Shadow: Exploits of the Guild of Dishevelled Assassins – Part 2

Image: Splashi, Pixabay

It’s been a while since we visited the shadowy world of the Guild of Dishevelled Assassins. Last time a tricky situation was “managed” confidentially and unpalatable truths uncovered. To recap, embezzlement and “accounting errors” initiated a major investigation. The matter threw the higher echelon of this venerable institution into a frenzy of recrimination and soul-searching. One of their own was stealing from them and senior members were also implicated. It was the kind of issue that soiled one’s soul, and many of the Guild took the insult personally.

The perpetrator was apprehended and put into protective custody. He was eventually moved to an unknown location in a cold climate, a fitting punishment in view of his fear of snow. Meanwhile, the Guild’s best specialist was asked to investigate the “sordid business” as one elderly member commented through gritted teeth. She was unorthodox in her methods, combining the best of ancient and modern techniques. Poisons and necromancy were her weapons of choice. The woman was a mere youngster (2008 on her last birthday), with many Guild specialists averaging 7000 years. Regardless, she carried wisdom and knowledge that was worthy of a senior Guild Assassin.

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ThomasWolter, Pixabay

The Guild was established to act as a sentinel, Watchers as they were known in certain quarters. They were Overseers of balance in this world, for the Universe was a place filled with all manner of shadowy entities crawling out from the Abyss. The morality of their work was debatable to some, but someone had to clean up the detritus proliferating in the corners and behind wardrobes. Metaphorically speaking of course. Although one specialist unit operated as a cleaning service, they gained entry to many places without raising any suspicion.

Image: ThomasWolter, Pixabay

The trail had left north London and made its way to a remote village in the Languedoc, France. Meanwhile, the specialist, let’s call her Ms M, made her base in a property owned by the Guild in north Wales. It was used by all operatives who worked on cases that were considered a little “unusual” by the Guild’s standards. Which meant high level misdemeanours. Ms M kept to herself, the story being she was renting a cousin’s cottage for several years. It would take that long to investigate every minute detail of evidence. Her cover regarding work was an administrative job in the nearest English city, Chester. It was a mundane existence on the whole but nameless things were stirring beneath the surface.

Ms M was liaising with a number of contacts nationwide in the course of her investigations, fellow guardians of portals forbidden to all but the “prepared.” Their work involved clearing the immense levels of toxicity generated by humankind. Unnamed entities fed on this negative energy and milked their human victims, thus ensuring a limitless supply of food. It was a task that had continued for thousands of years, and likely to continue for several more. Her work occasionally impinged upon theirs. Suffice to say these collaborations were difficult at times, especially in relation to this investigation.

Ms M’s sources in the Languedoc reported back, events were taking a strange turn. The Guild operatives on site were managing to contain the situation, and the clean-up process was swift, seamless even. All the individuals brought in for questioning had mysteriously died, and not in a particularly clean way. Meanwhile in the UK, Ms M was preparing to appraise this case with a different approach. Communications had stalled and it was frustrating her. She finished encrypting her email, hoping it would reach its destination. The late afternoon sun streaming through the window made no difference to her mood. What would the next day bring?

Here endeth the second chapter in the story of the Guild’s investigatory and “cleaning” activities.

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Oracle of Blood, Bone and Spirit

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Pixabay

I return once again to the saga of Seraph, an angelic visitor to the earthly realm. This may be Seraph’s final outing. It’s hard to say what he’ll decide to do after meeting with the Oracle of Bone, Blood and Spirit. That is to say, it’s hard for me to decide what to do. Seraph’s presence in this world has a purpose, to gain greater understanding of the human condition. An ambitious endeavour on my part to glean insights from the experiences of such an exalted being. It’s a “two-way street”.

I long to understand the plan behind humanity’s creation and evolution, but hesitate to attach a label to the Greater Consciousness who created the blueprint of this Universe. My spirit baulks at naming this consciousness as I believe words can’t describe the totality of this being. The reality is that I’ve named Deity according to the spiritual tradition being followed.

I’m in a number of mystical orders that draw their membership from many faiths. We work together in the spirit of fraternity to work for the betterment of our fellow human beings and the societies they live in. This is in accordance with the laws of those societies of course. Why reveal this information now? It may give an insight into the motivations of some of my characters, including The Alchemist, Amunet, Anubis and Seraph. This blog is called “occasional musings of a wandering mystic” for a reason.

