Death was coming.
𓂀
A room filled with golden walls and pillars of sandstone. Pictures were carved to tell great stories, scratched by the craftsman paws of great scribes and artists.
It was said that the temple was the land of reeds. It was why the life never ended and the wines were rich from the east. Around the great kingdom were golden fields that were plentiful in sunlight and fed by the humid bridges surrounded by ocean water.
There was only a waiting game for the ritual to end. Listening to prayers, reciting the words of the Gods. Myrrh had first taken to memory Toula’s, where they might ask for her light through the depths and be granted mercy from ill balance. For those that wept, she wondered if they knew that their fate perhaps would not be so holy.
Words loudened as Khonsu’s moon grew. A drink: she prepared it just as instructed. Something soft on the tongue, an aid to the awakening. The last touch, just a pinch, the dried blooms that which the water a deep shade of purple. Men, women, children, drink.
Myrrh had little time in Akashingo before that night, taken through by another set of men with loud tongues and quick feet, and so she was captivated by reading each sacred engraving as the red fires flickered and burned. An incense like primrose filled the air. She was taken by surprise when the chants sounded almost like screams. Those prayers were the last Myyrh knew before she took it the circle, and tried to make out her own eyes in the reflection of the swirling liquid.
Never quite before did she have time to question if faith was a truth or falsity. Only work.
She drank,
and Myyrh shouldn’t have been so excited to ingest it.
—
The girl’s eyes opened weakly.
𓂀
A room filled with golden walls and pillars of sandstone. Pictures were carved to tell great stories, scratched by the craftsman paws of great scribes and artists.
It was said that the temple was the land of reeds. It was why the life never ended and the wines were rich from the east. Around the great kingdom were golden fields that were plentiful in sunlight and fed by the humid bridges surrounded by ocean water.
There was only a waiting game for the ritual to end. Listening to prayers, reciting the words of the Gods. Myrrh had first taken to memory Toula’s, where they might ask for her light through the depths and be granted mercy from ill balance. For those that wept, she wondered if they knew that their fate perhaps would not be so holy.
Words loudened as Khonsu’s moon grew. A drink: she prepared it just as instructed. Something soft on the tongue, an aid to the awakening. The last touch, just a pinch, the dried blooms that which the water a deep shade of purple. Men, women, children, drink.
Myrrh had little time in Akashingo before that night, taken through by another set of men with loud tongues and quick feet, and so she was captivated by reading each sacred engraving as the red fires flickered and burned. An incense like primrose filled the air. She was taken by surprise when the chants sounded almost like screams. Those prayers were the last Myyrh knew before she took it the circle, and tried to make out her own eyes in the reflection of the swirling liquid.
Never quite before did she have time to question if faith was a truth or falsity. Only work.
She drank,
and Myyrh shouldn’t have been so excited to ingest it.
—
The girl’s eyes opened weakly.