Tag: untitled

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

A/N: continuation of yesterday’s ficlet

~

My Becoming calls me to the west, which is strange and frightening and thrilling all at once. For my clan is already the western most of the mountains.

It is not that the western lands are unknown, but we are not allies with any of them–only the rarest and luckiest traders come and go to the western lands. Though we treat them with respect, a lone trader is no way to build a relationship with an entire nation. Or nations.

Not even Raehani’s priestess and her odd warrior husband-to-be were in the west–no, they met in the south, in the lands owned by the Silver Emperor. And while no single clan is large or strong enough to take on the empire, it is agreed upon that all clans will band together to fight if necessary.

It has not been necessary, for there is not much in the mountains for the Emperor to want. And he is afraid of magic, or so the rumors go.

Not so for our neighbors to the east whose kings and queens are said to be even stronger in magic than Vaseika’s priestess, but they too find no use for our mountains. Which is just as well, what makes the mountains sacred to us means nothing to those whose ancestors are not from the mountains.

We do not speak of the lands to the north because those are dead lands. No, not even dead–for something must first be alive in order for it to die, and that is not the case. The north is a void, is oblivion, is emptiness. It is a blight upon existence and so we do not speak of it.

Though, to be honest, when my Becoming called on me, I was afraid it would have me journey to the north. I am not sure I would have had the courage to go, even if the Becoming had demanded it of me.

I am glad that is not the case. For though the western lands are a mystery, at least it is not the north.

—

On the morning I am to leave on my journey, each of the priestesses give me a gift.

It is not quite fair, for when Kenadia’s priestess went on her Becoming, the only priestess was Grandmother and so she received only one gift. Then Raehani’s priestess had two before her and so she received two gifts and so on.

I am the youngest, and so I am to receive four.

I am sure I will need each of them during my Becoming.

—

West, I am to go, leaving with the sun against my back, following my shadow until the day passes and I follow the sun as it settles for sleep.

The mountains are not so difficult to traverse, for I have lived among them my entire life, but it is strange to go in this direction, away from what is known and familiar.

Down, down, down, and westwards, and my first evening finds me at the foot of the western most mountain. The flattest lands I have ever seen spread before me. It should not be so intimidating, but it is–there are no hills or sheltering rock faces. Not even any trees. Just grasslands as far as the eye can see.

I spend the first night in a cave, unable to travel such a strange land with no sun or moon to guide me.

If a calling could be said to be indulgent, then that is what my Becoming felt that night, and it was enough to soothe me into something resembling sleep.

We are the four granddaughters of our clan’s priestess. A good omen, our people praise, one for each of our goddesses. A threat, our enemies murmur for much the same reason.

Our goddesses are powerful, but covetous, as likely to curse us as they are to bless us. For every goddess is as a coin–two faces for a single being.

The first, grandmother says, is the goddess of fertility. Vaseika. She is new growth and harvests and births, and the good cheer of having plenty. But she is also famine, and lean years, and hunger etched into the sunken cheekbones of the children.

The second, grandmother says, is the goddess of peace. Raehani. She is the warmth of the home and the bonds of friendship stretched between clans, allowing trade and prosperity. But she is also war, the destruction and the chaos burning everything down.

The third, grandmother says, is the goddess of health. Kenadia. She is cool clean water and the knowledge that our bodies will not turn against us. But she is also disease and illness, doling out punishments to those who might not even deserve them.

The fourth, grandmother says, is the most powerful. Or perhaps she is the only goddess, each of the previous three merely facets of the one true goddess. She is the goddess of life. Or, she is the goddess of death. She has no name, but she is waiting, always, for her children and for her children’s enemies.

The four goddesses. And the four priestesses to be.

—

When we turn sixteen, four times four a powerful number, good and stable and holy, we are sent on our journey. For understanding and wisdom. Our Becoming.

Each of us feel a call, and we are responsible for following it, wherever it may lead. If we succeed, then it is only at the behest of the goddesses.

But if we fail? Then perhaps we were not good enough, perhaps that is how it is meant to be.

Of my cousins, I am the youngest, and so I am the last to go on my Becoming.

The eldest, who already has a talent in healing, and will no doubt become the priestess of Kenadia, assures me that it is not so frightening. For her journey was only to a neighboring clan, to heal the sick child of the chieftain, and thus secure an alliance that will no doubt last generations.

The second will not tell me what she did, for we are not close, but it is known that she was gone for many months and returned with a sword and an odd looking warrior that she did not leave with. Grandmother says they are in love and all is well; they will marry next summer.

The third no longer can speak, injured during her journey, and so her Becoming will be a secret to everyone in the clan. But she was victorious in all the ways that matter. It is a good trade, her voice for such strong magic; she is Vaseika’s chosen avatar, plants spring up beneath her hands.

I am the youngest, and so I am the last to go on my Becoming. I am sixteen this year.

—

It is far, wherever I am to go, the called something that I cannot explain in words. But Grandmother knows, has overseen many journeys, has been on one herself. She understands.

I am to go far, wherever I am pulled, and not come back until I have Become.

If I can come back at all.

It is no secret which goddess remains for me, and She is not kind in either life or death.

~

A/N: ?

edit: continued here