The Guilt Ridden Priestess Saves the Orcs and Annihilates the Heroes
“Kill me,” in various ways her, throat clogging with snot, blood and tears these are the words Mourning Zenith speaks.
“The Goddess welcomes all races under her light, it is for our salvation as much as theirs,” Mourning Zenith’s voice presses against the cold stares of the court, “If you would only open your mind to the meaning of her scriptures!” Silence falls onto the white and gold of the court's marbled flooring. The spring wind roaring outside.
Judge found it tragic that such a hopeful maiden could flounder on such elementary doctrine. True she wasn’t as well endowed or plump as is his taste but it hurt him deeply. The torch light burning her ash white hair formed a mirror image of the Goddess herself.
To fail on such a childish fantasy, a tragedy.
“It is humans who serve the Goddess, it is mankind who baths in her light,” the judge says, reminding her of the most fundamental pieces of the Goddess's will as he has many times before,“ Recant,” He repeats once again.
“ The Goddess protects all things, she is wrath to those that love blood shed, she is a protector of all who are weak,” she says, her eyes brighter than the flames around her.
“Then so be it, three years of atonement,” The gravel claps along with the court. The judge tilts his head trying to imagine the look of anguish on her face as the teeth of the whip till up her skin.
Not that he’d have long to wait.
Muscles and tendons pull against bone. Screams gargling from Mourning’s throat, long dry heaves follow, the remnants of her stomach stagnating beneath the rack. Judge admires that her form is a bit more developed without clothes hiding her porcelain skin.
Sliding his finger down her neck he plucks at a stand of muscle smiling as it sparks another round of heaving. “Recant,” his voice is low and unamused, “ You do not follow the goddess, she is dead to you, revoke her,'' There where some verses that brought division among the most faithful men but to revoke such fundamental teachings and expand the Goddess's love to orcs ,goblins,and the revolting succubi. To sully the Goddesses’s purity, her motherhood with their ilk. He could not bear it.
Mourning can only gargle in reply, “ n… n .. egher.”
Judge waves his hand letting the monks continue their work, “What a waste, “ he mutters as the heaving starts anew.
Again and again the child would dance around her mother, the tart smell of bread hanging in the air “Everyone? She really means everyone?” She asks again and again.
“Yes Mourn, the Goddess shines her light on all. From the planes to the hills, darkest carven, and brightest peak, her light touches all.” Her mother repeats these words so warmly and so tenderly. Sweet milk to a suckling soul.
“There are always exceptions, … No no, not like that.” These words would crush Mourning’s heart only to drive her further and further in search of answers.
The Goddess blesses even the succubi with children. The orcs with the fruits of nature and, if the goblins were not weak than what was? Why did her mother only sigh and shake her head?
Time lost its meaning. Her throat is stained by the acid wash of her stomach, her arms limp and colored by bruises.. Mourning no longer thinks. She feels. She feels the uselessness of everything. The Goddess is not here. Her mother is not here. Mourning is alone.
In that terrible limbo, she whispers it. “ Igh, Igh,” the torturer leans beside her, “ I reggoke heer,” Convulsing in tears and sickening dread the moment it parts her lips. Tears blot out her eyes. Her stomach burning hotter than the wounds on her back, “Shegh isgh deahd.”
“Killgh meh,” in various ways her eyes filling with tears, throat clogging with snot and blood these are the words she speaks, “ Pelase, “ she begs as the monks stich her wounds, pressing a white brand into her torn flesh. She pleads with them again and again fat popping beneath the molten brand.
The Goddess's gift of light shall not extinguish itself. Words to a scripture Mourning never pondered.
“Nogh,” the husk of Mourning would cry, Pulling a thread of hair till its minute pain would bring her away from those wishes. Each strand leaving less of her behind.
Judge forgot about the subtle but supple body of Mourning. There were other maidens whose swaying hips pleased his eyes. He was thinking fondly of his next evening activities as Mourning is dragged to the Orkish forest.
The thing that collapses into the thicket would be unrecognizable to Judge. Her milky skin rotting with bruises, her back turning purple and black. Her eyes gaunt, empty of thought and life.
“How about you save the orcs the trouble,” the monk jeers, throwing a knife at her feet, “ and if your harlot hide tries to stumble back, well, I’m sure the goddess will forgive us,” A lecherous smile rounds the monk's face.
