stood along three sides of the square, with only a narrow walkway bisecting one, and every last seat was filled. Countless uniformly dressed men filled the upper two tiers, so many that it was nearly impossible to see the space between the poor bastards. It was no small mercy that the sun was hovering behind them.
A low buzzing murmur echoed off the walls as the people whispered to each other. No one wanted to create a commotion, not now, not here.
The people at the lowest level were similarly in matching armor, though theirs were not the common and standard sort, nor were they seated anywhere near as cramped. The apparel reflected wealth and standing, bright and lightly colored, with fancy and intricate designs. Parade Plate, as Zezun was fond of calling it, armor meant more for aesthetics than practicality in the field, often too thick in places and too thin in others, with gems and other shiny shit inlaid.
Not, he admitted, if only to himself, that it did not have its place; it did.
These were officers and generals, people who spent the vast majority of their time in command tents, giving speeches, and holding meetings. They were meant to look impressive more than anything else, and the armor was adequate for the exceedingly rare times they did find themselves in combat. He supposed it was more his distaste for these soft, flabby, and cowardly cunts calling themselves warriors, considering themselves to be invaluable, which led to his uncharitable thoughts.
Or he would if he were prone to such introspections, but that had always been more Zez’s thing than his. He had always been the thinker of the two, while Elon himself was more the punching and hacking kind of guy.
Elon cut off his line of thought. Now was not the time for that. As he subtly orientated himself, no head movement, only eyes, he knew the exact moment the crowd caught sight of them.
Nearly at once, the whispering noises stopped, as the foursome walked with calm, long strides towards the raised dais that took up the middle of the fourth side, before suddenly erupting into cheers as men of all ages and ranks sprang to their feet at their appearance. It was a cacophony of yells, stomping boots, and gauntlet-adorned right hands, as only the right bore them, the left covered by shields in combat, beating breastplates. It rivaled, if not exceeded, that of the earlier march through town.
And through the nearly physical wall of sound, not one of the four blinked, standing stoic in the face of it all.
They were the Guardians of the Light, after all.
They had to be perfect. They had to be the fingers of God.
But they were not the only ones remaining calm. At the end of the two side rows, at the bottom level, a pair of boxes was separated from the rest. Seated not on hard, cramped benches, but comfortable chairs spaced out evenly and generously, a third group could be found. Clad not in hard and dull steel, but fine and colorful silks and wool, these were the nobility and people with such power they might as well be. Lords and Ladies sat side by side with landed Knights that controlled an extensive amount of land and sizable groups of combat-ready men, while the wealthiest of merchants perched upon their seats as if they were thrones. Their facial expressions were carefully controlled, only a slight smile showing under their blank eyes, and their hands lightly brought together in something that charitably could be considered clapping.
These were people who had truly taken life at court to heart and made it an art form. Show only what you want others to see. Emotion is a weapon, and appearance and reputation are armor.
The walk was lengthy, time crawling, but they arrived without issue or acknowledgement of the cheering at their destination, where the line split. Zezun and Gom swung in a semicircle around the platform to the right side, as it would be unseemly to cross it, while Elong and Thabita took their places side by side, Elon placed inward. Shortly after, the others took the short steps and mirrored their position, Zezun closest to the middle. Simultaneously, eight hands clasped behind their backs, under the capes, and they froze, gaze unmoving and chests barely drawing breath.
The sounds of the onlookers turned to a ringing silence that was almost more deafening due to the sudden and complete absence of sound. The anticipation rolled through the masses, a heavy blanket, almost an actual taste in the air, blending with the heavy odor of thousands of filthy bodies that had not seen a bath in longer than anyone was comfortable with.
Behind them, the base of the breathtaking spire that was glimpsed earlier was fully revealed. A long white archway connected to a grand marble castle of wondrous splendor, cold stone appearing warm as it bent in graceful turns. Four towers, one on every corner of the towering, twisting structure, curved a quarter of a turn around the main, reaching halfway up its colossal height.
Man-sized holes that served as windows littered the facade, the number increasing with the height and bending around the borders of balconies, with a particularly great example jutting out of roughly the middle, a pair of doors cutting off view of the interior. The spire was attached to the middle of this massive building. This close, it became clear that what had seemed like fire was a great spherical ball of glass stained in colors of gold, orange, red, and every nuance in between, resembling a second sun hanging in the sky. Its light was visible from stupendous distances, a beacon to all that cared to look.
Where the glass had come from was uncertain, given that only fairly recently glassblowing had started showing up around the city, unclear and filled with bubbles, only becoming actually see-through in the last couple of decades.
