and the other one
Rocky Road #7. Holy Place
Rating : G
Timeframe : 1252
Word Count : 354
Master Perdolo shuffled into the temple, a great bundle of herbs and flowers tucked under one arm. Rune barely looked up, the soft swish of his broom across the floor never ceasing. The old man hobbled along, through the warm patches of sunlight that filtered down from the windows overhead, to the central altar.
Setting the bundle at his feet, he opened it and drew a handful of yellow blossoms from the top. With a softly murmured prayer, he laid them at the statue’s feet. A smile crossed his lips as he spied the flowers already placed there.
“The red ones again?” he said.
“I like the red ones,” came the reply over the steady swipe of the broom.
“So I’ve noticed.”
Perdolo continued around the room, yellow flowers joining red at the shrines of fire and water, earth and air. Words long familiar slid from his lips as the blooms fell into place. He came, at last, to Cheva’s altar and stopped short. The red topped sprigs were laid out at the life goddess’s feet just as they had been with the rest, but at the rough hewn alter of Freone beside it, no less reverently placed, were more of the same.
“Rune,” he said sternly.
The rhythmic sweeping continued. “Yes, sir?”
Brows furrowed, the old man plucked one of the fragile stalks from the stone. “Your doing?” There was a long moment in which nothing but the scuffling of the broom filled the air. Of course it was his doing. Perdolo sighed. “My boy, there is a line between acknowledgement and worship. Not a fine one at that.”
Rune was finally still. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “She just, well, she looked sad.”
Perdolo peered up into the serene and otherworldly beauty of the goddess‘s face, long ago chiseled into place, and wondered, not for the first time, about the boy’s sanity. A goddess, not even a goddess, but the mere stone representation of one, sad? Were even the real gods capable of such things? Sweeping the rest of the flowers from the altar into his hand, he slowly shook his head.
Rating : G
Timeframe : 1252
Word Count : 354
Master Perdolo shuffled into the temple, a great bundle of herbs and flowers tucked under one arm. Rune barely looked up, the soft swish of his broom across the floor never ceasing. The old man hobbled along, through the warm patches of sunlight that filtered down from the windows overhead, to the central altar.
Setting the bundle at his feet, he opened it and drew a handful of yellow blossoms from the top. With a softly murmured prayer, he laid them at the statue’s feet. A smile crossed his lips as he spied the flowers already placed there.
“The red ones again?” he said.
“I like the red ones,” came the reply over the steady swipe of the broom.
“So I’ve noticed.”
Perdolo continued around the room, yellow flowers joining red at the shrines of fire and water, earth and air. Words long familiar slid from his lips as the blooms fell into place. He came, at last, to Cheva’s altar and stopped short. The red topped sprigs were laid out at the life goddess’s feet just as they had been with the rest, but at the rough hewn alter of Freone beside it, no less reverently placed, were more of the same.
“Rune,” he said sternly.
The rhythmic sweeping continued. “Yes, sir?”
Brows furrowed, the old man plucked one of the fragile stalks from the stone. “Your doing?” There was a long moment in which nothing but the scuffling of the broom filled the air. Of course it was his doing. Perdolo sighed. “My boy, there is a line between acknowledgement and worship. Not a fine one at that.”
Rune was finally still. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “She just, well, she looked sad.”
Perdolo peered up into the serene and otherworldly beauty of the goddess‘s face, long ago chiseled into place, and wondered, not for the first time, about the boy’s sanity. A goddess, not even a goddess, but the mere stone representation of one, sad? Were even the real gods capable of such things? Sweeping the rest of the flowers from the altar into his hand, he slowly shook his head.