Lily
Power. Many proclaim it is the strength of one's arm or one's skill with the arcane, of one's ability to bring or withhold destruction and ruin. Others swear by gold and silver, of pretty baubles and shining jewels that capture the hearts and eyes of all. Fewer still claim knowledge as its root, of secrets and hushed whispers in the dark that hide from the light of day.
They are not entirely wrong, Lily knows, but neither are they right. Each is ultimately a tool one can use to achieve power, a means to an end, though not the end itself.
What, then, does power look like? The finished article painted on a blank canvas by the combined brushes of strength, gold and knowledge?
Music, harsh, fierce and blaring echoes out and thrums through the hazy atmosphere like a heartbeat from instruments of her own design, operated by those who bear her mark and enjoyed, nay, adored by the masses who lovingly bear the same.
As she lies back in the heart of her domain, separate and above, looking down on the darkened dancefloor as the Gods gaze down at their own creations, she lounges lazily as one hand places a cigarette betwixt her lips and another produces a match to light it. Neither belong to herself or the other, both would be separated by their owners with but a word without hesitation or remorse, merely because she commands it.
Surrounded by lives that would risk their own unique existences just for a chance to impress her, her latest plaything grovelling at her feet for mercy he shall not receive, and all the adoration of the masses even beyond this darkened lair.
This, she knows, is what real power looks like. People, their loyalty, love and utter terror, and it is a drug surpassing any other.
“Please… please, Lily, I’ll… I’ll pay you back double. No! Triple! Just… please let me make this up to you.” Begs the man, a slip of a human too smart for his own good, covered nearly head to toe in winding tattoos marking him as from the fissure, the same as most in Lily’s club.
Taking a slow, measured draw from the cigarette she blows out the smoke through her nose and rises to her feet, towering over the kneeling man and tutting disappointedly.
Tall by all human standards, she stands as a fierce mountain of rippling muscle barely contained by the fine pale shirt and striped trousers not uncommon amongst the bankers on the surface, the top few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. She bears not the markings of her peons, with the exception of a stylised claw about her right eye, which is speckled gold much like its twin. Her bronze skin is unusual in Ismuth, though not enough to raise eyebrows, but her hair is another matter. A deep, vibrant scarlet the colour of sunset, flowing along one side of her head and all but glowing in the flickering lights.
She leans over and places a sharpened fingernail beneath his chin, lifting his terrified eyes up to meet her own. Pouting playfully, she asks “But you stole from me, Jack. Don’t you think I have to make an example?”
He swallows nervously and she can smell his fear as he struggles to answer. “Well… well obviously, but…”
“Obviously he says!” she jeers, interrupting him and standing up to her full height, crossing her arms as those courtiers around her laugh cruelly. “Well if you’re so sure…”
Though his mouth moves, nought but strangled squawks come out, his eyes darting around wildly. The truth is, she let those drugs fall into his lap. She’d seen the glint of greed in his eyes, the flames of ambition that grew beyond even her, and she’d known he wouldn’t have been able to resist.
Ambition is fine, she respects it, even encourages it, but not when it compromises the power she holds, the power she needs. An unforgivable sin, but perhaps it need not be a fatal one.
Reaching down once more, she grasps the top of his head in her palm and clamps down as he begins to struggle, her nails drawing blood where they dig into the skin.
“Don’t worry, Jack.” She says sweetly even as she grins menacingly down at the thief. “I’ll show you the mercy you crave.”
Then, with a violent shove, she forces her mind onto his. Like a dragon in a glass shop, she can’t be careful even if she wants to, and she feels as he breaks around her presence. She doesn’t particularly care as his psyche shatters around her, she finds what she’s looking for and tears out ambition from his mind, root and stem, eliminating the very concept.
Her withdrawal is equally careless, and as she comes back to her senses his struggles have gone limp.
“Jack?” she asks with amusement, shaking his head like a toy, “still in there?”
It is with some surprise to her that he answers, “Y…yes. What… what have you done to me!?”
Though spoken in anguish, it is more in a sort of terrified confusion than anger. Raising an eyebrow, Lily finds herself intrigued by how the man can even string a sentence together.
