I wrote this piece as part of writing competition in a now-defunct discord, and figured it made sense to post it somewhere so that it isn't lost forever. Also, I didn't write anything for Macro March and this is the consolation prize.

I think it's alright for something I wrote in a week, though I doubt it's winning the Nobel Prize any time soon. Lots more world-building than is strictly necessary (and that I likely won't return to), though it does exist in the same universe as the 'Token of a Better Age' piece I wrote 8 trillion years ago.

Any resemblance to any real-world religions are 100% intentional and designed to offend you, the reader, specifically.

Title by Karl Marx (Manifesto, 1848)

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All That is Solid (Melts into Air)

“... and in the consignment of our souls to the wisdom of thy judgment, we entreat thee for absolution from our transgressions and benediction for our meritorious deeds…”

The archaic words, careful and practiced, bubbled up slowly and awkwardly from Lexandre’s stomach. Wrinkles under his eyes, the aftereffect of a night’s worth of memorizing the Divine Liturgy, pressed together at the seams as the desire for sleep butted up against the need to remain conscious for just a few hours more…

The Rite of Questioning was not, technically, the holiest ritual of the faith; that honor belonged to the Chanting of the Vespers. It was, however, the most public ritual; It was the only day of the year when the doors of the Regia, the sacred rotunda at the heart of the Imperial Capital, were open to the faithful. All other times, the 60-foot stone doors were to remain closed, except at the behest of the Rex Sacrorum.

“Me,” Lexandre mentally reminded himself, still not quite believing it was true. At the time of his election to the position of the High Priest by the Imperial Investiture, the young deer had been a compromise candidate; as a young lay-bishop from the Isles, born a peasant far from the squabbles of the capital, he had been seen by the Crown as the ‘safe’ candidate to avoid alienating either the Nobles or the Municipals. 

And now the Crown was gone.

Lexandre poured the sacred waters into the basin at the center of the Regia. A thousand years' worth of history peered down at him from the walls of the rotunda, and at each angle, the stone was branded with images of the Many-Tailed God, excepting only the large archway connecting the chancel to the nave, where an assemblage of seemingly half the Empire stood silently, ankle-high and gazing up at him in rapturous wonder.

Lexandre clasped his hands together and bowed his head, and he could practically hear the crowd behind him follow suit. “And in our adjuration, we adhere to our sacred covenant. To hold to the love of truth, and the truth of love. From Time Immemorial, and unto the Ages of Ages.” Heads raised throughout the Regia, and Lexandre turned around, carefully and slowly. “The Hour of Catechism is at hand,” he said in a flat tone. Lexandre’s voice, already formidable at his current height, was only amplified by the high-vaulted ceilings above. “Go in peace.”

A veritable parade of worshippers began to flow out from the stone doors in a silence that was eventually broken by the groaning of metal hinges and the grinding of stone-against-stone as the doors shut behind them.

Lexandre looked down at the only person remaining: Cyrano Vitalinus. Captain-and-Defender of the Golden Ambrosian Republic, Leader of the Revolution, and, today, ritual substitute for an Emperor who no longer existed. 

“Maybe the doomsayers are right. The world must be topsy-turvy if you’re taller than me,” the young ermine said with a smile. His voice, authoritative as always, carried itself well; Normally, Lexandre had to kneel to hear the voices of the laity.

“I suppose He must have a sense of humor,” Lexandre replied, somehow managing to pronounce the capital H.

 Images of boyhood days spent with Cyrano on an island far from the capital brought a quiet smile to his lips as he knelt on one knee. The smell of sea salt and the taste of bittersweet fruit mingled with memories of tree climbing and diving for starfish in the lagoons. Something about seeing him again caused the smile on Lexandre’s to wither in grief. When they’d last seen each other, Lexandre had still been a priest-in-training, and Cyrano was shrinking over the horizon as he sailed away to make his fortune in the cities. At the time, Lexandre had fully accepted that they might never see one another again.

And yet, here he was. Here they both were. When they’d parted, they’d been lowest of the low. And now, either through chance or divine intervention, they were both at the very height of power. Quite literally, in Lexandre’s case; it was perhaps one of the strangest perks to come bundled with the office. And he’d thought banging his antlers on doorframes had been bad before…

Kneeling, Lexandre offered his hand on the ground next to the stoat. He was dressed in all the finery expected of a burgher, complete with a feathered, floppy hat and ruffled doublet. The only evidence of stubborn individuality was the long, flowing cloak that flowed from his shoulders. Lexandre presumed that it was socially permitted only because it was dyed in chartreuse; the pointed opposite of the Imperial Purple. It was quite extravagant, especially compared to Lexandre’s simple white robes. 

