madimpossibledreamer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
madimpossibledreamer) wrote2019-05-16 11:56 pm
madimpossibledreamer) wrote2019-05-16 11:56 pm
Entry tags:
Ritual of Yami
The Lady of the Kanet is probably Tiamat.
~Dreamer~
Main Points:
Persona 4 Prince of Persia inspired au
Chapter Summary: Prince Yosuke takes the first steps toward his birthright.
Word Count: 2993
Rating: Teen (because the ritual has some suggestive parts)
edited for dumb summary typo
“Show-off,” the man sneers, but he doesn’t let it bother him. Today, it is Kinshirou breaking protocol by the very act of speaking to him. He is not meant to do so. Only the priests and priestesses are allowed to do so today, and even then, only with the words of the ceremony. All are dressed in black to honor the Kami they serve.
They look with sympathy at his expression, and one, their leader, an older lady called Shiroku for the temple she hailed from (the Prince has never heard her true name, and guesses he will never do so) glares menacingly. Kinshirou backs off, and the other servants slip past to begin packing his things, for he is not allowed to return to his room once he leaves.
The youngest of them take his arms and lead him out, and he briefly feels a pang of regret, for at the least it will be months before he sees this place again. He’s exhausted, though, and doesn’t have time to feel the emotion for long, for they guide him, intimate and solemn, to the chambers. They remove his garments until he is naked as a newborn babe and immerse him in the pool of scented oil. He shivers and tries not to feel vulnerable. They can see his groggy half awake response to the feel on his skin, but at least the awkwardness of the situation keeps it at bay. After a time, he’s sure prescribed by tradition, they pull him out by his hands, and he tries not to blush. They dress him in silken ceremonial robes he’s never worn before and would never wear again. The oil sticks to his skin like a second layer, clinging. His skin does not feel like his own.
“Now, you take your first step into the dark,” Shiroku tells him. The youngest priests, one blushing to match his, hold out a golden bowl together. The darkness within roils, and Yosuke swallows. “Have no fear, for while others may fear to step into the reach of the shadows, these are your allies. Drink deep, that you may taste of your birthright.” He takes the bowl with both hands and tips it back. Other than a tingling feeling in his lips, at first it tastes of nothing. Then he gasps, as it burns through him, fire touching every part of him intimately, inside and outside. He is frozen in place, unable to fall to his knees.
It flows over him, through him, and he longs to hide away. In the end, the burning settles upon his arms, and he bites his lip as the searing pain burns itself into his flesh. He tries to breathe, bites hard enough to bleed as the magic tugs at his soul, draws part of it out in a way that feels like it’s bleeding though nothing is, in fact, visible, and he feels the cold touch of steel against his palms. Instinctively, he grips tightly.
“Daggers. Speed, unpredictability, the free, untamed nature of a whirlwind. I might have known,” Shiroku comments, proud and a little bit amused.
As soon as they had appeared, the daggers disappear, and he can feel the touch of several hands on his arms, fingers icy, tracing the patterns the kagen had left behind with sacred ash. The cold almost hurts in the wake of the pain and fire that had burned through him. They murmur words strange and unknown as they do so, and it feels like the ash sinks into his skin. When he emerges from the ceremony, they will be tattoos. He allows himself a moment of pleasure that they will, at least, be in the same location as his mothers’, though hers were small crossbows, not daggers.
He will, he thinks, supplement it with a sword and dagger from the armory, once he is done here. Muramasa’s legacy might be meant for both his hands and those of his Kanet, but they feel more as if they belong to an otherworldly creature than they do him. Still, he is pleased to know that they will most likely share fighting styles, given that Prince Akihiko’s work had been doubled, since Shiza used a two-handed sword and Akihiko preferred to use his own fists like a common brawler.
He flexes his wrists, and the kagen flashes as the daggers are reabsorbed, settling into his soul once more, and he no longer feels as if a vital piece of himself is missing.