Just as she is about to investigate further, her head snaps up and over the dancefloor towards the door. Her nose twitches and a rare frown settles on her brow. With as much care as she’d torn apart his mind, she tosses the limp thief to the ground and steps over his body to the railing overlooking the rest of the club, flicking her cigarette away into the crowd as her eyes scan the crowd for that which does not belong.
It appears soon enough, a sliver of pure white amongst a writhing mass of dyes standing as an island of stillness and looking distinctly unimpressed. Slipping through the tightly packed pit with impossible grace and a totally confident stride, not so much as brushing a shoulder as he looks up and holds Lily’s gaze.
He looks human, feels human, but her nose is rarely fooled. She hears her courtiers growing curious as to the subject of her attentions, and even some of those below seem to notice her standing over them and break from their dancing.
She waves the former back with a twitch of her hand and turns away from the latter towards the stairs up to her throne. The bouncers have their eyes on the approaching anomaly and Lily watches carefully as he doesn’t so much as break stride, barely waving one of the hands crossed over his front as they collapse into unconsciousness.
Lily barely even catches the pulse of magic, so impossibly subtle and sharp that it immediately sends warning bells ringing in her mind. She quickly checks and takes a moment to confirm that such an attack would surely break against her shields, though she doesn’t have the time to breathe a sigh of relief before the pale-haired stranger stands before her.
They stand at a similar height, their eyes level as he comes to a stop at the top of the stairs. An invader in the very heart of her domain, standing unbowed and unthreatened. She feels the eyes of the room on the two of them now, expecting her to prove once more why she deserves the power she holds over them.
“I see through you, elf.” She mutters with a sneer, crossing her arms and rolling her shoulders as she looks him up and down.
There is not so much as a twitch from the pale-haired intruder, and his eyes remain locked with her own with such intensity that she has to fight the urge to look away.
“Do you?” comes the smooth reply, devoid of inflexion.
Lily snarls, “Yes. Why are you here?”
Not that she intends to let him walk out after this little display, but when it comes to the fair folk she knows there is never any rush so she might as well ask.
The elf doesn’t answer immediately, continuing to stare icily at her until she can’t help her eyes flickering over his shoulder just slightly rather than directly meeting his eyes. The moment she does, he breaks and turns towards the crowd, looking down on it with a regal, dismissive bearing.
“Curiosity.” He answers simply, almost dismissively.
She waits for him to elaborate, and when he doesn’t she opens her mouth to continue. Of course, that is precisely when he speaks, turning his back to the crowd as he cuts her off.
His voice is just as cold as before. “I must admit I have not seen such behaviour from your kind before.”
Feeling her ire growing, she steps forward and looms in his face with sudden aggression, though he does not so much as flinch. “And what would you know of my kind, elf?”
Meeting her enraged glare, he glances down and sees her clenched fists and then cocks his head to take in the tension that has since overtaken the room, the music having since come to a halt.
Giving a modest nod, he takes a step back from Lily and splays his hands out to the sides, backing down but not submitting.
“Less than I thought, it seems. Your wards need work.” His eyes flick to the man attempting to pull himself to his feet several paces behind Lily. “As does your telepathy. But I am rather more interested in what you have done to these humans. They… bear an unusual aura.”
Lily allows herself to calm, and a proud smirk to rise upon her face. “What I have done? No, elf, it is what they have chosen. To become more than human. Is it not glorious?”
The intruder frowns, his eyes narrowing on one of her courtiers. She can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes as he mutters in his flowery tongue beneath his breath. Lily almost lunges then and there, but stops and allows the working when she recognises it as a simple divination pulse, albeit pulled off with more subtlety than she thought possible.
She briefly wonders if the elf has any concept of how close he just came to death.
“Oh,” he says after a moment, looking both genuinely surprised and entirely disappointed. “I see. It is not spellwork, just an unseemly little transfusion. Impressive, perhaps, that the mutations are stable. I might ask if you have any pride left, but it seems such things are not so taboo in this age. I suppose it explains why you lower yourself to such a pathetic form.”
That is it. Lily surges forward, letting her intrinsic torrent of magic propel her limbs as her nails elongate into blackened talons sharp enough to cut through steel.
She will eviscerate the elf before he can so much as mutter another spell.
She is not fast enough.
Swinging his arm with impossible swiftness, from his sleeve falls an instrument of matte, shadowy metal in the shape of a viciously spiked mace. He catches its haft at the apex of the movement just before the head impacts the underside of her chin, tearing through her protections with contemptible ease, lifting her straight off her feet and sending stars flashing in her vision.
