if you're a work of art , i'm standing too close ; i can see all the brush strokes ⸻ yofielys verkon , lady of aradyan . a study on the weight of guilt as marrow in your bones , the faith that demands but never gives , the body as an altar of penance , devotion turned self - flagellation , the divinity that touches everything but you , the hollowness left behind .
nadia parkes . cis woman . she / her . wasn’t that yofielys verkon walking the cobbled roads of coňstanja ? it’s nice to see the lady of aradyan out and about on such a fine day as this. i’ve heard from the court spies that they are notoriously guilt - ridden , whilst also managing to be quite dutiful . the twenty - three year old is eager to explore bran keep . i heard that they themselves aren’t divine . it’s funny , whenever i think of them , i think of hands clasped tightly in solemn prayer ; ever - present guilt ( so present so that you do not know where you begin and where it ends ) eating away at your soul , at your spirit ; the belief that you are dirty , that your sin has made you so , a body rocking back and forth , begging to be forgiven .
you were born , perhaps , with not much fanfare . three years after your sibling , your upbringing had been quite … quiet , to say the least . relegated to being raised by a revolving door of nannies and governesses , you were quite happy to be stuck in your apartments , reading , praying , toting along after whichever woman was delegated as your companion for the day .
it never bothered you , never crossed your mind , that the divinity in your siblings sets them apart from you . perhaps your nannies had shielded you , or perhaps your childhood naïvety simply made you not care . you had dolls to play with , scrolls to read , prayers to recite . why bother with comparisons ?
initially , you were as religious as your family was . that is , to say , that you viewed your family's piety to the church of the one true god as merely duty , a burden on the title you were born with . so you attend mass , you say your evening prayers . nothing out of the ordinary .
you are fourteen , in the bustling aradyan marketplace . it is unusual for a lady of your stature to be here , of course , but your parents barely pay you any mind , and so you've gotten used to following your governess to the town centre like a little duck imprinting on its mother .
it is an accident , they say . two carts , carrying goods , carrying fruit and crops , wooden wheels perhaps unaligned , screwed all wrong , the jagged roads of the town , bumps and bruises and sharp turns . they collide into each other , into stalls , into people , and suddenly it is a cloud of rubble and dust and screaming . oh , god , there is so much screaming .
you had happened to be in the middle of it , yet your governess finds you unscathed , save for the coating of dust around your beautiful robe , a cut on the cheek . you had … survived .
there were injuries , a casualty or two , but nothing that your parents are too concerned about . the condolences are sent out to the grieving families , your governess fired , and you … you do not know why you had survived the ordeal .
you do not know why you had survived the ordeal , but you know it is not right . you know it's not right that you walked away when others did not . that you breathe while they were crushed beneath splintered wood and wheels . that your hands , soft and clean , will never know the grasping , desperate touch of the dying , begging to be saved . you wake in cold sweats at night , fingers digging crescent moons into your palms , teeth clenched so tightly your jaw aches, because why you ?
you were born with no divinity, no power, no mark of the one true god’s favor upon your flesh. your siblings radiate His light, but you — you are just a girl. and yet, you survived. your governess had called it a miracle, but she was fired, so what did she know ? perhaps she was wrong . perhaps it was not a miracle , but a mistake .
perhaps adi had spared you by accident .
the thought sinks into you like rot into fruit , like a worm into marrow , burrowing deep into your bones . you cannot let it be an accident . you cannot allow your existence to be a clerical error in the divine order of things. if adi did not mean to save you , then you will make them mean it .
so you devote yourself , wholly , fully , fervently . your piety is all-consuming, something fervid and desperate that clings to you like the scent of burning incense . you wake before dawn to pray , kneeling until you can no longer feel your legs , whispering Their name in reverence , in apology , in bargaining . you will be good . you will be holy . you will make yourself worthy .
perhaps it would have been easier if you were chosen , handpicked from the flock , granted some greater purpose because of Their mercy . but no , that is not why you devote yourself . you are not devout because you are special . you are devout because you are wrong — wrong in the way you were born , in the way you were spared , in the way you still wake up breathing when others did not . you do not serve adi because They have called to you . you serve because you must . because if you were kept alive , it could not have been a mistake . you refuse to let it be a mistake .
you have become a fixture in the church , a shadow among the pews . the priests indulge your devotion, as do your parents , though for different reasons . to the clergy, you are a pious young woman , too zealous, perhaps, but eager to serve . you are allowed to pray, to kneel, to go through the motions of the devout , but when you tell your parents you wish to belong to the church , to give yourself entirely to adi , they deny you . you are not a priestess. you are a daughter of the noble house of verkon , and daughters must be wed , must be useful , must be sacrificed for something greater .
( and you scoff . as if there is anything greater that this . )
it does not matter. you still wake before dawn to pray. you still find yourself wandering the halls of the church at night , watching the candles gutter in their sconces , wondering if this is enough . if you are enough . you tell yourself it is not a mistake that you are alive , and yet the doubt clings to you like dust , settling in the hollows of your ribs , the curve of your spine .
you were not born divine . you will never be divine . you were born a girl , and a sinner , and something adi should have forgotten .
but They didn’t ⸻ and so you will make yourself holy .
