Tears of the Aeon: The Gothic War

Prologue

ᛈᚱᛟᛚᛟᚷᚢᛖ

Cherry pie was what he ate on that very morrow, breaking his fast the same way he did a fortnight ago. Goat milk with honey and a portion of cherry pie - a hot, sweet, and tender combination. The taste reminded him of his youth and his dear mother. He loved her more than any riches and plunders he had obtained throughout the years. Although he did not exactly remember how young he was when the gods took her from him, he did know that a long time had passed.

Now, her face was a shadow in his mind, a distant ghost that always skulked about in times like this. He had attempted to remember her face clearly, but somehow, it remained hidden in the shades of his thoughts, in the deepest parts of his being, where he always remained a boy aged ten. He acknowledged this was what time did to memories. He missed her greatly, and perhaps it was why he preferred cherry pie over any other dessert. He felt a sentiment of closure to his mother when the pastry vanished upon his tongue. Even when her existence was only a mere thought— the taste of cherry pie always brought her back from the dead!

He glanced at a marble bust perched upon a plinth in the corridor of his home in Italy. The white statue bared an eerie resemblance to him, staring back with eyes blank as death, as if the marble wished to speak back to him, to tell him of his follies. Dressed in a purple toga proper for the Roman senate, he stood in silence for a few moments.

His gaze found the wall of his home, and upon it hung a circular mirror with his reflection. Immediately, he became conscious of the wrinkle lines that had taken over his façade and the absence of hair that had left a crescent impression upon his head like the moon suspended in the night sky at night. It was the same moon he remembered conquering Gaul six years before. To him, it felt like yesterday when he walked its verdant fields, escorted by two Roman legionaries alongside a line of frightened Gallic slaves chained to their ankles and wrists. They stood in a line that stretched far beyond the eyes could see. As a clever ruler, he had the tendency to examine each slave for any corporal abnormality, and when he could not find any deformity, he gave them his blessings.

One morrow, walking beside the vast line of slaves, the General noticed a wizened old man. He was scrawny, frail, barefoot, only donning a filthy loincloth that covered his manhood and skin filled with all sorts of blotches. He smelled of piss and shit, and his blue eyes burned like sapphires once bathed under the orange rays of the morrow sun. The old man’s long, shiny, silvery hair drowned his face. He appeared as old as the mountains but not as firm. It seemed as if death was about to come for him at any moment.

The General pondered what the old man could offer to him. A burden to Rome, of course. He will not last a fortnight.

He deemed this imprisonment to be unacceptable. He wondered if his men overlooked this old man before they brought him into the slave line. It was rather possible. He realized that his men had been overworked without sufficient respite ever since they won the war and must have made this mistake. He understood this and was able to forgive them.

Suddenly, the old man gave the General a sullen stare, a gaze that could burn into his soul, and then a derisive smile took over his filthy face. The General grew confused and curious and approached the old man. His nostrils flared, and he could not ignore the unique stench coming from him.

“The path to absolute power,” said the old man in perfect Roman tongue, “is like walking blindly under the moonless night, surrounded by sheer darkness, and walking without fear, for your nights will always be well-lit regardless of how much obscurity had veiled your eyes. This could lead a man of mortal flesh to complete madness in the attempt to conquer the unknown. No one knows what peril lurks in the shadows of life. However, it is crucial that you find the tree that the gods hold dear to them if you wish to overthrow those who wish you dead and make Rome the republic that you always dreamed of.”

With eyes as sharp as spears, the old man stared at the General, standing to his feet with much difficulty, gaunt legs that gave the impression of giving in upon their own weight. The chains binding his hands and feet made an abrupt clank, but the General did not flinch in the absolute.

“Inside flow sap, a great red substance…ambrosia,” the old man said, extending his shackled hands to touch the General’s face but then lowering them below his waistline, giving up on the idea. “Food for the gods, one of a kind… red, like blood no god has ever seen, and sweet like no mortal tongue had ever savored.”

The General raised his brow. His deranged words must be the result of his old age, he thought.

“Beware,” the old man continued, “the only obstacle standing between you and your dear Rome is your own blood and flesh.” He crouched, sat upon the ground, hugged both his knees, swayed, and stared into empty space like the disturbed ranting of a madman. “Discover the tree and become more powerful than your enemies, like the god you think you are … rule the realm of men and become their king.”