More than just the sheer force of the blow, which itself is far beyond anything she expected from the lithe elf, she feels the magic in her blood and the strength in her muscles leeched away by teeth of the mace that tear into her flimsy human flesh.
She loses seconds of time as her next moment of awareness she is blinking the spots from her eyes on the ground. Her broken jaw painfully snaps back into place without delay, but the vigour is slow in returning to her limbs as she scrambles to get back to her feet.
From behind the artefacts in her vision, she can see the pale countenance of the elf standing in the same spot, twisted by the blurring into a form far less defined, but entirely more menacing. His weapon hangs loose in his grip, not swinging forward to batter Lily when she is down much to her relief and frustration.
She does not appreciate being toyed with, and the rage it elicits helps her stand back up straight and raise her clawed fists despite whatever curse or affliction is sapping her strength.
Thoughts of her courtiers don’t even cross her mind as she is focused entirely on the elf, and the thick black smoke that is now pouring from his free hand and pooling at his feet, quickly spreading outwards and towards her.
“Arrogant and rash, but it is ever so with the young. Consider my curiosity sated, little dragon.” The smoke rises into a cloud that confuses even her nose, quickly swallowing the elf and the rest of the club as he steps back into it.
Lililaxananir the red dragon, still in her mostly human form, forces her legs to move, and she takes a stumbling step forward, but it is too little too late. Before he disappears entirely she hears his accented voice echo out. “Do not think of this as mercy, think of it as sustainable hunting.”
With a scream of pure rage, she lunges forward but her claws catch naught but smoke, which quickly rises to surround her as well. But the dragon doesn’t give up, pushing on and lashing out at every sound, feeling flesh rend beneath her claws and hot blood splatter against her face. She sniffs, it is human, so she tries again.
By the time the black smoke clears, impossibly thick one moment and almost non-existent the next, she stands overlooking the confused crowd and the elf is nowhere to be seen. Her chest is heaving in exertion and fury, her garments stained red as a crimson puddle forms at her feet from the blood that drips from her claws and everywhere else.
None amongst her courtiers remain breathing, not even the furniture survived her blind rampage. She watches as eyes, both terrified and shocked, turn up to her and she just knows they are weighing her failure, seeing weakness and already calculating their own betrayals. As is always the way with humans, but the thought of her power slipping is nearly unbearable and so she turns away with a snarl.
Her inhumanly sharp teeth grind against one another loudly as she looks over the charnel pit she made. Looking over the bodies, some more recognisable than others, she frowns even deeper as she notes the broken thief, Jack, is not amongst their number.
“Miss Lily!” a cry echoes out through the club, bearing not the accent of the fissure but of the upper class of Ismuth.
“Miss Lily!” the voice repeats, and she hears the owner rush and push their way through the crowd, seemingly ignorant of the unusual hush that has fallen over it.
Lily listens as the footsteps rise up the steps and stop at the top, hears as the clerk’s heart stops in her chest at the grisly sight.
“What is it?” Lily growls, not even bothering to turn to the terrified woman. Only peripherally involved in this part of her operation, Lily at least recognises through her choler that the clerk would not be here unless there is a serious problem with the bank.
The nervous gulp sounds as loud as a scream as she chokes out an answer. “The… the vault. There… there has been a robbery.”
Lily’s right eye develops a fierce twitch as she otherwise freezes in place, her anger that she once thought a raging inferno now feels like a candle flame next to the cataclysmic depths of her draconic fury.
Nothing. Nothing. Is more sacred to a dragon than its hoard. An obsession that stretches beyond mere feelings or opinions, greater than even the power she holds so dear.
Greater than even her pride.
As the shock begins to wear off and whatever control she has over her wrath fades, she decides it is finally time she acknowledged the offers sent to her by that Phobos annoyance.
If the stupid mask is so desperate to hunt down the elves then maybe they can lead her to that white-haired scum who is almost certainly fleeing Ismuth with her gold at this very moment.
The clerk is the first to die.
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Leroy
With nowhere better to be, and the two gentlemen from earlier nowhere to be seen, Leroy is left alone with Gregory and the snoozing stranger as the rest of the patrons, and that nice girl Sarah, filter out to return to their homes.
