The Mistake of Sanctuary
Prompt: You are a small god, with very little power or influence. But you are happy, and take care of your few worshippers as much as you are able. An extraordinarily powerful being stumbles bloodied into your sacred place, and cries “Sanctuary.”
In another time, there was a village that lived at the base of a tall mountain. The mountain reached above the sky, piercing the clouds like a blade. The sides were steep as if the peak itself connected directly to the ground. Trees clung to the rock walls like hands grasping during a fall. Water cascaded from the heights forming a large pool at its base. A river extended to the village and wound in a circle around the mountain yielding fishes and nutrients for fruits to grow along the banks.
The village ancestors had built a temple at the mountain’s base long ago. Made of wood, grass growing between the cracks in the steps, another patchwork building dotting the village. It was modest and to their means. It suited their needs well. Daily the village would stop by one by one, sometimes a few at a time. They would offer what they could. An orange from the tree, a fish from the river, a woven doll from the wheat stalks of the field. Some would come with prayers of asking, some with prayers of thanks, and some would come with conversation and spend hours in mediation.
They communicated with a god. He was not considered a great god by any outside of the village. None made pilgrimage to his lone temple inside the river circle. He was god of the mountain, an outlet for a spring to bring freshwater from the earth. He was god of the mountain, a firm surface for trees to grow to catch the breeze passing by. He was god of the mountain and nothing else. They communicated with a god that could not bear down upon their enemies. One unable to produce a bountiful harvest. One unable to keep the distant skies clear of storm. This was what he believed as he sat upon his mountain peak looking down at the tops of the clouds.
He sat upon a stone cliff. A single tree grew from a crack in the rock fed by a small trickle of water sprouting impossibly from the mountain top. He listened to every prayer and conversation from his temple below. He would often go down to taste their offerings and be an unseen comfort. He would look out at the village under the night stars. Centuries old it had stood at his mountain’s base inside the ring of water. He had received fruits and labors, kind words and words of distress, curses and blesses from generations of sons and daughters. They were simple people to one as old as he. They survived on the fish in the river and fruits and vegetables. The occasional traded meats would often become offerings to him rather than dinner on a table. The villagers offered him all they could as little as it was and in return, he offered them little wishing he could offer more. For he was only god of a mountain.
It was the same morning as any other but attention was drawn to an approaching storm from the south. Storms never brewed in the south. They always came from the north and break around the mountain. But this one had the villagers on edge and it flashed and thundered, slowly edging closer. Even the god on top of the mountain was attentive to it.
Lightning crackled across the sky and left black waste on the ground where it struck. Even fire fell to the earth from its smoky clouds. It pushed closer and closer to the village, lightning striking out and setting the building at the village edge ablaze. A strong wind of panic swept through the people as the withdrew to the temple at the mountain’s base. They called for help, tore their clothes, and cried for assistance. The god heard them all but what could a god of a mountain do.
More fire and lightning fell into the village as the storm crawled ever closer to the mountain. The despair among the villagers grew greater as a great blaze fell from the sky and crashed into the dirt in front of the temple. They screamed as it slowly moved closer, and then they were speechless as the fire extinguished and they realized it was a woman.
She crawled through the dirt as six lightning strikes broke ground behind her revealing six knights adorned in static-charged armor. She was bloody, leaving a trail of deep red mixing with the dust. The six advanced.
One sword was drawn. It’s owner stepped forward toward the soon-to-be corpse and raised the sword overhead.
“May your soul run blessed among the stars,” the sword-wielded spoke.
The blade came down through the air as her hand reached the first step. The villagers cowered in horror from within the temple shadows as they heard her ragged voice cry out.
“Sanctuary!”
Not a moment passed. Not a heartbeat, not the pulse of a hummingbird’s wings. But for the god on top of the mountain, the moment stretched into an eternity. He could feel her hand when it touched his temple. He could feel her body; every bloody wound was known to him. He could feel her pain and her rage masked by fear. But more than that, he could feel his body pulse with energy at her call. And in that eternal moment he appeared there, sword in hand from a place he did not know. The god redirected the falling blade into the dirt and their his own sword joined it. He let it fall to the earth as he knelt to the ground and lifted the woman into his arms.
“Man. You do not dare to come between the storm and our command. You do not know what you do. Come now. Give her to me.”
Spoken by the knight who now sheathed his drawn sword, it was said as a command but there was kindness in it. He held out his hand for the woman expecting her to be given.
The god hesitated. He felt the energy surging within him as he responded.
