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ÇAÇÔ, Man of the Morning Star, protasis, p.1 Harsh, b.1, canto 10

Canto Ten ~ In a citadel of unparalleled antiquity a new player is introduced.
It hides within an immaculate cloak, nature unrevealed. Not necessarily human, he is man like in appearance and darkly mysterious.
Inside the immense and unblemished room, he searches in an ancient Seer for information of his coming Lord. Within the oddly flowing orb upon the ground we watch the events at the beginning of our tale from a different perspective.
Six times previous has the cloaked figure’s god king been born. Four times has he been overcome, twice the creature himself chose abortion to avoid a perceived threat beyond his manipulation. In service to the powers that would inflict his Dark Lord upon the world, he prays for this time to be the True Time, for the portents are more favorable than ever before~ if the infant exists, it has been born at the confluence of Harsh morning and Midnight’s Bite.
Although the child’s mother is unfit, the father, unknown to us, is revered by the hooded figure as exquisite. The Seer, it would seem, displays visions of the past as well as the present and although silent, conveys also the emotions of those things it reveals.
Having studied the scene to the point of exhaustion for the stone (it is perhaps alive), he seeks confirmation the child has indeed come into the world.
His preparation is vast, including an army of the dead he creates to serve his King. It is here we learn the armored and mounted monster serves him also.
The Demon Childéan Kew does not.
In the hierarchy of the god king, the demon is the cloaked figure’s superior. Agonized, he watches as the Angel of Pain descends upon the young mother to serve his purpose and bond with the child as its protector. That Kew has been imprisoned within by the child himself is not apparent in the visions and thus unknown to our mysterious spectator.
If the robed creature was ever human, it nevertheless weeps with man like emotion when he learns the truth. His Dark Lord is once more come and the darkling priest waits to serve him with his considerable all.

Canto Ten

He walks across the slanted floor
and leaves behind a subtle spoor.

Perhaps the term of “He” is wrong
and “It’s” not walked for ages long.

The track it takes athwart the room 5
is angled steep and draped in gloom.

The rich, brown cloak of cared for wool
is kept in place by tug and pull.

A clinging haze that follows strides
diminutive hangs low and hides 10
its coasting gait. It sneaks its stare
suspiciously, though walls are bare,
as outsized hood swings pendulant
from side to side precisely bent.

Convinced somehow it’s being watched 15
by hidden spies, it shies at splotched
discolorments scrubbed clean of dirt.
Its scuff is tense, its frame alert.

Each wall is made of stones piled high.
Though ancient, still all straight they lie. 20

As well, if one could run his thumb
along the walls that lie in plumb,
he’d find that not a dust mote one
was there to add to each one’s ton.

Immeasurably wide this place 25
and still it feels quite cramped for space.

An army drills a smaller field
with horses and need never yield
division to battalion’s spot
and still it thinks~ “Too small my lot.” 30

On having reached this end at last
and covered space so steep and vast,
it stops and catches breath a while,
then draws from out its cloak a vial.

“He” stands before the only thing 35
within a tiny lighted ring.

“It” seems indeed quite all alone
upon the floor of dusted stone.

In size and shape of small man’s head
and close the color when he’s dead. 40

At first one thinks the thing is round,
but shortly liquid shapes confound.
He reaches down and gently moves
the small, queer thing where it behooves
the both of them to have it at. 45

He looks within and sits to chat.

The orb has been allowed to rest
as long as they can spare and lest
they both remain thus uninformed
they’ll now return to place bestormed. 50

Though care he’ll take to keep it strong
and not plunge rashly forth headlong.

One’s patience is a virtue here,
especially anent the Seer.

The outer edges glowing pale 55
impressions leave as being frail.

Misleading is the thing’s cool skin.
Though ghostly pale without~ within~
raw visions black turn, spin and twist.
Tall trees whip back and forth to list. 60
The rains as Mother Nature’s wept
fall hard and fast. The ground is kept
in constant flow. She never rests.
Evicting badgers, birds from nests.
Deep creeks and gullies change at whim. 65
Far inland seagulls swoop and skim,
perhaps the only ones at home.
Then they as well flee epitome
of furious squall; bright lightning blast.

