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Question Mark? -> RE: (HS) The Brotherhood of Order (3/25/2012 23:38:02)
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Chapter 20: The Forest (Accompanying song: http://www.youtuberepeat.com/watch/?v=kK5AohCMX0U&feature=related)
The ground was wet from the early spring rains. The air was warm, and moist, though not humid. Leaves littered the forest ground, brown and decayed. Small creatures flitted through the underbrush, nearly soundless. The sun, providing only enough light to see the nearby forest, was concealed by clouds. The wind that caressed the weeping willow trees that stood like sorrowful sentinels within the calm of the forest was pleasant, not tumultuous, and carried an air of tranquility about it. The earth was dark and stained with patches of bright green moss and vines. The trees were tall, and formed a light canopy. The sun was not bright enough to create beams of light, so a soft luminance shone from the treetops, blending with the ambient light, and making it seem that the forest was providing our traveler with light of its own. The forest was thick here, even this high up the mountain, and as the air began to cool, the willow trees became shrouded in an ethereal fog.
It was cold now, and the leaves of the trees shuddered silently, as if they too did not wish to disturb the peace provided by this place. The wind picked up, but even it could not dispel the shroud that served to conceal this glorious realm of life and poetic beauty from the world below. The mountain was steep, and trees stuck out at bent angles from the surrounding ground, pressing themselves against the sky. At last, the steep incline began to level out, and a clearing was reached. The trees thinned slightly and then stopped, at the banks of a body of water. Amidst the fog was a small lake, still and crystalline, reflecting the grey of the sky. There was slight movement beneath the water, suggesting that fish of some sort inhabited it, or perhaps some sort of amphibious creatures, but it too was silent. Not mourning, but meditating. Just across it was the object of the wanderer’s desire. An unembellished stone sarcophagus crafted from solid granite.
It was rectangular, and stood up from the mossy ground as if some seismic motion of the earth had pulled it from the soil an age ago, and it had stood here ever since, gathering moss and dirt. At each corner of the tomb, and at its center, were tall black candles, lit with a dark green flame that flickered unearthly shadows over this resting place of the dead. They did not crackle, bid simply shuddered silently, subtly, casting their beautiful shadows and contributing to the ambiance of the place. A chanting echoed through the wood. At first it was unnoticeable, but it grew, sprouting like a seed or spore, and soon enveloped the entirety of the clearing, seeping into its every pore, and yet somehow remaining more tranquil than the silence. The chant was an old one. Older than the traveler could possibly remember, although its words sounded strangely familiar. It was Latin, and sounded almost Gregorian, although its meaning was not religious. It was a song of remembrance, and a song of an age long forgotten. A song of the time when we were but dreams and when the Earth was claimed by the long dead and the forgotten, and when they might return to claim their realm once more.
The traveler trod quickly across the moss, circling the edge of the alike and quickly coming to the object of his desire. Our traveler, however, wore a costume most unlike that of his peers and fellows. He was clad in armor gleaming, shining a bright silver, even in the most limited sunlight. His helmet was tall and plumed, and his breastplate bore the image of a silver circle, within which was a small square. The portion of the circle not occupied by the square was embellished with a series of vine like designs, masterfully engraved into the metal of the armor. His form luminesced slightly with a dirty golden light, and he stood with strength and purpose. A long blade with a simple though obviously costly golden hilt was held in one hand, trailing off at his side though not quite touching the ground. Finally, he stood directly before the stone sarcophagus and spoke. The tongue which he used was old, but not as ancient as the chanting which so permeated the surrounding atmosphere. The words that he spoke were much like the following, although an exact translation is not possible, as the language spoken was much unlike our own.