Cyrano stepped gingerly onto Lexandre’s palm after only a moment’s hesitation. He stood proud and tall in the brief second before Lexandre lifted his hand into the air and he fell to his rear at the sudden destabilization of the ground beneath him. Laying on his back, he fit neatly into the deer’s palm, almost exactly as tall as his own hand was long. 

“I don’t think I could ever get used to that,” Cyrano murmured in awe. 

“Unfortunately, you’ll have to. At least once a year,” Lexandre smirked. “Unless you want to bring a 30-foot ladder past the crowd of awed worshippers and climb up to the basin yourself.” That got a sincere belly laugh from Cyrano, and even Lexandre couldn’t keep himself from snickering a bit from the mental image. 

“Well, the Paynim seem to manage just fine. Unless you’ve been personally lifting each of them up to do touch-ups and repairs.”

Lexandre smiled again. In a sense, he was right; the prohibition on the faithful entering the Regia outside of holy days was just that: a prohibition on the faithful. Which meant that the only people permitted to do repairs on the stone structure, or touch up the paintings on the walls and ceilings, were the faithless; the ‘Paynim’. Such repairs were typically done in the period between the middle of summer and the start of autumn since that was the period when the Regia went largely unused, and workers were usually hired from abroad. And since the High Priest of the Faith had more important things to do than supervise a maintenance crew for 3-4 months, the Paynim had a degree of autonomy that was rare in the old Empire.

“How long until the rite begins?” Asked Cyrano, suddenly changing the subject.

Lexandre looked up into the domed ceiling above the chancel; a circular hole at the zenith of the cupola let only a singular, angular beam of light in, and allowed a clear, if narrow, view of the blue sky above. Normally, it was closed to prevent the rain from seeping into the building, but today, the covering had been removed for the sake of the ceremony. Which, judging from the position of the sun…

“Probably about fifteen minutes,” Lexandre guessed, and there was a long pause as the two of them suddenly found themselves overwhelmed with the choice anxiety that comes with having too many things to talk about, and not nearly enough time to discuss all of them.

Cyrano finally broke the silence after a 45-second eternity. “Will the rite even work?” He said, almost too quietly for Lexandre to hear. “I mean, I’m not exactly the Emperor. Ever since he was overthrown…” the gulp reverberated somewhere in his soul, and Lexandre could feel him shaking in his hand. “Does this count as blasphemy?”

Lexandre found himself suddenly enamored with the frescoes that encircled him. The vulpine face of the Many-Tailed God was everywhere. In each depiction, he was facing to the side, addressing crowds or granting prayers. In some paintings, he hovered over crowds of people (typically battlefields) to indicate his spiritual, if not temporal, presence at the most important moments of the Faith after his departure. But most of the depictions were of the miracles he’d performed since those were the most visually striking and immediately recognizable to the illiterate masses. There was only one painting that was the exception to both rules. On the wall opposite the archway entrance was a depiction, full-bodied and staring directly at the viewer, with the only concession to text that could be found in the whole rotunda.

A severe mien and imposing posture loomed over all, even Lexandre. White peasant robes flowed softly and gracefully, while the Gold trimming that had clearly been added some centuries after the initial painting seemed more like a trail of yellow paint carelessly added by a mischievous child. A banner at the top of the painting, the color of parchment, intruded gently into some of the other depictions. The words written on it seemed far too small for the space given to them by the banner. ‘Father to All’, bookended by empty space.

Was it Blasphemy? When the revolution began, Lexandre hadn’t picked sides, and the rest of the clergy had (often grumblingly, but ultimately fidelitously) followed suit. The support of the Imperial Family by the Faith had been backed up by tradition, politics, and over a thousand years of precedent. But not a single word of doctrine or scripture. And so, when the burghers and the lawyers and the doctors of the capital demanded representation in the diet, the church saw nothing of note. And when the Municipal Assemblages of the country tried the Emperor for treason against the nation, the church said nothing.

And when everything went to hell and the country was suddenly caught in the conflagration of civil war, the church did nothing. 

And yet.

