wayfarers_lodge (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wayfarers_lodge) wrote2009-03-10 11:15 pm
wayfarers_lodge) wrote2009-03-10 11:15 pm
{Amaya} How it all began
"What was your name?"
"That name is not important unless He deems it so. That past is no longer relevant, unless He wishes to make use of it- all things change by His hand, even the past."
"He wants to know, girl-thing. What was your name?"
A pause, a moment to remember.
"They called me Illaena back then, before I knew the truth..."
"Illaena, please, come in and sit down."
Sister Miriella sat comfortably in her big, tattered chair with the mirror set behind it, brown, weathered hands folded sedately in her lap. She smiled disarmingly at the shy girl- not physically a girl anymore, as she was fully grown, but in manner and demeanor- and gestured at the chair opposite her.
Illaena slipped into the seat, her shoulders hunched, eyes darting everywhere in panic. It wasn't that Miriella was intentionally frightening- indeed, she was regarded as the most approachable of the novice-Sisters- but she was big, both physically and socially. Her plump frame spoke of her standing in the Order, and evoked a feeling of motherly care in most of the novices, and her voice was usually soft and encouraging, bustling wayward chicks along to their designated tasks for the glory of Barakiel.
To Illaena, these things were nice, sometimes, but other times reminded her of the women at home, who either hadn't noticed or hadn't wanted to notice the bruises, and chided her shyness and unwillingness to socialise as signs of 'thinking above herself'. This wasn't encouraging, not at all.
Don't worry, said the voice, You aren't there anymore. You are destined for great things here.
The voice had started when she came to the Temple. It told her it was a servant of Barakiel, and always told her not to be afraid, that her purpose was coming, and to persevere when the other initiates found someone to taunt in her, and when the Scripture-master would scold her for faltering in her readings. She believed the voice- it had never steered her wrong yet.
So she smiled at Sister Miriella as the novice-Sister offered her water, shaking her head slightly as the other sat down.
"How are you, Illaena? How are you finding it here?"
She wanted to say that it was better than where she had come from, better than being with her mother and father, but it always upset people when she talked about that, so she didn't.
"I am well, thank you for asking, Sister. I quite like it here."
She did like it at the chapterhouse. It was usually quiet, and there was always a reason when they hit her here. The lessons were a little difficult to follow, and the services frequently just went over her head, but she had a bed all of her own, and clothes to wear, and what other novices treated her with disdain were nowhere near as bad as being back where she had grown up.
Mirielle smiled, with a slight sorrow to it.
"Yes, it seems you do. Father Amiel says you're doing well in training."
Ah. Training. The rising sun of her life, her joy, her purpose. The first day the drill-master, Father Amiel, had put a sword in her hand, she had felt whole in a way she never had at the spindle or the scythe. He pushed her, and he pushed her hard now that he had witnessed her joy, but that was so much for the better. Every stroke, every stance was like a prayer, Lord Barakiel, please make me worthy of your glory, please let me fight in your name.
And the voice replied Don't worry, child. You will. And you will be. I will make you worthy.
"Yes. Well, if Father Amiel says I am, then I must be. I do enjoy it- I like being able to fight for Our Lord of the Setting Sun."
"Yes, child, that much is clear." Mirielle sighed, and the hairs on the back of Illaena's neck stood on end.
"Is... is something wrong, novice-Sister?"
"Yes, child, I'm afraid there is." She sighed again, and wrung her hands. "The other novice-brothers and sisters have been watching you, my dear and... well, we're not so sure that you're suited to the Order."
Illaena looked at her, jaw slackening a little. "But... you just said I was doing well at training! I want to serve!"
"Yes, child, I know. But... you see, you can't CHOOSE to be a holy warrior. It must choose you. And while Father Amiel commends your military potential, perhaps your heart and soul aren't in it as much as might be needed."
"But I feel RIGHT when i'm fighting. I'm not just some brawler, Sister Mirielle, please- combat must have purpose!"
"But is that purpose His?" Mirielle looked at her, grey eyes sad but firm. "Your heart isn't with Barakiel, child. You may be destined to be a holy warrior, but not one of his. There is no place for you here."
"I... I can't go back. Please don't make me go back! Can't you see... He talks to me, Sister Mirielle. He says my place is here, that I am destined for things in His name!"
