The black of her lips dripped red with her promise fulfilled. There was a welcomed violence in the way she traced her nail across Ash’s bare belly. A threat that she might plunge it down like a dagger, but simply chose not to. She tore the satin sheets in half and let the biting wind have a taste of her before her own feast would begin. The carnal glances; the sinful thoughts; and now, the divine action. Ash ran a hand through the raven silk that flowed from her head as it mixed amongst the ashen strands of her own hair. She tasted the cherry wine on her lips as the smell of sweat and passion coursed through the room. She nearly pled as the kiss parted but sank to her groaning pleasure as the other stalked down her neck.
Then she was gone, and the shadows made for cruel consolation.
The hearth at her feet lit at a mere glance, and a man stood over it. “Are you dead?” He asked as he looked into the flame. The twin moons lit his back and the thousand blades that nestled within it.
“Not yet.” Ash answered as she rose from her satin slumber to face the velvet darkness. She wore a steel gown and bladed crown and crossed the room to his side. Every movement she made was wrong, and Ash knew it. She should have tread more lightly. Instead, she stood as though the stones beneath her ought to be honoured to be trod upon. She was no huntress here; but a queen, an empress, a goddess. She deserved worship and tithe as she floated to the warmth of the open flame. This was not Ashtik, this could not be Ashtik.
Above the hearth’s mantle lay a quicksilver mirror. It made a foe of her in an instant. Within held no reflection, but a mockery of the woman. She stood, firelit, looking at a woman ten winters elder than she had been in the daylight. It was no trick of the night, Ash had truly blinked away the decade. The purple of her eyes marked not the unsteady glances of Ashtik Sai-Weleg, but the imperious gaze of some dark Champion.
“If not a corpse,” the man whispered through his blonde stubble, “then what?”
There was no consideration. Ash really had no idea, but the woman in the mirror knew. She answered without hesitation and spoke with an agony of pride.
“A victor.” She answered.
“You stole the stars, Ashtik.” A perfect little voice whispered from a woman grown. Her little steel eyes weren’t welled with tears, but rage.
“I did my duty.” Ash replied.
“This is not duty,” the steel eyed warrior seethed, “this is revenge.”
Then the room was gone, and the blue giant stood at her side. “She’ll betray you.” He said with sorrow in his heart.
“She’ll do the right thing, like always.” Ash coldly replied.
“And you’ll stop her?”
“No.” Ash whispered, “I’ll do what I always do. I’ll love her till it kills me.” It was her words, in her voice, that parted her lips; yet there was nothing of the girl here.
“You are a good woman, Ashtik.” The gentle giant beamed until the hearth bound to his cloak and wrapped him in flame. He stood before her as his armour melted inward, then there was no flesh but the steel flesh that war had allowed him. She found that no man existed beneath the armour, that before her stood a hollow shell of a walking dead soldier.
“No, I’m not a good woman.” Her terrible gaze climbed to the mocking mirror. Again, what lay within was not who stood before. Within was the girl, nineteen and fragile. She crumbled beneath the queen’s demanding glare, but the two knew each other in that moment and the girl could see the death that lay in her days to come. “But you will be a great one.”
The giant burnt to ash and consumed the room around her. Then she was alone in the terrible white void yet again.
“I remember this.” The girl muttered. “I’ve been here before, haven’t I?” She focused her eyes on the infinite distance but found nothing to affix herself to.
“Is it you?” She asked of the barren nothingness. “Are you my god?”
Her breath quickened as time seemed to slow. She tried to run towards a voice she couldn’t hear, but have you ever ran in a dream?
“It’s like wading through water.” Ash answered. “I answered your question, so answer mine. Did you choose me?”
No.
“You answered?” She laughed. “If you aren’t my patron, then who?” She asked the question, though the answers were obvious. She asked the empty cosmos to assign her some grand purpose. She hoped some easy answer would come; but dreams lie when dreamers lie too long.
“Just tell me who my god is, or who the giant is. Anything, please!” She begged of the apathetic void, but now was not the time for answers. Now was the time to wake up.
“Wake up?”
Wake up, Ash.
“Please, answer me! Who are you?”
