(669 A.C.)
Dahlia never felt the love of Amera more than when she was surrounded by hate. This was one of those times.
It had been difficult to leave her home behind, though she had expected no less. Still, when she’d stood on the deck of a ship departing from Tiranda and watched the land disappear over the horizon with nothing but a few personal effects and a change of clothes, she had hoped it was to make a difference in the world. To spread the words and love of Amera to a nation so backwards and barbaric as Fris, a land that still held reverence for the old gods. To allow them to see the error of their ways and follow ideals that meant something, not the virtues of beings that had largely turned their backs on humanity. Or, in the case of Moss, had simply watched as the whole entire world almost ended in the Cataclysm.
A Cataclysm which was only stopped through Amera’s love.
Was it truly such a terrible thing that Dahlia wanted to spread that message? The people of Fris seemed to think so--the way they sneered at her and heckled her from the moment she stepped foot on the eastern continent. All because she wore the garb of a priestess of Amera and carried love in her heart.
Her mission, when she accepted it four months ago, had been to travel to Fris, help the poor and needy in the aftermath of the war, and open the eyes of those she could--the eyes of the blinded who still worshiped Moss or any of the other old gods. It had been the most difficult decision of her life, leaving her home and family and friends all to go to a hostile land. She wasn’t allowed to return until her mission was complete at the end of five years. And who knew what would become of her then?
But from the moment she learned her histories--of the old gods that hated them, the new gods that cherished them, and the war between the two that almost destroyed all of them--she had wanted to be a priestess of Amera. She’d wanted to help the less fortunate. She wanted others to feel the comfort of carrying love, like she did.
Staring at the angry mob that had formed in the courtyard outside her church, blazing torches held high in the twilight, she figured love was the furthest thing from their minds.
“Go back to Tiranda!” Nicholas shouted, the man that usually led the protests. He was a brutish, wild-looking man, with a scraggly beard and long, disheveled hair that made Dahlia think he might have been raised by wolves and only ventured into town to give her grief. She could almost imagine foam forming at the corners of his snarl like a rabid beast.
Still, even ones like those were deserving of love, Dahlia thought, smiling at those amassed before her. Often it was the people that spat the most vitriol that were in the highest need of grace.
“The guard will be bringing more meals by tomorrow if you’re hungry,” Dahlia said, raising her voice to be heard over the shouting and clamoring. She wasn’t sure how successful her efforts were, especially when the people closest to her only scowled harder. “If you are in need of healing or lodging, you can come in now. Otherwise, I must kindly ask you all to disperse.”
“As if we’d take anything from you,” Harriet hissed from beside Nicholas. She was a short woman, with a neat braid of white hair laid down one shoulder and a torch gripped in her hand that made it glint fiercely. Dahlia had no idea what relation she had to Nicholas, but she had never seen one without the other.
Dahlia eyed her, trying her best to appear pleasant. “If you don’t want to accept the graciousness of the Empire,” she said, firm but not unkind, “then don’t. But don’t bar others who would.”
Nicholas howled with laughter, more like the wolf Dahlia likened him to by the second. “The--? You honestly believe that the Empire has done shit for any of us? We never asked you to come here. We don’t want you here.”
Dahlia pursed her lips. Yes, she was quite aware of that by now. She stepped back into the doorway leading into the church, sweeping her gaze over the crowd once more. “It’s almost curfew.” She motioned to the door behind her. “If you are in need of lodging for the night, come in. Otherwise, please leave.”
She could only be kind for so long, after all. And the guards were already gathering at the edge of the mob, hands on the hilts of their weapons and mouths set into grim lines. Waiting for her word or for one of the mob’s members to set a foot out of line.
The loose threat of breaking curfew only made Nicholas and Harriet and everyone else in the mob glower more fiercely at her. Dahlia tensed at the sheer disgust in Nicholas’s gaze, but after another moment, he spit at his feet and ground his heel into it. “One of these days, you’ll get what’s coming to you,” he hissed. Raising his voice, he turned and told his followers, “Let’s go.”
