In the dim, candle lit sanctuary priests glide noiselessly across polished floors. The air was heavy with a reverent silence broken only by the murmur of votaries and pilgrims. At the entrance, water trickled into golden bowls where the faithful washed their hands, making themselves pure.
They were here to see the king, to seek his justice and to align themselves with this mighty one. They were cleansed, shining with oil, smelling of precious ointments, dressed in the finest festal robes, perfect, ready to meet the king.
Suddenly, the silence was broken: “Doors! Open the doors!” The doorkeepers were confused: “What? Who for?” “Doors! Open up! The king returns from battle!” The doors were hastily pushed open as one doorkeeper asked another: “Who’s coming?” “Dunno. Something about a king?”
Still the order was ringing: “Doors! Open the doors!”
In strode a giant of a man, the conquering king, his great chest heaving from the exertion of warfare. His helmet fell with a crash on the spotless floor and sweat dripped from his brow, thick with grime and gore. His hands were drenched in the blood of his enemies.
The pilgrims were stunned as he turned to them, and, with a smile, holding out his arms said: “Welcome to my temple.”
More tomorrow...
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