Valkyrie

Stories had a special power.

They opened doors to worlds that were distant and different, but also so very close and familiar. The values they conveyed were universal and profound; they broke the barriers of time and space in search of common ground between those who wrote and those who experienced them.

The writers wrote to prove that their existence had not been unique or unrepeatable, but to seek out, even unconsciously, those who saw the world with the same eyes with which they viewed it. And the readers read to find comfort, to break down the barriers of the years and discover that the doubts and fears, courage and emotions they felt had been shared by others who came before them, and would continue to be rediscovered by those who would come later.

A mosaic that was enriched each time with a new piece, a new figure, a new interpretation; never finished and yet never incomplete.

Antilene was just a child, aware that she still had a lot to learn. Yet, she could grasp such a concept.

"Is this...?"

But when the stories became real, when what you had imagined all your short life became apparent before your eyes... it was difficult to match what your mind had fantasized with what reality placed before you.

Disappointment?

Perhaps that would have been the most common emotion to feel and, although bitter, was understandable.

Words could describe in long and minute detail the splendor and power of the Gods, poetry could bring out the purest and deepest feelings of the soul and the sensation that came from knowing that, after all, no one was really alone. That someone, from above, was listening and hearing your prayers.

Antilene had found comfort in those words. When the darkness of her room seemed to encompass everything, only the dim flame of a candle and those words read and reread by the light of a faint hearth nourished hopes and dreams of something different. Something more beautiful, perhaps.

But no matter how hard one tried... no matter how much the intertwining of aspirations and awe had painted the fabulous ideal of a greatness beyond earthly filth... everything paled before the truth.

"Yes... It is the Armour of the Wind." Rufus' voice was solemn. It always was. Laden with that melancholy that not even death could silence. "Go ahead. Try it on."

Antilene hesitated.

The Armor of the Wind shone more than a hundred thousand stars, and the glow belonged to the regalia of an ineffability that humans could not really observe, only brush by, with shifty eyes, blessing those quick glances that had been granted, enrapturing that absolute so perfect it brought tears.

"I don't know if…"

Antilene had read the stories. She had read of how the breath of the Primordial Dragon had engulfed that sacred protection.

'But how can one compare the fiery breath of a dragon with the sacred flames of the forge of the Gods? The fire of creation itself had molded the body and weapons of the Ones above all. In their presence, the old lords of the world finally understood what it meant to be small. What it meant… to live in fear.'

That was the sentence that foreshadowed the climax of the tale, the moment when Nekole, God of the Wind, had walked into that fiery inferno, heedless of everything, with his sole mission of salvation giving him the strength to protect his people, his children.

She had seen reproduced in one of her illustrated books the tapestry that adorned one of the walls of the Cathedral of the Wind, with the deity protected by that same enchanted armor, astride a pegasus as ethereal as the air, the divine halo that cloaked him and the blade of pure enchanted light that ripped through the monster's long neck.

One day, Antilene of that was certain, she would have beheld the original and, until then, there was in her certain belief that nothing more bewitching would be placed before her gaze.

How wrong she was…

At that very moment, Antilene had realized how great her sin had been. How foolish she had been to believe, even for a moment, that part of that story had been an exaggeration, a rush of boundless celebration, dictated by too much faith and love.

Immaculate was the Armour of the Wind. And signs of the endless battles, the infinite dangers into which the God of Heaven had thrown himself to allow the Theocracy to grow and prosper were absent.

The fangs of the ancestral beasts, the beings who had moved mountains and skies to shape the world, had not etched their ferocity into the armor.

The claws had not affected the firmness and luster of that unknown metal.

And the fire, that all-consuming heat, had been extinguished by the wind.

If crimson blood had ever smeared that white, it had not been the blood of a God.

Gods, after all, did not bleed.

"What troubles you, my dear child?"

"I am not ready, master. I am not worthy." Antilene Heran Fouche had been blessed with the blood.

Blood of the Gods.

But it was not enough. It would never be enough.

Her lips had been split, her bones broken and her body had bled. Antilene Heran Fouche was not strong.

A pure imitation, something that came close but could never compare to the original.

A fake.

"You have already tried the other equipment of the Gods. Why does this one scare you so much?" Rufus knew how to be understanding. His was the patience of only those who lived for centuries learned. A bottomless well that no drought would make dry.

"This time is different, master. This is not a single piece of equipment, a single thing. It is an entire suit of armor! Worn and sported by a God. What am I, compared to it?"

The mere idea of soiling it with indignity was a source of worry and doubts. Was it not cruel to ask a child to put herself on the same level as the one who had first blown the winds, who had established the values of chivalry and courage, who had inspired artists and warriors alike? A vicious joke, doomed to failure?

"My little child, such is your torment?" If Rufus was disappointed, he did not show it. Not because he was undead. The master did not need expressions to voice what he thought. His talking was a continuous melody and every time he spoke, Antilene wanted to stay and listen to it forever. "You remain suspended between a world you must protect, and one you wish to destroy. I know that desire. What is asked of you is not to become a God. No one could. Nor am I asking you to. But that armor is yours, as is everything in this treasury. Do you know why?"

Antilene shook her head. She felt a hand caress her shoulder, gently. It was always a surprise to see how warm it was.

"Where you see treasures and wonders, which have coloured the stories you have savored since you can remember, I see more. I see a legacy. And, as such, it needs someone to accept it. Blood flows in you, the blood of those who protected this land. The spilled blood of their descendants who accepted the hard and heavy heritage. Like them, you are called to reap it."

"Is this my destiny?" The half-elf asked, fearful. Behind the darkness of the hood, in the dim light of the candlesticks, she saw her teacher leaning close to her.

"Destiny is not something that is forced upon us, my dear. It is an offering. As such, it is up to you to decide to embrace or reject it."

The skeletal fingers traced a sort of smile on his skull, to make it clear what it was that Rufus was trying to convey. Antilene let a laugh escape, heartened by that funny, yet endearing gesture.

"I don't know if I'm ready…"

"Never we know. If not, having faith would be so much easier, don't you think? What I can tell you is that part of me curses itself, because in you are my lords born again, and this body has no tears to show the emotion, joy and pride you give me. More than all who have been Godkin, more than all who are sacrificed in the short history of this nation, in you I see the ardor of Fire, and the compassion of Water. Hard and strong as the Earth, free and elusive as the Wind. She who has known the greatest Darkness, but is ready to fight for the most dazzling Light. And do you know why?"

Once again, Antilene found herself shaking her head. Rufus's hand shook, slowly, a lock of hair that covered one of her ears. Part of her was seized by the impulse to cover herself immediately, but, in the end, desisted.

"Because you're not perfect. Or, at least, that's what you -foolishly- believe. That void we all have to fill, in you is an abyss... and it makes you stronger. Stronger than you know."

"You too, master? Do you have that emptiness too?" It was hard to fathom.

"Of course," Rufus replied. "Our humanity is ultimately defined by what we sense is missing. It is how we decide to fill that void that reveals who we really are."

"Who we really are…" A woman with long hair as dark as night immediately came to the half-elf's mind. Had it been possible, Antilene would have wanted to console her, a first and last time. "Perhaps I am beginning to understand." And that was no lie.

Rufus stood, approaching the Wind Armour. "I ask again. Antilene Heran Fouche, will you prove your heritage? Will you show who you really are?"

"I will!" An unexpected conviction, which the half-elf was astonished to find.

Rufus nodded, "Proceed."

Antilene took a few seconds to be ready. Then, after taking a deep breath, and making sure nothing was out of place, she began to take the armor from the large case it was on display in.

The first thing she noticed was how light it was, and at the same time how resistant it appeared to the touch. Her fingers trembled before she slipped it on. The magic gave its touch, and what might have looked like a giant's armor slowly began to adapt to the slimmer and certainly less imposing body of the half-elf.

From the shoes of arms to the ruff, from the forearms to the thighs, metal and leather joined, giving Antilene the feeling that her skin was coming to life again, that the energy she felt tingling from the apex of her back to the tips of her thumbs had been part of her from the beginning, and had truly never left, only distanced from her attention for that little while.

The helmet was the last part that completed that preparation. Through the glass of the shrine, the girl could see her face beginning to disappear as the thin line of the visor separated her from the rest of the world; the golden decorations unfolding at the sides like the wings of a great eagle, and her master helping her to tighten the joints.

And it was in that feeble instant that her talent awakened.

It was, of course, not the first time that had happened. Every weapon and equipment in the treasury had once belonged to one of the six deities of the Theocracy. In agreement with Rufus, the half-elf had begun to familiarize herself with some of them, to learn the secrets and arcane knowledge they held.

More than once she had lived once again those moments that her blessing granted her; just a small glimpse of a distant past that gifted itself to her as present.

