Oaths and promises.
Malina had always been careful in making them. As a young Witch, with only a single cantrip to her name, she had learned that when one made a promise, both sides would hold expectations. That’s why Malina only had three of them currently ongoing.
More than that and she was sure to fail. Of course, she wasn’t talking about small oaths, those that were calls to action and would see a person travel half a world to see its end. Nor were they Dead Oaths, made for revenge and only that as a Witch glared into their murderer’s eyes and shoved both thumbs into them.
These were, a teenaged Malina would later define in a page of her diaries, borders. Limitations that grounded the young woman so that she wouldn’t fly away in a maddening pursuit for the tales of ancient magic and glorious witchcraft her sisters had always told her. Malina grew around them, in spite of them, and thought she was safer due to that.
Stella once said – when Malina barged into the chapel with her chest full and nose high into the air at the realization, ready to share the great wisdom she had stumbled upon with her older sister – that it was a ‘surprisingly rational realization for one so proud’. Malina tried to see the compliment behind the words and left it at that.
Nevertheless, three oaths. Three promises.
The first one, was to the Gods Below themselves. The specifics of her promise were a secret Malina kept even from her sisters, and the consequences of her failure would chase her even after her demise.
The second one was to the Coven of Lost Daughters, personified in the figure of the Coven’s leader and Malina’s eldest sister. Rivia had been surprised by it the day the preteen made her oath, and the idea that she could ever catch the Spider of Steel by surprise had been so astounding to a younger Malina she had taken it as an illusion.
Even her own escapade the night before was something Malina was certain Rivia had considered, even if only for a sparse second. The Puppeteer could see the world through a lens that would destroy Malina’s mind if she ever tried.
It was ludicrous to think that the Coven wanted her to follow in those footsteps.
The third, and most delirious of them, was to herself. And breaking it would incur a debt not even the Nameless Ones would be able to pay.
And now, even knowing of the cost, Malina made another. It was so small compared to the others, but it riddled her with anxiety, leaving her palms sweaty and her lower lip swollen with how much she bit into it.
It had been a mistake – she was certain of it, there was just no reason to make such a commitment. But… Malina remembered the resonance she felt, seeing the loneliness in Yarrien’s eyes, and the young Witch could not deny the appeal at the promised something.
Malina feared using a word to describe it, to name it. What she wanted was a thing that was promised from her ever since she was a child and learned that, if she managed to survive through the trials of time and faith, she would become more than a Witch, more than a Priestess.
A Sorcerer. A Dark Muse, as their forbidden School was called. Someone that could impose their will onto reality at the cost of everything they were – the ultimate sacrifice towards a purpose. Someone that could have true friends.
Malina was wrenched out of her spiraling thoughts with a yelp as she slammed onto someone, falling on her butt. Her sore spots made her hiss in pain, eyes watering in discomfort, and when she looked up to see who had been walking the corridors in the middle of the night, she got up as quickly as possible.
“Oops, sorry about that, Mal. Are you alright, dear?”
Malina nodded mutely at the question, making sure not a sound slipped through her lips. The young Witch watched with sudden trepidation as Lissandra’s forked tongue tasted the air – and whatever she tasted, made the Lamia frown her perfectly manicured eyebrows in worry.
“Oh, you poor thing – so anxious! No, no, this cannot do. Come here, let me massage you for a second – I promise you’ll feel better after it. We can’t have you so tense for your big night!”
The large Lamia slithered with a swiftness that betrayed her size. With a tail double the length of her torso, ending with a rattle that announced her presence everywhere she went, Lissandra was, as always, the most beautiful creature Malina had ever seen, bar none. A heart-shaped face, framed by perfectly wavy dark hair that grew to the small of her back, with a sculpted nose and crimson plump lips perfect to hide her fangs.
Malina saw one of the Siren’s hands settle on her shoulder, lengthy nails painted with the same shade of red as her lips, framed by long digits. The young Witch swallowed as they began to squeeze her taut muscles, perfectly kneading the knots on her back and neck before moving to another. The pain was perfectly mixed with tender relief, and Malina barely had time to think before Lissandra moved to her other shoulder.
“Much better isn’t it? Rivia loves a good massage as well. Gods know that sister of ours could use some time winding down. I tell her everyday, so much scheming will make her gray and wrinkly far before us – well, except for Stella. But she never listens to me. One of these days I’m gonna bait her into a nap, consequences be damned. What do you think?”
