Zoned out during a work meeting and instead of taking notes on the meeting I went crazy and wrote this
[Image Transcript:
Prophethood grows in you like a fungus
Invisible spores cause divinity to sprout from your flesh
Purpose takes root just as easily as mycelium
Each mutation, each warping, each loss is sacred creation
God consumes you, digests you, makes your decomposition a sacrement
You consume god, tearing into Him with your teeth every time you eat
He is not the god of harvest, He is the harvest
Every piece of grain is flesh and blood you eat
He is not the god of knowledge, He is knowledge
You hunger for him and take him into yourself as surely as food
God consumes you, You consume God
At autopsy they will find no part of you untouched
Every sample, every biopsy will be infected with divinity
When they cut open your chest, they will see holiness metastisized
They will put cause of death as Martyr
Because they cannot see the truth
You did not die ]
I scrutinize each photo
Each letter, each tape, each story
Digging further and further back through history
Hoping to pinpoint
Where the weight on my shoulders originated
Who carried it first
How many generations of suffering do I hold
How many ghosts are tearing at my flesh
How many generations of knowledge have I been denied
How much has been lost
How much will be lost
As my fingers slowly erode paper
As obsession wears through the tapes
As each memory slowly becomes unrecognizable
The film strips undulate like intestines
The dust and ink sticking to my hands like flecks of gore
When you cut into my gut
Is it blood that spills out
Or history?
Salamatullah Eldritch (2022), Archival Violence, Mnemonic Gore [digital collage]
Words: 5273
Warnings: Horror, altered reality/mental states, hopelessness, contemplating death
Notes: Footnotes at end contain translations for the song and misc words used
“Keep your doors locked tonight, mijo,” Silvia said as Ciríaco was about to leave.
The weaving hut was near empty now, just the two of them left inside it, though the sun had already risen. It wouldn’t be odd on any other day, when Ciríaco was the only waking soul in the city, quietly working in the silent hut while the city slept the day away.
But today wasn’t every other day.
No one was asleep now, even though the sun was out. The silence one would hear while walking the streets at this hour was a different silence than other days. Hidden beneath the veil of silence was fear, was quiet whispered prayers and barricaded doors.
“I know, I always do,” Ciríaco started, “Las Lechuzas-”
“Not about that,” Silvia interrupted, giving Ciríaco pause, “Whatever Xochitl told you, forget it, don’t go looking for answers. Keep your doors locked and stay inside, no matter what. You’re putting the little ones at risk if you don’t.”
Normally he wouldn’t be surprised that Silvia knew about Xochitl’s conversations with him. They weren’t secretive, though most would think so given how they took place after curfew. Silvia and Xochitl often bickered about their meetings in a way Ciríaco always thought was lighthearted, the sort of bickering that only can come after so many decades of marriage.
The conversation in question, though, was not about las lechuzas. Ciríaco had asked her to tell him of his father. Xochitl was one of the few people that ever spoke of him.
What surprised Ciríaco, though, was not that Silvia knew of their conversation or the inocuousness of it, but the seriousness of her tone. Not just that, but the creeping desperation, the weight of her words made heavy with the fear that was slipping through the cracks of her stoic mask. In all the years Silvia had been a mother to him, he had never seen her mask falter for even a moment. He hadn’t even realized she had one.
It was the smallest thing, but enough to shatter the image of Silvia that Ciríaco had in his mind, the cracking of a pedestal he hadn’t realized he placed her on. He had always built her up as sturdy, as an immovable pillar he could lean against and cling to. But now, he could feel the shining marble turn to sand and crumble under the weight of him, sending him tumbling into the unknown with no anchor to hold him.
At that moment, Silvia was human, flawed and fallible, and there was nothing more terrifying than that realization.
Before she let Ciríaco go, she muttered a quick prayer over him. It was one he had heard countless times before, but for some reason now it made his stomach turn with unease.
In the window sill of the hut, a lone barn owl was perched.
