She ran. It was right behind her. She needed to run faster. You can't look back—just run! Through the streets, past the buildings, the trees, and the people. The people? Faces... faceless faces; all around, looking, prying, seeing what there is within, but there is nothing. There is nothing. Run. You have to run.
This is Jersten, the old, not the new, but everything melts together, starting as what there once was, becoming what it ought not be, yet it is—it doesn't care that it is how it is. It doesn't care, even when it is ill... and that's why it follows you.
Run.
Pain courses through, a stream of thoughts that cannot be stopped; they overflow; her cup is full, the wine has spilled over. It cannot be refilled, not so soon, not so quick. But the wine is already poured, red blood, it flows... only to spill; only to start anew, only to fill what shall always overflow.
If it catches you, it will tear the cup from within you; it will shatter it against the stones, forming a fractal of a billion minuscule shards that all mirror the darkness around. What has come so apart can never be made whole again. She cannot be redeemed... so run.
Past the tavern, through the market, past the benches in the park that surround the temple, past two figures clad in darkness, sitting side by side as tears flow in ink and soil the earth below, claiming a memory not belonging there. More wine is poured. It is better to flow over than for the cup to shatter. Better to remember and live than to die and forget. Run, or oblivion will lay its dirty claws onto you; shatter what is left of you, and drown the empty vessel that is left behind.
Run through the park, toward the doors, open them, and step inside... Safe. The embrace of god, of faith, shall redeem your soul...
But it looks down below; another woman stands by its side, overseeing the lands that they rule. One wears priestly robes and a saddened expression, the other wings of gold and a mask so grotesque that you could be fooled into believing in its beauty.
Ahead, a cloud of ink spreads fire over the horizon, blackening the clouds, veiling the heavens and the divine light of the sun.
The woman shakes her head and says, "And so, even this must happen…"
The winged creature is silent for a moment, then looks behind, meeting eyes with her who stands by the doors of the temple. "And death claims what is hers, only to give life in return, fulfilling her duality…"
Run.
"Locked, imprisoned, those you know as the other," the woman quotes. The wine is poured.
Run.
"Waiting for the lock to open; waiting for the ascension; to breach the surface; to usurp those above," the grotesque follows. The cup runs over.
Run.
"Punished for betrayal; conquered and then enslaved by the shadows; by those within, around, and above," the woman continues, turning toward the doors. It catches her at the door.
Run.
"Bloodshed, famine, death…" the angel says, spreading its wings as it, and the woman, and her all announce in unison: "An ending from and for below." The cup shatters.
- - - - -
Roslyn gasped for air; her whole body was sweaty and cold. Her lungs are afire, as if filled with water moments ago, but no water came out; she only breathes.
It was so dim here, as if the shadows had just encroached upon her, surrounded her from all around and held her through the night, making her see things she didn't wish to see...
Just a dream—a nightmare and nothing more. No one was after her; no one was trying to catch her. There was no ink; no woman standing above the world below, no Angel by her side; no wine, no cups... just the Angel that now stared at her, from above, from its painting—mocking her.
But it was less dim now. The shadows around felt unnerving, as if something was watching her, and not just from within the painting...
Hadn't she fallen asleep in her kitchen? Not by the doors to the temple... not by the main doors of the temple? She shivered and clumsily got up, wiping her robes as the world seemed to press in on her. Everywhere there was something that stared at her. Everywhere, there was someone who wanted to catch her, to kill her, to fill her with nothing, with oblivion.
She hurried toward the door to her kitchen, keeping her eyes down, away from the painting as well as the shadows. She needed the light. She needed to be in her own room, to open a journal and record what she had just seen; all the things she had just felt before she would inevitably forget them.
Shivers ran through her as she opened the door and stepped inside, shutting it behind her swiftly. It felt like there had been a hand just behind her, reaching for her, but now... she was safe.
Roslyn made her way into her room—through the window, she could only see herself; it was still dark outside, the dead of night. She sat down at her desk, and opened the journal that had been left vacant there. She grabbed a quill, dipped it in a flask of ink, and wrote down what she saw. Every minute detail that she could remember... The running, the feeling of despair that had filled her, the fear that brooded within, and then... the temple and the angel standing next to a woman, speaking... Her hand stopped moving mid-sentence; the ink bled into the parchment, leaving a black spot where there should be a word.
What did they speak about?