“When the land was younger and not yet so wise, the Kanet were the living bodyguards to the Kings and Queens of our kingdom.” The Prince shivers a little in the cold of the early morning, taking the steps as he’s directed, fingers as light as the silks on his skin in his own hands, on his arms, on his back. They move with him, round him, like a choreographed dance. They are probably working the oil further into his skin as they direct him, and it feels nice against his sore muscles. He’s certainly impressed by Shiroku, who as she speaks walks backwards from the chamber into the next without a single glance to make sure of the path.
“They were another tribe, another people, having traveled to Sumaru after hearing of the fair and just rule of its royalty. Their numbers matched those of the grains of desert sand, for in their travels they added to their ranks those throughout the entire world who were unsatisfied and sought another life.” She steps aside, gestures at the carpet stretched in the gap between two rocks and held in place by two intricately carved statues, a butterfly midflight ornamented by lapis lazuli and a carved block of obsidian depicting a creature with a bat’s wings and tentacles. The butterfly seems to radiate light, while the creature appears to suck it away. One was, no doubt, the Spirit Guide, and the second the Midnight King. Yosuke shivers again, though this time his reaction has nothing to do with the cold, and easily swings himself up onto the carpet, using his momentum to turn himself to face the High Priestess. From there, it’s a simple matter of maneuvering himself into lotus position, easy enough for one who’s had practice sitting in such precarious places. He doesn’t laugh audibly and disturb the solemnity of the ritual, but is inwardly amused, thinking of his brother and sister struggling to do this, when it comes naturally to him. “They pledged every weapon in the service of the Amano. For a time, Sumaru flourished.”
He enjoys this story, so despite his exhaustion it’s easy enough to listen.
“And then, the Midnight King came, and with him an army of rumor. He promised an end to all things, and there were those even among the palace who flocked to his cause. They wore masks granted to them by the Midnight King forged of gloom itself to signify their corruption and newly acquired powers, given by the masks. None among the Kanet fell in spirit to corruption, though the bodies were laid high. They fought and won many victories, and suffered terrible losses.”
The Prince knew each name by heart—Poro, Orphe, Kongou, Nemain, Masou, and more besides. It seems their stories are not ones to be told this morn. “But in the end they were merely being toyed with, for the Midnight King unveiled his true power—every man and woman loyal to the Sumaru family that stepped into the shadows was devoured. The royal household was halved overnight. The remainder huddled around the glow of a fire, while Kanet with torches braved the darkness with torches to seek further kindling. Many of them did not return.”
Yosuke longs to fidget, to draw further within himself, for he is cold and the statue to his right unsettles his spirit, but he knows that today of all days he should behave himself. “At last, desperate, the leader of the Kanet cried out loud for the power to protect her people and her king, and a blue butterfly, glowing and beautiful, fluttered out of the dark, and she followed, torch in hand. At first, she believed herself to be in the palace, but noticed the shadows clung like mist, and grains of sands began to blow past her face, until she was lost in a sandstorm, and no matter where she wandered there were no walls, only an unending desert. With the greater winds, suddenly a wind blew, ending the torch, and for but a brief time she could see the glow of the butterfly’s wings before her before she, too, lost sight of it.”
Soon, he too, will be retracing the footsteps upon sand, and knows that any emotions he feels on the retelling of the tale will be multiplied a hundredfold—but he is a Prince of Sumaru, a hero of the people, and he must not, will not falter. “The shadows crept in around her, and she turned her gaze skyward and screamed at the sky, ‘Yami no Meiyo Jouou! Give me the power to protect the King I serve and avenge this invasion of your domain!’ And Yami gladly descended, for her fury knew no bounds.”
