A Prophecy of Blood

Let it be spoken, let it be heard... Part one of four in the Jogen series.

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400 years before Man’s Dominion

It was the Year of Recounting, a time when the Rephor people of Jokhthen would gather in remembrance of their people’s history. It was a time of reflection, of rejoicing; a time of mourning, and a time of looking to the future. Shemesh recounted his people’s saga from memory as he ascended the stairs leading to the grand plateau, where the Ceremony of Remembrance was being held. The tribe’s leaders would be gathered there, awaiting his arrival, having been well-fed and well-drank.

The Ceremony of Remembrance — the Mnemorea — had gone on unabated for over a week now, and today was the final day. Stalls and tents had been erected atop the grand plateau, each bursting with peddlers desperate to sell off the last of their goods before packing up and leaving the next day. The smell of smoked meat and fried noodles permeated the grounds, enticing the noses of hungry passersby. All except Shemesh. He could not stand the thought of eating, not today.

It was a beautiful day. A blessing from the Ancients, surely. There was not a cloud in the sky, and a sweetness floated on the winds, bringing with it fair tidings from every corner of Jokhthen. A shame. Shemesh wished he could enjoy it, but that was not his mission this day. No, like a stormcloud fat with rain, Shemesh’s arrival darkened the sky. Each man and woman attending the festivities felt this as he crossed the final step onto the plateau.

Faces that contained smiles and laughter drooped like wilting flowers once they saw Shemesh, dressed in his mourning robes. None dared to speak as he passed, fearing that the foul spirits he carried might notice them and lay their curse upon them. They did so in vain. The Ancients and their host had already cursed them, Shemesh was only the messenger.

A hand from the crowd took hold of Shemesh’s shoulder. He stopped, unsure of who it could be.

“My friend!” said the voice belonging to the hand. “It is good to see you.”

Shemesh turned and was greeted by a familiar, yet unlikely face. “Baylmon?” he asked. “You are here, in Kothamb? I thought—”

“I already know what you thought, Shemesh. My presence is unexpected, yes, but I am here nonetheless. It was a long journey from Tashank, but well worth it to see you.”

It was a five day trip from Tashank to Kothamb. Not something one would do on a whim.

“So you’ve heard then, have you?”

Baylmon nodded. “I have.”

“The Ancients?”

“They told me to come, yes,” Baylmon said.

“I see. Then it is good to see you.” Shemesh pulled his dear friend in close, the two of them sharing a long embrace. It had been many decades since they last spoke. “I am glad you are here.”

“We can catch up afterwards, Shemesh. I must not hold you from your task.”

“Yes… my task.” Shemesh regarded his friend, not confident that they would get the chance to speak again. “Will you be attending?”

Baylmon flared his nostrils, forced a sharp exhale. “Yes, I will be there.”

A relief. Perhaps the only one Shemesh would get this day. “Good, then perhaps we will see each other after it is done.” He knew it was a lie before he even said it.

Baylmon departed with a final wave, leaving Shemesh stranded amongst the plateau’s crowd. The prophet sighed. His was a lonely calling.

***

The tribe’s leaders had all gathered in the place of hearing — the Akoutheon — an open acropolis situated above the plateau’s main gathering grounds. Each leader had been granted a place of honor: one of twelve carved thrones, which were arranged in a circle around the center of the dais. Their curious eyes watched Shemesh from all around. Anticipation, like electricity, charged the spaces between them as the prophet took his place in the center. He glanced at his audience, taking to mind each of their faces. Each leader had brought their respective Anakhthenar, who clung to the back of their thrones like a shadow. Shemesh shivered at the sight of the judges, dressed in their dark robes and unbraided hair. Death was near to this place.

The pounding of heels on stone shook Shemesh from his trance. The rhythmic thumping pounded in tandem with his heart. All of Jokhthen waited in anticipation for what was to come. This would be the final celebration of the Mnemorea, a time reserved for the hearing of the future, which Shemesh had been chosen to deliver this year.

A ceremonial elder stepped forward to meet Shemesh in the center of the dais. His was a golden robe — one of hope — and he bore a stone bowl filled with a fine green powder. Shemesh straightened a little taller as the offering was presented to him.

