"Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns"
Red petals, flickering, burning, fell slowly from the sky. Ascronos stood in the great garden of his dreams, shrouded in a cloud of falling petals. They kissed and caressed his hair, settling upon his head, they skimmed silky smooth along the length of his drawn steel. There was no snow here, thought Ascoronos, no cold draghts to bite though your armour, to freeze your bones, to turn the childrens' faces to ice. Back home in Asgaroth, the snow fell thick and fast, all year round with no rebate, no mercy and with the fury of an angered god. Here it snowed fire. Red flames on burning petals, consuming, charring and turning them to ashes. Fumes spread across the garden, vapours that shrouded the earth, wreathed tendrils of smoke around his armoured feet. They did not touch him, they skirted along the bare steel that shod his feet. A broken breeze blew through his hair, his long silver-grey locks drifting gently, shimmering in the light of a full moon that shone through the canopy of dark trees in which he stood embowered. It was a place of savage beauty, haunted by ghosts of Ascronos' mind, shaped by hopes, dreams and fears only he could know or understand. Sheltered as he was in the dark garden where the thin grey trees hid him from view, he could not help but think about the past.
They had him in chains in Zarabusa. Locked and hidden deep in a valley. Within the prison of Din-a-Zar, a place so dreary that life within it passed in an endless blur of bleakness. They smashed his citadel, burnt his books, stole his secrets and all the knowledge he had acquired after years of sheltered study. Then they bound him in chains and threw him into the darkest corner of Din-a-Zar. To what good? Thought Ascronos, there in that garden as the petals turned from red to withered black. They would not use it, they could not. They would not understand. Dark Magic they called it, the ignorant fools. Men, they hate what they fear, they fear what they cannot understand. He had the secrets of life within his grasp. He stood on the brink of a discovery. A revelation that would change the world and those who lived in it, whether they liked it or not.
But one bitterly cold night as the candles in his study guttered down to dregs and the yellow light spilled shakily upon his ancient books of lore, they came for him. From his window he could see them down below, pools of lights spilling from where they stood huddled, holding up flaming brands and shouting for his blood. Their breath formed in clouds of white but their voices were loud and angry.
The plague, they said, was his doing. Black Magic that emenated from his tower, controlled by him. Puny fools, he had thought. What cared he for their mortal trappings, their day to day goings and comings, their homely woes and joys, when immortality itself beckoned to him from the shadows of his study, fumed and spread its delicious odour as he wore the hours away, bent over his jars of bubbling potions. But at last, just as he glimpsed the distant light, just as it all began to fall into place, they came for him. The cursed plague had done him in. The same plague that mutilated his servants and left him the sole inhabitant of his castle. He remembered their sickly faces, as they came to him, begging for leave to go home to their families. Sire, my children are dying, the one with the festering face has begged. Disgusted, he had turned them all out. Ascronos Hell does not deal with the pestilent miseries of the crass. Rats, of course it was the rats. He had known it all along. He had long ago taken such precautions with himself so as not to be bothered by the diseases of village whores. 'Magics', as the ignorant calld it, potions he had brewed for himself, which he could not nor would not be bothered to produce for the masses. He had come so far down the path of his secret studies that some of these cures could have effect only on himself, because he was not like the others. When the villagers had found him years ago, an infant bundled in silver cloth, with a burning star branded upon his forehead, they had known he would not be like the others. But now, those 'others' stood with firebrands at his doorstep, and he could do nothing.
He could do nothing. It was a thought that drove him mad, in his days of imprisonment. When he escaped, it was not a question of course, he would make sure they could never touch him again. He would rise, great and powerful beyond the scope or thought of the little. He would draw to himself, like minds from all the lands. Those of remarkable vision and intellect, those fit to rule and conquor, even protect the miserable masses they reigned over. He would have an army. An army such as the realms had never seen. So that he never had to run again, never flee in haste from his own domain, sought after by those who could never understand the gleaming truths within it. But there, that night, the wind rapping the verse of his doom, etching patterns of cold demise in lines of ice upon his window pane, while the rabble smote their crude contructs of war upon his shivering castle doors, fleeing was all the choice he had left. Escape was the only possibility. But as he fled down the passages of his citadel, they cornered him. They smashed the wooden doors and flooded in from all sides, their shouts bounding off the walls as they trapped him and clapped him in chains. Then came the long and hard journey to Din-a-Zar. They put him in a cage. A cage, like a wild animal. Him, Ascronos Hell, the greatest mind in all the realms trapped like a beast in a snare, helpless. They threw him in the dungeons, if so they could be called. Cold and dingy spaces closed in by icy stone, where the few beams of sunlight that filtered through seemed to die, to wither like the petals that fell all around him, to fade to grey before they touched his lined and dusty face. Most died of cold there, the others went insane. Ascronos lived. Lived, fought and dreamed within this icy tomb. For he knew that one day the shackles would break and he would rise, greater than before. And the world would know the anger of Ascronos Hell.
