6.  The Apex

As the guests had all appeared, the time for closure began to near,

And the only force of humanity here that held me fast was primal fear.

What hope could hope to persevere when all but Hell has disappeared?

When the only law to which we adhere is the Fiddler’s song within our ears,

Leading us further from the grace of light in contempt of the God we once revered,

Calling us to cast off our robes of white and grasp the shaft of Destiny’s Spear.

Then wind and snow stood still as stone, along with every flesh and bone

Creature in the night, alone, whose heart was dead or soul had roamed

From or to the abyss this night to dance in the absence of Heaven’s light,

Sons of Adam and sons of Hell, given the chance to stand, but fell

Cast forever from their creator’s sight into the open arms of the Fiddler’s spell.

Frozen now for three breaths time with no illusion of song or rhyme

To blind the eyes or warm the night, each man saw with a sober mind.

Some breathed a curse and some a prayer, but both were heard by naught but air

For the Fiddler’s fare was his by right – a feast of flesh and souls laid bare

By ancient means and sinister rites upon a smorgasbord with care

And then a blast from the horizon’s line, far beyond the sand

Shook the world like a trembling girl in fear of her father’s hand

And at that moment, burning bright, crept the edge of a shining star

Just above the ocean’s end, a light, bringing finality from afar

In impossible time, it drew a line from a hole in the charcoal sky

That burned with a golden, shining glow, blinding my wretched eyes

Streaking towards what could only be, with a vengeful, blinding speed,

The city, the dancers, the Fiddler and me, bent in fear onto our knees.

The roar was ever deafening, and the Earth was ever quaking.

Air and sea could naught but flee from the force of the comet’s making.

And all I could do was plead and for blessed mercy concede

The pain of penance for the wicked deeds of my fallen brothers and me.

I covered my face from the speeding wonder sent in fury to rip asunder

The morbid scene of the dancer’s dreams with vengeful blasts and righteous thunder

Then once again, the air stood still, and slowly I lowered my cowardly veil   

To gaze upon an orb of light, a pulsing beacon in the night,

Sent with the fury of Heaven’s might - a miracle manifest within my sight.

Above the churning fountain’s brim, he stood on a pillar of air

A holy terror of avenging wrath - calm, serene and debonair

There he floated on mighty wings, meeting the Fiddler’s glare with grace

And with two hands he softly touched, then kissed the Fiddler’s face

Abashed, the Fiddler stood with hate for the mighty sentinel of Heaven’s Gate

Ere he leapt to the cobblestone ground, he began to visibly shake

Turning around with head held high and a blasphemous curse that filled the sky

Reaching up with his fist held high, he damned the whole of eternity to die.

And so the seraph gazed upon the crowd, with pity in his tear-filled eyes.

In a flash the pity turned to wrath

Merciful hands drew a fiery blade

He pointed the tip at the Fiddler’s face

And shouted,

“Frater! Quisnam est amo Deus?!”

The silver clouds in that blackest night began to swirl and turn

A spiral above the city's center, a whirlpool in the sky,

Showered down a gentle rain; I could smell the sulfur burn

Searing the flesh of demons and men, whose only end was to die

Then the earth shook as it opened its arms to swallow the corpses whole

And brimstone shards spewed from the soil making room for their putrid souls.

Out of hundreds in the city ruins, there now remained only three:

The Fiddler, the Seraph, and a wretched soul murmuring reverent pleas

And there I laid, my vision blurred, and all faded out of sight,

Alas, forbidden to witness the splendor of Heaven's holy might.

Doubtless, the lords of light prevailed and doubtless the Fiddler fell.

Yet still, my brothers had danced themselves straight to the pits of Hell

I awoke with the rubble and ash , and I ran from that cursed place

I will never again allow myself to hear the croon of a fiddle or bass

The only thoughts to which I wish to adhere are the ones I make my own

But sometimes still, I whistle a tune that I know I never wrote.