A peasant into a sovereign.
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
~J.R.R. Tolkein
~~~*~~~
The lion has lain languidly before the door of fire and watched as they came with fire-lit eyes to gaze in awe upon Solterra herself. With sun-bright eyes he stares unblinkingly into the souls of all who dare to gather, worthless, before him. Some are bold, some dare to try and touch the fire, others cower and crawl away. None leave as they had arrived. All are changed. All will be changed. Solterra will see that they remember how she has been wronged too many times.
But not again.
The flames ripple and claw up the door frame like demons cawing for the Chosen to dare to come. The lion’s ears twitch as he listens to the banshee cry of the fire.
Eventually, from the stream of awe-struck observers one comes who turns the lion’s head. Its eyes illuminate the horse with a gaze as bright as a torch. Its mane turns as red as the setting sun, red like blood. His teeth are solar flares ripping apart from the jaws of the sun. It pants, smoke unfurling itself with rightousness and rising in the din as incense. The lion rises as the horse falls to its knees and presses its cheek upon the unremitting cold of the ground. Eons churn in the leonine eyes that watch the horse kneel. Regal and proud is the chin that lifts, mighty and proud. The flames laugh, Solterra laughs, keen and loud and wicked.
He dares! They hiss delightedly.
But the lion does not laugh with them. It does not roar or snarl, nor even seem to breathe. Rather it stands and watches and listens as the horse speaks. With his words the horse names himself a lamb: a lamb that lies, meek and pliant at the foot of Solterra’s fire.
A lamb will lie down with the lion; but it will get no rest.
The beast moves at last, its claws melting their way into the flagstone with great gouges. Its tail twitches as it prowls. Slowly the lion turns its lamp gaze from the prostrate horse. “Rise, Orestes,” it demands with the voice of the sun. Slowly it turns toward the door and steps through the veil of flame. The fire and the sun become one with his passing through and the light from the doorway billows out, bright and huge as a dying star. Solterra roils in answer. Her the waters gurgle as they heat to boiling, the Canyon fills with smoke as thick as a river, the sand of the desert splits into cracks that cover its every inch and within the Colosseum, blood forms into bones that char as black as coal.
Solterra welcomes her king in chaos and hunger.
“Come through the fire and burn.” The lion’s voice ricochets from every corner of Solterra, speaking into the ears of all. “You are Solterra’s sacrifice. She has made you and she will break you. None can take from her any more. Only those who her fire chooses can sit upon her throne now.” The lion waits upon the other side of the flames, he looks back upon Solterra’s chosen as if he waits to see if the fire will burn the man or let him walk through untouched. Then it leads the new king up to his seat.
“Sit.” The lion demands as it stands to the right of the chair. “Sit and remember that you are ash.”
@Orestes @
@Aghavni @
@Orestes, @