Nekole, God of the Wind, was as handsome as the bards and minstrels had painted him, with a perpetual smile on his face. Fearless and contemptuous, Antilene could, in those few seconds, watch him in the midst of battle, in the blaze of eternal glory. His opponent was covered by a thick cloud, which made it impossible to distinguish him from his surroundings, as talent never revealed more than was necessary.

"Einherjar…" The half-elf heard that word, which sounded so strange to her ears, and was able to witness the miracle, the divine transmuting into flesh. The translucent aura that was emitted from his body consolidated, took shape and became concrete, perceptible.

Nekole multiplied, the single became two. Already a God was a dazzling spectacle, beyond all human logic. And here the impossible had manifested itself not once, but twice.

A word made contact with her mind. At first, just an empty space, a sound whose meaning was partly interrupted, partly lost.

"..."

Then it became more audible, more concrete, if such a word could be made. It was dense, strange and unknown.

"Valkyrie." Said nothing. The first letter uttered. The first ray of the sun perceived. The language that communicated with her, not for the first time. Just as an infant had to take time, to associate meaning with a world at first unfamiliar and fearful, so that word, repeated ever since the dream had become reality, and reality had become something more, emerged from the darkness. "Valkyrie!" It grew louder. Louder and louder. "Valkyrie!" Until it became thunder, an earthquake. An echo of a distant world ingrained in her very being.

The vision began to dissipate, slowly drawing her back into her own world. Antilene's eyes had not closed, but each time it seemed to her that she was waking up from a long dream, where what she had experienced, and what now remained in her blurred; a lingering uneasiness and awareness, leading her to search for something of which she was not even aware and which, worse than anything, could have been forgotten in no time.

"Are you all right?" Rufus greeted her with a few simple gestures. He adjusted the helmet, which hung slightly to the right, and brushed away some non-existent dust, out of a habit that was difficult to control. Antilene already knew what question would follow, but still gave the undead time to formulate it. "What did you see?"

"The Wind God," the half-elf replied, still trying to piece together what had happened to her. "He was fighting someone, though I cannot say who. He uttered a word: 'Einherjar', and then a construct with his features began to manifest. Completely white, like the most candid snow. An evocation, perhaps?" The art of summoning, as far as she was aware, rested on precise rules.

Excess could not be contemplated. It could be circumvented with powerful magical items, but conjuring was subject to precise rules: it could not give life to more than what one was, but only to something inferior in the whole.

"And then," Antilene continued, slowly beginning to undress from that divine protection. The God's helmet was turned in front of her, and the girl could not help but wonder if it was the original owner himself who returned her gaze and curiosity now, perhaps from a distant place, a place inaccessible to those who had stopped dreaming. "One word: valkyrie. The keystone, I think. Like it was for the other Gods. Foundation of something more." She scratched her cheek, still confused. "I'm not sure what it really means."

Cryptic, her talent. So much it offered, but so much it demanded to be used. Without guidance to nurture it, doomed to be lost in the sea of mediocrity.

Fortunately, that guidance was here with her now.

"Valkyrie…" Rufus repeated that word once, twice, three, countless times.

"Valkyrie…" Antilene followed suit, with less graceful results. Her tongue twisted in the effort to pronounce that harsh sound. "Valkyrie." It took a few tries before the half-elf felt confident enough she could intone it with the right emphasis and intonation. If one thing was certain, it was the significance that term had to hold.

Her master, meanwhile, gave breath to his thoughts. The empty eye sockets lit up with sparks from deeper than the abyss they used to linger in. "A Valkyrie. Is this the way? But can the inhabitants of this world... without the right qualifications? A shortcut? It wouldn't be the first time, would it? But is that the missing piece of the puzzle?"

Of everything, Antilene could understand very little. In fact, only one thing the half-elf wished to know. "What is a Valkyrie?"

There was power in the words. Even a child could understand that. Even a little girl could see the teacher looking into the future, visualizing prospects into concrete opportunities. And even a half-elf could know when the fork in the road that was set before her became difficult to take.

"Valkyrie…" Rufus stroked his chin, as he was wont to do when in the grip of contemplation. Antilene knew that it was not eloquence that the undead lacked. If anything, it was the skill of being able to explain complex concepts to pits of ignorance as she was that was missing. Someday, perhaps, she would be able to put a stop to the Patron Deity's worries.

Someday, perhaps...

"A Valkyrie is a warrior," he finally said, looking at her with eyes that were not there. "A Valkyrie is a warrior, yes. A Valkyrie is a God. Maidens, in ancient times. Maidens devoted to the salvation of those who placed in faith the purpose of their existence, in the word of the Gods their song. But not only this, not only this. Much more…"

"...Like mother?"

"Like you," Rufus pointed to the chest, grazing her heart. "And like your mother, in part. Your mother had the spirit, and she had the skills, but never managed to become a Valkyrie. She never managed to become one, and like her, many others before. Even when the Gods were still among us."

Antilene lowered her gaze, many things she still could not understand. To curse oneself was a weakness, to feel happiness for your greatness a disgrace. The blood of the Gods required discipline, control, and humility. For of the humble would be the earth, and the humble would inherit everything. So it was written. And so it would be.

And the shame she felt at that moment was, at the same time, impossible to justify and too difficult to dispel.

"The God of Wind was no maiden," was all the girl managed to say. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Einherjar," the master answered her, as if in that simple word all the secrets of the world could be unfolded, as if every answer was provided even before the question. "There is power in words, my dear. More power than you can imagine. Nekole was not a maiden, that was undoubtedly correct. And Nekole was also a Valkyrie. That too was beyond doubt. Tell me, can two contradictions coexist as one single truth? Can white also be black?"

"I think not," ventured the half-elf, her head beginning to smoke more than the hearths raised in celebration of the Goddess Lagusa. "How do you explain that?"

"Einherjar, that is the answer. Do you know what that means, my dear?"

Antilene had to surrender instantly. "I cannot even imagine it."

There was beauty in some words. If Valkyrie was a sound that made strength and might its melody, einherjar to the ear was long and delicate, quick and scornful. Both were the unceasing wind, associated in her imagination with the whirlwind that never stopped.

"It is an ancient language, already old when the Gods were still young,'"Rufus began to explain.

"It must have been a long, long time ago," Antilene murmured. No surprise that they sounded so steeped in power, so unfamiliar, so distant...

"Indeed, it was." In what little time she had spent with the Patron Deity, the half-elf boasted, perhaps foolishly, that she had managed, if not to understand him completely, at least to catch a glimpse of the most important part of him. It was that nostalgia, never sad, it was never sad, that decorated with rare splashes of vitality the decaying and worn face of the undead; a fleeting, yet imperishable grace, reinventing itself with new memories, always remaining firmly planted in the roots of an era sadly gone. "If we wanted to translate it, the term einherjar would mean 'remarkable warrior'. And, undoubtedly, in the world of the Gods these were the einherjar. Warriors who had distinguished themselves through strength and valor, deserving a place alongside the heavenly choirs, for all eternity.'

"But that is not all there is…" Antilene urged him, sensing there was more to it.

Her master stroked her head. Nazaire's touch was the only yardstick she had, but it was always mind-boggling for Antilene to note the differences between the nanny and the undead. Differences that many would have taken for granted.

Instead, for the half-elf, it was the number of points in common that was the dividing line. Both showed affection with gentle, and controlled, physical contact, reserving it for occasions that, from their perspective, merited special celebration. The touch of both was warm and full of affection, although in different ways, causing the second coming of the Fire Goddess on Antilene's face.

Nazaire's skin smelled of biscuits and chrysanthemums, always full of a richness reminiscent of life. Rufus', of course, emitted no odor whatsoever. That did not mean that nothing leaked out of him. Like winter brine he was frosty at first impression, cold and unforgiving.

The closer one got, however, the easier it was to glimpse how much those barriers were an illusion, manufactured by a love that was difficult to make blossom, and impossible to wither.

"The trump card, einherjar, also has another meaning," he murmured softly. "'He who fights alone'. 'Army of one'. As the first of the paladins, Nekole is something more than man or woman. He is an idea, made flesh and blood for men. The idea of a world where valor is recognised, and rewarded. Why do you think a God fights alone?"

Antilene thought again about the stories. The meaning could always be traced back to those tales. The common point was always there.

"To protect us," she said, confident for once. "To prevent others from carrying his burden." An ideal that, on closer inspection, overflowed with love. An everlasting sacrifice.

That could not be questioned.

Perhaps it was blasphemy, but Antilene did not miss a trace of loneliness, in that answer, in that truth. The loneliness that accompanied such an existence was governed by a deeply painful and incredibly unfair irony.