Dahlia watched as the crowd parted before him, bodies moving like ripples in the breeze to form a walkway then filling in behind him as he passed. It didn’t take long for the mob to march its way down the city street and turn the corner, hopefully to return home. Despite everything, Dahlia didn’t want any of them to be caught out after curfew. Amera knew the people of this nation had suffered enough during the war--they didn’t need fines or imprisonment on top of all their hardships.
Dahlia frowned. It seemed most of the mob had dispersed--one young woman still stood in the rapidly thinning daylight, eyebrows bunched on her forehead in what Dahlia assumed was an expression of confusion. With her golden Nansheen eyes and white hair, she didn’t look familiar. A foreigner, maybe?
“Hello there,” Dahlia called. “Are you alright?”
The young woman cautiously stepped forward, a deep frown forming on her own face. “Is this a church of Amera?” she asked, gaze flicking up to the building behind Dahlia and back.
Dahlia smiled. “Oh, I know it doesn’t look like much, but this is the church alright,” she said, glancing back. The building itself wasn’t the most handsome structure in the world. It was made of old wood planks with flags of the Empire and the church flying from the pointed eaves of the roof. Its windows were similar wood panels that opened and closed instead of glass, and its heavy oak door had several etchings carved into its face of unsavory words or phrases.
Markers of hatred on a place of love. It weighed on Dahlia's heart every time she so much as thought of it.
That wasn't important right now, though. She turned back to the young woman, smiling. “Do you need something? We have beds and warm food if you're tired or hungry.”
The young woman eyed Dahlia. She couldn't say the suspicion in her gaze was anything Dahlia hadn't dealt with since she arrived in this country, so she tried not to take offense.
Whatever the young woman saw in Dahlia's neatly kept white robes and styled blonde hair, she eventually smiled in return. “That would be great! I'm tired and hungry.”
She all but pranced forward, and Dahlia let out a light laugh as she opened the door for the young woman. It seemed, for once, someone would actually accept the helping hand Dahlia was extending instead of trying to break her fingers. “Right this way, then.”
Dahlia swept into the church after the young woman, glancing back at the dark streets of the city of Shraven one last time. One of the guards outside--a fellow Tirandan she could count on to keep her safe--caught her gaze and nodded to her. She smiled and let the door swing shut.
The young woman had wasted no time in stepping further into the nave of the church, running her fingers over the backs of the old pews and peering at the space around them. Dahlia felt a wave of apprehension swell within her. She kept the place as neat and tidy as she could, but she was given an aged, repurposed building and ancient, splintering pews and absolutely no art or other effects to adorn the place. Modest was about the nicest word she could apply to the building--it was nothing compared to the churches back in Tiranda or Dryan or even in barren Iten. It was the best she could do with what she had been given though.
It felt like Dahlia had gone through a lot of that in her life.
“This place is nice,” the young woman said, still looking around. Before Dahlia could thank her, she pointed to the doorway to their right, “Is that where the beds are?”
Dahlia nodded, striding forward to lead the way. “It is! Kitchens, too.” She clasped her hands together to stop herself from wringing them. A nervous habit she had never been able to kick. And why was she nervous? The young woman had just complimented her shoddy church--Dahlia doubted she would make any snide remarks about her joint kitchen and living area. “I, um, didn’t have much to work with. The building only has the two rooms, you see?”
The young woman nodded. “You don’t have to impress me,” she declared. “Any place with a bed and a plate can’t be so bad.”
Dahlia smiled, stepping through the open doorway and into the neighboring room. The kitchen area took up the space to the left, and on the right, four bunk beds lined the walls. Dahlia had claimed the bottom bed of the set closest to the front entrance of the church. That was during a time when she was still naive enough to think that people would be knocking at all hours of the day and night seeking her aid, and she had wanted to make sure she would hear them when they came. Not that it exactly turned out that way.
