If Anne had been who she claimed to be, she would’ve certainly have loved to analyse every single detail of this church. Maybe she would have found where Orthodoxy ended and the local neopagan cult around this Mother Miranda began. Devotionals that reminded her of those icons she had seen in churches around these parts, and yet the portrait of this woman was still… different. Did they make an effort to cut themselves lose, with old culture still seeping into their craftsmanship, or was this something different altogether? Thankfully she didn’t need to reply to such questions, and a real historian would’ve found it fascinating, no doubt.
And after all, it was easy to become enraptured by the singing, by the prayer, by the sincere belief that this…. this Mother Miranda was protecting the village from harm, and up until know, it could have worked, and would it be that preposterous of her to just… accept it? She knew herself as a follower, and the utter devotion that these villagers showed when it came to this woman was… almost admirable. Easy. Yes, it was easy to fall victim too.
Alexander’s notes had been vague, just mentioning how he admired her work. Maybe she was only a myth, and Anne had gotten the facts wrong. A reminder of the good old days where doctors could do as they pleased in the name of science without some annoying human rights activists blocking their every step. But those were rare in isolated mountain villages like this one. Still. The lines became ever more blurry. She knew of cult leaders that were seen like a god, but there was still something looming in the back of her mind that told her - or tried to - that this wasn’t a mere Jonestown. This was… more.
“I have never seen anything quite like it,” Anne mumbled, as the tips of her fingers gently brushed over the handwoven linen cloth at the shrine dedicated to the patroness of the village - would it be considered sacrilegeous to touch it? She turned around, eyeing the woman who had offered herself to be a guide. More help than anyone else, and Anne counted her blessings in that case. The church was dimly lit by flickering candles, painting shadows on the ancient walls.
“And Mother Miranda… how does she protect the village?
The act was easy to slip into — a simple village maiden who was too friendly for her own good, someone almost too eager to show off the dreary townlet to the curious folk that passed through. Some were able to pass through without a scratch ( the priestess deeming them unimportant and nonthreatening to the secrets held beneath ), but others who poked their noses where they shouldn’t, asked too many questions — those were the ones she latched onto. Putting on a kind face and lending a helping hand was how she kept an eye on them.
It had been done many times prior to this instance, and will certainly be done for years after.
Using the guise of an unfortunate soul, no doubt already long deceased by the hands of either herself or the other lords, Miranda watched in stark silence as the woman admired and examined the shrine placed before them in the church. ‘What is she thinking?’ She wondered, dragging a finger through the thin layer of dust that had settled over the portrait and various items surrounding it. An idle action that only added to the fingerprints littering the dust from where residents paid their respects.
Flickering lights of the candles cast her face in a shadow, those striking silver eyes of hers — oddly similar to those belonging to the woman in the portrait, nearly gave off a low gleam in the dim lighting. Thumb and index pressed together, rubbing away the grime picked up as her head turned to give her full attention back to the woman she was ‘helping’ on her journey.
❝ Mother Miranda brought us from the brink of extinction, ❞ Miranda started, the voice passing through her lips far from her own, ❝ She heals the sick, provides what she can for the poor, and keeps danger and disease from entering the village. ❞ Pale fingers wrapped around a necklace sitting atop her bosom,
❝ We’re lucky she arrived when she did. ❞
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