Those uncertainties did not escape her master, who signaled for her to look at him. The morning light streamed in through the cathedral's stained glass windows, finding the foothold of their splendor in Rufus' skull. The marble bones became tinged with the orange of the first dawn.

Light and darkness knew no union, but it was in that contrast that their fulfillment poured forth.

"It is a bitter realization, this. For even the Gods must fight and die alone. That does not make it any less true, unfortunately. You, too, may one day share the same unfortunate fate," the voice of the undead remained impassive and unchanged. How was it possible, however, that it sounded broken to Antilene? The half-elf could not come up with an explanation.

"To die alone…" In the end, there was not much difference between death and life. Looking for something beyond that, the half-elf sighed. "In that case, I will be ready." Repeating that resolution aloud did not make it any less burdensome.

Her master seemed pleased to hear that. "The fact that you may find yourself dying alone does not imply that this will really be the conclusion of your story. Even a certainty can collapse under the right circumstances. You asked me earlier what a Valkyrie was. Many additional answers could be given, countless theories to complete the picture. Ah, how much we could discuss. And indeed, many future lessons will be devoted to this. But, to stay at the core, a Valkyrie is, I like to think, a guide and a companion."

"A guide?"

"Yes. The existence of men in this world is marked by sorrow and loss. The Six Great Gods sought to alleviate it, succeeding, in part. To escape their fate most men cling to a dim hope. Others, fewer in number, try to become that same hope for others. We all die alone," Rufus repeated that mantra, so that it would remain inscribed in Antilene's soul. "However, that does not mean that someone cannot give us relief before that moment arrives. An eternity of battles awaited the einherjars, yet the Valkyries managed to convince them to plead their cause until the end of time, when the stars would grow old and the sun and moon would lose their shine. Valkyries, in the world of the Gods, gave the greatest gift someone on their deathbed could ever receive. Something we all seek, without always finding."

"What is it?" Antilene asked, curiosity making her eyes sparkle.

"A meaning." Rufus moved her hair again. Antilene's prayers, aimed at preventing him from noticing that she had once again covered her shame, were not answered. Or, perhaps, it had simply come in a different way than expected. "Do you understand, now, why the Wind God was also a Valkyrie? Because words have a meaning, which binds them to our conceptions, customs and beliefs. Nekole, the God who wanted his sons and daughters to be safe, who wanted all the inhabitants of the Theocracy to know happiness, never let anyone leave this world in doubt. And now, Antilene Heran Fouche, it is up to you to gather his testimony. You will be the proof that the Gods have blessed this nation. The testimony of their love, the messenger of their word."

Wasn't that too much to ask of one person?

Antilene was still wearing the armor of the Wind. Enclosed in that casing, her body was no longer her own.

Messenger, Rufus had called her. What would her message be?

Lightbringer, Faine had been called. The splendor of the Theocracy of Slaine. The dazzling daughter of the Gods, and of the infinite cosmos from which they came.

But Faine, her mother, was no more. The Gods were no more. They had returned to the beginning, to eternal night. It was Antilene's task now to preserve the dream. The waking was still far away.

"Yes, master," she said at last. "I shall become a Valkyrie."

"You know what to do."

The half-elf activated her talents. Each time, it was different. The knowledge of the principles, of the laws that governed unknown mechanisms became clear, and even though Antilene could not exactly calibrate their function, framing each cog in the system, it did not matter.

The source from which she drank quenched every thirst, and the endless library poured its contents into her. Ignorance was a bridge to that limitless infinity.

"『Einherjar』."

There was knowledge to be found in words.

But the ineffability of the Gods could not be expressed in mere words, for before it intellect and language proved insufficient. What remained was only acceptance and gratitude, for the love that had been bestowed.

Antilene saw her body in front of her. She saw the little girl with the armor of Wind and the ears of sin staring at her and, in return, the half-elf looked at her.

"You did it!" Her master exclaimed. His satisfaction was Antilene's satisfaction.

"Is this Einherjar?" The half-elf reached out her hand, to touch her double's lips.

The construct remained motionless.

Antilene thought she would like to see it smile.

The construct smiled.

Antilene laughed.

The construct laughed with her.

Antilene would have liked to leap for joy.

The construct jumped, in euphoria.

"Today, the Gods are happy, my dear." Proclaimed Rufus. "Today, the evidence of their coming has never been stronger. May the Theocracy live forever, and may you celebrate its greatness."

"I only hope I am worthy, teacher," replied Antilene. She saw the undead nod, to dispel all her hesitation.

The half-elf approached the Einherjar, who continued to wait for her order.

The embrace that followed was awkward, but satisfying.

Antilene wondered if this was what it felt like to have a friend. The time of solitude was perhaps over.

Execution

The trumpets blared, covering the military march with their din. The ground seemed almost to tremble, as the streets of Silksuntecks were traversed by a golden procession of cloaks as bright as sunlight and armor so glittering as to make one believe that all the jewels of the world had been gathered in one place, for all to feast on their splendor.

"They are the paladins of the temple of light," whispered an elder to Nazaire, nearly spitting in her ear. "They come from the far east, right from where that demihuman warlord had invaded the newly formed human kingdom. How magnificent they are…"

The woman nodded, making her way through the crowd. She made just a few signs of thanks to the stranger, before setting off on her way again.

The entire citizenry had given way to that exterminated group to allow them to find no hindrances in their path. Even the most exuberant children watched in absolute and religious silence, focusing all their attention on only two points of interest.

The first was the leader of the line, grand master of the order of the devotees of Alah Alaf, who, riding on his thoroughbred steed, collected for himself all the odes of acclamation and respect that the people addressed to his coven.

Nazaire remembered the old grand master, an austere and inconspicuous man with short gray hair that had been almost completely shaved off, and compared him to the still young and handsome warrior with muscles that rose like mountains under the refined orichalcum, and was saddened to realize how old she was.

This consideration lasted only a few seconds, because, like much of the crowd, her attention was soon caught by the large cage parading right in the middle of the procession.

Inside was a demi-human with leonine features, so imposing that it took up most of his captivity, despite the supine position he was in.

The inscription that stood out left little room for interpretation. 'The Mighty Warlord, Andrei Drestre Lorto, commander of the Legion of Blood, extends his greetings to the Theocracy of Slaine.'

The greeting in question was laced with a macabre sense of humor. The corpse had been positioned in such a way that, whichever side one looked at it from, it was facing with bowed head towards the central street, home of the cathedral district and the one faith, remotely reminiscent of the same way some devout pilgrims used to position themselves to ask for the absolution of their sins.

The head of the demi-human brave must have been cut off and then reattached to the rest of the body, judging by the stitch marks that could be glimpsed at neck level. The long mane had been cut off and thrown like straw on the floor.

The corpse was not alone. Two puppies -no bigger than many of the children who watched apprehensively- were struggling to bend the bars that sealed their captivity, to no avail.

Their fingers scrabbled on the metal, while blood continued to ooze from where their claws, now torn off, most likely once stood.

Although the crowd was not shouting at them, the two cubs were frightened and continued to open their mouths and emit soft roars. There Nazaire could see that their fangs had also been pulled out and, rather than ferocity, it was compassion that was conveyed by that miserable spectacle.

"Savages," muttered some of the priests gathered there. They chanted choruses of prayer addressed to the heavens, and admonished all passers-by who dared attempt to look away. "Look closely! These are the savages who threaten our peace and prosperity. They are the monsters who have come to tear us away from our homes, and take away our children. Do not forget! Never forget what must be done, for our salvation! Ours, and that of our loved ones! Be merciless, for they will be merciless with you!"

Nazaire shook her head, trying to ignore those sermons. The woman had followed that procession to the Cathedrals, seeing it heading towards the central square, which led to Surshana's church.

Some guards were preventing the entrance of curious onlookers trying to get a glimpse. As was to be expected, they stopped her too.

"I am sorry, my lady. But the Cardinals have forbidden citizens to enter. Security reasons."

That young man could have been her son, Nazaire thought. The woman was about to retort, when a voice came to her aid.

"It's all right. Let her pass."

Nazaire immediately recognised the man who had come to her aid, and bowed devoutly as he approached. The escort accompanying him stood between them, but was dissolved with only a gesture.

"Happy day, Cardinal Toga. I am glad to see you."

Cardinal Clement wore the tricorn hat that covered most of his hair, once of the dullest black, now almost all white from old age. The tunic of the God of Light was modest, leaving only his wrinkled hands uncovered. Not wrinkled like Nazaire's, of course.

"Sister, I am also happy to meet you on such a beautiful day. Come, your presence has been specifically requested."

The man signaled for her to follow him, starting to walk. He was quick on his feet, Nazaire noted with regret. By now, her old bones were struggling to even maintain that gait, but all her dignity implored her to not let such a small thing bring defeat to her pride. Not in front of one of the Cardinals, at least.