“Palaiosar þe ei khaldenar, kai viteð ei farþu gefar,” the elder said, then dipped his thumb in the powder. May the Ancients bless you and give wisdom to you in your journey. The powder was then rubbed beneath Shemesh’s nose, and he breathed deeply of it. The dust filled his airways, tingling and burning as it spread to his lungs and eventually his bloodstream. A nosebleed came next, which Shemesh let drip onto the stones, consecrating the ground with his blood.

The ceremony had begun.

Time became an afterthought as visions available only to Shemesh flooded his mind. What were actually seconds passed before him in decades yet to come. He saw the Ancients’ plans for his people unfold before him. It was too much for one man to grasp, yet somehow he was given the ability to see it all, and to understand it. The Akoutheon seemed eons away now; Shemesh forgot about it and the Mnemorea entirely. He was caught up in something much larger, his own consciousness taking flight and leaving his body behind. It felt good to fly so high.

And then it was over. Shemesh awoke on the ground, being held by the ceremonial elder. He was a sniveling, quivering mess — kissed by madness. The accusation was written on the faces of the tribal leaders before him.

The elder helped Shemesh to his feet once he’d regained control of his faculties. Shemesh dusted his robe off, then the bottom of his nose where some residual dust tickled at him.

“I have seen what is to come.”

The elder nodded, acknowledging the confirmation of prophecy. “Shemeph, sō futureðan eidean!”

“Þe sō sprekan, þe sō akuþan,” replied the leaders. Let it be spoken, let it be heard.

The elder took the bowl and retreated. Shemesh once again found himself alone.

“Our ancestors, the spirits, have graced me with the foresight of our people. I am humbled to be bestowed such an honor.”

“Yes, it is in honor. Let us get on with it, prophet,” said one of the leaders.

Shemesh only nodded. The others grumbled their agreement, eager no doubt to get back to the festivities. In that moment, he locked eyes with Baylmon, who was lingering just beyond the edge of the circle. Emboldened by the man’s company, Shemesh took a deep breath and began to gather the visions in his mind, laying them out in order. Some power beyond him magnified his voice as he spoke.

“The time of our rule comes to an end. There are a people coming to us from far beyond our understanding of the universe, and they will be handed the keys to our planet. These people sail across the ocean of stars in great beasts made of metal that belch fire and spit death. They search for us, yet they do not know it. They are lost.”

Shemesh paused, transitioning into the next portion of the retelling. With a flourish, he ripped both sleeves from his robe and revealed his bare arms to the leaders, which he’d painted beforehand — one black, one white.

“Their skin will be all different shades, some black, some white, and others in between. They are small in stature, much smaller than we, yet similar in body and in mind. They are weak and they die easily, yet still they are stronger than we could ever hope to be.”

He noticed a few of the leaders shift uncomfortably in their thrones at mention of this.

“The time of the Ancients passes between our fingers! Soon our ancestors will hold no power over this world. Already, we feel their grip begins to wane. The arrival of these people will see the end of our gods, for they worship a god who is much greater. They worship a god of Virtue. It is through this god that the whole of the universe and everything in it was created. None is greater than this one.”

Looks of worry passed between leaders, their discomfort growing more apparent. Some leaned towards one another, whispering words unheard by Shemesh’s ears. Shemesh did not falter. The prophecy must go on.

“We need not fear their god, for he is Virtuous, and he is willing to teach us his way. He comes to claim us as his own, even though we are abominations in his eyes, because we were born of gods and of animals. Bastards though we may be, this god will give us rebirth, and will bring us into his family. Because of this god, our people will know joy like they never have before, for he is a good god! That much cannot be denied. However, our people will still be oppressed.”

The very sky itself appeared to darken over them, though there was not a cloud in sight. Shemesh reached into his pocket, producing a leather pouch filled with a dark, granular powder. He turned the bag over and poured the powder into mounds along the ground before him, and from the other pocket he pulled two rocks. They sparked as he struck them together, setting the powder afire. It burned white-hot, producing a blinding flame and a noxious fume. The larger granules popped and cracked, spitting more sparks as they exploded.