The cold seems to retreat a little at those words, and the Prince is glad of it, for the reminder that no matter how dangerous the road he walks may appear, it is Yami that guides his steps, and she will allow no harm to come to him. “The Midnight King was, as she, no mere mortal, an envoy of the Night, but these were her lands, these were her people, and he presumed much. ‘I will give you the power you seek, but I am not the Midnight King. I will not lie and tell you that your wish is painless or bloodless. A sacrifice is required, but it will not mean the end of your existence. Trust me and your hand that guides you to me, and the power to defeat the servants of the Midnight King, make the night safe for your people and Sumaru’s, and protect your King and his bloodline shall be yours.’ And as the goddess spoke, the Lady of the Kanet knew what she must do, and without hesitation she drew her dagger and slit her own throat.”
At least this is not a sacrifice required for him, for even if it was merely temporary, he could not imagine the pain that must come from death. He plans on living, for as long as he possibly can. “The cascade of blood became a stream of desert sand, and her dying limbs became one with the night. And the dark no longer held any terror for her, for it was her Kami’s domain, and paths once forbidden became as her garden path. She stepped through the shadows and appeared in the throne room, at once kneeling before her King out of range of the bonfire’s light.”
He’s been to the small temple dedicated to the Kanet and their sacrifice, heard the merchants traveling at night and the night guards call equally upon Yami and the Kanet for protection as they complete their duties. None can see the Kanet, and to some of the citizens it is more a superstition than a fact of the world, but then, when all battles are fought unseen in the dark, what else can be expected from the skeptical? “‘My King, have no fear. Yami lends us her strength. She will keep us safe and drive away the invaders, and prevent the world’s end.’ The King was afraid, but he heard the truth and loyalty in her voice unchanged, and knew that the words she spoke were no falsehood. She then addressed the rest of the Kanet. ‘My people, I know that you are afraid, but we need not fear death or the darkness. The change is strange, the pain an agony, but it lasts for but a moment. Follow me, and trust your hands to know the way.’ As she spoke, the rest of the Kanet likewise knew what to do.”
He longs to reach out a hand to the butterfly, knowing what comes next, but resists, as it is forbidden, hands kept firmly in his lap. “The Midnight King is no fool, and attacks, his army sweeping into the room, and with him, the lights are extinguished. The Lady of the Kanet dives toward her King to shield him, but instead of ending up in front of him, as she intended, she ends up within, staring through his eyes at the Midnight King descending upon them. In desperation, she yanks, and the King she served screams at the tear upon his soul—” How much more must it have hurt, the Prince wondered, to have Muramasa’s legacy torn from your soul without the proper preparation, in the midst of battle? “—but clawed guantlets, like those of a dragon, spring free, clothe their hands, and she rakes those claws over the Midnight King’s chest, tearing through armor and dark flesh alike. The howl in response was neither that of man or beast, and more than a few who heard it died where they stood.”
She pauses for a moment, and the sudden, harsh silence is almost more than Yosuke can bear. Then again, he’d never liked the silence, pestering the bards to sing their songs for him so he could later repeat their songs as he helped the housewife carry her laundry from the river or the house of entertainment prepare for a party, and while he earned much praise he always made sure to direct their words and any coins he was given back to the originals themselves. In the complete and utter lack of noise, he fancies he can almost hear that howl, summoned through the centuries to echo back through the chambers, and shivers once more.
“Not all of the Kanet had the courage to follow their Lady. Those who hesitated were soon devoured alive by the shadows, their screams echoing seemingly eternally. Most trusted in the path of the Goddess Yami and killed themselves for but a moment, undergoing the same transformation as their Lady had—blood to sand, flesh to shadow. Some dove into the still-living royals, the ones who had not been swallowed by the sudden devouring wave of darkness, while others turned to fight the masked ones, their devoured counterparts, and yet more nightmarish creatures the Midnight King had in his service. Many were the dead, but when morning came, the King and at least a few of his family still lived, and over the next few months, the land was freed from the Masked King’s cruel tyranny.”