He is still mulling over his conversation with Vindaruil, as he has been doing the entire evening, though he is quickly approaching his fifth pint.
Something about it doesn’t sit right with him, and he can’t pinpoint quite what it is. There is the obvious ridiculousness of speaking with a being claiming to be older than, well, human civilization. But he finds he doesn’t suspect the elf of dishonesty, or insanity for that matter.
Well-spoken, he’d told his tale eloquently even if he had been rather… intense at points. No, it isn’t that which irks Leroy, it’s the… peculiar manner in which Vindaruil approached the issue with him.
Flashing some immense diamond that would be enough to widen the eyes of even the richest men Leroy had ever rubbed shoulders with, and then his odd explanation. It just rings… odd to Leroy, like there is some shoe somewhere waiting to drop and he doesn’t think he’ll like it when it does.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
As he habitually rubs the emblem of Solaris around his neck a flash of an image of those crimson eyes levelled at him in anger flickers across his vision, sending a spike of pain behind his eyes that he quickly washes away with the last gulp of his drink.
Groaning, he pushes himself to his feet, only slightly stumbling as he levels himself with another chair before walking in a mostly straight line towards the bar. Stopping besides the sleeping man, Leroy places his tankard before the barkeep and nods his head over towards the stranger.
“Whatsss his deal?” he slurs out.
Gregory is cleaning the tankards with a towel, preparing to close up for the evening, as he glances up at the two of them. “Came in, bought a room, dozed off. Didn’t even wait for the free meal and drink I threw in.”
“Oh,” Leroy mutters, pulling a face before issuing forth a most ungentlemanly burp, “shou… should I wake him? A ssshame to waste a free meal.”
The bartender merely shrugs. “Be my guest. Better you than me.”
With a shrug of his own Leroy shuffles on over and places a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder, intending to shake him into wakefulness.
But before he can so much as blink there’s a dagger at his neck. Letting out a strangled yelp, Leroy freezes in terror, nearly instantly sobering up, and he views Gregory similarly go still from the corner of his eye.
The wide eyes of the now very much awake stranger stare into Leroy’s own, then flick quickly around the tavern. His pupils narrow as he seems to focus and realise where he is. The dagger lowers and his grip on Leroy’s collar loosens.
“I… err…” stepping back, the man takes a stumbling step backwards, shaking his head as though to clear out the fog. “I’m terribly sorry about that, you startled me is all.”
The dagger disappears into the shadows of the man’s coat as Leroy nervously pulls at his collar and glances once more over to the barkeeper who seems to have relaxed somewhat.
“Well… no harm done I suppose.” He mutters, trying to shake off the shock. “Should have known better than to wake a man like that.”
The man shakes his head, “No, no. The blame is all on me. Too used to stopping in places far less friendly than this I’m afraid. Let… let me buy you a drink, sir. The name's Archie.”
Letting out a deep sigh that takes much of his tension with it, Leroy nods with a smile. “I ssshan’t say no to that. I’m Leroy.”
Archie smiles as he sits back on his stool and turns towards Gregory. “Could I please have that ale and casserole now good sir? Don’t mind terribly if its cold. And another round for my new friend here.” He flicks him a copper piece as he speaks.
Deftly catching it, Gregory gives him a nod. “Not to worry son, kept the fire going special for ya.”
As he pours their drinks Archie turns back to Leroy. “What hour is it?”
“Couldn’t say. Sssomewhere between the witching and dawn. Enough that all the natives have gone home.” Leroy answers with a sip of his fresh drink.
“Not a villager yourself then?” Archie asks, letting his ale sit for the time being. “Not to pry, mind.”
“Pfft, ask away lad, and I wish. City boy, born and bred. Just got in from Athaca, ssssupposed to do some deliveries but the fresh air’s worth staying for.” The portly merchant proclaims without batting an eye.
Archie raises his mug, “Aye, I’ll drink to that.”
Leroy laughs at that and the two men take hearty gulps from their drinks as Gregory returns with a bowl of casserole and a wooden spoon.
Not wasting any time, Archie puts down his tankard and digs in. It is only whilst he’s eating, in between spoonful’s, that he glances towards Leroy and mutters. “Just got in from Athaca myself.”
