![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eliyes
This is what happens when I read Saint Seiya, The King Must Die, and Changeling alla round the same time... I will find a Saint Seiya community to post this on, eventually. And maybe someday I'll write more of the story, but for now...
Hopefully, my formatting will work and the different fonts will stick. If they do, her'es the key: if it's Times New Roman, it's narration. If it's not, it's direct 'speech'.
The Cult of Poseidon
In that stretch of water over there, see it? See that rock, standing like a lost pillar in the sea? Looks small from here, doesn’t it? They say if you get too close to that pillar, you can hear sirens singing, trying to lure sailors to their doom.
Sure, you laugh. You wouldn’t laugh if you’d been out there. I’m serious. I’ve seen it. I got blown into that rock once during a squall. When I straggled back home, I was bloody... but I hadn’t been hurt. I heard a voice singing. It could have been the wind, yeah... but I don’t believe that.
Don’t believe me? Watch that rock sometime before a big storm, Mr. Skeptic. You’ll see.
The Pillar Rock looked bigger up close. Not so much an island as a finger of black stone thrust out of the water by an act of volcanic might. Ancient and worn, weathered by countless storms, it had taken on a somewhat smoother look. Birds found no purchase on its smooth face. Sailors did not come near, for other rocks lurked under the water, peeking out here and there, waiting to scuttle unwary boats.
Perhaps that is why the stories started, that sirens or mermaids or something older and more terrible called to those who plied their trade on the nearby waters. Something called, something other than the good fishing, and something drowned the incautious men who ventured too near.
Whatever might be out there, if indeed there was anything, it certainly didn’t bother the fish, or the porpoises and seals occasionally seen out around those treacherous rocks. But still, people spoke of it uneasily, and foolish children who thought to test their bravery were warned by frightened parents about bodies washed ashore in previous years, about strange sudden storms and broken boats. Some say the place is haunted by the ghosts of drowned men.
There’s nothing there. Nothing for mortal eyes to see, anyway. but for other eyes, eyes which can see into a deeper level of the world, it’s a different story.
To eyes that know how to look, the entire rock has an aura of sacred power. There are uneven stairs winding from the top down to a platform just under the water. There’s a bronze mooring ring hammered into the rock.
Some nights, there are boats out there, and afterwards the metallic tang of blood mixes with the scent of salt water for days.
Tonight, the water is so calm it barely moves, except for a gentle lapping as the tide begins to move in. The young man carefully piloting a small ferry towards The Pillar Rock is glad, for though his companion’s singing soothes the large animal they bring, still he suspects that choppy water would cause the beast to panic.
Theirs’ is the only craft on the water, him ducking his dawn-crowned head to gaze longingly at the dark water through which his oars strike, his silver-tressed passenger crooning an enchanting melody to keep the albino bull from doing something dangerous -- such as trying to stand.
The bull is young, but still mature enough to well deserve the title. Around his powerful neck is a wreath of fragrant laurel leaves and fleshy-petalled flowers that do not grown in this part of the world. A deep bowl, now empty but for a few of the sweet oats it had held, lays next to the bull’s forelimbs.
Now the stairs are in sight, a torch dancing with fey green flames above the heavy ring they’ll tie the ferry to. the bull lows; he has been here before, as a new calf to be consecrated. he does not remember, yet he feels a familiar tug, as of destiny. He buts his massive head against the hand stroking down his nose, happy, excited.
As they reach the edge of the invisible underwater platform of black stone, figures rise out of the water to pull them in. The bull makes a challenge, and they respond with joyful welcomes to the guest of honour. A tall, powerfully built man with dark skin and a mohawk the white of arctic snow pulls them in, while on either side and at the back, three others help maneuver.
To the left, a young man whose hair falls past his hips in waves of darkness with the rainbow sheen of oil. On the right, a pale young woman with shorter, wavy hair the colour of a blood moon’s reflection on dark water. At the aft, a powerful teenage boy with icy pale skin marred by an ugly scar on his face under and unnatural silver eye, crowned by hair the rich dark colour of the ocean depths. All four wear only the merest scraps of clothing, for modesty.
With the boat secure, the bull is led off of the craft. At first he balks, unable to see what they stand on, but a soft croon encourages him, and soon he stands with the salty water swishing around his legs, happily working through the second bowl of oats he’s been offered tonight.
The tall man murmurs a welcome to the final arrivals, now that the bull is secure, both of whom are busily shucking their clothes in the boat.
“Welcome,” chorus the others as they step into the water to join them. Arms are clasped companionably, and then the tall man speaks again.
“I will make sure our guest does not wander off. Go, bathe.” He waves to the ocean, and is rewarded with splashes as all but one other dive away.
The one who remains, the silver-haired singer, is the youngest of those gathered here. His deep, unfathomable eyes gaze a question.
“Where is He?” There can be little doubt who he means.
The dark man points out to where the moon ripples on the water, and the discerning eye notes a trail of gold behind the moon, gold not reflected in the sky.
“He listens,” intones the dark man. “I would not disturb him.”
