The Writers' Circle

The great dome echoed with the sounds of footsteps. The pilgrims had gathered to pray at the statue of Ahteres, The Martyr. They flocked in great numbers through the temple doors and through its many archways and passages; to the Chamber. They were drunk with awe at the grandeur of the Temple's many idols and shrines. Upon reaching Ahteres' Chamber, they were truly intoxicated. The ornate carvings that surrounded the entrance to the Chamber were testament to the craftsmanship and painstaking time that was poured into the building. The Chamber was originally part of the palaces in which Ahteres and his entourage resided. A separate building connected to the palace by a network of passageways, Ahteres had converted the old place of worship into a private space for solitary reflection. The artefacts he had amassed through many years of war, alliances and bribery had once stood proud in this place. Ahteres himself had become part of the furniture of the room, seldom leaving, but to carry out his royal duties. After his death, it had only seemed right for this room to be used as a place to worship him, ironically reverting back to serve its original purpose. Ahteres, however, was no God. His essence and being, his paperwork and personal relics had been cleared and replaced with tapestries and paintings depicting a man who, to those that had ever truly known Ahteres, was not the man that had led the country only a decade previously. The great statue in his honour bore very little likeness to the man, his middle-aged figure replaced by the athletic and heroic physique of a man much younger. Despite this, the pilgrims kneeled before this false idol every year, and every year they prayed for the same thing. For their families to become richer, for their lives to be made easier, and for their gods to send another man like him, to lead the country out of corruption and poverty, and to rebuild the once unstoppable Caterthian Empire. This year was no different.

Through the crowds, a man of short stature weaved his way towards the Chamber, but detoured to the left, entering a small passageway. This man was clearly not  a pilgrim. His face and hands gave away his privileged lifestyle. He was wearing a black robe embroidered with the Caterthian crest on his left breast. There was a frustrated look in his eyes as he fumbled to find the right key for the large iron gate that halted his progress. As he turned the key in the lock, he glanced behind him and quickly disappeared from sight.


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The groan of old wood sounded through the room as its impressive door was opened slowly. A young man was sitting behind a carved marble desk, greeting anyone who entered the room with the back of his chair. The visitor's footsteps were heard, but the young man did not acknowledge them. A bottle of wine occupied his left hand whilst the right hand cradled an empty glass. Pale grey eyes stared out of the enormous windows at some unknown object in the distance.

"Lirate, Ahteres awaits," the short man announced. He seemed breathless and struggled to compose himself in the young man's presence.

"Thank you, Rene. I am aware." The young man spoke in a flat, expressionless tone, with a slight slur as though he had been drinking alone for a lengthy period of time. His light brown hair was untidy and a dark shadow of stubble was showing across his jaw line.

"Forgive me, my son, but why do you not acknowledge him? The pilgrims are here and they are waiting for you. They would be unforgiving if you did not make even a brief appearance."

Lirate closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "I do not know what they would think, and neither do I care."

Rene, one of the Temple's oldest priests, dropped his shoulders in disappointment. "Please. you have not been yourself lately. The palace walls are whispering that you are still not ready for this position, but the pilgrims believe in you. It's in your blood. It's."

"I DO NOT CARE IF I HAVE THE BLOOD!" Lirate threw his glass to the floor, before calming himself with another drink from the bottle. Droplets of wine from the glass stained the carpets.

"Look at you. Ahteres would be so disappointed to see you behaving in this manner. It's been ten years, Lirate. We all thought you could follow in your father's footsteps and become the beacon of hope that Caterthia needs. But so far, all you seem to have done is abused your inheritance. Now we've all gathered here to give him the honour he deserves, whereas you need to learn to show a little respect."

Rene waited for an angry response, but was shocked by the usually fiery Lirate's lack of outburst.

"Rene, you were my father's friend and I trust you as my advisor, but you know as well as I do that all this worship and honour is." He paused to find the words, but the priest offered some first.

"A little extravagant? Perhaps it is too much."

"I was thinking more along the lines of. false, unnecessary. insulting," There was sadness in his eyes as he thought of all that his father never was, "They are worshipping a man who did nothing but betray his country, Rene. His family too."

"I cannot tell you how much it saddens me that after all these years, he is still hurting you, my son. He was my dearest friend, but towards the end he became a different man. I understand that you can never forgive him, but that does not mean you must follow the same path," he nodded to the bottle in Lirate's hand. He reached out an arm, "Come, we will make a swift appearance and then I will leave you for the afternoon."

"Thank you, Rene." Lirate stood and allowed Rene to put his arm around his shoulder. They left for Ahteres Chamber.