"An ending from and for below," she muttered, getting up from her chair. She reached for her old journal, the very first one that Kanrel had given to her, and browsed through the pages, finally landing on the later ones when her handwriting had gotten much better.
And there it was, written over and over again, a line from the Book of the Heralds, one surrounded by much controversy... a prophecy that had not been fulfilled, words of an Angel that had not come true. She remembered studying these words at the Academy, but not much importance had been placed on them. The more important sections had always been the dialogues between the Angel and the different Heralds throughout history.
Why had she seen this in her nightmare?
She flicked through the pages of her childhood journal, and the same few lines kept repeating, becoming clearer as the pages went by. Had she just remembered this thing from her childhood, only for it to return to her in a nightmare? Her brows furrowed, and she found herself reading through the journal, but a yawn reminded her that she must sleep, even if the darkness outside had become looming, something trying to force itself into her sanctuary, her domain. She closed the old journal with a sigh, discarding her nightmare and returning to adulthood.
She wasn't a child, and there were no demons outside her window, no monster under her bed, no ghost within her closet. There was just the mundane, as dreams mixed themselves with memories, as doubts clung to those memories, turning dreams into nightmares.
Roslyn lay down on her bed and used a code to quench the candlelight. Now in darkness, she closed her eyes. As those earlier doubts reemerged, she wondered what the nightmare had tried to make her confront. What was she running from?
Home. Her family. She had not seen them, not for a long time. When was the last time she wrote them a letter? What about when she last received one from them? Did they think she was dead? Did they worry about her? Did they still... love her? Would they be alarmed to find that their beloved daughter had become so different from what she once was?
Hadn't she become so cold, so empty? The girl who had known how to smile, would they weep for the loss of the wonder in her eyes? Would they condemn the change she had gone through—would they deem her judgment correct? Or would they forgive her, and weep with her, would they comfort her, would they still love her? Or had they changed so much that together they could no longer recognize each other?
And how can you sleep when all you can do is think? How can you rest if your mind is in turmoil?
In her thoughts, she still ran. Her cup—almost full, yet wine kept pouring in...
She could not sleep, and she found no rest. Soon it would be the morrow, but the shadows still loomed and reached for her.
- - - - -
Power is performance. And to perform, one must know one's audience. And Mitry, oh, he knew everything there was to know, for he knew that information is the currency of power; through it, one can move everything. Even a man without a name could demand things from someone far wealthier than he, with the correct information.
Even when he found himself somewhat anxious and tired because of the problem in his house, the same problem that might affect the flowers and the weeds in his garden, his mind remained sharp and ready to react, to plan ahead and to build a bridge or burn one. But to do either or, he needed to perform, and for his performance, he chose a familiar stage—the forest just behind the village, where he held his sermons—paired with a familiar audience—the elders of the village, so as not to cause any needless commotion, or give anything away to Uanna that something larger might be afoot.
So, he observed his audience; they weren't here for a sermon, and he could so easily see his anxiety mirrored in them.
Growe stood closest to him. A man in his forties with sunken eyes and a short brown beard, husband to one, father to three. His sheep fed the village, clothed it, kept it alive.
Elise, younger, in her mid-thirties, with long black hair and a round face, raised two children on her own. A seamster by trade, she had joined them only a couple of years ago, yet already her needlework and diligence had earned respect.
Norlen came next—he stood so that he might see if anyone would approach them from the village—not clever, perhaps, but certainly indispensable. Hunter, helper, and hopelessly enamored with Elise, though too timid to ever speak of it.
Kine, the fisherman, older than the rest, his hair already greyed, rarely spoke; but when he did, wisdom followed, worn smooth by years at the lake.
Finally, Veron, the healer. Sixty or so, cynical to the bone, believer in nothing but her herbs. Still, she was useful, and that was faith enough.
With all of this in mind, Mitry cleared his throat as the so-called elders shared some gazes with each other. "As you all know by now, we have an unwanted visitor who is here to stay," he began. "And we cannot afford to get caught by her, or be allured by the people she certainly represents..."
"For now, we have contained her in my household, away from most, so that others might feel relieved, and not be under her scrutiny at all times; but this is certainly not something that we can keep up. Priests aren't uneducated; they aren't foolish, and certainly sooner rather than later, she will begin to doubt our hospitality as well as our way of life; she will see through the mirage, and she will question what is beneath the veneer that we try to uphold so as not to get caught," Mitry spoke. It is not 'I,' it is 'we' or 'us.' It is she versus us. Ensure that others believe this to be the case; ensure that their belief in the community is not influenced by an outsider.