The old man turned his gaze at the General and spoke sternly. “You don’t believe a word I say. On this night, you shall see of what I speak.”

The General shrugged and sauntered down the line of slaves. He continued, but the old man’s words echoed inside him, for they became a song wedged in his mind. Those words seemed queer but intriguing to his ears.

That very night, the General slumbered comfortably in his bed of silk and feathers in his tent, free of any concerns. He dreamed he was walking into a forest of dark trees and shrubs, shadows in all places. The dream was queer to him; everything that appeared before him was dark and blurry. He found himself lost with nowhere to go in such wilderness. There was no concept of time but of sheer numbness. In all this, the feeling was real. As he continued walking deeper into the forest, he encountered an enormous tree, an ash tree, a thick, uneven trunk of wide branches and green leaves. He had never seen a tree as vast as the one in his dream. It was huge, enough to make him feel he was falling back when he looked up at it. He had never seen red fruits that bared its branches either.

A guttural sound arose from nearby. From the shadows emerged a four-legged creature, three times the size of those “bulls” he had seen in the east. A pair of thick horns arched toward its face, claws like those of a lion, a scaly tail with rows of spikes extending to its tip, fur darker and denser like the very night. Its muzzle drooled as it opened wide, displaying sharp teeth and tiny prickles surrounding its large tongue. Standing sentry before the bole of the tree, its eyes burned crimson red, watching like a giant monster hound.

Fearful, the General’s heart began to race. And from within a fissure in the earth, a blazing fire began to emanate, engulfing the whole black foliage of the ominous forest. The red flames of the fire completely shrouded the General, the giant creature, and the ash tree. Despite the effect of its flames, the monster’s deep, blood-red eyes did not seem to notice or care and kept his gaze fixated upon the General.

Within the greenery, engulfed in scorching scarlet, the General’s eyes had noticed it - a throng of shadows moving swiftly about, fighting viciously against one another. The shadows were as tall as giants, and their faces were hidden from view. He did not know who they were. Without warning, the four-legged monster began stumping its way toward the puny General. His heart almost fell out of his breast as the beast drew near.

The monstrous being drew its face inches from the General’s brow and said, “Beware of the Ides of March.” Its voice sounded familiar, like the old man slave he met in the slave camp. From within his entrails, a pang of terror struck him even stronger than before.

He opened his eyes and found himself in his bed of feathers and silk in his tent in Gaul, surrounded by the flickering faint light of a candle resting upon a table beside him. Beads of sweat swarmed his brow like dew to a pomegranate. He sighed and rubbed his eyes with both hands.

To him, the dream felt bizarre but vivid, like no other he ever had. It was only a dream, nonetheless. And it had ended, fortunately. But did the dream actually end?

“The slaves…” the General said to a legionary who stood guard outside his tent, “an old man amongst them spoke to me yestermorning in the camp. I wish to see him. Take me to him at once.”

“My lord,” the legionary slowly turned to face him, “You have instructed not to enslave the elderly. We have followed your orders to the letter.

The General still insisted. He knew what he saw and who he spoke to that very morrow. He wished to speak with the old man again to ask him about the meaning of his dream the previous night. Even though the General did not believe in omens, enchantments, or the sorts, what the old man said intrigued him greatly. He might have become a believer that very day, after all, wishing to seek for the truth.

After the General reached the slave camp, he discovered the legionary had been speaking the truth. He could not find the old man amongst the slaves, not a single old person in sight, only young men, women, and children chained to their ankles and wrists with eyes filled with fear and hopelessness.

Three fortnights had passed, and the General did not hear of the old man. He had vanished without a single explanation of how it may have happened. Was it a figment of my own mind? Did I possibly imagine him? he thought he was dreaming. He felt weary after all but could not afford to lose his focus, his mind… not when he had to go back to Italy and confront his political enemies.

The General was almost certain an old man had spoken to him that day and had warned him of bad things approaching his way. But he did not wish to fill his thoughts with many concerns. It would never have served him well. He had to remain in control as he had always been.

One night, the General was strolling outside his pavilion to breathe fresh air before preparing for his return to Italy. No guards watched over him on his walk, but his white robe made him noticeable in the dark. He continued his stroll as he stared at the night sky full of stars. Under the pale crescent moon of the night, someone appeared to him by a cypress tree, his face in the shadows.

“Who are you?!” the General sternly asked.

“The gods quarrel against one another,” said a familiar voice.

