Raising, the god arched up his neck and lowered the crook of his left shoulder onto the floor. With a nudge, he beckoned her to sit upon his shoulder, not unlike a small child upon their parent. 

Timidly but determined, Rukhel clambered her small self onto the crook of his shoulder, secure in its nook. His wings stretched over and above her like a magnificent canopy of amber ancient. 

 “Then cast aside grief and raise like the lioness at the dawn of her victory, Rukhel!” His voice thundered boldly, inciting the same boldness within her being.  

Rukhel readied herself for the flight- and path that laid before her. 

But the god paused. “But first, you shall be cloaked so that your people know of your diligence and your oppressors fear your might.”

Drawing a breath, he blew a sharp, thin flame, of the brightest yet deepest blue, fringed with the blinding light of white, like the greatest of flames, as the comets and stars were. 

From the flames, he drew his claws and a shape like a cloth square formed. The shape settled in his hands, and became a fine shawl, tasseled and shining with an eye-stinging brilliance. It appeared like flames tamed into threads had been woven into a shawl! 

Rukhel’s eyes winced first, but the luminance then comforted her eyes, now accustomed to the god’s radiance. 

“For me?” She asked, stunned how could she wear the handiwork of a god, and baffled more how could she wear it without burning like kindling. 

“Take it. Cloak yourself, Rukhel. A sign of my strength and wisdom you have asked of me. It is yours now.” urged the old god, holding out the shawl before her. 

Reverently, trembled with caution, Rukhel slowly took the shawl into her own hands. She winced again, bracing for the burn. But her face fell. The shawl burned not, but felt like a warm breeze, as though it might slip through her fingers like gossamer or mist. 

She drew the shawl over her shoulders, its light enveloping around her like a comet rung around its halo. 

“Tonight, you shall take flight onto a god- they shall say you rode a dragon,” continued the god, “But this night, you, the least among your people, will be the most. You, Rukhel, shall become ruler of your people. Before you, your oppressors will fall on their faces in shame, while you, shall raise your head high!”

With deafening crashes and thunderous cracks, the entire mountain trembled and cracked open, its volume the measure of the god. As he spread his wings, the mountain split open like a potted vessel dashed onto the earth.

The old god soar and took flight, as Rukhel rode upon him. Her brilliance, shining from her shawl, seemed like a comet tailing a star. 

As they flew, the wind pulled her frazzled dark locks back, her hair streamed like a comet’s tail against her own light. 

*****

They flew. 

And in the god’s flight, his wings, as large in width as a farmer’s field, fanned gales of wind akin to a storm. Trees swayed and bowed, while the withered grass and stalks snapped at their roots and blew away like dust. Shutters broke off their houses. 

Proudly sat Rukhel, though awe sat within her heart, like a defiant eddy in a stream. It kept her vision clear, her focus on what laid before her, and above all, what she had to do. 

In her town, the town of the Barren Valley, her people witnessed her, Rukhel, the same, selfish, forgettable, ignorable Rukhel, seated upon the shoulder of their long-forgotten god. 

Many thought her still in valley, wandering like a madwoman. Many thought her dead, perhaps fallen to her end when she climbed the mountain, all with her swollen womb. None conceived she reached their god and awoken him. And none believed the sight before them as she and their god glided to the city where their oppressors reigned from their seat of governance.