Agidia

Aigida 20 miles northwest of the Bohara Enclave. He stood in the dark, body trembling and crackling with energy. The moon shone off the polished steel blade that stood erect in his hands, and from it, dripped the blood of his fallen foe. Lightning flashed in the sky, illuminating his bronze skin and making visible the many cuts from which his blood flowed. Thunder roared, and suddenly, he became aware of his surroundings—the wind pounded his back, and the tall grass tickled his bare legs; his wounds cried out for reparation, and his ears focused on the steadily slowing drum of his heart. As the fire in his eyes dwindled, he opened his mouth and growled, “It is done.”

The cheers of the many onlookers rang through his ears as he lowered his sword. The sun burned into his eyes as he awakened from his slumber and gazed into the eyes of his maiden, Valdavia. He took a moment to admire the gentle curvature of her slender frame and touched a hand to her golden face before speaking, “Come with me.” He continued in a soft bellowing voice, “Join me in the ceremony.”

“I cannot, Traxus,” she somberly replied.

“You cannot or you will not. Which do you mean?” His voice grew cold as the coldest ice yet roared as the hottest flame. “Are you so afraid of leaving this place?”

“You must get ready, Traxus, the ceremony must begin in half a turn; you have many preparations to overcome.” With that, she arose and left him with his irritation.

He emerged from his hut wearing only his loincloth and girdle, his blade hung loosely from his left hip, and his battle-axe from his right. He walked through the lines of the Bohara warriors that assembled in accordance with the traditions of the ceremony and stopped, squatting by the banks of Unaosher Lake. He gazed into the waters, and for the first time, he saw himself. His tight skin was crossed with veins and knotted with the tested muscle of a warrior. His legs looked powerful; He did run fast and was known to pull twelve vessels. He ran his fingers between his toes and wiggled them slightly. He smiled. He was impressed with the appearance of his arms and chest; they were robust. He appraised them to the size of a young Ogasi tree. He flexed his body in various ways and smiled at the reflection in the lake. His face was angular and tight. He opened his mouth and touched his teeth. He wiggled and raised his tongue. He blinked his eyes and accepted the dirty color of them. He canted his head from side to side and raised and lowered it as he studied himself. He did not approve of his nose but was nonetheless satisfied.

Having completed the first step of the ceremony, he paraded down the Cobblestone Street, completely oblivious to the to the throngs of spectators, which gathered on both sides as he led the procession of warriors and paused before a small two-story sandstone building. Inside this building was the blacksmith to whom he surrendered his sword and ax, also in accordance with tradition, before continuing through the streets to the temple of the Seers. Upon entering the stone building, a great fanfare announced his presence. As the instruments blared, the thousands of attendants fell to their knees. An elderly man dressed in the solid green robe of the high priest of the Seers stood and raised a hand to the crowd, silencing the music and began to speak, “Traxus of the Bohara, do you accept your responsibility as the chosen one?”

“I do,” Traxus continued on in a booming voice, “I will go the way of the warrior!”

“So, it is said, so it will be done,” was the priest’s firm reply. Two monastics, plainly bearing their bodies, rose from their knees and approached the warrior, and they took him by the arms as a third stripped his garment from his body. He was led through the exuberant congregation to a golden altar, on the top of which he was strapped. After securing him to the altar’s glimmering surface, the three were joined by many more, all joined hands and began to chant in a slow, rhythmic way. The chanting went on, the high priest stepped before the altar and raised a blade high above his head. The incantation rose to a volume that threatened to deafen those in attendance. The priest spoke, barely audible over the chanting, “By the way of the warrior, your heart’s blood will bring forth your new life.” The blade fell from above the priest’s head, piercing the skin of the warrior, slipping between ribs and finally tearing into the walls of Traxus’s heart. He looked at the hilt of the blade as his blood flowed from the hollowed blade out and over his body. His roar of pain carried out over the crowded temple as his head lowered and his eyes slowly began to close. “May you bring glory to the people of Agidia,” the priest whispered as he removed the blade from the chest of Traxus.

It was the fourth day of continuous chanting since the ceremony began. The festival was already in order, he saw, as he looked down at the sea from his palace balcony. “Will he awaken?” he asked to another.

“They will continue their chants until he does, my lord,” the other answered. “Things have already been set in motion and appear to be going as planned,” he explained with a slight nod of his hooded head.

In the temple, the monks who sat crossed legged on the floor, joined hand in hand around the altar, waiting for a sign from the chosen one. The baritone roar shook the temple to life and was followed shortly thereafter by the snapping of the restraints as the warrior sat up from the altar and stood before the high priest.

“By the will of Clodus, you have risen this day, reborn as the champion of your clan. Go, take the glory of our world to others so that you may someday sit on the throne of your people and rule as a true warrior should,” the priest said as he clasped the forearm of the warrior.

The huge doors of the temple swung open to a fantastic blare of instruments and shouts of support from the columns of warriors who stood waiting for their champion to complete the ceremony. The sun was incredibly bright as he stepped from the shadow of the door and was escorted by the monks through the elaborately adorned streets. The other warriors fell into place behind the monks as Traxus walked toward the sea. The harbor, he saw, was even more decorated than the streets. The air near the shore was saturated with the fine smells of the numerous foods that were being prepared and slightly accented by countless numbers of fragrant floral arrangements that were hung and placed around the festival site. The soft music filtered gently to his ears. Only one ship bobbed, moored to the docks, in the dark waters and was dyed with crests of the clans. As he neared the ship, he was approached and greeted by the blacksmith who, with great dignity, presented Traxus with his weapons, both of which were now embedded with gold and were slightly hot to the touch. As Traxus boarded, he looked out over the crowd, letting his gaze rest on the face of Valdavia, a tear slowly rolling down her cheek. Without a word, he turned and disappeared into the bowels of the ship. Far out to sea, the heavens erupted in an awesome discharge of energy, and a glimmering portal appeared in the calm waters. Traxus raised the sail, and as he looked up at the golden-brown sky above Agidia, he slowly drifted into the intense white light.

NEXT EPISODE WILL POST MONDAY AUGUST 9TH