"Why was this charade organized?" She asked. Talking helped her to distract herself from fatigue and ignore the breathlessness that was getting heavier and heavier. "It's the stuff of little-order street actors. The triumph was never celebrated in the Theocracy. Never in this flamboyant manner. What If there were repercussions for this lack of caution?"

"It was the new grandmaster's idea," Clement explained. "An inelegant way to show victory, I concur. But the order is looking for new members, now that most of the old guard is enjoying a well-earned rest after years of commendable service. And the help the golden order has brought to the Scriptures during this operation has been commendable. Every now and then, the population needs a distraction. And a warning, so that they do not forget what we are fighting for."

"This would never have happened with Boiardo. The new generation is in a hurry to show off," Nazaire murmured. The Cardinal looked at her amused.

"Things change, to not change at all. Boiardo's son, Ariosto, has turned out to be an excellent element, and he has a hunger for glory and a thirst that can only be quenched by praiseworthy service." Clement held out his hand to her, for he had noticed the sweat that now could not stop running down the woman's forehead. "I am sure our predecessors complained like this about our generation as well."

Nazaire was forced to accept, feigning goodwill. "Perhaps it is as His Holiness says. Forgive an old woman's complaints. I'm just worried that it might attract unwanted attention."

"It is understandable," the man heartened her, addressing the woman with a sincere smile. "But countermeasures have been taken to prevent the news from spreading too far outside the capital. Don't worry, this event won't cause us to incur the wrath of the Dragon Emperor's progeny."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Nazaire was not so convinced. But one thing was true: she was now old, too old to worry about such nonsense. The palm of her free hand brushed against her throat, radiating it with a soft, invigorating light.

Coughing at that moment would have been completely inappropriate.

"I cannot understand why our forces were sent to such a remote location. The Draconic realm has its own protector. Why send the Scriptures, and run the risk of them being detected?"

It didn't matter which way you looked at it, the founder of that new kingdom overpowered the Theocracy's capabilities in strength, resources and intimidation. And, like every member of his now-lost race, he had the unfortunate attitude of detesting every descendant of the Gods.

Clement scratched his chin, where slight white hairs teased the skin. His eyes concealed an emotion that wanted to appear confident and devoid of despondency, but to Nazaire's gaze revealed only weariness. "The dragon protector has left the nest," he said. His face calm, his fists clenched. "Leaving hundreds of thousands of humans at the mercy of the creatures lurking on the shadows of the borders. Creatures like the Warlord. And dozens of others like him."

Nazaire felt her head spin, and an unusual ache hit her temples. She struggled to stand, cursing herself for her weakness. "Does His Holiness mean to imply that humanity is in danger of losing one of its bastions?" After all the work they had done to allow their race to flourish, in that remote little corner, the fruit of their labors began to rot before they could even taste its sweetness, leaving yolks consumed by others on their table.

The Cardinal nodded, tipping his tricorn hat from his head. Now that she could partially observe him stripped of the robes of sacredness, Nazaire could remark that the difference in age was made up, for the worse, by the fatigue of the flesh. "The danger exists, and it is real. The new Draconic Kingdom has prospered for a few years thanks to the fame of its founder. But now that the Brightness Dragon Lord is no more, the vultures have begun to pounce on the spoils of his wealth, attempting to appropriate part of his legacy."

'And the demi-humans would be the vultures?' Nazaire thought. 'Or would it be us?' And, above all, was there anything worth plundering? As miserable as it was to reason in terms of profit and gain when countless lives were at stake, being a realist -a quality that advanced age almost forced one to assume- prevented sentimentality from getting the better of common sense.

"Is it worth spending time and resources on a possible lost cause?"

Clement stopped her, inviting her to look at the entrance to the Cathedral of Darkness. "Take a good look, dear sister." The cage had been opened and the paladins of light had first taken the cubs and, getting them down in spite of their resistance and shrieking, drove stakes into their arms, piercing bone and muscle, and then bound them in heavy chains that restrained much of their movement. Thick steel muzzles prevented their cries from disturbing the religious peace of that hallowed place. "These are our enemies, the beasts we fight. The disease we seek to eradicate."

After ensuring that the cubs were unable to resist, the grandmaster of the golden order gave orders to move the lifeless body of the demi-human lord as well. Not much tact was used, to put it mildly, and the desiccation and lack of care with which that corpse was moved brought a feeling of veiled disgust even to Nazaire.

Not to the Cardinal, though.

"We protect the Dragon's Kingdom not only because of the goodness and mercy of our cause," Clement continued, without for a second shifting his attention from that work, making sure in every way that everything proceeded as planned. "But also because the blood of the Dragon now runs in the veins of the royal family. A family of humans. The old blood, which may one day awaken. And then…" He allowed himself a brief laugh, before returning to seriousness. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to use that power against our enemies?"

Nazaire saw only two sons trying to despair at the affront inflicted on their father, discovering that even that was denied them.

"This is barbarism…" Act of God? Had not the sacrament of punishment already been inflicted? Nazaire saw weeping eyes, on the verge of collapse, and thought back to her children, now adults. She thought back to her. "Death has decreed their absolution, and freed them from their sins. Let us not reduce ourselves to their level. Grant them peace."

To be appointed Cardinal, cold blood had to run through one's veins. A superior and fundamental quality, which was particularly distinctive in Clement Bovi Toga. And it was certain that, at that moment, Nazaire did not doubt his devotion, nor his faith. The man looked at her as the shepherd felt pity for the lost sheep.

"What you say is right, sister. But I wonder, if you had witnessed the horrors they tell of such an individual, would not your mercy have faltered? Would not your anger have taken over?"

"Your holiness knows that I have witnessed the abyss such creatures are capable of digging. My heart stopped before the spectacles of cruelty my mission required me to face, and my soul grew hard, not for lack of faith, but because of the abnegation the Gods demanded of me. His Holiness knows of what I speak, for His Holiness has lived the same." A day in service of the Scriptures was equivalent to years of existence, sad and miserable that it was. For that Nazaire had lived hundreds upon hundreds of years, and now that the time for rest had come, only exhaustion remained. "It is not for revenge that we fulfill our mission. It is not to give vent to impulses we have abandoned that we do what we are commanded. The Scriptures are not men, but something more. They must be something more, or the way will go astray."

"There is much truth and wisdom in your words, sister. I am not surprised that you have been chosen to undertake such an onerous task. Nevertheless…" the bells announcing noon rang out, carrying their message to the rest of the city. The Cardinal bowed quickly, showing his devotion, his hands folded in prayer. Nazaire soon followed him. "Justice will be inflicted today," he proclaimed after rising. Sunlight kissed his face. "You say well, sister. The sacred scriptures invite us to be something more. And today you will be shown that in the Theocracy of Slaine such dogma runs rampant in the veins of all who have accepted the Six Great Gods into their souls. A corpse should be left alone... The holy will shall be done."

"Always may it be accomplished," Nazaire repeated aloud. More for herself than for the Cardinal or anyone else. "May our church live forever."

"May our church live forever."

The demi-humans were led inside the cathedral. Clement led her towards an external entrance, which led to a spiral staircase connected to a corridor in the furthest part of the church. Each step taken strangely increased the distance, and Nazaire swore she had climbed a mountain before reaching her destination.

"Where are we?" She asked, trying not to show her fatigue.

The upper part of the Cathedral of Darkness was an intricate labyrinth of rooms, large and small, that alternated in a precise pattern, not so well known to her.

"Soon you will see it," the Cardinal merely replied. "Not long now…"

Nazaire's curiosity was soon satisfied. Led into a dark room, the illuminations on the walls being the only sources of light that chased away that darkness, she was able to meet the Warlord and his offspring, placed in the center of the room, surrounded by magical symbols carved into the floor.

The two cubs were held down by some soldiers, whom Nazaire could not recognise. But it did not matter, as the armaments they sported left no doubt as to their belonging. Just standing in the presence of such magnificence caused a rush of emotion, leaving doubts and fears only a lost and distant memory.

"Why are the Black Scriptures here? What does it all mean?"

"You will soon find out, sister. Remember to be strong. For her."

The Cardinal crossed the room, positioning himself on a stool that had been placed on a specially set up stage. Nazaire sat down next to him. Soon, the space was filled with the likes of Clement. Each of the Cardinals, Pontifex Maximus included, stood there. To each of them, Nazaire offered the homage befitting their rank.

The corpse of the demi-human had been finely wrought, cleaned of any peeling and sprinkled with perfumed oils. The hands were removed, and the body chained. The head devoid of any glow placed in the direction of the highest authorities of the Theocracy of Slaine. A young man with long black hair stood behind him, a sharpened spear resting on his back. His resemblance to Faine made Nazaire's heart skip a beat, and for a moment the old woman felt as if she had stepped back in time.