“Hm?”
Malina could barely think. The expertise with which Lissandra pressed and rolled, pushed and squeezed her skin turned language into a flitting thing. Maybe, with effort, the young woman would be able to answer with more than a grunt – but that required not paying attention to the deluge of relief the Lamia seemed to imbue her with every touch, and that just wasn’t worth it.
The young Witch took a moment to notice the sound of a flickering tongue, and her mind reeled at the memory of what Lissandra could do. She wrenched herself free, unsure if the sound had been enough to let the Siren peer into her mind. Lissandra let her go without a struggle, though when Malina looked, her orange eyes seemed to know too much.
“You are in pain, Malina. So much to this aching heart. And you’re so young! No, why don’t you lay down for a moment?”
Her smile was kind, inviting, a lull Malina could fall into any other day – but she shook her head.
“I can’t. Stella is calling me – and Yarrien…”
Gods Below, where was that damned boy? He was supposed to follow after her, but Malina hadn’t seen him yet. She tried to look back towards her room, past Lissandra, but the Siren moved to the center of her vision with the practiced ease of someone that did not appreciate being ignored.
The Lamia’s tail struck the ground softly, red and orange scales in swirling patterns as the rattle sent soft music to Malina’s ears. Lissandra extended a hand towards the young Witch, and Malina almost buckled to take it.
“Come now, Mal. Our sisters can wait for a few minutes. And you need the rest – maybe you could even tell me what’s been harming you so much. You know I wouldn’t hesitate to help you.”
Gluttonous Fourth, save me from temptation. Malina prayed to the GodsBelow, and hoped it would be answered. Lissandra knew which strings to pull – centuries of expertise made one a master of their craft – and the young Witch had to step back and turn away before another word was said.
Another second and she would crumble.
“Sorry, Lis – gotta go or Stella will have my blood. Loved to see you, I’ll try and make some time for this. Bye!”
Malina spoke fast enough to not leave any opening for the Lamia to interject. That was the only way to live through her older sister’s charm, especially when Lissandra held all the cards by reading your heart.
Having an older sister that could sense emotions was deeply unfair.
The young woman shook her head and blitzed through the mansion, travelling down the stairs as if a fire had been lit under her. She could hear voices in the living room to her right when she reached the ground floor –her sisters talking with Uncle Revold, no doubt – but there was no time to try and meet the man.
Malina was late. Stella would be so angry. Instead of going right, then, the young woman took a sharp left and ran down a corridor, reaching a set of stairs that spiraled down into the earth.
It took her less than a minute, running as she was, to reach the open cave that harbored the chapel. The stairs ended into bare stone, lit by flickering wisps that glowed a warm yellow light down the cave. Malina could hear the faint sound of water dripping down stalactites, colouring the bare gray of stone and milky white of unmined quartz with a soft cream colour. And at the center of the deep cave, accessible through a path carved through the few remaining stalagmites, was a building.
Short and long, the chapel had grown into the cave and out of the ground. It was unnerving to Malina, even after all these years, to remember the seamless growth of the building when they finally dug into the cave. It had sprouted like a mushroom, growing before her eyes as Faith modeled earth and stone to fully comply with Stella's desire.
From the outside, Malina saw windows of coloured glass depicting a series of events, all of them imported from far beyond the continent they were in. She didn’t spend much time contemplating them. Instead, the soon to be Priestess walked through the path while taking deep breaths, calming her racing heart, and left her shoes behind as she walked barefoot into the chapel.
The inside of their temple had never failed to rob Malina’s breath – and this time was no different. If anything, the admiration felt more like a blow today than any day before, as if the very decorations seemed angry that she took so long to reach down here.
From the outside, the chapel was purposefully simple. The stained glass windows only a small taste of the grandiosity within. Like every choice made during the design of the chapel, it was a warning to anyone that would ever visit these hallowed grounds, that the glory of the Nameless Ones could only be seen and tasted by those that left their preconceptions behind.
As such, there was no way to call for the faithful. No large bells, tolling through the night and every time someone was buried like in the churches to The Gentleman. Nor were there the great lighthouses of the temples to The Bright Lord, manned by Clerics of the Order as they shone their purifying light across the firmament like a second sun. Those that believed in the Gods Below would be here or they wouldn’t.
That Malina had to be called was already a black mark on her record. The Witch knew she’d have to pray for forgiveness, but such was her burden. She’d do better next time.