No need to dwell on that, though, Dahlia thought. Why should she, when she finally did have someone who wanted her help?
“I only have rice and eggs at the moment,” Dahlia said, making her way toward the kitchen. The young woman wasted no time in selecting one of the empty beds and perching on the edge of it, dropping off her large pack at the foot of the bed and shucking off worn boots to reveal socks pockmarked with holes. Dahlia found her gaze lingering on that, memories of her own childhood days running around town with holes in the heels of her boots and threadbare clothes still managing to feel scratchy on her skin barraging her. But, well, that was what Dahlia was here for now, right? To help the less fortunate by the graciousness of Amera, just as she had been helped by the church as she grew.
“I’m not picky,” the young woman said, setting her boots beside her on the floor and leaning back on her palms. “Something to eat is better than nothing! Or water. I’ve had a few too many meals that have just been water.”
Dahlia smiled. “I know what that’s like. I’m sorry you’ve had to go through that, but you won’t have to worry about that while you’re with me,” she said firmly. “So what’s your name?”
“Wanily,” she replied. “Yours?”
Dahlia had to bite her tongue to stop herself from asking Wanily’s last name. She probably didn’t have one if she was from Nanshee, and if the reactions of the Frisians were anything to go off of, it would be rude of Dahlia to bring it up. It was not in their culture to carry last names, and it had only seemed to dig Dahlia deeper into her pit of despair when she asked why they didn’t have them.
“My name is Dahlia Lisa,” she said, trying her best to push those thoughts from her mind. Better to stay in the present with what she could control. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Oh, yeah, same to you,” Wanily said. “So about that food...”
Dahlia smiled, but inside, she kicked herself. Here was someone hungry and tired and looking for her help, and she was wasting time just chatting when she could be in motion as well. A bit flustered, she said, “Of course. Let me get it started right now.”
The kitchen was nothing but a stone fireplace built into the wall and some wooden cabinets and counters for storage and preparation. Dahlia opened the cabinet all the way to the right where she kept the bags of rice and cups for measuring it out. “How do you feel about porridge? I can make the eggs in the morning?”
“Sounds good to me,” Wanily said, offering a light shrug. “Like I said, I’ll happily eat whatever you have. Do you need any help?”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Dahlia shook her head and set about pulling out a small pot and filling it with water from the larger cauldron tucked in the corner. As she added the rice and knelt to start the fire with a bit of flint, she spared a moment to glance back at Wanily. She still sat on the bed, though now she had scooted back far enough that she could lean against the wall. In her hands was a small, leatherbound book which she opened and held out a bit further to better catch the light of the lantern hanging from the ceiling.
Dahlia turned back to the task at hand and pursed her lips. Okay, Dahlia, she told herself. There is a person here. Young, probably barely a teenager, and she has no one else with her and is struggling to feed herself. This is perfect! Well, not perfect. But you can help her! You are helping her. Now you just need to be able to talk to her. That can’t be so hard, right?
She cringed to herself. She hadn’t even opened her mouth to start another conversation, but already she worried. The priests and priestesses in her hometown had always been so gentle and gracious and wise. Now, Dahlia had to be all those things. She could manage that, right?
“So, Wanily,” she started. Dahlia didn’t turn around to look at her, but she heard Wanily give a small hum of acknowledgement. “What brings you to Fris?”
There. An innocuous enough question that could easily start a much longer conversation. Maybe Dahlia might even be able to impart some life lessons during it. A lone child traveling around probably needed that kind of stuff, right?