Ciríaco wasn’t sure what woke him. He didn’t jerk awake gasping like he did when the blood of the past seeped into his dreams, he wasn’t awoken by Nico gently poking his cheek, or by Matías crying. Instead, slowly, he felt himself being pulled from a deep sleep, steadily becoming aware of the mattress beneath him, the hair falling in his eyes, the warmth of Nico curled up against his arm, and finally, a faint light he could see even through his eyelid. That alone made him open his eyes, dread settling in his gut as he noticed the source of the light. A small ray of sunlight, streaming in through a gap in the curtains.
Any other day, it wouldn’t have bothered him.
Today wasn’t any other day.
Swallowing down the fear, Ciríaco carefully managed to pull his arm from Nico’s grasp without waking him. The sunlight illuminated the room just enough that he didn’t have to fumble for his crutch leaning beside the bed. The bed creaked as he stood, his unsteady footsteps hard against the stone floor, but those sounds were not nearly as loud as his heart pounding in his ears. He stood frozen in front of the window, unable to will himself to move, eyes glued to the sliver of a gap between the curtains, to the ray of sunlight cutting through the darkness.
Despite the fear clawing at him, a thought suddenly crept in the back of his mind.
Is it really dangerous out there?
The thought alone felt akin to blasphemy, like insolence and arrogance. He had heard the stories, seen remains of those unfortunate enough not to make it inside in time first-hand. He knew firsthand the pain of knowing he would never return from the darkness, from the hands of las lechuzas.
The danger was irrefutable, but looking through the gap in the curtain, Ciríaco couldn’t bring himself to recoil.
Distantly, he realized that he still clung to that childish hope his father was out there, that if he ventured out on the day of La Caza de Lechuzas that he could find him. Ciríaco had tried desperately to reach for memories of him, for memories of what happened, but they always remained outside of his grasp, in the light outside. His father was gone, and his mother took the secret of what happened that day to her grave.
Perhaps it was the memory of his mother-- of her tight-lipped silence that was unfazed by Ciríaco’s begging by her deathbed-- that broke whatever spell held him in place, staring out the window. With a rough jerk, he closed the curtain and plunged the room into darkness once more.
The silence that hit him was deafening, suffocating, Ciríaco’s heart jumped to his throat as the sudden wrongness of it hit him. He waited for Nico to stir, to wake, waited to hear his small voice call for him, pouting at his absence. Nico was the lightest sleeper, he always stirred at the slightest thing, he has since he was a toddler. Back then it had been nearly impossible for Ciríaco to leave the house in the morning for work, Nico always waking and clinging to his leg and begging his older brother to stay. Even Eneida would sometimes stir, usually if only to pull her brother back to bed.
But now it was silent.
The children slept silently behind him, still in bed, oblivious to Ciríaco, oblivious to the faint light that filtered through the curtain.
The same light that vanished in the blink of an eye, leaving Ciríaco suddenly in pitch black so disorienting he nearly fell to the ground. His heart was pounding in his ears again as he clutched his cane tightly, trying to ground himself, his forehead pressed to the cold stone wall below the window. Blinking rapidly, he tried to let his eyes adjust to the dark, but the darkness remained. With his free hand, he reached up to his face, clumsily trying to find his eyes, unable to tell if they were open or closed anymore.
He felt himself blink. The dark remained unchanged.
No matter how many times he opened his eyes, there was nothing to see. He felt himself panting, heart racing, but even then the silence remained unbroken.
Until a scream rang out from just beyond the window. Shrill and breathless and cut off suddenly as something slammed against the window. Ciríaco’s breath caught in his throat and he slapped his hand over his mouth as he waited, waited to hear movement, to hear another scream, to hear the window creak open.
Instead what broke the silence was a faint, ragged and breathless voice with a song.
The intonation was all wrong, the pacing stilted and jerky: not human, but rather a poor, mechanical pantomiming of a human voice. Sounds parroted back without emotion by something without vocal cords. But Ciríaco didn’t process that, not then, too preoccupied with the sudden deja-vu that crashed over him.
He couldn’t understand the words, yet they were as familiar as his own tongue, as his own name. Without a doubt, he knew he had heard this song before, the melody calling to him like a long-lost childhood friend. The song was an elegy, but in that moment, Ciríaco wanted nothing more than to join in.