But the wrinkles on her body, and the mortality that was becoming more insistent by the second, soon killed that foolish consideration. Nazaire tried to keep herself composed, but the seat reserved for her was hard and uncomfortable, not suitable for someone of her age.

In suffering, it was easier to caress the presence of the Gods. At that moment, Nazaire felt it. Coupled with a pain in her limbs that was becoming increasingly unbearable.

"Can we begin? The time has come." The rest of the Cardinals agreed with Clement. Loud bells were tolled, and a small group ushered in.

Two maidens covered in slender robes proceeded with mechanical, unnatural steps. Their every movement was not preceded by thought, but by an inscrutable will that guided their going. That will, Nazaire was certain, was enclosed in the crowns that were placed on their heads, the only voice in those now empty shells.

"The sacred priestesses…" she murmured. "What are the Miko Princesses doing here?" The question was lost in the void, for no answer was granted.

The two maidens were escorted by a few members of the Black Scriptures right in front of the corpse, while an alcove of high-ranking priests following them stopped at precise points in the pattern drawn on the floor, forming a sort of diagram divided into three pillars.

Three priests positioned themselves on the left side, three on the right side. The first 'pillar' formed was entirely white, a symbol of strength. The second was entirely black, symbolizing order. The two Miko princesses were also arranged in a row one behind the other in the middle one, with the corpse closing the arrangement. Or, at least, that was how it should have been.

Each of the branches of the tree of life was represented in that strange representation.

'Intelligence', 'justice', 'eternity' were on the left.

'Wisdom', 'mercy', 'triumph' were on the right.

The two Miko princesses placed in the position of 'crown' and 'beauty' respectively. The body of the demi-human was thus 'foundation'. The last one remained.

"No... Your holiness... Why is she here?"

Antilene walked through the door, taking the last position on the central pillar. That of the 'kingdom'.

Her little girl... It had been more than a week since Nazaire had last looked after her. The half-elf's training now took up all her free time, and the opportunities to meet were becoming rarer and rarer.

"He is the one who wanted all this, sister. It's part of the training."

The Theocracy had no absolute leader. The will of the Gods was transmitted to the people by the voice of the Cardinals. Decisions were a meeting of will and mind.

But, in the shadows, one deity remained. Hidden in a starless sky, forever waiting. Like all of them. And he had no need to give orders, for a single suggestion was enough to guide the flock.

"Don't let her do anything dangerous," Nazaire implored. Oppressive music began to play from pipe organs as the Cardinals rose to their feet. "She is only a child…"

Antilene, her sweet Antilene. Nazaire wondered what she was feeling at that moment, surrounded by the Scriptures. Fear? Her face showed no emotion. Agitation? Her smile frightened everyone, so reminiscent of the father she had never known. But not to Nazaire, for it only recalled Antilene's smile. With that scythe they had made her hold, too big for her tiny body; with that white darkness with which they had made her dress, reminiscent of the blood and war of the Gods; with that love that surrounded her, sweet and venomous.

She was just like the mother she had never really known, her Antilene. Even a hero was no longer so extraordinary compared to her. Even the most terrible monster was no longer so fearful, if she was there to protect them. Faine and Antilene were so much the same. If only they could have seen it.

"She is more than a child. She is about to become something more…" Cardinal Clement moved his arms, so that one of the Scriptures could offer him, and all the other Cardinals, a chalice filled with wine. "Sister, do not fret for her. The ritual is about to take place. We must learn to observe and listen first." He drank the wine as red as the thickest blood, offering a taste to Nazaire as well, who reluctantly accepted.

Nazaire continued to look at the one who was her daughter. She smiled at her, hoping she could find strength in her. The half-elf's eyes returned her salute as they moved towards her and greeted the woman with a submerged but not absent joy.

'How dignified she is, my little one. The pride of the Scriptures. The Gods will always come to save us, for so it is written. And even if it were not, I would have no reason to not believe it.' Nazaire could not have protected her from the outside world forever. In fact, it was too long now that Antilene had been protecting Nazaire. The half-elf protected her from the fear of death, from the horror of the end. The knowledge that everything she had accomplished up to that moment had been for something greater gave the woman the compassion that allowed her to go on.

"Brothers and sisters, we can begin." The Pontifex Maximus had risen. The six-pointed Candelabra, symbol of the Theocracy, was affixed to the walls behind him and the star in the center began to shine in tune with his words. "Today we officially welcome a new companion among us. Today the judgment of the Gods, infinite in their wisdom, is fulfilled."

Antilene approached before the Cardinals, and knelt down. Everyone in the room began to applaud.

"Arise, beloved sister," the Pontiff incited her. "Are we not all brothers and sisters, united in one cause? Let others kneel, for among us there is only equality. It is I who must show respect to her who puts her life on the line to protect us, and all the inhabitants of the Theocracy. That I say, all humanity."

Another round of applause. Louder. Nazaire continued to focus all his attention on Antilene, who had now moved even closer towards them. She smiled at her, as if to let her know everything was alright. As if Nazaire was the child, and she was the adult.

"Antilene Heran Fouche accepts her role. May the guidance of the blessed Cardinals guide my hand and blade for the future."

"Today you are reborn as Black Scripture," said the Pontifex. "Today the Theocracy becomes stronger, thanks to you. Remember your sacred duties: faith to the Gods, fortitude in mind and body, charity to your friends and fellow human beings. May prudence compass your actions, may justice be imparted by your holy blade, may temperance make your judgment wise. And finally, may the hope for a better tomorrow always remind you who you are."

"May all that you have said, and more, be fulfilled." The scythe was placed at the foot of the altar. The offering was considered worthy. Antilene retook her position.

The Pontiff and all the Cardinals nodded in synchrony.

The Miko Princesses began to dance, standing firmly in place. The music of the organs had faded away, with only the choir's chants remaining to accompany the ritual.

"If you desire the sacrament, learn

if you desire the sacrament, learn to love

the holy blood.

Humanity will be rewarded

with the secrets

of the holy blood.

May you all be aware of this

the blood is nectar of knowledge

Peer into the mysteries

and the divine will peer into you.

Be aware everyone

the blood is nectar of knowledge

Even if this is all we can rely on…

Even if that is all we can rely on!

Ignorant one,

be afraid,

Ignorant one,

you will know,

Ignorant one,

you will love the holy blood.

We peer into the mystery

our hymns are our faith

our sins are our devotion

We peer into the mystery

The feast is about to begin!

Even when the world forgets…

We will feast

with the holy blood!"

The invocation awakened the magic, and the Miko Princesses began to be enveloped in a warm white light, emanating from the crowns they wore on their heads. The light reshaped itself into an ethereal, graceful and uncontoured form, which struck the warlord's corpse like a bolt of lightning.

Silence fell, not daring to disturb the atmosphere created.

There was a gasp, and foam began to gush from the demi-human's mouth. His eyes opened, and after a stifled roar, the monster struggled to rise.

"Where...?" He looked around, not recognising where he was. He squinted, and tried to move, realizing only then that he was chained, that his arms were locked and his hands removed. "Where the hell am I!?"

His scream grew mighty, but no one in the room flinched. The boy who looked like Faine grabbed him by the back of the neck, and slammed him into the floor. Soon his expletives were covered by the sound of the impact of his bones with the hard marble.

"Quiet."

He slowly lifted him up again, still keeping his grip firmly in place. Nazaire watched the warlord struggle, trying to escape from that grip. His cubs tried to close their eyes, but the Black Scripture members forced them to watch the humiliation of the father they had probably thought invincible.

"That's alright, I think our guest has understood." The Pontifex signaled the young man to let the demi-human go. The latter, unable to enjoy his newfound life, had begun to bleed and toil, but tried to maintain that composed decorum typical of the warrior.

Nazaire had seen it several times, in many like him. That strange concept of honor, placing oneself above one's own safety and that of one's loved ones. An ideal that went beyond worldly things and, as such, bogged down the fools who were trapped by it like a lake of mud. Dirty and destined to break.

It only remained to be discovered how long it would take, in that case.

"Who are you? Where have you brought me? Why are my children in chains?" Even though the demi-human was unable to move, and all his strength was shown as mere illusion, there was a certain regality in his posturing. Wild and impetuous, certainly, but also charming in its directness. "I remember nothing... only the angels that surrounded me. And the innards of humans like you who tried to take my head." He opened his jaws, and although his fangs had been removed, that natural predator instinct spread among those present.

"You remember well , honored guest," it was Clement who took the floor. "But though you took many of the heads of our soldiers, in the end the grandmaster of the golden order took yours. Why don't you try to share with us what it feels like to have such an important part of your body detached?"

"Why don't you come closer, human? So that I can give you a demonstration?"