“Well,” Wanily said, shutting her book with a soft thump. “I got captured by bandits a few weeks back and got rescued by a bard that told me to come to Fris. Or, I guess I also kinda rescued him? But anyway, I told him I wanted to be the Archmage--because I really want to be the Archmage--and he told me that if I wanted to learn old magic, I should come to Fris because they worship the old gods and do old magic and all that stuff. So I just followed the signs on the road that pointed toward Fris, and this was the first city I came to. Figured I might as well try to find someplace to stay that wouldn’t cost any money because I don’t have any. And that’s when I heard that churches of Amera were popping up in the city, and I’ve always been able to count on the church to at least give me a good turn so I looked for the nearest one. And I saw the flags outside and all the people and thought, here we go, here’s someplace that could at least tell me a good, preferably cheap place to stay if they don’t have any beds to spare. But those people seemed pretty angry? What was all that about?”
Dahlia blinked at the jumble of words pouring from Wanily’s mouth. Was everything she said... true? Bandits and bards and old magic--wait, was she trying to learn old magic?
“Um.” Dahlia furrowed her brow. Where to start? She tried to parse through everything Wanily just said as she stirred the porridge. “You’re... trying to learn old magic? To become the Archmage?”
If Wanily was bothered that Dahlia asked a question in reply to her question, she didn’t seem upset by it. “Yeah! I’m getting pretty decent at it, too. But I had a good--”
Wanily cut herself off, mouth clicking shut. She stared at Dahlia with wide eyes, and Dahlia met her gaze with steadily increasing concern. What had she been about to say that she was so afraid to admit?
“Anyways,” Wanily said after a long moment, “I think I’ve kinda learned everything I can by--with the resources I have available to me.”
She said it so carefully that it definitely made Dahlia think there was more going on there. But, as much as she wanted to pry, if Wanily, a stranger, didn’t want to expose her heart and soul to Dahlia mere minutes after meeting her, she wouldn’t try to force her.
“Do you worship the old gods, Wanily?” Dahlia asked, trying to keep the judgment from her voice as she brushed past the matter. It would explain why she wanted to learn old magic instead of new magic, Dahlia supposed. Though why anyone would want that at all was a mystery to her.
Wanily scrunched her nose like she’d just bitten into a lemon. “Can’t say I worship any of the gods. I’m just learning old magic because it’s stronger than new magic. If I’m going to be the strongest mage, I need the strongest magic!”
Dahlia frowned. “Do you come from the Wandering People, then?”
It just didn’t make sense to her. There had to be something that Wanily believed in, right? If not any of the gods, maybe she worshiped the monsters of the world.
Surely there wasn’t just nothing.
“Dunno,” she said, her voice going tight. “Don’t remember my parents. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. Why was there a mob outside your church?”
Was Wanily trying to deflect? As much as Dahlia wanted to press, the words got stuck in her throat. Wanily probably didn’t want a stranger’s sympathy on the matter if she was trying to brush past it. And Dahlia didn’t want to upset the poor girl, not when she’s been so friendly so far.
Was that selfish? That felt selfish.
Dahlia focused back on the task at hand--answering the question and stirring the porridge. Which was two tasks, but that didn’t matter. “Are you not aware of the war?”
“The one going on in the north?” Wanily asked, sounding confused.
She must have meant the one between Lirende, Kra’xen, and Vixx. Was Oavale part of that conflict, too? Dahlia couldn’t rightly recall anymore. The subject was only briefly covered in school back in the Empire since, despite how long the war had already been going on, the Empire hadn’t officially backed any of the countries yet.
Dahlia shook her head. “No, I meant the war between Fris and the Empire. It ended just a few years ago.”
“Oh.” She heard Wanily squirm on the bed, the wood creaking under her. “No, I guess I don’t know about the war, then.”
“That’s alright,” Dahlia said, maybe too quickly. It was just exciting to finally have someone she could share things with--food, shelter, and crucial information about the world. It wasn’t the wisdom she had been all too keen to impart, but it would be good for Wanily to learn. “The war--well. It was a long and bloody conflict, but an unfortunately necessary one. In the end, Fris became part of the Empire, and the Empire began shipping in resources and people to help them rebuild. That wasn’t received well, either.”
They burned caravans of food, chased off laborers, spat in the face of the guards that tried to keep order. Ungrateful in every way, and that wasn’t even mentioning how they had treated Dahlia or anyone else affiliated with the church.