Mirielle's eyes went from sad to angry. Behind her, the mirror seemed to tremble, shivering like the water of a pond for just a second.
"Yes. The other novice-brothers and sisters have mentioned you talking about that. Don't you think we can tell when someone has the trace of Barakiel's favour about them? You show NOTHING of this sign, child, do not lie to us to try and keep your place. That is enough!"
Illaena's eyes closed in horror. The voice spoke softly, gently- She's wrong. Tell her. Show her. Ask my help, and you will have a place.
"Please. Help me."
Mirielle frowned. "Help y-"
She was cut off by a sudden expanding blow of force, like doors being battered open all around her. Illaena flew backwards into the wall, thudding into it, air rushing out of her lungs with a strangled cry.
When she opened her eyes, the room had changed. Mirielle's brown chair was painted red, and there were pieces of... something... plastered all over the walls. The mirror behind the chair was frosted over with something that might have been ice, or soot. The most notable change, however, was the figure in front of her.
It was tall, and it's skin was icy pale and leathery, marked with the memory of scales. Its back was adorned with feathered, tattered wings, that touched the very roof of the small antechamber, even as it stooped forward to reach her. Its jaw jutted forward like a boar's, and was full of grinning, needle-sharp teeth. Its eyes shone with a dark, dirty blue, and it unfolded its arm at two points, bringing a sharp claw up under Illaena's chin as she sat, frozen in terror.
"Ask, girl-thing, and you shall receive." It said, in a voice that rasped and hissed and burned, mouth curling up into a dangerous, pleased smile.
"Y... you're the voice?" Illaena whispered, not daring to raise her voice. From the corridor outside came no sound at all, as if all the world had stopped.
"Yes, my dear child, I am." The creature purred. "I hope you'll excuse me for my small moment of deception, but let me introduce myself- I am Tyandri, archon of the reflected future, loyal and devoted servant of Abaneth, Lord of the Mirrored Sun."
Illaena's mouth opened and closed for a moment. "A... a demon? You're... a demon?"
"If you want to be thoroughly crass about it, yes. Yes I am. Are you really all that surprised?"
"This is a sacred place, dedicated to Lord Barakiel. You... you shouldn't be able to be here."
The thing laughed with a sound that felt like a razorblade drawn across the tongue. "Oh, child, I came because you called me. You shouldn't pray to your god so loudly, little girl- anyone might hear."
"I...I did this?" She gaped a little, horrified and secretly amazed.
"Why, yes!" It smiled broadly, eyes glinting. "And imagine what more you could do, given proper service!"
"I'd NEVER serve a demon!" Illaena shouted, coming to her feet, hands curling into fists.
"Really? You seem to be doing very well at the moment." The thing brushed an imaginary speck of soot from it's robes. "Think of it this way, child. You have two choices. You can come with me, and I will give you the purpose I have promised you, in the name of my Lord. Or, I can leave you here. With poor Sister Mirielle in nothing but quivering chunks, the whole room reeking of demon taint, and this-"
It gestured, and a mace fell into her hand. She was intellectually aware of how antithetical it was to everything she had previously fought for or prayed to, but as her hand curled around the handle, all she could feel was how nice it was to hold, and how safe it made her feel. She wasn't sure who, but someone that wasn't quite Illaena never wanted to let go of that weapon, and never wanted to feel threatened again.
She looked up at the demon after a long moment, and it smiled at her again. This time it wasn't as unnerving.
"Won't that be hard to explain? Of course, the wonderful thing about serving a demon lord is that home is wherever you make it. No one will make you go back anywhere. And if you really want, when we're done, you can go back and make the son of a bitch PAY."
She knew she should say no. But the mace felt so good, and Not-Illaena didn't want to be a thug, and hadn't they said that Barakiel didn't want her, anyway?
"Alright. I'll come with you."
"Excellent, girl-child!" It laughed, clapping in delight, and held out a clawed hand to her. "You've made the RIGHT choice. Come along now. Let's not keep Lord Abaneth waiting, he's quite anxious to meet you."
Not-Illaena took Tyandri's hand, and he lead her towards the mirror. As they stepped through it, the soot-rime finish subsided, and the room was soon filled with a grim silence and the scent of blood and viscera.