It was only when he heard a door close behind him that he was startled back into vague awareness, that he distantly realized he was standing barefoot in the middle of the street, clad only in his nightclothes. Only then did the fear return, piercing through his hazy mind.
At least he thought he was in the street, he had to me, he could feel the worn wood of the door behind him, the uneven stones of the street under his feet. He had to be outside. Had he stepped outside? It felt like just a second ago he was looking out the window, how could he have walked from the bedroom, up the stairs, and out the front door without realizing it? Looking up to the sky, Ciríaco expected to see the eclipse, the faint glow of the suns behind the moon.
Instead, the sky was an empty black.
No moon, no suns, no stars. He could feel that his head was tilted back, that he was looking at the sky, but there was nothing to see. Just an endless black.
Looking around he thought he could almost see the outline of the nearby houses and buildings, though he could see a minuscule change in the black, but with every blink, the landscape seemed to change. Was he moving? He thought he was standing still, wasn’t aware of his feet moving, but when he reached out behind himself to find the door back inside, all he felt was empty air.
Ciríaco legs threatened to give out as the gravity of the situation hit him. He was outside during La Caza del Lechuzas. He was alone. And he had no idea where he was. Even if he found a house, found somewhere to hide, no one would open the door even if he pleaded with them to his last breath. Nico, Eneida, and Matías would wake up to find him gone, to find themselves abandoned yet again. Eneida was too young to remember when their mother passed, to know the pain and understand the concept of death. She was too old now to get that same respite. There was nothing Ciríaco could do to ease it for her. There was nothing he could do to return home to them.
The only choices he had, were if he would wait for death, or venture into the black to find it himself.
It was while he stood there, paralyzed with the choice of his death, that a song once again broke the quiet.
Tūniez pùhqouxl zu kiupa wiuñȳ kimei sūni
Zehân supeil shū we tutyoleipi ngá zah kimei sūni
Pui shū we nguapah kimei ngiñi nūmih wol jùleh shū we kimei sūni
Wi shū we Timiou nge Wioulūz atyi sūni
Shū ta pùn tsemuol tu puamul ngiñi sūni
The sound--warbled, wrong, inhuman--somehow quieted his mind. Letting out a deep breath, Ciríaco closed his eyes, just for a moment, just to center himself and listen to that far-off, familiar tune. He must have closed his eyes, he figured as suddenly he was opening them. He was on his feet he knew, could feel his weight on sore and weak joints, and the darkness in front of him, different somehow. It was moving, or rather, he realized with a start, he was moving.
It wasn’t too strange at first, his mind struggling to catch up to reality. When he walked to work in the mornings sometimes the sun had yet to rise, he could rely on muscle memory of which streets and alleys to turn down even when he didn’t have light to see by. But now, as his mind slowly tried to process things, tried to pull itself out of a fog, he realized something was… off.
He didn’t need to think, didn’t need to put effort into walking, even as he was conscious of the steps he took. His walking was as effortless and uncontrollable as his heartbeat. Desperately, he tried to keep track of the turns he was making, tried to orient himself, he knew the streets of Asucatan like the back of his hand but…
Right, left, right, right… right?
He should be back where he started, but this street was longer, so was the next street that had a subtle curve. No street Ciríaco turned down was familiar, no part of his path made sense, but something was pulling him, guiding him down this path, down alien alleys and foreign streets until the ground under his feet faded from stone to sand.
He should have hit a closed gate before he reached the outskirts of the city, his house not too far from the Northern gate. No matter what direction Ciríaco could take from his house, he would run into a wall or locked gate eventually long before he entered the desert.
He wasn’t sure of his path anymore, slow and staggering as the uneven surface made the support from his crutch hard to maintain. Ciríaco’s legs burned. How long had he been walking? A few seconds? A few minutes? Time seemed wrong, his body ached like he had been walking for hours but he couldn’t have, the eclipse should have ended, the sun should have returned.
The sand shifted beneath his feet, crutch falling out from under him as Ciríaco fell forward onto-- soft earth? Damp soil clung to his palms and knees as he found himself almost prostrating, having fallen to his hands and knees. The sudden humidity was suffocating, disorienting. Looking around, he swore once again he could almost see shapes in the darkness, a barely visible outline of… trees? Not the thin, spindly trees that dotted the landscape outside Asucatan. These were thick, clustered together, and as Ciríaco reached out towards one, they were cool, moist, soft with moss.
