By J.M. Meredith

“It is time.”

Echoes rattled throughout forgotten caverns deep within Muspelheim. The ancient one, Surt, had detached his crisp, blacken shape from one of his many soot thrones. Throughout his halls he easily manipulates the contours of fiery earth.  A few steps from where he materialized a vast pool of steamy lava gurgled and boiled. Tiny flames ignited back and forth across the volcanic glass above giving the illusion of moving stars in deep black space. Kneeling gracefully, without sound, which would seem difficult for one made of stone, he stuck one of his thick fingers into the lava, stood up and took a step back.

Where the lava had been disturbed a small whirlpool started to form. A hissing erupted from bubbling liquid rock. The center of the whirl grew deeper until the shape of a hand formed reaching up through the surface. Melting upon itself, the hand reached out moving closer and closer to the hard stone landing outside of the lava pit. A full arm, then a head and then torso appeared. Sections of smoldering stone clung painfully onto the Priestesses fresh skin. Black and heavier still were clothes that clung to her form, a sort of armor protecting her chest and stomach in heavy cover. Shiny black tendrils of hardening lava rock twisted about her feet. As her skirts cooled, they began to turn an ashy white. Her knees leaving a trail of red blood along the rocky ground as she pulled herself to her feet instantly healed.

Standing up confused and dizzy, the Priestess let Surt guide her further inland among the blackened rocks. At first, she was relieved to see him there to assist. Still not sure what exactly was happening, it had been so long since her spirit was trapped in a human form. He smiled gently and led her towards one of his thrones. Suddenly, she felt coerced, afraid. It didn’t seem right to sit in his throne, especially him being the harbinger of the Apocalypse. Ragnarök would be full underway above ground by now. Now that He had risen.

Once Surt was convinced she was comfortable in the rock chair, his eyes rested for a moment on her smoldering skirts which were almost done crumbling to a more practical shape. She straightened her back and held her wary head high. Meeting his eye, she pretended to be ready for what would happen next.

Surt’s form solidified. His face and skin were black from eons in the forge. He was perhaps a good head shorter than she would be when standing. His hair was slicked, jaw square. He wore a pitch-black coat. He looked from side to side. Then he stepped from left to right. He lifted one arm and pressed the other arm down. His blackened grin was pure and true. Static was in the air.   

“Da, da, da, daaaaaaa!” He sang, and out came the shiny baton, the twinkling black top hat and cape. His knees snapped up and down in a perfect march. His dance, the slide, his skills. But, most of all, his pizzaz.

It was time for a show and like any exploding volcano he demanded full attention. The Priestess held her face in one hand, daring to peak through cracked fingers in fear he might see her smile. Drums began to sound from deep within the shadows. He jumped about, arms swaying as he danced. Soon shadows and flames rose from the walls, tiptoeing up little steps before jumping forth to join Him. Little black flames bobbed with shadowy hands that mimicked the ancient one’s dance. The crowd formed a circle, heaving to and from around her. They urged the Priestess to get up and join them. Taking a deep breath, she thought to herself, Oh no, here we go.