Raising an eyebrow, Leroy puts down his own drink. “Oh?”
“On a delivery of my own, but if you’re a day or so ahead of me then you must have missed all the rumours,” Archie mentions casually.
“Rumours?” Leroy questions.
Archie nods, looking around conspiratorially before leaning in. “They say the museum curator told the king that an elf rose from one of the exhibits, if you can believe it!”
Leroy almost chokes on his drink. “An elf you say?”
Even ignoring his state of inebriation, Leroy would have been hard-pressed to recognise the gleam in the stranger’s eye. “Aye, poor old fellow was laughed out of court apparently. Must’ve had a funny turn.”
“Yes…” Leroy mutters distractedly as he stares off into his tankard.
“Pardon?” Archie asks.
Clearing his throat, Leroy turns to the stranger with a strained smile. “I mean, yes that ssseems likely. It does happen as you get older I’m… I’m afraid.”
Deciding it’s about time he returns to his bed, he slips off his stool and finishes the last of his drink. “Thanksss… for the drink. I… I ought to retire for the evening.”
Archie inclines his head. “Aye, tis probably wise, friend. Good evening, and take care on those stairs.”
Leroy nods as he turns to go. “Good… evening.”
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You
Stepping back into Hartonville with Arma, this time in the barn, you are greeted by a substantial pile of gold coins rising nearly up to your chin. Raising an eyebrow you look over at your mount questioningly.
She meets your graze and huffs in her equivalent of a deadpan expression. Essentially, you don’t want to know.
Turning, she then nods her head to the wretch you had practically dragged through the portal with you. “Three reasons. He knows more of this young dragon, he has survived sharing her blood and though his mind has been broken he appears to retain much of his senses. I would uncover why, and perhaps even try my hand at piecing it together once more.”
Another huff and a swish of the tail. “Because I know not if it can be done, and it hath been years since last I experimented with such things.”
You reach your limit of explaining yourself and Arma seems to recognise this, inclining her head and stepping back. With a hasty working of magic, you hide your new wealth under a perception filter, although only after grabbing a handful for your pockets to give to Leroy later.
It doesn’t so much irritate you as amuse you that Arma went overboard, but if her goal had been to piss off the masquerading dragon then she needn’t have bothered. Even a single coin would have been enough to draw her ire.
It does make you question why the beast would set itself up in a human city with a bank for its hoard when coins would surely be flowing in and out with regularity, although comprehending the thought processes of such creatures has never been your strong suit.
That one of the ancient creatures yet remains, and possibly more besides, does much to raise your mood. It is odd, for once you prided yourself in being the architect of their extinction and now you rejoice in their survival, but you try not to look too deeply into it. It does fill you with a strange sense of… you don’t call it hope, but the sensations are not dissimilar. Optimism, perhaps, that there yet exists something to fill your eternity with if this little experiment with the half-breed doesn’t pan out.
Not that this ‘Lily’, a pathetically human name you note, measures up to the likes of Ngrakken. And, certainly, she exhibits some queer and novel behaviours, but perhaps in time she will prove a worthy challenge.
It is not an allowance you would make to almost any others, but dragons are some of the few creatures that you cannot claim an innate superiority over. They ruled Mortus before the time of your father, and they might have continued doing so for long after had things turned out differently.
But turning away from the subject of dragons, you still have some time to kill before the sun rises and the crows return, so you turn to your newest acquisition. Kneeling on the ground, head bowed and swaying not in supplication but due to a kind of fugue state. He had not been particularly cooperative in your extraction of him, but nor had he fought you.
There yet remains a mind within that fragile skull as you saw when you peered into it in Ismuth, broken and damaged beyond any mind’s ability to repair on its own, but still existing. And still… it would be impossible to guess the extent of the damage from merely observing him with your mundane eyes.
You’d even heard him speak, before your suitably dramatic arrival, though he has been entirely silent since.
Squatting down, you reach out and lift up his chin with a finger. He doesn’t resist but flinches back from your gaze, showing he has at least some sense remaining.
“Do you understand me, wretch?” you ask softly.
He nods, almost imperceptibly so but still a nod.
That confirms that, at least. “Tell me your name.”
“Jack… I think.” He mutters out with uncertainty, his accented voice different from the Torish speakers you have known thus far. More… curt, and sharp on the ear.