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“Wake up, Ash.” Ev repeated. She stroked a gentle hand across her sister’s face and wiped a layer of sweat from her soft skin. Ash startled a little, but didn’t rise with any great effort. She lay in her bed, more confused than scared as something played on her mind.
The void.
“Ev, quick.” Ash said in a panicked jolt. “There was a void, and a voice. H-He spoke. I can’t remember what he said. It was...” She struggled visibly to recall the dream as the memory of it seemed to lift from her mind. “The spider?” Ash finally guessed.
“Spider? Did you have a nightmare?” Ev worriedly asked. Ashtik recalled the spider, her long beautiful legs. Her smoky lips, stained red. Her kiss and her bite. It was certainly not a nightmare, and the immediate hot flush reminded her as much.
“I- no.” Ash sputtered as an embarrassed blush filled her cheeks. “Just... Forget about it. It was just a dream.”
“Are you sure?” Ev sat on the bed next to her sister and placed a hand to her head. “You’re burning up, Ash. Are you fevered?” She asked.
“No.” Ash falsely smiled. “It’s just warm in here. Anyway, did you need something from me?”
Ev looked down on her elder sister as she lay bundled beneath her sheets as to escape the obvious autumn chill.
“Right... The feast is at midday. You need to dress.”
“Midday? Is the hour so late already?” Ash gasped.
“Aye, we broke our fast half a day ago but thought it best to let you rest. It’s a big day.” Ev grinned. “I’m sure you’ll be ravenous by the time of the feast.”
“Aye.” Ash sighed, falling into her pillows with her hands covering her eyes. She’d have fallen back into her slumber, but for the cold steel of her left hand sending a shock through her system and rousing her in an instant.
“Still not used to it?” Ev giggled. She took the marked hand into her own and traced a finger along the ridged and intricate steel design. Ash could feel the warmth of her hand through the armour, as though the metal itself could adored her touch.
“It keeps growing.” Ash groaned. She sat up with her hand resting in Evara’s lap.
“I noticed.” Ev forced a smile, “I wonder how long it’ll stay a gauntlet.”
“You think it will cover more of me?” Ash asked.
“Surely not?” Ev lied. “You can’t take it off. If it grows into a pair of pants, do the gods just expect you to never need to piss again?”
“I’m more worried about a helm. I can barely sleep through the night without a snack, how long can I last if my mouth is sealed behind some great helm?” Ash half-jokingly said, though a drop of genuine worry did catch her.
“I’m sure the conclave will be able to help.” Ev said as she mindlessly stroked the cold black steel. Ash doubted the Conclave would even care to see her, let alone help her, but hope remained in its small company and that would have to suffice for now.
A set of red leather armour lay at the foot of her bed, though it seemed almost pristine. No trace of her blood – nor that of her victims – remained. The dirt that clawed its way into every crease and crevasse, staining the whole set black, seemed to have been burned away. The slash at her hip and the warrior's modifications had all been taken away. The steel chain that covered her belly had been removed, and the metal shoulder pads would no longer weigh her down.
“That Kat woman spent most of the night fixing it up,” Ev laughed as she moved to the doorway, “be sure to thank her.”
“Of course.” Ash breathily replied as she looked over the remarkable repairs. She half expected to lose the armour entirely, but here it lay; better than new.
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She tenderly donned the red leather pads and strapped the many dark leather buckles. She did so very slowly, with the timidity of a woman with too many broken bones. She blamed the soft and opulent bed for robbing her of her constitution. She hadn’t felt as much as a pang of pain during the entire travels from the veil, but now? She was in near agony.
Every breath burned, every movement seemed to grind her bones together, even thinking particularly loud thoughts sent pangs of searing flame down her spine. She felt where every blow had landed upon her. Where every nick had caught her flesh. She felt splinters riddle her back from where she had been thrown through a set of crates. Fortunately, the cold was at bay. The hearth that lay aside her bed had been lit while she slept, likely by the maid Kat. For some strange reason, the hearth being at her side confused Ash. She had expected it to be at her feet, though she had seen it already in the day prior.