Anyway, the purpose of Seraph’s meeting with the Oracle is to” tie up loose ends”. He travels to a place in an unnamed location where the Oracle waits for him. There are others present, including Amunet, Anubis, Thoth and Sekhmet. They’re silent bystanders to a ritual of sorts, perhaps it’s a test. A dialogue ensues between the two, as well as an examination of the essence of the entity called Seraph. He’s the Oracle Bone from which the Oracle will divine the outcome of his questions. Many cultures around the world, past and present, have used the bones of animals to divine answers, usually through heating with fire and interpreting the cracks produced. The answers are then inscribed on the bones.

This story has been waiting to be written since the end of last year:

Seraph:

The way is hard and long, seems this has always been the case. The end is near, I can feel it. The images of life flow past my eyes, dripping in a life force so potent that my DNA is dissembling atom by atom. I’m being reshaped, trying to hold it back but the tide is too strong. There’s a light in the distance, not too far now. The forest appears to have no end, it holds old magic, and memories of times before speech shattered the Great Silence. So this is the place of my Unbecoming.

(He stands expressionless, then moves forward).

A woman stands at the end of the path, staring sightlessly at the approaching figure. Her face is calm, embodying the clarity of a pure pool of water. She can sense his vibrations, so different from all other humans. His atoms yearn to be free, they call to her insistently. “Soon, soon” she tells them. “Such a beautiful spirit” she thinks. The Oracle stands in the centre of a large circle illuminated by the light of several large braziers heavy with the scent of incense.

Seraph:

(Stands outside of the circle).

You called and I came Oracle. I’ve so many questions but on one level don’t want to hear the answers. The change has started and refuses to slow down. My mind is so clear now, returning to its former self, but once that happens all these memories will disappear. Seraph will cease to be and my journey back to the stars, home, will be a certainty.

(Pauses as he stares at her startling and haunting blind eyes).

Oracle:

Come forward my fallen star. I’ve watched you for so long that it feels like you’re my own kin. So many questions in those dark, dark eyes. Truly you’ve brought a piece of the starry firmament to Earth. I feel your song and weep at its beauty. Home, how poignant your voice sounds. Yet, you have no sense of what you were before. That’s changed, your moment has come my fallen star. The question is, are you ready? Where’s your tongue?

Seraph:

(Laughs and smiles back).

Here I am, doesn’t that confirm my willingness?

Oracle:

(Stares at him, eyes blazing with humour and wickedness).

Is that what you think? I hope you’re ready for what’s coming, for it will tear you apart, throw your flesh and limbs to the ground, and drink your blood till its thirst is quenched. Come forward, closer.

Seraph reaches her at the centre of the circle, then seven figures come forward to take their designated places. There are three white robed figures and the other four, well, faces that are deeply imprinted upon our psyche. Amunet, Anubis, Thoth and Sekhmet. So begins Seraph’s trial in this consecrated place. The Oracle places her hands on his face and sends her consciousness within his body. He feels it gently flow through him, seeking something. Two minds meet at a point which is neither present nor future, as for the past, it’s dissolved into the Great Ocean of life.

Too soon he feels a fire spreading through his veins, it scorches everything in its path. That is until his shoulders are reached. Then the flames sink deeply into bone and blood, and drag him into a sea of acute sensation. He asks and she waits to see what unfolds, what she can divine, what she can foretell. Cracks feather throughout his shoulder bones, they provide answers to questions that have lain unspoken for eons.

Serpents glide across his vision, devoid of flesh now, remnants of cultures and old gods steeped in wisdom almost forgotten. The beast has fallen far, trampled upon in ignorance, tainted with the crime of bringing insight and self-knowledge. How little humanity knows of the truth hidden behind the familiar dogma. Visions rise behind his eyelids, dripping with emotive scenes of lives wasted in fruitless ventures, of loss, resolution and yearning. Love and joy have also played their part in shaping his persona and spirit, given meaning to lives spent grounded in physicality. Has he learned well of what it means to be human then?

The Oracle hears all and keeps her own counsel. She intently watches the feathering of his bones, listens to their voices, heeds their advice. The Seven remain silent, witnessing the unfolding of Seraph’s destiny, and containing the pulsating power within the circle. She finally sees what needs to be revealed, the Bone Oracle has spoken and the time of Unbecoming approaches. Bit by bit his DNA fractures, dropping its atoms into the Void. Seraph’s humanity unravels, the Fates take back what is theirs and give back what is his, his divinity and omniscience.