“So... they hate the church because it comes from the Empire?” Wanily asked.
Dahlia pursed her lips. “The Church of Amera doesn’t come from the Empire, but it is the major religion there. And because my presence here is funded by the church and partially by the Empire, the Frisians don’t like me much.” Dahlia scowled, pulling away from the porridge and moving to grab a couple of bowls. “They’d much rather I go back to the Empire, if all the things they shout at me are any clue.”
Wanily didn’t respond for a long while, giving Dahlia the chance to ladle the dish into the bowls and move toward Wanily with one dish in each hand. Wanily accepted the proffered food with a quiet thanks and began to blow on it. Dahlia perched on the edge of the bed opposite of her and simply held the warm bowl of porridge between her hands, allowing the heat to sink into her flesh as she waited for it to cool down.
Wanily slurped the porridge down. Dahlia wondered if she would make a comment on the blandness--she didn’t have anything that could have sweetened or spiced up the simple porridge--but Wanily just smacked her lips together, seemingly satisfied.
“So you said the conflict with Fris was necessary,” Wanily mused. “Why?”
Dahlia sighed, staring into the murky depths of her porridge. “Fris worships the old gods, and any people who do pose a threat to the message of love that the Empire holds so dear. More than that, they began to attack Empire ships and caravans. It reached a point where the Empire had to act or risk losing precious resources and trade routes.”
Wanily frowned. “Why did Fris start attacking the Empire’s ships?”
“It’s all a little unclear,” Dahlia admitted. “From what I understand, Fris has hated the Empire for a long time. I think it all goes back to an old rivalry between them and Dryan from back before the Cataclysm. But I’ll be the first to say, I don’t know much about the history of the western continent. I grew up in Tiranda, myself.”
Wanily nodded, looking thoughtful. “People can never just get along, can they?” she groused, one finger tapping against the side of her bowl.
Dahlia chuckled. “It does look like that, doesn’t it?” She paused, taking a small sip of her porridge. As bland as it was, it was nothing she wasn’t used to. Years and years of eating similar gruel back home had done wonders to prepare her for life in Fris.
Dahlia continued, “But we all just... do what we can, right? That’s how it should be, and I want to use all the privileges the church has given me to help the people of this nation get back on their feet.”
That made Wanily perk up. “That’s why I want to be the Archmage,” she said, grinning. “I want to help people, too!”
Dahlia smiled. “That’s lovely. Why do you want to help people?”
Wanily’s smile flipped to a frown. “Why do I have to have a reason?”
Dahlia furrowed her brow. “You don’t have to have a reason. I was just curious if there was anything in particular that made you want to.”
Wanily slurped her porridge again. Loudly. All while maintaining eye contact with Dahlia. It was a little unnerving, but when Wanily lowered her bowl, she simply said, “If I can help people, I should. And if I learn a lot of magic, I’ll be able to help a lot of people.” She shrugged. “It’s as simple as that.”
Dahlia nodded. “That’s really lovely, Wanily. You seem like a very kind person.”
Wanily grinned. “I try.”
They finished their porridge in silence. Dahlia found herself studying Wanily, though Wanily seemed far too engrossed in her meal to notice. She looked... brittle, if Dahlia had to put a word to it. Everything about her was thin, and even still her clothes fit snugly on her like they were too small. They were faded, too, and threadbare. Dahlia spotted a couple of holes in the cloth peeking out from below the points of her elbows, and the area around her right knee was in a similar state. Dahlia glanced at her boots once again. She didn’t think it was her imagination that they looked too small for her feet. And her hair... it was a pretty shade of silver that boasted of what magic she already knew. But it was matted like an old alley cat’s fur and greasy as the bottom of a pan of bacon.
It broke Dahlia’s heart to see someone in such a way, not to mention the altruism that she toted while looking like that.
