The Consuming

The Equinikon, Pt. 13-C (The Aeon of the Fisher King)

Computer rendition of Ash by Arthur Parizi. © god-eat-god worlds 2021.

It was from a holy wood that little Ash’s grandmothers had shaped the purple hand-lyre, the eight-stringed thing strapped to his father’s back. It was filled with agnosis the matriarchs had told him, or instinctive magic, its taught strings charged by the Maids, Mothers, Mistresses, and Matrons all, and when his father played it and his mother danced, a kind of weight entered Ash’s heart. It felt heavy, but like it stood beneath his heart, lifting it, not weighing him down from above. His mother would dance as his father sang the story of the Great Wyrms. During the dance, his mother would pick her night’s suitors. She mostly picked his father, unless they were fighting that quick.When the chorus spiraled round, the girls would sing in unison, but beneath all their voices, he could always pick out Ember’s. All the Fyrie had hair that blazed red and orange and gold, but hers seemed to twinkle even at night. Her eyes …