“I am not man. This temple is a sacred place to commune with the god of this mountain. I am he. I am bound to protect those within and those who claim sanctuary in it.”
The six knights were taken back at his statement. One helmet was removed revealing a woman. Her skin was blue, dark blue like the darkest storm clouds and her starch white hair was pulled back into a tight braid. Her eyes were white and blue at the same time, a lighting strike that bore into the god’s own eyes.
“You? A god? Of this mountain, you say? You may as well be a god if nothing. How do you know of the old laws? Who is here? Who are you herald too?”
She spoke down at him as if he were a big to be squashed. The energy seemed to boil inside the god. It put anger and pride into his voice.
“I am herald to no one. I am of the first. I am of those who saw the earth separate from the waters. I saw the valleys deepen and the mountains rise. It was i among the first to see the world become. You talk down to me. I am the god of this mountain. Of where you stand. Be gone now. This woman is under my protection.”
The god hoped his words carried more weight than he felt they did. While true, he was still only god of a mountain.
“As you wish. But our master will return. And he will bring a force to bear witness to,” the lightning knight replied.
She replaced her helmet as the winds picked up and began to scream. The sky above grew dark with storm clouds and in a great crash of thunder and a flash of lightning, the six were gone.
“Quickly! Water and herbs!” The god called to the villagers.
The whole village surged into action, the fear and horror from seconds earlier dissolving away in the wake of their god’s commands.
Water was brought, along with crushed herbs and hot food. A fire was built and cloth was cut into bandages. The god attended to the woman as she slipped in and out of consciousness. The villagers created a paste from the herbs and hot water as the god washed her wounds. They applied the paste with bandages and fresh clothes were brought. The god stepped out of his temple as several women assisted the wounded woman into clean clothes. He surveyed the village as men and women scrambled around with buckets of water, putting out the remaining flames.
By evening, the storm had reappeared on the horizon, darker and more dangerous than before. The blackened storm clouds pushed closer and closer to the village as spider webs of lighting spread across the sky. The breeze turned to a wind and nearly a hurricane. The villagers slowly moved to the temple where the god continued to provide care to the unknown woman. Their eyes never left the horizon as lighting struck the earth revealing a single knight that stood at the south end of the village. A second strike revealed a second knight standing next to the first. Two more struck the east side and two on the west. They spread around in a circle just outside the river creating a border. The message was clear: none will cross this river.
The god washed his hands and helped the villagers back up the stairs into the temple steps.
“Go now, into the temple. Pray for sanctuary and it will be granted to you,” he spoke to them.
The villagers gathered inside and said their prayers for safety. Some came forward to the steps with their god, others knelt with the woman and continued to apply cold cloths and change bandages. The rest pushed into the back of the temple.
The storm overhead pulled together into condensed dark clouds. The thunder became more concentrated as lightning lit up the mass from within. All the winds gathered in the air and pushed the mass to the temple. The six knights appeared in front of the steps as the cloudy mass swept in front of the armor-clad reapers and formed into a humanoid shape. A man stood in the midst of the dissipated clouds. He wore the storm around his chest like a breastplate. Lightning pulsed with every breath and when he spoke it was the echo of thunder from within him.
“Greetings god. I am told you stand in the way of my bidding,” he boomed.
The god stepped down from the temple and extended his hand. The hair on his arm stood on end, not from the static of the man standing before him but from the tingle of fear creeping up his spine.
Curiosity emerged across the stormy man’s face as he too extended his hand. The two embraced for the necessary moment of chivalry and then for a moment longer. The hairs on the mountain god’s arms laid back down as their hands released. In those brief moments, the fear crawling up his back had receded and was replaced by a sense of calm.
“I meant no offense. But I am god of this mountain, and she has called for sanctuary at my altar. I am but a humble god of little. But I will provide for those at my altar,” the god replied.
“God of this mountain,” the stormy one repeated. His gaze unfocused as a thought reached him and then his gaze returned. “You are of the first. One of the old gods of the earth. Fierrum.”
Fierrum was shocked. His name had not been spoken in centuries. He had thought it lost from the tongues of men.
“You are also of the first. King and lord of the sky. Nubis,” Fierrum replied.
The six knights drew their swords and one spoke in a commanding tone. “You will not speak the king’s name!”
“Peace, Thunder,” Nubis commanded. “Fierrum means no disrespect. He has only followed the laws that we are all governed by.”
“Tell me Fierrum, do you know who it is you give sanctuary to?” Nubis asked.
