by T. C. Edge
He smiles once more, and retreats into the shadows, heading off to try to console his allies, his friends. I watch him go, and see him whispering to the two men who stood beside him in Westhollow, who preached words of heresy against the Prime. Their expressions mirror his, willing to accept their ends. Anyone willing to preach against the Prime must know what price they may have to pay.
But what of their wives? Were they truly innocent of this act, or complicit simply by their relationship to the apostates? Perhaps they were there, trying to stop their husbands from going through with their plan. Maybe that's all it was. Two loving women who didn't want to see their husbands throw their lives away.
I look at them all and see the entire Fringe in a nutshell. A people cowering in fear; content, and even happy, on the surface, but with a simmering core of distress underneath. A people unable to live the lives they truly want, to expand and explore, to express themselves beyond the religious doctrines passed down from Olympus. A people stifled by control, forced to live simple lives in the shadow of something greater.
It is the disparity, above all, that never leaves my mind, the iniquities of this world that grate on my thoughts like sandpaper on skin. Ever am I sore, raw, my thoughts accosted by this gnawing sense of inequality and discrimination. It is a thought that so few share, or will ever admit to feeling.
And worst of all, I know that I'll never have the guts to do anything about it. That, despite my newfound heritage, I'll never be able to affect any real change.
My mind tumbles off as I sit there in the darkness, stroking Jude's hair, praying for him to wake so that I can grow warm again in his company. I have a trump card here, and that may just save me. If I reveal what I am, will they spare me? Will they try to make me live among them, as Jude warned, a fate that might be even worse than death?
Perhaps, I wonder as I sit there, it will be better to accept my end than be forced to live among their lie. To become one of them, these people I so despise. To be a cog in their dreadful machine.
And then, once again, I think of Jude, drawn into this awful mess of my own making. He never even spoke words of dissent and heresy. Aside from leading me onto the Sacred Plains, he never put a foot wrong, and doesn't deserve to die.
And that, I know, is what I must convince them.
The carriage rolls on, the minutes merging into hours as the mist continues to billow and part as we pass on through. We move around rock formations turned to statues, grand and epic, some so massive that their torsos get lost in the fog above. A numbness engulfs me at the sight of them all, the grandeur, the show of power that does so much to convince the Fringe of the divinity of these people, even though most will never see these wondrous creations in the flesh.
And, yes, there is something so truly awe-inspiring about them, so daunting and grand, that even my thoughts betray me on occasion. Much as I hate it, it's hard to not be overawed by it all, think of the vast and wondrous powers these people possess, the godlike things they can do.
But, within that lies my greatest chagrin. These people, with the gifts and powers their genes have bestowed upon them, could so easily create a better world for all. They could design a utopia, a perfect society, one not limited to their own experience, but open to all those who reside across the Fringe, and even beyond in faraway lands.
Yet, they don't.
They hide behind their walls, and force tens, even hundreds of thousands of people to submit to their rule, to their way of life, controlling them through fear and the terrible punishments that await those who fall out of line. They create a divide between those with power and those without, and even go so far as to decide just who can join them. Not only those found worthy to serve them up close, but those with latent powers - latent divinity - hidden deep down in their genes.
Some may see their powers awakened, and brought to Olympus to live among them. Others will be overlooked, never given the opportunity, even if their blood simmers with great potential, a power just waiting to get out.
They pick and choose and design their own world, their own ideal utopia. They fill gaps that need filling, and ignore all those who don't fit. Across the Fringe, as my grandmother says, are many people with genetically augmented genes, men and women from old bloodlines whose powers have never come to life. They could all find themselves living among the Children of the Prime, but so few are actually awakened. So few are chosen to ascend.
Why?
Because if that were the case, it would overwhelm Olympus, and threaten the ability of the Fringe to praise, worship, and provide tribute to the city of the gods. It would reshape the balance of the two disparate peoples, and undermine what it means to be divine. More so-called gods would come to life. The numbers of Devotees would shrink. And within that new world, the people would see that we are not so very different at all.
