Chapter 1 - Bad Things
2010-09-14 09:54![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aguuA/N: I need to redo this...adding it to the growing pile of unfinished work. xD It's a lot of fun, but as of right now there's no structured plot. It's modelled after my Skype friends, and I have their facebooks and enough journal entries to ensure I don't forget them easily, anyway.
...not that they'd let me forget them, heh.
____________________________
One evening she sought me out, as the Priestess Rabế explained.
I was writing another sermon by lamplight, my eyes straining against the tiredness and smoke when I heard her footsteps, and looked up.
She was seven and looked at me. In the dim light of the lamp, her normally gray eyes shone silver. With her she brought the scent of lavender and honeysuckle, flowers native to summertime.
“Did you need me, Arantele?” When she didn’t answer I shook my head and went back to writing, my pen poised and gliding over the pieces of parchment. It seemed like an eternity before she found her voice.
“I want to know about our Lord.”
“Priestess Rabế should know the most, didn’t she put you to bed tonight, Arantele?”
“Yes. But I wanted to know more about Lord Alexander.” Her tone became soft and persuasive, and as if by some absurd witchcraft (or perhaps my tiredness) my sermon in the lamplight seemed to bow and bend together. It wasn’t long before I felt the softest of tugs on my black robe. The smell of honeysuckle was overpowering.
“Please, Saint Ursa...” My head began to throb, as did my heart. Somehow I found myself wanting to please her. Down went the paperwork and up she went on my lap, as I told her of legends passed down from my father, everything I knew about Lord Alexander. Not once did I turn away from her, and only when her spider-web gray eyes slid shut did I regain my senses. The glass lamp had long run out of oil, the moonlight being my only witness as I, a priest of nearly forty years had been dominated, controlled by a little girl.
I sought out one of the patrolling acolytes and was thoroughly surprised at how intently he looked at me—his browny-green eyes were dark with contempt.
“Is anything bothering you, child?”
“No, nothing, father...is she all right? Did she cause you any discomfort?” the words were kind, but his eyes said much more.
“She wanted to know more about Lord Alexander. Would you tell Rabế--“
“If it concerns Arantele, I’m sure I’m more than enough. Father, isn’t she heavy? Let me carry her for you. I’ll make sure she goes to bed.”
Without waiting for my reply, the young boy took her from my arms, and in surprise, I let her go. He turned and started walking, as I did, towards my own quarters, where a large portrait of Lord Alexander hung on the doorframe. Glancing up at his eyes, hidden with Aviator sunglasses, I paused.
Would you be proud, my Lord, having this girl serve you?
Everything about her was unusual. From her birth to the mysterious smell of honeysuckle and lavender, to the way the acolyte had looked at me, almost jealously that I was holding her and he wasn’t. If word ever got around that she was able to do such dark magic, she would surely be killed. I couldn’t do it, the strings of maybes that tumbled round in my brain, one after the other. I could never live with myself if she wasn’t accepted. My hand reached for the doorknob and I lay back on my own swan-feather bed, and knew no more.
And so she grew, with every summer and winter that passed over the island. Her requests to see where the villagers dispersed to every Sunday grew frequent, and soon I would run out of reasons. She was nearing thirteen years of age, and I was no longer the man I had been. I would spend the next three summers going in and out of the village, spreading all the right stories and explaining the circumstances; the girl would never know that it was *I* who started the rumour about the trade ships that brought her to our shores that stormy night, that the traitorous ships that brought our pretty jewels and arrowheads also brought her to our island, hidden underneath a blanket and a wicker basket.
“Father Ursagaea, what does this passage mean? Lord Alexander and Queezle worked together to create the flow of time we call reality...?” Her voice would poke and prod at me and I would explain, as patiently as I could. She gave me more to think about than my creaking bones, the way my skin had grown loose and wrinkled. “Queezle was given control of the flow of time, and also to keep it flowing. If she were to lose interest, time and reality would warp.”
There was much I didn’t understand about our religion, especially about our own gods, but she wasn’t to know that. As far as she was concerned, I knew everything about them.
“Arantele...why is that whenever you appear, the smell of honeysuckle follows?”
She looked straight at me, and I quickly averted my sight to her hair, the colour of dark wood dappled with chestnut. The fingers on her left hand touched her right wrist, and I saw a small, interwoven bracelet of the golden flowers. “Mother Rabế’s birthday’s coming up soon, Father. I was wondering if you could let me go into the village market to give her something.”
“N—“
“Please...? I haven’t been outside of the church since I was born, Father. Please let me see what it’s like outside...I’ll come back quickly, I promise!”
“I’m sorry, Arantele, but you can’t leave. Lord Alexander would—“
“Father! I have been patient. You told me that I would go out when I was older. I’m sixteen now. Why won’t you let me go outside?” There was an edge in her voice, one that I had never heard before. She was always such a good, obedient little girl. There were no tears in her eyes, but her voice held anger. It was unfair, that voice was screaming that the other priestesses and acolytes could go out.
“Because, Arantele. People ask questions. If they knew you have no mother—“
“Father, all the villagers know I’m alone. They talk while leaving the church, they talk to me about my situation, they ask why I’ve never gone to the village, and I know nothing. The village boys say that they will protect me; they say that they will stone the wild dogs that come too close. Please, let me go!”
It was that day that I learned to hate honeysuckle. The sweet flowers were releasing such an aroma that instead of that tiny bracelet, I smelled hundreds upon thousands of them, all coming from this small girl. It was enough to make me vomit, and before I could, I let her go. I raised my walking-stick and pointed to the door, and saw her smiling face before she ran off.
The smile she gave me was chilling. I walked around the rooms of the priestesses, priests, and acolytes to ease my nausea, and when I approached Arantele’s room, there were honeysuckle flowers everywhere, and before I completely lost consciousness, I felt something hard on my head, and heard childish giggling.