“Our planet will burn, and our mountains will crack under the weight of the heavens! These people, though their god is good, will be unkind to us. They will fear us, and because of this, will seek to eradicate us. Meteors of fire and death will fall from their metal beasts, blotting out the sun and turning our skies to blood. They will do this all in the name of their Virtuous god, whom we will come to call our own by the end of it all.”

By this point, none of the leaders spoke, nor did they break eye contact with Shemesh. All were transfixed by his words, seeing now for themselves what the Ancients had foretold through him, and they hated him for it. Their stares did not scare him. No, what scared him were the Anakhthenar, who’d stepped out from behind the thrones, their hands resting on their blades now.

“In our sufferings,” Shemesh said, “we will cry out to the Ancients for aid and they will not hear us. We will break beneath the reign of our oppressors, yet it is by the blood of one of their own that we will be united in them. A man will come to us seeking to learn our ways and live amongst us. He will teach us of his god, and of his Virtuousness. We will scorn him, judge him for his people’s transgressions, and he will wear that scorn upon his brow. He will show us that our people can live in harmony under the reign of this new god, yet we will not hear it. He will be passed into the hands of the Anakhthenar, but will refuse to die under their judgement.

“This man will suffer many days, yet will not succumb to death until after the moon has darkened and returned. In this time of trial, he will show us what it means to die. He will show us that blood is worthless when weighed against the soul. This is the Promise.

“This death will break our people, and they will mourn his passing, and those who mourn will also be put to the judgement of the Anakhthenar. Our people will be split, and our sacred blood will soak the earth. And because of our weakness, we will be handed over to the dominion of our oppressors and witness persecution until the very last one of us perishes.”

At this, Shemesh fell to his knees in anguish, ripping open the front of his robe and tearing it from his chest. A collective gasp washed over the acropolis. Paint as dark as blood made a line across his throat, running down the length of his chest. His final display of prophecy.

“Our people will be slaughtered, and our blood will curse the very grounds we were born upon. The Ancients will grieve over our passing, and they will lay curses on our oppressors to the end of their days. All the while, those of us who bow to the Virtuous will be united with him in eternity, and a new Jokhthen will be ushered into the spaces beyond.”

Out of words and feeling suddenly very tired, Shemesh fell onto his face and did not move. After a time of silence, the leaders’ rage fell over him.

“Blasphemy!”

“Lies! All lies!”

A glass was thrown and shattered by Shemesh’s head, yet he did not move, for the weight of his task was too heavy to lift now. It had been completed in full, save for one final act.

“This man betrays our people! He bears witness to false prophecy!”

Never before had Shemesh felt so alone. He was no longer a prophet, but a pariah.

“We must have his blood for this!”

Hands found Shemesh and took him, lifting him to his knees. When he opened his eyes, the Anakhthenar had surrounded him, twelve in all. Death smiled at Shemesh from behind their eyes. He knew then that this was the final part of his prophecy. Payment was needed to consecrate the validity of what had been foretold.

The sound of blades rasping against scabbards cut through all the shouting. All fell to silence as each sword’s point found a place along his skin. Their tongues were sharp as they bit his flesh. Sacred blood seeped from fresh wounds, mixing with the paint on Shemesh’s skin. He thought only of his friend in that moment, Baylmon, who still watched from afar. The man’s face betrayed the sorrow his heart felt. It appeared they would not get to speak again, though Shemesh had known it all along.

The pariah closed his eyes, reaching one last time to the future, grasping for hope that had not yet come. His final words sealed the prophecy, and with it, the fate of the Rephor.

“Þeos okkar futureðan, mā mē glōme. Virtū þin þē mē mildenar.”

God of our future, do not forget me. May your Virtue have mercy on me.

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If you made it this far, then I sincerely thank you! This is the first of four installments I’ve written for this short series. Stay tuned for part two, The Promise of Eleos, which will be coming out next week! If you’d like to be notified of when that happens, then I encourage you to follow me on Substack, or subscribe to this publication to have it sent directly to your inbox.

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