The Oracle

King Hammond cannot sleep. His old battle wounds ache. Given the news quickly spreading throughout the galaxy it's difficult to imagine these pains as anything other than a premonition. Rumors of war are hiding like ghosts in the walls of his people's mouths. It is because of the starship.

A few moons ago, Hammond's guardsmen spotted the foreign body crashing from the sky. As the rest of the village slept, it pierced the atmosphere and arced downward somewhere beyond the Skulken Forest, landing hard on a far corner of the planet. Hammond's guardsmen journeyed many days until they found it and the body pinned beneath. Even in the big, white, clunky suit the human's fragile bones had been crushed on impact. The guardsmen removed the fractured bubble helmet from the corpse's face and scowled at the bizarre mamalian features. They inspected the small starship. It's wing was cracked but like a wounded, desperate bird, it could still manage flight. The human must have been a scout.

Disgusted, the guardsmen left the ship in the dirt and took news of it back to their king. Hammond can still remember the thinly veiled fear in the messenger's voice as he relayed all they had gleaned from their discovery:

"There's something you should know about, my Lord. In the Skulken Forest. It's a felled spacecraft. Of human design. It looks to be equipped for interstellar travel with a faster than light propulsion system. Perhaps fusion powered, perhaps thriving off antimatter. There was a 12,000 ton ball of frozen deuterium in it's core...the system might even be cryonics based...".

At those words Hammond had almost physically recoiled, overcome with disgust; perturbed both that the humans would dare to infiltrate the sanctity of their atmosphere and their gross overuse of technology. Though, the Tarnanites were vastly capable of and possessed the knowledge for science, for metal, and atoms, and lasers they preferred to rely on the old primordial ways. Hammond was of the firm belief it was what the gods would want.

Solemnly,Hammond had relayed the news of the human's encroaching to his people. The people began to talk. The people began to fear. Though he has tried to keep the dissent quiet, Hammond himself has been having the same dream since his men discovered the starship. The blood soaked one. The one where the humans' great white boots tear through Tarnan's purple dirt. Tonight is no exception.

This dream is what wakes him. War is a thing of their past now, but Hammond, The King of The Tarnanites, fears that the past will chase and devour him like a serpent after it's own tail. The royal amulet that he wears around his neck as king and protector feels heavy on his chest tonight.

Hammond turns to the question mark of his wife's sleeping body, resting beside him in bed. He has memorized the tribal song of her guttural snoring after so many nights together.

"Cardiminia," Hammond implores. He grabs her waist and pulls her greedily towards him.

"Hm?" comes her groggy, yet almost instant reply. She turns her sleep-heavy head , the moonlight skipping across the silver lakes of her eyes.

"You had the dream again, my love?" she asks.

"Mm," he grumbles in agreement. "The dream again."

Cardiminia shifts out of his grasp,turning her body to face his. She props herself up on one elbow. The look in her eyes is barely concealed panic, but the King can't help thinking of how beautiful she is. All curve and give, all soft purple flesh. Even after the passage of so many winters she is as breathtaking as the wide eyed girl he found kneeling beneath the great stone arcs in the holy place of the gods. Back then she was still their untouchable vessel, their Oracle.

The enchanted garden that once served as the holy prison of that Oracle is no longer enchanted. The spell was broken when the Oracle was destroyed. But in its days of lore, when the King was a reckless urchin, Tarnanites would slough in and fill the garden to the brim, waiting for their chance to speak to the Oracle. The Oracle would weave them tapestries of fortune, good or ill, from her tongue as the gods poured their words into her. On the day he fell in love with her, Hammond had come to discover whether he would ever become more than a dirty orphan, or die alone like an abandoned dog in the village dirt. But when their eyes met he saw his future in them in a way he had not expected to.

Cardiminia lost the vivacity of her seeing power when she fell in love. It could now only be awakened by her true love's touch. It was the curse of a sorceress, jealous of her beauty and foolish enough to believe that a woman's strength could be soiled by a man. But after The Sight dwindled and she became Queen, the nature of Cardiminia's strength became a new and ferocious beast of a different breed. She became the fortifier of the kingdom. The great arteries and veins holding it's heart, The King, in place. Cardiminia had willingly given herself up to be loved.

Hammond had been a hopeless, fatherless boy who filled his belly with thievery and slept in the pig pins of random farmers, huddled together with the stinking beasts for warmth. He had been an impossible choice for future king when he pushed his way to the front of the crowd at the altar and locked eyes with her. But Cardiminia had the kind of eyes that could make a ruler of an urchin. She had detected in him something as raw as it was worth believing in. Unalarmed, she had felt the Sight go out of her then.

"I want you to See for me" Hammond begs her now. The words she had known were coming. The rush of the gods infiltrating her bones, speaking through her, always takes a toll on her body and spirit. Yet she does not push away his fingers when he reaches for the sweetness between her thighs. The soft and wet of her. Her spine relaxed into the comfort of their mattress.

