Second Eon: 02: Under the Wheel of Gods
The Fourth Seraphim
The Fourth Seraphim were decadent eternals, hedonistic where their predecessors had lived in regimented austerity. Enthralled by the people, the Fourth Seraphim embodied the most exaggerated of mortal traits within immortal, nigh-omnipotent forms, often to the detriment of all involved.
They had been a very enticing alternative to the Third Seraphim among the people, who had long begun to chafe under a clockwork Dominion of vigilant peace and rigorous order.
The Gods of the Wheel
It was under the Dominion of the Fourth Seraphim that a group of eternal beings calling themselves Gods of the Wheel emerged, ruling over a large kingdom on a pastoral planet in time with the changing seasons.
The Gods of the Wheel ruled over their kingdom through an ever-shifting pantheon of twisted familial relationships, for hundreds of millennia, before falling to the Most Valiant Heroes of the Fifth Seraphim.
Here follows one of their foundational myths (chronicled by the Most Erudite Scholars of the Fifth Seraphim):
“Upon the Turning of the Wheel”
The Spring Maiden was the daughter of Queen Summer and The Winter King. She was once betrothed to Lord Autumn, whose mood turned gloomy upon their estrangement.
For the Maiden had fallen in love with a mortal woman, and became the first of the gods to live among the people. Those days were deep in her youth, when spring was still a time for love, and she moved as her heart directed.
While the Maiden dwelt among her lover’s people, they knew only abundance, with fertile fields, pleasant summers, and mild winters. Autumn was stormy and cold in the beginning of those days, yet springtime was always blessed, when the Maiden sat upon the Throne.
But those days passed, and the Maiden’s love aged as mortals do. Though she remained young and healthy far longer than any of the people ever did, not even the love of the Maiden could stop the Wheel from turning. In the end she fell ill as mortals often can, and finally died, as mortals always must.
Then springtime was cold and dreary, when the Maiden sat upon the Throne.
That summer burned hot and languid, followed by autumn in a blaze of color. It was meant simply to bring a smile to the grieving Maiden’s face, but she had lost her reason to smile, so autumn gave way to a cruel and bitter winter.
In the coldest depths of winter’s darkest night, the Maiden thought, for the first time ever, of what might happen should the throne in springtime remain empty.
She sought counsel from the Winter King, now seated on the throne, but he had ever been cold and distant from his family, and had little warmth for his child.
“We indulged you,” he said, “for the life of your mortal woman, though you extended that life long past her due. Now at last she is gone. Mourn her through the end of my reign if you must, but when day stands equal with night, you will take your place here as you always have.”
“But I no longer feel — “
His voice cut cold and sharp across her words. “And what are your feelings before the Wheel?”
She sighed, offering the traditional phrase. “The Wheel turns.”
He nodded, satisfied, and returned the traditional reply. “For gods and mortals alike.”
Her eyes stung, and her tears froze before the throne of Winter.
“The Wheel is cruel,” she whispered, her voice nearly stolen by the wind.
The Winter King nodded and said, almost as softly, “To gods and mortals alike.”
So she left him, becoming a small fading glimmer of green in the all-encompassing white.
Lord Autumn met her outside the palace, removing his rust-colored greatcoat and draping it over her shoulders. She pulled it tightly around herself as he led her from the cold into a small house, and then to a cozy parlor, warmed by a fire in the hearth. Dried autumn flowers wilted on the mantle.
“Spring Maiden.” He sketched a bow. “You seem troubled. May I be of some aid?”
She offered a dull smile in return, with kindness. They’d found friendship after a time, and he’d been a friend to her mortal love as well.
“Maiden?” She laughed, more harshly than he’d ever heard her. “Can I truly call myself such? I have loved deeply and lost that love forever.” She returned his coat and sat before the fire. “No,” she shook her head, “I cannot go back to the Spring Maiden, and her carefree life of eternal youth.” She stared out the window into the blinding white of her father’s domain. “For all that I have nowhere else to go.”
Lord Autumn made an awkward sort of noise, meant to draw attention while deflecting it. When she looked at him, he looked back at her. Then he smiled, sheepishly and painfully in equal measure, and said, “First, please understand the respect I have for you and your darling departed, and the love you two shared. Already songs are being sung of that love, and a temple erected at her gravesite. None other could possibly…”
“Lord Autumn…”
“No.” He held up his hand. “Please. Allow me to finish. For what I must say will be said once and never again, may the cosmos forgive what I set in motion.”
He knelt, then took her hand in his. “Know also how much I cherish the friendship we found, and how loath I would be to jeopardize it, save at need.”
“Need?”
“You cannot go back,” he said. “You admit you’ve lost the innocence of the Maiden, and so you cannot go back.” He looked deep into her eyes. “Thus I invite you to walk forward,” he kissed her hand, “with me.”
“My Lord, I…”
“You do not love me.” He ducked his head and offered a wry smile. “At least,” he met her eyes again, “not the way you think you must. We are but friends, this is true,” he said, “but great unions have been built on less.”
She smiled, genuine warmth in it now. “So they have.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “But let us set aside pleasant words and pretty phrases to speak plainly.” Her eyes bored into his. “You would give me a child.”
“If you are willing.”
“And you would love me?”
“I would.”
She pulled him close. “Show me.”
So he did.
***
And it came to pass, through the ineffable ways of the gods, that their son was born on the Equinox, when day stands equal with night.
Within hours of his birth he was fully grown, and soon found a sword in his hand.
“You will not need that,” his mother said.
“There are but four seasons,” was his only reply.
“Do not fear,” she assured him. “I will keep you safe.”
He said nothing.
She brought him before her father, who stood now, as tradition demanded, beside the empty throne. In all the years past, for millennia without reckoning, she had sat upon it, her father standing beside her until the sun set.
On this day she spoke.
“Here is my son,” she said, “by Lord Autumn, as you would have had many centuries since. Let him take my place upon the throne in springtime, for I am a Maiden no longer.”
The Winter King looked from mother to son, then gave a curt nod. Glaring at the naked steel in his grandson’s hand, he drew his own blade.
When she would interfere, her father stilled her with a gesture.
“Dear child,” he said, a rare warmth in his smile, “there are but four seasons.”
The battle was fierce and raged long. The world saw storms as it had not in an epoch, and she was powerless to do aught but protect herself from its fury.
Finally her son stood victorious, her father dead at his feet.
He knelt before her, and offered his sword. “Mother,” he said, “my Queen. I beg your forgiveness, and your blessing.”
She felt the cosmos shift, and a new self emerge from the old, as the Summer Queen took up her son’s sword. “My son,” she said, “be absolved and forgiven, for you have taken your place among the gods.”
She anointed him with the sword. “The Winter King is dead. Long live the Spring Warrior.”
Then the Spring Warrior took the throne, and the world was reborn anew.
And on the Solstice, when day outshines the night, as spring gave way to summer, the Warrior gave way to the Queen.
At the end of her reign, when night stands equal with day, she and King Autumn would finally marry, upon his taking of the throne.
Then at last he stepped aside for Lady Winter, when night overshadows the day.
Thus did the Wheel turn, and so changed the world, for spring was now a time for war.
