2.
Colorful spreads of fantasy
Bright layers marked the edges of reality
The prince on his fine stallion looked down
and asked Machiavelli
"Could you reign the throne of fantasy like Alighieri?"
THE PUBLIC MARKET WAS CROWDED, WITH PUNGENT SMELLS OF SPICES, SWEAT, AND NEWLY-painted fabrics. Priest Seth was amazed by a slight hint of sophistication shown by the Pharaoh's people which were dressed in colorful satins. As the priest's fine stallion soaked through the people-swarmed paths, the crowds spontaneously cleared themselves from his way, with polite bows and greets—"Your Grace"—as he passed by.
The beauty of several young ladies with their heads wrapped in long scarves of mixed patterns had surprised him, too—for the scarves were nicely tied around their small, feminine heads, leaving only a small slice of sight of their jet-black hair; pure east-meets-west beauty that had evoked his imaginations a bit.
They were, of course, aware of the priest's beauty and countless of them had tried to gain longish eye contacts with him—they wanted to be in his eyes, get his attention, and perhaps find a way to his majestic private chamber for a night together—but none of them suceeded. They were beautiful, but the priest himself was highly aware of his Narcissus-like beauty he felt it was highly unecessary to greet them back: after all, he was of noble line and they weren't, and he didn't want to get himself blinded by such destructive sparks. The desperate women then tried to flirt with the two guards, who were easily—and clearly—aroused by their black-rimmed seductive eyes, lush lips, and caramel skin.
It was a hot day, and the high hat atop the priest's head had made him uncomfortable, so he took it off and stuffed it into a leather pocket hung on the horse's side. His exposed light brown hair had once again taken the attention of the young women, and the hair looked more beautiful under the light yellow fainting light of the morning sun—with the hat off, his face's flesh got entirely lit by the warmth light, too, and that sight had driven lots of women restless through their countless nights because of the priest's silklike, shining, flawless skin under the sun. It was easier for them to believe that he was merely a son of Isis, the goddess of beauty, or his father Obelisk, the god of might, because he bore not only a stunning face, but also a well-chiseled body.
The walk pleased the priest, and the sights of colorful canvas roofs for each stands had delighted his artistic sense a poem crossed his head incidentally—he smiled. He told the two guards to stop at the spot sheltered with high palm trees near a quite big square house made of fine white bricks—a jewelry store, it was—and asked for a pen and a piece of paper to write down the verses that were already engraved on his brain before. He was very pleased that he decided to buy several emerald-rimmed bracelets from the store before continuing his journey.
Everything was fine until the crowd suddenly gathered in a place, very close to the center of the market, and there were big, bearded men screamed hostile curses toward an unseen object—"You filthy cur! Street rat!"—at first the priest thought it was merely a stray cat that had stolen a small bite of meat, but as the howls got more and more intense, he signaled the two guards to follow him.
As they got closer and closer, the priest saw a young woman with her body covered in mud and her face bore thin wounds because of previous hits she'd gotten from the big men, with her white slipdress had torned badly in the front, almost exposing her nipples.
At the sight of the young priest, the woman jutted her head up hopelessly. She was too limp to even voice a request to be helped, she'd only managed to glance at the eyes of the arrogant-looking priest atop his fine black stallion, wishing for a slightest bit of mercy.
HE JUMPED DOWN THE STALLION, AND WITH HIS SHARP EYES ONLY, SPLINTERED THE CROWD into several parts, leaving almost no trace of forcefulness and hostility. Even the two big men were visibly afraid—they suddenly went down on their knees asking the priest for forgiveness which he ignored completely. He went straight toward the silver-haired lady on the floor and offered his hand, causing a lot of twitters in the background and confusion floating in the tense air.
"My—Lord—"she had almost ran out of breath when she raised her hand and grabbed the priest's hand. In her left hand there was a small glass of water, and he instantly figured out that it was merely the cause of her damages.
Priest Seth was shocked by the streak of warmth in his heart as their hands intertwined—between the dried, now dusty, mud; the dry tips of her slim fingers against his well-groomed manly hands there was a secret key to a vacant place in his heart. As his eyes met her clear blue eyes, he knew that the woman was someone unsual. She was beautiful—very beautiful—even the traces of dried soil on her face couldn't conceal her natural beauty: her almond-shaped eyes, her small nose, her well-curved chin and equally slim upper lip—and the strands of her messed-up hair on her face couldn't conceal the gentleness in her eyes. She tried to smile, but it was a weak one, and as she spoke another sentence—"gods…be…with…you…"—she gave the impression that she was about to collapse.