"Very good, dear girl-child, He is pleased. So tell me, what is your name now?"
"My name... is Amaya."
"That name is not important unless He deems it so. That past is no longer relevant, unless He wishes to make use of it- all things change by His hand, even the past."
"He wants to know, girl-thing. What was your name?"
A pause, a moment to remember.
"They called me Illaena back then, before I knew the truth..."
"Illaena, please, come in and sit down."
Sister Miriella sat comfortably in her big, tattered chair with the mirror set behind it, brown, weathered hands folded sedately in her lap. She smiled disarmingly at the shy girl- not physically a girl anymore, as she was fully grown, but in manner and demeanor- and gestured at the chair opposite her.
Illaena slipped into the seat, her shoulders hunched, eyes darting everywhere in panic. It wasn't that Miriella was intentionally frightening- indeed, she was regarded as the most approachable of the novice-Sisters- but she was big, both physically and socially. Her plump frame spoke of her standing in the Order, and evoked a feeling of motherly care in most of the novices, and her voice was usually soft and encouraging, bustling wayward chicks along to their designated tasks for the glory of Barakiel.
To Illaena, these things were nice, sometimes, but other times reminded her of the women at home, who either hadn't noticed or hadn't wanted to notice the bruises, and chided her shyness and unwillingness to socialise as signs of 'thinking above herself'. This wasn't encouraging, not at all.
Don't worry, said the voice, You aren't there anymore. You are destined for great things here.
The voice had started when she came to the Temple. It told her it was a servant of Barakiel, and always told her not to be afraid, that her purpose was coming, and to persevere when the other initiates found someone to taunt in her, and when the Scripture-master would scold her for faltering in her readings. She believed the voice- it had never steered her wrong yet.
So she smiled at Sister Miriella as the novice-Sister offered her water, shaking her head slightly as the other sat down.
"How are you, Illaena? How are you finding it here?"
She wanted to say that it was better than where she had come from, better than being with her mother and father, but it always upset people when she talked about that, so she didn't.
"I am well, thank you for asking, Sister. I quite like it here."
She did like it at the chapterhouse. It was usually quiet, and there was always a reason when they hit her here. The lessons were a little difficult to follow, and the services frequently just went over her head, but she had a bed all of her own, and clothes to wear, and what other novices treated her with disdain were nowhere near as bad as being back where she had grown up.
Mirielle smiled, with a slight sorrow to it.
"Yes, it seems you do. Father Amiel says you're doing well in training."
Ah. Training. The rising sun of her life, her joy, her purpose. The first day the drill-master, Father Amiel, had put a sword in her hand, she had felt whole in a way she never had at the spindle or the scythe. He pushed her, and he pushed her hard now that he had witnessed her joy, but that was so much for the better. Every stroke, every stance was like a prayer, Lord Barakiel, please make me worthy of your glory, please let me fight in your name.
And the voice replied Don't worry, child. You will. And you will be. I will make you worthy.
"Yes. Well, if Father Amiel says I am, then I must be. I do enjoy it- I like being able to fight for Our Lord of the Setting Sun."
"Yes, child, that much is clear." Mirielle sighed, and the hairs on the back of Illaena's neck stood on end.
"Is... is something wrong, novice-Sister?"
"Yes, child, I'm afraid there is." She sighed again, and wrung her hands. "The other novice-brothers and sisters have been watching you, my dear and... well, we're not so sure that you're suited to the Order."
Illaena looked at her, jaw slackening a little. "But... you just said I was doing well at training! I want to serve!"
"Yes, child, I know. But... you see, you can't CHOOSE to be a holy warrior. It must choose you. And while Father Amiel commends your military potential, perhaps your heart and soul aren't in it as much as might be needed."
"But I feel RIGHT when i'm fighting. I'm not just some brawler, Sister Mirielle, please- combat must have purpose!"
"But is that purpose His?" Mirielle looked at her, grey eyes sad but firm. "Your heart isn't with Barakiel, child. You may be destined to be a holy warrior, but not one of his. There is no place for you here."
"I... I can't go back. Please don't make me go back! Can't you see... He talks to me, Sister Mirielle. He says my place is here, that I am destined for things in His name!"
Mirielle's eyes went from sad to angry. Behind her, the mirror seemed to tremble, shivering like the water of a pond for just a second.