The church inviting the Captain and Defender, the elected leader of the Republic, to perform the rites in place of the now-defunct Emperor was not nothing. It had been something. Perhaps the first something Lexandre had done since his ascension to the office. Did that make him a hypocrite? Perhaps he truly was the biased interloper his deriders accused him of being But then, surely it would’ve been something to not hold the rite at all, in absence of an Emperor? And if that was the case, couldn’t it be said that his choice to do nothing during the revolution had been something as well?

And that was only the temporal half of the question. He peered up again at the massive painting of the severe Many-Tailed God. If he had truly sinned so greatly, surely he would’ve been judged unworthy of the office and returned to his former height. And yet, no signs of favor or displeasure made themselves apparent…

“If you’re going to stare off into space like that, could you at least put me down so you don’t accidentally drop me?” Came the small voice from Lexandre’s hand, and the deer could only just keep himself from blushing in embarrassment. The stone onto which the frescoes were painted was sunken a few inches (or feet, depending on perspective) into the wall, leaving a small walkway on top of the lower sections of the wall at about waist height. It was onto this small eave that Lexandre gingerly let Cyrano down.

The ermine, for his part, immediately strained to look up before laughing to himself. “The paintings look a little absurd from this angle, I have to admit. I can see why they don’t let the Faithful up here even on holy days; I’d laugh too if saw my God like this.” He continued to follow the circular walkway around, snout pointed up like an arrow.

Lexandre knelt so that he was at eye level with Cyrano, who started with a jump. “Heaven above, warn me before you do something like that!”

The deer snickered. “Sorry, I’m still getting used to it, and most people are too nervous around me to complain.”

Cyrano just rolled his eyes. “Glad I could offer some constructive criticism. It’s not like-” he paused suddenly as he finished his walk around the rotunda, reaching the end of the walkway and into the alcove where a hexagonal pillar separated him from the archway leading into the nave. “Huh. Did you know about this?” He asked, gesturing to the rectangular wall of the pillar pointed towards the walkway. 

Lexandre had to practically place his head against the face of the wall, and even as he could feel his antlers scraping against stone, he still had to squint to see what Cyrano was referencing.

The entire wall, going up at least 100 feet and probably more, was entirely decorated with text. Moving his head closer, most of it was too small for Lexandre to read the individual letters, but he could see that each had been lovingly chiseled in, all in a miscellaneous range of languages. Lexandre’s mouth was agape and his eyes didn’t even bother to hide the shock he felt at seeing graffiti in the holiest place of the Faith.

Cyrano, not missing a beat, translated the tiny text into speech. “In the third week of summer in 923, a granddaughter was born to Matilda of Firensia, who wrote this,” he said, barely containing a smile. “‘On the blue moon of 885, Lucius Valeri lost his virginity at last.’ ‘On the 50th day of Spring, I made bread’. That one’s almost faded, I think it might be as old as the church is,” Cyrano mused. “This poem at eye level is probably the oldest; it’s written in the old script and is practically invisible. In… In festo laper- lupercalio- calia,” he began, stuttering through the unfamiliar language. Lexandre paid close attention to the rest, before translating for the sake of his friend:


On the Feast of Lupercalia, Celica of Oldemo

fell from these rafters and died at the age of 16.

We do not know which gods she worshipped

But we hope she is found swiftly in their arms;

As he who knows the melancholy of life’s autumn,

Has at least known a season beyond the spring.

The pair was silent for a while. It was not, strictly, a good poem. The meter flowed poorly and it was littered with misspellings. A kind critique would call it a homely but moving eulogy. A crueler one would call it crude and amateur. But there was something sincere in the half-effaced inscription. Perhaps more sincerity than in all the beautiful frescoes and paintings around them. Whatever its flaws, it had all the tender pathos of the here and the hereafter.

“What are you going to do with it all?” Asked Cyrano quietly, staring up and down again at the millennia's worth of graffiti. 

“I don’t know,” Lexandre lied. A bitterness and a sweetness churned within him and alchemized into righteous anger. The stoney eyes of the paintings around the rotunda peered at him through their collective peripheral vision, judging him coldly. If there was any love or hope to be found in the whole of the rotunda, it was to be found only here, in the rude inscriptions of foreign pagans. He could not, would not, efface perhaps the only sacred thing on the walls of the Regia. He would leave it as it was.