“Who are you?” asked the General again, having no idea of who he might be. “What do you want of me?”

“My name is not important,” the old man said as he emerged from the shadows, exposing himself to the light of the silver, arched moon suspended in the distance. “No one dares to pronounce it.”

The old man donned a black breastplate that did not shine under the moonlight, with glowing wrought, golden markings adorning its breast of a language no mortal knew and a long black cape extending to his back, touching his heels. The old man’s armor was as black as the darkest night, contrasting with his silver hair that flooded his back like a waterfall. At a closer glance, it appeared as if his armor and cape were alive, part of the old man’s own immortal flesh. This time, the old man did not look frail at all, as the General remembered, not even as old either. However, somehow, he knew it was the old man he once pitied.

“What do I want of you?” the old man did not say much for a short moment. “You remain here. You have not done what I have asked of you but ignored my counsel entirely. You have not yet ordered your men to explore these territories.” He paused for a brief moment and then continued, “Humans, tenacious and fools you all are. But that is not your fault. You have been made very flawed in our own image! Hear me out, General, muster an army and set forth a massive hunt for this tree that shall grant you the essence of power that you will need to battle your earthly enemies, natural and unnatural, in the impending war in which the gods are involved. This war is not only of the gods but also of earthly men. Yes, it should concern you much. You stopped believing in us a long time ago, I know. You provided us with nourishment and warmth through your prayers and sacrifices. Your soldiers do not offer us those fallen in wars by the edge of their blades anymore. They offer them to you as if you were a god equal to us.” The old man finished and lowered his gaze.

“But even gods can die as you might wonder,” the old man continued, “heed my words, General, for they are true. The gods of Rome are in desperate need of your support at this very moment. The enemy has come out of thin air, from nowhere, large armies of beings wielding great power. No god has ever seen creatures like these. They fly upon wings of feathers as they force their way into Olympus as we speak. Not only do they wish us harm, but they desire to enslave mankind and become their supreme rulers, crushing those who stand in their way in the process.”

Why would the gods fight amongst themselves? the General thought.

“Of what do you speak… a gods’ war?” It did not make sense to the General. He did not believe in the gods, much less believe they fight amongst themself for control of the human world. Foolishness.

“The war of the gods we call it.”

“Is this some kind of jape?” fretful, the General took a few steps back. “Did Pompey send you to mock me…or perhaps to murder me?” he began to breathe laboriously. “I won’t be killed easily, I assure you.”

“You have many enemies, indeed,” the old man said almost in a whisper, “for I have glimpsed at Nona, Decima, and Morta. Before the blades of the invaders reached my flesh, I was able to escape, but they could not harm the three sisters, though, for their existence is of a different nature than those of men and the gods. I have learned the exact moment when Morta will nip your thread with her abhorred shears; I have peeked into your own destiny, the way it might be if I have not intervened. My counsel could possibly change everything. But I do not promise you anything. Your future does not appear favorable, General. Heed my words. Find this tree, consume its fruit, and with its seeds, muster the army that will lead you to victory! Slay your enemies and offer the dead to our names. Perhaps it is pointless to go against the Fates.”

The old man, with an earnest stare, stood right before the General, dwarfing him like a mountain to a vale. The General noticed that the blotches on the old man’s face were gone, as well as his frailness. His skin suddenly smelled of sulfur, which the General found strange.

Concerned, the General slightly recoiled, gripping a silver dagger hidden within his robe. “If your words are true, where is this tree you speak of?”

“The tree’s location is not known to anyone, mortal or gods. We could have won this war some time ago had we only known where to find it. What I know is that the tree dwells in the realm of the mortal world of man. Only the Demiurge knew of its location. However, he chose death at the hands of his children rather than surrender such power to them. Parents almost always know what their children are capable of, but they ignore the signs altogether.”

The old man curled his hand into a fist and stared at the General, eyes glimmering white and azure, “Command your men to find it, and you will diverge our doom as well as yours.

I cannot aid you in your search any further. The intruders are searching for me at this moment. Time is against us.”

“If you are a seer…,” continued the General, holding a tight grip upon the hilt of his dagger, concealed within his robe, “do not trouble yourself trying to convince me that my future is already written. I forge my own destiny, whoever you may be. Go on! Persuade someone else. And tell the one who sent you that I am not afraid… and I will be fooled by no one, neither gods nor men.”

“You are truthful,” said the old man. “You are the only one who can change your own destiny. No one else can."