Why should this storm bend so the mast? 70

Now, wonder not his wonder at
the view he has from where he’s sat,
for he has done this several times
and studied these disturbing mimes.

But others were they able now 75
to see within would wonder how
such things as bleak from past the vale
do not perturb, far less he quail.

For there within the thund’rous storm,
a happenstance that’s far from norm 80
is happening again for him.
His fingers worry, black and slim,
the vial and flips the glass spellbound
thru spotless nails too deftly ground.

With little strain he’s focused sight 85
of motile stone in vibrant night.

As if upon an eagle’s wings,
their gaze together shifts and slings
down to a large, old cart, old horse
that quiet stands in combat’s course. 90

A swordsman on the run with blade
he wields as of his arm was made,
leaps backward on the beast’s wide spine
and somehow stays ahead of tine
that stand from mace and sweep at him 95
though held by beast both swift and grim.

A stroke with sword appears too wild
and rips thru harness. Sleep defiled,
the horse rears up and stops the mace
with wide, crazed eye upon its face. 100

The swordsman lands upon his feet,
but wills himself fall quick and neat
so mace might swing above his head.
The horse, a shield, stands in his stead.

And now “they” see the cart explode~ 105
an epic, shrieking episode.

It arcs thru air at moment same
the armored beast had leapt to maim
the swordsman who prepares to bolt
as cart and horse collide. The jolt 110
sends mace and rider, frantic steeds,
to ground and as he hoped~ impedes.

Afar within the mystic globe,
the visions in the spectral strobe
reveal again to both their gaze 115
a complex start of his new maze.

As cart and horse collapse to earth
the girl who hid within, near birth,
floats thru the wreck and thru its wheel
to slide o’er mud and blood and steel. 120

As if ‘twere struck by lightning’s flash,
the sword he held when start the crash
is left to fall. Defenseless, still,
the swordsman hesitates, his will
so split between the girl before 125
and beast he dare not now ignore.

Whate’er his sense of right or wrong,
of virtue, honor, weak or strong,
what next he does is past it all.
Before the girl completes her fall 130
the soldier’s on the move toward her.

Such things within his heart now stir
that never in his life he’s known.
Cross legged on the floor’s cold stone
the creature feels it all, for true, 135
this more than sight the orb will do.

No longer does he fear the man.
He waits upon the charlatan
to die again, for all of this
he’s seen before. The tight, low hiss 140
the orb’s released anticipates
the end they’ve sought. O, still he waits.

Then thru the chaos and the wreck,
the armored horse comes stretching neck
to span it all that stands in way 145
of flying mace and dreadful day.

The beast, its mount strike hard to land
and turn in place before the hand
of swordsman raising bare and free.
The mass of steel rears forth debris 150
of mud and slaughter thrown on high.

He falters briefly thrown awry
and stops mid stride to jump aback
with eyes to foe demoniac.

Behind the beast and its crazed mount 155
who has no care but one to count,
the young girl crawls forth from the steel
to find but strength enough to kneel.

To whom she prays is clear to both
the orb and he who’s sworn such oath 160
that ties them thru his lives to God.
Ne’erless he feels a pity odd.

He deems that he who’s called upon
won’t offer aid her precious son.

Now thru the air, spite silent stone, 165
his God’s soon born, with voice whose hone
is as man’s sin, speaks forth decree
to claim His realm~ “I yet will be.”

When last they gazed, precisely here,
the view had fade. Fatigue severe 170
had taken toll of mawkish gem.
Delay had seemed a requiem.

His patience now drawn tight and thin
he whispers soft in hope~ “Begin.”

First moment one and then the next, 175
he sees anew and grows perplexed.

Though all within this scene he’ll view
and more besides, what next ensue,
it is the girl he’s focused on.
In visions shortly past the dawn 180
of that bleak day so paramount,
he’s seen the man of no account
stretched lifeless near the dam’s still form;
maternal sacrifice lukewarm.

But nowhere in that darkened scene 185
were signs of what they searched for keen.
Still, here and here alone to look
for bounden duty undertook.

Should child be dead or not the one,
the vial shall leave his life undone. 190

Six times they laid the Holy See,
six times postponed their destiny.