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Does Seraph grieve for all being lost? His questions have been answered, his journey and purpose fulfilled. More than anyone can hope for. The Oracle withdraws her consciousness and prepares his departure from this earthly realm. Seraph gazes for an eternity at his friend and companion Amunet – the “Hidden One” and the Walker Between the Worlds, Anubis. What is now left but a memory of who he was, meditating before the Great Ocean of Creation? Fall into matter is death to worlds beyond comprehension and pure energy, death from the material plane is return to pure energy and a higher state of consciousness. What is there to mourn?

The Seven contemplate this act of transfiguration and step back into the shadows. As for the blind Oracle, her gazes slices through the layers of matter to finally look into the heart of the formless realms beyond the Crown. It is done.

The end. From THEREBEMONSTERSHERE.COM

Another intriguing blog that caught my attention. This post raised a smile. You may think me strange, human nature can be at times.

Death sighed sadly to herself, she exited her battered old VW beetle. Secateurs in hand, she strolled through Maggie’s ward unseen by all. Mr. D’arcy trotted at her heel, a large doggy smile on his face. Maggies ethereal form stood beside the corpse of Maggie Trout. Wild and terrified was her expression; her […]

via The end. — therebemonstershere.com

Meeting at the Crossroads

JanBaby, Pixabay

A crossroad beckons on the horizon once more, and my feet are approaching it at a leisurely pace. So unlike me it has to be said. Evidently I’m mellowing in middle age.

Change is a coming and I’m not sure how to face it. Much like my reaction to prevailing weather conditions. It’s been cold, windy and rainy for weeks, and I haven’t even ventured into the garden to say hello to its inhabitants. My usual seat at the kitchen table has remained empty, which is a shame as it’s an important part of my writing and dreaming. It’s window facing and provides a lovely view of life unfolding through the seasons. It also gives me space to go inwards and sense the emotion of my inner landscape. One might say being a spectator has its uses, but disengaging from participating in life’s dramas makes Jan a dullard indeed.

The spectres of inertia and frustration are ever-present in our lives, beasts that are unwilling to loosen their grip. They gnaw at our innards and inject soporific poisons into our veins. We need all our courage and survival instincts to break free and run. That is until we get to a place of safety and gather our resources, summon our magician’s powers and bind the damned creatures. I’m talking more Gandalf than Harry Potter.

“More Gandalf than Harry Potter?” a voice queries from behind me.

That voice, with deep threads of mystery and dark wickedness running through it. His Nibs. I’ve neglected him for a while, just as well. No disrespect mighty one, the work we will be undertaking will require all of my strength and resilience, as well as hope. The path I’ve chosen to walk isn’t easy, more fool me! When you ask to enter into the service of Anubis, you need to carefully consider the implications of your decision. He’ll test your substance and spirit to almost breaking point.

He mutters with indignation, “that sounds a little harsh, you’ll scare them off.”

“Sorry, but it’s the truth. No point in sugar-coating what’s essentially a season ticket to the Underworld and Duat, ferrying the dead, lost, guiding initiates, breaking through fear, glimpsing awe-filled mysteries. I could go on.”

“Fine, things have been a little difficult for you lately, that’ll die away. Sorry, occupational hazard.” His voice trails off at the withering look on my face.

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View from kitchen window, Jan Malique

Human existence appears to be experienced in cycles and tantalising episodes in a rite of passage drama. Rites of passage seem to be barely celebrated in modern societies; almost becoming relics from a past that’s viewed with curiosity and nostalgia. That’s my opinion. Commercialism and materialism have taken over, retailers dictate when and what we should be celebrating. We’re urged to empty our wallets and spend rashly on the old plastic in order to show our affection and commiseration on specified dates. Why? Can’t we be trusted with showing care at any point in the calendar year?

“I like seeing you like this, a good rant releases useful chemicals in the brain. Go for it my little friend.” Says an ancient Egyptian God wearing a hoodie.

He then flashes the Ace of Spades in my face. I look at it and wonder why he’s showing me the card.

The Jackal God watches closely, absorbing every detail of my expression.

“The Ace of Spades is traditionally considered the Death card, but not always with physical death. It’s associated with personal transformation, changes, endings and beginnings. Such things are sometimes viewed with fear and troubled minds. Yet, there’s no rebirth without the ending of our old selves. New growth can’t flourish without removal of all that’s dead. This card symbolises ancient mysteries and hidden truths. See it and drink in its message.”

