Transformation

                The chamber was dark, even darker than his usual den; here flames did not alight the savagely inscribed walls, nor did it illuminate the fierce mural of the ceiling that bore down upon his place. No, here he had forbidden the torchlight- or so he told himself. Perhaps the darkness stemmed from the chamber’s position- buried within the earth beneath the whole of his power. Above him, the temple thrived on the presence of fire, each charge dancing most fervently about the circling wall. Higher still, the candle that begat such sprites. It represented a power of its own, lent itself perhaps to the most fundamental of his manifestations.
                The candle ran over with its own wax, a substance that waned the moment he thought of it, a warning he heeded quite well. If he turned his thoughts from it, the flame upon that fated wick would burn with no notice, only to demand its offering when he returned to its power. His power. It would ignite everything in his den should he let it, from the stone to the furs to the string-webbed beads to the glass misty mirrors which had grown along the walls. Mirrors he had dreamed of, mirrors he could not see through.
                Lately the dreams had grown worse. The mirrors had grown angry. No longer were they content to hover, half veiled in darkness on the outskirts of his vision. Were they enraged that he could not make out their reflections? Or perhaps that he dared try and understand them, dare to look at them at all? It didn’t make sense. No, if anything they were furious with his inaction, his complacency. He made a fist, and the glass shuddered in response. The mists stirred, but he could make nothing out. It didn’t matter- something to say as much for himself as well as the power that eluded him.
                A march down the halls revealed everything else as it should be. He took the hall of restless stones, a journey beset by the cavernous walls and their perfectly angled etches- precision surprising for chambers such as his. They carved out the stories of the golem, whose indomitable stone form held at bay the enemies of the people. The stone’s very spirit enamored the people, and with the golem’s strength in their hearts they took up weapons and held their kingdom from those who would destroy it.
                Stone gave way to wood, to mud… here the influence of the lower chamber leaked into his den. The water dripped from between the garbled roots and dampened dirt, falling to the canopy above- branches so dense, the burning sky could barely be seen. Written in the leaves and the trunks were the stories of the Jaguar, a being so swift as to elude adversaries with no effort, only to strike and strike true at the moment of choosing. Written in the beast’s hide were every prayer, every message, every word of the people, transferred for miles upon miles of untamed terrain, linking together those who would be otherwise lost.
                And, much like the Jaguar, whose power allowed reach to the abandoned, here within his place lie the means to do so- string upon strand, passionately woven cords that spilled together with an intricate, yet savage perfection. The nexuses of beads and bone and feather intertwined with one another, forming a nest of sorts. Far below the fletching, rain poured from the clouds and came to greet him. The steam brought by the downpour owed but a part of its heat to the candlelit sky that pervaded. The other part, perhaps more significant, paid homage to the phoenix, whose burning plumage restored the souls of the lost. Flying overhead, it inspired them more quickly than even the jaguar, the warmth, the fervor so unshakable.
                The candle loved each of these, and should he allow it, should he ask of it, the wax would melt near endless to express this devotion, hardening the golem’s hide, lightening the Jaguar’s steps, warming and widening the phoenix’s wings. But what of the power buried? Not the mirrors that hid between the walls, but the dampness in the forest, the rain in the open sky, the mud on the mountain? And so he found himself before that altar, bathed in the coolness of the cavern, the darkness of the pool. When he thought, the water stirred- not quite a boil, for no heat existed; but it moved nonetheless, of itself, and in rivers throughout his halls.
                Yes, the pool loved each of these as well, and should he allow it, should he ask of it, the waters would flow to express this devotion. But to what effect?