Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 1.2

Last week's post includes Cantos I & II, if'n you want to read those before this one. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this installment of my epic poem.

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III.

When the child of mourning arrived at his home

He immediately began his pleas.

“Hear me, oh Father, oh Glorious Rone,

oh Creator of Fire and spirit.

We have been wronged today and I seek your face.

Reveal yourself, show me your way,

And guide me in what to do.”

Zzizgarg made the cut and offering,

Casting the blood into the fire.

The temple darkened in the wake of the flare,

And a mighty voice spoke from the Flame.

(And it was a deep baritone, mind you.)

“Who calls me at this hour? Who dares wake me?

It is near two in the morning and I do not wish to be disturbed.”

The yellow-faced one winced at his error.

“I regret my actions, Father, for I forgot about the time lag.

It is I, Zzizgarg, your Blood-son with Paes,

Son of Fire and Ice. Forgive my witless brain

And my weak heart, Father, for I meant not to offend.

Indeed, I only come to you to seek vengeance on

The one who has wronged us.”

The Great Yawn of Heaven ripped through the air

And a loud Snap! followed. In majesty and grace

Appeared Rone suddenly, robed in flannel pajama pants

And a green, fleece robe.

“Wronged us, you say? No one wrongs me without my approval,

which is never, mind you, and anyone who tries suffers my wrath.

Consider your own actions, child, before waking me.

“When waking a god you had best have a good reason,

or your offense is as likely to cause more problems.

I was dreaming of giant bowls filled with 2% milk

And frosted corn flakes, large enough that it took

Six virgins to hold up a single bowl,

Six ill-clad virgins I say, and in a meadow of

Twilight quality.

“The cereal was grand, and now I find myself a-hungered.

You know that we gods do nothing free of charge,

And our prices are oft’ a trick,

But if you ask your request I shall likely agree,

So long as you bring me good quality corn flakes as an offering

Every morning for breakfast for the next fifteen years.

If you agree to this, I shall hear your plea.”

Zzizgarg gulped audibly, nodded and wiped his hand on his brow.

Blood from the Cut came off and left a red streak,

Vivid and crimson on his yellow-face.

“I will do all that you ask of me, glorious Rone,

whether or not you agree to my prayer.

You are my father, you are Fire,

And you deserve my devotion.”

“You speak wise, child, and you’ve taken the blood-oath.

Henceforth, you must bring me quality corn flakes every morning.

You will offer me a bowl for fifteen years.

If you fail one time, my anger will burn on you

And I will wipe your existence off of this plane.

Even if you are immortal, you are no god,

And I can make your eternity miserable if you fail me.

“Now speak, Zzizgarg, and tell me of our wronging.”

The immortal quivered and bowed.

“Today in the Courte du Gods I was challenged by a semi-mortal

named Oscambria. He is one of your lower sons,

born from your loins with a fleshling,

and his attitude is full of pride. I defeated him in his challenge

and he proceeded to blaspheme your name.

“‘Rone,’ said he, ‘is as much Fire as I am.

The old god spends all his time in his own stool,

Thick spittle pouring down his mangy face.

He no longer cares about anything but himself,

And as such he no longer exists.’

In rage I struck him, but he had a talisman

And drove me away.”

Flames erupted around the god, and his fury burned bright.

“HOW DARE THIS CHILD CALL ME OLD!

Tell me exactly, Zzizgarg, who he is and how he came to be.”

“Yes, your worship,

though I may have his lineage imperfect.

He was born near the time I was,

Back in DCCXI.

“His name is Oscambria, son of Oscar,

son of Reaul, son of Lanert, son of Eux,

son of Jamal, son of Raes, son of Nifty,

son of Walter, son of Carl, son of Raes,

son of Slater, son of Zachaeus, son of William,

son of Euxene, son of Vaxter, son of Killis,

son of Hopa, son of Mattsew, son of the woman Paliea.”

“Yes, I do remember now,” bellowed the god.

“She was a beautiful fleshling, married to a lowly pig farmer.

I offered him life in exchange for a night with his woman.

He refused and I had her anyway and I burned him alive.

She bore me a son, Mattsew, and then tossed herself

From the fjords of Ikly. The child would have died, too,

If I had not intervened.

“Perhaps I should not have stopped her and let the child die.

If so, then this Oscambria would not be here now.

Regardless, even gods make mistakes,

And now I will make amends for my error and end this line.

How would you have me slay the blasphemer, Zzizgarg?

Shall I burn him alive? Shall I feed him to a bull?

What would you like, child?”

“I am sorry, Father, but I do not want him to die.

As a semi-mortal, he will live a very long life, but he will have no eternity.

If you were to kill him now, then he would not truly suffer.

No, I think you should curse him,

Make every day he walks on this sphere a wretched day,

Make him rue his sins with every passing of the sun and moon.

Let him live a long life filled with misery, I ask.”

The god smiled and laughed a bitter, deep laugh.

“Yes, Zzizgarg, you speak with wisdom.

You have stopped me from ending this pagan’s life prematurely.

He shall suffer for his insolence, and he will know that I am Fire,

That I am no old, weak god like Thaed,

That this flame burns as bright now as it did when I became.

Yes, he will suffer, Zzizgarg.

“Your offering to me every morning will remind me of my promise to you.

As a sign of my promise, I will forgive your forgetfulness,

I will bless you with radiance. You will glow, Zzizgarg.

Furthermore, I will give you a new name, one that is easier to say.

Henceforth, child, you shall be known as the Flicker of the Flame,

The burning in your eyes will remind all.

You shall be called Cornball.”