And Only Atlan Stood

“Remember the sun”. That’s what the priest always said. A bustling town ensnared. Walk to the temple. Coin in the cup. Enter. Lay down your life for Atlan, oh people of the sun. Every day is the same. Every chant repeated. Every tradition for a god who doesn’t care. Every marking painted or worn is faded. My mother wears her head proud and bare. Lay down your life, your body the temple, for Atlan, oh people of the sun. I stopped cutting my hair. She tells me it’s a scorn to all who look upon me, to Atlan herself. My hair now falls to my waist. The priest won’t look at me, his face warns of deep fire. Let Atlan herself do something about it. As if I let a myth rule me.

“Remember the sun”. Yet I dream of the moon on my forehead, my billowing hair. My mother tries to cut it, first with blades then with flames. That devoted devil. She wears the face of the sun herself. Her ribs cage a heart she has no right to have. A heart that believes no longer the lies that pour out from her teeth, the lies that seeth from her priest. Blade and flame. Atlan is dead. I killed her.

“Remember the sun”. Those are the words burned onto the mossy walls of the temple. Across my mothers chest. Not a breath is given; just three words, carved into the back of the village. The myth risen from ashes come to free us of life. It happened without warning, too fast to see it, to believe it, yet I did. Our forest stripped from the earth, homes turned to dust and coal, the children of Atlan given to the earth. Never had the temple stood more alone in its glory. And never had the sun shone brighter.

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