[Mkguild] Divine Travails of Rats - Pars VI. Acceptio (b)

[C. Matthias]

Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats
by Charles Matthias and Ryx

Pars VI: Acceptio

(b)


Saturday, May 12, 708 CR


Shadow moved and with it Núrodur Nuruhuinë. His 
Master's heels lifted from the stone path, swept 
through the air and set down again. Shadow moved 
and with it Núrodur Nuruhuinë ever at those 
heels. Stone sizzled beneath him. Air bristled at 
his passage. A haze rose in every direction. Pain 
subsumed all, and seemed more natural to feel 
pain than to form words. He thought in pain. He 
exuded flame. He dwelt in shadow.

But it was not enough. He sought a son. The idea 
was known, not thought, as Núrodur Nuruhuinë 
slunk across the ground, undulating with every 
vagary of rock upthrust in their path. This idea 
was known as a beacon is known and guides a 
traveler to safety. His Master knew the way. His 
Master was leading him to his son.

And then what?

The words dispersed like ash in the wind and 
Núrodur Nuruhuinë hesitated only a flicker of a heartbeat on the way.

The path narrowed to another fissure before which 
stood a sentinel of eyes and unpleasant light. A 
human soul stood before the figure while it 
removed all but the final “P” from his forehead. 
Master and servant passed by unmolested and unremarked.

The fissure seemed longer than all the others and 
for a time he felt his sinews burn with 
impatience. But there was no haste in his 
Master's footsteps. The same pace he had 
maintained for so long now was kept – steady but 
forward without hesitation or anxiety. Walls 
stretched upward on either side toward a sky 
filling with clouds. By the time those walls fell 
to his Master's ankles only scattered patches of blue remained.

The last terrace made a narrow path around the 
central peak that continued overhead. The peak 
remained wide of breadth but there no longer 
appeared to be any shelves of stone on which they 
could recline above. Clouds circled the upper 
reaches of the peak, obscuring it completely from 
view. Yet, to Núrodur Nuruhuinë, it was still 
insufferably bright; the clouds themselves were 
lush with a golden radiance that bathed the 
mountainside. In his Master's shadow he remained.

Figures moved about them in a strange sort of 
dance. Their pace was measured and slow while 
there were none about them, but as soon as they 
neared another soul they rushed to greet one 
another, bodies close but never quite touching, 
before springing away like lodestones turned to 
face each other. Into the pain an image unfurled.


A boy knelt in the grass as horses neighed and 
stomped their hooves some distance behind him. 
Tall grass bent under an eddying wind, ad the 
sound of a man and a woman's voice behind him 
carried on that wind. The boy could hear them and 
knew he was safe. Unafraid, his interest remained 
with the colony of ants he'd discovered. They 
streamed from a small hole in the ground, spread 
across a patch of earth gathering the crumbs of 
bread the boy dropped. Each kept an industrious 
pace, pausing only briefly in their tasks to 
touch muzzles, each to each, perhaps to seek news 
of their fortunes and journeys; or so the boy liked to imagine.


He marveled at the thought that was not pain. 
Ants. The souls moving to and fro were very much 
like those ants, though he could not imagine 
their purpose, their fortunes, or their journeys. 
Vastly different in appearance and physique, they 
had only the single “P” on their foreheads in 
common. Their lips moved and speech came forth 
but it was such a mishmash of tongue it made as 
much sense as the chattering of squirrels.


A large rat with a vaguely man-like shape 
reclined on a garden wall with a bit of parchment 
in his lap and a stopper of ink at his side. One 
hand gripped a quill with gentle fingers though 
the tip did not touch the page. Instead his head 
tilted upward, ears and whiskers twitching in 
pleasure as his eyes followed the antics of a 
trio of little red squirrels cavorting about the 
branches of the oaks. Their angry little squeaks 
and clicks followed them as they bounded from 
branch to branch. Finally, one of the squirrels 
retreated to a maple while the first two spat imprecations at the intruder.

The squirrel climbed down the maple and scurried 
into a discarded pile of clothing. The large rat 
watched in bemusement as the shirt and trousers 
lifted from the ground, a head, arms, bushy tail, 
and legs all sprouting out from the garments. A 
moment later a man-shaped squirrel stood fully 
clad with one of his arms sticking out the same 
hole as his head. He squirmed it back within his 
tunic and out the sleeve, blinking as he noted 
the rat. With a clicking-laugh he said, “None too 
friendly when ye their size, eh wot!”


Squirrels. Another interesting thought. Núrodur 
Nuruhuinë set it deep in the empty expanse within 
where he might ponder it again.

Even though the antics of the souls about his 
Master provoked two images that were not pain, 
Núrodur Nuruhuinë did not feel any greater 
compulsion to study them. They were souls that 
did not hinder his Master's path nor were they 
souls of interest to his Master. They scattered 
through the hateful light and cast no shadows of 
their own. Of what continued interest could they possibly be?

A thought swelled in him, powerful and towering 
above him, and yet also beneath him as the very 
foundation of being. In it was nothing more than 
a glance; a casual regard that searched him 
deeper than the sweep of an eye. His Master.