“My lady.” The timid voice squeaked from the doorway as Ash slung her spear to her back. Ash turned and saw the dirty blonde hair and immaculately pressed uniform of Kat.
“Good morrow, Kat.” Ash said, nodding to the maid in her mirror.
“The morrow is soon passed, my lady. I am to prepare you for the feast.” The timid woman said with an absence of passion.
“Please, call me Ash.” She smiled. Ash turned to face the maid as she stepped further into the room.
“Of course, my lady.” The maid said with a completely straight face. She looked over Ash’s chosen outfit and seemed to fixate on the barely visible stitches where Ash had been cut. “I hope my repairs suffice.” She meekly said.
“You did brilliantly, Kat. I could almost forget I’d seen battle in these leathers." Ash beamed.
“You are too kind, Ash. Alas, we must make ready for the feast. The steward is occupied with the bishop, so I will be instructing you on the appropriate etiquette.” Kat said with such a depression of tone. She spoke much more flatly than she had the previous night. Ash assumed it had been a long night of repairs and preparations for the feast. It wouldn’t have shocked her if Kat had yet to make for bed.
“Would you like to sit?” Ash offered.
“No, thank you.” Kat forced a smile as she spoke. A tuft of blonde fell before her freckled nose, she quickly bound it behind her ear.
“But you must be tired?” Ash pressed.
Kat seemed to fake a chuckle as she said, “my duties end at the feast, my lady. I will rest then. Do not worry for me, I will manage.”
“Be sure you do, Kat.” Ash said. She moved to her bed and took a seat as Kat stood before her. “Anyway, these formalities?”
“Yes.” Kat nodded as she joined her hands in front of herself. “Are you devout, Ash?”
“Not to the gods.” Ash awkwardly chuckled.
“Don’t worry, many Champions aren’t close followers to their own gods at first.” Kat smiled. “Very well, I shall explain the rules of clergy. It is all very simple.” Kat swallowed a deep breath and finally matched her pretty grey eyes with Ash’s own. “There are the mouths, typical everyday folk who devout themselves to the will of the gods. Then there are bishops, there is one to each nation in the continent. They worship one specific god and are granted divine capacities by their patron god. Then, within the Conclave, are the holy matrons. These blessed women are the bishops to the absolute trinity. They have the ability to summon the higher Gods once in a generation.” Kat explained.
“The trinity, that's the Golden Goddess; the Steel Goddess and the... err.” Ash tried to recall, though the final slipped her mind.
“The forgotten Godden.” Kat finished on her behalf.
“Right, yeah... I forgot.” Ash said, as if it were clever. Kat didn’t seem entertained and kept on her recitations.
“You refer to the bishops as mother or father and you refer to the divine matrons and their patrons. When you meet the bishop, stand and curtsy as a lady would. Then if she offers you her hand, take it and cover her ring with your other hand. She will ask your name, and only then may you rise. Look her in the eyes and speak only your name. If she invites you to speak further, you are lifted from all formalities. Otherwise, you are to leave her alone until you are called upon.”
“Right...” Ash sighed as she dropped her face to her hands. “Simple.”
“Call her mother, cover her hand and speak when spoken to.” Kat simplified.
“Oh, I can remember that.” Ash perked up at the simplified explanation, and the first genuine smile found Kat. It made her look so much more exhausted. She looked ready to collapse at any second.
“I’m ready, now go get some sleep.” Ash ordered.
“I will see you to the feast hall, my lady.” Kat replied with a weary strain.
“I’ll find it well enough on my own.” Ash insisted. “You wouldn’t want to deny the request of a holy Champion, would you?” She teased.
“I... Suppose not.” Kat sighed. “It’s the big red door with all the guards stood out front.”
“Thanks. You can sleep here if you like? The bed is beyond comfort.” Ash offered.
“I... Thank you, my lady, but it would be improper. The other maids would spread rumours.” Kat bowed.
“Your loss.” Ash shrugged, not quite catching the implication.
