DREAMS of a CLOUD
Peruse the many random ramblings of a writer-in-training as I build stories and develop my craft.
29 September 2022
For many long moments, the king knelt there in silence. Finally, he rose and turned around, to find two figures standing amidst the pews. On his right, a veiled blonde woman wearing a toga held a ceremonial dagger. The left side of her chest was stained with blood. To his left, a bearded man in a strange black suit towered, made even taller by his top hat. In his hands he held two halves of a rusted chain.
I got the idea for this setting from two locations. The first is a post my brother showed me a while back off of Tumblr; it described Iphigenia (one of Agamemnon’s daughters who was sacrificed to the gods for victory in the era of the Illiad) as a potential goddess of war - not of victory, or glory, or combat, but the brutality and horrors of war, and the curses she’d cause anyone who made the mistake of calling on her to further their own wars.
The second is the song “Zombie” by Bad Wolves. It has similar anti-war themes, and then I got the idea… What if zombies were a way Iphigenia punished the people who sought out war? So now I have a setting where zombies are called the Children of Iphigenia, and torment the nations that start wars. And from their I came up with ways people might try to abuse that, and how Iphigenia would respond. I only have a couple bits written so far, but I do want to continue this one.
Abe Lincoln as a god of freedom was a kind of spur of the moment thing; I may change it.
King Ferris sent everyone away, leaving him alone before the altars of Iphigenia and Lincoln. He kneeled, and with the deepest anguish of soul he plead to the gods.
“Please, I don’t know what to do. The Imperials have cut off trade, and now for fear of them, no other nation will trade with us, either. They say the will only reopen their borders if we submit to them; if I allow my people to become their slaves.
“My people are starving, and the only ways out I can see are war or slavery. You have taught us the horrors of war, Lady Iphigenia, and I would not wish that on my people or theirs; but you, Lord Lincoln, have taught us the pains of slavery, and I will not submit my people to that. So please, if there is another way, open my eyes that I may see it.”
For many long moments, the king knelt there in silence. Finally, he rose and turned around, to find two figures standing amidst the pews. On his right, a veiled blonde woman wearing a toga held a ceremonial dagger. The left side of her chest was stained with blood. When she spoke, her voice reverberated through King Ferris’s soul, despite its low volume.
“I have peered into your soul, O king, and in this instance, I have found it pure. Spare the people, and my children shall not turn on yours.”
To his left, a bearded man in a strange black suit towered, made even taller by his top hat. In his hands he held two halves of a rusted chain. “I have seen the brightness of your hope, O king, and it shall guide you. Go with my blessing, and the secret roads shall open before you and yours.”
The king immediately bowed. “On behalf of my people, thank you. Thank you both.”
They both tipped their heads then vanished, once more leaving King Ferris alone in the temple. He turned his gaze westward, towards the Empire, and murmured to himself, “May the gods have mercy on your souls.”
Far away, in Paulus, the capital of the Empire, Horenza, the high priestess of Iphigenia, dreamt. In her dream, she stood alone beneath a scarlet sky amidst a field of corpses. Her stomach heaved, and she turned to run, but anywhere she went, more corpses, and that same blood-stained sky.
Horenza paused to catch her breath when something clutched at her ankle. She screamed, and found one of the corpses had grabbed one of her many gold anklets. Empty sockets looked up at her, and a voice echoed in her ears. “Are these the riches you earned selling our lives to the Empire, High Priestess Horenza?”
Horenza screamed again and tore her foot away, leaving her anklet in the corpse’s grasp. Soon, though, more and more corpses grabbed at her, taking jewelry and ripping at her fine clothes, pulling on her hair, leaving her ragged.
All the while, their voices mocked her. “She’s so fat! How much did you get to eat while we starved?”
“Her clothes are so pretty! Did she steal them from our homelands, like her people stole our freedom?”
“What good are your riches now, High Priestess?”
“Nothing to say? None of the honeyed words you gave your Senate, assuring them the goddess favored them?”
Then the voices stopped, and in front of Horenza appeared a raven-winged woman with golden hair, floating in the air. She held a bloody scythe in her hand, and where her heart should be there was a gaping hole. Her voice was quiet, but it shook Horenza to her core. “Did you really think you could lie to me, Horenza?”
She raised her scythe, and Horenza screamed.