The Cloud-Capped Towers .:II:.

by ~veritaslux

II – Upon the Cloud

The trance was the most surreal thing that Cysagh had ever been part of in his life. The events playing out were tinted a misty purple in the peripheral vision, not dissimilar to the heavy perfume in Sarah’s fortune telling shop. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of it, when suddenly everything went black, momentarily. A flash of bright white light, and something was happening, more vivid than anything he had seen in this trance before.

Two massive oaken doors were towering in front of him, engraved with images of what appeared to be seraphim and assorted other angelic beings. He was flanked by two massive ionic pillars, the marble shining brilliantly white in the sunlight. There were angels engraved into the front of these as well, making the place look majestic and important.

Cysagh stepped forwards, onto the very front porch of this massive building, and stretched out his hand to try and open the doors. They were as thick as he first thought, proving them impossible to open with a mere push. Even after putting his back against the doors and putting all his effort and body weight into a shove, the doors refused to budge.

Cysagh was tired now, and as he slouched down against the immovable wooden doors, he began to wonder why he was here anyway. Was this his stupid future? Constantly trying to open the doors to something?

It was then that he heard it; a deep voice that was booming above all other noises in the vicinity. It seemed to lack any quality that would have made its speaker’s emotions recognisable, but was far from monotonous.
“Our prophets were correct. You have come to us, and now we must begin.”

Cysagh was lifted to his feet by the air around him, or so it felt like, and began to walk without thinking towards where the voice was coming from. The building where he had been just a few minutes ago had all but disappeared in the distance behind him, and a huge cluster of constructions in a similar style were drawing closer with every step he took.

The voice suddenly cut in, and Cysagh stopped walking, only then perceiving that his feet were incredibly tired.
“You are now standing in the glory of the Angelic capital,” it said.  “Welcome to the city of Ab-Clodhr.”

Cysagh looked around. He was standing in a seemingly deserted street, with two huge white structures flanking him on both sides. In each direction he looked, ionic pillars engraved with similar artwork to that of where he had first been seemed to look back at him, a stranger in their midst. To the north, however, it was different. A citadel, constructed out of the same white stone, but coated with gold at the tip of its spire, towered over the entire area, as if keeping the city under its authority. Cysagh gazed up at it, marvelling at how anybody could create such a huge structure.

“I see you admire the artwork of our people,” said the voice, making Cysagh jump. But the voice was no longer a voice, but a person, standing next to him. A person with wings, and a golden sash around his white robes had materialised in the space adjacent to him, his handsome, pale face staring at the citadel in front of them, a wisp of a smile painted on it. “This was the final fruit of our revolution. When the monarchy was overthrown, the Archangels built this to symbolise all that was good about the Great Cloud and its people. The oppression and the segregation of the people was over the day that we finished the citadel, the day that angels claimed freedom.”
Cysagh turned slowly, a look of inquisition on his face.
“You... you’re angels?” he asked, almost amazed to be standing in the presence of one.
“Certainly,” the stranger replied, turning to face him and motioning to the wings that hung folded behind his back. “A rare and elusive sight nowadays to you, I daresay, after the fall from grace with the elves and rulers of your race. But that is a story for another day. I am here to warn you. Warn you that if ever there was a danger to any race of this world, then it would be now.” The angel returned his vision to the citadel, in thought. “We... well, as much as we know; the angels do not know how this will manifest itself. This threat is completely new; we are completely in the dark about everything that will happen in your or my future. But one thing is for certain. The threat is real and it is coming.”
“But then, why do you need me?” responded Cysagh, puzzled at the angel’s speech.
“That is a more difficult question to answer. To begin, however, you must realise something. We are currently in the future, so when you return to the present, I will have no recollection of this conversation, and likely will never have it again because we have already had it now.  It is therefore imperative that you remember this.  You are the most important person that has ever existed and will ever exist. It was foretold by our greatest prophet of all time, Mordrenr, before he disappeared fifteen years ago. He was visited in the night and your image was scarred into his mind. He proceeded to paint it in the Hall of Prediction, and ordered never to remove it until you were found and told.”
“He saw my face?” Cysagh interjected.
“Patience!” muttered the angel irately. “You obviously don’t understand our culture. We do not see faces in our prophecies, we see personalities, people, dates, times, and most importantly qualities. But we sum it up with one symbol, one word in Ancient Clodhrian. That is what was described in Clodhrian in the Hall of Prediction, and that’s how we know that it is you, you who were created as our salvation, that he foresaw. And now must come me telling you what he saw.”

The angel motioned to the citadel in front of them, and Cysagh instinctively knew that they were going inside. Now allowed to use his free will, he walked with the angel through the giant arches that marked the entrance, and into the atrium.

The atrium was as ornate as anything else Cysagh had seen upon the Great Cloud, and cast in the same white marble. The room was buzzing with noise; the angelic government workers were discussing things animatedly, while people paying their taxes and claiming their pay at counters at the far end of the room were negotiating better deals. A massive fountain stood central in the room; with its centrepiece being a huge marble angel, spouting water from its outstretched hands and halo hanging above its head. There was a golden plaque below it, which presumably described who it was, but this was written in Clodhrian, of which Cysagh understood nothing.

The pair continued through the hall, not uttering a word to each other as they spiralled around the fountain that had so fascinated Cysagh. Weaving their way through crowds of people, they finally reached a staircase, where they began their ascent. There seemed to be thousands of white steps, all presumably leading up to the very top of the building.