Ascronos arose from a dream within his dream, into the forest where he took shelter when his mind lost hope, there in his icy cell. Still, the pathetic petals of red burned and withered around him, as would the fools who confined him. The ones who had him in chains, the ones who burnt his books, his life, his home. All but his dreams. His dreams still shone dimly around him, ensnared as they were by tendrils of doubt, much as this forest was shrouded in half formed mist. A great tide of anger rose within Ascronos as he thought of the woe they had worked upon him and the vengeance that he would wreak, merciless and cruel when he broke through the fetters of this mortal prison. He held up his sword in the moonlight. A withered petal petal, once red, now burnt to cinders, drifted down, settled upon its edge and turned at once to blood. A drop of fresh dark blood gleamed upon his sword. It slid down the length of the sword and dripped down to the shrouded misty earth below. All at once, every petal in the air, every burnt or burning sheaf of red that twirled in the air around him turned to blood. It rained blood upon the bare head of Ascronos Hell, drenching him, soaking him and satiating the burning hatred within him, quenching the carnal craving for retribution that had buried itself in his breast like an arrown and had seeped its acid into his veins. The trees around him began to shake in a hideous agony. They writhed like trapped beasts that saw their death rushing at them but could do nothing. They split and exploded into a thousand splinters of wood, burning as they did so, scattering Hell's fury into the world of his dream. The mist that had calmly wrapped its fingers around his feet swirled in mad wrath, as if stirred by an angered demon. The demon was within him, him that stood calm in the midst of chaos, his anger burning, scarring, destroying the outer world. It shone through his frenzied eyes, it fed the flames that consumed the forest, it turned the petals to blood.
At last it was all over. The remnants of the once calm forest shivered in the aftermath of their creator's fury. The drops of blood dripped off the ends of Ascronos Hell's hair. They trickled down the edge of his blade. This dream-world that kept him sane would vanish and he would rise again, greater than before. And the world would know the anger of Ascronos Hell.
They had him in chains in Zarabusa. Locked and hidden deep in a valley. Within the prison of Din-a-Zar, a place so dreary that life within it passed in an endless blur of bleakness. They smashed his citadel, burnt his books, stole his secrets and all the knowledge he had acquired after years of sheltered study. Then they bound him in chains and threw him into the darkest corner of Din-a-Zar. To what good? Thought Ascronos, there in that garden as the petals turned from red to withered black. They would not use it, they could not. They would not understand. Dark Magic they called it, the ignorant fools. Men, they hate what they fear, they fear what they cannot understand. He had the secrets of life within his grasp. He stood on the brink of a discovery. A revelation that would change the world and those who lived in it, whether they liked it or not.
But one bitterly cold night as the candles in his study guttered down to dregs and the yellow light spilled shakily upon his ancient books of lore, they came for him. From his window he could see them down below, pools of lights spilling from where they stood huddled, holding up flaming brands and shouting for his blood. Their breath formed in clouds of white but their voices were loud and angry.
The plague, they said, was his doing. Black Magic that emenated from his tower, controlled by him. Puny fools, he had thought. What cared he for their mortal trappings, their day to day goings and comings, their homely woes and joys, when immortality itself beckoned to him from the shadows of his study, fumed and spread its delicious odour as he wore the hours away, bent over his jars of bubbling potions. But at last, just as he glimpsed the distant light, just as it all began to fall into place, they came for him. The cursed plague had done him in. The same plague that mutilated his servants and left him the sole inhabitant of his castle. He remembered their sickly faces, as they came to him, begging for leave to go home to their families. Sire, my children are dying, the one with the festering face has begged. Disgusted, he had turned them all out. Ascronos Hell does not deal with the pestilent miseries of the crass. Rats, of course it was the rats. He had known it all along. He had long ago taken such precautions with himself so as not to be bothered by the diseases of village whores. 'Magics', as the ignorant calld it, potions he had brewed for himself, which he could not nor would not be bothered to produce for the masses. He had come so far down the path of his secret studies that some of these cures could have effect only on himself, because he was not like the others. When the villagers had found him years ago, an infant bundled in silver cloth, with a burning star branded upon his forehead, they had known he would not be like the others. But now, those 'others' stood with firebrands at his doorstep, and he could do nothing.