Nevertheless, while those that didn’t know of the Gods Below feared their power and lingered outside, the faithful could enter the chapel and see what made these deities so appealing to some.
As soon as one stepped through the doors of cold stone, they would be greeted by the warmth of flickering torches, their orange flames making the gold that adorned every nook and crevice shine with a resplendent glow. From the floor to the vaulted ceiling above – painted with the darkest of blacks, like a starless night – the precious metal had been smelted and bent, heated and warped until it decorated every wall with geometric motifs and straight, brutal lines.
A touch from Stella’s personal preference. A homage to her home country. The Flesh Matron, veritable chief of every religious ceremony the Coven did, as per her Class, had been allowed to shift the old designs in accordance to her own preferences, and her choice had been thus.
Squares and triangles, circles within circles and hexagons that nestled into each other like honeycombs. All around Malina, gold had been bent into small islands of mathematical symmetry that, when perceived in its entirety, turned into an archipelago of maddening shapes and forms. It was extravagant, excessive and – Malina had to admit – beautiful.
Her toes curled on the soft moss that covered the floor in its entirety, and the Witch let out a sigh. With renewed vigour, and shoulders that failed to ache in tautness after Lissandra’s massage, Malina took in the rest of the chapel.
It continued downwards, large concentric semi-circles of moss-covered stone upon which benches rested empty of any worshipper. At the lateral end of each of the steps, where they met the golden walls, small altars had been carved for each of the Nameless Ones. A singular God for every step, worshipped in different altars due to their different facets – meaning that some of their titles had to be relinquished to the deeper bowels of the chapel, where rooms had been made for the remaining epithets.
Still, Stella had been clever enough to place the more well-known – if that could ever be said about Gods as little worshipped as their own – epithets in display. Malina walked down, towards the next step, and looked left.
An altar grown from a golden tree, the bounty of a forest above it, drizzling sweet nectar to the floor and calling to the flies that lived in the steps below. Malina bowed at the waist to the altar of The Eighth, Goddess of Forests.
Straightening her spine, Malina couldn’t help but feel wrong at the idea of stepping past it, like she was unbalanced by the act – so she turned right this time, and peered at the other altar designed to the same Goddess.
A golden corpse, torso cut open with a vertical slice so that anyone could see the lungs green with mucus and the pustules growing within, bleeding cursed diseases onto the bare stone beneath. Malina bowed again, and whispered.
“Mor-Botíwa, The Eighth. Praised be the Gardener of Ailments.”
Now she felt better. Malina walked slowly past the other altars, taking her time to greet the Nameless Ones even if she could see Stella sitting on one of the benches far below. This was greater than the Flesh Matron, greater than Malina herself. She could feel the bindings that kept her in place tightening with every greeting, with every call, and Malina squirmed happily as their grasp closed in on her soul.
What a gift it was to feel their touch clearly.
By the time Malina finally stepped past the last step – greeting The First with an excited pair of bows – the Witch felt much better. Sleepy as well, as her body relaxed under their gaze. Still, there was much to do.
The last step led to a pair of the same stone benches, the sides beyond them empty of any other, and carefully angled so they could see what was central to the entire chapel. A large pool, filled with still water that had once been clean, now teeming with small life as moss grew within the cracks of its nine sides and coloured the liquid an unappealing shade of brownish-green.
For a second, even after years of walking these grounds, Malina feared that her voice would disturb the calm waters – but nothing ever did. Instead, the girl bowed once again, shallower this time, to the lone figure sitting at one of the benches.
“Sister.”
Stella cracked one eye open, awake from her own meditations, and looked from the corner of her eyes at Malina. The Flesh Matron still faced forward and she gestured to the vacant space beside her.
“Sit.”
Malina did, without a sound. Stella was… different from her other sisters. Lissandra had once let slip that she was the second youngest of them, losing only to Charlie, but the Flesh Matron didn’t look the part.
She was old. Or, better yet, half of her looked old. While the others had somehow kept their youthfulness through the centuries of their existence, their lifespans highly expanded due to the Sorcery they willed, Stella’s body seemed to have partially revoked it.
On her right side, firm light-brown skin – a shade paler than Lissandra’s – had given way to wrinkles and liver spots. A blazing amber eye grew dull and half-hidden by an uncooperative eyelid. Beneath the veil she still wore, covering her hair, Malina knew her scalp would be cleanly divided into luscious dark curls and wispy strands of white and brittle hair.