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The big red door towered with six guardsmen holding it open. They silently admitted her and she stumbled past as her eyes fixed upon the feast hall within. All was immaculate. Gold plated support struts. Emerald studded chandeliers. Ruby shimmers from silver cutlery. As many cooked hogs as people sat in wait. Steaming goose, slavered in fat. An oven at the far end of the room was still baking bread and the smell of fresh dough buried her in warmth. Three rows of red wood tables spanned the massive hall, and at least a hundred men sat on each. At the head of the room lay a single gold leafed table perpendicular to the others. Three thrones sat behind it. One of ruby, one of sapphire and in the centre; one of steel. The baron had taken his place in the seat of steel, while a humbly dressed woman sat on a cushion of sapphire to his left.
“Sparrow-knight!” Maren called out with the joyous tones available only to those deep in their cups. “Take a seat, my friend!” Half of his drink came along with the invitation as he sloshed his cup around the hall. Ash made her way to his side with dreadful steps, though nobody noticed. Revelry and celebration filled the hall. Young men and women made as young men and women are wont to do from within their drunken merriment. The elder lords, ladies and folk of matter swapped rose tinted tales of their own youth and feats. A grey lady had gathered a fascinated horde around her table as she spoke on the doings of some long dead lecher queen. A great man told tale of war, and a great woman told tale of victory. Maren was singularly the loudest, though it seemed he had the least to say. Every second word was an indecipherable curse, and every fifth was the name of some long since dead man.
She caught the little white beacon amongst the crowds of feasters. Evara had gathered a small cohort of like aged girls and seemed to be half drunk as she laughed and revelled. Fortunately, she was well in view of Ash’s ruby throne. The elder would be able to keep an eye on her sister as she doubtlessly devolved into her first drunken stupor.
“Sparreh’...” Maren chortled as she took her seat. “Not a warrior bird. I’d have chosen- chosen a bloody hawk or somet’. You know, with big fecking claws!” Maren slobbered. He curled his hands into some attempts at claws of his own before he rose to his unsteady feet.
“Ladies, lords and every other cunt guzzling my wine and feasting on my meat!” He announced with a beaming, almost endearing, smile.
“We’re just trying to keep up with you, Maren!” The grey lady heckled from the crowd, and a chorus of laughter succeeded her. He joined the laughter before moving on.
“Right! Important shit for the night!” Maren began. “We have not one, but two guests of honour for the night!”
She felt them all looking at her. They seemed wholly disinterested in the other woman and entirely wrapped in the mystery that apparently surrounded her. It seemed Evara was the only person who didn’t look at her. She was too enraptured in a mug of wine to notice the speech had even begun.
“Our guest of sapphire, Mother Satra, the bishop of the forge.” He beckoned to the other woman and she bowed her head to the crowd. The bishop caught Ash’s gaze; it was cold. She looked almost offended that Ash would disgrace herself by looking at her. She didn’t seem a pompous lady, but she wore her indignation with a severe purpose. It melted away once Maren caught her attention, but quickly returned as he moved on to Ash.
“And of course, our guest of ruby. She who is called Sparrow-Knight! The Sai-Weleg of the Veil clearing. The flaming victor of the ‘Duke’s battle’.” Maren blustered. A round of hesitant though seemingly awed applause rang out. He looked to her as though she ought to speak, then he thought better and carried on with a smile.
“Now, make this a feast to- to... A feast for legend! Make it that.” He slumped down into his after his spittle filled speech.
The celebrations erupted. What had been before seemed now the polite mumblings of high society. Now, hedonism and divine sin. They tore at the boar; they guzzled down whole jugs in one. A pack of smiling wolves shedding their societal wools and living as nature had promised. It seemed the baron had been so thoughtful as to assign a guard to Evara. Some great stoic statue kept the worst of the evening from the little sister as she tried her hardest to keep up with the revelries.
“Sparrow-knight?” A refined voice called from across her table. For the first time Ash’s gaze jolted from Ev and met the bishop. Satra, she had been called. Ash rushed to recall her brief etiquette training. “Cover her hand, call her mother and don’t speak.” The last would be easy enough, though she’d have to cross the table to cover her hand.
“Yes, mother?” Ash awkwardly sputtered over the newly sleeping baron.
“Mother Satra, child.” Satra sighed.