The Cardinal did not take up the provocation, but with a wave of his hand prevented further harm being done to the prisoner. "Tell me, do you know why you find yourself here today? Why did not throw you into a pit as you deserved?"

The demi-human looked at his children, who continued to wriggle uselessly. There was wisdom in him, for he began to assume a more cordial tone. "I do not know. I can only imagine. Woe to the vanquished. Now I find myself paying the price."

"You are here to be judged," Clement explained. "Count yourself lucky. Usually those of your ilk don't get such remarkable treatment. But your lucky stars decided to smile on you, because we really were in need of someone like you."

"Meaning?" The demi-human asked.

"A sacrifice."

The warlord's lips parted in a grimace. The veins in his face dilated and it would have been not entirely stupid to start expecting that volcano to explode at any moment.

Instead, all that came was a simple question.

"What am I accused of, human?"

"Your crimes are as vast and numerous as the drops of the ocean. You started a war with the Draconic Kingdom, bringing devastation and misery to countless families. Your raids stained the lands of men with blood and tears, while your slaughterhouses brimmed with the innocent and helpless." Clement began to read from a list the charges. Many of them were so terrible and indescribable that Nazaire prayed that her weak memory would, for once, lead her to forget. When he had finished listing them, the Cardinal had only one thing to add: "How do you plead, demi-human?"

The warlord said nothing, limiting himself to glances of contempt in every direction. Then, after he saw that no reaction had been provoked, he began to laugh. Unexpectedly, his was a soft, melodious laugh, quite different from the infernal sounds a former member of the Scriptures had been accustomed to hearing.

"Do your sins perhaps amuse you, defendant? Or have you simply lost what little light of reason you have left?" Each of the Cardinals remained impassive before that bizarre display of hilarity. Clement only raised, almost imperceptibly, the volume of his voice, attempting to overpower the demi-human.

"I laugh at the groundlessness of your accusations, humans," said the warlord. "Barbarians, that's what you are. You call this trial, but you give me no defense and take my children hostage. I do not understand why you organized this farce, after you have already claimed victory."

"Do you therefore deny your crimes?"

The demi-human replied scornfully, "Crimes? I only claimed the land that was mine by right. Lands that my predecessors cultivated and defended for years, even when the Evil Deities attacked us. But then everything changed... when the Rainbow Dragon drove us from our settlements, leading you vermin to take what was ours. Crimes?" His contempt conformed to the high pitch of his voice. "You humans slaughter pigs and sheep to satiate your hunger. You put bridles on the horse and leashes on the dog to make up for your shortcomings. Now that you have no shadows to hide under, don't complain if your rightful masters have decided to disinfect their properties of insects. When cleaning your home, you don't waste time commemorating cockroaches."

"Yet the master finds himself chained by the very insects he has sworn to exterminate," retorted Clement, shaking his head. ''Might rules the world, that is the philosophy of the beasts. And we humans are forced to adapt. Not always, though. You speak the truth about one thing, valiant conqueror. No opportunity has been provided for you to defend yourself. The judgment of the Gods has already been decided, but you may rebel against the imposed sentence."

"Just tell me how, human."

The Cardinal drummed his fingers on the table. "This council condemns you, and your entire race, to execution. For such is the will of the Gods. Since they are not here, it will be up to their descendants to decide your fate. Rejoice! You will be given the chance to rebel against your fate," Clement's eyes narrowed, as sharp as the most dangerous blade. "Contrary to what you have inflicted upon the humans of the Draconic Kingdom the opportunity of salvation is granted to you. I advise you not to waste it."

The boy who was not Faine, but who looked more like her every second, began to loosen the demi-human's chains. The assembled priests treated his hands and wounds.

The warlord clenched his fists, cracking his knuckles, still in disbelief at what was happening. "A fight? You are more interesting than I could have ever imagined, I must admit." He was definitely amused by the situation, and with good reason. To take him down the first time, an army had been necessary. Now, only a few individuals stood between him and freedom.

'But a number can be deceiving.' Nazaire saw the Black Scriptures retreat into the darkest corners of the room, escorting the priests and the Miko princesses with them. The two puppies were also driven away.

In the center, only two presences remained.

"Do not misunderstand. This is not a fight, but an execution." Explained Clement. It was, in a way, a warning given to the accused. For the Cardinal, it was probably the closest form of compassion possible in that situation.

"Who is my opponent?"

"Me." Antilene stepped forward, the scythe returned firmly to her hands.

So small, compared to the opponent. Nazaire made to stand up, but the Cardinal ordered her to remain seated.

"Observe, sister. Do you think we would endanger our beloved daughter?"

They would not. The Theocracy loved its sons and daughters all the same, and the will of the Cardinals was the will of the Theocracy. As a citizen of the sacred nation, Nazaire understood how boundless the affection felt for the daughter of the Gods could be. As the nanny of Antilene, she knew how much the half-elf had stirred the blood, how hardships had molded her into something more than a mere human, causing her to ascend to a higher plane that could only be scrutinized, never seen in its entirety.

But Antilene was also her child. The one who cried in her arms when she was hurt, who asked hopefully when she would be able to see her mother again after a long absence, no matter how many bruises and injuries would that reunion always bring.

The Gods had given her the gift of another daughter, when her age was too advanced to give her the care that was due. And now they wanted to make Antilene something more than a mere child, a mere girl.

The Guardian Deity had taken her under his wing, and now the fulfillment of the myth would be accomplished. The Gods had never abandoned them, and the fruit of their seed was here with them now. A magnificent gift, which would bring forth the Theocracy of Slaine to a prosperity it had not had in centuries.

The music would play forever, and that frenzy would never stop. The angelic choirs heralded eternal salvation, and damnation would soon be only a distant memory.

And Nazaire wanted none of it. She rejected it, because that, she knew, would never bring happiness to her beloved daughter. To her Antilene.

If her soul had to burn for that sin, let it burn. If the guilt of that selfishness had been the end of her, let no tomorrow come.

"Everything will be fine." This was communicated to the woman by Antilene's gaze and, the Gods had forgiven her for this, Nazaire believed it. May the Gods had forgiven her, but she really believed it.

The warlord laughed.

"Is this a joke? A child?"

No one spoke.

"Let's finish it…"

The arms of the mighty demi-human opened and the monster pounced on the child. The age of innocence was lost in that precise moment.

Nazaire couldn't see what really happened, but she really didn't need to. The result was obvious, and the cause was merely a tinsel. There was a faint thud that rang in the ears. The warlord fell as only a mortal body can fall, while the half-elf twirled his severed head in her hands.

At that point, the Black Scripture let his children go. Their now free mouths were the only shrieks that spread. The rivers of their tears, at having to see the one who had begotten them battered once more, flooded the body of their beloved father.

They too were graced with a swift end. The judgment had already been imposed, and the sentence was arranged with maniacal precision. The scythe passed through their hearts, giving them the chance to be reunited, if not in life, at least in death. Such was the benevolence of the Gods.

Antilene arranged those puppets now devoid of soul and intellect into a more dignified composition.

The cardinals rose from their seats and surrounded her. Nazaire was hesitant at first, but soon joined them. The highest authorities of the Theocracy began to shower her daughter with love and praise, extolling her present and future virtues to great lengths.

The half-elf basked in those expressions of affection so sincere, so pure.

"Did I do well, auntie?"

"...You did great!"

Antilene smiled. From then on, humanity would gain a new guardian. In the history of the Slaine Theocracy, no one would be cherished and revered like Antilene Heran Fouche, with the exception of the Gods themselves.

Vowed to an ideal of hope and salvation, she would be more than just a human.

She would become a legend.

And the love she would receive was destined to be as cold and pure as the most fearsome of winters.

Inquisitor

"Is that so?" Rufus did not recognise the face of that Cardinal. The symbol on his robe indicated that he belonged to the sect of Darkness. The muscles of his face were fatigued. Turmoil, that he perceived. Young? So it could be said. Between thirty and fifty. Decade more, decade less.

It was getting harder and harder to tell the difference, but the absence of wrinkles made the assumption safe with a degree of correctness.

"The witch was brought to the cathedral as you requested…" The man had brought his right hand to his lips, and brushing his fingertips had imitated the gesture of kissing him in his presence. "What are we to do with her now?"

Proskýnesis. A thoughtless gesture, and out of place at that moment, in that place and situation. But to Neko-Neko Yan the idea of introducing such extravagance had amused him greatly at the time. Or perhaps it was Galatea's Booty? Memories were starting to get fuzzy.

'No. Not Neko-Neko and Galatea. Nekole and Imirduo. Those are their names... they always were.'

His body couldn't know fatigue, nor could it make rest its own. Skeletal fingers passed over his shoulder, covered by a cloak woven in the darkness itself, before Rufus could give substance to his directives. In all, a couple of minutes had passed before an answer was given, and the Cardinal was still there, in his seat, waiting.