That we are, in fact, all the same.
My thoughts are broken by movement, as Jude begins to shuffle by my side. I feel his head shift, my fingers still clinging to his wavy locks of hair. My eyes turn down to find his opening, the mist continuing to clear a little, the light of dawn beginning to approach. Within this carriage, time has become abstract, speeding along, hastening the coming of a brand new day.
"Jude," I whisper, my voice croaking. "How are you?"
He manages to sit up with a wince, reaching up to rub at the back of his head. A lump has formed there now from where he was knocked out.
"What...happened?" he asks, voice groggy, eyes the same. He blinks a few times, his gaze taking in these new surroundings. "We're...moving?"
I nod, tears beginning to gather. Tears of joy at hearing his voice, seeing those chestnut eyes come back to life. Tears of grief at what is to come, at the predicament I've gotten him into.
"We're headed for Olympus," I say, my voice weak, my energy spent. I need to sleep, to recover. It's not a physical weariness that weighs me down, but an emotional one. Something far more debilitating. "Perses's men, they took us in."
His eyes show recall, remembering what happened. He manages to sit up a little straighter, turning his eyes through the bars around us, the carriage open to the cold air of the early morning, no barrier blocking us from the haunting mist.
Then he sees the others, the five men and women locked in this mobile prison cell with us. He draws a sharp breath when he sees them, huddled at the rear, his vision quickly adapting. They appear to be sleeping, or at least trying to do so. Only Raymond remains obviously awake, sitting a little to one side in pensive thought, the two men who joined him in his heresy cuddling to their wives, still trying to comfort them.
"Who are they?" Jude whispers. He seems distressed by their presence and appearance, a sign, perhaps, of what awaits us.
"They were taken from Westhollow," I inform him, both of us looking upon the huddled group with shrouded, hooded eyes. "They spoke out against the Prime. Just...just like me."
"The revolt," says Jude, quick to catch up. He pulls a slow breath into his lungs, coming to a realisation of what this all is. He smiles weakly. "Well, at least we'll get to see the city, right?"
Tears begin to trickle down my cheeks as his words come. The guilt is overwhelming.
I shuffle closer to him, needing his warmth. It's pathetic, and I know it is, and I know, too, that I don't deserve it, but I nuzzle into him anyway, cuddling up close. He draws a strong arm around me, whispering softly, telling me it'll be all right.
I allow the unearned indulgence, feeling sick, feeling stupid. I notice Raymond looking over at us with a mournful gaze, seeing two young people caught up in the injustice of Olympus. And yet, all over the Fringe, the people will praise this, say that heretics deserve to be gathered up, executed, sacrificed for their dangerous preachings. They have become so indoctrinated that they will support the killing of their own people, just to maintain the status quo.
We are a carriage of martyrs who'll be quickly forgotten. And even now, despite everything I've done, everything I've
put him through, Jude comforts me.
The light continues to bloom, the thinning mist presenting a clearer view ahead. I sit in Jude's arms, unable to form words, thinking only of how I can help save him from this dreadful plight.
Down at the other end, the huddle of bodies begin to unfurl, dirtied, beaten frames starting to thaw. They creep towards the bars, anxious and yet eager, so afraid of what awaits them and yet unable to hold back the wonder from their eyes as the carriage creeps closer to the city of gods.
The film of air, so thick for so long, begins to dissipate. I find myself staring out, my breathing beginning to quicken, as we press towards what appears to be the final wall of fog. I see the carriages ahead of us approach it, pass through the veil, seeming to almost disappear as they venture on through. We loom nearer, the front of the carriage pressing into the swirling shroud. The barrier of thick air engulfs, us, temporarily obscuring our vision.
And then, suddenly, as we pass on through to the other side, the world blooms to life.