It was horrific in some primal way, and even Malina only grew accustomed to the sight after years of seeing each other constantly. It was, also, one of the reasons why Stella rarely left the chapel – and one of the greatest mysteries of the Coven. No one had explained the reason why the Flesh Matron looked like that to a younger Malina, and in her teenage years the Witch had politely chosen not to inquire as hard.
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There was more to Stella than her appearance. For one, her restraint in keeping herself within the temple most of the time had been a self-imposed necessity – but it was not out of self-pity or embarrassment that the Flesh Matron had made that decision, only the cold certainty that her appearance would render too many questions that she was unwilling to answer.
If anything, her self-imposed exile into the bowels of the earth had made her even more fiercely proud. Stella was a queen in her temple, second only to the Gods Below themselves. A truth usually reflected by her attire. Or lack thereof.
She was, after all, naked.
Oh, Stella wore her veil still, a light blue cloth from which small golden charms hung from the edges, covering her remaining hair and pinned across her shoulder. It was another homage to the culture and kingdom she hailed from – but the Flesh Matron had given it a twist of her own and refused to wear anything that would hide her appearance any further, at least when within the chapel.
So it was beside sagging skin and breast that Malina sat, keeping her eyes facing forward. Not out of embarrassment – one grew used to such peculiarities after all, and Malina had never met a version of Stella that was anything but filled with pride at her body – but out of slight fear for her sister.
And she was right to be concerned.
“You are late, Malina.”
“I know, sister. I apologize.”
The Flesh Matron’s voice was raspy, deepened by centuries of smoking expensive cigars and breathing in the smoke of fleshcrafted sticks of incense.
Stella raised a white eyebrow at her, and the young Witch noticed the eyelashes had fallen off in her aged half. Then Malina remembered she was dangerously close to meeting the woman’s eyes and glued her own to the ground.
“To me? You owe me nothing, child. It is to the Pantheon that you should apologize for your failure to attend when the proper time came.”
The young woman knew better than to argue. Keeping her head down chafed her very soul, but it was something of a dull pain after how thoroughly Stella had destroyed any of Malina’s attempts of defiance.
Plus, the Nameless Ones were much more important than something as flimsy as pride.
“How should I repent, Priestess?”
It was an old tune that the two of them were dancing to. Malina made a mistake, Stella gave out a punishment – on good days, one of her other sisters would interfere, claiming that praying for a day was too much for a child. On bad ones, she’d be on her knees until they bled, her prayers almost delirious, but oh so truthful.
With fists tightly closed on her robes, Malina waited for the verdict – but a discordant noise shattered the old song, a misstep of the dancers as what was customary balked, making her raise her head. Stella sighed.
“Not today. You lack the conviction to go through the night while worried about this. Consider yourself absolved from this mistake – but don’t let it happen again. Understood, young lady?”
“C-crystal clear, Priestess.”
“Good.”
The Witch’s hands managed to close even tighter around the cloth of her robes. Absolution? That’s not something the Coven did – there could be no action without consequences, it would be a violation of The Third’s domain to claim it so.
…Unless it was a mercy. Malina heard the song spiral away entirely, disharmony fading into the background, and felt cold sweat gather in her back. For Stella to rescind punishment burned every single one of the Witch’s metaphorical wards, leaving her bare to the awful possibility that she was unprepared.
Malina swallowed the lump in her throat with effort as silence reigned between the two for a minute, her clothes glued to her skin.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
Stella rolled her eyes.
“Our Gods. Our faith. When I was younger I wondered why anyone would hate them at all.”
How long ago was that? Half a millenia? Malina had never learned how old her sisters were, not exactly. She knew they hailed from kinder times, before the War maybe, and had spent far too long hidden away, living between the cracks as other powers expanded into the vacancy they had left.
“Was that… during the War?”
“Hm. Was it? Maybe. There were plenty of fools that believed they knew better during that whole hellstorm. Even some of us tried to meet them halfway. Pathetic.”
Malina blinked at that new morsel of information. Knowledge about what happened during the War was… difficult to come by, and the Coven had always been cagey about it.
“What does that mean? Were they… traitors?”
Stella seemed to chew on the word, eyes lost as she glared deep into the pool in front of them. The water remained still.
“Traitors? Maybe some. Foolish, for certain. They thought they could forsake part of the Gods Below, worship only the pieces that were… more appealing. Somehow, they thought our worship shaped them. Bah, as if.”
“What happened to them?”