Her eyes close. His touch is gentle, patient until they both can feel the heat building low in her abdomen. Until her back arches. Her eyes roll like crazed marbles in their sockets. A voice that is not her own comes out of her mouth. Deep and scratching like the kiss of a witch on your cheek. An animalistic almost growl that sends a chill down the King's spine no matter how many times he hears it. In that moment she is not his wife. She is the Oracle.

"For many moons, thou hath fought. Not bloodshed but peace hath ye wrought. Yet nigh is the hour to cast off thy throne. Age doth ache thine ancient bones. Shouldest thou seek to protect that which ye cherish. Verily, verily thou shalt perish. Another must rise in thy noble stead. Thou must crown his noble head. For thine enemies art swift ,and like the gods, strong. The destruction of thy people shan't be held off long. Arise, arise whilst the hour is young. Crown the warrior likened to thy son".

The possession passes like a fever. And the King and Queen lie together silent in the darkness for a few moments, trembling for different reasons.

"Jora," Cardiminia says at last. "You must pronounce him King."

"No," Hammond replies, firmly, quickly.

"Why not?"

"He is not ready."

"The gods have spoken. They say he is. Do you defy them?"

Hammond turns to look at his wife in the darkness. Her cheeks are flushed a deep cerulean, she seems on the verge of tears. They care for Jora as the son they never dared produce. The boy is a warrior through and through. He is good of heart and loves his people. But there is something in him that Hammond cannot name. Something clawing to get out. A recklessness. A darkness. He is like an unbroken stallion content to roam the wild woods at his own neck breaking pace. A temper like a lightning strike. Too raw and unpredictable to be king.

Besides that, there was the issue of how the monarchy had functioned since the dawning of time on Tarnan. If you weren't born into the Crown, you had to challenge for it in a thrall of combat. The Challenge could only end when either the king or the challenger lay dead. Kings who persisted unchallenged ruled until their death. Simply giving away the royal amulet and bestowing the title upon another was unprecedented. Would the people acquiesce? Would they rebel? Jora was well loved and warmly met wherever he went on Tarnan, but would upsetting the delicate balance of tradition and government prove to be something even he could not survive?

"The boy is too wild," Hammond says.

"You were just the same at 18 winters of age." comes the reply.

"Thusly,I know he is not ready."

"You see too much of yourself in him and that makes you hard on him. But.." she stops, her voice trembling. Hammond can tell she is weighing the appropriateness of her thoughts.

"But what, my love?" he coaxes her.

"But I have always believed him to be our rokshai". Stunned into silence, Hammond struggles for a response.

In the Holy Scrolls, there is an ancient legend. It is supposedly written by the gods as all legends are, and promises that each generation would bear an Oracle: the mouth of the gods. The Oracle is always born bearing a white eyeball shaped scar, the mark signifying that their Sight has been opened. The Scrolls withering like abandoned flowers in the ancient castle library also promise a rokshai, a Chosen One, the gods' sword. A warrior hand-selected specifically by the cosmos to rescue the universe from certain damnation. Each rokshai would be born bearing the mark of the gods' wrath: a bright red lightning shaped birthmark. If there had ever truly been such warriors in generations passed, their names and stories had been swallowed up by the ages. It was a comforting tale mothers giggled to their children when they were teaching them to be brave, but no one truly believed it.

At last Hammond laughs. "Have I really loved a woman for so many moons without knowing her to be as whimsical as she is intelligent?"

"The gods' words are true. I was once their Oracle. I will always believe them," Cardiminia sighs.

Then her eyes do fill with tears. They break free streaking down her face and Hammond feels his heart in turn free fall to the pit of his stomach, a bloody sparrow shot out of the sky.

"Please, " she sobs. "Do what is right. Do whatever you must to save our people,".

In all their moons together he has never seen her cry. This immovable force of a Tarnanite, with the fierceness of a typhoon, with a heart that burns brighter than thousands of Tarninian suns.

"Guards!" The King calls without taking his eyes from the woman he loves.

There is the brief shuffle of activity outside and then the heavy door of their bedchamber swings open and the men who keep watch over them as they sleep appear. Their spears sharp, their eyes bright.

"What troubles you, my King?" asks the eldest one.

"Bring me The Champion at once," Hammond replies.

"It is done," they give a deep bow, and then shuffle away. The room is enveloped in murkey silence until the men return, moments later, bearing the boy like a gift.

Jora hurries to the King's bedside. He is fully dressed for war, the bow and arrow that moves and works like a third arm strapped taut across the vast continent of his broad back. The King feels a surge of pride in his gut despite himself. He knows The Champion would kill to protect him. And he has come ready to do just that.