But that only enhanced the image. Something that had been used to great effect at times, convincing the common folk of divine favor. Azia's Son, they called it, or simply the Son, the resting place of the Great Fire. Or one of two, now, due to his fuck of a sperm giver.
At the mouth of the archway, two great red doors guarded the entrance, with an engraving of a flaming sun. These, in turn, were flanked by two incredible works of art. Enormous statues, each almost matching the height of the central hall, depicting fierce armored knights, their immaculately carved helmets turned downwards at a slight angle, judgingly watching any who would approach. Their solid stone fingers, each nearly the size of a man, wrapped around the hilt of the longsword resting point-first on the ground, tip lightly piercing, while the other hand grasped the pommel. The armor was painted in gold, as was the standard, adding to the already magnificent nature.
In its entirety, it was otherworldly, almost celestial, and one of the greatest works of architecture in any of the known lands.
Elon never cared for it too much.
The pressure of the anticipation reached a crescendo as the large gates opened with a creak.
Two Chapel Guards, distinguishable from the regular forces by their full gray plate armor and orange tabard, spears taller than themselves carried comfortably and familiarly in their hands, were pushing with their shoulders to move the heavy and thick wood. After a moment where the only sound was the groans of the hinges and the creaking wood, they got the doors fully open. They straightened their backs and slammed the butt of their metal-capped spears against the ground, producing a sharp cracking sound.
From within the newly revealed opening, a man stepped out. His robes, the only clothing adorning his flesh, made the marble behind him seem dirty, being a white so pristine it made one anxious at the mere thought of keeping it clean. The garment was sleeveless and kept closed by a wide gold belt beset with rubies the size of chicken eggs. A large portion of his chest, which spoke of a life previously filled with hard arms training, was exposed from the parting. Now, a thin layer of fat softened the muscle, and his stomach had started swelling.
Still, he was an impressive specimen of a man, tall and broad, with the only hair on his head being a pair of rather thick blonde eyebrows, his bald dome catching the light, though not as much as the crown that adorned his forehead. Yet more gold wrought in the shape of flickering flames, lightly overlapping the great rubies that dotted it.
All of this was secondary.
The immediate attention grabber was the skin. From the tip of his fingers to the highest point of his head and down to the exposed points of his bare feet, it was all gold. Not a spot was uncovered. Even his eyelids, occasionally obscuring his sky blue eyes, were painted the color.
The moment he cleared the threshold of the doorstep and his body was in clear view, an explosion rocked the stadium. If before the spectators had behaved like children catching sight of their heroes, now they turned into slobbering, raving beasts, howling and roaring, as they beheld their god. There was pushing and shoving everywhere as everyone tried to get a clearer look, likely causing more than a few injuries, and if history was any indicator, a couple of deaths as well from the hard impact with the solid floor, as most of the soldiers had removed their helmets in the sweltering heat.
With the soft slap of skin, the golden man strode forward, a thin, delighted smile curving his slim lips, soaking in the worship hurled at him from tens of thousands of voices, basking in the chaos his mere presence caused. He came to a stop a few steps in front of his four most treasured warriors/guards/advisors. His gaze slid along the mayhem happening before him, lips stretching slightly wider, then looked to the sky, letting his golden lids cover his eyes, and opened his arms as if to embrace the bedlam occurring around him.
The pandemonium escalated somehow, even the nobles on their feet at this point, though that was their only reaction. The man at the center of all of this kept his pose for a while, soaking it all in, the arrogant, insensitive cunt. Elon struggled to keep the frown wanting to darken his visage at bay.
Finally, the subject of worship seemed to have had his fucking fill, letting his hands fall to his side and righting his head. Instantly, as if every soul in attendance had their breath stolen from their lungs, the sound stopped, leaving only a deep ringing in every pair of ears. The town would be filled with men shouting at each other for the next couple of days in a likely doomed attempt to be understood.
The silence continued for a while, his father building the moment, or just basking in it some more, both were equally possible. But to be honest, Elon’s ears did thank him for it regardless of which it was.
Eventually, though, he started to speak.
“YOU HAVE DONE WELL!” his strong voice, smooth, deep, and with a pleasant inflection, echoed clearly off the walls.
”INCREDIBLY WELL! EXTRAORDINARILY WELL!” For all the problems Elon had with the man, he had to admit, his father was a born orator. But you kind of had to be skilled at it to be the Voice. “TIRELESSLY, YOU HAVE TOILED! UNFLINCHING, YOU HAVE SERVED! WITHOUT HESITATION, WITHOUT REMARK, WITHOUT FEAR, YOU HAVE GUARDED OUR BORDERS AND KEPT THE UNFAITHFUL AND THE FORSAKEN AWAY FROM THIS HOLY LAND!”