Ciríaco was panting as he pushed himself to his feet, sweat soaking through his thin nightclothes, coating his palms. He struggled for a moment getting his crutch under him, leaning on it heavily, his feet sore and raw. His whole body ached, he tried to take a moment to breathe, to rest. He was certain he didn’t close his eyes, keeping them focused on the faint shadowy outline of a tree in front of him. But suddenly his eyes opened, his vision shifted, and he realized his feet were moving again.
If time didn’t matter, speed shouldn’t either, but it felt like he was moving more slowly. Maybe, though, he only noticed speed, that he was moving at all, because of the foliage he pushed out of his way, the tangled roots that kept tripping him, the rocks that his feet kept knocking into. By the time his legs finally started to give out, though, he wasn’t sure if he had been walking through the jungle for a few steps, or a few miles. The only difference was the oppressive heat, the thickening humidity growing more and more suffocating until he was gasping for breath as he collapsed against a tree.
Bark and lichen dug into his skin, his soaked shirt barely any protection. Ciríaco almost let out a sob, his whole body felt sore, joints swollen, skin feverish. Looking around, small bright spots danced across his vision, lightheaded and dizzy. He swore the darkness around him was still moving, still shifting and swimming even as he stood still, the silence deafening--
Snap.
The heat suddenly gone, replaced with ice-cold dread, breath catching in his throat as a branch snapped behind him. There hadn’t been a living soul since he had stepped outside--there was no hum of insects, no bird song. As terrifying as it might have been, the realization he wasn’t alone was infinitely more terrifying.
There was a dizzying deja vu that hit Ciríaco as he froze, standing perfectly still, heart pounding in his ear as he waited. The scream he heard was the same one he waited to hear standing by the window at home, what felt like seconds and years ago. This time, though, even through the fog, the haze and fear, he recognized the sound with dawning horror.
A barn owl.
The realization was almost enough to push Ciríaco over the edge, almost enough to make him collapse and just give up.
Silvia always told him playing with his food was disrespectful. He never considered that the one being disrespected was the food.
Or maybe it was ritual, tradition; ablutions of blood and tears, prayers of screams and sobs. Perhaps even lechuzas were pious, perhaps they mimicked prayer the only way they could, through fear. If Ciríaco dropped to his knees and prayed now, would God listen to him or las lechuzas? Which was more devout, a hymn of dirty hands, or of bloody claws?
Snap-
Ciríaco snapped out of his reverie as another branch snapped behind, closer than before. For the first time that night, he consciously moved his feet and broke into a run.
There was no path to follow, though, in his blind panic, he was sure he wouldn’t have been able to follow one even if it existed. Ciríaco simply ran, no purpose in his direction other than the primal instinct to flee, to desperately clutch at the life he still had.
Branches and thorns tore at his clothes as he stumbled through the forest, tripping over roots, running into trees. Ciríaco felt bruises blooming at every impact, blood being drawn by every branch and sharp stone. The pain barely registered, even as he dropped his crutch in his panic, even as he ran on feet that were torn raw and joints that were swollen and screaming. He didn’t even let out a cry as his foot caught in unforgiving roots and he fell, landing hard into a bush whose thorns tore at his skin and clothes indiscriminately.
As he pulled his foot free, he was unsure if his palms were slick with sweat, or with blood.
Pushing himself to stand, Ciríaco felt dread once again pooling in his stomach. He forgot which way he had been running, which way was away from his pursuer, which way was away from lechuzas. No matter which way he looked, there was nothing but black: no light, no stars above, no path. Whatever direction he stepped in had equal chance of being a step closer to his grave.
Nearby, a barn owl screeched, but this time it sounded like a laugh, echoing through the jungle.
Another branch snapped behind him, and he almost debated whether it was worth it to try and run again. There wasn’t a chance of stepping closer to his grave, there was a certainty, even if he didn’t move. What difference did it make if he died of exhaustion and exposure, or at the hands of las lechuzas? Wherever he turned, he was facing his grave.