I understand and tell him “Death has appeared many times when I’ve consulted the oracle.”

“Who’s the oracle? Anyone we know?” he asks quietly.

I answer equally quietly “The Magician’s Tarot by Quareia.”

Pexels, Pixabay

I can see the readings vividly in my mind, beautiful but disquieting images. Portents of seemingly dire events and possible futures, of messages from powers beyond this plane, of restriction, illness and healing. The Abyss and Underworld showed their faces. There was more but I’m not jumping to any conclusions. He knows all this but isn’t saying anything. Our meeting at the Crossroads heralds a time of reassessment, doesn’t it always!

“How may I serve?” I ask again, for it’s a question that needs to be articulated, with confidence and without fear. I’ve searched for him for so long, entered into the womb of the Underworld and returned changed, not always prepared for what’s unfolded. In hindsight it’s helped in the process of shattering a restrictive carapace and unhealthy conditioning.

I look at the hoodie wearing God of the Dead and Transformations and call his name, ask for guidance and clarification. I ask to learn the songs of grief and unchaining as my journey progresses, I ask for the wisdom to recognise and acknowledge the lessons being bestowed, for myself and others. He takes me to the Saqqara, the necropolis of ancient Memphis in Egypt, a place he’s walked again and again in long distant times. The sun bleached sand and stone of its landscape still holds a sleeping power, resonating with echoes of the dead and curiosity of throngs of the living.

We watch the two worlds intermingle, their inhabitants pass by each other, sometimes catching glimpses of things that puzzle and induce longing. The centuries roll by before us, he’s seen it all. Time falls like a huge waterfall, drenching us in its spray. There’s only silence flowing around us, gleaming like water illuminated by the Sun. It stretches beyond the horizon. It’s the Silence of Knowing. A tool to break our shackles.

NeuPaddy, Pixabay

 

Honour My Name He Says: Lament for a Warrior

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Nietjuh , Pixabay

The fallen warrior gasps his last breath, entreats comrades to “honour my name, place rosemary upon my pyre in remembrance”

All stand in silence, remembering what had passed, what had unfolded, so did their tears fall like rain from the skies

On this day did the gods of their land bid one more sweet farewell, sing did they, tales of beginnings, and tales of heroic acts

Carry him do they to the funeral pyre, with torches of divine fire, set the heavens alight, open the gates to the narrow and silent path

So does the Guide open her arms, welcomes the departed from places of light and laughter, beyond these lands all is shadowed

All is devoid of sound, precious words buried deep in gloom

His honour guard line the way, carry forth his spirit, for they too are the beloved dead, enacting sacred rites, and offering beauteous prayers

The battle is ended and the war not far behind, how weary the warriors appear, eyes blazing with star fire, thoughts burdened with mourning, and hearts gripped by sadness

The deities of war scour the battlefield, gather souls caught between this world and the next, pour libations upon bloodsoaked earth, and offer up prayers

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MichaelGaida, Pixabay

The Guide appears, begins the lament for the fallen, honours their names, embraces her children, ushers them beyond the gates of the places of light and laughter, into places of silence, devoid of sound

Greater mysteries lie in these places of silence, devoid of sound, precious words buried deep in gloom

 

 

 

Whispers of the Heart: Is This Love?

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an_photos, Pixabay

Seraph’s fall into manifestation continues as does my journey with him. He, Amunet and Anubis form an important triad of universal forces. I place my feet in their footsteps, see through their eyes and feel the heartbeat within their chests. Amunet and Seraph were birthed into existence as a result of flash fiction challenges and have remained with me through various adventures. Anubis has always been with me. Their journeys are part of a greater project, this much I can see. This blog was started initially to record my musings about life and the Universe, as well as to generate ideas for bigger projects. I had no idea where it would either go or whether it would fizzle out after a while.

It’s becoming apparent to me that the main blog is coalescing into a few threads that form the matrix of a bigger web; one stretching into infinity. That’s how it feels. The search for meaning in an endless Universe can appear overwhelming, sometimes we touch sparks of star light that have a story to tell. All we can do is listen and record their tales.