"Yes. The other novice-brothers and sisters have mentioned you talking about that. Don't you think we can tell when someone has the trace of Barakiel's favour about them? You show NOTHING of this sign, child, do not lie to us to try and keep your place. That is enough!"
Illaena's eyes closed in horror. The voice spoke softly, gently- She's wrong. Tell her. Show her. Ask my help, and you will have a place.
"Please. Help me."
Mirielle frowned. "Help y-"
She was cut off by a sudden expanding blow of force, like doors being battered open all around her. Illaena flew backwards into the wall, thudding into it, air rushing out of her lungs with a strangled cry.
When she opened her eyes, the room had changed. Mirielle's brown chair was painted red, and there were pieces of... something... plastered all over the walls. The mirror behind the chair was frosted over with something that might have been ice, or soot. The most notable change, however, was the figure in front of her.
It was tall, and it's skin was icy pale and leathery, marked with the memory of scales. Its back was adorned with feathered, tattered wings, that touched the very roof of the small antechamber, even as it stooped forward to reach her. Its jaw jutted forward like a boar's, and was full of grinning, needle-sharp teeth. Its eyes shone with a dark, dirty blue, and it unfolded its arm at two points, bringing a sharp claw up under Illaena's chin as she sat, frozen in terror.
"Ask, girl-thing, and you shall receive." It said, in a voice that rasped and hissed and burned, mouth curling up into a dangerous, pleased smile.
"Y... you're the voice?" Illaena whispered, not daring to raise her voice. From the corridor outside came no sound at all, as if all the world had stopped.
"Yes, my dear child, I am." The creature purred. "I hope you'll excuse me for my small moment of deception, but let me introduce myself- I am Tyandri, archon of the reflected future, loyal and devoted servant of Abaneth, Lord of the Mirrored Sun."
Illaena's mouth opened and closed for a moment. "A... a demon? You're... a demon?"
"If you want to be thoroughly crass about it, yes. Yes I am. Are you really all that surprised?"
"This is a sacred place, dedicated to Lord Barakiel. You... you shouldn't be able to be here."
The thing laughed with a sound that felt like a razorblade drawn across the tongue. "Oh, child, I came because you called me. You shouldn't pray to your god so loudly, little girl- anyone might hear."
"I...I did this?" She gaped a little, horrified and secretly amazed.
"Why, yes!" It smiled broadly, eyes glinting. "And imagine what more you could do, given proper service!"
"I'd NEVER serve a demon!" Illaena shouted, coming to her feet, hands curling into fists.
"Really? You seem to be doing very well at the moment." The thing brushed an imaginary speck of soot from it's robes. "Think of it this way, child. You have two choices. You can come with me, and I will give you the purpose I have promised you, in the name of my Lord. Or, I can leave you here. With poor Sister Mirielle in nothing but quivering chunks, the whole room reeking of demon taint, and this-"
It gestured, and a mace fell into her hand. She was intellectually aware of how antithetical it was to everything she had previously fought for or prayed to, but as her hand curled around the handle, all she could feel was how nice it was to hold, and how safe it made her feel. She wasn't sure who, but someone that wasn't quite Illaena never wanted to let go of that weapon, and never wanted to feel threatened again.
She looked up at the demon after a long moment, and it smiled at her again. This time it wasn't as unnerving.
"Won't that be hard to explain? Of course, the wonderful thing about serving a demon lord is that home is wherever you make it. No one will make you go back anywhere. And if you really want, when we're done, you can go back and make the son of a bitch PAY."
She knew she should say no. But the mace felt so good, and Not-Illaena didn't want to be a thug, and hadn't they said that Barakiel didn't want her, anyway?
"Alright. I'll come with you."
"Excellent, girl-child!" It laughed, clapping in delight, and held out a clawed hand to her. "You've made the RIGHT choice. Come along now. Let's not keep Lord Abaneth waiting, he's quite anxious to meet you."
Not-Illaena took Tyandri's hand, and he lead her towards the mirror. As they stepped through it, the soot-rime finish subsided, and the room was soon filled with a grim silence and the scent of blood and viscera.
"Very good, dear girl-child, He is pleased. So tell me, what is your name now?"
"My name... is Amaya."
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