I'm greeted by skies of intense, vibrant blue, of colour like I've never seen. The fog that had blanketed the lands for dozens of miles and several days departs, replaced by air so clear you can almost taste its purity.
I draw a sharp breath as my eyes widen, taking in the vast expanse that stretches out before us, the azure skies contrasting so beautifully with the yellows and browns of the warm, craggy tundra. Yet amid those earthy tones I see verdant greens and colours of all variety, patches of vegetation, littered with glorious flower gardens, peppered across the plains.
Statues of great proportion and fine detail appear, standing like totems across the land. They finally come into full view, looming tall, striking magnificent, heroic, godlike poses. I'm left stunned by the sight, lost for words. All the others within the carriage stare like children at the stars, marvelling at the scale, the magnificence, of what they see.
And in the distance, dominating the horizon only a half mile or so away, I see a sight more staggering than any I've ever witnessed: the mighty walls of Olympus, reaching to the skies, crafted of rock and stone and surrounded by a great, wide moat.
Slowly, we all press closer to the bars, clinging to the cold metal in the cool morning light, faces staring out between the slats. No one speaks as we roll onwards, the ground smoother here than elsewhere across the Sacred Plains, this final stretch around the walls of Olympus manufactured and perfected, a true oasis in the suffocating fog, a garden of Eden to which gods call home.
The sun continues to rise, the beautiful hue of dawn breaking with wild colours. Violets and reds and vibrant purples explode on the eastern horizon, sending down rays of celestial light upon the walls, the plains, the myriad gardens and grand statues dispersed all around us.
I see a huge bridge drawn up against the towering outer palisade, the great bastion looming higher as we approach. I marvel at it, wondering how men could build such things. And then I realise; these aren't just men. No, something strange and wondrous resides beyond those walls. A great power. A great malevolence.
A heavy grinding sound begins to flow our way, cutting through the quiet morning air. I see the bridge begin to lower, slowly falling down on chains, setting itself into place across the wide moat. And then, another sound, calling from watchtowers across the high walls, trumpets sounding the return of Perses, great Herald of War, as his cohort nears the city.
I find Jude next to me again, our hands instinctively clamping together. We share a look as we roll closer, awed, overwhelmed, profoundly shaken by the events to have befallen us, by what we're seeing.
And though I always knew that Olympus would be a place of great scale and beauty, this is beyond anything my imagination could conjure.
The carriages reach the drawbridge, and the mighty gates open, built of iron and topped with jagged spikes.
Ahead, the interior of Olympus awaits.
16
The carriages rumble over the bridge, wheels grinding on wood. I turn my eyes left and right and look through the metal bars. The moat stretches wide, separating the huge outer walls from the plains beyond. It cuts deep, excavated, perhaps, by the same Forgers who built the city itself, the rock and stone of the plains extracted to create the walls, and dig the moat all at once.
I search down into the depths and see water, the hint of razor sharp spikes within, dangers lurking in the hidden depths. I turn again to the walls and note how smooth they appear, from a distance at least. Walls that are impossible to scale, impossible to even reach. A city impenetrable from any threat that might venture this way, if, of course, they're able to first find it.
My attention is once more snatched as we reach the midpoint of the bridge. I look again at the huge gate, opened wide and shining silver under the morning light. Beyond it, down a short tunnel running through the thick walls, I see another, a portcullis lifted to its summit to allow us entry within.
For a few seconds, we're back in darkness as we venture down the tunnel, the wheels of the wagons rattling with an echo, a sense of mild claustrophobia closing in. Then, passing through the second, vertical-lifting gate, we enter into a grand courtyard, tiled with beautiful paving stones, each one crafted with symbols and painted with vibrant colours.
The carriages roll into the multi-coloured courtyard, surrounded on all sides by statues that, once more, draw my eye. And among those statues, standing like tiny versions of them, I see soldiers on guard, awaiting the return of the man who commands them. They wait, posture perfect like the citizens of Black Ridge, lowly deities of battle, foot soldiers who serve under the likes of Perses, great Herald of War.
