Tag: ASTC

It’s not as if he’s never left the temple before–sometimes the older worshippers will ask for help carrying things, and he’s old enough to run quick errands by himself–but now stepping outside feels different. An entirely new experience because of the context.

He is leaving the temple and he will not be coming back tonight or tomorrow, not even next week. He may not ever return.

It’s a thought both thrilling and frightening, making him look back at the temple even as Consalvo and Melvina lead him away. The stained glass window sparkles in the afternoon sun, as if greeting him farewell. And even the grey stone walls seem warmer and brighter, the temple putting on it’s best face before he goes.

He smiles back at it, even if that seems silly.

“Excited?” Consalvo asks, noticing his smile and matching it with a grin of his own.

If anything, that makes him even giddier, and he can’t help the laugh that escapes him, “Yes,” he says because it’s true.

He has no idea what his future may be, and he’s eager to find out.

—

Their first stop isn’t a foreign one to him–while the town does have a port and one of the kingdom’s four main temples, it is rather small. There is only one haberdashery in town and the worshippers have to get their uniforms from somewhere.

Gilian the seamstress spots him first, somehow through a cloud of petticoats that will no doubt be part of the mayor’s next gown.

“Aljun!” she greets, pulling pins from her mouth and climbing her way from under what will eventually be a truly massive skirt, “I just saw you two weeks ago! Have you gone through another growth spurt already?” She asks, partially teasing, partially serious, eyeing the hems of his uniform with a sharp eye.

“Not quite,” Melvina says, catching Gilian’s attention.

The seamstress startles and blushes, embarrassed at having been caught of guard, before composing herself, “Oh? How can I help you today?”

“Aljun here will be needing some new clothes,” is all the warning he gets before Melvina’s hands clamp down on both of his shoulders and guide him towards the fitting area of the shop. “In hardier fabric than the uniform, if you can. Different styles, of course,” she adds, as Gilian crowds in close with excitement.

“I’ve always wanted to dress this boy up in something besides the worshipper uniform,” Gilian confesses, before smoothing a hand over his head as if he were several years younger, “No offense meant, Aljun, it’s just that the uniform gets boring after a while. I’ve always wondered what you’d look like in something else.”

“And color!” Consalvo says, poking his head out from the shelves of fabric samples and, indeed, holding a swatch of bright purple.

Betrayed and bemused, Aljun resigns himself to being a mannequin for the rest of the afternoon.

~

A/N: I really thought I’d get to the ship already… oh well. Here’s a random makeover scene nobody wanted

Related to these two ficlets… gotta think of a name for this series…

The temple worshippers have done their best to raise him, and he is grateful to them for that. But he doesn’t want this life–or, at least, he wants to see more and know more before he chooses it. Isn’t faith and enlightenment and worship more potent when it is chosen not forced?

He tries to explain it, stumbles over his words in excitement, ends up shoving his hands into his sleeves which stretches the fabric horribly but which helps him stay calm.

The head worshipper only listens, says nothing as he fails to articulate his emotions. The woman and the other boy, in their own complementary but distinct outfits, watch in silence as well, and he can feel his face flushing once more as he runs out of air and words.

But at the end of his ramble, the head worshipper smiles–the kind, graceful curve he has only ever seen twice before–before gently pulling his hands out of his sleeves.

“You will always be welcome here,” the head worshipper says, before squeezing his hands and nodding at the woman. She steps forward as the head worshipper steps back, letting him go.

The woman’s smile is wide and sharp, teeth and wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. Fierce, but welcoming. “Our ship leaves tomorrow morning, but it would be best if you packed your things now and stayed with us tonight.”

Suddenly, his excitement sours into anxiety, everything moving too quickly. He doesn’t even really know these people–it’s one thing to leave the temple, but to go off somewhere with strangers? He shoves his hands back into his sleeves.

His hesitation feels obvious, and it must be, for the woman’s smile falters. But the other boy still has a grin on his face and he blithely steps in between them and introduces himself. “I’m Consalvo of Redfall Island and the ship Horizon Chaser. This is my teacher, Melvina, also from Redfall and the Chaser. And you?” Consalvo asks, which is a little silly, considering both of them came here specifically looking for him.

But it helps: at least with names they aren’t entirely unknown, “I’m Aljun,” he says, then after a pause adds, “Of the Northern Temple.” It’s a strange thing, to introduce himself–he’s lived in the same place his entire life with the same people, all of whom knew him before he could even speak; there was never really any need to introduce himself.

Consalvo pulls his hands out of his sleeves, much the same way the head worshipper had, but different somehow. He worries the heat between their hands will cause his palms to sweat, but it’s a nice sensation.

“And tomorrow, you will be Aljun of the Northern Temple and the ship Horizon Chaser.”

—

He doesn’t really have much to pack. While there is a practice against materialism that the worshippers heed, they never forced it onto him. But he grew up amongst them, and so their minimal lifestyle became is own.

It’s a boon, apparently, because living on a ship means having even less space than his room in the temple dorms.

“If anything, we might have to buy you some things,” Melvina says, looking at the small pack which contains all of his personal posessions.

“Definitely some clothes,” Consalvo adds, plucking casually at the grey fabric of his uniform.

“Is this bad?” he asks, looking down at his own outfit. He doesn’t have much of a frame of reference to know. Doesn’t know what might look good or bad; fashion is not exactly a high priority in the temple.

“Well…” Consalvo stalls, stretching the word out like the sticky candy the worshipper in charge of meals sometimes lets him have.