“Thursday. You who walk and trace the soft threads of time and sleep eternally within the contours of the furthest reaches of space. The sleeper and the waker. The watcher and the observed. The ask and the answer. The gate and the key, Deep within the furthest reaches of the vast and dark ocean of space, within the furthest crevices of the cosmic abyss of time, you taste the ichor of celestial bodies as they trail across the flesh of the universe, and drink the nectar of the stars that serve as the soft and elegant watchers of the black and nebulous realm that is known as the DreamTime, and bathe within the ink that drips from the ensanguined umbra of the moon’s eclipse. I have come here, to the most tranquil of places, to the realm undisturbed by the unworthy, to the place that is gone from all of those who seek not to remember, to rouse you from your slumber for the moments allowed to me to inquire as to the vast and unknown, and to observe and remember the knowledge bestowed upon me for the strange aeons to come. Thursday, I call you from the cold embrace of Death to welcome upon me a new age of enlightenment and understanding. Thursday, I call for the ask and the answer, the gate and the key, and the all in one and one in all. The unified. The Broken. The touched by those who seek to Observe. Thursday.”
His voice was soft and soothing, like a calm and cool rain after a raging inferno, dousing the rage and hatred and producing a tranquility that could not otherwise be achieved except by stepping to the edge of disaster and leaping from the precipice into the vast and uncharted realms below. Allowing natural providence to guide you to your final destination. Only death could be so calm. He was answered.
“I am Lord Thursday, who waits beyond the veil. He who was the puppet of one beyond but escaped to cut his own strings. The puppet that worked itself, made itself dance, and when the time came, threw itself into its own funeral pyre. What is it that you require?”
“Tonight, the wicked are to burn beneath the feet of the righteous. The evil are to be made to suffer for their deeds and their bodies will fall to pave the way for a new age, a golden age, of peace, prosperity, and all that is good. Those who defy us will by marked as guilty, and their judgment shall be swift. All of those who seek to bring peace and justice to this world will join us, and out holy crusade shall smite all suffering from this world.”
“And yet, you have allowed yourself to take the life of another. Your ideals are not shared. You may not enforce them upon others, and above all you may take no life. These edicts are universal, and yet in your quest to apply more stringent morals you have yourself crossed one of the only moral boundaries applicable to all that inhabit this world, and those who inhabit any other. If this is truly your quest, you have already failed.”
“But this is not all. One of the most wretched of creatures, those who will be the first to be cleansed by the bright flame of our Brotherhood, has stolen from us the very token that symbolizes our mission.”
“As such he should be made to return what he has stolen. Nothing more. Nothing less. This, you know and have known since your quest began. Your actions and your beliefs cannot impact the lives of others if they are forced upon them. To heal the people you must first be sure that you can understand them. To relive their pain you must experience it. And to hear their struggles you must first yourself struggle.”
“Your words come too late, and upon deaf ears. Your followers and those who were once your peers will be the next to fall once the cities are cleansed of crime and corruption. First the befouled, then the weak, and then the heretics, and finally the bringers of death.”
“It seems then, that you would wish to exterminate more than simply the element that causes your immediate woes.”
“Of course, you know as well as, and possibly better than, any other within this world that pain and greed exist as long as there is life.”
“And yet, you are again not as correct as you believe. Time has not improved your memory my brother, nor your capacity for reason. And yet I feel that my word will do no good. No matter for how long I implore, your crusade, in the end, is all that drives you to impact the world within which you live. Farewell brother. It is a pity that our reunion would have such grave circumstances. May your quest serve you well.”
“And you, my brother. It is unfortunate that you and your people to must burn. This, though, I fear, is the price of cleansing the evil from this world.”
“Of course, but when the time comes, know that I will fight to the last, and for me, death cannot be brought swiftly. It has, of course, already come.”
“I know. Until we meet again.”
“Of course.”
The traveler, crusader of the Brotherhood of Order, stood from the moss where he had been kneeling and, brushing the dirt and plant life from his greaves, turned into the woods and disappeared into the fog. The crusade would soon begin. Lives and deeds would be weighed by the golden scales of the avengers, the liberators, and the guilty would be punished. Cities and grime-filled places of debauchery would be put to fire and the sword. The flame of cleansing would burn the evil from this world, and the holy light of the Brotherhood would serve as a guide to those who remained. The evil would be slaughtered. The cities would be razed. The guilty would be punished.
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