Riddles of the Night – Templar Shadows (3) By Sun in Gemini

A beautiful post, filled with great poignancy.

A bastard’s bastard, he would never know that he carried the blood of the Templars in his veins. That was only speculated after his death, being proved, later, by the researcher who followed his short life. He did it because he was a runner… Hardship was the key; hardship and the words his cruel companions […]

via Riddles of the Night – Templar Shadows (3) — Sun in Gemini

Advertisements

Titan’s Dream

fantasy-2925250_1920

Image: kellepics, Pixabay

Frozen in thought and breath, his dreams drift bereft.
They who worshipped at altar of incense and fire withheld their sacrifices long ago.
Vanquished by armies of nightmares, soaked in blood and shrouds of hatred.
Homes lie forlorn, abandoned, and starved of life. Ruined in all respects.
Ghosts patrol the mountains, their mournful voices search endlessly,
Grasp at scraps of memories, cry at divinity’s loss.
The Titan’s heart still lives, still bears the pain of loss.
Where are his children?
Still he sits, frozen in thought and breath, his dreams drift bereft.
Ages pass, shape the land, and breed new life.
Still he waits, watches with unseeing eyes.

From the South they came, from lands of verdant life and golden light.
Seeking ancestry in shards of ice and crumbling stone.
Their hearts quicken, soar at sight of grandeur, marvel at god rediscovered.
He senses things familiar, echoes of incense filled halls, and sacred utterances.
They approach in humility, laden with prayers, and awe-filled eyes.
Still he sits, frozen in thought and breath, his dreams drift bereft.
Is faith enough to waken forgotten gods? Their doubts shackle them.
He urges them on, sends thoughts of love, and vanquishes doubt.
“I’ve never left you” He whispers. Will they listen?

From behind the gates of Limbo something stirs, shakes off shroud of dust.
They feel his presence, gathering strength. He comes, glory unveiling.
Shadows recede from eyes of eternity, blindness melting like ice before fire.
Once more sacrifices of incense and fire grace his altars, nourish his essence.
He calls to their blood, of ancestry shared, gathers within divine embrace.
His children truly live! The dreamer has awakened.

 

His Bleak Outpost – #writephoto

glaston4-258

Image: Sue Vincent

Sue Vincent’s photo challenge Bleak – #writephoto  turns out to be another cracking photo prompt, and here is my offering this week. A tale of a presence on the headland surveying a new world in loneliness, he being a remnant of the proto-Universe:

Old parchment and molten grey meet in an uneasy embrace, sky and sea face each other like estranged lovers. “Are they bitter?” he wonders aloud. This place appears to be at the end of the known world, for there is only silence and regret washing over the rocks. The bleak outpost is his sanctuary and solace, a place witness to His fall from the heavens. 

She surveys Him from her vantage point across the channel. How his light has dimmed, barely perceivable. He fell and they followed, to see this new world of form and emotions. She is his twin Soul, ripped asunder, placed at the opposite pole. They gaze intensely, speak in signs and sigils, each offering consolation, each offering love. Suffering clothes the one and then the other. Singed are their broken wings. Vulnerable are their immortal souls, immersed in unspeakable longing.

The Lightbearer is bereft of the Light he embodies, She is ripped asunder, wrenched from his presence, placed at the opposite pole. His eyes close, shoulders flex, and arms rise. The Light answers, shadows his dance. She ignites his passion, brings back life. He becomes a million suns, She echoes his dance. They join from opposite poles, two become One. The Lightbearer shines his Light, incandescent in presence. Who calls this place His bleak outpost? Bleakness hides the Light within, nurtures and gestates.

writephoto

 

Infinity – Eye #writephoto

eye

Image: Sue Vincent

My contribution for Sue Vincent’s lovely photo challenge Eye – #writephoto this week.  It certainly stirred the creative waters:

It is said by the ancient tribes who live in the land of shadows and fire that the All Seeing Eye contains mysteries, ones that would inflame the spirit and shatter false perceptions.  They believe it lies between the barren desert wastes and the verdant lands beyond. To gaze into its iris is to see all timelines converge and vanish into infinity. So the stories say. I am inclined to believe they are ancient truths garbed in fantasy and fiction, the inner message no longer understood by the children of this new world.

