Baptism by Fire

The room was lit by a single brazier that sat at its centre. Light emanated from the flames as they twisted and shifted, trapped in their metallic cage. A young man stood in front of the brazier, surrounded by seasoned warriors, the kind he hoped to become. The light danced about, creating shadows that wavered in strange patterns on his face.

The warriors had created a ring like cage around the young man, trapping him in with the brazier’s flame. Iron plates crafted into crude and archaic shapes were affixed to the warriors like faux armour.

They waited, chanting, while knocking iron spears against their armour, ringing out a hollow clang. Then they thumped the spears against the ground, echoing a muted bang.

Clang, bang.

Again and again, the spears sung their own metallic chant. The two chants mixed with the softly crackling fire for a harmonious score.

Suddenly the warriors ceased, though the fire did not. An old, grizzled warrior pushed his way through the others. He stopped beside the young man.

The old warrior rested his left hand on the young one’s shoulder. While it had the general shape of a hand it had been marred long ago. The skin was charred black in places, warped and twisted in others. Some parts had the appearance of being dry yet still oily and wet. Other patches of flesh looked younger than the man somehow, as if they belonged to someone else, and the old man had stolen it to appear younger.

The old warrior nodded to the young man, who paused with a gulp, before returning the nod. A smile grew on the old man’s face, hidden slightly by his large bushy beard. The light painted the grey hairs a false bright orange they had not seen for decades. He circled around to the left of the young man. He gripped his upper arm. The chants began again slowly. He jerked the young man’s arm into the air. The chants began to build.

Clang, bang.

Shutting his eyes tightly, the young man prayed to his gods. Fear gripped his heart as it pounded hard inside his chest. They had told him the ceremony would fix that. That it would change him, make him fearless, forge him into a warrior. A baptism to clear away his doubts, his anxieties, his impurities. Like removing the imperfections in a weapon. For fire could cleanse all.

He felt the old man pull his arm down. The chants roared a final crescendo.

CLANG, BANG!

Silence. Save for the crackling fire.

The young man’s mind began to drift. His heart began to slow. His breath steadied. A sense of ease washed over him. Had it happened? Was it over? Did the ceremony really end on such an anticlimax? He felt no pain, no sense of change, other than the ease in his heart.

A strangely pleasant scent wafted through his nostrils. The scent was sweet and warm, like roasting pork. His sense of ease deepened. A reminiscence of simpler, homelier times flooded into him. He felt his stomach grumble. Perhaps it was a post ceremony custom? A celebratory feast, to celebrate his cleansing. He breathed deeply, held onto the sweet roasting scent.

His eyes fluttered open. He prepared to greet his comrades, newly enlightened, and join in on the feast. Suddenly, his stomach began to twist, turn, and lurch. Horror replaced peace. His guts clenched as he realised the sweet roasting scent was not a feast.

The now stone faced old man held the young man’s arm firmly to the fire. The young man began howling in pain. The flames consumed his hand, curling upward to his elbow, scorching and malforming the flesh. It was burning away at him as it twisted his flesh.

The young man screamed against the pain. He wished to fall down, curl up on the floor, and nurse his disfigured arm. He thought of crying out for it to be separated from him. It sounded less painful.

Seconds dragged through his mind like hours.

The old man’s iron grip did not relent. The hard press of muscles against the young man’s arm became the only comfort he had. Then suddenly it was ripped away as the old man released him.

The young man fell to his knees. He clutched the charred remains of his left arm to his chest. He doubled over and dry heaved at the sickly sweet smell.

Burning pain shot out through his arm. It coursed through his chest, pumped through his blood. He wished for something cool to ease the burning. He felt the pain grow more intense, as though his arm was still on fire.

A hand clutched his shoulder.

Tears streamed down his face as he raised his head. He met the gaze of the old, grizzled warrior, a proud grin spread across the man’s face.

The old man pulled the young man to his feet and gripped his left arm once more. He hoisted it into the air, displaying the freshly roasted flesh to the room of warriors. A roar of joyful cheer erupted from them.

The young man felt the pain continue to pulse through him. But he no longer felt afraid. He no longer felt anxious. He had been changed. He went in a young man. Now, he was a warrior. His impurities had been burned away in a baptism of the most righteous nature. Any hesitation in his soul had been replaced with a burning desire.

A desire for the next baptism. One of battle. Of war. One to clench his newfound thirst.

A baptism of blood.