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The procession was silent as death as they moved slowly up the steps of the temple. They were all clad in thin, black robes, hoods drawn over their heads and hiding their faces in shadow. Only the figure in the lead wore something different; his robes were edged with silver, and he carried an overflowing bundle of pristine white roses.
Above them the full moon gleamed bone white, and the Eternal Graveyard was clearly visible on its cold face.
Words flowed through his lips as the leader entered the temple, a low, throbbing chant that was joined by each individual as they stepped through the shadows of the doorway. The chant echoed back at them from the temple walls, thousandfold, until its pulsing rhythm wafted out over the empty plain and hovered there like mist.
The High Priest floated, ghost-like, around the altar, and lowered the roses into a vase shaped like the moon, carved with great detail out of the purest, most perfect alabaster.
Directly above the altar was a square hole in the ceiling, a good ten feet across. Moonlight poured through it like liquid silver, bathing the High Priest and the altar before him in a cold radiance. The altar, as well as the rest of the temple, was made of the purest white marble, and everything glowed faintly. The black of the acolytes' robes was all the more shocking in contrast.
The chanting stopped, and the High Priest threw back his hood with a flourish. The face revealed was surprisingly young, soft and oval and somewhat plain, with the pale skin of someone who spent most of the daylight hours asleep inside. His eyes were large and blue, his shoulder-length hair black. There was little about him worthy of much notice.
That is, until he opened his mouth.
After a few short moments of surveying his acolytes, he began to speak. "When the world was young, so very long ago," he began, voice slow and clear, and carrying to the far entrance of the temple, "there was only silence and darkness." The acolytes nodded silently, knowing the story well. But though they had heard it hundreds of times, they still paid rapt attention, for Valafar's stories were always enthralling. "And then, the Twins were borned from the ashes of a dying star. Nemamiah, God of Life and the Sun, was bright and warm, dark-skinned and golden-haired, the epitome of strong, male beauty." Here, he paused briefly, plucking one of the white roses from the vase. Carefully, he brought the gleaming blossom to his nose, deeping inhaling the rich scent. When he re-opened his eyes, they were black. "Satarel, God of Death and the Moon, was cold and remote, white-skinned with eyes and hair of a pale taupe. His beauty was feminine and delicate, his touch so cold as to burn, and his reflection that of a skeleton." Another pause to inhale the scent of the rose he held so delicately between his fingers. Then, he continued, "For centuries the twins reigned over Panagiota, Nemamiah giving life and Satarel taking it away. But Satarel was feared for his purpose, for our fellow humans are foolishly afraid of death." He paused again, casting a stern eye across the acolytes. "As we know, death is the highest of honors, for we spend of the rest of eternity in the embrace of our God." After another short paused, he continued once again. "Now mind you, in the beginning the moon was always bright, always full. On a night very similar to this, the most honorable High Priest Jethra was assassinated by a lowly acolyte of Nemamiah, simply because of the god he worshipped. That was all the reason Satarel needed; he chose that opportunity and struck as his brother, and for thirty days and thirty nights they did battle." Here, his eyes grew sad, and his voice was laced with sorrow. "Alas, victory was not to be had for Satarel. Nemamiah beat him down and, without healing his many injuries, locked him in a prison on the moon, where he wood remain for the rest of eternity struggling to break free. At the times when the moon is once again full, his power is almost strong enough to break the curse. But it wanes too quickly, and the moon slowly slips from our sight under the darkness of Nemamiah's power."
Finished with the tale, Valafar stepped backwards and tilted his head back, allowing the moonlight to fall directly across his face. With a shrug, his robes slid off his shoulders, revealing his nude body, white as an ermine's belly. He stood motionless for one long minutes, back arched slightly. Then he stepped forward, picking up the white rose and bringing it once again to his nose—
—and cleanly bit off the head of the rose, chewing and then swallowing. His eyes—still black—fixed themselves on the glowing moon above him. "Satarely, my lord, my Master! I take you within me—" he grabbed the handle of an obsidian dagger, quickly slashing the blade across his wrist and holding it over the large obsidian bowl, "—and give unto you myself in return!" he cried. Then, with no more fanfare, he stepped backwards, watching his acolytes silently.
Silent as the night sky, the acolytes repeated the ritual one-by-one; silent, for only the High Priest was allowed to speak during the ritual.
Finally, the last acolyte spilt his blood into the bowl and returned to the end of the line.
With only the sound of his bare feet on the stone floor, Valafar once again stepped forward. Carefully—oh, so carefully—he picked the bowl up and brought it to the statue of Satarel that stood against the wall behind him. He fell to his knees, lowering the bowl to the floor, and dipped his fingers in the blood. A stripe was painted across his forehead, another down the length of his nose, and yet another on each of his cheeks. Then he picked up the bowl and drank, one, two, three swallows, before pouring it into the small basin set into the floor at Satarel's feet. Glancing up at the face of his god, he whispered, "Mighty Satarel, O Lord of Death, our minds, bodies and souls belong only to you."
After a moment he rose to his feet.
And then they stood for the remainder of the night, watching the moon set.
[Slide Off the Moon] | [Chapter 1]