Mature Decedre

The Vision

Song: Broken by Lund

I was late to offer my own sacrifice, already beaten by the Phrygian people and their hoards of gifts.

I huffed as I dragged the carcass down the rocky slope and entered the barren river Pactolus. High walls of crumbling gray rock and thin trees of healthy green surrounded me. Ignoring the small stone temple, I tugged the ox before the altar in front of it and paused to catch my breath.

The stone altar overflowed with offerings, some meager and some bountiful. There were bowls of honey, barley meals, and heaps of colorful grapes, figs, and apples. Pitchers filled to the brim with olive oil, milk, and wine perfumed the early evening air. Apollo's favored scents of frankincense, myrrh, and lily of the valley burned as incense. Children left their usual offerings of laurel tree branches and scattered leaves. A row of sunflowers remained at the base of the stone as if it had taken root and bloomed right there. At the center of the altar were King Titus's gifts of dazzling sunstone, amber, and sapphires.

I discarded my things to the side before retrieving the rags and pitcher of water left for me. Usually sacrificed animals were sprayed with blessed water then killed at the altar. But as the years went on the men and women blessed with the gift of sight dwindled. Priests and priestesses became scarce. At times, there often wasn't anyone available to perform the appropriate sacrifice. Eventually it became my responsibility to hunt and bring an animal here myself.

I cleaned the ox of dirt and blood as best as I could until more of the creamy white hide shined through. Satisfied, I dragged the ox to the foot of the altar and kneeled before it. Exhaustion filled my body as I pondered the words to come from my final offer.

I had a love for the arts but I couldn't sing or dance. Any offerings of artistic creation had to come from my own spoken words, poetry. But I was in no mood to recite an ode. Especially not the bleak one my past life made regarding how trapped and doomed we as a people were.

A ray of sunshine Desdemon the Twenty Third most certainly was not.

I closed my eyes and spoke the first thing that came to mind. "Radiant healer, blessed beauty of Delos, I praise your bright light!"

That sucked. But when I cracked an eye to see that I hadn't been struck down for my first attempt at haiku, I smiled. The offering was accepted.

"I call to you, Phoebus Apollo, son of the great Zeus and the gentle-natured Leto. Far-shooter, Pythian Apollo, Delian Apollo, Rescuer, Brother of Artemis, Lord of the Hyperboreans. You who are beautiful, radiant, the light and the giver of foresight, I ask for your presence." The words rolled off my tongue with ease. After years of memorizing, I finally had a reason to recite the invocation, the harbinger of my death. "I call to you to be here this evening and witness my rite. You who are a skillful creator of music, talented crafter of words, and an inspiration in art and song. I am a pious Desdemona who's life belongs to the will of the gods. I pray to you, O Phoebus, for your blessing of sight. Grant me the vision to see what awaits me on this night."

I already knew what was to come of my marriage to King Titus. It was a sweet lie they told us as children to shield us from the truth. Instead of telling us we were being raised like pigs for slaughter. They told us we were destined to become kings and queens when we reached eighteen.

The lie was then maintained until I was old enough to know the truth. That the marriage was a sham and the only thing awaiting me was King Titus and a javelin through the chest. Apollo showed us the same vision in every life so we'd know what was coming and not fear it.

It was tradition and, as a good soldier, it was my responsibility to see it through.

First came the low buzzing filling my head like a swarming beehive. Then came the insurmountable heat swelling within my body. The final blow came in the shape of a bright light piercing my vision until I slumped over.

A blood curdling scream cut through the atmosphere of the vision. A heavy weight of grief fell over me like a blanket. I keeled over something indistinct, trapped wails filling my throat. My bare hands gripped a cold and hard object.

I watched through apathetic eyes as my hand touched the ground and turned the island of Phrygia to gold.

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QOTD: Why do you think the vision has changed?