The next words are new, though he knows their gist. Speaking the exact sentences when not for the Joining ceremony is forbidden. “Since then, upon their fourteenth birthday, each descendant of the Sumaru royal line is Joined with one of the Kanet to protect their footsteps in shadow. The city of Sumaru itself is the height of the Kanet and the Goddess Yami’s power, so one not old enough to walk the Abyss of Time may stay here unhindered. They walk the steps of the Lady of the Kanet, but theirs is not the sacrifice, but the gaining of a protection to last their lives.” It is the end of the story, and she moves out of the way. He stands and easily drops to the floor, as if it had been just another step on a staircase. An unfortunate thought occurs to him. He knows that to step outside the city or the ruins from the past is to invite death, and no member of the royal family, ruler or not, could fulfill their duties being confined to a single city, but unless the Kanet somehow swell their ranks as humans do, or do not die with their Joined royalty, the numbers unseen able to protect the people dwindle. Perhaps the Midnight King has factored this into his plans. He is unable to dwell on the thought further than making a determined vow that they will plan and prepare for it before the now somewhat familiar touch of light, intimate hands joins him as the priests and priestesses emerge from the shadows to guide him into the final chamber. They do not join him, steps halting at the doorway. Their hands run over his back as if reassuring him of his solidity, of the fact that he is not alone, and he appreciates the gesture. He’s still not fully awake, but perhaps this is why. Perhaps the feeling of being in a dream allows more courage and acceptance of the failure of the ordinary that lies behind the door.
Shiroku hands him a torch. “Remember, Yami guides your steps. Do not resist her. Follow the Spirit Guide.”
He turns to one of the followers of Yami, seemingly more bold in touch than the others, opens teeth and lips to say words he does not know, and blinks, suddenly dizzy, as in the flickering torchlight he changes to a beautiful woman, veiled and enticing, and as she steps over the threshold the flame flickers and in the smoke her form wavers. He closes his eyes, tries to banish the heady, dizzy feeling, and when he reopens his eyes there is no priest or goddess, only a glowing blue butterfly, fluttering in place as if waiting for him to join. Silently, because he has forgotten his words, he holds the torch tighter, steels his courage, and steps forward with his left foot into the shifting sands.
~Dreamer~
Main Points:
Persona 4 Prince of Persia inspired au
Chapter Summary: Prince Yosuke takes the first steps toward his birthright.
Word Count: 2993
Rating: Teen (because the ritual has some suggestive parts)
edited for dumb summary typo
Prince Yosuke is woken far too early by Kinshirou cheerfully barking at him. He easily maneuvers himself out of the corner he’s wedged himself into and catches himself briefly on one of the beams before allowing himself to fall into a roll, kneeling as he would before his mother.
“Show-off,” the man sneers, but he doesn’t let it bother him. Today, it is Kinshirou breaking protocol by the very act of speaking to him. He is not meant to do so. Only the priests and priestesses are allowed to do so today, and even then, only with the words of the ceremony. All are dressed in black to honor the Kami they serve.
They look with sympathy at his expression, and one, their leader, an older lady called Shiroku for the temple she hailed from (the Prince has never heard her true name, and guesses he will never do so) glares menacingly. Kinshirou backs off, and the other servants slip past to begin packing his things, for he is not allowed to return to his room once he leaves.
The youngest of them take his arms and lead him out, and he briefly feels a pang of regret, for at the least it will be months before he sees this place again. He’s exhausted, though, and doesn’t have time to feel the emotion for long, for they guide him, intimate and solemn, to the chambers. They remove his garments until he is naked as a newborn babe and immerse him in the pool of scented oil. He shivers and tries not to feel vulnerable. They can see his groggy half awake response to the feel on his skin, but at least the awkwardness of the situation keeps it at bay. After a time, he’s sure prescribed by tradition, they pull him out by his hands, and he tries not to blush. They dress him in silken ceremonial robes he’s never worn before and would never wear again. The oil sticks to his skin like a second layer, clinging. His skin does not feel like his own.
