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

[C. Matthias]

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

Pars VI: Acceptio

(c)


Saturday, May 12, 708 CR


A searing light drove him back into the shadow. 
The image and all of its contents he buried deep 
within, deeper even than the industrious ants or 
capering squirrels. His Master stood between him 
and a wall of flame that crossed the entire 
terrace from the cliff of stone rising to an 
impenetrable summit to the precipice which 
descended beyond the reach of memory. Colors of 
scintillating yellow and orange danced together, 
braiding and knotting as they rose upward to join 
the clouds. The flames did not spread nor did 
they consume the ground from which they sprang. 
But into them many of the souls rushed, vanishing 
from sight, shouting toward the sky as they ran. 
Discordant notes echoed from all around and from within.

Núrodur Nuruhuinë recoiled deeper into his 
Master's shadow at the mesmerizing shimmer of 
fiery light. The heat struck them as a solid 
force, growing with each step that his Master 
took dragging him along behind. But it was not 
the heat that upset him; he scorched the ground 
in fury, struggling to keep as far from the hated light as possible.

Be not afraid, Núrodur Nuruhuinë.

But the fire is light! It is everywhere!

We must pass through this. You will be with me.

But the light! There will be no shadow, Master!

I always stand between you and the light, Núrodur 
Nuruhuinë. You are always in my shadow.

He wanted to be comforted by his Master's 
assurances, but the fire cast light in every 
direction. How could there still be shadow to 
keep him safe? His thoughts were only of the 
searing pain that was light. He yearned to see it 
extinguished; what need had he for light when he had the shadow!

And yet his Master's thoughts, so certain and 
present to him, were undeterred. You have nothing 
to fear, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. It matters not from 
whence the light comes; I will be a bulwark for 
you; I will blot it out for you. I always cast a shadow for my faithful ones.

Núrodur Nuruhuinë hissed as he drew himself as 
tightly as possible into the center of his 
Master's shadow. His master's pace did not 
slacken as he walked up the gentle slope toward 
the wall of flame that spread across the entire 
width of the terrace. Some of the souls rushed 
toward that fiery barrier and then doubled back 
beating their chests with their hands, and 
casting their eyes to the ground in shame. Others 
flung themselves headlong into the maelstrom of 
yellow and orange and cried out words that made 
no sense. None of them walked into the fire.

His Master did.

The flames did not part, but leaped upward from 
the ground to consume his Master. It capered 
about his white garment, rushing beneath the hem 
of the skirt and driving into the wide sleeves, 
only to emerge from the collar to pierce his 
silvery black hair. Yet not the least corner of 
his silken apparel was singed, nor a single 
strand of hair smouldered in that conflagration. 
His skin, alabaster and pure, was not even warmed by the blaze.

Into the flames his Master stepped and against 
him they had no power. Even his shadow, as 
promised, persisted across the ground behind him. 
Núrodur Nuruhuinë could only marvel as the flames 
rose up through the shadow, inflicting a heat 
beyond even with what he had scorched the ground 
behind them, without bringing any light into the 
shadow itself. He crept lower and lower within it 
only to keep himself as far from the light he 
could see in the flame. After a few of his 
Master's steps, the last of his reticence had 
passed and his nascent thoughts could return to 
the images he'd glimpsed within.

But it was impossible to dwell on the earlier 
images when all about there was a roar so loud he 
felt as if he'd been tossed into a forge.

Forge. The word had meaning. It did not bring 
forth a coherent image, but he understood its 
purpose: the smelting of metals to remove their 
impurities and to refashion them into all sorts 
of shapes. As the flames curled through the 
shadow he caught suggestions of objects that had 
names. He knew the names: sword, shield, helmet, 
breastplate, rod, spade, axle, kettle, knife, 
spoon, nail, horn, and so many others that he 
could not hold their names long enough to shape 
them. Impurities, too numerous to count, pervaded 
everything sent to the forge. Within that blaze 
they would each be drawn forth, one by one, until 
only a single substance remained.

That single substance was pure, focused, 
malleable and useful. A blade fashioned without a 
forge would break, a shield shatter, and a spade 
snap at the barest bit of pressure. Worse than 
useless; they were an impediment in the hands of their masters.

A notion opened before him into the depth of the 
shadow, drawing his focus from the disparate 
images that flashed by, forming for but a moment 
from the confluence of orange and yellow flame 
before dissolving into the ever ascending 
maelstrom of light and heat. The forge was more 
than a place to refine iron; it suggested some 
principle beyond itself. Everything could be 
refined. All things could be tried.

A servant even.

The question formed within him as he sank deeper 
into the shadow; his substance blistered in the 
light from the flame. The shadow seemed to expand 
like a lake swollen with melt and the pain seemed 
to stretch with it; it never left him but for a 
time felt remote as into his being slipped the presence of his Master.