Malina asked, without thinking – and the look in Stella’s eyes, the deep uncaring truth behind them, sharpened to a point by centuries, made her freeze in place.
“They died, like all the others. Our enemies sought no compromises, only erasure.”
The Order of Heatless Light. Malina had grown up on stories of them. Witch Hunters and Crusaders, Templars and Priests of the Bright Lord. They were what had kept them moving between cities, those willing to commit such atrocities most of their allied Schools and other powers had balked at the brutality even during the War.
The Order… and many others. The list of enemies of the Gods Below – and of the Dark Muses by extension – was long, bloody and ancient. Malina had carved the name of those she knew of deep into her bones.
“We will prevail. You told me once, that our Gods are ones of necessity. There will always be a next time for them… right?”
Stella smiled, a short rising of the lips, and without an ounce of joy behind them. Just pure wryness.
“Maybe. The consequences of waiting, though, that’s what I dread. Already they struggle, weakened, ghouls devouring bits and pieces all around. Sometimes, when I pray, the Sixth shows me glimpses of it all. Our Gods are dying, Malina. Have no doubt.”
And what was she to say to that? It had always been something in the background of her faith – an idea that she was confronted with everytime Malina heard of the Unresting, the sandstorms in Gjena, the new gates to The Hive and a hundred other consequences of domains running wild – but it had never been said so callously. So clearly.
It was difficult to breathe. Malina tried not to wheeze every time she drew breath, but it felt impossible with her heart threatening to pump out of her chest. When Stella spoke again it was softly, holding onto the young Witch’s hand, and looking deep into her eyes.
“That’s why we left you this choice. It was a topic of great debate, you know? How could we pass onto a child what we could not do? It felt too cruel, too soon – but necessity is the mother of all risks. In the end, we gamble, and hope you can forgive us.”
Oh. The world was spinning now. Malina saw vulnerability, kindness, emotions that should not be, when she gazed into Stella’s eyes. A part of her, still holding onto the reins of rationality, whispered that that is why the Flesh Matron was the one to tell Malina all of that.
Because she would take it seriously. And by the Gods, Malina did.
“I will do it. I swore it. There’s no one else but me.”
Stella smiled, and the Witch trembled harder.
“That… won’t be enough. When you regret it all, that won’t be enough. Because you will, Malina. We all did, eventually.”
The Priestess licked her lips, the aged half cracked and dry and making her wince when her tongue touched it. Malina stopped breathing all together. It was–
Like a brawler getting ready to punch you, setting their stance.
“And there are others. There will always be others. Other young Witches, other faithful, others that will stumble upon something left by them and be brave enough to peer inside. Your reasoning is weak. Tell me, child, why should we let you suffer?”
Others? Malina paled at the realization. She was their sister, their apprentice, the little fledgling that through oath and effort had learned what it was to be a Witch. To think that there would be others…
Wasn’t a mistake. Oh. That was the truth, wasn’t it? The Coven had taken sixteen years raising Malina, teaching her, priming her to the day she’d make the decision – but how long was that to someone that has lived for centuries?
Just a passing moment. A fancy? No, not that. Malina shook her head of the sour thought, trying to keep herself thinking. Stella had talked about a choice, about giving her the opportunity to not follow in their footsteps.
Then she warned her of the cost. It would break her – and part of Malina wanted to protest, claiming that she wouldn’t fold in her duty to the Nameless Ones. The Witch knew too much, however.
And when it broke her, eventually, the self-imposed duty would feel less like an honor and more like a burden. Malina knew herself, and because of that, she was aware that her penchant for vengeance would make her resentful towards her sisters, towards her Gods.
What an idea. Malina kept on trembling.
“That – I can handle it. I… I know I can.”
Stella patted her trembling fists. Who was she even talking to?
It sounded like an oath to Malina’s ears, or dangerously close to being one, but an oath had to be accepted – and the Flesh Matron saw no reason to do so.
“For some time, I believe you will. You are petulant, strong. If nothing else, spite will make you rise again. But then… it will fade – and you’ll be left empty, unmoving, uncertain. Useless and broken. Maybe in a few years, a few centuries. Maybe the Initiation itself will prove to be too much for you, Malina. You will break, and the certainty of the rise will not be enough to see you on your feet. Try again.”
Again. The Witch wanted to run. The very walls seemed to be paying attention to what was being said, listening to the words Malina spewed out. This was a holy place, and the young woman struggled to breathe as the grasp of her Gods tightened around her, helping her squeeze out something that might be worthy of Stella’s acceptance.