They aren't, however, alone. I see others too, dressed in fine robes and cloaks of varying colours, other Children of the Prime who live here in peace and luxury, waited upon by those found worthy. I search for those elevated Devotees, wondering if I might see Lilly. My eyes scan through the assembled citizens, watching us as the carriages roll in through the cobblestone square.
I catch no sight of my sister, but see others who I imagine must be old residents of the Fringe. They stand behind their masters, heads bowed, dressed in cloth that, while still fine, looks less pristine than those they serve. Their ambition was to worship and praise the people of Olympus up close. It seems, on first inspection, that they got what they wished.
To me, they look like nothing but slaves.
My eye is drawn by a humming sound, spreading from one side. I turn and a host of the Worthy come into view, grouped together in a mass of fifty of so. They kneel together, humming in unison, much like the ten I saw in Black Ridge. And like in that border town on the Fringe, this group gather around a statue of the Prime, praising and worshiping the god who rules here, the one true deity whom all call father, who can't now be far away.
The thought strikes at me, and I continue my search, letting my eyes feast. So much of what I try to take in is obscured by the presence of tall statues, not as grand as those on the plains, but more finely carved and detailed. They surround the square, this entry point to the rest of the city, passages passing between them a dozen different directions. Only in hints do I see what lies beyond, spotting grand structures through gaps, wondering just what they might be.
Some tower high, suggesting buildings of colossal size. They come in various forms of architecture, topped with spires and arches and domed roofs, often colourful and uniquely decorated. It seems to me that the city is separated into distinct areas and regions, each one carrying with it its own specific style and form. And there, right down the centre, I see the hint of a great temple in the far distance, surrounded by pillars and with a beautiful triangular roof. It sits up there in the skies, upon a towering hill, mostly hidden within the mist and looking down upon it all.
I know, seeing it, that this is where the Prime resides.
It's gone in a flash as the carriage rolls on and the mists roll in, the sight of the great temple disappearing as statues and walls and other buildings block my view.
> I continue my search, awed by it all, as the great sights are joined by smells. Sweet smells that radiate through the streets, overpowering the scent of sweat that spreads from my companions, and probably myself as well. I breathe in deep, and note the scent of flowers and wondrous fragrances. I look around to find the source of those scents, imagining that many originate from the women here, dousing themselves in perfumes, bathing in pure, sweet-smelling waters.
I meet the gaze of several beautiful women as my eyes wander, dressed in colours I hardly even knew existed, and cloth so pure it looks like they must wear new garments every day. They regard me with disdain, their faces subtly contorted into expressions that make clear their feelings for me and my kin. I want to shout out at them that I have fire in my blood, that they're no better than me, or Jude, or any one of the people from Westhollow in here with us.
But I hold my tongue, too sickened to react or respond. I won't debase myself for these hubristic, sneering people. I won't make a plea to join them. I'd rather die than become one of their number, to endure life in this pit of snakes.
I draw back from the bars, angry and disgusted, settling down into the middle of the carriage, refusing to continue to gape and gawp as the city passes us by. I turn my eyes down, disinterested, too aggravated to risk locking eyes with anyone else. My gaze sticks to my feet and stays there. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing the wonder on my face.
We make a sharp turn, veering off to the left. The sunlight douses, fading a little as we venture between two grand statues of mighty, muscular warriors, creeping down a tighter street away from the central square. We rattle on for a little while before another courtyard beckons. The humming of the Worthy, and the light chatter of the residents is replaced by a sombre, eerie silence, broken only by the movement of the carriages as they venture further into the city down a long, dark channel.
I lift my eyes again and see a courtyard of dark stone appear. The colours have vanished, replaced by a single, monochrome dressing, the square much smaller than the one we first entered, surrounded by low stone buildings of intimidating facade.