"My Queen," Jora says, nodding at Cardiminia. It is more a perfunctory motion of respect than a greeting. His silver eyes are boring into the King, they are wide with fright.

"Why have you summoned me, My Lord?" he asks dropping down on bended knee at Hammond's side. "What dangers lurk at this unholy hour? I will slay them all."

It is the eagerness of youth, the King knows. He can't remember being that hungry for action. That desperate to feel the thick of his blade kiss through shoulder bone and tendons. Of course at Jora's age he'd had yet to touch a sword. Though the juvenile Champion somewhat looks and acts as a child, his hands lie stained with the blood of many men.

"There are no dangers save for the ones we dream," says the King. Jora's eyes dart from Hammond's face to the Queen's.

"Forgive me, I don't understand," he pauses, then chuckles. "Am I here to slay a nightmare?"

"You are here because I have a grave thing to ask of you,"

The Champion's thick, silver brows knit together, dark like storm clouds on his boyish face. "Anything, My King."

"King, no more," says Hammond quickly. He reaches up and pulls the royal amulet from around his neck, holding it out to the boy. Jora jerks backwards as if he had been threatened with a weapon.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"You are to be our king now."

"Why? Are you sick?"

"No, I am not sick."

"Then..."

"There is a war coming. One only you can fight."

"The humans," Jora says. A ferocious wave of understanding narrows his eyes. "Then you have," he looks towards Cardiminia. "The Oracle has-"

"Yes," says Hammond. "The Oracle has spoken."

Those narrow eyes are trained on the floor now. "I see,"

While Jora's head is bowed Hammond leans forward with the amulet again, pulling it over the tapestry of silver hair. This time Jora does not resist. The young warrior looks down at the jewel as it comes to rest against his collarbone, brushes his fingers over it in amazement .

"This means more to me than you could ever dream of. I know this is a large responsibility. I won't take it for granted. I will rely on your counsel. I will lead our people into battle. I will protect them. All of them," he says without stopping for breath, the words incessantly bubbling out of him.

Hammond placates him. "This I know, my boy. Just promise me you won't tell anyone of this yet. It's important that Tarnan hears this from me. After the First Light's Hunt I will call all of my people to the castle and officially pronounce you King. My successor."

Jora's handsome face darkens for a second with disbelief, then splits into an uncontrollable grin. Hammond puts a hand on his shoulder. "That's if," he says "you can manage not to destroy anything between now and then. That temper of yours-"

"This I know...My Lord. I....I will control it...I-"

"Hear me clearly, these words have no respect for the passage of time, they are meant for the present and the future as well. A king is governed by logic, compassion, and his own innate thirst for justice. Not carelessness and primordial rage. Royalty is the opposite of recklesness. A crown can be stripped away just as quickly as it can be given. The people will not bow to a foolhardy ruler." Hammond warns him.

"I understand. I understand this fully. I swear it by the gods on their thrones in the cosmos."

"Swear not by those who hear all, Jora Champion of His People. Lest they find some gruesome way to hold you to your oath." the King says, unable to stop the small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

He takes the boy's face in both of his hands and Jora is paralyzed by the intensity of his gaze.

"It is my solemn belief that you will make an excellent king in due time but I am persuaded to be forthright with you. I was reluctant to appoint you this night. In my eyes you are not ready. Prove me wrong. Do not make me regret this choice. I dare not defy the gods, but I want to do what's best for my people. For our people."

Jora covers the King's hands with his own, bursting with the earnest enthusiasm that makes him as loved as he is respected. "Doubt me not, My Lord. I am ready. I can show you I'm ready. If you give me the chance."

"You have it," says Hammond. He kisses the Champion's forehead. "Now go, my son. Prepare the men, women, and children for the First Light's Hunt. I will see you shortly thereafter."

Jora nods. He stands and bows deeply and is gone. Hammond turns towards his wife. She is watching him closely, an indecipherable message swimming in the pale pools of her eyes like the shadow of a water snake.

Fearing it would interrupt her connection to the gods Hammond had chosen never to Bind with her. It is only in moments like these when he can't tell what she is thinking that he finds himself regretting that decision.

"You are not all the way convinced." Cardiminia muses. It is not a question, and Hammond debates on giving a reply. At last he wraps his arms around her waist again, resting his weary head in the cradle of her neck.

"I dare not defy the gods," he sighs. Together, they fall into an almost impenetrable sleep, pierced only by the thunderous pounding of fists at their chamber door. Hammond shoots awake, jack knifing upright in bed, his bleary eyes struggling to focus on his surroundings.

"Come in," he bellows, then when the door opens and the feverish messenger boy appears, bending at the waist, heaving breaths in and out of his skeletal body the old king demands.

"Have you gone mad?"

"Your Majesty," wheezes the messenger boy. "Come quickly, it's Jora. He cannot be stopped."