On this occasion one such spark, named Seraph for convenience, has descended into human form for reasons that will become clearer further down the path. An angelic being, consisting of pure energy finds themselves inhabiting flesh and bone. What a dilemma! It’s not an easy state of being, force has been poured into a form and experiencing all its attendant problems. Imagine eons of feeling unfamiliar emotions and physical sensations. They’ve changed gender throughout many lifetimes. In this incarnation Seraph is female and this short excerpt shows her trying to cope with the realities of love and loss, bittersweet twin poles of human existence. Seraph turns to Amunet for solace. I’m not sure whether I’ve captured the true essence of this experience, but here goes:

Engin_Akyurt, Pixabay

Seraph:

Their life force pulses, ebbs and flows, finds your innermost places, whispers sweetly of worldly things, promises heaven. He touched my face with the gentlest of fingers, traced my lips in adoration, and looked at me with eyes brimming with light. I touched his heart, watched it take breath after breath, heard its whispers of longing, it called my name and I answered. Is this love Amunet? Arms held me within a such a grip, as if I was a treasure beyond compare. What could I do but respond and bury my face in his neck, draw in his scent, kiss his jaw. Skin to skin we lay on the grass, the stars being witness to entwining, heart to heart, soul to soul. I was lost, truly lost in these moments of love, of shared joy at being alive. My tears flowed, tasted of the Great Ocean of Life. Is this love Amunet?

Amunet:

My dear, dear Seraph, I can feel such pain in your words. Yes, it is love and much more. This is an integral part of their existence, of being human. It can bring with it utterly sublime experiences, filled with both tears and laughter. Let your sorrow bring healing, let it go my friend. You’ve been witness to eons upon eons of life cycles, seen the natural order of things, take the essence of such an experience and treasure it.

Seraph:

Yes, such has been my experience, never being drawn into the minutiae of life. Taking such sights and offering them to the Greater Consciousness. As for now, it was my choice to see their world. Their lives are played out on a stage filled with regrets, yearnings, greed, hatred, joy and love. Many wander the long road in search of meaning, in search of themselves. He came to me naked of pretence, filled my life with laughter, and enriched my knowledge of this unfamiliar world. I find it difficult to seek the words to describe how I truly feel at his loss. He became diminished, life essence bleeding away over time. Then one day, his heart no longer spoke to me, it whispered a song of departure. I listened, urged it to live. He went, left me. This is the sword hanging over all that are made of mortality. I know that, but it’s hard to accept.

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pixel2013, Pixabay

Amunet:

(Gently cradles Seraph in her arms and rocks her).

That’s it, let the tears flow. Capture these moments as memories frozen in time and space and place them in the Vaults of Remembrance my dear, dear Seraph. They will give you solace when the time comes to return to the stars, love is worth its weight in gold, forever incorruptible, remember that.

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rawpixel, Pixabay

 

Thursday photo prompt – Distant #writephoto by Jan Malique

Image: Sue Vincent

Infinity rose in the East, place of greatest light, as the tribe stood in silent respect. The day of the Third Sun and hour of the Unfolding Future was upon them, initiating the rite of disintegration and reintegration. Such a ritual had been performed by the Elders and Way showers since this phase of their world began. A time measured in tens of thousands of years. The cycle of this age was now nearing completion, and the Tree of Life and Death waited in the Temple of the Sun for the delegation from the people of the Third Sun.

The tribe viewed this event as a necessity to keep the cycles of the Universe ebbing and flowing. It was their duty and carried out with devotion and steadfastness. The journey to the spiritual heart of their planet waited in the snow-covered mountain range. It called to those ones chosen to undertake this task.

The stone circle they waited outside was a portal into the gigantic outer court of the Temple of the Sun. For the whole planet was a sacred landscape, littered with smaller temples that acted as power “sub-stations.” The main temple was psychically linked with every inhabitant of the planet, with each tribe pledging fealty to one of three suns in this multiverse. Every moment of their lives, every act, every thought, was imbued with a sense of purpose and devotion. Resilience was their distinguishing characteristic, with souls tempered in the fires of their Sun.

The High Priest and Priestess of the main temple appeared at the portal to escort the delegation to the place of ritual. It took milliseconds, for time behaved differently inside these precincts. The inner sanctum beckoned, composed of pillars of gleaming crystal, in the middle of the hall stood a tree of grandeur and awesome power. It was a remnant from the beginning of creation, placed by hands unknown in the very belly of the planet. Life and Death played out within its branches, words of power were inscribed upon its leaves, forbidden to all except the initiated.