Dahlia took a deep breath, making up her mind. She would give Wanily all the help she could. She wanted to learn old magic? That was fine. Dahlia could offer her a place to stay, food to eat, and hopefully even more than that. Clothes, new shoes, words of wisdom--Dahlia could give that to her and more.
And beyond that... well, if Wanily filled some of the empty space where Dahlia’s younger siblings had once been, no one had to know but her. It just... felt good to be able to extend care to someone again.
That being said, Dahlia knew nothing about old magic. But, she did unfortunately know someone who did.
Dahlia stood once she finished her porridge--Wanily had long since slurped down all of hers, acting like it was the first time she’d seen food in weeks. She collected Wanily’s bowl and set the both of them on the counter to be washed in the morning.
“I can’t help you learn old magic,” Dahlia said, moving back to sit on the bed again. Wanily opened her mouth to say something, but Dahlia continued, “but I know someone in town with a higher hair color than yours. Her name is Harriet, and I’m sure she would know enough about old magic to be able to teach you a thing or two.”
Wanily blinked at her. “I thought the people in town didn’t like you.”
Dahlia pursed her lips. “They don’t.”
“So why would she help me?”
Dahlia was also wondering how she would convince Harriet to help Wanily. But she wasn’t about to let Wanily know that. “Harriet is a good person. We just don’t live the same kind of lives.”
Which was a gross understatement, and Dahlia hadn’t even interacted with Harriet beyond the times she came to spit at Dahlia’s doorstep. She had no idea what Harriet’s actual character was like, but hopefully, if Dahlia helped Wanily track her down, Wanily could approach her by herself and make an appeal to her generosity, whatever that might look like. Dahlia just had a feeling that if she approached Harriet with Wanily, the answer would be an immediate and emphatic no.
“Harriet will help you,” Dahlia said with a confidence she didn’t feel. “I just... will stay here while you go talk to her. You’re charming, Wanily--I’m sure you can convince her to teach you some magic.”
Wanily arched one brow at her dubiously but all she said was, “Can’t hurt to try.”
“That’s the spirit,” Dahlia said, smiling. “I’ll help you ask around town in the morning then, and you can go talk to her. So you better rest up tonight.”
Wanily smiled, hopping off the bed to pull back the blanket before burrowing herself under it. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” Wanily replied, the end of the statement becoming garbled as she was interrupted by a yawn.
Dahlia chuckled. She got up and went to the back of the room where she kept the rod used to lift the shades on the lantern hanging from the ceiling. The lantern contained a light crystal that couldn’t be snuffed out like a candle, so she used the hook on the end of the rod to reach up and lift the metal shades along the sides of the lantern. When she was done, only slivers of pale, unwavering light shone on the walls of the room.
She slipped off her boots and set them beside her bed. “Goodnight, Wanily,” Dahlia murmured as she settled under her blanket.
“Goodnight, Dahlia,” Wanily whispered back.
Dahlia laid on her back and listened as Wanily’s breathing eventually--after much longer than Dahlia would have expected--slowed into the cadence of sleep. She continued to stare up at the dark outline of the bunk above hers for a time, just thinking. There were thoughts of Wanily and her kindness, of Harriet and Nicholas’s vitriol, but mostly, she found herself recalling life back in Tiranda.
It had been simpler, certainly. Her family still lived there along with her friends and all the colleagues she’d met since officially becoming a priestess. No one in Tiranda had come to the church and demanded she leave in more and more colorful language.
But then, if she had stayed in Tiranda, who could say if this church would have ever been established here in Fris? And then what would Wanily have done while she looked to learn more magic?
Dahlia closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer to Amera, thanking her for this opportunity to spread her love to someone who so readily accepted it. She would not squander it. And maybe one day, Wanily would become the Archmage and she could help restore peace to the hateful land of Fris.
That would be many years from now though, if it ever happened. For the time being, Dahlia would just look to tomorrow. Wanily needed a teacher, and by Amera, Dahlia would make sure she got one.