Another cheer broke out, Epgard pausing to let them applaud themselves.
No better way to excite the masses.
“WHEN THEY PROWLED IN THE DARKNESS, POKING, PUSHING, AND PRODDING AT OUR DEFENSES, YOU DID NOT GIVE THEM A STEP! WHEN THEY BARRED THEIR CRUDE WEAPONS AND SHOWED THEIR HIDEOUS FACES, YOU MET THEM HEAD ON, UNYIELDING! SO LET THEM SEND THEIR SLAVES! LET THEM COME IN WAVES UNCOUNTABLE! THEY WILL BE MEET WITH A WALL OF UNBREAKING STEEL, WILLPOWER, AND FAITH!”
He held another pause to let them settle again, before concluding, “AND FOR ALL OF THIS! FOR ALL THE THINGS YOU HAVE LEFT BEHIND FOR OUR LAND! FOR ALL THE SACRIFICES YOU HAVE MADE! FOR ALL THE PAIN YOU HAVE ENDURED, AND FOR YOUR UNSHAKEABLE DEDICATION! WE THANK YOU!”
The reaction to the closing statement was every bit as thunderous as the one caused by his appearance. Hueeing and hollering rang from every throat, and hard thumps came from what seemed to be at least a foot per man. The King let it go on for much longer than he had the other times, allowing them their time as the focus of this production. Never had he met anyone who could manipulate a gathering like the great Epgard. It was a gift as dangerous as any Sacred Sword.
As the assemblage started to calm, a large golden hand was held up, making it seem as if it was his gesture alone that commanded their compliance.
Subtle, but effective.
“YOU HAVE MORE THAN DONE YOUR PART! NOW ALLOW US TO DO OURS!”
He bellowed one last time before taking the last few steps to the edge of The Pit, with men and women in golden robes similarly finding themselves perched all around it, left sleeves hanging limp at their side.
For the first time since this theater performance had started, Elon allowed his gaze to drop to the middle of the amphitheater, where the next part, unfortunately, horrendously, was going to take place.
In the center of all the excitement, a great depression had been formed. Filling almost the entirety of the square, with only a path wide enough for five men to stand shoulder to shoulder between the start of the stands and the beginning of the dropoff, The Pit was expansive. Hard pressed dirt that looked scorched and cracked made up the ground, and the same grey, cold stone as the colosseum around them formed the borders. Four metal-grated gates were placed in the four cardinal directions, ready to release man or beast, depending on the event taking place within.
Today, none of them would be used.
Two hundred wooden stakes, a great deal taller than necessary in length, were placed vertically in the soft ground. Each one had been stripped of bark, uncovering the pale, dried wood, and a groove was filed into the peak, in which a rope was hooked.
Attached to these ropes, two hundred humans hung, hands tied at the wrist to the top, and their feet hanging limp half a meter off the floor. White hoods had been deposited over their heads, and robes of thin cotton clad their bodies. They hung so fucking silently, no struggling against their binding or screams for freedom, tearing themselves free from their throats, indeed, no moment of all. Only the slight pumping of the lungs, deep and slow, the breath pattern of the sleeping.
It was fucking unsettling.
Epgard spread his arms once again, and at the command, the robed figures broke out into a slow and melodious chant, humming under their breaths. The words were indistinguishable, but the feeling they evoked was ominous. It was the sort of feeling you got when you were alone in the darkness, a creeping sensation of being watched and uncertainty of your surroundings, combined with the oppressive air of when a hush falls over a funeral and nobody wants to break it, allowing it to get more and more oppressive.
Unaffected by this, Epgard restarted his show.
“THOUGH YOU HAVE UNQUESTIONABLY FULFILLED EVERY SINGLE THING THAT COULD HAVE BEEN DEMANDED OF YOU IN THE COURSE OF YOUR DUTIES, WE MUST NEVER FORGET WHERE THE BULK OF OUR PRAISES SHOULD BE AIMED!”
As he spoke and spun his words, the hymn rose in pitch and volume, a fluctuating harmony. For a split second, a moment so quick as to seem a trick of the imagination, the sun's rays messing with the peripheral, the air above the men and women hanging like slabs of meat, almost shimmered. The nose-tickling smell of a gathering storm got more potent, becoming a sensation against the skin.