"And so, I would like to know what we can do to make sure that her stay here remains either short-lived or pristine in a manner where the illusion is kept intact..." Mitry paused and looked at each attendee in turn, analyzing their expressions to predict what they might say and what solutions they would come up with. Some were more open, some less so, and he knew what each would say.
"Does it really matter that much that she comes here for a while? As you said, priests are well educated, so she might be of great help when it comes to the average health of the villagers here," Veron spoke up.
Norlen scoffed. "That might be true... But we can't really let her deceive us, even with her talents! What if all she brings is punishment, instead of safety?" Distrust was clear in his tone.
Growe nodded. "I don't like her kind, she doesn't belong here; she shouldn't even be here in the first place..."
"And what do you suggest that we do?" Veron asked. "Kill her? Drive her away? That would only cause more issues than it would solve!"
"Now there's an idea I can get behind!" Norlen declared. "We should just get rid of her! I would rather kill one than have her bring unwarranted danger to us!"
"Calm down," Elise hissed. "What if she hears us? We aren't that far away from the village!"
Norlen quieted down instantly, a sheepish expression claimed him, and his cheeks gained a new shade of red.
Mitry almost chuckled, observing each member again. Things couldn't get out of hand. He needed a voice of reason from among the people... So he locked gazes with Kine, who seemed thoughtful, far less angry or anxious than the others.
"Mister Kine? Do you have any words to offer?" Mitry encouraged.
Kine glanced around and scratched his once black beard. "I'd suppose that we just pretend. We'd do well to remember Father Mitry's sermons, that through loving our neighbors, and strangers alike, even if they might someday become our enemies, is more pious and less loud than treating 'em with contempt and persecution..."
"But of course we'd do well not to find ourselves victim to the violence that the priest might one day bring if we happen to get caught," Kine spoke with such calmness that it eased the tension. And even Mitry found himself nodding along... although for different reasons. His words, his sermons, had taken effect. Even a man older than him had bought into them and now quoted them to others as wisdom.
Mitry smiled. "Then we shall do both; we pretend for as long as we can, but for our safety, we must come up with plans as a backup... In times of peace, prepare for war," he spoke, and the rest listened—even Veron nodded along. Mitry found himself wondering, did they realize that they had come to this point? That his beliefs and thoughts were the law; that the elders gave him only ideas that he had already come up with, that he had planted as fine seeds to blossom in their gardens of morals and beliefs?
He sighed. "Now then, how would we..." he began, but heard something from behind. A crack... a footstep? "Build her house, and where?" Mitry pivoted.
The others looked confused, but Norlen had heard what Mitry had. He peered past the trees and saw a figure approaching. "Well, not here, Father!" he spoke louder than what their earlier conversation had been, even during the most heated moments.
Norlen glanced at the others, then at the figure that was approaching. The others, first confused, joined in the alarm, anxious shifting of feet, exchanges of glances... fear. Uncertainty. Doubt...
But Mitry kept on smiling. "Well, of course not, dear Norlen... Growe, you're more familiar with things like this, aren't you? You know well which fields are grazed by the sheep and the cattle and which are not. Should we clear some forest close to the village, or reuse a field instead?"
Growe swallowed. The figure, clad in robes, was getting closer. "Well, I'd say—I'd say that we clear some forest, have the whole operation happen close to the source of material, instead of carrying it around long distances. Perhaps a log cabin could be something that we build? She might not stay for long, now, would she?"
Mitry nodded. "But what about the potential herbs and such in the forest? Certainly, we would have to pick a location so that we don't disturb or remove things needed for potions and medicine," he said, now looking at Veron.
The figure was now close by, almost by the slab of stone on which Mitry stood.
"Well, we would have to check around... But we can always plant and move them to areas with similar conditions if we must," Veron said. She wasn't as anxious as the others.
"Well then... We might as well return and begin..." Mitry said, stepping off the slab. If she saw him standing there, she might suspect something—that the slab was more altar than stone. And at that moment, Uanna stepped into the small clearing. Her gaze went from one person to another, finally locking with Mitry.
"What's this then?" she blurted out a question. Her expression was difficult to read, but Mitry could guess what she had on her mind...
Mitry smiled. "We were discussing things related to the village."
"Like what?"
"Well, for example, the matter of housing... Where we should build you a lodging, and such."
"And you want to build it here?" She looked around again. "But it is so far from the village?"