Even if days had passed, and if he had left him there alone in his place without a word, Rufus was sure he would have found the man in that same position, heedless of everything and everyone.

Due care had to be taken, or the capital would be filled with skeletons to keep him company in his solitude before he could even realize it.

"Take her to the usual place... Where we take all traitors."

There was surprise, in the look of the man's eyes. And, of that Rufus was not so sure, terror. Why? He should have given no reason to turn reverence into fear.

The man swallowed, before asking the fateful question. "Where do we take traitors, sacred guardian? We have some facilities on the border, disused for years. But I do not believe the honorable first disciple was referring to this." The Cardinal's body professed a bow governed by hesitation and lack of control. "I ask forgiveness for my incompetence."

Rufus helped him up. The mere touch, he could feel, caused a spasm throughout the Cardinal's innermost and deepest being, stirring both flesh and mind.

"No, it is I who must invoke your clemency. I have made a terrible mistake." How could have he forgotten? To take something for granted was not like him, but infallibility was of the divine realm and, despite how many in that building would be quick to swear otherwise, the undead no longer belonged to that heaven. Not any more, at least. "The last time we had to use one of the rooms of the Cathedral of Darkness for such a task was more than two centuries ago. Evidently, other uses have been assigned in the meantime."

"Our predecessors did not inform you? What an unforgivable mistake!" The scandal and anger on the human face was without manufacture. So sincere. So superfluous. "I will remedy this immediately."

"A small space for the prisoner and the additional seat will suffice. No need for extreme and unaccommodating measures. Please don't make us wait too long."

"It shall be done, first disciple."

His pleas were ambrosia and nectar that guaranteed an immortality to which all those vessels hoped to be filled. If only they had known how much his sin sullied that blessing that men so yearned for, would they have accepted it with as much zeal? Or would his guilt have condemned not only him, but also the Theocracy, and all the children who inhabited it?

Rufus was not sure. Part of him would have preferred to remain in doubt for that eternity that imprisoned him, rather than approach the answer he dreaded to be true.

"Now go, do not make us wait any longer."

Rufus did not turn to see him walk away, preferring to focus on his disciple sneaking closer in the darkness. Foolishly, she was, thinking she might catch him by surprise.

"You look well, my dear pupil." He welcomed her with a pat on the shoulder, making her cringe at the sudden action.

"Damn. I was sure you didn't notice anything this time…" the girl fluffed her cheeks, puffing out smoke from irritation soon after. "How many wins and losses are we at?"

"I didn't keep count," he said. "Not after we got nine hundred and ninety-nine to one."

"Well, if we count your win today, the score is now nine hundred and ninety nine to two."

Laughing was an effort, for his body. More than an instinctive gesture, a mechanical mastering of his own bodily reactions.

Rufus laughed at the joke anyway. "Do you think your cheap humor will be enough to reverse the factual reality?"

Antilene brought her arms behind her head, starting to stretch with them. "It costs nothing to try."

"But that doesn't mean it will guarantee you an acceptable result."

"I will treasure this lesson." The girl became serious all of a sudden, looking at him with her deep two-coloured eyes. Rufus had learned to read that expression, deciphering its content quickly. "So it's true? Cornelia is a traitor?"

The trust of men was a bizarre thing, worthy of study. It could only reveal itself, and indeed there were many cases where it did, the moment it was betrayed.

"That is for us to find out. A perfect opportunity to give your training a practical as well as a theoretical connotation." Rufus knew that that was the half-elf's wish, but he was also aware that the manner in which it would come true did not conform to her expectations. There was an argument to be made concerning the nature of what was yearned for by all, and the irony with which it was granted. But that speech was for another day. A happier one.

There was no shortage of time for either of them, after all.

"If you're not up to it, we can reschedule for a more suitable time. A couple of months? Or maybe even a few years." Waiting would raise their defendant's tension, and make future interrogation more manageable.

"And what do you think would happen to Cornelia in the meantime?" Rufus could see that the half-elf had considered that proposal, but his disciple had a perspective that he lacked. A perspective that some would have called more human, whatever that word might have meant. Nevertheless, he would have been in agreement with such sentiment.

"Nothing. Until I give the order, she will remain in her assigned quarters. Well guarded."

Antilene brought a hand to her chin, stroking it gently. The space to bring her considerations to a result she deemed satisfactory was granted to her by Rufus, who took the opportunity to review his further commitments for the coming months, assessing the free time left for any additional personal projects. Without consternation, he concluded that his schedule was full up to ten years in the future.

In the end, his pupil was adamant in her decision. "Many humans would find such waiting a torture. That is not the purpose of our mission. We will end this today."

More than the content, the undead was gratified by the firmness of the choice. Doubt ruled the hand of men. As much as possible, seeing that his disciple was learning to be confident in her actions filled him with a satisfying feeling, which he categorized as pride.

"Do you remember what you have to do? The means to conduct a peaceful meeting are all at your disposal. I will merely act as a spectator."

The half-elf nodded. "Let's get moving. I want to conclude before night falls."

They did not take long to arrive. Rufus could see that his instructions had been carried out with particular skill, and their guest sat in a leather armchair, which he judged comfortable, by the standards of the living.

Cornelia Beamonte Alasia stared straight ahead. If she was in a panic, she did her best not to let it show. Rufus was used to seeing her in the gear reserved for the Black Scripture. Equipment that many might have thought... eccentric. And with good reason. The flesh was weak to a garment that left the most sinuous and sincere forms uncovered, tickling the fancy of an imagination prone to excess.

"Lady Fouche. Patron deity. You have arrived much faster than I expected," the woman greeted them both with the classic devotion reserved for them. She wore an ordinary dress, but not without grace. Before, her head would have been covered by the Hat of the Wood Witch, which had once belonged to the Goddess Lagusa. Now, however, she displayed her completely shaved head with a certain conceit. "Excuse me for not getting up, but you may well observe that I am currently finding it... a tad difficult."

Both of her feet had been cut clean off. An extreme measure perhaps, but perfect to prevent a possible escape. If the accusations proved unfounded, restoring the woman to her original state would not have required much effort.

"Lady Alasia, you look well." It was Antilene who spoke. Difficult to determine if the irony of that statement was lost unknowingly or deliberately used to break the proverbial ice.

As expected, Rufus remained silent, letting only his presence act as accuser. A tactic from the world before the advent that, if he remembered correctly, Alah Alaf had described as 'the stratagem of the good and bad cop.' Moral evaluations aside, he was curious to see how his disciple would fare in that situation.

The former Black Scripture member let his disciple sit opposite her, trying to remain calm. The undead noticed an irregularity in Cornelia's otherwise perfectly safe and regulated breathing, while her violet eyes were unseen by tics connoted by a nervousness that leaked out of them.

"I try to cope, Lady Fouche…" Cornelia had served as one of the first experiments in the role imparted to Antilene, and the mark of such ordeal left scars that not even the finest magical art could cure. The woman continued to rub her arm, her once smooth and silky skin now covered in sores caused by stress. "I didn't think they would even send the two guardians of the Theocracy to take me down. I must be more important than I thought."

She laughed. No exaggeration, no bumpy beat. A way of keeping calm, or the last spasm of a beast now surrendered to its fate?

"The request was made by me and the Patron Deity," Antilene simply stated. His disciple maintained a professional poise, devoid of smears. The tone of her voice was stripped of all superfluous emotion, letting the facts be the sole component of her eloquence. "The crimes you are accused of are not very serious, but they are still crimes. More to the point, as companions in the Black Scriptures, it was my intention to establish beyond doubt that your sentence was fair and impartial."

Cornelia's gaze was held in astonishment. The half-elf's unexpected response had let guilt dig into the woman's fabricated mask. "Believe me, Lady Fouche. It was not my intention to cause apprehension in those who have always been so kind to me…" Her attention turned to Rufus, who answered her with an icy silence. Cornelia had been one of his pupils since she had reached her late teens, and she believed that absolution could be granted by what had once also been her master. An honest mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. "At the same time, I could not shy away from doing what I thought was right. Even if I had to go to damnation for it. Can you understand me?"

Antilene only asked her one question. "Would you do it again?'

"Yes," was the woman's reply. "I saved an innocent child. Not looking back now. I cannot continue doing what I have always done."

"You spared the offspring of a beastman lord," the half-elf retorted. "One of the bloodiest demi-humans in the Hills, who had nearly brought his forces over the wall of the Holy Kingdom. A disaster was avoided just for chance. You are lucky his future victims will not be on your conscience."