“Now, you take your first step into the dark,” Shiroku tells him. The youngest priests, one blushing to match his, hold out a golden bowl together. The darkness within roils, and Yosuke swallows. “Have no fear, for while others may fear to step into the reach of the shadows, these are your allies. Drink deep, that you may taste of your birthright.” He takes the bowl with both hands and tips it back. Other than a tingling feeling in his lips, at first it tastes of nothing. Then he gasps, as it burns through him, fire touching every part of him intimately, inside and outside. He is frozen in place, unable to fall to his knees.
It flows over him, through him, and he longs to hide away. In the end, the burning settles upon his arms, and he bites his lip as the searing pain burns itself into his flesh. He tries to breathe, bites hard enough to bleed as the magic tugs at his soul, draws part of it out in a way that feels like it’s bleeding though nothing is, in fact, visible, and he feels the cold touch of steel against his palms. Instinctively, he grips tightly.
“Daggers. Speed, unpredictability, the free, untamed nature of a whirlwind. I might have known,” Shiroku comments, proud and a little bit amused.
As soon as they had appeared, the daggers disappear, and he can feel the touch of several hands on his arms, fingers icy, tracing the patterns the kagen had left behind with sacred ash. The cold almost hurts in the wake of the pain and fire that had burned through him. They murmur words strange and unknown as they do so, and it feels like the ash sinks into his skin. When he emerges from the ceremony, they will be tattoos. He allows himself a moment of pleasure that they will, at least, be in the same location as his mothers’, though hers were small crossbows, not daggers.
He will, he thinks, supplement it with a sword and dagger from the armory, once he is done here. Muramasa’s legacy might be meant for both his hands and those of his Kanet, but they feel more as if they belong to an otherworldly creature than they do him. Still, he is pleased to know that they will most likely share fighting styles, given that Prince Akihiko’s work had been doubled, since Shiza used a two-handed sword and Akihiko preferred to use his own fists like a common brawler.
He flexes his wrists, and the kagen flashes as the daggers are reabsorbed, settling into his soul once more, and he no longer feels as if a vital piece of himself is missing.
“When the land was younger and not yet so wise, the Kanet were the living bodyguards to the Kings and Queens of our kingdom.” The Prince shivers a little in the cold of the early morning, taking the steps as he’s directed, fingers as light as the silks on his skin in his own hands, on his arms, on his back. They move with him, round him, like a choreographed dance. They are probably working the oil further into his skin as they direct him, and it feels nice against his sore muscles. He’s certainly impressed by Shiroku, who as she speaks walks backwards from the chamber into the next without a single glance to make sure of the path.
“They were another tribe, another people, having traveled to Sumaru after hearing of the fair and just rule of its royalty. Their numbers matched those of the grains of desert sand, for in their travels they added to their ranks those throughout the entire world who were unsatisfied and sought another life.” She steps aside, gestures at the carpet stretched in the gap between two rocks and held in place by two intricately carved statues, a butterfly midflight ornamented by lapis lazuli and a carved block of obsidian depicting a creature with a bat’s wings and tentacles. The butterfly seems to radiate light, while the creature appears to suck it away. One was, no doubt, the Spirit Guide, and the second the Midnight King. Yosuke shivers again, though this time his reaction has nothing to do with the cold, and easily swings himself up onto the carpet, using his momentum to turn himself to face the High Priestess. From there, it’s a simple matter of maneuvering himself into lotus position, easy enough for one who’s had practice sitting in such precarious places. He doesn’t laugh audibly and disturb the solemnity of the ritual, but is inwardly amused, thinking of his brother and sister struggling to do this, when it comes naturally to him. “They pledged every weapon in the service of the Amano. For a time, Sumaru flourished.”
He enjoys this story, so despite his exhaustion it’s easy enough to listen.
“And then, the Midnight King came, and with him an army of rumor. He promised an end to all things, and there were those even among the palace who flocked to his cause. They wore masks granted to them by the Midnight King forged of gloom itself to signify their corruption and newly acquired powers, given by the masks. None among the Kanet fell in spirit to corruption, though the bodies were laid high. They fought and won many victories, and suffered terrible losses.”
