The Holy Dream

Prelude Part 7

A quilt of warmth had made its way across the skies, touching all that it passed with a warm breeze and a sense of security and comfort. It was hard to believe that nigh half a day ago, a young child had almost been mercilessly executed. A lone orphan hobbled quietly and slowly down the street outside of the Cathedral of Heaven as people shot judgmental glances at her. She noticed the awkward stares and snarls, but was unphased. She had felt it so many times before that it no longer affected her.

Maric passed the small girl and stepped up to the giant cast iron gates. The gryphons stared forward with unwavering will, ever watchful towards yonder. Had they ever discovered any threat, Maric knew not. He let out a heavy sigh, worried of what was to come. I’m going to be in so much trouble, he thought. He winced in pain as the severity of situation washed over him, bruising all over his body beginning to develop. He thought back to what he could remember from last night--the dreadful howling of the masses that sought his blood, the cold, biting night air, and the perplexed, scared stares of passerbys that dared not intervene with the mob justice that was nearly carried out that fateful night.

Visions of how he had punched Rhone entered his mind, filling him with a more controlled sense of the rage he had felt. It was strange to him, as he could visualize the anger that had come over him and the madness that he had divulged in from a seemingly third person perspective, as if he could watch himself become something more… or less, than human. A vivid image of the symbol that was burned into his flesh appeared before Maric--a symbol not of Valionan origin. He had not seen it taught in his lessons, nothing like it. In fact, it seemed to twist and change slightly, shimmer as he blinked--not only as a physical form, but a thought, an ideal, an expression of consciousness and emotion woven into a simple pattern of lines. Unable to totally comprehend the scope of the image or what had happened, Maric still could not shake the thought from his head. How did I do that? Was it magic? Or is that how everyone feels and looks like when they get really angry? Can everyone punch stuff into faces?

“Maric! Oh, Maric, oh my gods, its really you!” Maric heard in a shrieking voice. Suddenly brought back to reality, he shook his head looking inside the gates. Sira was rushing out, nearly tripping over herself as she lifted her long, flowing priest gown.

“Baby, come inside the gates, quickly. We must retire to your quarters so I can figure out what to do. Oh, I cannot believe you’re alive, its a miracle Maric, it must be!” She said with terror and excitement gushing from her. Maric stood frozen, so happy to see her but so taken aback. He had never seen anyone show the combination of emotions he was witnessing at that moment; living in the Cathedral, he hadn’t been exposed to such grief, terror or fear before. It was all quite shocking.

Sira flung open the gates as fast as she could regardless of their heavy built frame. They slightly creaked as they rotated quickly inward into the Cathedral grounds, racketing and colliding with the stone wall. She jogged forward, picking up the stunned Maric, grunting softly as she did.

“My, you’re getting old! 6 years I believe it is now! I can hardly carry you anymore!” She exclaimed, attempting to distract from the grievous situation. Watching Maric’s blank expression, she frowned and shook her head slightly. “Oh child, I am so glad you found your way back. We can talk later, but just know that you’re safe now. You’re safe again. Its going to be okay, Maric.” She hugged him against herself, rocking back and forth with immense relief. Her heart was racing with adrenaline after the shock and grief she felt that Maric had disappeared last night. She knew not where he had gone or what had happened to him. In the back of her mind, she feared he was dead. She could not have expressed or explained the feelings that had washed over her even if she had tried in that moment.

On the other hand, Maric could not find the words nor thoughts to express his inability to comprehend or react. He had never seen his mother or anyone else like this. Growing up in the Cathedral was a sheltered life, and the faces around him were joyous or in solemn thought and prayer most of the day. He formed an image in his mind’s eye, thinking of the morning dew on the garden flowerbeds, twinkling in the morning light. The brilliant rays gleaming against the vibrant flora, healthy and vibrant. How calm and serenely the soft wind would blow across the city heights, occasionally sweeping down to brustle against the otherwise static forms of the plants, bringing him back to the realization that they are not painted but a living reality. How close he had come to losing the ability to smell the morning dew and watch as the cotton and dandelion floated through the air was lost on him.