The leaves shivered in expectation of the rise of power. The people of the Third Sun stood in a circle around the altar that was the Tree. Sound issued from the pillars of crystal, vibrating molecule upon molecule. The circle contained immense energy, powerful enough to incinerate millions of stars and galaxies. The time of disintegration was upon them, dismantling the Universe as it waited for the moment of transition; for death was an inadequate word for what was coming. Helices spun and transmuted as the skies turned to fire, all this and more was reflected in the eyes of the ritual participants, nine in all. Then silence descended upon the Universe, it held its breath, as darkness gathered, embraced its kith and kin. All mourned and then rejoiced.

Light bubbled over from the centre of the Tree and gathered up the remnants of all that was lost. Atom by atom the matter of the Universe coalesced, integration had been achieved and the time of the First Sun had begun.

Encountering one’s own Tomb… From the Archaeodeath Blog

In Christianity, the empty tomb of Jesus is a powerful material witness to the Saviour’s resurrection: the absent body is a sign. Yet in fiction, how can you encounter one’s own tomb without miraculous resurrection? Eerie question. Uncanny… The stuff of horror movies, nightmares and visions? Maybe, it is about Frankenstein’s monster, about vampires, about zombies. Yet […]

via Encountering one’s own Tomb… — Archaeodeath

The Scent of Jasmine – #white flowers -flash fiction challenge

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Image: janeb13, Pixabay

The scent of jasmine pulled strongly on her memories, like a fishing net it scooped up the darting pieces of her past.

She peered intently at each and every bejewelled creature, for her memories were sentient and potent presences.

Piece by piece they rearranged themselves into mandalas of mystery, symbolic of lives lived with passion, lives lived in tear filled intensity.

She looked out over the landscape, now covered in a sea of white flowers. A blessing from the Old Ones for one of their own who had gone beyond the veil. She was now infinite wisdom and power.

December 21, 2017, Carrot Ranch Literary Community prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) include white flowers in your story. This is a repeat prompt, but one that has an ability to be emotive. Humor, drama, irony — go wherever the white flowers lead.

Respond by December 26, 2017 (Happy Boxing Day!) to be included in the compilation (published December 27). Rules are here. All writers are welcome!

 

 

 

We Mourn Thee Mighty Thracian: Spirit of Remembrance

Many years have passed since the beautiful Thracian king and god ascendant graced the unknown bar hidden within the unnamed city. Orpheus ascended but did we have time to mourn him, to remember all that he was? We three, Spirits of Memory, Love and Dance performed our rituals but to what end? Someone important was missing, and She has come at last. The Spirit of Remembrance is the fourth element present in abundance within the Universe, there is one other, the Spirit of Divine Consciousness. Her time will come soon.

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Image: The Priestess John William Godward · 1895, Wikiart

Hail beloved sister! How your presence infuses our lives with serenity and meaning. You bring Rosemary for remembrance and purification for the mourning rites. How remiss of us to forget. Forgive us mighty Thracian. Dear sister Priestess we wait on your lead.

The Spirit of Remembrance begins the chant and we follow:

We rend our clothes and tear our hair, cry tears of salt and water bereft of blood. Hear our cries of pain and grief you beings of halls of silence and dread. Accept these offerings of Myrra, Mêkôn, Libanos, Helleboros and Daphnê in memory of Orpheus, our beloved King of Thrace. Green eyed god, vessel for divinity, and grief-stricken lover, who shall we minister to? Speak, break your silence and allow us to adore and pour salve upon flesh and spirit.

We four pour libations upon the ground and sprinkle incense upon ever-burning flames. Dread Persephone and Hades are petitioned, given sacrifice and prayers aplenty. We stand in a place not of time and of time, four faces gaze inwards, four faces gaze outwards. The space within lies empty, waiting another. So the chant begins anew:

We rend our clothes and tear our hair, cry tears of salt and water bereft of blood. Hear our cries of pain and grief you beings of halls of silence and dread. Accept these offerings of Myrra, Mêkôn, Libanos, Helleboros and Daphnê in memory of Orpheus, our beloved King of Thrace. Green eyed god, vessel for divinity, and grief-stricken lover, who shall we minister to? Speak, break your silence and allow us to adore and pour salve upon flesh and spirit.

A terrible silence descends, the emptiness hints at mysteries beyond all understanding. Then, it unfolds. His voice utters blessings, gives us solace. His form shimmers in the smoke, ah, green-eyed god how your beauty illuminates the darkness of the star filled heavens!

The power recedes and we are at peace once more. It is done, the mourning rites have been performed. Go in peace mighty Thracian.

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Image: photo credit: chiaralily Morgana via photopin (license)