The Song of Tarathúr

Act VI

The winds have begun to change. Summer has fallen. The first chill of winter stings the air. It has been nine long years since Tarathúr left the Forest of Dreams. Now a woman of nearly forty, she finds that the Mórrígan’s gifts have begun to fade from her. She can no longer “see” the future with the keen eyes she once did – yet she is haunted by visions of Caben’s doom. Xavian’s army is near, and Tarathúr’s own army is encamped beneath an ancient hill of standing stones. While her people sleep, Tarathúr ascends the hill and invokes the Great Goddess a final time. In Eve of Eternity, Tarathúr asks the Mórrígan to shield Caben’s life in the coming battle. Once more, the Mórrígan answers Tarathúr by giving her a vision of blood. Confident in her favor, Tarathúr goes to her lord’s bed with the charm of protection she has prepared.

In In Fate’s Hands, it is the morning of the final battle between Tarathúr’s army and Xavian’s legions. In the final hours before dawn, Caben and Tarathúr make love as if for the last time. Tarathúr then prepares Caben’s body for war, annointing it with her own blood and covering it with runes of protection. Outside, the Heathen warriors begin to gather themselves for battle. Caben converses with his son Erin who is to remain behind to guard his mother and sister should the day go ill. Erin is afraid for his father and warns Caben of the perilous omens he “sees” in the sky. In spite of this, Caben reminds his son of his sacred troth and goes out to rally the men.

The two armies gather on the field with spears held high. Banners fly in the autumn wind. Ravens throng overhead. Below, the two kings sit atop their mounts, outfitted gloriously: Xavian, the emperor of Rome, in armor of black and crimson, his face concealed beneath a fearsome war-helm, his fist clenched about his gladius – and Caben, the Heathen king, his wild hair blowing freely in the wind, his golden body girded in Tarathúr’s mail, his lady’s sword in his hand. They are father and son, but they are mortal enemies. In Seeds of Cythraul, their contest is decided. Drums boom. Valkyries sing. Rain pummels the ground in a relentless storm. The trump is sounded, and the armies converge.

Safely behind the ranks, Tarathúr and her children await the outcome of the engagement. The field is a frenzy. The clouds are a whirlwind. A red sun peeks through the darkening sky, striking Arián with sudden dread. She warns her mother of the ill she “sees”, but Tarathúr cannot share her daughter’s vision. The gift of foresight has left Tarathúr – yet her heart is “aware”. In a sudden moment, Tarathúr is possessed of the knowledge that her beloved is in mortal danger. Taking spear and shield in hand, she mounts her horse and rides to Caben’s aid. Erin follows behind his mother’s charge.

On the field, Caben and Xavian are locked in a desperate melee. Seeing his lady’s steeled approach, Caben is reminded of their first meeting in the golden wood so long ago. Enchanted, the king falls victim to pause and renders himself vulnerable to his enemy. In an instant, Xavian looses the sword from Caben’s hand and strikes him with it, piercing the king’s magical lorica. The queen arrives too late to save her love, who now lay dying in the last hour of the setting sun.

In Last Judgment, Erin weeps beside his mother, who now cradles Caben’s lifeless body in her arms. The sword that was Tarathúr’s love-gift now lay at Caben’s his feet, stained with the king’s blood. Tarathúr is gripped with anguish and horror, believing that all that she has come to trust has turned to treachery. The only truth that remains before her is a bitter friend from a near-forgotten world: vengeance!

In the shadow of doubt, Tarathúr grasps her sword and rises to meet her adversary. She and the emperor circle one another, exchanging curses and blows. As their pace quickens, battle-frenzy burns hot in Tarathúr. A lifetime of wrongs wells up inside of her. Her eyes ablaze with fire, her mouth red with blood, her mortal body charged with all things terrible and abominable, Tarathúr is no longer herself, but an instrument of the Mórrígan’s justice. Xavian sees the queen in all her fury as a Gorgon, and is held fast with fear. Tarathúr lunges and, with a mighty battle-cry, brings down her sword, cleaving the great emperor in two.

Xavian falls with a thunderous clamor. A hush comes over the battlefield. Then, the ground trembles. From out of the earth, a great host of maggots rises and devours the body of the emperor and all of the Roman dead, leaving only shattered weapons and emptied armor in its wake. Struck with terror, the remaining Roman soldiers scatter and flee. Tarathúr’s folk have won their victory.

Over the days that follow, the Heathen tribes burn their dead and sing songs to their memory. Caben’s body is wrapped in finery and girded in the lorica that once guarded its life. The king is then laid upon a bier and borne away with honor to the Forest of Dreams, to sleep there among the golden oaks forever. Her body tired and her battles ended, Tarathúr gives up her arms a second time. To Erin passes his mother’s magical helm and war-girdle. To Arián passes Tarathúr’s sword, to be kept in trust until such time as it is once again called for by the king of her folk:

 

“Erin, my son,” Tarathúr says, “take my girdle and helm. Ride with your father’s men, for you are now their captain.”

Tarathúr then turns to her daughter, and says “Arián, my girl, take my sword and return to my hall, for you are now Queen. And, ever remember: while a light burns there, so does hope.”

Arián then asks, “But, Mother, how shall I find my way?”Tarathúr answers, “You shall make the journey that I once did, and the Great Goddess shall guide your way.”

Then, Erin looks to his mother and asks, “And, what shall become of you, Mother?” And, Tarathúr answers, “I shall make the journey home.”

 

In The Gate of Kings, it is the morning of the winter solstice. Tarathúr has kept the long vigil that the Mothers before her had kept for ages. The year is come full circle. The heroine’s journey is come to an end. As Tarathúr witnesses the first rays of the newborn sun, her heart is warmed by a familiar light. As her heart reaches for that light, Tarathúr’s soul is at long last called home.

In the hearths and halls of her folk, Tarathúr’s Song is commerorated. In their hearts, it is sung. In their lives, it is celebrated. The generations shall ever remember the legacy left them by the great queen from the north. To the child given to the Great Goddess one cold winter’s night her folk now give her name: Mórrígan, which means Great Queen.

This concludes The Song of Tarathúr.

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