“IT WAS THE GREAT AZIA’S GRACE, FILLING YOUR SPIRITS, THAT ALLOWED YOU TO TURN THE NON-BELIEVERS AWAY WHEN THEY CAME LOOKING!”
This time, there was no rationalizing it; with every word spoken and each increase in the humming chanting, the very fabric of reality looked like it was trembling, like the air over a bonfire, swaying and swimming. Invisible ants crawled across skin, “IT WAS HIS BLESSING UPON YOUR FLESH THAT LET YOU WALK AWAY UNSCATHED AND HIS FAVOR THAT HELD STRAIGHT YOUR BACK AND FILLED YOUR ARMS, SO YOU COULD PROTECT ALL THAT YOU HOLD DEAR!”
It was sweltering all of a sudden, the heat rising fast. The air seemed to be thumping.
“HIS STRENGTH LAID IN EVERY BLOW AND EVERY STAB. EVERY STEP YOU TOOK WAS IN HIS NAME!”
Whatever was happening looked to be reaching its conclusion, the chanting now nearly being screamed, Epgard having to raise his voice from a shout to a true bellow. The crowd had fallen silent, some in awe and subjugation, others in fear.
“BUT WHAT BEING, WHAT BEING INDEED, WE ASK YOU, DOES NOT DESERVE RECOGNITION FOR THEIR ACTIONS!? DOES NOT DESERVE REWARD FOR THEIR SUFFERING!? IS IT NOT OUR DUTY TO RENEW HIM, AS HE DIMINISHES FOR US!?” He paused for a breath.
“SO, AS TODAY WE OFFER OUR HEARTFELT THANKS TO YOU, OUR BRAVE WARRIORS, WE LIKEWISE THANK HIM, AND GIVE THESE HEATHENS TO HIM, SO THAT THEY MAY BE SHOWN THE ERROR OF THEIR WAYS, AND LET THEIR BODIES BECOME ONE AGAIN, SO HE MAY KEEP BURNING! TODAY WE SACRIFICE THESE FORSAKEN, SO THAT HE MAY ACCEPT THEM BACK INTO THE FOLD AND THEY CAN BE ABSOLVED OF THEIR SINS! AND TODAY, THE BRAVE VOLUNTEERS OFFER THEMSELVES TO HIM FREELY, TO SUSTAIN HIM AS HE SUSTAINS US!”
At the last word, as the incantation crescendoed, a nearly physical weight bore down on the shoulders of all present.
A painful tingling shot through fingers and sizzled against eardrums, nostrils burning so much the actual scent was undecipherable.
No breath was drawn or limb shifted. Even the warping taking place above The Pit paused.
Then.
“ALL HAIL AZIA!”
As the finalizing prayer rang out from the choir, with the Voice leading them, a cataclysmic roar shook the arena. A colossal column of fire sprang from the feet of the sacrifices, a blinding, twisting pillar of flames, devouring everything it encompassed, as it exploded into the sky. The heat spreading was hardly noticeable next to the visual, and the abruptness of its arrival made those nearest, and even many on the upper levels, jump away in fright, tripping over each other and falling to the ground in large flailing piles. Up and up the inferno rose, seemingly eating the sky as it blocked it out, with no cause and no fuel, except the people trapped within the root of this madness.
Neither the overwhelming brightness nor the deafening, reverberating sound was the thing that weighed the heaviest on Elon.
What always got to him, had since he was a child watching from the box, was the smell.
The smell made it so much worse, made it completely fucking impossible to forget the reason for this spectacle. It was there to constantly remind you of what was being burned. The sickly sweet aroma of sizzling meat lay heavy in the air, clogging up the nostrils and scratching at the back of the throat, sticking no matter how much you tried to clear it. It was the smell that stuck with you for fucking weeks, long after the last white spots in your vision had faded, your hearing had cleared, and the painful patches of pink skin had healed. Every time you encountered grilled meat for the foreseeable future, you would imagine the flesh roasting off their bodies and their bones turning to ash. You would smell it in your dreams, dreams of the agonizing pain they must have been in.
That was what truly got him. Not the death, no, he had taken more than his fair share of lives already. Nor was it even the sacrifices themselves, though the times there were children involved were a very different story. He could barely stop himself from intervening then. But the prisoners were slated for execution anyway, he didn't give a fuck what happened to the Forsaken, and who the fuck was he to say what people should lay down their lives for.
No, what truly got to him was the performance of it all.
The showmanship.
Two hundred men, women, and children were burned and murdered in one of the most horrendous ways possible.
And all to keep his father's pompous ass on an uncomfortable chair.
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Thank you for reading. Hopefully you enjoyed.