“Yes, of course.” Ash remembered only then that she was supposed to curtsey. She wasn’t entirely sure how to do so while wearing leather padded armour. She jolted up and moved to stand but the bishop rose a steel-clad hand as to stop her.
“Do not concern yourself with the formalities, child.” Satra said. She spoke like a much older woman. She couldn’t have surpassed thirty-five, though her rasping voice and soulful eyes masked the fact well. Ash had never heard her accent before and couldn’t even hazard a guess at her origin. Her pale brown eyes set a strange blaze as she looked at Ash. The candlelight bound from her iron crown onto her ebony skin.
“Show me the mark.” She simply ordered. Ash made no protest, raising her left hand over the baron and showing the smoky black sparrow that had risen from the abyss. “Remove the gauntlet.” Satra ordered as she poked over the mark.
“I can’t.” Ash said.
“You cannot?” Satra pulled her arm across the baron and scoured for a seam in the metal, or some buckle to undo. She found none, though it didn’t deter her inspection. Ash felt Satra’s hand as it stroked and prodded at the metal. She could feel each finger as they pressed into her steel flesh. The black metal was more sensitive to touch than her own true hand. She felt the warmth bleed across the steel case like a drop of hot water. “That is interesting.” Satra said as though it was a reluctant concession. “Come with me, child.” Satra finally said.
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They stood in what seemed to be an old chapel. Dust lay where worshipers ought to have knelt. An idol of Maester Veil’s patron goddess, Taeva, lay behind a cracked stone altar. The carved wood relief displayed the goddess at the centre, holding her bow down to Marash while her eyes faced true. They almost seemed to follow Ash as she walked closer. It wasn’t the first depiction of Taeva she had ever seen, but it was the most extravagant. Her father had carved a small wood idol that he would carry on hunts, in it the goddess had been much less exaggerated. Ash doubted this goddess could stand up straight, let alone act as the divine embodiment of the hunt.
“The baron disgraces your patron.” Satra whispered.
“I’m sure she doesn’t mind.” Ash forced a laugh.
“You would be surprised.”
“At what?”
“At the pettiness of scorned gods. At the wrath of the disgraced.” Satra said with a fresh venom pouring from her lips. She locked her eyes to Ash’s gauntlet as she spoke. “Tell me, child. Are you a Champion?”
“I don’t know. Everyone else seems to think so, and I guess it's getting harder to deny.” Ash groaned. She didn’t face the bishop, instead she turned to her dusty patron. The hunt had always been her comfort, a part of her wouldn’t have minded being a Champion had she been claimed by Taeva.
“I warn you girl, the gods may not notice a blasphemous relief; but a false Champion is a heretic and a mockery to the divine. They will not abide you. This will be the last lie you ever tell.”
“I’ve told no lies, mother Satra.” Ash replied clearly and with a false confidence. “I don’t know if I am a Champion, but I’m willing to find out; whatever that means.”
“Very well.” Satra replied darkly. “Kneel.”
Ash did so. She fell to both knees before the altar of the hunt. A burst of dust scrambled from beneath her and settled in the dusk light.
The bishop spoke in words no tongue could form. She spoke with thirty voices from thirty directions in a chorus of human instruments. She sang as the sun must do. She bellowed as the most vile winds would. She chortled as the eager revellers did. She spoke every name, and every word in every language before her eyes erupted in golden flame.
“I beg...” Came a voice from the stones beneath her. “My goden...” Continued the dust in the air. “To bless us, unworthy, with his grace...” Satra’s own lips pled.
The wind span around them and half a form came from within the vortex.
“To witness truth...” Ash found herself saying without will. “Or crime.”
The visage of man, or half a man, or a thousand men, but certainly a male form came before and around them. She knew in an instant the obvious and primordial truth; this was a god. A true god. Beyond a mortal form and beyond mortal powers. The armies that stood upon his shoulder were carved of thinking stone. The sculptor gave each a passion and a hatred. A sneer of cold command and a grin of vicious joy. Spirits danced in the air between them. Ghosts of mortal men bound to the goden’s star light eyes. It was within his starry leer that the question was answered before words could ask, though it didn’t stop the bishop.