Fierrum looked behind him to the woman laying on the temple floor. The entire village was standing in the entry watching the events unfold.
“I do not. Though she prayed for sanctuary and I grant it as I am able,” he replied.
“I understand. I am sorry Fierrum, but you leave me no choice.” As Nubis spoke, storm billowed from his mouth and formed overhead, wrapping themselves around the mountain from the base to its peak.
“Nubis! Stop!” Fierrum shouted above the sounds of the hurricane coming into being. The knights disappeared one by one as they were called into battle. Thunder, Lightning, Deluge, Gale, Cumulus, and Destruction joined in their masters call.
“Run!” Fierrum called to the villagers. “Clear the temple!”
Fierrum stood in horror as he watched the storm engulf the surface of the mountain. The villagers ran in every direction. Only few remained inside the temple.
“Run!” Fierrum called again. He ran into the temple. “You must leave. I cannot weather this storm. I cannot protect you.”
The four villagers had wide eyes as trees were ripped from the mountain side and rock crashed down around the temple walls. One of the villagers walked forward down the steps of the temple and swallowed her fear.
“Fierrum is god of this mountain.” Her voice cracked as she spoke her god’s name for the first time. “His mountain holds the trees firm, the homes of the birds of this land.”
Another villager walked foward and stood in front of the temple. “Fierrum is god of this mountain. His mountain gives rise to the spring, and the spring feeds the rivers of this land. The mountain provides home to the fish and sustains us.”
A third and fourth villager walked forward. “Fierrum’s mountain parts the northern storms. It breaks them down and provides rain to our village,” one said.
“The mountain parts the winds and brings the breeze into our homes,” the other continued.
The god of the mountain could barely believe what he was hearing. He was only the god of the mountain.
The storm raged and continued to break the mountain piece by piece but now the winds carried more than the storm. They carried the voices of the villagers whose attention was no longer in preservation of their lives.
“Fierrum tends to the river.”
“Fierrum’s mountain gives life to this land.”
“Our prayers are answered daily.”
“He helps us farm.”
“He tends to our needs.”
“Fierrum comforts me.”
The list continued and Fierrum found he could hardly hear the storm over the words of the villagers being spoken. He, a simple god of a mountain, heard their gracious words. He heard again and again what his mountain provided. With every word he remembered their prayers, their laments, the songs of happiness. He remembered these villagers fathers and their fathers before. And he found strength in it. He found more strength than he had ever felt in his millennium.
“Nubis,” Fierrum spoke softly. “Stop this.”
The storm drowned out his voice so he spoke louder. He stood more firm and felt the mountain behind him. He gripped the trees tighter and held onto the rocks. He fought the six knights behind him as he spoke louder to Nubis.
“Nubis!” he called. His voice was louder, greater, stronger. “I am god of this mountain. The trees cling to me and provide home. The spring runs through me and provides. I part the storm to bring rain to crops. I part the wind to bring a cool breeze. I block the sun to bring shade. I am the mountain and the mountain is me. And I provide sanctuary to those in need.”
The mountain was like a blade the extended from the earth into the sky. Fierrum unsheathed his own blade and held it to Nubis’s throat.
“And I will defend those who live at my mountain.” Fierrum said.
The storm broke around the mountain as the six knights fell from the sky. They hit the earth like the falling rocks from the mountain. They each stood, slowly and bloody from their fall, and drew swords in defense of their master.
“Fierrum. God of the mountain. What will you do? You will slay the storm?” Nubis asked. His gaze was deadly now, filled with anger.
“I don’t wish death on any. But you attack those in my protection and that I cannot allow,” Fierrum replied.
Nubis considered the old god. “Fine then, Fierrum. Be it on your own head then.”
In a bright flash, Nubis and his six were gone.
Fierrum felt his shoulders released the tension he didn’t know he had been holding. He could still hear the trees and the rock of his mountain settling again but the threat was gone. He took in each of the villagers faces. Miraculously, they were all still alive.
He breathed a sigh of relief. And then he felt a pain in his side causing him to gasp for a breath. He felt his ribs. No wound. No blood. He gasped again for another breath as he turned towards the temple and saw the first villager fall. A bloody dagger was held in the hand of a woman. Now fully healed, she held her head high. Her eyes were red and her skin was flush with life.
Fierrum recognized her. She was before the firsts, before Nubis and himself. She was of the oldest, of the originals.
She was Thanis, queen of the end of life, deliverer of death.