“No,” agrees the quicksilver teen, with a sudden flash of an embarrassed and grateful smile. “Thank you.”
And then he, too, sinks into the ocean.
Man divides the ocean of the world on maps, for reasons of convenience or politics. He sails on top of it, he fights wars over those imaginary lines. He throws his garbage into the water, and then has to work harder to make it drinkable. Man is a foolish beast. Even those men who explore the ocean’s depths do so for politics, or to steal its mysteries, or to conquer what is unconquerable.
There is only one ocean. It is the king of waters. It swallows the rivers that flow into it. Its many daughters call from the deeps to the souls of men, who sail away from the shore where man walks, where wives wait, and sometimes these men are rewarded with nets full and family fed another night, and sometimes they don’t sail back at all...
The true power that the ocean offers to man cannot be had by dividing it with lines on paper. It cannot be had by setting computers to chart its hidden currents. It can only be had by listening; listening deeper than whale song, deeper than the hungry siren calls, listening to the ocean itself. Himself.
Once one has not just heard the ocean speaking, but listened, been attentive -- then one is on the path to wisdom and power.
What other advice, from a king?
I have listened.
I have learned.
The ocean will not blurt out his secrets like an eager child, nor is the learning process short. It is a relationship of master and pupil, king and vassal, god and pious priest.
I give of myself in exchange for patronage. This is an ancient way. My teacher/god/king must be respected, worshipped, courted. He issues a command, and I must fulfill it. He desired a temple; I built one. He wished for worshippers; I found them. He wants a sacrifice...
...So shall it be.
Tonight.
At some unspoken signal, they gather again below the stairs, six figures moving smoothly out of the water. The seventh figure, standing with the ghostly white bull now splashing the rising water with impatience, smiles privately as he notes the eagerness apparent in every move their newest brother makes. The others, too, trade glances, amused, approving.
The silver-haired boy thrums with excitement. He glances up quickly when a hand softly comes to rest on his shoulder. The man who smiles down at him is a perfect example of a classically handsome man, as though an ancient Greek statue were brought to life and adorned with a long, unruly mane of hair, like gold cascading past his waist.
The youth is stunned for a moment, once again overwhelmed by the sheer presence of the man now cupping capable hands on his pale cheeks.
“Little brother,” he says, “when last we gathered, you proved your dedication to joining our sacred family. Are you prepared to now take part in your first sacred rite?” His voice is low, entrancing. The face between his hands shines with joy.
“Yes, sir,” the youth all but sighs.
A golden eyebrow arches.
“Sir? Am I not your brother, Sorrento?”
Sorrento (for this is the name of the young singer) blushes.
“Yes, Kanon.” The golden-haired man smiles, and releases him.
Taking up the green-flamed torch, Kanon climbs the first steps of the spiraling path, and turns to face the upturned faces of his followers, his fellow worshippers, his family.
“Come, my friends, let us accompany our guest of honour to the place where he shall meet his noble destiny!” he cries, then runs up a few more steps.
The bull gives a mighty bellow and charges up the rough stairs. The others follow, laughing and dancing, singing vibrant hymns of bravery and glory, beating strange rhythms on the deep bowls, on the rock, on their own flesh. The huge white form of the bull seems energized by the lively revelry, and never once falters on the uneven, at times uncertain, footing. For this boldness, they love him. Spurred by praise and adulation, he achieves the top.
The circle of seven pillars rising from the stone, embedded with ancient petrified sea creatures, cannot be seen from below, nor by mortal eyes at all. The space these pillars enclose is sacred, one huge altar. The bull runs into it, and the people follow. they take up torches and light green fire all around, as their songs change to something more solemn, more calming.
Torches lit and set in sconces, the gathered worshippers stroke the white skin of the bull. Singing and chanting a dedication, they anoint him with fragrant oils. Below, the waves rise, awaken, pound against the rock. The bull watches the proceedings with patience, and when the time comes, he steps into the stroke of the knife.
Quickly, they catch his sacred blood in the bowl, and it overflows, as the great white beast drops to his knees and his life pours away, running from him like red rivers across the dark rock, pouring into the hungry ocean below.
The blood gushes over Sorrento, who kneels with the bowl in his lap, as his pale limbs and chest, throat and shoulders, become dark with the bull’s lifeblood. It flecks his silver hair, and his face is a study of religious ecstasy.
The sacrifice is made.
~Fin~
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-12 11:51 am (UTC)(My inner Sorrento, on the other hand, made the most wretchedly pathetic noise .. *sighs* *pats Sorrento*)
.. You seem to have a font trouble, though; how many sections of speech are there supposed to be?
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-12 03:37 pm (UTC)There's supposed to be two sections of speech: the Old Salt doing the intro, and later Kanon's thoughts about the ocean and sacrifice.
*sigh* Formatting issssssues.....
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-12 06:48 pm (UTC)That's what I thought; it was a little off-balancing until I spotted where the formatting should go.
Poor Sorrento. I wonder what will happen to him in Blood and Fire ...?
*thinks*
*ebils*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-12 07:20 pm (UTC)