A dark man stands near the edge of the crowd that is already forming near the place of the skull. No one bothers him, though it could not be said whether it was they could not see him or because of the large sword he holds in one hand. It is a marvelous blade that seems to contain its own fire. The man often clenches it in his fist, almost out of pain, though he bore no wound himself. When he clenches it, phantom fire appears to race up and down the sword. His ebony skin does not flinch from the pain this fire causes for he is watching a pain far greater than his. "We are forbidden to interfere," he whispers to himself, a mantra. His eyes narrow as he sees something far ahead of him on the path leading from the city to the place of the skull. A shining tear collects in one eye. "But how readily I would Fall to spare Him this pain..."
A group of women walk by him, weeping. They obstruct the view of the man who has walked down this road, carrying far more than the wood upon his back. Two of the women are not wailing their grief, for they are trying to comfort those who are with them. As the women pass by, one of the somber stay behind to stand at the side of the dark man. Her hair is red as fire, with eyes green as emeralds. Perhaps a woman or slave from the Northern islands, she too is now unnoticed by the crowd. Her eyes never leave the other woman who is now the only one comforting those who mourn. "It hurts so much..." she murmurs. "When I first met her, I told her to 'be not afraid.' And so she has not felt fear, not though all of the world seems against her and her Son. She weeps inside, but she puts that aside to comfort all of the others. She knows what is to come, but does that erase any of the pain she must endure by watching?" Her own eyes fill with tears and the dark man holds her close with one arm as she begins to weep. "I told her of His coming, now I lead her to His departure?" she softly cries into his shoulder.
A large metal-on-metal clank is heard, metal on metal moving into wood. Screams abound throughout the place of the skull, from the prisoners and crowd alike. An Oriental woman in volumous robes, whipped about in the wind, now stands beside the other two. "The pain they feel, no one can imagine. It is a pain that opens all senses. But it is also an offering. For One who comes willingly, it is a pain that is nothing compared to Love."
The sounds of the crowd swell as the crosses are lifted. Jeers and catcalls, weeping and moans bounce off of the hills. The two women and the man try to watch stoically. It is good that they are there for each other... for at each jeer, the man with the ebony skin clenches his sword as if ready to charge into battle; at each wail of grief, the fire-maned woman makes ready to rush into the crowd; and at each moan of pain, the Oriental lady grows paler and more grim with not being able to take action. But the other two each supports the third, as the sun crawls higher toward the noon hour.
It is noon.
They fall to their knees, though they are unmoved by earthquakes and eclipses, by the sound of ripping that travels even here as if the entire world could hear it.
They see their brother, a great hulking blond giant of a man kneeling at the foot of the middle cross. He was not there earlier, but he is there now. And now, he raises a hand up to the cross, to help his Master down.
Clothed in light, the Master steps down and embraces the young man whose tears reflect back rainbows from divine light. He stands and leads his Lord to the others who are still kneeling, an invisible island of calm in a sea of grief and fear-stricken chaos. He embraces them all, calling them each by name. His smile is of relief and triumph and a happiness that to call serene would be a gross understatement.
"Let us go now," He says quietly. And then they are gone...for now.
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