But they were not kind when doing so. It was painful, in some ethereal way, forcing her to confront the bareness of the truth.
Stella waited patiently, and Malina took a deep breath, then another. She had to think properly, be clever like the Witch knew she could be. This was the moment to defend herself from the doubt of the Coven, to prove herself ready.
Spite? Malina had to agree with Stella. She would use it to see this to the end. And the young woman knew an answer that would please them all. With a deep breath, she spoke.
“I want to do this, Sister. It’s more than knowing that I can. I believe in them, truly, and they will be with me through it all. Let me be the one to show the world their glory – I… I can be that blade if you want me to be.”
Oh, the weakness of it. Malina really thought she’d be able to say it – to promise it – but her voice caught, as if an accusatory finger had been lodged into her throat. Was she to be the blade of the Gods Below? How, when she balked at the thought of killing her own enemies, claiming it a debt beyond paying?
Stella rolled her eyes, and Malina began to fear the failure.
“We have no place for a zealot, child. Not anymore. Past is the time when those sworn to The Third would cut down our enemies like livestock, showing the world what the consequences were. What is a single blade to do against the hundreds of shields of our enemies? The thousands?”
Then she approached, and it was like an aged fist to the mouth, looking forwards to making your teeth cave in. Stella whispered into Malina’s ear with half-a-smile, as if not wanting the walls to hear this.
“And putting all of your faith in them is a bad move. Always has been. Our Gods fail, and it is that truth that shapes our kind. We are to be their voice, their hands in the material, and that requires faith enough in ourselves to argue against bad orders. To doubt, respectfully, at times. Otherwise we would break beyond repair if they ever were to die.”
That sent Malina to the ground, edging away from the Flesh Matron’s words. Stella looked smug when the Witch found herself in control enough to look up, and the wizened eyes and choking grip on her soul made Malina burn.
“They can’t die. They won’t. The light of the Bright Lord cannot harm them enough to do so.”
The Witch spoke fervently, filled with righteous wrath, and expected to meet the Priestess’s ire, spite or indignation. But this brawl of the two had always followed Stella’s rhythm, and the next kick was to the gut, leaving her struggling for air.
For it was pity that Malina saw. In those ancient amber eyes, in both withered and youthful halves.
“The Bright Father? Oh, not by himself. Maybe not even with another of his allies. But you forget that we saw it happen once, Malina. We watched as Gods fell from the sky, their bodies breaking and flaming as they struggled against the most primordial of truths. We were there when the first of the Remnants was lodged into the earth, wild powers corrupting people and places alike.”
Her eyes grew distant once more, seeing things that Malina could not describe and dreaded ever witnessing.
“I was there when the Twins fell. We were there when The Ground Beneath was put to rest forever more, and now the stones no longer sing back. Our School has killed lesser Gods, and has helped in the demise of great ones… So, they can die. Never forget that.”
Stella’s voice was sharp, her fingers tight against Malina’s own, and the young Witch could only swallow at the gravity of what was said. The Flesh Matron relaxed after a second.
“Continue, child.”
The Witch squirmed uncomfortably. Stella wasn’t even looking at her, staring longingly at the pool of still water, lost in thought. Malina tried to do the same – but the pressure from the chapel was making her head spin, spite no longer being able to keep her moving after the punch that the Priestess had thrown her.
Raising her head, Malina tried to calm herself once again – not everything was lost, not yet. Stella said she had another chance, and the girl was certain it was no joke from the Coven in that she could remake her answers infinitely. There’d come a time when Malina would fail, unless she found an answer suitable for this debacle.
This could be her last chance. Her eyes roamed the opposite wall they were sitting at, the chapel suddenly ending past the pool with a tall wall covered in golden geometry and dizzying arrays. At the foot of the wall, on each side of the pool, stone doors marked the entrances to the twisting entrails of the temple.
On one side, the one which Malina had been allowed to roam, were the remaining altars and dedicated rooms to their Gods. It was within those corridors, lost in prayer and ritual, that Malina and Yarrien would spend their nights during their Initiation.
If she managed to find an answer.
The other door was a bit of an open secret. The Witch had never been allowed within, not with her ‘curious predisposition and disregard for warnings’ according to Stella – but she knew that beyond it lay the Flesh Matron’s workshop. A place where she could exercise her Sorcery and Class.