Pain of fire seethed about Núrodur Nuruhuinë and 
his substance scorched the ground, searing rock 
and burning grass to its roots. His reply to the 
unspoken question offered by his Master. He was 
ready to serve. He would always follow.

The presence withdrew from his immediate pain and 
the shadow continued to creep along at his 
Master's heels. Compared to the souls that rove 
about them in such cacophonous array, his Master 
was as a sentinel of power and purpose. His 
bearing carried an unmarred beauty and his steps 
remained patient and certain. There was no 
deviation in his path and no hesitation in his 
stride. He went where he willed. No force could 
balk him nor delay him. No force ever could.

And yet, their purpose was not of his Master's 
design. It was to come to the aid of Núrodur 
Nuruhuinë. He, the servant – no, the slave – in 
all his lowliness was being offered aid of the 
most magnanimous sort. Through what dangers had 
they already passed and his Master had seen him 
safely through? Was there any other of his 
stature that had offered him aid? Was there any 
sacrifice he could refuse to his Master now?

Was there any like unto his Master?

He could conceive of nothing in the fire and 
darkness that surrounded and imbued him. And yet, 
his consideration returned to the images he'd 
glimpsed. The ants and the squirrels were base 
creatures whose behavior seemed both erratic and 
organized. Thousands of ants could cooperate in 
complex activities even though they could not 
reason. Squirrels could perform dangerous acts 
requiring precise balance with reckless abandon 
and all to defend a cove of trees. How remarkable.

Nor was his consideration for those images 
restricted to the creatures that he witnessed 
within. Much like the souls that scattered 
helter-skelter about them, they were still 
creatures and as such of only passing interest at 
best. What was far more intriguing about the 
images he had witnessed was that they were 
perspectives. There was a participant in those 
images through whose vision he had gleaned the experiences.

But who were they?

Núrodur Nuruhuinë simmered through the shadow and 
lifted himself up from its pool, curious what 
else he might glimpse. A molten searing rumbled 
in his thoughts but he persisted, allowing the external world passage within.

The souls continued their mad running to and fro 
with no seeming direction or purpose. Their words 
peppered him in snatches, but this time he could discern some of the words.

“...her breasts swelled her bodice...”

“...strapping chest, oiled and glistening...”

“...eyes averted lest they see aught...”

“...she looked back! She looked back and now a pillar...”

“...a thigh tender beneath my hands...”

“...a fire kindled in my loins by her gaze...”

“...to be as he, ever faithful and vigilant for she whose hand...”

“...a new one, with fur of golden brown and a tail even...”

“...O Virgin of virgins! Pure, chaste, and full of grace...”

It was not any one statement that placed an image 
in his thoughts, but some of them together. Núrodur Nuruhuinë observed.


It was a vast hall with brightly colored windows 
stretching toward the sky and filled with people 
many of whom seemed to be half beast. A majestic 
march resounded in tones of glory and power. Down 
the main aisle the perspective focused, seeing 
the gathering throng but seeing none of them in 
favor of what emerged beneath a vaulted arch at 
the far end. There were two figures. Something 
pounded deep within that both pained and excited.

The larger of the two was a scaly beast with 
yellow eyes, long narrow jaws and wide flat tail 
that was garbed in heavy red robes. He stooped 
over the other figure and led her by the hand 
even as his other gripped a massive oarwood cane, 
limping as he made his way forward.

But it was to the second figure his attention 
fixed. She was a rat wlaking upon two legs, 
dressed in a resplendent white gown. It covered 
her chest in a low 'V' with white lace and 
ruffles climbing up her neck until they were 
hidden by the long veil that hung across her 
muzzle, her whiskers brushing at its ends. Around 
her ears were entwined tight wreaths bursting 
with bright green leaves and firm white bulbs.

Her foot paws were encased in dainty satin 
slippers, while white stockings disappeared 
beneath the ruffled hem of her dress. A train as 
long as she was tall dragged along behind her, 
covering her tail completely, the brilliant folds 
of fabric bundled along the edges nearly 
half-a-foot high. Her hands were covered by white 
gloves and in between them she held a bouquet of 
white roses bound tightly together with a thin 
silk ribbon. Upon one finger a single ring 
sparkled in the lofty light, radiant as any other finery.

So enraptured was he by the sight that he did not 
realize she had climbed the steps until she was 
there at his side. An arm ending in a gloved hand 
much the same as her own extended and their 
fingers curled around each other firmly and 
tight. He stared into her countenance which 
glimmered with an inborn light, wishing he could 
do nothing but gaze into her sublime beauty. In 
her rapturous embrace he had not an enemy in the 
world and there was none he could not forgive no 
matter how great the injury. A song, familiar at 
once, seemed to wreath her as much as the light.

And then she bent forward, a strange amethyst 
medallion about her neck that he had not seen 
before, and her eyes a strange deep blue through 
the veil fixed him tight with a sudden intensity. 
Words, her words, reached him. They carried great 
weight and in them he felt both embrace and a disquieting fear.

“Charles, beware! He is false!”


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May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias
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