What was fated to be will ultimately come to pass.
The crowd are quiet as set upon the stone dais were a pole and kindling arranged in the centre. Not unkindly, the Bailiff of the Land took Delah by the arm and led her to the pyre. As her hands were being bound behind her back, Delah looked to the East entrance; a clear night sky greeted her, not a star to be seen. Her head bowed with red curls loose and hanging low, the will of the gods had been decided and they would not be present for her death. Not a star burned brightly in the night sky.
The Sakrisan was aflame with anger and lust; to see the end of his torment filled his thoughts. He was lost for all time, with victory came only defeat. The end of the object of his adoration and love was to die before him. He was lost with mind swirling patterns of gods, fire and flame. The image of Lilith before him within his dream surfaced like a messenger of urgency, cajoling him to repeat the dreams through his mind.
“O Lilith the everlasting night, O seeker of the dark;
Let us mortals sleep safely, without memory of your daggers mark.”
The words came readily; spilling out over his paranoia and zealotry.
“Do unto Lilith what she wants of you,
Your heart will be black by the day is through.”
The blaze of the torches awaiting the order to douse the pyre with the cleansing fire illuminated the blackness of his heart. Hand on heart, face of fright.
The Sakrisan turns to you:
“Tell me stranger; who are you? You who have dogged my steps these last two moons, listened to my every word? Who are you stranger; someone who would listen and advise in poor faith? Why did you not mention unto me falsehoods and error? Who are YOU? O tell me the truth stranger. Do not stand dumbfounded, SPEAK. Speak stranger, open thy mouth and speak!”
You step forward:
“O Sakrisan, I am but an observer and nothing more. The mischief here is of your own creation. I am but an observer in your dramas and now, terrible tragedy.“
You reveal your true self:
“I am but a simple creation; only prominent to hear your words. Your weak lies and your damnable floridly flowery tales. I am Enkidu living within this listener; and this my fair fellow is your night of glory! O Sakrisan, enjoy the show, the stage is now set. Enjoy the fruits of your labours for glorious triumph is now assured! Fare-thee-well, O foolish mortal. Fare-thee-well O corrupt of spirit man.“
With a flourish and a broad, obvious wink, the Mischief Maker takes his leave. Azad turns back to the pyre to see it set ablaze. Quick and fluid the flames rise and engulf the kindling. Frozen, he watches as the flames tease the flesh of Delah, slowly stripping her bare of garment. Horror, as the fire becomes as one with her, face wreathed in flames, red hair burning with brilliance.
The murmur becomes a scream; a scream becomes two as Azad joins his voice with Delah’s. Arms outstretched to the pyre.
The World stops.
A dove, a bird of white emerges from the burning Sister’s chest. Tips of wing carrying the fire to the air. The dove floats and soars around the temple, glancing and igniting the large wooden supports. The dove dives to the floor to the East. A supernova of colour. Reds, whites, blacks and unnameable colours beyond the ken of mankind sear the flesh of the world.
The Earth resumes once again its relentless journey aimlessly onward until oblivion.
Delah is consumed by the fire; the two screams become one. Azad’s voice fails and dies, a terrible silence descends the Temple, punctured by the crackle of wood splintering in flame yet muffled and sounding distant and alone. The people of the Valley flee the inferno, screaming and praying, stumbling and trampling they flee. All that remains is the pyre and the Sakrisan, now kneeling before Delah. Deserted, he remained in the collapsing Temple. A giant sandstone brick that took an age to make and many lives of men to place comes crashing to the floor nearby.
A support withers in flame giving way, with rock tumbling and blocking the entrance to the West. It matters little for death and destruction will come to them all. The dying embers of the pyre upon the dais are surrounded by a wall of heat. Breathing becomes hard, sight becomes misted. Lie upon the floor and accept the fates that have been assigned. Lie down and die. What was fated to be will ultimately come to pass.
Consciousness slips the grip of the Sakrisan, tears form in his eyes. He has failed. It is time to accept the inevitable. Eyes closed finally, breathing shallow and inconsistent. The end is now nigh.
A melodic and most serene voice sings lightly from the East:
“O Sakrisan, O Priest of the Temple of E-ana I call for you. O holy Inanna does call for the Sakrisan of my Temple. Come unto me O faithful man of mine.”
To Chapter Seventy – For She is Mercy and Perfect in Every Way
The Angry Farmer 