You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”
His eyes glaze over as he stares down into the muck. “It is what she called me. I… it sounds like me.”
“Tell me what you remember about her.” you prompt, and hear Arma trotting away into the night to do as she will.
The tattooed man begins to shake, though oddly his face is without fear and he looks almost confused by this reaction. “I… don’t. Remember, that is.”
You cock your head in curiosity. “You should. Your mind has suffered severe mental trauma, but your brain remains intact. The memories are still there, loose threads lost in the unravelling yarn that is your mind. Perhaps I should say then that you can remember, you just aren’t doing. Although it is remarkable you can even string a sentence together.”
You are talking more to yourself than to him, yet he answers anyway. “…ok.”
Deep in thought, you remain there before him as you ponder how to proceed and all the while he barely moves. Sure, he fidgets and scratches, but though his eyes still fail to meet your own they don’t roam. He doesn’t take stock of his surroundings, make any attempt to get up or even so much as relieve his boredom. He doesn’t even seem particularly concerned with your presence before him, and he is utterly silent barring his soft, slow breaths.
After a while, you reach out with your hand to grasp his head. He flinches at the movement but, again, doesn’t actually move away nor attempt to stop you. You enter his mind cautiously, the difference between it and one unbroken akin to comparing a stormy sea to a calm lake. Not without its risks.
You can trace out the path the dragon took, and take the time to observe all that is unravelled… and all that isn’t. Only one part is truly missing, you note, but it is perhaps the most essential to life.
Whilst you are there you map out what damage you can. Repairing a mind is… well, you don’t really know what it's like. You have rather more experience in breaking them rather than fixing them, but as with all problems taking stock of what you have to work with is the first step.
You get the feeling even that is going to take some time, and even though your memory is prodigious it is not so great you can recall the entirety of a mind within your memory. It is most certainly going to take a great deal of note-taking to even get started.
It occurred to you recently, after the debacle with Leroy, that such a skill would allow you a rather more liberal use of your mind magics without fear of lasting consequence, whereas before you have simply dismissed it. That is, at least, your primary reason for taking on another project. Or so you tell yourself.
Not unlike how you learnt healing magics to prolong your interrogations, though you never did get the hang of that either. At least to a point you were happy with.
Retreating from the mind, you know for a certainty that the man cannot be trusted to look after himself. If he is to prove a worthwhile experiment, and you still haven’t even taken a closer look at his mutations, then he must be preserved.
Fortunately, you happen to be something of the leading authority on stasis spells.
You spend the rest of the night repurposing the wooden panels from the barn into a makeshift coffin, with your magic not your two hands of course, and then preparing it to hold the stasis spell. Wood is far from the most optimal material for such a thing, being that it was once alive, but it is far simpler to maintain the spell from the outside so you can take more liberties than with your own.
Despite your rather macabre construction, Jack doesn’t appear even slightly perturbed, and when you tell him to climb in the coffin he does so without question or hesitation.
If only all humans were so complacent, Mortus would be a more peaceful place.
Activating the spell, you tuck the coffin away in the corner of the barn just in time for the crows to swoop in through the open doors alongside the first rays of dawn.
They scuff the landing, rolling into two black, feathery heaps by your feet, but without seriously injuring themselves. Not perfect, but as good as you expected from the two human-turned-crows.
“We did it!” Henrick caws proudly, with even a pleased look, as much as crows can look pleased, on his brother's face.
“So I see.” Is all you offer in response, before stepping over their recovering forms and striding out. “Follow on.”
First, you will acquire the parchment and ink you need for your study, then another visit to Leroy to pay your debt.
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Inalia
“Why do we have to go again, mum?” Inalia whines to her mum, holding her hand as they walk through Hartonville just after breakfast.
Endrea sighs quietly, looking back down at her daughter. “Because the nice reverend wanted to see us so see us he shall.”
“But he’s crazy! He’s the one that walked away,” she complains back.
Looking up, she sees her mum shaking her head in exasperation. “And you let him. Besides, he’s not crazy, he's just old. It’d be rude not to see him.”
Inalia pulls a face. “Will I get like that when I get old?”
Before her mum can answer she gasps, then looks up with wide eyes. “Will you?”
“No, little songbird. Not every old person is like that.” Endrea answers.
“So he is just crazy!”
