The Sacrifice / Sacred Ground

Sacred Ground

The Celestus plains stand empty, all but the tall barley, gold in the sunshine, and the statue at its heart. 

Celestus herself stands proud, her stone eyes watching the sacred ground as far as the hills of Morgar that surround it to the West. In one hand she wields an axe, in the other a child. The fierce look upon her face as fiery as the copper helmet placed upon her head. 

This was the ground on which she fought her last battle. Defending her people from the tyranny of the king of the wastes, beyond the Morgar mountains. On that great day twenty years ago, as all hope was lost, an army of ten-thousand against a village of one-thousand. So many had fallen and those that were left were falling back into the hills, fleeing for the lives they could not keep. 

Celestus watched the withdrawing soldiers, and desperately swung forward. 

Just over the eastern wall of hills was their humble village, and in its great hall, those who could not fight for themselves. Among them her one child, a remnant of a husband she had lost to the last battle with the people of the wastes. 

To withdraw was to sign away all those lives for the sake of keeping their own for mere hours, perhaps minutes, before they themselves were taken away. 

So she forged on, at first alone, but she began to cry out as she swung her axe. 

"For Junis! For Epair! For Kataan!" With each name she called another enemy was felled. These were the names of the children and families they had come to give a chance to. 

The retreating soldiers stopped. Watching the warrior wrestle with the very futility they had come to accept, and create from each defense a triumph. Slowly, they began to turn back. Reminded of what it was they had sworn to protect to their last breath. 

A great shout erupted from them, and lifting up their weapons, they ran back into the fray. Blood flew as fast as their hearts, and swiftly men fell. Staining the trampled ground dark red. 

Still the odds were not in their favour, and their brave new leader found herself encircled by enemies. Five swords swung for her at once, and where they clashed there was an explosion. Her attackers were flung back to the ground. 

At first this explosion was a mist of vibrant hues, embers of the fire, the green glow of the Northern lights, the bright yellow of the heavens, the mist turned to sparks and then those sparks fluttered into millions of wings. 

The battle field stood in awe as the shimmering wings ascended to the grey sky, making it a spiralling vortex of colour. 

The giggle of a small child was heard echoing from the spectacle, and words were spoken into their heads. 

"For what you fight, you shall win... If you fought for ruin, ruin you shall receive, for riches, the riches of the earth will bury you... For life and the innocent, I shall grant it you. For the sacrifice and determination this one woman showed." 

At that all of the soldiers of the wastes began to shake, their eyes rolling back in their heads, they fall dead, bloody foam bubbling from their mouths. 

The villagers had been handed victory out of defeat, and throwing down their swords with tears in their eyes, they cheered mightily. For on this ground, it was not their rite to spill out life anymore. 

The clouds of many colours descended on the land as rain, hitting the trampled ground. Washing the blood and dirt away from their tired faces. Wounds sealed themselves in glistening blue. 

Around them the soil started to swallow up the bodies of the fallen and wild flowers sprouted from out of their resting places, blooming before their eyes. 

Upon returning, the whole village celebrated for they had been given back their lives, and the lives of those that they loved. Somber respect for those who they had lost, and with joy for the gift they had been given. They danced in the streets, their weapons above their heads, as the rains of many colours had turned into petals on the wind and blown in, blessing their fields and crops for the following harvest. 

Every year, on the anniversary of this great victory, they used to gather on the sacred ground, and place their swords down. Dancing, throwing petals that would catch of the wind, leaving prayers for the year to come. 

One year from the day,  one girl stood sadly, holding the large little finger of a man not her father, and with no woman to call mother as the first anniversary of the occasion had rolled around. She watched as a great ream of cloth was pulled from the then new statue, and these plains were declared sacred ground. In it erected this tribute to their bravest warrior, a reminder of what it was she died fighting for and why they had their lives. Even should the old ways be forgotten, this was to stand forever. 

The little girl let go of the finger she'd had a hold, and approached the great stone woman, facing the Morgar in the West, watching that no new enemy ever came from the wastes to destroy their people again. She ran her fingers across the words inscribed on the base. 

"For what you fight, you shall win." 

Twenty years later, the words are barely faded, and my hand traces them once again. My mother fought for me when she could not win. She won my life, and inspired our people to win back their own with the purity of their cause. 

Now, I face forward to the wastes, wielding her axe, to seek help and peace, as we cannot remain cut off any longer. The celebrations were forgotten, for a great plague has hit us and no cure can be found here. The people lost faith that our savior would act in our behalf after three years of supplicating to this hallowed ground, to the clouds. They believe she has gone deaf, or does not care. Some believe she is angry with us, and that is why she does not listen. So we must act, lest we be wiped from the face of the mountainside. I must act, though there may be nothing left when I return.