Ciríaco blinked, tears welling up in his eyes. Opening them, the darkness has moved again, though his feet were still. The inky void seemingly, parted, ever so slightly, like a curtain. Within that gap, barely visible, was a path.
Perhaps he should have been more suspicious of it, considered the possibility of a trap. Maybe he did consider it, he just didn’t care. Ciríaco ran towards it, like a moth to flame. Maybe all he wanted was directions, even if it was to his grave.
The path was free of branches and plants, but Ciríaco still tripped over his feet and he stumbled, ran down the path, his lungs burning and body screaming in protest. He didn’t know how long he ran, how long he stumbled down the twisting dark path between trees, his mind was a blur, and all that mattered was getting out, getting away.
It was right as spots started dancing across his vision, thoughts slipping away into a fog of lightheadedness, that the path ended, opening up into a clearing. Sitting in the center of the clearing sat a large, old, stone temple, slowly being reclaimed by the jungle. He could make out--how? There was no light, the sky above devoid of anything but black, hadn’t everything been shrouded in darkness moments before on the path? Regardless, he could see the stone that made up the temple was well worn, covered in vines and moss. The stone was crumbling, the stone carvings softened and faded with the erosion of time. He barely processed any of it, though, barely cared as he ran towards it.
Ciríaco barely made it up the steps before his legs finally gave out and he collapsed with a cry. Somehow, when he looked around, he found himself in the center of the room, crumpled before the steps leading to a cracked stone altar. The stone felt cool against his cheek, even as he was still gasping, clothes torn ragged and soaked through with sweat. Distantly, he was aware he was bleeding, aware of his blood staining the moss he lay on, the red a sharp contrast to the vibrant green.
For a moment, he rested, eyes closing, forehead pressed to the floor before the altar, roots growing through the floor forming what could be either a bed or a tomb. The difference meant nothing anymore.
Time was slow and sluggish, Ciríaco’s mind lagging behind as a haze filled his mind. Nothing felt real, everything felt like a dream, distant and immaterial, even as he felt blood ooze from his cuts, as he felt thick roots pressing into him. He wasn’t even sure if he was the one feeling those things, suddenly aware of some degree of separation between himself and his body even though he couldn’t process it, couldn’t hold that thought in his mind.
He didn’t know how much time passed laying there, it didn’t matter. When he heard another barn owl screech, closer than ever, he couldn’t even summon the energy, the awareness to fear, to care.
The screech was joined in by others, echoing and repeating the same shrill call close enough to make Ciríaco’s ears ring. Then, slowly, ever so gradually, the screeches faded, transformed into voices swirling around him. They spoke in the same language of the song, somehow both painfully familiar and foreign. Ciríaco couldn’t hope to make sense of them, circling, overlapping, deafening voices. Vitriolic, pleading, melodic, screeching, all begging for his attention, screaming phrases he couldn’t make out.
Ciríaco wanted to cry, to sob, that he didn’t understand them, that he didn’t know what was happening, didn’t know what he did. The voices filled his head, he could feel it, feel the movement, feel the pressure strong enough to feel like his skull was about to split open. He could barely open his mouth to let out a strangled scream as the voices grew, as something closed in on him.
All at once, though, they stopped, but they were not replaced with silence. But with a song.
The voice was soft, ethereal, the words wrapping around Ciríaco like a blanket, soothing him like a parent's lullaby.
Ciríaco let out a shuddering breath he didn’t realize he was holding, almost melting into the floor as tension left his body all at once.
After a minute, distantly, Ciríaco realized a hand was softly stroking his sweat-matted hair. So gently he could barely feel it, he felt so disconnected, so divorced from his body he could barely comprehend it was his hair it was stroking.
There was a presence before him, the air heavy, cool, crackling softly like a fire. Weakly, Ciríaco tried to move his head, to look at who--at what--was kneeling before him. He barely moved at all before the hand in his hair stopped him, something sharp resting against the skin on the back of his neck. Claws, pressing just enough to let him know they were there, a breath away from breaking the skin.