Like a child so often beat its more animal than man she backs away legs giving way with each step. Barely managing to hold the knife in her hand. The bone handle, the smoothness of it, the things standing like humans, all of it incomprehensible to her.
Leaving a scarlet trail through the sawtooth bushes and hooked branches she flees. Night came. The crashing of animals echo all around her. Sticks and leaves falling through the canopy. As her feet draw to a stop her heart begins to beat with clarity. Her betrayal haunting her. A harlot, yes she is that and so much worse, a heretic cast out from the goddess’s light. So easily she betrayed the love of her life. The one she would fervently embrace as she taught the children. Why? Why did Mourning feel so betrayed? Repeating this over and over again Mourn pulls apart the remnants of her mind as exhaustion overtakes her.
The Goddess's light dances with the nymphs of the forest, leaving their golden stain on the leaves. A fluttering grew in Mourn’s heart, purpose driving her swollen joints forward. Chasing the orbs of light as her vision blurs. The Goddess's presence is so close she can feel it unwinding the essence of her mind. Joy and hope filling her exhausted lungs. The kind tree’s give her rest as she leans against their cool bark. She pushes on, her feet teetering beneath her. The light fading in the distance. Speck by speck, her hope begins to whither, then rot, and vanish away with the light.
Harlot, traitor, betrayer. The thoughts beat down on her. Rain drops cracking against the ground, the mud swallowing them into the nothingness of the earth.It began to swallow Mourning surrounding her legs, tying them to the ground. She sits their rain crashing against her. Frozen in place she finds it. It is darker than anything she knew of before. She could feel its ooze creeping into her, settling in the pits of her heart. Thirst is on its way, hunger following after it. Soon, soon she can die.
Her second day came to an end
The Goddess's light surrounds Mourn as she knells joining a tree in prayer. Unlike the other priestesses it would not say its half of the liturgy so she read for both of them. Reciting those comforting words, smiling as she dreams of the children dancing around her one last time.
“****”
Mourning’s blood shot eyes flash to a strange speech.
Little demons are creeping towards her ten or a hundred she can't grasp it.
“*****” the things bark out, “****”
They felt so similar, something so close. But they were demons. The lethargic beat of her heart grew stronger, strength returning to her withering limbs. Demons, what was she supposed to do with demons? She felt through her mind pulling one strand of yarn then the next. I can’t recall. I .. I… Like her fingers painstakingly grasping at strands of hair, it slips through.
But yes, yes, it is a miracle. A gift from the Goddess.
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To be spared of such guilt and suffering the Goddess still loves me! Such a kind miracle! . She creeps forward approaching a demon
“ There there little demon could you please, yes you, cute little you, please put out your hand, now.” wrapping her fingers along the blade she pushes the hilt into its short but chubby fingers “Know Ple,” before she can continue a soft thud creeps into her ears and then around her skull.
The child orc looks on in shock. The white haired human falls to the ground, her sickly arms lying across the forest. His friend's mouth agape, a rusty blade falling from his hand.
Meaty mushroom stew, the tart aroma of fresh bread. Summer days dancing under sungold clouds. Mourning is aware of eating, warm voices and the familiar nonsensical chattering of children. Her fingers once so cold feel hot as very large hands stretch them, rubbing the minty warmth of medicine oil across her fingers and onto her shoulders.Her skin prickles as sweat and dry blood puddle beneath her.
“Thank you, thank you,” she repeats knowing not to whom she speaks, just that she is thankful. Time passes, weeks, perhaps months. First her limbs feel alive, blood warming the skin, bruises clearing. She begins to make sense of words, the common tongue she’s spoken her whole life understandable once again.The yarn of her mind begins to roll back into place.
An orc woman hovers over Mourning, fingers almost as big as Mourning’s palm braiding her hair, “ You're beautiful,” she mutters.
A bulking laugh blows across the tent, “So you can see me Little Tree?” Morga smiles, the sapling’s dull eyes staring back into the green orc’s amber eyes.
The human nods, flinching. The muscles of her neck pulling against the brackish scars on her back. “You’ve been through a lot, Little Tree,” the orc woman says, her brow knitting together.
