About them lay the ruins of a once great palace.
Unsurpassed. Isolated.
The room before the men was in the shape of a huge crescent.
Pillars that stood a hundred feet tall lined the outer curve, or back walls. Between the pillars massive thrones of gold, marble, silver, and carved from what appeared to be single massive gems.
One massive, central throne stood at the centre or middle back wall, braced by all the others and the pillars that separated them.
In the centre of it an image of a sun or star shining resplendent and defiant.
It was fashioned from some sort of shiny metal or alloy and stood a full half taller again than the other thrones..
No mortal man could rule from these thrones.
None had.
These were the thrones of the self styled gods of Olympus.
The Lords of the Fallen ones.
They had ruled here, hidden for epochs.
Here they had sat, looking down upon the world from this hidden place upon the peaks.
Jealously ruling over these animals called men. These lowly little things they saw as being unjustly gifted with death and thus the potential for a true immortality - true freedom.
These animals who could escape.
They who actually had purpose beyond this!This rage had been ever present in this cold, ancient place.
The walls themselves hated man and these men present.
The lords and their prince? What of them? One of the younger men had asked.
He was answered by the wisest man.
Sometimes they had stayed hidden, but known of in whispers.
For an age they had been worshipped and drank themselves drunken on rivers of sweet, innocent mortal blood. They had feasted on the scent of burnt beasts and babes. Grown strong an arrogant on the selfish wishes and curses of power hungry men and their ilk.
In other times, they had ruled like mighty kings and walked among men.
Other times again, they were hated and reviled - seen for the craven, lovers of death they are; but they were still greatly feared and still mighty in their influence and power.
Then came their final and most potent period, when they had, by the whiles of the their prince, convinced almost all men that they themselves did not even exist , and that men themselves were gods!
While they hid in plain sight, they slaked their thirst for life.
They had ruled again, but invisibly - setting the world to the horrible new songs they sang.
But all that had ended.
These 'gods' knew it would.
They always did.
They had fled or been cast out when the changes had come.
They knew there was no escape, but they ran anyway.
They fled as they had lived: In defiance of their origins.
Does a god do such things?
No.
These were not gods. That was a lie. A deception.
They were creatures.
Not mortal,
Not men.
Not gods.
Among the men in this place was a man of the ancient faith.
It was he who had spoken, it was he who had led them here.
He was the one who had been sent.
One who remembered the history of this place, of this palace.
One who remembered the lie, the blood, the corruption.
He knew the symbols and words of these mad creatures who had thought themselves above all,
He looked closely at the largest of thrones.
He examined the images about the base.
He climbed, with some help, to the seat and looked very closely at a symbol of an eye that had been covered or closed, near the pommel or hand rest.
It was a switch or trigger.
The man of the ancient book, depressed the eye. Nothing,
Then he moved it slightly to the right.
When moved the eye slid open- and so did something else!
A seem opened in the motives along the side of the throne. A thin line at first, moving down the image of a large horned animal's head and around a circular symbol. Then; Click.
A large opening, a full third the height of the main throne opened in it's side.
An arched door large enough to ride large horse through, that would require the giant prince of this throne to stoop.
This opening was the reason they had come to this forgotten place.
Hidden under the throne was a cut passage that led away to an even more secret place.
A place where the Prince of these 'gods' had come to curse and remonstrate his Father.
To justify his rebellion of pride.
To be jealous and harbour his hatred for those he felt below him.
To revel in his madness and corruption.
The passage itself was an absolutely smooth work in formed, black glass. But for the angles, it would have seen natural.
The only light came from even, clear slits reflecting the bright white of the peaks outside, and the distant blue glow of home in the eternally starlight, deepest night-blue sky of this place.
It was long, a mile or more, but ended in a large, well lit room with a massive window out to the valleys, peaks, and massive misty craters far below.
In the top of the same window, the earth hung blue and white in the deepest blue star speckled sky.
From here the Prince could watch his prize.
In the centre of the room a dias or small table stood, the light of the windows casting shadows in the glass.
On it a single item.
The men gasped. Here it was, just as described.
What was this strange thing they looked at? A weapon?
The man of the ancient creed, smiled a small, secret smile.
This is what the King had sent them for.
It was a large, appeared to some as if made of metal or perhaps some kind of bone; beautiful in it's simplicity. It was said to have felt ancient.
The object could have been some sort of sword, but the object before them was far more important. Much more primal. Designed for a much larger hand, by the master artificer.
It was ultimately simple and perfect; one of the original things.
It was a gift to the Prince of this place. This Palace of the Air.
A gift given an eternity ago, by the King.
It was, among many now unknown things, a tuning rod.
An instrument for setting a musical note when struck.
With such an instrument, a talented voice may train to sing in that note and all others like it.
But this rod was special.
The note it chimes is creative, potent, objective, real....
Unlike any other in reality.
This note, when sung by the right voice, in many ways was or is reality!
The keeper of the ancient code very carefully approached the dias.
His focus was singular.
He was resolute: Retrieve the rod for the King.
His eyes washed over each and every inch of the dark, glass surface below him.
He looked in it for signs of a trap, perhaps.
Maybe he expected to see some face or eyes looking up at him.
His path was clear. The glass perfect and smooth.
From behind him, he removed a sac lined with soft fur.
The rod must be returned to the King.
The singer of the old hymns knew the return of the rod would mean many things.
A father's gift had been hidden. Ingratitude had been expressed. Arrogance and abandonment.
The gift must be returned by the younger of the brothers.
By the brother known as Man.