Her mum doesn’t deign to answer, looking relieved as they finally stand before the entrance of the small wooden chapel at the edge of the village.
It bears the five-pointed star of the pantheon over the door, not gold like the huge one on the cathedral in Athaca but a dull, rusty iron. The rest of the chapel doesn’t exactly inspire any more confidence in the sanctity of the place, though Inalia supposes that the many odd patches and repairs jobs, and the stilts keeping it from tilting over entirely, are a sign of love rather than the lack of it. Keeping it up rather than just tearing it down and building a new one.
“Umm… Mum?” Inalia asks, stopping before they head in, gripping her mum’s hand and digging her heels into the ground.
Endrea sighs once more. “What is it Inalia?”
“Is it… safe?” she remembers going inside during Grandad’s funeral, but that was years ago. If anything it looks even worse now, she swears there’s even less paint on the place than last time.
Rolling her eyes, Endrea squeezes Inalia’s hand and pulls her forward. “Of course, those stilts have been there since I was a girl.”
That hardly inspires any more confidence in Inalia, but she trusts her Mum and follows her in.
The door swings inwards with a painfully loud creak coming from the rusty joints, though not without a sharp shove from her mum.
“Reverend Clancy?” Endrea calls out as they step inside, the old reverend not immediately visible amongst the narrow benches that stand as pews. On the far end in the centre sits a small pulpit and behind that a door leading elsewhere in the chapel.
Inalia is entirely expecting the door to swing open and the reverend to step through. What she is not expecting is the sudden and incredibly loud snore that comes just to her left.
Both mother and daughter’s eyes snap towards the sound, startling as they see the old reverend in the same clothes as yesterday sleeping on the bench right in the corner, with what looks like several cushions stolen from the other benches piled up around him.
He is very clearly still asleep.
As she gets over her shock, Inalia sees her mum pinch the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Reverend Clancy!”
She shouts much louder this time, and it finally seems to wake the Reverend with a snort and a violent coughing fit that goes on for just long enough that Inalia begins to get worried before it stops and the old man sits up.
Blinking heavily, he squints forward and looks them up and down. “Little Endrea? And who is this?”
“This is my daughter Inalia, Reverend. You’ve met before.” She answers patiently.
The Reverend nods to himself. “Oh… yes. Of course.”
Then, sitting up with surprising alacrity considering the previous day’s display, the Reverend shuffles out of the benches and into the isles. Inalia does think that he seems to be standing straighter than yesterday, though she can’t be certain.
“I… er, came looking for you yesterday didn’t I?” he asks, scratching the back of his balding scalp.
“Yes mister reverend sir,” Inalia answers helpfully, and his eyes are drawn down to her. There is a glint to them that is definitely new. Not a bad sort of glint but just… strange.
He looks back up to Endrea. “Yes… I suppose I wanted to welcome you back. If you don’t mind my asking, how long will you be staying this time?”
“Oh, we… probably a while.” Her mum answers after a little hesitation.
The reverend frowns, a serious sort of look coming over his face. “Is everything alright my dear? You know you can tell me anything within these four walls.”
“Oh no, everything’s fine Reverend. Just… wanted to get away from the city is all.” She says with a not terribly convincing smile.
He nods in response. “And you’ll be better off for it. Closer you are to a city, the further from the gods, that's what my pa always said.”
Inalia feels the urge to make a crack about his pa being older than the cities, but considers that she is in a chapel and decides to hold her tongue for once.
“And what about that stranger you brought with you? Half the village has been yapping about him.” He mutters at Endrea’s silence.
Her mum answers quickly. “Just a… a friend.”
The reverend gives Endrea a very pointed look. “Most of the folks I’ve married were ‘just friends’ little Endrea. But it's good you’re settling down, aye, a girl should have a father.”
Inalia sees her mother's cheeks go red as she steps back and holds up her hands. “No, really, no. It’s not like that.”
The old man narrows his eyes and then nods, “If you say so, lass. Sorry about that… I expect you’ll be wanting a blessing then, aye? For you and the little one.”
Her mum smiles and nods, seemingly quite glad of the change of topic. “If you’d be so kind, reverend.”
“Isn’t no kindness to do that which they pay me for.” He answers with a gentle smile, then reaches out with wrinkly hands to lay them on the heads of mother and daughter.