The Eye hides in plain sight, a bridge between the waking world and the mysterious inner realms. It is a dream that haunts our Soul and refuses to relinquish its hold. It speaks to us of existence, of the reality of flesh and bone, of emotions that brush gently across the mind and at other times cut deep like a knife. To gaze into the Eye is to see your true self reflected in an infinite number of mirrors. Truly a marvel but the enormity of its power has shattered many, sending them fleeing into the barren desert. They thirst for the waters of life, tormented by mirages, not knowing that they have the power to release themselves from the shackles of a false reality. This much I convey to the nomads who travel through the land of shadows and fire. They carry my tales across the vastness of this land, much like the wind carries moisture from the Great Sea at the end of the world.

So I wait, watching for signs and omens carried by winged messengers and spirits of the forest. Clouds break one upon the other like waves breaking on the shore. The Great Sea calls, sends forth its emissaries into the world of human and primordial gods. So it begins, The All Seeing Eye turns its gaze upon this new world. What does it see?

Little Fox Where Are You Going?

Image: adege, Pixabay

We meet at the edge of two worlds, gazing across a divide filled with wonder and questions.

Little Fox, little Fox, where are you going? I watch you peer into things new and old, a reminder of all that we have lost. What are they you may ask.

Forests concealing ivy clad gods, and wild, wild meadows. A spirit unfettered and filled with yearning. A knowledge of secrets concealed in deep pools and moss clad glades.

Little Fox, little Fox, where you going? You are a reminder of what we were once and can be again. 

You are the wild heart and spirit of Nature. A harbinger of things sacred and most beautiful. Shall I follow, Shadow your steps? Lead on, for I shall always follow. Always remember.

Have A Little Faith

raven-930854_1920.jpg

Image: Pixabay

The causeway is now hidden beneath shimmering water and there’s no one available to take him across to the island. Faith, such a loaded word these days. He carries an ocean of it within his being; hearing it whisper against the rocky shore of the emotions. Its music echoes in dreams and waking moments. This pilgrimage has been undertaken for several thousand generations. The land remembers presence of beings who had spoken life into manifestation. A sense of sacredness had always existed here according to his ancestors. They’d worshipped their gods, held their memories safe in mind and heart through turbulent times. The Old Ones had eventually retreated into the misty shadowlands, not forgotten but waiting to see which way the tide would turn. The currents appeared to turn against them, but the true faithful remained steadfast in their worship. Although it was practised in secret.

The man sits on the shore for a while, he’s cold and hungry. This only highlights the sense of loneliness. Faith, in himself and the Higher Powers had fluctuated wildly over the years, causing him to abandon his path and calling. A temporary situation as his natural talents refuse to be ignored. He comes from a line of priests that stretch into infinity, the link isn’t going to be broken now. That much he vows to their spirits. “I’ll return” he promises.

Other presences slowly gather, forming a protective circle around one of their own. He hears them and rejoices, the beloved ancestors. They give him love and also their chiding, for not using his skills to build a fire, for not eating the food lying in his bag. The apathy fades in the light of companionship. Putting on a head torch the search is on for wood, there are scraps sufficient for a small fire. He makes sure the fire and his emotions are safely contained before settling down to eat. The salamanders are quite active tonight.

Fed and watered he settles down to listen to the sound of the waves. Its hypnotic sound soon pushes him into a deep sleep. Huge wings enfold his figure, giving warmth and safety. The Raven, totem of his family has watched over him since birth. She was a constant in his life, even if he wasn’t always aware of her presence. Raven now whispers “have a little faith”. He smiles.