“We wouldn’t want anyone to think we’ve kidnapped a worshipper,” the brightness in Melvina’s tone letting him know she’s joking, “and colors and patterns might as well be our uniform on the Chaser.”

It sounds nice, he thinks, except, “I don’t have any money.” He never needed any before.

Melvina and Consalvo share a look between them, a short conversation without words crafted after years of knowing each other.

“Don’t worry about it,” Consalvo says, before slinging an arm around his shoulders.

Melvina nods in agreement, taking the pack out of his hands even though it’s not that heavy, "We’ll take care of you, Aljun.“

~

A/N: Continuation from today’s earlier post because I had double missed posts and also because well… I don’t quite know where this is going but I kinda like it. Also, the characters finally have names, but I should probably think of a series name if I’m going to continue…

He is a stained glass boy, longing for places outside the temple he can never leave.

The older worshippers say he was a gift, a babe left on the steps for them to take in and raise in the ways of their religion. But all he can hear is that someone had left him behind, and in fifteen years had never come back for him. Consigned to a life sentence in a prison of walls and holy commandments he doesn’t really believe in.

He used to dream about leaving, about going into the world beyond the stained glass windows. But just as each piece is held rigidly in place with cold iron, he too is trapped.

He is sweeping–standing in the center of a beam of light painted red and blue and green and yellow–when the doors to the temple open and his fate changes.

—

The woman is too young to be his mother, their features too different for such a relation anyway, but still the hope lodges in his throat when she asks for him by name.

The head worshipper seems to recognize the woman, or perhaps what she represents, because she is quickly guided to the confession room where, even through the thick walls, he can hear them discuss his future. Loudly.

His broom has stilled, his fingers around the handle tight with nerves and a thrilling, hopeful confusion for the future. Maybe there is something else for him. Somewhere else.

“Can I get something to drink? I’m rather thirsty.”

He is so focussed on the door of the confession room, the muffled words escaping from it, that he startles at the voice. He lets go of the broom, and it clatters against the stone floor, echoing harshly.

The speaker is a boy around his age, dressed in a similar foreign-looking outfit as the woman–though, to be fair, anything that isn’t the grey worshipper uniform would look foreign to him–the fabric as colorful as the windows of the temple. He wonders if it feels soft to the touch.

“Anything? Water’d be nice,” the boy continues, an eyebrow rising in curiosity.

He startles again at the reminder of his own rudeness.

“Yes, sorry, I–” he steps forward, as if to guide the other boy to a seat, then away to fetch some water as requested, then back again to pick up his fallen broom. A strange, flustered dance which makes the other boy smile and himself flush in embarrassment, “Water. Yes, of course.”

There is a kitchen in the building behind the temple where he and all of the worshippers live, but it seems like such a long way to go, and an unnecessary delay for someone who has already stated they’re thirsty. Especially when there’s a fountain right in the very center of the temple.

The shallow wooden drinking bowl is used in ceremonies, for the temple worshippers to bestow enlightenment and spiritual healing upon those seeking it. But he is not really a worshipper, and without the ritual words and actions, the bowl is just a bowl and the fountain water just water.

He drinks from both enough to know.

Still, when he carries the bowl to the other boy, walking slowly so as not to spill, there is something charged about the moment:

Perhaps it is the sudden silence, the fact that they are the only two in room. Or the way the other boy walks forward to meet him in the middle, waiting for the bowl rather than taking it out of his hands. The way light streams in through the stained glass windows, turning even his uniform into a riot of colors.

He is shorter than the other boy, his arms already trembling, the water beginning to ripple and lap at the rim of the bowl. But still the other boy does not take it. Instead, he kneels, just like the pilgrims seeking spiritual renewal. 

When he brings the bowl to the other boy’s lips, he has to remind himself that he is no worshipper–the bowl is just a bowl, the water just water, and he is just a boy.

~

A/N: … um… i think this may turn into a series…

edit: continued here. should probably come up with a title since it actually is a series…

The second morning of my Becoming is far from interesting. And so are the following twelve days.

Walking through flat lands with nothing in sight but grass is not the thing which songs are sung of. There are no rivers either, which at first made me wonder how exactly the grass could survive. Until a fearsome thunderstorm interrupted my sleep on the fifth night and continued all through the rest of the week.

With no shelter but a cloak and bedroll, it was not a surprise that I fell ill on the thirteenth day of my journey. It was a sign of poor favor from Kenadia.

And so it was less of a surprise when, on the dawn of my second week of Becoming, I woke to a sign of disfavor from Raehani as well.

Coughing and shivering, drenched and curled up in a pathetic ball on the ground, I woke up surrounded by a group of strangers wielding spears.

—

I never had any interaction with the few traders from the west. I was a priestess in training, and the youngest grandchild of the priestess and chieftain besides. I’ve never met anyone not of my clan before today.

The group of spear wielding hunters, waylaid from their search for game by the stranger in their lands, escort me to their village. It is strange in a way that makes complete sense, though it is not the kind of scene I myself am familiar with. The architecture of my home was, by nature, stone; caves both natural and manmade.

The village is as different from mine as the flat lands are the mountains, tents mostly. Beautiful tents, with fabrics of many colors and tall and wide and open. But temporary and so unused to what I’ve known. This is not a place where a clan can put down roots, entrench themselves into the ground and pass down the land throughout generations. This is a place of travelers, wind walkers.

This is no place for a girl from the mountains.

~

A/N: Related to the previous two untitled posts. just a small thing because i didn’t want to have a second missed post and so i did this on my phone and oh my god so much family stuff i’m so tired i’ve only had like a total of ten hours sleep in the last three days