Mitry snorted. "Of course not! This is just where we gather to have our meetings," he explained.
"But why? You could just have them in your house," Uanna questioned.
Mitry shook his head. "Sure, we could, but a location like this is more neutral, and there is less of a chance that anyone comes to disturb us," he said.
"Ah, I see..." she muttered. Uanna didn't seem very convinced.
"Besides, the material for the house has to come from somewhere, right?" Mitry added, gesturing around.
Uanna blinked. "You would transport the wood from so far away just to build me a cabin?"
"If we have to, although it would be quite the process," Mitry nodded. He glanced around, and the others began nodding as well.
Uanna sighed. "Well, that is something that I could maybe help with," she offered.
"How so?"
"We should discuss these things after your meeting," Uanna said and turned around to leave.
But Mitry stopped her. He had placed his hand on her shoulder. Uanna glanced at it, then at Mitry, a question present in her eyes. Gently, Mitry let go. "You should stay for the meeting; in fact, whenever we have one, you should join us," he suggested. One might call this an error, a foolish decision... but how else can one solidify trust if not through this? It was akin to showing your back to a potential threat, but in this scenario, Mitry would make sure that he and everyone in his village would have eyes at their backs.
Uanna hesitated and glanced at the others. Then she smiled, awkwardly. "I suppose it wouldn't do any harm, now would it?" she said, turning back toward the rest. She stepped ahead and offered her hand to Norlen, the closest one to her. "I'm Uanna Wektet, a representative of the Priesthood... I will be staying here for the time being," she introduced herself. Norlen looked at the hand for a while and glanced at Mitry, who nodded. The young man swallowed, then grabbed the hand and shook it, saying his name back to her.
And so, Uanna went to each of them, shaking hands and hearing their names; offering smiles and accepting theirs, if they had one to offer that is. And when she was done, she returned to her place, right next to Mitry, so that they could continue the meeting.
Mitry was pleased. Surely this would work; surely this would wash away any doubts the priest had had. But at the same time... it would be a pain in the ass... What if this were to turn out to be a mistake?
He shook his head and pushed away his own doubts for now. He had questions that he needed to ask, things that he had to pry, and this was the moment. "You mentioned something about something that you could help with?" he asked.
A slight smile came to Uanna's lips.
"What things could you help with?"
Uanna's smile seemed different from before, not just awkward or out of place. Instead, it had become... appropriate, but only if Mitry's intuition was telling him the right thing. "Many things..." she said. Was it a veiled threat?
Mitry kept his own expression clean from such anxieties; instead, he produced a confused expression and pressed her. "And are there things that you are able to do to make things easier for us, here?"
Uanna shrugged. "Depends."
"Like, felling a tree for firewood? Winter is coming, after all, and we will need lots of fuel to warm our houses," Mitry suggested.
Uanna's smile remained the same, but now she looked around, then finally, her eyes locked onto a suitable tree... The one that hid Uanna's view of the slab when she had approached them at first. The forest became unnaturally silent; no one dared to speak. She focused on the tree. A few awkward seconds went by, then suddenly, a loud crack breaks the silence, and the tree begins to fall away from the meeting. It fell with a loud thump, its branches scraping the trees around it, bringing down branches that rained as it fell.
A new silence was born.
"Like this?" Uanna asked, her gaze going from villager to villager, finally settling on Mitry once more. She had seen their shock... but Mitry hid his own. Instead, he managed a smile. "Perfect," he didn't look away from the fallen tree. "Can you help us carry it back as well?"
Uanna sighed. She returned her gaze to the tree, focusing on it for a few moments, then, right before all their eyes, the tree began lifting from the ground, until it fully levitated, though most of the branches still touched the ground. Then, it began moving, at a slow walking speed, it started its journey from within the forest toward the village, and Uanna walked with it.
The elders stared after her with that same shock still present on their faces. Even Kine seemed anxious and not so sure about things. Only Mitry could hold himself, only he could hide away his fears. He hadn't entered panic, not yet; he wouldn't let fear dictate him, not without a fight. Instead, his mind was churning, and questions presented themselves. One of them, a solution, an answer instead of a question: We should kill her.
But how? If she had such magics, how could they ever kill her?
But these questions weren't as worrisome as was the thought that rose to the top, instilling true fear within him...
This could be good for them; it could make so many things so much easier for all of the members of his village... but this show of power, and those that were certain to follow, could also make some of the members of his congregation question him and the true faith...