The darkness of sleep fades to see in a glorious sun rise. Raven’s wings open and she flies into the sky, reminding him that it is time to cross the expanse between this and the next world. He stands for a moment to look across to the island. The land waits for the relic he carries, it will return home soon. Each step taken on the battered and almost unrecognisable causeway brings back memories of all those who have gone before. Thousands upon thousands of pilgrims had made their way to this spot long before it became separated from the mainland. It hides remnants of ancient temples, obscured from human eyes but strong in presence nonetheless. There are just ruins now but on another plane the buildings remain tangible. This location exudes peace and a sense of being loved by all who had worshipped here. Some of them even being his family.

sea-1528682_1920.jpg

Image: Pixabay

“Have a little faith”. Those words wash over him, urging the need to remain steadfast and focussed. The relic starts to hum in response to Raven’s chant, an old song sung in the temple of its origin. Not far to go now. The sky has brightened considerably, the quicksilver colour of yesterday replaced by cobalt blue. The sea is warm and calm. His heart blossoms in the beauty of the day. Raven’s chant reverberates within him, “not far to go” it sings. Waking consciousness transforms into trance. The feet know where to go even if his mind doesn’t. They stop at the threshold of the temple that once was. He comes out of the trance to see Raven in human form standing in the centre of the ruins. She beckons and he obeys.

feather-2541570_1920

Image: Pixabay

The relic urges to see the light, its call is insistent. He uncovers the small pendent and lays it gently in her palm. The Raven Priestess murmurs words of blessing over it and then offers it to the man, saying:

“We welcome our priest back into our heart and temple”.

He bows in humility. Tears fall down his cheeks. A welcome release after so many years of wandering. He’s finally reached the centre of the labyrinth.

jewellery-1723638_1920

Image: Pixabay

Dark Foretelling – Sight #writephoto

sighting-stone

Image: Sue Vincent

My entry for Sue’s Thursday Photo Prompt. A bloody tale of gloom and dark prophecies…

The visions shimmer, immerse themselves in mystery. I cannot unveil that which hides in solitude. Your eyes reflect displeasure. Do my words enrage? Bring despair? How hate and anger gnaw at your entrails, poison your spirit. Darkness follows in your bloodstained footsteps, bringing destruction in its wake. The gods finally speak, their words fall like tears upon my heart and the gall rises in my throat. I peer through the portal, at worlds hidden, at worlds of terror and destruction.

What say the gods? From the place of greatest darkness rise the Unnamed and Unholy. They answer your call, brought forth by blood sacrifice and pain. Warrior only in name, for your soul is empty, devoid of sanctity. Whence did the path diverge from reason to chaos? How you’ve strayed from true purpose, faltered from destiny. You offer material gain, bribe and cajole, to what end stranger? Such arrogance, to what end stranger, to what end? A new age dawns, one perched on the edge of revelation. We must meet the threats with iron hard courage, with hearts of truth and spirits of integrity. You have a choice, what path do you choose?

The gods withdraw, the visions fade, and the portal is once again veiled. They have spoken stranger, now leave this place of sanctity and make your choice.

Forgotten

Image: Pixabay

Immense and silent stand these cathedrals of old. Forgotten and wiped from the Book of Time. Its gods have retreated, never to return.  Are they mourned? Are they remembered?

The She warrior contemplates and pauses. Her vigil is yet to begin, but here of all places? The Old Ones demand much, stretching the bow, push it to breaking point. Does it hold, spring back with agility? She is chosen, foremost of many. Foremost of sacrifices.

The one who walks in Light must also face Darkness. The one who walks in Darkness must also face Light. They are ever entwined, locked in passionate dance. Each mirrors the other, a reminder of origins and of becoming.

Face to face they must stand, engage in battle, sword and spear at the ready. The She warrior approaches, sword in hand and ever watchful. So begins the vigil in a place forlorn and forgotten. Yet, a glimmer of what was once remains, a last shred of hope and salvation. The shadows of those who served gather, encircling one of their own, protecting and nurturing.

Thus emboldened does she begin, enter into the Great Silence. Matter transmutes, is shaped and emerges. It bathes in the Waters of dissolution, is transfigured in Fire, enters the silent Earth, carried on Divine breath. The cycle is not what it seems but so much more. Elemental powers advance and recede, like waves upon the shore. Time rushes by, as if a river in fullness, powerful, danger filled and nullifying. The hidden rhythm plays, unfolds and drives to distraction. One-two-three-four. So it begins but when and where will it end?