The Prince knew each name by heart—Poro, Orphe, Kongou, Nemain, Masou, and more besides. It seems their stories are not ones to be told this morn. “But in the end they were merely being toyed with, for the Midnight King unveiled his true power—every man and woman loyal to the Sumaru family that stepped into the shadows was devoured. The royal household was halved overnight. The remainder huddled around the glow of a fire, while Kanet with torches braved the darkness with torches to seek further kindling. Many of them did not return.”
Yosuke longs to fidget, to draw further within himself, for he is cold and the statue to his right unsettles his spirit, but he knows that today of all days he should behave himself. “At last, desperate, the leader of the Kanet cried out loud for the power to protect her people and her king, and a blue butterfly, glowing and beautiful, fluttered out of the dark, and she followed, torch in hand. At first, she believed herself to be in the palace, but noticed the shadows clung like mist, and grains of sands began to blow past her face, until she was lost in a sandstorm, and no matter where she wandered there were no walls, only an unending desert. With the greater winds, suddenly a wind blew, ending the torch, and for but a brief time she could see the glow of the butterfly’s wings before her before she, too, lost sight of it.”
Soon, he too, will be retracing the footsteps upon sand, and knows that any emotions he feels on the retelling of the tale will be multiplied a hundredfold—but he is a Prince of Sumaru, a hero of the people, and he must not, will not falter. “The shadows crept in around her, and she turned her gaze skyward and screamed at the sky, ‘Yami no Meiyo Jouou! Give me the power to protect the King I serve and avenge this invasion of your domain!’ And Yami gladly descended, for her fury knew no bounds.”
The cold seems to retreat a little at those words, and the Prince is glad of it, for the reminder that no matter how dangerous the road he walks may appear, it is Yami that guides his steps, and she will allow no harm to come to him. “The Midnight King was, as she, no mere mortal, an envoy of the Night, but these were her lands, these were her people, and he presumed much. ‘I will give you the power you seek, but I am not the Midnight King. I will not lie and tell you that your wish is painless or bloodless. A sacrifice is required, but it will not mean the end of your existence. Trust me and your hand that guides you to me, and the power to defeat the servants of the Midnight King, make the night safe for your people and Sumaru’s, and protect your King and his bloodline shall be yours.’ And as the goddess spoke, the Lady of the Kanet knew what she must do, and without hesitation she drew her dagger and slit her own throat.”
At least this is not a sacrifice required for him, for even if it was merely temporary, he could not imagine the pain that must come from death. He plans on living, for as long as he possibly can. “The cascade of blood became a stream of desert sand, and her dying limbs became one with the night. And the dark no longer held any terror for her, for it was her Kami’s domain, and paths once forbidden became as her garden path. She stepped through the shadows and appeared in the throne room, at once kneeling before her King out of range of the bonfire’s light.”
He’s been to the small temple dedicated to the Kanet and their sacrifice, heard the merchants traveling at night and the night guards call equally upon Yami and the Kanet for protection as they complete their duties. None can see the Kanet, and to some of the citizens it is more a superstition than a fact of the world, but then, when all battles are fought unseen in the dark, what else can be expected from the skeptical? “‘My King, have no fear. Yami lends us her strength. She will keep us safe and drive away the invaders, and prevent the world’s end.’ The King was afraid, but he heard the truth and loyalty in her voice unchanged, and knew that the words she spoke were no falsehood. She then addressed the rest of the Kanet. ‘My people, I know that you are afraid, but we need not fear death or the darkness. The change is strange, the pain an agony, but it lasts for but a moment. Follow me, and trust your hands to know the way.’ As she spoke, the rest of the Kanet likewise knew what to do.”
