<html> <body> 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!” ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>