It amazes Mourning that such a soft voice could come from such a muscular body, “Have I, no I haven't,” Mourning says smiling faintly as she directs her voice to the empty air,“not at all, yes, the trees were so kind to me.” Her scars began to twist and pull but…It felt wrong to upset such a beautiful creature.
Morga sights, “Your Goddess must have high hopes for you,” she says shaking her head, “Keeping you alive through all this.”
“Goddess,” why did this make her stomach churn. She felt sic, her pale skin clammy in the heat of the tent.
“Rest sapling,” Morga says pulling up a blanket, “You’ll feel better soon enough.”
The child that came to the Elders clan in the full moon of spring sat before him, smoke from his pipe lounging between them. Her hair was braided by Morga who patiently oiled and combed it to mirror the white of the clouds. Her eyes spoke volume to the previous state of her body, torn down and sinking beneath a miasma of suffering. Her bones no longer show through her skin, though, her movements betray their pain.
It is her mind that troubles him most. She no longer babbles happily of trees and forest nymphs, no. A coldness came on her. She spokeless, her eyes dead, eating only a fraction of her meals.
He let out a mournful sigh. Brought on by the hand over fist beliefs of the humans, he surmises. Orcs, on the large, are trees swaying in the harsh fall winds. Anchored but not brittle. Too accepting of evil and too kind for their own good.
“Do you wish to live with us?” he asks as smoke disperses between them. The girl's eyes move briefly from the dirt floor to meet his eyes. She nods, “ Living things must work, they must strive against time,” he says, knocking the ash from his pipe, “What will you do?”
The orc elder is scrawny by Morns standards, almost starved in appearance. His jowls did not shake when he spoke, he reminds her more of an uncle than an elder, “ I can cook," she says, casting her eyes to the ground,“I can mend clothes, my mother taught me that much.”
The smoke settles between them, the elder methodically rubbing dried leaves into his pipe.
He blows a fresh perfume of smoke, woody and smelling of spice, “What did you do there?” Elder says gesturing to the north, to the walls of the human city. The smoke dissipates before she answers.
“ A…a…a temple priestess,” she replies the words sticking to her throat, the elder nods.
“And what did you do?” he asks again the weight of the question sinking into Morns stomach, “What were your duties?”
“ I…I,” before she could answer, sweat began to run across her body. She began trembling like a child before a crying fit.
“Inhale,” he says passing her the pipe, “ It sharpens the senses and poisons the lungs,” he says, showing his tusks in a smile. Quivering she takes in the pipe coughing as she passes it back, “ keep it, but do continue Little Tree”
A strange and sudden energy came over Mourn. Her mind aligns itself for a moment, “ I…. I offered prayer to,” a dry heave passes through the girl, her pale skin taking the form of a dead tree, sweat glaring back at the campfire between them, “To the Goddess of Light,” she finishes
“ A fine task, “ Elder says gingerly lifting the pipe to her lips, “Through the mouth, and out the nose,” the girl looks like a frightened dragon for a moment. It almost took the sour taste from his mouth, “You had other tasks I assume.”
“Yes, yes I did,” her shaking subsides for a moment and a flush of color comes to her cheeks. “ I taught the Goddesses teaching, kindness, love, and wrath .”
For a breath moment the elder caught a glimpse of Mourning. Eyes full of a mother’s care, a warmth that scolds and coddles. He felt his heart break as her eyes fall back to the ground, the cold reclaiming its throne.
“ I have two duties for you,” the Elder says retrieving his pipe, “One, you will eat what is given to you,” he says lifting her face to meet his, “ And you will teach our children of your Goddess. That is all.” In this moment Elder can make out, fear, loathing, and a morsel of hope passing through her eyes.
“ Her light comes down and spreads all across the ground,” the orc boy Makl says, spreading his arms as far as they can reach, “Right?” he asks knowing full well the answer.
“Very good, did you memorize the new scripture?” Little Tree asks, well her name is Mourning she told the children that but Makl found it too disheartening of a name.
“I did!” The small orks clears his throat jostling his cheeks in preparation, “The Goddess shines her light on all from the plans to the hills, darkest carven, and ...the brightest peaks…her light touches all.” he finishes struggling over the last few words.
“Very good,” Little Tree replies, rustling the small cabbage patch of hair that he has.