He could do nothing. It was a thought that drove him mad, in his days of imprisonment. When he escaped, it was not a question of course, he would make sure they could never touch him again. He would rise, great and powerful beyond the scope or thought of the little. He would draw to himself, like minds from all the lands. Those of remarkable vision and intellect, those fit to rule and conquor, even protect the miserable masses they reigned over. He would have an army. An army such as the realms had never seen. So that he never had to run again, never flee in haste from his own domain, sought after by those who could never understand the gleaming truths within it. But there, that night, the wind rapping the verse of his doom, etching patterns of cold demise in lines of ice upon his window pane, while the rabble smote their crude contructs of war upon his shivering castle doors, fleeing was all the choice he had left. Escape was the only possibility. But as he fled down the passages of his citadel, they cornered him. They smashed the wooden doors and flooded in from all sides, their shouts bounding off the walls as they trapped him and clapped him in chains. Then came the long and hard journey to Din-a-Zar. They put him in a cage. A cage, like a wild animal. Him, Ascronos Hell, the greatest mind in all the realms trapped like a beast in a snare, helpless. They threw him in the dungeons, if so they could be called. Cold and dingy spaces closed in by icy stone, where the few beams of sunlight that filtered through seemed to die, to wither like the petals that fell all around him, to fade to grey before they touched his lined and dusty face. Most died of cold there, the others went insane. Ascronos lived. Lived, fought and dreamed within this icy tomb. For he knew that one day the shackles would break and he would rise, greater than before. And the world would know the anger of Ascronos Hell.
Ascronos arose from a dream within his dream, into the forest where he took shelter when his mind lost hope, there in his icy cell. Still, the pathetic petals of red burned and withered around him, as would the fools who confined him. The ones who had him in chains, the ones who burnt his books, his life, his home. All but his dreams. His dreams still shone dimly around him, ensnared as they were by tendrils of doubt, much as this forest was shrouded in half formed mist. A great tide of anger rose within Ascronos as he thought of the woe they had worked upon him and the vengeance that he would wreak, merciless and cruel when he broke through the fetters of this mortal prison. He held up his sword in the moonlight. A withered petal petal, once red, now burnt to cinders, drifted down, settled upon its edge and turned at once to blood. A drop of fresh dark blood gleamed upon his sword. It slid down the length of the sword and dripped down to the shrouded misty earth below. All at once, every petal in the air, every burnt or burning sheaf of red that twirled in the air around him turned to blood. It rained blood upon the bare head of Ascronos Hell, drenching him, soaking him and satiating the burning hatred within him, quenching the carnal craving for retribution that had buried itself in his breast like an arrown and had seeped its acid into his veins. The trees around him began to shake in a hideous agony. They writhed like trapped beasts that saw their death rushing at them but could do nothing. They split and exploded into a thousand splinters of wood, burning as they did so, scattering Hell's fury into the world of his dream. The mist that had calmly wrapped its fingers around his feet swirled in mad wrath, as if stirred by an angered demon. The demon was within him, him that stood calm in the midst of chaos, his anger burning, scarring, destroying the outer world. It shone through his frenzied eyes, it fed the flames that consumed the forest, it turned the petals to blood.
At last it was all over. The remnants of the once calm forest shivered in the aftermath of their creator's fury. The drops of blood dripped off the ends of Ascronos Hell's hair. They trickled down the edge of his blade. This dream-world that kept him sane would vanish and he would rise again, greater than before. And the world would know the anger of Ascronos Hell.
"And the prophets spoke of rain. And the coming of Him that would let blood, so that the rain fell red and painted the faces of the children. Woe be to the Fathers of the Hatred for the flames of Hell would burn them."
- From the Chronicles of Azanthian Gespo, Historian and Third King of the Realm, 1490 -
- From the Chronicles of Azanthian Gespo, Historian and Third King of the Realm, 1490 -
Images: First image: 'Blood Rain' by Jorge Malgora, MOCA Digital Art Contest 2004 entry. Second image: 'The Hermit' painted by Barrington Colby for the inside sleeve of Led Zeppelin's fourth album.
1 comment:
*applause*
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