Yes.

Yes, Master?

Yes, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. A servant must be forged 
if they truly wish to serve their Master. You are 
being forged, Núrodur Nuruhuinë.

He tried to recall all that he had experienced, 
but his memory seemed to be only a scattered 
remnant of images he'd glimpsed. There was a 
memory of a pain so intense that he flinched even 
from its recollection; beyond it he could not 
force his thoughts to go. How long had they been 
on their journey? How long had his Master been forging him?

And how much further did he need to go?

He felt a reassuring glimmer of amusement in his 
Master's thoughts. You have been my servant for a 
very long time, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. For that 
purpose you have come into being. All who come 
into being are created for that purpose but few 
are those chosen to be forged as you have been. 
They abide in my shadow. There they are forged to 
be my servants and to accomplish my will. That is 
your purpose, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. You have come 
far and been purified of much; only a little left 
remains and you will be perfected.

There was a deep approval in those thoughts, one 
that penetrated his being and made him yearn to 
feel it reach the very center of his substance.

What is there left to do, Master?

Know about you, Núrodur Nuruhuinë. What do you sense?

The flames that rose from the ground and 
stretched in every direction contained more than 
just his Master and his Master's shadow. Souls 
strode through that conflagration, their pace 
varying, but each of them all seemed to head in 
the same direction. Some moved quickly past with 
determined eyes fixed on the path ahead, while 
others crouched low and proceeded at a crawl, 
their countenances twisted as if a part of them 
yearned to flee back down the terrace. There was 
a deeper difference between their paces; he could 
sense it as a clutching on the part of those who 
crawled. Nothing was held by the souls who moved 
quickly. Their eyes were clear while something besmirched the rest.

They are leaving something behind, Master. Some 
leave it more easily than others.

Very good. They too are being purified. Those 
that hold onto the things they have seen and 
yearn to see that do not suit their master suffer 
greatly and make little progress. Those that let 
all that should not be within them burn away move 
quickly through the flame. So it is with you, Núrodur Nuruhuinë.

With me, Master?

You must remain in the shadow and partake only of 
my shadow. Yet you harbor things you have seen 
beyond the shadow that defile you. I must purify 
you of them. I must burn them from you.

Núrodur Nuruhuinë immediately thought of the lady 
rat in white who sang a song that seemed to 
stretch beyond the impenetrable memory of 
anguish, but pushed that recollection deeper and 
brought instead to his thoughts the image of the 
ants and the squirrels. There was a delight in 
the ants' clever cooperation and the squirrels' 
heedless capering that he felt a twinge of regret 
at losing. These he pressed forward, showing them to his Master.

Do you mean these, Master?

Yes. Those and any others you keep that come from 
beyond my shadow. Until you are parted from them 
you will be imperfect and your purification must 
continue. But these I now take.

Núrodur Nuruhuinë felt his being seared anew with 
an intense heat that permeated every thought. 
Into the dark reaches of the shadow he found no 
escape from the anguish that stripped him. He 
glimpsed the ants and the squirrels for only a 
moment before both were torn away like a page 
rent down the middle. The flames pierced his 
being and he in turn charred at the ground from 
which they sprang until both were black as ash.

Pain.

Violation.

Amputation.

Núrodur Nuruhuinë felt all pass until only a 
residue of the anguish abode within him. In his 
Master's shadow he remained while flames of ugly 
orange and putrid yellow cavorted around him.

Do you know what an ant is?

Pain flickered within him, but apart from a 
sullen string of notes that tolled low and quiet 
there was nothing to find that could answer the question. No, Master.

And do you know what a squirrel is?

Helpless, he could only reply as before. The word 
had no meaning for him. Nor, it seemed to him, 
did it have any meaning for his Master. No, I do not, Master.

What do you know?

Your shadow, Master.

For a moment he felt the presence imbue him and 
penetrate into the subdued pain that seared every 
mote of his being. There was satisfaction in that presence.

More yet remains but only a trifle. You are 
almost ready. Know, Núrodur Nuruhuinë, the fire of this place is at an end.

His Master thought it and it was true. The wall 
of flame that stretched from cliff to cliff came 
to an abrupt end only a few paces ahead of his 
Master's feet. He felt contentment in this and 
huddled within the shadow, creeping along at his 
Master's feet until the roaring flames were 
finally behind them. They emerged from the wall 
of painful light onto the ever-circling terrace 
along with several other souls. These souls 
lifted their heads to the glimmering clouds above 
and shouted boisterously. To Núrodur Nuruhuinë 
they were only making noise that he felt as 
ripples in his Master's shadow. There was no sense to it and so he ignored it.

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

Charles Matthias
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