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writing_shadows Wait. Just wait. They’ll come soon, and then you’ll move. They’ll never see you coming. They’ll never suspect what you are.
Outside the serenity of this Pagan world, the city burned. Flames licked up the white stone columns, creating shadows that danced where vestal virgins had once offered heathen prayer. No more; Rome had been Christian for a century. A weak religion, destined for failure. Alaric was Christian; it hadn’t stopped his wanton pillage.
Rome had fallen. Fallen because of its failure to adapt, playing a drooling idiot in the purple at Ravenna. Fallen because it had paid off its enemies and not realised they would keep coming back and asking for more. Fallen because it had executed the only man able to stop the Visigoth hordes for imaginary treason. That had been folly; Stilicho may have been a half-barbarian from the Eastern Empire, but he had had more nobility than all the patricians who now lay dead on their impressive mosaic floors, or quaked in fear and piss as the Visigoths claimed their daughters for marriage.
Patience. Just a little longer now… keep still. Let them come in to the room.
She heard them before she saw them, the heavy footfall of triumph as they entered the sanctity of the temple. It still was a temple, even if the old Gods were no longer honoured, or recognised. Imposters, like Jesus, Mithras or Sol Invictus had risen, but she knew the truth. She had touched the face of the supernal. And she would not suffer her truth to be tarnished.
There were three of them who entered. The first two, as predicted, went straight for the gold she had piled in the centre of the room. Avarice and greed: the hallmark of the Foederati. The third rested below her, leaning against a pillar, sipping from a skin, drunk beyond recognition. She concentrated, allowing her will to extend out to him. The mental attack, sudden and vicious, overcame him in an instant.
The other two were busy lining their pockets. It gave her time to refocus, to concentrate. Although she had long dedicated the temple as a demesne, she still did not revel in vulgar practices. Only when necessary… such as now.
At last, the two noticed, breaking from the gold to rush over to their friend. At first, their guttural words asked each other if he had passed out from drink. It was only when they saw his eyes, and the blood trickling from his nose, that the gravity of the situation dawned.
And by that time, they hadn’t noticed that the beautiful, aged sculpture of Venus they had all walked past had turned to face them, that its mouth had turned into a smile of triumph, or that its hands twitched as it prepared its rotes to punish this trespass…
Outside the serenity of this Pagan world, the city burned. Flames licked up the white stone columns, creating shadows that danced where vestal virgins had once offered heathen prayer. No more; Rome had been Christian for a century. A weak religion, destined for failure. Alaric was Christian; it hadn’t stopped his wanton pillage.
Rome had fallen. Fallen because of its failure to adapt, playing a drooling idiot in the purple at Ravenna. Fallen because it had paid off its enemies and not realised they would keep coming back and asking for more. Fallen because it had executed the only man able to stop the Visigoth hordes for imaginary treason. That had been folly; Stilicho may have been a half-barbarian from the Eastern Empire, but he had had more nobility than all the patricians who now lay dead on their impressive mosaic floors, or quaked in fear and piss as the Visigoths claimed their daughters for marriage.
Patience. Just a little longer now… keep still. Let them come in to the room.
She heard them before she saw them, the heavy footfall of triumph as they entered the sanctity of the temple. It still was a temple, even if the old Gods were no longer honoured, or recognised. Imposters, like Jesus, Mithras or Sol Invictus had risen, but she knew the truth. She had touched the face of the supernal. And she would not suffer her truth to be tarnished.
There were three of them who entered. The first two, as predicted, went straight for the gold she had piled in the centre of the room. Avarice and greed: the hallmark of the Foederati. The third rested below her, leaning against a pillar, sipping from a skin, drunk beyond recognition. She concentrated, allowing her will to extend out to him. The mental attack, sudden and vicious, overcame him in an instant.
The other two were busy lining their pockets. It gave her time to refocus, to concentrate. Although she had long dedicated the temple as a demesne, she still did not revel in vulgar practices. Only when necessary… such as now.
At last, the two noticed, breaking from the gold to rush over to their friend. At first, their guttural words asked each other if he had passed out from drink. It was only when they saw his eyes, and the blood trickling from his nose, that the gravity of the situation dawned.
And by that time, they hadn’t noticed that the beautiful, aged sculpture of Venus they had all walked past had turned to face them, that its mouth had turned into a smile of triumph, or that its hands twitched as it prepared its rotes to punish this trespass…
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Date: 2011-07-20 06:25 pm (UTC)