CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

STORIES OF PAST - SHAPHAS’ES TALE

Pure white as winter’s snow;

the innocence we well know;

we trade evils one and all;

until we finally from grace fall.

Fire. It is always a comfort in my time of need. Never yielding in its eternal dance. The warm embrace to a shivering hand, the soothing sound of wood crackling. And how it banishes the dark. Truly, a savior in a land devoid of salvation.

A young dark-skinned boy sits in a run-down ruined building surrounded by pariahs, all curled around a small fire. He tries getting closer, but his body is too small, his strength far too weak to push the adults away. Outside, a winter wind blows in the mild night. It is -so cold.

“Get outta da way,” a dirty man screams as he pushes the boy making him fall to the ground. He does not get angry; it is too cold, and he is too hungry to get angry. The boy’s stomach growls. It has been growling for some time now. To stay here and warm the bones or go look for food, the boy tries to decide? Another growl answers this question. Despair answers it. Choice is a luxury to some... but only to some.

He walks the snowy streets of the city as he extends his hand to oncoming passers begging for mercy; they quickly reject his plead. Another person walks by; they continue without sparing a glance. Nothing to be surprised about for helping hands are too few. Something draws the boy's attention. In a wooden house nearby he can see a family through the window. Two caring parents, a young boy, and a girl. They are eating, and they are warm. He has seen this scene countless times whenever he closed his eyes; whenever he dreamt.

How good must it feel to have a warm meal, to be warm, to not starve? How does it feel, he wonders? There is no time to waste on dreaming. Dreaming is a luxury to some... but only to some.

He continues walking and begging. One loaf of bread, a simple scrap of food to appease his growing hunger. Just one!

“Dirty beggar!” a rich man says as he passes by knocking the boy on the ground looking disgusted by the thought of being approached by such a lowly creature. The boy does not get angry; he is too cold and hungry to get angry. There is no point in it. Hunger slowly takes over. Devours the soul and the heart. It feels like a hallow dream. Makes you weak and apathetic as it slowly drowns you. To resist it or to fight it? It doesn't matter.

Is this the day? Is this it? The day release will come from this ongoing day-to-day struggle. He has struggled for far too long. The boy sits near a tavern door as he puts his hands up in an all too familiar pose. People pass as they go on about their routines. They do not notice; they do not want to notice. The child is tired; his eyes close, but he struggles. He knows how to struggle. It is an all too familiar feeling. Can’t fall asleep here! Must not fall asleep here! There is still fire in his eyes.

Fire? If I could only see a fire one more time, hear it, feel it one more time on my skin, the boy thinks.

His eyes are heavy; they gradually close.

***

“Boy? Are you alive, boy?” a voice calls out as the young one opens his eyes. Covered in snow with his arms still held high by sheer will, he looks up.

Before him stands a tall man in white-blue priest robes with a symbol of an upside-down seven on them and a look of confidence on his face; his posture adds to his stature.

“Praise be to Aion. Do you require some food and shelter?” the priest asks.

“Food?” the boy blurts out as his stomach growls; the priest smiles as he extends a friendly hand to the young one.

Like a light in the pitch-black darkness; the friendly hand swoops.

Is this real or is it a dream? Why bother?

He accepts the offer. What else can he do?

The priest leads the boy across the city to a grand church. Standing tall with glass-like walls, it shines a dim cerulean light.

In front, a large sign of an upside-down seven; as if made from a blue crystal.

“Praise be to Aion,” another priest says as the two priests welcome each other.

"Come, let us go inside," the priest says to the boy as they enter.

Inside the church, a grand altar is surrounded by glowing stones. Sounds emanate from the stone. Weirdly similar to singing. Upon the altar, on display, a large crystal sign of an upside-down seven burns on a blue flame.

The blue flame soothes the young boy’s heart.

Beautiful and warm! More than any flame he saw before.

“We call them Adipetrania’s,” the priest explains as he looks at the stones with admiration.

“Adi...” the boy tries to repeat as the priest lightly smiles.

“Adipetranias or singing stones. We find them in certain caves. The stones glow in a certain blue light and they filter sounds henceforth, the name singing stones,” the priest explains.

“Why is the flame blue?” the boy asks as he walks towards the altar.

“It is a special flame. It is Aion’s flame,” the priest adds.

“Who is Aion?” the boy asks.

“Aion is the one true god. Aion is the way,” the priest says.

The boy tries to touch the flame but quickly retracts his touch from the high heat.

“Can I make a flame like that?” the boy asks.

“Only priests of Aion can do this,” the priest adds.

“Can I become a priest?” the boy asks as the priest looks at him with a surprised look.

“It is difficult to become a priest of Aion, but I can help you. First, I must know whether you are willing to fully commit,” the priest adds as he stares at the boy.

“I am. I will do anything,” the boy answers as the priest smiles.

The priest leads the boy to his quarter as they ascend the tall church of glass; closing the door, he licks his lips with lust.

Outside, in the garden, a tree stands naked embracing the woes of winter. The harsh paths of nature make it shiver as the branches move with the tumbling of the wind. The tree stands as it cannot escape or hide, it can only endure. Escape is a luxury to some... but only to some. The wind subsides as the experience remains. Harsh, but it perseveres; it can only endure. There is nothing else to do but endure.

Praise be to Aion.