Prompt# 217 - apotheosis - Fight of Flight - Tekia - Original

[tekia.livejournal.com]

Title: Fight of Flight
Fandom: Original
Prompt: apotheosis
Warnings: none
Rating: PG
Summary: At the fall of a kingdom, the gods find a way to be remembered.

There was a fire growing from the southern section of the city. There was another glow coming from the palace and Mata’ka’ala frowned, his sweaty hand tightening on his sword’s hilt. If the palace was already alit, then it was time to retreat. Still, he hesitated.
Something was holding him within the fallen city.
He stood in a shadowed doorway, staring at the glow along the city’s skyline. Something in his heart was tugging painfully at him. The tug was so strong that his feet begun to move without his conscious thought.
Before he knew it, he was running through the empty streets toward the temple. It wasn’t lit, but the flames were quickly approaching. He could feel the heat and he sped up, racing the flames.
The white temple was still white in the late sun’s light, glowing and changing like the sky, growing orange from the nearby flames. He slid toward the door, his sandals slick on the smooth stones. He caught himself on the doorframe and tried to peer into the temple. It was dark within, and Mata’ka’ala hesitated before entering. He tightened his grip on the sword, hefting it up to protect from anything dangerous within.
There was no sound coming from within the temple and he found that odd. So odd that the hair on the backs of his arms and neck stood stiff and he shivered with fear. He swallowed hard and stepped into the darkness.
He felt his way down the entrance, then down toward the pit of the temple. The tugging in his heart and gut grew stronger until he was standing before the door that blocked the civilians from the magic of the priests.
He put his free hand to the door and felt a pulse. Startled, he withdrew his hand and stared at the door.
Then he jumped when a shout came from behind the door.
The place should have been long ago emptied. The army had escorted the whole population of the city to safety the day before last in preparations for burning the city. There shouldn’t be any priest left in the temple.
Unless the enemy had arrived and he hadn’t noticed. He pushed the door, found resistance, then shoved the door open with his shoulder, a warison ripping from his lips as he rushed the room, sword at the ready.
The room was alight with hundreds of candles. The late king, recently murdered by his cousin, King Suppiluliuma II’s body was laid out on the floor. Around him, four men stood, covered with black cloths, hands raised and smoke filtering between their fingers. The body of the late king contorted and jerked with life. His mouth opened and another scream echoed through the room.
The three priests all looked at him upon his entrance, looks of horror half hidden by their cowls. One of the priests stepped forward, pulling his cowl back and scowling at Mata’ka’ala.
“You fool. You know not what you have done.”
Mata’ka’ala instantly felt repent. He had always been taught to obey the priests, for they were the hands of gods. He knelt and tore his eyes away from the body of his king.
“Forgive me, lord.”
The priest stomped up to him and grasped him by his hair. “There is no forgiveness for this, boy. The god king’s death lies with you.”
He couldn’t understand this. “Hadn’t the upstart killed him days ago?”
The priest threw him to the ground and hissed at him. “Killed the body, not the soul. Not that you could tell the difference, boy.” He turned from him and rejoined the priests. He raised his hands and they begun a low chant. Once the chant filled the room, the priest glanced back at Mata’ka’ala. “You might as well be of some use, solider. Guard the door from intruders. The enemy has breached the inner walls.” He tilted his head and his dark eyes seemed to glow in the candle light. “Kuzi-Teshub is on his way.”
Every citizen had learned to hate that name. The king killer. Their king’s killer.
Instantly, Mata’ka’ala was on his feet. He bowed once, sharply to the priests and guarded the door.
The priests resumed their chant and once again magic filled the room. He could feel the magic like a cloak. It brushed over his skin and settled there, heavy and warm. He shivered under his leather armor and hoped that no enemy would approach, for he didn’t know if he could fight while being held so tightly in the thrall of the priests’ magic.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the ceremony that no man had been witness to before outside the priesthood. The smoke filled the room, thickened, then spiraled down into the dead king’s body. The body jerked upwards, bowing, and the smoke turned to ropes. They tugged and pulled and finally emerged with the king’s soul.
The living god’s soul, Mata’ka’ala thought, eyes wide and mouth open.
The bright soul of the god struggled in the grasp of the smoke ropes. The high priest lifted a clay jar and motioned for the soul to enter, but the soul struggled against the pull, bright and pulsing.
Mata’ka’ala watched, feeling the pull nearly as strongly as the smoke did. He stepped forward, the sole of his sandal loud in the sudden silence. The god’s soul did a sudden powerful jerk, breaking the smoke bonds and rushing toward Mata’ka’ala.
Before he could react, the soul crashed into him, throwing him to the ground and rushing into his body and carving out an place for itself within him.
He screamed out and thrashed against the invasion. The priests rushed around him and held him still, least he harm himself. The high priest shouted at him, but he couldn’t make heads nor tails of it as there was a rushing of blood in his ears and the soul suddenly began to speak to him.
It told him his name, and his destiny. A destiny he never though would ever be within his reach. The soul made him a living god. The king of his people that were now spread throughout the lands. He was a king of a dead kingdom, living with a god inside him. Great king of nothing.
When he returned to himself, he was still laying on the cold stone floor. The high priest was standing over him, sweat beaded on his brow.
When the priest noticed Mata’ka’ala was awake, he knelt and whispered in a rush, “You must hurry, king. The enemy is near. You must hurry, king.” He gripped his arm and tried to pull the larger man to his feet. “With the city burning to the ground, you must hurry to safety.”
“I will stay and fight.”
“No, king. You are too young! You must train and learn to cope in this new body.”
“I will fight for the city.”
The priest pleaded with him as Mata’ka’ala stood and turned toward the door where the orange flames could now be seen. The fire had reached the temple and now blocked the door.
“King, come to the underground tunnels. You can escape from the fire that way.”
“I will not retreat,” Mata’ka’ala said, his sword now firmly in his grasp once again. He raised a hand against he flames and narrowed his eyes. “Those that invade my city must be put in their place.”
“No, king, there is only you to fight. You can’t take the whole of Kuzi-Teshub’s army.”
The other priests returned, half carrying, half pulling a third body between them. “Sire, Tammuzi is ready.”
“Yes, yes. Come, king, you must help protect our weakened Tammuzi.”
Mata’ka’ala finally stopped, then he turned away from the fires. He took the unconscious living priest god from the human priests and hefted him high in his arms. He nodded to the priests. “Lead the way, priest. Let us be gone from here.” They rushed through the tunnel and away from the city. After hours of underground travel, they finally emerged from the tunnel.
Once outside, Mata’ka’ala turned toward the once great city to watch the flames reach into the sky. In his arms, the weaker living god stirred and woke, dark brown eyes blinking up at Mata’ka’ala. He frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but no words passed his lips.
Mata’ka’ala stared down at him a moment. “We are the last of our kind, here, you and I. We will remake our kingdom.” His eyes lifted toward the glow of the city. “But only after we kill those that have killed us.”