The Wake of Sacrifice

The old man stood in the plaza. The space was teeming with all kinds; humans, elves, catfolk and more. If a race could be reasoned with, you could find it here, at the Crystal Plaza. And yet, the old man was alone. He had come here alone, for all his friends had passed away many years ago. Many were friendly towards him, for who he was, what he had accomplished and who his friends had been, but he had made no new bonds since their passing. It was, in part, a choice but also a failing of his.

He had been to the plaza before, but never had he dared enter the temple that had been constructed here. From the outside, it was certainly beautiful. Marble half-arches rested against the dark stone of the façade, placed to never cast a shadow on the blue-crystal windows that promised of what sacred object lay within. The scenes depicted on those windows threatened to bring tears to his eyes, so he did not look for long. Grand dark-oak doors were flung wide open, and remained so at all hours of the day, the temple welcoming all who would come in homage or pilgrimage. The old man figured he had come in neither, but that he would still be welcome, nonetheless.

With that thought, he steeled himself as best he could and walked towards those open doors. As he walked, he barely heard the crowd around him, the tap of his cane on the plaza stone taking his attention. The steps up to the door were wide and long, making the last 10 meters towards the church a gentle, sloping experience. The old man used his cane to help him up the steps, but he was quickly out of breath.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and the old man turned to see. There stood a broad-shouldered man, taller than himself, his dark blue eyes in contrast to his fair hair and skin. His old friend, there in the flesh. His heart lifted in his chest.

“You alright, sir?” The man said.

He had been wrong. The eyes were blue, and the hair was fair, but the hues were wrong.

“Sir?”

“I’m fine, thank you for asking.” The old man replied, more curtly than he had intended.

The man took a step back but did not take back his hand. “Can I help you up the steps, at least? They’re harder than they look.”

The old man accepted the help and, holding the younger man by the forearm, ascended the remaining steps. He did not tell the young man that the slow pace was due to apprehension, not exhaustion. At the top, the young man excused himself and walked on ahead. The old man did not complain.

A blue carpet trimmed with gold traversed the length of the temple from the wide entrance to a large monument and the central edifice at the far end. The design of the façade continued inside, white marble pillars supporting the structure from within, spots of blue light travelling across the space as the sun rose and fell on the city outside. The weather was approaching midsummer outside, but the interior was cool. Pleasurable incense-burners were placed around the interior. There were smaller chapels to lesser gods placed by the interior wall of the temple, where races of all kinds said their pleas to the gods and goddesses of the world. Temple guards stood in pairs in immaculate armour and ornate weapons, more important for their presence than for their worth in battle. In his youth he would have reprimanded them for that, but he was past that now. Nodding at the men guarding the entrance, the old man stepped over the threshold. He heard hushed whispers from the guards behind him, but he was not alarmed, he had a reasonable idea what they were talking about like that. Soon the tinkling of music overtook the whispers, a delightful sound that rang like it was played on instruments made of crystal, sharp notes rising and falling but never unpleasantly so. The old man walked slowly along the rows of pews that lined the central aisle where scattered groups sat and talked or simply enjoyed the silence and ambience of the temple.

Eventually he reached the monument that had been placed halfway through the temple. A massive dark-stone slab stood upright, decorated with scenes from the struggle along the rim, following alongside the white-lined text to enhance the story told there. The old man did not need the illustrations, his memory served him just fine. He was the only person standing at the monument, so none could complain when he stepped very close to read.

In this temple we honour the actions of those few that stood against the man known as Volkmarr. He came from a distant world to lay destruction upon ours, but the brave souls enshrined here stopped at nothing to stop him and save our world from the brink of ruin. Were it not for the actions of Bodvar, Erroix, Deormund, Dah’Marra and Nora, none of us would be here today. In addition, we honour those that lost their lives in that struggle. May their souls find peace knowing they did not die in vain.

The monument said ‘enshrined’, but the old man knew that was a lie; in the aftermath of that final battle, there had been nothing left of them. Just the memory of them. Their names were gilded on the monument and sat on a separate line. His old heart ached even at the sight of their names, pained at remembering so clearly the people behind them.

“Excuse me sir.” A voice said behind him.

He reminded himself in no uncertain terms that they were gone, unwilling to repeat the experience on the stairs, and turned around slowly. A group of youngsters stood in a semicircle around the monument. The old man saw both catfolk, elves and even a lizardfolk.

One of them was standing just behind him, a hand reaching out towards him cautiously. A young catgirl dressed in a cream-coloured robe. Her fur was not quite ginger but not many shades removed. The gods seemed determined to test him today.

“We don’t want to disturb your reading, but we can’t see the text.” She said in an apologetic tone.

“Ah, certainly.” He mumbled and stepped to the side. The group crowded in excitedly, bumping shoulders to get close.

The girl that had asked him stepped to the side as well, grinning briefly at the rest. “Thank you, sir. They all wanted to see the temple before they go home for the day.”

“You’re not going to read it?” The old man inquired. She had sat down to rub her feet.

“I come here often; I can probably remember every word. My grandparents lived in Luthadale during that time but had to move here after a storm hit the town. They were angry at the whole affair,” The girl said, then looked around the temple, a smile on her face, “But we know the truth now.”

The old man remembered Luthadale. Pleasant town. He regretted what had happened back then. He considered telling the girl that, but he could not get the words out. Without another word, he took a step back and walked around the monument to the edifice beyond.

A crystal stood at the far end of the temple, blue in colour and easily 10 meters tall. It spun gently, suspended in mid-air by some force. Placed in front of the crystal, as if guarding it, were 5 statues, each of these 5 meters tall. He could see that plaques had been installed on them, but he did not need text to know them.

There were the statues of his old friends. Nora Bergen stood in the centre in her flowing marble robe, the elven mage Erroix Kalurard looking like a sage with his long staff. Dah’Marra had her bow at full draw, a blue crystal arrow at the ready and Bodvar Thunder posed with his axe. Lastly, placed to Nora’s right, was Deormund Wright’s own statue, a depiction of him in his youth. He had his family armaments, all that remained to him of his family after Volkmarr’s attentions.

His reverie was broken by the flock of children leaving the monument behind him. He found it difficult being angry at the interruption; after all, his friends had laid down their lives exactly so that all the people of the world could live on as they had and enjoy their lives. That they were doing exactly that was everything Nora and the others could have asked for.

Tired from his walk to the temple and remembering those times, Deormund Wright sits down in one of the pews closest to the statues and thinks back. After the destruction of his family, he had been fixated on revenge and nothing else. On that course, he met Nora and the others. They pulled him out of that state, but even so, of all of them he was the readiest to die. A part of him had never abandoned that desire, hoping to see his family on the other side, or failing that, be released from the pain and guilt.

“When we all stood on the shores of that other world,” Deormund whispered to himself, “You all gave your lives when you knew I would have done so willingly, gladly.”

“Why did you leave me behind?” The old man whispered alone, his voice hoarse, the tears beginning to flow freely as he cried.