Indeed she did, and Priest Seth himself was the one who brought her to the palace for a recovery, before she got sent to prison because of her hopeless wrongdoing.
THE DUNGEON WASN'T A PROPER PLACE FOR SUCH FINE WOMAN, SO WAS THE PRIEST'S thought, although the sentence was inevitable because he had to stood by the law.
It was his second time in the dungeon, and the silence—it was so silent there he could even hear the sound of his own breaths and clear sounds of the stomps of his leather shoes against the black, damp, moss-covered bricks—had recalled the horror he'd seen with his father as a child. Pharaoh Atem's father had a thing toward tortures, so was his father. As a boy he was once taken here to witness a decapitation of a thief. The silence and the dimly-lit long corridor—using only lights from the flame torches attached on the wall—had brought back the scalding horror inside his head—he stuttered a bit.
The guard stopped several meters near Kisara's cell by the end of the dark corridor, leaving the priest to continue his step on his own, still in his own haunting past fears. Although it was still silent, in his mind there were voices reflecting agonies, pain, desperation, and death filling the air, trapping him in a bubble filled of black fog.
The lady was asleep, and the Priest didn't want to interrupt her rest. He was about to leave when her's limp body emanated a light—a fainting white, silverish light in the shape of a… winged dragon—and in a moment the entire dungeon started shaking madly as if a strong earthquake was approaching the palace from every direction. The quake got stronger and stronger that the two guards which were in charge of accompanying his visit approached him with paled faces, asking the Priest to leave the dungeon soon before the entire concrete construction collapsed into smithereens.
Priest Seth said no, instead, he asked one of them for the key to enter the cell. At first the guard was hesitant, but the Priest's sharp eyes—once again—had gained him his right to enter the cell. He unlocked the cell and shook the lady's body, trying to wake her up.
IT TOOK QUITE A LONG FOR HIM TO WAKE HER UP, AND ONCE SHE WOKE UP SHE SCREAMED IN shock, almost fainted when she spotted the white-cape-clad Priest Seth sat on the edge of her bed, with his caramel skin lit by the dim small light on the bedside table.
"My lord!" she almost shrieked—"Calm down!"—he replied in a rush, "you don't want them to hear you."
The lady was totally taken aback by the young priest's beauty and strong eyes, so she instantly looked down with her cheeks reddened, burning in embarrassment when Priest Seth tried to get her into a conversation. He was not a good casual talker either—he was too much of a complicated, overly-reserved talker who wanted no flaw in his speech—so he stayed silent for a moment, until he came up with a classic opening line:
"What should I call you with, young lady?"
She was still looking down, her fine face was almost completely covered by her long silver strands when she answered, "Kisara, my lord."
He was about to ask about the dragon he'd seen in a light exuded from her body while she was asleep, but finally decided to keep the question for himself, thinking that Kisara may not understood or realized a thing of it herself. After all, he thought that the question was absurd, and it was more of a spiritual-oriented question rather than a common one—and he didn't want to waste his time questioning a stranger with such laughable absurdity.
Silence.
"Thank you for saving me, my lord. May the blessing of the gods be with you," said Kisara, her tone was extremely low—a reflection of her thorough insecurity and false humbleness.
Priest Seth wanted to stay, and Kisara desired the same thing, but none of them could express that. After another long pause wrapped in the warm night air and the ghastly silence, the Priest stood up, smiled vaguely, said a quick—"Take care."—and left.
The sight of the white dragon had prevented him from a decent rest that night.
"FORGIVE MY SON'S RESTLESSNESS, YOUR GRACE," PRIEST AKNADIN STEPPED FORWARD, AS IF to eclipse Priest Seth's sharp wit with his dubious composure. He was Priest Seth's mentor, but since the young priest had sensed some kind of menace in the bearer of the Eye's persona, he didn't want to get too close to him.
Priest Seth stepped back, in his face was another distaste. The recent news about Bakura's crime—robbing bags of treasures and murdered at least two guards in Pharaoh Atem's father's tomb last night—had weighed him down, beside the wistful issue of the white dragon spirit he'd seen coming out from Kisara's body two nights ago.
Pharaoh Atem understood Priest Seth's issue completely, as well as the raging heart that was boiling behind his tough ribs, waiting to break free like a mop of eagles in the storm, "I appreciate your dedication, Priest Seth, and Bakura will be soon put into consideration—" he paused, and the Priest's eyes brightened in relief—by the word 'consideration' meant there was a possibility for a future death sentence for the hostile thief. The Pharaoh clenched his left hand using the right one then put them both under his chin, supporting the weight of his head, "according to the law my ancestors had created…he should be condemned for a death sentence very soon."