One-two-three-four, these are her heartbeats, these are their heartbeats. Deeper she slips, riding high on waves of Nothingness. Matter transmutes, is shaped and emerges. It bathes in the Waters of dissolution, is transfigured in Fire, enters the silent Earth, carried on Divine breath. Deeper and deeper does she flow, through gate after gate, facing Guardian after Guardian. Then the rhythm ceases. How the silence weighs heavy, a place neither one nor the other. With sword in hand does she stand, poetical movement display, serpent’s wisdom unveil.

Darkness approaches, Light advances. One is in need of the other, one repulses the other. Circling, they are locked in passionate dance, ever entwined and watchful. Treachery and deceit hide in honeyed words, offer warmth and affection unbridled. ‘Beware’ cries her heart. ‘Beware the foe in friend’s guise, turn from path of no return. Guard the life that you bring.’ The Shadow circles, unceasing, taking on guise after guise, ever watchful, ever plotting. It seduces, places temptation, remonstrates, pleads helplessly. Resolute she must be against things of illusion, against things of sorcery.

One-two-three-four, the rhythm unfolds, emerges from Void and Nothingness. These are her heartbeats, these are their heartbeats. Silence shatters, screams echo, swords meet, battle commences. What is at stake? Cosmic Balance and Eternal Soul. One cannot exist without the Other. Deep the She warrior looks, deep within the heart of Darkness, within its very sanctum. Light resides within Darkness and Darkness within Light. This truth remains and cannot be unwritten. Does she accept? Does she abandon? What lies at the end of this path but only illumination? Face to face they struggle. One-two-three-four beats their heart, in harmony, in perfection.

How does the battle end? Life and Death conjoined, one cannot Be without the Other. Screams echo, silence shatters. Fire flashes from blade to blade. The Old Ones watch and ruminate. The river that is Time flows on ceaseless journey, worlds end and are reborn. One-two-three-four, the rhythm unfolds, emerges from Void and Nothingness. These are her heartbeats, these are their heartbeats. She can hear nothing else, only follow warrior’s sacred path, and choose balance. Fire flashes from Soul to Soul, ceases from blade to blade. The greater battle is yet to come. One-two-three-four, One-two-three-four, One-two-three-four. The Three unfolds, re-joins its kin and reaches the Nine. Then annihilation. Of ego, falsehood and fear. It is done.

landscape-2043872_1920

Image: Pixabay

The She warrior emerges, triumphant, foremost of many, foremost of sacrifices. They have their champion, they have their salvation. The gods have returned, her task is completed.

Pythia – Deep #writephoto

C__Data_Users_DefApps_AppData_INTERNETEXPLORER_Temp_Saved Images_untitled(1)

Image: Sue Vincent

My offering for Sue’s Thursday Photo Prompt Deep #writephoto is a return journey to the Oracle at Delphi. A place mysterious, awe-some and a little terrifying. The answers being sought are always couched in unclear and misleading language. To give the true answer would change destinies and the mouth piece of the Goddess cannot interfere in human matters. Or so we are given to believe… Continue reading

Realm of the Forest Spirit: Emergence of the Bear Shaman

bear-1093517_1280

Image: Pixabay

This post is a continuation of my contribution entitled “Bear” to LindaGHill’s Stream of Consciousness writing prompt a while ago. It involved a beleaguered stranger consulting the Bear Shaman in a time of great upheaval in the Universe. Within the short story lay seeds of a tale that was waiting to be told. If not to anyone else, just to me perhaps. I know my posts can at times veer towards the cryptic and loaded with symbolism; for that I beg your indulgence. When my spirit speaks to me it is imperative that I listen and take note. Hence my writing appearing a little ‘otherworldly’ at times. I like the ‘sound’ words make, their rhythm can be hypnotic and lyrical. Such is the impact of the shaman’s drum in achieving an altered state of consciousness, altering brain waves and perception. The shaman’s drum carries them across the worlds and levels of consciousness. I digress. What was I going to say to you? Oh yes. Traditions of indigenous cultures across the globe have been a great source of fascination since childhood, especially shamanism. Hence my posts on the Jackal Shaman, Anubis. Hence my posts regarding the White Rabbit. It’s a complicated situation, I’m sure you’ll get used to it! Continue reading