As they rose, the amount of people being inside the citadel seemed to thin continuously, until when at last they reached their destination, the hallway was completely empty. The architects had obviously neglected this side of the building, as instead of the shining white marble adorning the walls; it was a grey, crumbly stone that formed the walls, floors and ceilings. Cobwebs had tangled their way across the ceiling, giving the place a very old look. The angel suddenly stepped forwards, and touched one part of the wall, which seemed completely bare.

He muttered something rapidly in Clodhrian, and a door, thick and wooden appeared directly in front of him.
“Is this another one of your magical closed doors that you angels love?” asked Cysagh mockingly. The angel snapped round his head, and raised an eyebrow at him.
“What are you talking about? All doors open, that’s the way that it goes,” he responded, a look of puzzlement on his face.
“Not always,” said Cysagh. “Where you took me from; the building with the pillars, those doors didn’t open.”
“Ah,” replied the angel, comprehension dawning on him. “That was the Unknown Room. It is one of the most important buildings on top of the Great Cloud. Legend says that people’s lives are created and destroyed in that place, and that only particular people can go in there. Nobody knows for certain though. But now, this is the Hall of Prediction, where I promised I would show you your destiny.”

The angel opened the door, showing the way into what appeared to be a dusty, old library. The bookcases were made of deeply coloured mahogany, the books all seeming to be bound with a dappled red covering. All over the walls were symbols, painted in differing colours to each other, some looking ancient, and some looking reasonably recent.
“So this is the Hall of Prediction?” asked Cysagh.
“That is correct,” replied the angel. “This is where the prophets eternalise their predictions.”
“It’s not the most... impressive room I’d have imagined,” said Cysagh. “I thought it would be a bit more grand and pompous than... a medium sized library.” The angel looked outraged at Cysagh’s musings.
“This is exactly the attitude that caused the schism between your and my peoples. Surely you realise that it’s not how grand it looks, it’s how important? This room was one of the first built in the citadel, built solely for the purpose of the prophet Anoragh to get information on things happening in the future of our society. The room is vitally important, however doddery it seems. Now, the prophecy was on this wall over here...”

The angel walked over to a wall at the far side of the room, where there was a splattering of green paint vaguely formed into a shape. It stood out completely from the grey wall, and it was obviously put there for a reason.
“Now,” said the angel. “Listen to me as I translate this prophecy from its symbolic form. You must, must pay attention to me: this is your future, and it cannot be changed.”

He stepped forwards, and started studying the symbol. For five minutes there was complete silence, and then he finished, satisfied with his translation. He cleared his throat, and began.
“For all those who are born and who will die
A message clear as crystal; I don’t lie.
Underneath the lunar light at fullest glare;
This month will come a child of power rare.
In him the power to watch and see in truth,
In him the light to judge the dutiful and couth;
In him the strength to wait and help the poor,
In him the drive to dissipate furore.
When war breaks out his task is to assess
Then judge each living being coming to confess”

The angel paused for a minute, letting Cysagh take the information in. Then, he began to explain what the text meant.
“That was the prophecy exactly as Mordrenr had seen it. It clearly refers to you, as described by the text. You were born under the only visible full moon fifteen years ago, all others were obscured by the very cloud we are standing on. Now, as far as the records say, there were only three children born that evening. One died shortly afterwards, and one was elven.”
“But,” said Cysagh, struggling to understand, “Surely that means that it’s not me for certain?”
“That’s where you’re incorrect. The prophecy was written in your own language, not Elfish or Clodhrian. Therefore it is specifically referring to a human child, born fifteen years ago under a full moon. Now, the rest we can only say is going to happen in the future. But these qualities will arise, and it will become apparent to yourself and the angelic philosophers that you will be the one to save us.” He stopped for a moment, and looked out from one of the windows. It appeared as if something was troubling him. “The last two lines escape my grasp, however. It refers to the war which will break out. But does this mean that it will be greater and harder than previous wars because somebody must judge every soldier? There is one thing I can definitely glean from it though. When you leave this Cloud, it will not be for the final time. You will return sometime during the war, and you will listen to the confessions of every living, thinking being above or below it. Then you will judge. And that is all.”

Cysagh stood for a moment, reflecting on the gravity of his situation. Why was it him, a fifteen year old boy, who would have to take up this important role? And if it was the future, surely things could happen to prevent it?
“How do you know the war will happen at all? There’s no prophecy about that, is there?” he asked. The angel rubbed his eyes, and then looked down at Cysagh with a weary smile on his face.
“My dear boy,” he said. “Surely you realise? The fact that you were born confirms the prophecy I just read to you, which clearly mentions war? You won’t just be the judge of the battle, you will be the cause!”

Cysagh stepped backwards, shocked to the core. His face illustrated this emotion completely. But as he was about to respond, the world in front of him shuddered slightly, and began to blur. He blinked once or twice, to try and get rid of the contortion. Just as he began to wonder what had happened, however, he blacked out, and the next thing he knew was the thick, scented air of a particular fortune teller’s shop, and the sight of a short, bespectacled woman peering down on him.
“You were out rather longer than I had expected, dear,” she muttered, almost questioningly.
“Uh, yeah, I guess I was...” replied Cysagh, still recovering from his experience of the future. “Listen, thanks. I will pay you back someday, I promise, but I need to go and get back. My, uh, family will be wondering where I am...”

And with that, he dizzily got to his feet, and tottered out of the door, back into the streets of Épyren.