Just as soon as the anger had appeared, it dissipated, and Lexandre’s face eased. Part of him knew he was overreacting, and there would be time to consider it all later. Now was not the time for doubts. “We can figure that out later,” he said, his voice calm and smiling. For now…” he peered up to look at the sun peering down directly in the center of the hole in the ceiling. “The Hour of Catechism is at hand.”

He offered his hand again, and Cyrano stepped on with no complaint. He carried him over to the basin in the center of the rotunda and placed him on the water’s edge, before stepping back and re-adopting his clerical voice. “Cyrano Vitalinus, Captain and Defender of the Golden Ambrosian Republic; may you begin your communion. May you be judged well.” 

As he said the words, the chamber filled with a bright light as the sun reached it’s zenith, reflected off the bottom of the basin, and perfectly rebounded into every corner of the chancel. In his peripheral vision, iridescent colors flashed and for the first time, he began to understand why previous Rex Sacrorum held the rite in such high regard.

Cyrano, for his part, took a tentative step onto the water. Lexandre breathed a silent sigh of relief as he stayed upright upon the surface, rather than sinking to the bottom. If there was ever a time to indicate that they had lost the Divine One’s favor, it would be now. With each step, Cyrano grew bolder, his awkwardly waddling turning into confident strides as walked into the center of the basin, and fell to his knees.

And that was the end of Lexandre’s contribution to the rite. Except, of course, to help his friend down after it was all done. But the conversation with the Many-Tailed God was for Cyrano, and Cyrano alone, to know. All that was left to do was wait. And with no other stimulation to keep him interested, he decided to watch the only thing in the rotunda that was moving. As the sun moved eastward in the sky, the ray of light that peered through the building slowly climbed up the wall, illuminating the grand portrait that was so central to the whole building. At around hour two, Lexandre would make a game of it. He would challenge himself to solve a small mental puzzle or recite a long piece of scripture before the climbing halo reached a certain milestone, such as the waist or neck.

Lexandre smiled to himself as the halo illuminated the head; it seemed properly sacred then. The yellow pigment used to paint the eyes shined with gentle grace, and the stern expression seemed to give way to one that was more familial; almost playful. Sleep, eventually, became the great villain to stave away, and Lexandre found himself walking around the rotunda to keep himself awake, any thoughts about the certain slant of light tossed aside.

Ignored, at least, until it reached the banner above the painting. It had been too dark to see before, but when the light shone directly on it, there was something about the banner that became impossible to ignore. Layers of paint revealed themselves to direct sunlight, and the pentiment, the afterimage of something that had been previously painted there, shone through. Where it now said ‘Father to All’, there had been something else. A longer phrase, befitting the length of such a large banner. Squinting, Lexandre tried to make out the text beneath the paint while the light lasted, and through some effort, managed to piece it together.

I am a brother to all men, and so are all men brothers

Lexandre had little time to parse the words, and his reverie was finally interrupted by the sound of Cyrano standing.

He gazed off into the distance, his mind seemingly vacant, as if he’d been the receptor of some great truth. He walked to the edge of the basin, before simply collapsing from exhaustion onto the stone.

“I met Him,” he panted breathlessly. “And He was… He was-”

“It’s all right,” Lexandre said, cutting him off. “You need some rest. Go home, and you can speak with the soothsayers tomorrow to interpret it all.”

This seemed amenable to Cyrano, who seemed to be slowly curling further into a fetal position with each passing second. Not even waiting for him, Lexandre swept Cyrano’s form into his hand like one might sweep salt from a countertop, and marched towards the front doors, slowly returning to his ‘clerical’ persona with each step. He swung the doors open wide and gazed out into the (now much smaller) crowd of people who chose to stay for the whole event.

“The Lord of Many Hosts has blessed our captain with his communion, and our sacred covenant remains unsullied. May the Republic live ten thousand years,” he intoned, which was met with rapturous applause from the people still assembled. 

Kneeling, he gingerly placed his hand adjacent to Cyrano’s wagon carriage, and watched as he half-slid and half-fell out of his hand into the hard wooden seats below. The two of them exchanged a quiet, knowing look before the wheels of the wagon began to roll, picking up speed as the horses trotted jauntily along. The deer watched until the wagon had disappeared into the city streets, and allowed himself a rare, public smile as he reentered the Regia and let the doors swing behind him with a loud groan. 

He gazed up one last time into the eyes on the wall that stared with a newfound gentle slant back at him, slouched up against the wall of the nave, slid to the ground, and finally succumbed to sleep.