Malina lowered her head again, taking the sweet respite to fully calm herself down. The weight of the situation was still uncomfortable, making her clothes stick to her skin, but at least she could organize her ideas – and the first one to spring to mind almost made her laugh.
Appeal for pity. Oh, Stella would have no time to throw Malina out of the chapel because the young woman would do it herself. The Gods Below and pity were not things that combined. They were of necessity and responsibility, of conquering power instead of being gifted it.
They were painfully true to themselves. Was that the answer? Malina pondered the possibility, and saw more virtue than vice in it.
But what was true to her? The young Witch was no philosopher, but she had been taught to engage in difficult questions by the Coven. Part of finding a proper Wayholder, after all, was confronting one’s own Meanings against those other people gave to the same objects, and that required flexibility.
So… what would make her rise again? After she broke and failed, after her faith ran dry, after… after the Gods died – what would make her defy the odds to try again?
Malina considered, truly. Would it be vengeance? She shook her head. Like spite, the Witch knew that seeking revenge would only make her rise once more – and what she needed was a certainty that would make her do it again and again.
Madness? Many would claim the Coven was entirely mad, and those that didn’t see the Gods Below as divine wouldn’t hesitate to point fingers at her – but Malina was no lunatic. She pondered, considered, and enjoyed her rationality. Succumbing to madness would be giving too much of herself away, and she was against that in its entirety.
She was selfish in the end. Yarrien had called her greedy, and that wasn’t that far – Malina wanted things, great accomplishments. She craved magic, thirsted for information, longed for…
Ah. That was it wasn’t it? Something that she could see herself doing. An unborn idea that clicked within her, and made Malina smile to herself. Who was it that she admired the most? That she swore an oath to as a child, desiring for a stable place under her aegis?
Rivia, once upon a time, had been called the Spider of Steel, her eldest sister gaining the moniker due to her brutality when defending what was hers. Malina remembered Yarrien’s gaze, that loneliness that echoed with her own. She saw her Sisters, condemned to hide and run away, living like moles beneath the earth.
And knew what she’d aspire to do, even if she failed.
The Gods ceased wringing her dry. It felt right. It was what she had longed for, after her friends betrayed her. It was what Malina imagined whenever news of the Inquisition and their Witch Pyres reached her ears. It was what she saw in the Coven’s gaze, whenever they spoke of someone lost to the War.
“I want to make something for us, Sister. I want… I want to be surrounded by people that will protect each other against those that would cause us harm. No more will we run, no more will we hide from our enemies. I see it now, a place where we can proudly bear our flag, where we can pray and chant and give away entirely.”
Malina spoke quickly then, believing. Twilight eyes saw the still water in front of them and imagined how glorious it all could be.
Then, Malina admitted, a final wish, made selfishly – but the moment required that words be said. The Gods Below would hear her, alongside Stella.
“I don’t want to be lonely ever again.”
A soothing touch replaced the squeezing grasp of the Gods. To her senses, mortal and limited, it was like someone rubbing her back with too many fingers and too few hands, kneading a tension that Lyssandra’s expertise had been unable to reach. Malina whimpered under their touch, the proud attention she felt from the walls – and waited for an answer from the Flesh Matron of the temple.
–Then waited some more. The Witch turned towards Stella, frowning as the Gods ceased their attention, and found the woman lost in thought. Malina pulled her hand from Stella’s own, and dared to ask.
“Was that enough?”
The Flesh Matron tilted her head to the side, still looking forward.
“A dream is a powerful thing. Many have leaned on them to conquer what they wanted, but The Fifth tells us of how the weakness to follow them can turn a dream into a nightmare. The Gods are pleased with your answer, but they can be silly at times. I’m not.”
She turned towards the Witch then, amber eyes blazing, and used a wrinkly hand to raise Malina’s chin until their eyes met. When she spoke, it was without kindness, without any inflection.
“In the olden days, back when we were many, our elders would refuse your answer. A hundred days in prayer, forging through this sudden dream of yours, might have been enough to make them rethink their decision. Circumstances dictate that we change, however. A new age requires new thresholds – and ours is an era of waning powers.”
Stella got to her feet then, naked body swaying as she leaned harder on her younger half. The Flesh Matron used nothing to help her walk, but her gait was slow and careful. Malina remained there, dizzy with the reprobation, and could barely hear what was said when Stella reached the door to the other altars.
“Come, Malina. And pray that you survive. We won’t be kind.”