The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

Sacrifice

A really dark look into the growth of the cult and how it affects Moran.

21) Sacrifice – Year of the Sun 260 Yávië (Autumn)

Moran

Elendur dragged Alman by knife point out of the tent, followed by Ardana and Moran along with the humans.  The guards stepped aside to let Gorthaur step forward.  The dark priest was already in his stately black robes, trimmed in crimson and gold with his black hair in his unflattering bowl cut above his pale face. Behind him was a rack of wood and metal with grooves dug into the frame.  Moran held the black kynac, forged of meteoric metal known as Eog, and followed Elendur.  The humans fell to their knees, begging for mercy for their kin.  Moran looked back to see them beating helplessly on the ground. Alman was barely more than an adolescent.  Moran was the son of the king, but what was he doing?  Why did this need to happen?  He made eye contact with Sȗlherok, who shook his head and looked away, spitting on the ground.

Ardana pushed her son forward and pointed to the rack.  “There. Gorthaur will guide you.  Do what must be done, and you and your father will reap the rewards of power.  And your power will be their power,” she said, gesturing to the humans.

Moran’s feet felt as lead and each step was harder than the last.  Even the heat and humidity of the jungle couldn’t stop the icy feeling in his heart.  He gestured to Yavëkamba to join him.  She always gave him strength ever since she healed him after Hithlum.  She flared her nostrils and frowned.  “I will not,” she declared in a forced monotone.

Ardana seemed to sense his thoughts about his friends.  “Forget them,” she declared with a knifelike cut of her hand.  “They are squeamish.  The son of the king must stand strong.  You can only show strength.  Go now and complete your destiny!”  She gave him a hard shove.

He staggered forward as Elendur brought Alman to the rack.  He took a look back at his mother, hoping for something, anything, but got nothing.  Elendur released the human to Gorthaur and then turned away.  Moran thought she looked green, her pretty face taut as if she were nauseous.  Gorthaur held the octagonal brooch at his neck, and it glowed a sickly shade of yellow. Alman fell limp into his arms and the priest guided the young man onto the rack, securing his arms and legs in thick leather straps.  It was then that Moran realized that the grooves were cut where someone’s neck, wrists and heart would be.  Almar let out a groan that struck right at Moran’s chest.  How old was this boy?  Alman couldn’t be more than a hundred in the lifespan of an elf.  But did humans age the same?  He tried to put any thought but what was happening into his head.

Moran turned back again to his mother.  “Why?” He wanted to run, to flee into the jungle and never return.  Without a word, she pointed back to the boy tied to the rack.  His breath came in gulps and his right hand shook, making the kynac tremble.  With his left hand, he grasped his brooch and dark power surged into his body, feeling like his father had put worms into his brain, crawling and digging.

Gorthaur lifted up his arms and his features twisted with unholy glee.  He called to the sky, “Morgoth!  Master! King of the Earth, we call upon you to consecrate this gift of blood!  This gift of life!  We call upon your power to give us strength to cleanse this land in your name!”  The yellow glow from his brooch expanded and touched Moran and their energies linked to become as one.  The wind began howling like the sound of a pack of hungry wolves.

Moran basked in the sickly yellow and green light and the energy seized control of his hands, his feet, his mind.  The worms were digging fast, crawling deeper and deeper into his psyche.  It was like an itch that couldn’t be scratched.  He could not tell if it was his will or his father’s but he took almost robotic steps forward to Alman.  He fought to stand still, but an unseen force pushed him forward.  The boy seemed aware, but could not move.  His eyes showed it all: terror and fear, begging for mercy.  Moran raised the kynac, wishing he could drop it, trying to unlock his fingers, but he plunged it into Alman’s belly.  There was a shriek, the smell of blood and a thick liquid coated his hand.  Then Moran blacked out.

When his mind returned, he realized that he was holding up a bloody heart.  Gorthaur took it from him and let it float before them.  It came apart into hundreds of pieces and was then absorbed into Moran’s brooch.  It felt like the surge of power would rip Moran limb from limb it was so overwhelming.  The worms were in a frenzy now, ripping his whole being apart.

Gorthaur cried out, “It is done!  The Master has accepted the sacrifice!  We are consecrated in his glory through blood magic!”

In an instant, the glow faded around them and the power in Moran vanished.  Only a whisp of mist floated away from the brooch and dissipated in the wind.  Moran staggered back, bracing himself on the rack with his hand.  He looked down at the utterly mutilated body of Alman.  Blood was flowing down the grooves into a container. Did he do this?  Did he do this horror?  Moran felt sick.  He dropped the kynac and ran around to the rear of the rack.  He made grunting noises before the contents of his stomach shot onto the ground.  Then, his knees sagged and he collapsed onto the ground, his vomit soaking his pants. His breath came in raspy gulps. He wrapped his arms around his knees and rocked, sobbing like an infant.  “What have I done?  What have I done?”

Yavëkamba ran to him, but Ardana waved her off.  “Stop!” she commanded the Healer.  “He is my son and it is time for him to be a man, not a child.”  She reached down and grasped Moran by the ear, dragging him to his feet.  Her black eyes flashed and her gown shimmered in her distaste.  She took his face in both hands and forced him to look at Alman. The boy could no longer be recognized.

“No.  No,” Moran said weakly, trying to shake his head, but his mother’s grip was firm.

She pushed his head closer. “Look at your work son.  Revel in your father’s power.  His blood flows through your veins.  You will always follow in his footsteps.  Now grow up and face your destiny,” she said coldly.  She released his head and turned to the humans. “Rise now, allies of the king! Rise now and accept his power!” she called and dark clouds gathered directly overhead in seconds.  The feeling of humidity grew like a wave of pressure.  She raised her hand and a single bolt of lightning shot from the sky onto her fingertip, which crackled with energy.  There were gasps and then the humans rose and stood before Ardana.  “Accept the power of Morgoth!”  They fell to their knees and kissed her gown, energy flowing from her body to theirs.

Moran sagged back onto the rack.  He tried to wipe the blood from his hands, but it was futile.  He scrubbed harder in an almost frenzy, turning his skin red as well. He felt gentle hands guide him back and he turned to see Yavëkamba.  She took a wet towel and removed the blood, dipping it in a large golden bowl and then wringing it out to wipe again.  She stroked his cheek and whispered into his ear.  “You are not this.  You are the gentle boy who watches the stars and listens to my stories of Valinor.  The boy I play hide and seek with.  The boy who stays in my arms all night.  Remember.”  She blew a breath into his face and an image of two great trees, one of gold and one of silver, became imprinted in his mind.  “Remember.”

Chapter End Notes

I want to showcase the horror of the ritual and the cult.  Also, we look at Gorthaur's personality and Yavekamba's compassion.