“May Iffria bring you good health, Rendon guard over your hearths, Heffor bring you the fruits of your labours, Solaris guide your heart and Orior ferry you on when your time comes.” He mutters in a well-practised, but still surprisingly genuine, manner.
And Inalia can’t help but notice the slight tingling she feels in the air around the man, though it fades as he removes his hands and steps back.
Placing his hand on his hips he nods to himself. “Well, that should do it. Thank you for coming, but you don’t want to spend the morning in here with dusty old me.”
Endrea gives him a thin smile in response. “Thank you for the blessing, reverend. It is good to see you in fine health, as always.”
“Fine health she says!” he says with a laugh that turns into another fierce coughing fit. “I’ve had one foot in the grave for longer than you’ve been alive girl.”
Inalia might have chuckled were it not a strangely sobering sight watching an old man admit to his mortality.
It is strange to think that Vindaruil is older than the reverend, and far, far older at that. She remembers him mentioning that she might live longer than most people, and she can’t help thinking how old she’d be by the time she looks like the reverend does.
Would Vindaruil even look any older by then? Would he ever truly grow old at all?
It is a queer thought, and one that is silenced by an almost knowing look from the reverend as he meets her eye and then winks.
“Run along now.” He says with a soft smile.
Her mum takes her hand once more as she nods to the reverend. “Have a good day reverend. And you really should stop drinking at the Dreaming Donkey so much. We saw you on the porch the other day.”
The old man shakes his head. “Ah, but that’s my secret little Endrea. If you keep doing the things you love, then you always have reason to stick around. The day I stop is the day I croak, I’m certain of it!”
Endrea is shaking her head as she takes her daughters hand and then begins to leave. As they reach the door, however, Inalia takes one last look behind her to the reverend as he stands in the aisle.
“Did you see the crows?” he calls out to her cryptically.
Her mum doesn’t seem to hear, continuing on and half-dragging her daughter with her, but Inalia nods quickly back to the old man.
“What are they?” she questions back, and is surprised when she is not scolded or even noticed by her mum.
The reverend smiles, and mutters a word that she hears clearly even as she steps outside. “Change.”
----------------------------------------
Reverend Clancy?
The old man watches the woman and her daughter leave, turning to walk up and sit on one of the benches in the front row.
He takes in a long, deep but shaky breath. He feels all the aches and pains of this body, the fraying in the brain, the scarring in the lungs and the liver… the less said about the liver the better.
A human body ravaged by time but still ticking on nevertheless, glued together by faith, love and a joy for life that seems undimmable. It will give out eventually, as all humans unfortunately but inevitably do, and the soul will be ferried to a well-deserved afterlife.
But as he sits there, he finds himself envying it slightly. The aches and pains mix with the warmth of the sun on his skin as it filters through the windows, and the smell of dew on the air. One gives meaning to the other, without discomfort one cannot know comfort, and without pleasure there is no point in pain.
It almost makes him wish for a mortal life. It always does when he comes here, but something about this body in particular always makes it that much more poignant.
Strange, perhaps, as one might believe a younger body would have more to live for, and yet when inhabiting them he never truly feels mortal as he does now. Every moment is not as precious or as cherished.
But, alas, his place is not, and will never be, here. Already he can feel the already weak body rejecting him as he is wracked by another coughing fit, even though the soul within welcomes him with open arms.
His purpose here is finished, for now. He came expecting only destruction, and found mercy instead. He still mourns for the pain his faithful suffered to draw his gaze, though the man remembers it not, but is glad that it did.
Forewarned is forearmed, and it seems he has far longer to prepare than initially expected. Hopefully, no such preparations will be necessary, but hope did not save those who came before, and it will not save him and his.
“Thank you, old friend. I take my leave, but you have done me a great service. So I leave you a gift, the years I have taken from you and more besides. Blessings be upon you, Luke Clancy.” The old man mutters to the air, and then the divine soul sharing the body with the reverend returns it to its owner.
Said owner is left shuddering at the impossibly peculiar sensation running through his body. Not unpleasant just… strange.
He stands up to his feet, his knees not creaking half as loudly as they had the previous morning, and sighs. “I need a godsdamned drink.”
Putting to good use the fresh energy in his bones, energy that makes him feel like he’s eighty again, he sets off towards the Dreaming Donkey.