The Order Of The Onyx Urn

20260127

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 9” event.

Everyone agreed that the Ancients had been immensely wise, and so whatever they sealed inside the Onyx Urn, that must’ve been the right thing to do. The question was, how wise had they been?
Was the recent crack slowly growing across the surface of the Urn part of their great plan, or evidence that they, however powerful and learned, had been mere mortals, with limits?
The debate hall had never seen such disorder, nor been buffeted by such cacophony, in all the centuries of the Order’s unbroken service. Everyone, from the most venerable scholar to the most bright-eyed novice, had an impassioned opinion.
Except George. George wasn’t a passionate person. And he found it particularly hard to get passionate about this matter, where nobody actually knew anything useful.
The Urn was more than six thousand years old. It was imbued with incredible sealing and protection spells, of a potency and comprehensiveness that modern magic still couldn’t emulate.
That was the sum total of the Order’s - or anyone’s, actually - knowledge on the subject.
Nobody had any idea what was in the Urn. Nobody had ever actually proven there was anything in there, everyone just assumed. Since it’d be silly to sink so much magic into sealing an empty vessel.
But the markings on the Urn were indecipherable. Assuming any of them were writing rather than decoration. There was a complete lack of repeating motifs, so… probably a message? Sadly no records of the time remained. The mystery might never be solved.
Unless the crack kept growing.
That the Urn had survived, when everything else in these ruins lay wrecked long before the Order found it, was pointed to as evidence that the Urn must be important. George wasn’t convinced. It might’ve just got lucky. Even if it had been designed to withstand whatever cataclysm befell this place, it might not be important anymore.
Imagine if they’d spent nearly seven hundred years fanatically guarding some long-dead magistrate’s long-defunct will…
The debate raged on. Pulpits were pounded. Voices rose and fell and echoed. Neither side had found any new arguments in half an hour.
George sighed and silently excused himself. With all this nonsense the kitchens would be short-handed, and he’d much rather do something useful with his time.
Thankfully nobody seemed to notice as he shuffled out. His feet following the familiar path to the kitchens.
When he entered he found Old Paisley furiously muttering to herself over a cauldron. Alone in the long, hot room.
“What needs doing?”
More like ‘what needs doing first’, but it was his usual greeting to her, and slipped out without thought.
“Oh!” Paisley blinked and squinted at him. “Are they done already?”
George shrugged, rolling his sleeves up to scrub his hands. “Don’t reckon they’ll be done for days.”
“Ach, probably not. Well, the dough needs turning.”
So George went to the line of jars, each holding a smooth risen ball of dough, almost ready to become bread for the evening table.
“I do appreciate you thinking of me.” Paisley’s voice, which usually manifested as a gruff bellow finely honed to an edge which could cut through any kitchen clatter, was remarkably gentle and warm. “Getting all this ready myself is… humph.”
George nodded. His attention on his work. Grab, pull, fold over, turn a quarter. Next jar. Grab, pull, fold over, turn a quarter…
“So. What do you think we ought to do?”
“Get some of the apprentices down?” George suggested readily. “I mean, can’t think they’re adding much up there, might as well get ‘em chopping stuff-”
“Ha!” Paisley’s guffaw shook the herbs hanging from the rafters. “You’d think, but the Abbot said all members had a ‘right to attend’. And I said that was well and good, but they’d still want feeding after, and he said such ‘lesser matters’ had to be set aside.”
“Well… he doesn’t have to eat any.”
That set Paisley into proper cackles.
Having finished with the dough, George looked across the counters and picked a pile of veg to work on.
“But,” Paisley said, “I meant, what do you think the Order should do about this crack matter?”
“Oh. That. Dunno.”
Paisley doubled up with laughter again. George didn’t think he’d ever seen her this merry. It was particularly noticeable given the foul mood she’d been in when he arrived.
“Of course you don’t. I should’ve guessed. You really haven’t changed since you arrived, have you?”
“Mm.” George pondered this. “I think I have.”
“In some ways, sure. But I’ll never forget what you told the Abbot during your questioning. And you’re still that feckless lad, I’d say.”
George hesitated. He couldn’t remember his answer, only that the response had been disapproving. “…What did I tell him?”
“Heh. You don’t…? Well. When he asked what called you to the Order, you said ‘it’s more like I felt a powerful calling not to be a cowherd’.”
“Ahhh.” George shrugged. “I stand by it.”
“Ha! See?”
“Uh-huh.” Then, mostly to be polite, “What do you think we should do?”
At once Paisley was sombre. Staring into the swirling broth like she was trying to see the future in the froth and vapour.
Then she softly declared “Everything’s got a season. Some longer than others. But, be it rhubarb or spinach, it all fades at its allotted time. Reckon the Ancients, with their wisdom, understood that, and knew there’d be a season for them. And for the Urn. So.”
She squared her shoulders. “Now, the Order finds out what we’ve been guarding. And, whatever it is, we deal with it. That’s our duty.”
George digested this. Absently rolling a piece of carrot between his fingers. “What if we’re not ready?”
“Then we face it anyway, best we can.”
“I s’pose.”
Paisley gave a thin smile. “Having second thoughts about being a cowherd, nice and far away?”
“No.” George brought the knife down in a swift, practiced slice. “I’d rather be here, trying to get ready.”
“Good lad.”

Prompt was “A magical container has held something dangerous for generations. Maintained by ritual. Guarded by oaths. A crack appears. Small at first. Growing. The guardians disagree on whether to repair it or finally let it break.”