Cornelia stood still, her head held up. Fear had lost the inner conflict with dignity. "The captain snatched life from the lord and his children. The other Black Scripture members slaughtered his clan. I killed his bedfellows, as well as their children. There were about six of them. All of them were no older than infancy. I was trained for this, and I never flinched, even then. At one I threw his head on the floor, at another I chopped off his guts, the hearts of two of them met my fists, and the last one I suffocated. In the end, I was so stained with blood that my only wish was to take a bath as soon as possible, to clean myself of all that dirt."

"But you didn't," a hint of disappointment escaped the half-elf's tongue. "You didn't…" she repeated more softly, sighing.

"The last one had approached his now dead brothers," Cornelia said. She wasn't crying, but Rufus assumed it was only out of a distinct and frankly unnecessary sense of pride. A desire not to show herself to be weak, even when it was well established that she was. "They usually scream out of desperation. They beg or become paralyzed with fear. If this had been the case, I would have had no problem doing my duty. It would have been business as usual. Do to them what they did to you…" Cornelia scratched her teeth with her nails, an obvious symptom of regret and agitation. In total silence, that screeching was an unbearable concert. "But the last child did none of that. Instead, he came and knelt down in front of me. He was so small, but aware of what was going to happen. He only asked me to be quick. Gods be my witness, I would have loved to do it. I so wanted to... but I was unable to proceed, and in the end I let him go. Why did I stop? I... I'm not sure. I was still stained with the blood of his loved ones. What difference would one more of them have made?" She looked at her knuckles, rubbing them. They were immaculate in their cleanliness; traces of further dirt could only have been imprinted in her mind. "I just thought: what if it had been a human child? What if it had been a human child looking at me resignedly with those eyes, devoid of entreaty? Was this the world I was handing over to them? Part of me couldn't accept it. Foolishly, I believed that gesture would be enough to stop this whole cycle of death. No... maybe I just wanted to find an excuse to save myself from what would come after all this. This, I am ready to swear by all I hold dear, is the plain and simple truth."

"I know it is," Antilene said, after having listened carefully to the story, after having recorded every little detail. "And that's the problem. An inquisitor's skills reveal every deception, every absolute. But there are certain conditions for them to be effective. Do you know why?"

The woman shook her head.

"Faith is the determining factor. That is why these skills have no effect on Black Scripture members. Not normally, at least. However, I can now discern whether everything you tell enters the realm of lies... or the one of truth."

Inquisitor skills were perfect for enemies, of little use with friends. In a world where the religion of the Six Great Gods reigned supreme, they would have been superfluous. In a world where magic had united everyone, they would have been useless. Sometimes Rufus wondered if that was one of the reasons why he had taught his beloved disciple the way of that pact. A vestige of another time, tainted with foolish sentimentality, not suited to its current function.

"I suppose I was deceiving myself as well... I wonder how long I've been doing it." Resignation might have had a consoling side. In the face of disaster lay the opportunity for renewal. "What's going to happen to me?"

"The one you let go was hunted down by your comrades, and danger was narrowly avoided. Because you voluntarily gave yourself up immediately after the fact, the Cardinals want to be lenient with you. But your role in the Scriptures has come to an end."

Cornelia stretched out in her armchair, pointing her eyes to the ceiling. A dull light could be glimpsed in the reflection of her violet irises. "You have been too merciful to me. Capital punishment would have been more appropriate."

"Many mitigating conditions were in your favor. You have served faithfully and impeccably for many years," Antilene answered her. "That does not mean you will enjoy the freedom you were previously granted. You will be confined to your homes, and you will be forbidden to leave the Theocracy. A list of the limitations and commitments that you will have to make on a daily basis while you serve your sentence will soon be provided. There is much work to be done, even within the confines of the Theocracy. Members of the inquisition will visit you regularly, to see that the impositions are carried out."

The half-elf essayed her old companion's reaction, being surprised to find that resignation and acceptance were the only emotions expressed.

"I am grateful for that," the woman said, massaging her temples. "When I saw you two enter, I had resigned myself to something much worse."

"The Theocracy is not ungrateful to its sons and daughters," Rufus told her at last. Cornelia had been his pupil, and the undead loved her as much as any of her predecessors. If pain had still been a tangible sensation, it would have run through that carcass he stubbornly called a body with such intensity that merely standing would have been an impossible feat. "If we were to spill the blood of our own with such levity, it would be unforgivable."

Rufus considered what was the most appropriate sentiment to convey for that circumstance.

Disappointment? Undoubtedly, in the betrayal of that trust placed in her, expectations that were well aimed at something higher had been dashed.

Anger? His synapses were no longer prone to ire, and the fury and passion of such excess could not be stimulated by actions that could easily be understood, as in that case.

Forgiveness was a difficult task, to which better men than he had been called for worse events. The echoes of what were once precise and well-defined feelings reverberated with emptiness in his being, leaving him only an imprint from which he could draw to replicate attitudes that were hardly marked by sincerity.

"Guardian Deity, Lady Fouche…" The current situation made it impossible for Cornelia to engage in gestures of prostration, for obvious practical impediments. The woman could only modulate the intensity of her invocation, hoping it would be enough. "...For what it's worth, I want to say I'm sorry."

Rufus judged that it was enough. His disciple did not seem to deviate from his assessment.

Antilene rubbed her eyes. "You have nothing to apologize for with me," she murmured, trying to find the perfect balance between understanding and harshness. "Finding forgiveness from others is easy, sometimes. Granting it to ourselves, on the other hand, can prove more difficult." The half-elf stood up, heading for the exit. Before opening the door, she recited her goodbyes. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Cornelia Beamonte Alasia. If there is another side, I pray we'll meet again in that enchanted garden."

The two of them abandoned her in that place, alone with her faults. Now, it was up to the Gods to talk to her, provided Cornelia was still able to listen to them.

----------------------------------------

They returned to the treasure room, enjoying the last lights of dusk that heralded the night.

Antilene approached Rufus, who was busy finishing his work resting on the desk.

"What are you writing?" She asked him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"The Black Scripture biography today sees a new full page added," he dipped his pen in ink, finishing the last details on the page before him. "One I would have preferred not to have to conclude so soon."

"Do you think we did the right thing? Or should we have been more ruthless?"

He tousled her hair. At one time, that gesture had been made in comparison to someone whose blurred image revived in the half-elf. Rufus could not recall the details accurately, and was well aware that this was only an illusion. A repetition of useless gestures that found no correspondence in contingent reality. But that falsehood was more real to him than anything else in that hall of memories.

"The right measures have been taken. Do not fret over something beyond your control. You have been perfect in performing your role."

Antilene flinched, turning towards one of the windows. Her diaphanous skin glowed in the orange light filtering through the glass. "I thought we were comrades, yet she betrayed everything we fought for. The interactions we shared were limited, so why do I feel this way?"

Rufus could only speculate, using his own experience as an example. "Compared to the other inhabitants of the Theocracy, we are an anomaly. We do not perceive common experience as others do. From your point of view, the little time you have spent together has been as intense as few others. Yet it will disappear much faster than anyone could imagine. Scarcity makes attachment easier... but this is the same in regard to detachment."

"Today too will soon be forgotten, then," Antilene shrugged her shoulders, dejected. "I didn't think the seed of heresy could harbor in the Black Scriptures."

"Doctrine is not a monolith that never changes shape. It is subject to change, confrontation and, to our regret, doubt. Wavering is not a sign of weakness, not always. Faith in the Six Gods once professed love between all humanoid races. Now, that limited love is narrower. We once called elves friends, have you forgotten that?"

The half-elf ran a hand through her hair, in the area adjacent to her ears. "They betrayed us," she said, teasing the tip covered by the black mass. "Betrayal must always be repaid, you taught me that."

"Indeed, and what has been sown shall be reaped. I only ask you to remember that we may all, one day, find ourselves on the side of the accused. In that case, it will be your job as the accuser not to let unnecessary emotions get in the way of justice."

That was what Rufus asked, on the day when it would be his turn to respond to his own sin. Asking for more would have been greedy.

"I will." Antilene rested her head on his legs. The lack of flesh did not make them a comfortable resting place. Yet for her disciple there seemed to be no better place in the world to dispel worries. The bad habits learned in childhood managed to establish themselves even in maturity, after all.

"You did well today. I am sure that by continuing like this, you will soon be able to perform similar tasks even without my guidance."

"I don't think I will be able to," she retorted. "Besides, it's not like your schedule is so busy that you can't come to my aid whenever I need you, right?"

"How long do you count on continuing to lean on your old master?"

"You have an eternity at your disposal, don't you? That seems enough to me."

"Perhaps…" Rufus whispered, letting Antilene squint her eyes, if only for a few seconds. Soon a long night of vigilance would await her. In the morning, everything would be back to usual.

'Nothing lasts forever, unfortunately.' But those words remained unspoken in his thoughts.