Chapter Text
Fiery, luminous flames blaze from the fire pits, burn, and bend, to the wintry wind's fickle whims, and singe the night skies, smoke the stars, and trees.
Stray, molten flickers of amber tease the eerie, rustic Gates of the Moon, cast light to the tatters, and frays, of Weirwood bark, and barren tracts of land. Distressed, and hollowed, the gates unfasten, unlatch old bolts, and rusty locks, to reveal the boundless, blood-red foliage of the Redwood Forest.
Apprehensive, his heart frantic, and treacherous, beneath his breastbone, Tony stutters for a breath, draws an unpleasant rush of balmy air into his lungs. Stilted, plagued by speechless, soundless unease, he tries to steel his nerves, drown his worries, and doubts, and brace his sanity for inevitable ruin.
"Ast ast igira!" Thunderous, uproarious chants unsettle his thoughts, rattle his bones. Bride of Red, we give unto you, O God of Might.
Tonight, beyond bright flames, and bitter sorrows, the beast shall stake his claim, seize a wife, divine, and gorgeous, to swear himself to in the secrecy of silver moonlight.
Or, he shall gift his newfound ladylove to Death.
"Ast ast igira!"
Tonight, he's their boon for small mercies, their godsend for peace—their sacrificial spouse. And Death will have him all the same.
"Ast ast igira!" Relentless, tireless, they beg forgiveness, wail pleas, pardons, and amends."Ast ast igira! Ast ast igira!"
Tony swallows dust, bile, and ash.
Feverish hordes of villagers swarm, surround him in their sea of panic, their pale, gaunt faces streaked with the dried skins of cherry plums.
They push, and prod, and shove.
"Ast ast igira!"
Graceless, he stumbles, skids on cobblestones, and scuffs his slippers, tramples his garments, and silks. "Ast ast!" Clumsily, an ungainly slip of the fingers, he clutches his wrap of flowers too close to his bodice, pricks, and scrapes his skin. "Igira!"
Righteous, a purveyor of faith, and devotion, the Red Priestess emerges, rises from manic swell of her followers, and stands, unrivaled, unequaled.
"Maldifidii igira jistrah du igira!" She offers tribute—fresh pig entrails—wrings flesh, and blood, to hungry, hysterical mouths, and shouts to the heavens, finishes the ceremonial rites. "Nal ya igira!"
Delirious, rapturous, the villagers echo, "Nal ya igira!"
"Gentle Mother, Font of Mercy." Wary, slightly faint, he straightens, smooths the creases from his white, bridal robes, adjusts his red cloak—pinches the hood to the crown of his head—and rearranges his clasp of berry, burgundy, crimson blooms. "Help us through this fray. Soothe the wrath, and tame the fury. Teach us all a kinder way."
"Ast! Ast!"
Unhurried, painfully restrained, he raises his head, levels his gaze with the godless Gates of the Moon, and the foul darkness that looms, and wavers, his gait weak, halfhearted.
"Igira!"
Feathery snowflakes drift onto his ruddy cheeks, tumble, and melt, onto his chest, and nose, and frost his skin.
Dazed, entrenched in the recesses of his mind, he approaches the gateway, lingers near the border of stone, and grain, and bides his time.
Gentle Mother, Font of Mercy, he thinks, shine your light upon me.
"Ast ast igira! Ast ast igira! Ast ast--!"
Forsaken by the Gods, and Fates, he surrenders, steps into the realm of the forest, and watches the moon soar, burst into wildfire, and promise eternal rest.
For the night is dark and full of terrors.
The Gates of the Moon creak, protest abuse of its doors, and swing shut, seal him in silence, and shadow.