“My goden!” She begged as she fell upon her knees. “This one claims divine choice. I beseech you, smite her as a heretic; or claim her for her patron!”
The moons could have shone as eyes for she felt the gaze of a word upon her. This goden, wrapped in all the iron of the world, knew the truth before search had been made. She heard in the crackle of far-off flame and clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer, “The night’s dreams have started; the victor will be left empty hearted. They hold their dreams to thee; and leave you in misery. Ashtik Sai-Weleg, Sparrow-knight or white-hair. Thy shall hold a name for each star you darken; when the Champion of Black is made the greatest archon.”
Then, with the thunderous grace of hellfire, the goden was gone and the world was still.
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“No...” was all Satra could gasp. The awe of seeing her goden had dissolved into abject terror. She collapsed from her knees to her back with a fitful quiver. She dragged each ragged breath down with a visible stress. Ash thought the vein at her neck might burst at a sneeze.
“Well... He didn’t ‘smite’ me.” Ash breathlessly said. She rose to her feet and offered a hand to the bishop. She made sure not to offer the marked hand while the older woman was in such a frightful state.
“Does that make me a Cham-” Ash said until something new caught her wind. This was lesser, and far from godly. Her gauntlet screeched out like a scared child and a pain coursed through the hidden hand. It felt as though the gauntlet had just slit across her entire hand and further up her arm. She clenched it as something bubbled up from within. The metal seemed to boil and pop at the back of her hand. From within the molten steel came forth a deep purple gemstone. It set within her hand with an untold agony. Ash stubbornly refused to fall to her knees as it melted away at her flesh. A trickle of blood came from beneath the gauntlet and ran down her arm, then the impossible happened; the gauntlet retracted. It no longer covered her wrist, then it no longer reached her fingers. Eventually, her entire hand was free of its black tomb. Only the mark and the purple gemstone remained. She scratched away at the stone, though it was of no use. It had been fused to her skin in a more violent manner than the gauntlet had been. She could see where the skin had been torn apart to make room for it. As grateful as she was to have her hand free of the steel, the gem wasn’t that much better.
“Sparrow?” Satra whispered.
“I’m okay...” Ash lied. Her chest heaved while she drew each brutal breath.
“You know what this means?”
“I haven’t a clue, Satra.” Ash snipped, the last of her patience having been exhausted by the searing pain that still persisted.
“It means Hevestiel has vouched for you. It means you have been claimed by a Goden.” Satra said with blatant awe. “It means you are the first Champion of Black.”
Satra turned from Ash as she paced back and forth. She muttered uncontrollably to herself about ‘implications’ and ‘prophesies.’ The most Ash could glean was, “the conclave must know. The city must be summoned.” Before Satra slipped into some other language.
“There’s a Black goden?” Ash frustratedly asked of the still pacing woman.
“Yes, your people call him the forgotten Goden.” Satra casually said.
“But... Isn’t he one of the big ones?”
“He is the grandfather of our world. The eldest of the pantheon. He is the third of the absolute trinity.” Satra recited.
“What’s his domain? I’m guessing it’s not summer rains and cuddles.” Ash asked.
“He is the patron of dreams; the Goden of sorrow and memories.”
“That all seems unrelated?” Ash said.
“He is the kind Goden of sorrow. We all face terrible pain, he gives us dreams that we might face the pain within ourselves, and forget the battle come the morning. He lets us remember and live in memory as we slumber.” Satra explained with unreserved reverence.
“That seems like a good thing, right? Why is he the Black Goden? Why does everybody seem to dread him?”
“It could be a mercy to dream of kindness in the dark, or you could dream your only day in this world away.” Satra said. “But they don’t dread him; they dread you. They dread what you represent. Dreams can be good or bad. A dream can be pure love, or a true nightmare. They fear that you are destined to be the latter.”
“I am no nightmare.” Ash promised.
“Not yet.” Satra almost laughed. “But the night is young, and the first dream is yet to begin.”
“What happens now?” The Champion of Black asked.
“Now... I must send for the Conclave. Rest, Champion. On the morrow, we will prepare for our journey to Duke’s crossing.”