It was the last day I was allowed to live.
...not that they'd let me forget them, heh.
____________________________
One evening she sought me out, as the Priestess Rabế explained.
I was writing another sermon by lamplight, my eyes straining against the tiredness and smoke when I heard her footsteps, and looked up.
She was seven and looked at me. In the dim light of the lamp, her normally gray eyes shone silver. With her she brought the scent of lavender and honeysuckle, flowers native to summertime.
“Did you need me, Arantele?” When she didn’t answer I shook my head and went back to writing, my pen poised and gliding over the pieces of parchment. It seemed like an eternity before she found her voice.
“I want to know about our Lord.”
“Priestess Rabế should know the most, didn’t she put you to bed tonight, Arantele?”
“Yes. But I wanted to know more about Lord Alexander.” Her tone became soft and persuasive, and as if by some absurd witchcraft (or perhaps my tiredness) my sermon in the lamplight seemed to bow and bend together. It wasn’t long before I felt the softest of tugs on my black robe. The smell of honeysuckle was overpowering.
“Please, Saint Ursa...” My head began to throb, as did my heart. Somehow I found myself wanting to please her. Down went the paperwork and up she went on my lap, as I told her of legends passed down from my father, everything I knew about Lord Alexander. Not once did I turn away from her, and only when her spider-web gray eyes slid shut did I regain my senses. The glass lamp had long run out of oil, the moonlight being my only witness as I, a priest of nearly forty years had been dominated, controlled by a little girl.
I sought out one of the patrolling acolytes and was thoroughly surprised at how intently he looked at me—his browny-green eyes were dark with contempt.
“Is anything bothering you, child?”
“No, nothing, father...is she all right? Did she cause you any discomfort?” the words were kind, but his eyes said much more.
“She wanted to know more about Lord Alexander. Would you tell Rabế--“
“If it concerns Arantele, I’m sure I’m more than enough. Father, isn’t she heavy? Let me carry her for you. I’ll make sure she goes to bed.”
Without waiting for my reply, the young boy took her from my arms, and in surprise, I let her go. He turned and started walking, as I did, towards my own quarters, where a large portrait of Lord Alexander hung on the doorframe. Glancing up at his eyes, hidden with Aviator sunglasses, I paused.
Would you be proud, my Lord, having this girl serve you?
Everything about her was unusual. From her birth to the mysterious smell of honeysuckle and lavender, to the way the acolyte had looked at me, almost jealously that I was holding her and he wasn’t. If word ever got around that she was able to do such dark magic, she would surely be killed. I couldn’t do it, the strings of maybes that tumbled round in my brain, one after the other. I could never live with myself if she wasn’t accepted. My hand reached for the doorknob and I lay back on my own swan-feather bed, and knew no more.
And so she grew, with every summer and winter that passed over the island. Her requests to see where the villagers dispersed to every Sunday grew frequent, and soon I would run out of reasons. She was nearing thirteen years of age, and I was no longer the man I had been. I would spend the next three summers going in and out of the village, spreading all the right stories and explaining the circumstances; the girl would never know that it was *I* who started the rumour about the trade ships that brought her to our shores that stormy night, that the traitorous ships that brought our pretty jewels and arrowheads also brought her to our island, hidden underneath a blanket and a wicker basket.
“Father Ursagaea, what does this passage mean? Lord Alexander and Queezle worked together to create the flow of time we call reality...?” Her voice would poke and prod at me and I would explain, as patiently as I could. She gave me more to think about than my creaking bones, the way my skin had grown loose and wrinkled. “Queezle was given control of the flow of time, and also to keep it flowing. If she were to lose interest, time and reality would warp.”
There was much I didn’t understand about our religion, especially about our own gods, but she wasn’t to know that. As far as she was concerned, I knew everything about them.
“Arantele...why is that whenever you appear, the smell of honeysuckle follows?”
She looked straight at me, and I quickly averted my sight to her hair, the colour of dark wood dappled with chestnut. The fingers on her left hand touched her right wrist, and I saw a small, interwoven bracelet of the golden flowers. “Mother Rabế’s birthday’s coming up soon, Father. I was wondering if you could let me go into the village market to give her something.”
“N—“
“Please...? I haven’t been outside of the church since I was born, Father. Please let me see what it’s like outside...I’ll come back quickly, I promise!”
“I’m sorry, Arantele, but you can’t leave. Lord Alexander would—“
“Father! I have been patient. You told me that I would go out when I was older. I’m sixteen now. Why won’t you let me go outside?” There was an edge in her voice, one that I had never heard before. She was always such a good, obedient little girl. There were no tears in her eyes, but her voice held anger. It was unfair, that voice was screaming that the other priestesses and acolytes could go out.
“Because, Arantele. People ask questions. If they knew you have no mother—“
“Father, all the villagers know I’m alone. They talk while leaving the church, they talk to me about my situation, they ask why I’ve never gone to the village, and I know nothing. The village boys say that they will protect me; they say that they will stone the wild dogs that come too close. Please, let me go!”
It was that day that I learned to hate honeysuckle. The sweet flowers were releasing such an aroma that instead of that tiny bracelet, I smelled hundreds upon thousands of them, all coming from this small girl. It was enough to make me vomit, and before I could, I let her go. I raised my walking-stick and pointed to the door, and saw her smiling face before she ran off.
The smile she gave me was chilling. I walked around the rooms of the priestesses, priests, and acolytes to ease my nausea, and when I approached Arantele’s room, there were honeysuckle flowers everywhere, and before I completely lost consciousness, I felt something hard on my head, and heard childish giggling.
It was the last day I was allowed to live.