Little tree was happiest when she was with them. Makl didn’t know the word but she looked not sad but hurt when she wasn’t teaching. But it wasn’t a normal hurt. The hurt that rests in your belly after lying to the den mother. That kind of hurt.
Makl shifts around the straw of his bedding, a trimmed feather in one hand an ink well beside him. The parchment haunts him. What can he say, what should he say? The right words. The perfect words. He could never find them, “ I hope you smile more?” he says, questioning himself as he scribbles it out. No. That isn’t it. Little Tree smiles a lot… sometimes at least.
The fall winds kept bringing her sickness and he’d never seen someone throw up their food so much. He worries over all this, unaware of the words his hand is writing out.
The pitch black tent felt safe to Mourn. Safe enough to hover the blade across her skin. It hadn’t touched her skin for some time but she wants it to pierce her. To bring her to a rest, to stop the onslaught of pain that came every night. She could tend to the children and smile but the moment she left, to eat, to sleep, to even wake up.. She felt pain. There is no reason for her to be here. Why eat? As often as she forces food down it comes back up. She fell sick again and again each time hoping the aching that spread from her back to her bones would seize her. The plump flesh she gained in her blissful times are fading. She couldn't live with this pain of her betrayal. No amount of physical pain could make things right. Mourn would soon pass; she knew it, she felt it. The Goddess has no need of traitors.
The Elder sits across from Mourning, a company of Heroes were approaching from the city. A small but deadly group of adventurers forged by greed and devotion.They were more than enough to cull his village from the earth. In his prime he could entertain the idea of resisting but now he only thinks of fleeing.
The elder taps his finger on the map. “That’s the plan,” he says looking up to Mourn.
“We can try,” she replies. Smoking her own pipe, “I’m sure they’ll kill us before we can open our lips,” she says, half smiling.
The two of them knew the most of humans. The best ways to bargain with them and they were the most unable to flee. It was comical how logical this plan was.
“We might succeed,” he says, smoking his own pipe, “Like a dying rat we must try.”
This earns a chuckle from Morn.The plan is to meet the hero a ways off from the village. Dissuade them and likely die trying. They would return with good news to the orcs in hiding or they would not. The Orcs would continue in peace or be forced to flee further south. A journey neither Mourn or Elder held much hope of surviving.
The time of her death is coming quickly. Mourn trembles now but what else is there to do. The perfect chance at redemption came to her. Even the Goddess can’t be angry with her. To die for the sake of others is a better death than she hoped for. Even if the guilt in her stomach kept building on itself, it wouldn't be long now. Before the guilt consumes her, she would find a noble death.
“Here ,” Elder said, passing her a letter, “ A gift from your adoring student.”
Mourning hesitates , “ No point in reading it now, “ she says, forcing a smile. She unfolds it. Before the smell of hay reaches her nose. Before the clapping of steel boots reach her ears. She freezes.
Sadness, fear, loathing. Elder has seen these emotions reflecting back in Mourn's eyes. But not now.
. Her fingers crush the edges of the letter. Tears splattering the parchment. It couldn't be but a handful of words.
Words that Makl could only describe as feeling, “Just right.”
She stood shaking, laughing, tears pouring from her eyes.
Purpose. No this was more than that.There was only one word Elder knew that describes the maddening look in her eyes.
“Looks like a harlot and a fucking orc, I’m eating good tonight!” A hero yells charging down from a hill just in front of the duo.
Devotion. Wholehearted devotion, a purpose that sank deep within the soul. This is what Elder saw. Looking down amongst the sloppy and crossed out words a single line with inhuman perfection to its strokes stood out, a golden glow glistening along its letters.
“The Goddess protects all things, she is wrath to those that love blood shed, she is a protector of all who are weak. She wants me.” Mourning’s whisper is barely audible above the crushing stride of the hero.
A fire burns deep in her soul, the guilt in her belly turning into a furnace of faith and conviction.
“Goddess, please, grant us your light,” she whispers a surge of warmth radiating from her scars. The Goddesses' hands pushing through her.
A light brighter than the sun covers the hero. Embers fall from burning trees. The hilltop is gone. The forest behind it is gone leaving blackened husks.
Elder begins to quake. Mourn's laughter rang out. A child unable to stop its own voice.
“She wants me,” Mourn smiles,“She still loves me,” Mourn lifts her eyes to the heavens, tears of joy and embers of wrath falling all around her.