Priest Seth smiled. He knew he'd emerged victorious this time.
As the seven priests and the Pharaoh departed from the emptied Grand Sanctum, Priest Aknadin's eye was lit by something strange—a glare close to hatred, almost as dark as vengeance—he realized that he should do something to stop the death sentence; and there was not much time left for him to complete the errands. He was surprised by how swiftly the young priest could handle things, and how the Pharaoh seemed to admire and appreciate the fine scholar's opinion quite too lavishly.
His feeling was not a threatened feeling of being eclipsed by someone far younger, and that man was practically his son—it was more of a threatened feeling because he was unable to stop the running time.
THERE WAS A BRIGHT LIGHT EMANATED FROM KISARA'S CELL, AND PRIEST SETH ASKED THE guards whether they'd seen the same illumination for days. When they confirmed that the sight was already familiar for them, he asked the guard for the key and rushed toward the cell, only to find Priest Shada, with his Millennium Key and stark-white cape—almost angelic—stood still behind the rusted bars. He turned toward Priest Seth when he'd sensed someone else coming.
"Good evening. It is very unusual to find you here, Shada," Priest Seth greeted, almost too coldly. Priest Shada knew when to leave—he nodded and smiled politely, but as he passed by the young priest he'd whispered something before Priest Seth's ear—"She has the power… almost equal to the gods."—then drifted away like a soft evening breeze through the silent, dimly-lit corridor, then straight to the spiral staircase.
Priest Seth stood still for a moment, and Kisara—as if she'd sensed the arrival of the man she'd always longed for—suddenly woke up, then quickly tidied her messy hair. She'd changed to a cleaner robe—probably given by Priest Shada—and the wounds on her face were almost vanished, bringing her young silklike skin as the main point of interest once again. When she saw Priest Seth, her clear aquamarine eyes glowed distinctively, as if welcoming the arrival of a long-awaited lover who'd just completed his journey from the Far East.
"My lord!" that was her initial sentence, and her usual expression of gladness. For the first time in his life, Priest Seth finally smiled wholeheartedly, and such beautiful smile shocked Kisara. She was indeed aware of the young priest's beauty, but the beauty radiated from his emotional eyes when he smiled was even more unbearable she started thinking whether the priest was actually a half-god-half-man, an offspring of Isis and a very handsome mortal.
He didn't sit down on the edge of her bed, instead, he stood up and stared into Kisara's eyes—penetrating every single corner of her mind—her consciousness—her sense of existence—wishing that he'd eventually glance into the spirit of the white dragon in her although the warmness in his heart everytime he glanced into those eyes was almost inevitable.
"I'd seen…" Priest Seth—almost out of his consciousness—spoke under his breath.
"Yes, my lord?" Kisara leaned her body forward, unsconsciously enchanted the fine priest with her skinny collarbones, long neck, and her straight long hair that framed her bony face almost too perfectly.
Priest Seth paused, and he stared deep into Kisara's eyes one more time, trying to make himself sure that the lady wouldn't laugh at his absurdity. He'd rather incinerate himself in the blazing inferno than getting laughed at.
"A…white dragon's… spirit," still unsure, he kept his tone unusually low. Rush of cold beads of sweat already swarmed the root of his hair above his forehead, as well as his palms.
Kisara didn't answer. In her eyes was nothing else but confusion. It didn't take long for Priest Seth to realize that the lady was also unaware of the presence of the white dragon's spirit.
Feeling ashamed and bewildered because he was being 'imperfect' in his own opinions, Priest Seth put his emerald-brimmed coat back on and rushed out of the cell without a word.
Kisara—still in her fragile, most feminine gentle streaks of emotions—was dissapointed because she desired the fine priest to stay. She couldn't figure out what was the feeling, but the sights of Priest Seth started feeling like ugly addictions—intoxicating experiences worth longing for—since the day she'd glanced into those clear green eyes the day he saved her from her demise.
Meanwhile, in his private chamber, Priest Seth had just retained himself from asking Priest Shada about the white dragon's spirit—although the senior priest, as well as an acclaimed guardian of Millennium Key might had known something—instead, he only wrote those strange experiences on his private leather-bound journal and hid it back under his bed after he'd finished writing.
Behind the thin silk curtains, Priest Aknadin—clad in black leather cape, almost unseen in the darkened yard—stood several steps before his son's opened window, in his eyes were unusual determinations.
Author's Note:
As promised… chapter 2. Chapter 3 is up soon, probably a week later as well.
Thank you for reading and reviewing!