In the Temple of the Eternal

Anathriel styled herself a visionary, a freedom fighter, the patron deity of all who rebelled against tyranny. After all, had she not risen up against the mightiest of beings? And did she not continue to strike against him, lashing out with all of her fury against him and his servants? Even in the face of certain damnation she had remained true to herself and to those who followed her. She would fight until she brought the Maker to his knees and then she would defeat the undefeatable, she would slay the immortal. It would be glorious. At least that is what she told her followers. In her heart she was afraid, not of being defeated for she had seen the end of things and defeat was certain, but of the consequences of her rebellion, the eternal consequences.

Anathriel stood from her crystal seat and stretched her wings. Soft feathers, white as snow, stretched behind her brushing the smooth pillars that stood like golden sentinels on each side of the shimmering throne. The light of the Everburn, the endless sea of fire, streamed through the high, arching windows flooding the vast chamber with the glow of a perpetual sunset. Massive gemstones set in elaborate patterns in the walls, ceiling and floor refracted the light in a thousand directions so that shattered stars swirled and danced across the wide hall.

A man wearing a white robe trimmed in red lay trembling before the dais. His long, black hair was pulled back with a leather cord, his face pressed to the solid gold floor tiles. Anathriel floated down the hundred and eleven steps from her throne, her bare feet touching down lightly before the prostrated man. Silver mist writhed about her like living smoke revealing and obscuring the body of a beautiful, young woman, temptation in its rawest form. “Rise,” the sound of her voice was like strange music, delicate and powerful. The man rose to his knees and looked with unabashed longing into Anathriel’s flawless face. He was handsome, well into his middle years with gold earrings in his ears and a thick gold ring on the little finger of his right hand. “Time grows short. Go to the Ruination, take the book and bring it to me. You must be cunning Jolas. The book must not fall into the hands of the enemy.”

“How will I find it Mother? The Ruination is great.” Black fire danced in Anathriel’s golden eyes and Jolas prostrated himself again, whimpering softly, pleading for mercy. Anathriel lifted Jolas’ chin with her right hand and pressed the palm of her left hand against his right eye. He screamed and squealed and begged for mercy but Anathriel held him fast her eyes gleaming with dark delight. Smoke and steaming tears rose from the socket and after many agonizing seconds Anathriel released him.

Jolas fell back on the golden tiles of the throne room and squirmed like a hooked worm. He ground his teeth, whimpering and clawing weakly at his right eye until Anathriel spoke, “Jolas.” She hated to end what was beginning to be an interesting visit but time, she had so little time. “My son, now do you see?”

“Yes Mother,” Jolas rose to his knees, his voice calm his face smooth. Dark flames danced in his right eye. “Thank-you Mother.”

Jolas disappeared and Anathriel floated back up the one hundred and eleven steps to her crystal throne. If she was to be damned she would damn the world and spit her last breath in the Maker’s face.