(Flash Fiction, with an enormous nod to Bernard Cornwell)

Wednesday is Mid-Winter Solstice.  This holds no spiritual significance for me but I respect any for whom it does. 

To the sensibilities of our cossetted ears this was grisly business.  To those watching, though, this was a thing of glory – a glory greater than battle, glory which brought men close to the gods.

The Mace of Sol was older than the stories of the Old Folk – a thigh bone from a great beast, of which the Elders spoke but none could recall, for such beasts were no more.

The Mace was held high in the grey, mid-winter dawnlight by the High Priest.  Kneeling beneath, extending his head in reverent supplication, the crippled boy was offered.