Three times the child had died at birth.
The last was dam of little worth.

The fourth had reached a toddling age 195
when foes led by The Traitor Mage
dismembered Him at Citadel.
The Mage betrayed their Lord in Hell.

O’er eons vast he’s guard The Gate
that yet retains His blood. Slow Fate 200
alone shall wash it free at last.
That this life also may have passed
portends disaster since unmatched.
He fears the child has been dispatched.

Once more upon His soul’s return 205
to Hell and warmth of healing burn,
the infant’s spirit will again
find entrance to this realm of sin.

Six times and now He has been born
and hard the break of heart forlorn 210
if all have failed, but try he must
times and again~ his dire trust.

Far better that this chance is true
for brightly shine the portents’ hue.
Though mater is once more unfit, 215
such fated nature exquisite
of sire found could make of choice
a child with consecrated voice.

Then soft, as outsized hood is wound
to close the ailing gem surround, 220
he wipes it gently with his hand.
He scowls in silence at the band
of sweat that beads from it, his face
to softly drop its touch and trace
a framework of emotions for 225
the visions warming in its core.

Procelous, black and shrouded night
reveals to those nearby no sight
of dread and tragic circumstance
that rhythmic sways its cosmic dance. 230

But to those in its heart and those
who watch in vain, danseurs expose
danseuse at heart and all she bears.

Reality itself she tears.

From high so trailing tempest’s stream, 235
the mace shoots down and down in dream.
The man is grim and holds his place.
No hope has he to stop the mace.

His only thought is when the blow
is struck the beast must follow so 240
and step the steel braced hooves from her.
The blow’s an all but unseen blur.

To ground he goes and vain was hope.
With ease the fiend rolls back its lope.

Were thing upon the horse a man 245
the swordsman might this stygian,
berserk and flailing beast predict.
Its presence only will inflict
destruction in its frantic prance
thru mud too close to her for chance. 250

It needs the dauntless swordsman dead.
Were this task done it would have fled.
An instant and he knows ‘tis lost,
for he cannot keep counting cost.

No cat is he and though he’s luck, 255
but twice or thrice may he be struck
and live to brace against it more.
And so, he crawls unto the whore
to look within the eyes he’s sold
his soul for and but once to hold. 260

The last of him to brace upon
her form and die that beast is gone.

Above the orb, detesting need,
the shaking figure notes the speed
with which the Demon, late arrive, 265
has come to keep the child alive.

His melodrama o’er the dam,
as if in rape ad nauseam,
shakes him, hence gem as anger’s lit.
By force of will he calms the fit 270
before the orb is weakened more.
This chance must not be risked forbore.

A moment and the man is there
protecting her and unaware
the armored beast is his to call. 275
It always was. No harm at all
will come to dam before His birth,
then struck she shall be from the Earth.

His Army of the Dead will swarm
when all have died and so conform. 280

‘Tis not to be the only thing
he’ll offer to his new born King.

The monster is cut from such cloth
as swordsman will by bestial wroth.
A weapon’s final blow is struck. 285
The thrice doomed swordsman counts on luck
then folds to earth as if in death.
The priest assumes ‘twas his last breath.

Should no disaster issue forth
from blessed, youthful dam abhorr’th, 290
then gloried time celestial
will solemn dawn from blessed Hell.

Six times before his heart has leapt
and six times he has shook and wept.

Millennia he’s patient wait. 295
This trust he’ll never abdicate.
Eternity is far too short
to weary and thus chance abort.

At last the young girl’s strength has left
and in this moment grave bereft 300
of will to aid her savior’s birth.

He watches now in growing mirth.
The Godking in His bournless might
Himself slays mother in the night.

In vain to hide his tears he tries 305
as thru the din of war hears cries
that tremble thru the rock and air.
Cries ringing forth from His allwhere.

His Lord of Darkness once more come
and from afar fatidic drum. 310

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
For Rula, William and Scott.
Editing stage: 


Once again I wish that others would read and comment on your works.
In reading it they would gain such a lot in the ways of old and the language used by some.
As usual your flow of words and descriptions are beyond reproach, This as I have said should be published in poetic form and as a story, could be in the same book it would be a treat to some, Yours Ian.T

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

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