He longs to reach out a hand to the butterfly, knowing what comes next, but resists, as it is forbidden, hands kept firmly in his lap. “The Midnight King is no fool, and attacks, his army sweeping into the room, and with him, the lights are extinguished. The Lady of the Kanet dives toward her King to shield him, but instead of ending up in front of him, as she intended, she ends up within, staring through his eyes at the Midnight King descending upon them. In desperation, she yanks, and the King she served screams at the tear upon his soul—” How much more must it have hurt, the Prince wondered, to have Muramasa’s legacy torn from your soul without the proper preparation, in the midst of battle? “—but clawed guantlets, like those of a dragon, spring free, clothe their hands, and she rakes those claws over the Midnight King’s chest, tearing through armor and dark flesh alike. The howl in response was neither that of man or beast, and more than a few who heard it died where they stood.”
She pauses for a moment, and the sudden, harsh silence is almost more than Yosuke can bear. Then again, he’d never liked the silence, pestering the bards to sing their songs for him so he could later repeat their songs as he helped the housewife carry her laundry from the river or the house of entertainment prepare for a party, and while he earned much praise he always made sure to direct their words and any coins he was given back to the originals themselves. In the complete and utter lack of noise, he fancies he can almost hear that howl, summoned through the centuries to echo back through the chambers, and shivers once more.
“Not all of the Kanet had the courage to follow their Lady. Those who hesitated were soon devoured alive by the shadows, their screams echoing seemingly eternally. Most trusted in the path of the Goddess Yami and killed themselves for but a moment, undergoing the same transformation as their Lady had—blood to sand, flesh to shadow. Some dove into the still-living royals, the ones who had not been swallowed by the sudden devouring wave of darkness, while others turned to fight the masked ones, their devoured counterparts, and yet more nightmarish creatures the Midnight King had in his service. Many were the dead, but when morning came, the King and at least a few of his family still lived, and over the next few months, the land was freed from the Masked King’s cruel tyranny.”
The next words are new, though he knows their gist. Speaking the exact sentences when not for the Joining ceremony is forbidden. “Since then, upon their fourteenth birthday, each descendant of the Sumaru royal line is Joined with one of the Kanet to protect their footsteps in shadow. The city of Sumaru itself is the height of the Kanet and the Goddess Yami’s power, so one not old enough to walk the Abyss of Time may stay here unhindered. They walk the steps of the Lady of the Kanet, but theirs is not the sacrifice, but the gaining of a protection to last their lives.” It is the end of the story, and she moves out of the way. He stands and easily drops to the floor, as if it had been just another step on a staircase. An unfortunate thought occurs to him. He knows that to step outside the city or the ruins from the past is to invite death, and no member of the royal family, ruler or not, could fulfill their duties being confined to a single city, but unless the Kanet somehow swell their ranks as humans do, or do not die with their Joined royalty, the numbers unseen able to protect the people dwindle. Perhaps the Midnight King has factored this into his plans. He is unable to dwell on the thought further than making a determined vow that they will plan and prepare for it before the now somewhat familiar touch of light, intimate hands joins him as the priests and priestesses emerge from the shadows to guide him into the final chamber. They do not join him, steps halting at the doorway. Their hands run over his back as if reassuring him of his solidity, of the fact that he is not alone, and he appreciates the gesture. He’s still not fully awake, but perhaps this is why. Perhaps the feeling of being in a dream allows more courage and acceptance of the failure of the ordinary that lies behind the door.
Shiroku hands him a torch. “Remember, Yami guides your steps. Do not resist her. Follow the Spirit Guide.”
He turns to one of the followers of Yami, seemingly more bold in touch than the others, opens teeth and lips to say words he does not know, and blinks, suddenly dizzy, as in the flickering torchlight he changes to a beautiful woman, veiled and enticing, and as she steps over the threshold the flame flickers and in the smoke her form wavers. He closes his eyes, tries to banish the heady, dizzy feeling, and when he reopens his eyes there is no priest or goddess, only a glowing blue butterfly, fluttering in place as if waiting for him to join. Silently, because he has forgotten his words, he holds the torch tighter, steels his courage, and steps forward with his left foot into the shifting sands.