“Don’t strain yourself, my child,” A soothing, warm voice echoed.
It was far away, distorted like he was underwater. It spoke in a language Ciríaco didn’t know, in a way that didn’t sound human, but somehow, he could understand. He couldn’t tell if the voice spoke in his mind or aloud, though the distinction hardly mattered. It wasn’t a command, it shouldn’t have been comforting, but he felt himself obey instantly, tension melting away again as the voice hummed.
“This is not a place for the living or the mortal, this day your eyes have seen what mortal eyes should not. This place, this path is only temporary,” The voice spoke, gentle but heavy, “Tell me, child, how this fate has befallen you, how you found yourself here? Why do the dead call to you? Why do the Ichpui shepard you here? What do you hear that is so enticing that you grasp at the divine with mortal hands?”
Ciríaco didn’t know how to answer, didn’t feel he could open his mouth. Why had he come here? Why had he gone outside when las lechuzas lurked and called to him? It was their song, wasn’t it? The song the being before him had sung what felt like only moments before. The song that was so familiar even though he couldn’t understand it, didn’t know how he knew it, why it called to him. It was that song, it had pulled at something deep in his memories, he had wanted to sing it so desperately, he had wanted--
He wanted to sing the song his father once sung, the song Ciríaco had heard him sing that night before las lechuzas took him. He had wanted to find his father.
The hand stroking his hair slowed, a silence falling across the temple. Something hot dripped onto Ciríaco suddenly, landing on his head, the back of his neck, like small, warm raindrops. Somehow, though, he could feel the weight they carried, heavy with sorrow. Tears. Whatever knelt over him, whether divine, dead, or monstrous, wept, shed tears for Ciríaco, for his pain. It allowed him a moment of silence.
“The fates have allowed you this gift, even the gods cannot overturn fate, so can only graciously let you leave with your gift. However... there are consequences, my child,”
If he could move his mouth, his tongue, Ciríaco would ask what gift he had, what the fates had possibly allowed him, as he lay bleeding and boneless among the dead. If the being knew his thoughts, could feel his desperation, it was unmoved. In the silence, Ciríaco managed to open his eyes, unable to move his head, stuck staring at his bloodied hand laying next to him.
And then… and then he saw a clawed hand, reaching for his wrist, reaching through his wrist. The skin was unbroken, the hand passing through like it was ethereal. It wasn’t pain that Ciríaco felt, it was something different, something foreign and confusing. He could only watch as the clawed hand pulled back again, pulling with it a shimmering, golden string.
The thread immediately went taut, as if caught on something, as if the other end was tethered to something inside of him. Ciríaco didn’t know what to expect, only that he hadn’t expected the clawed hand to wrap the thread around itself and pull.
It felt like Ciríaco’s veins were on fire, like the golden thread was wrapped around every nerve in his body and ripping through them as the thread was torn out through his wrist. When he was younger, he used to fall often and had a vivid memory of falling, skidding across carpet on bare hands and knees and the way it burned. It was that same feeling, of raw burning but inside, throughout his whole body as inch after inch after inch was pulled from him.
He wanted to scream, the cry, to pull away and fight, but he couldn’t move. His arm wouldn’t move, his mouth stayed shut, tongue heavy, a hand holding his head skill, claws digging into the base of his skull. Blood and bile filled his mouth, but somehow, he could still breathe. Distantly he wondered if breathing even mattered here.
By the time the end of the thread left him, Ciríaco wasn’t sure how long had passed, it could have been ages, his eyes drawn to the yards and yards of golden thread pooled on the mossy floor. The gold seemed fainter now, though he wasn’t sure if the thread itself changed, or it was his blood that dirtied the once glittering thread.
As soon as the end of the thread was pulled free, Ciríaco let out a single gasping sob, blood spilling over his lips, hot tears sliding down his dirty face, and landing on the blood-soaked moss below.
The hand on his head lightened slightly, ever so gently combing claws through Ciríaco’s tangled hair.
“Misdeeds have been punished, fate has rewarded you, debt has been balanced,” The voice spoke again, soft and otherworldly, but now tinged with something mortal. There was a long pause before it spoke again, “I’m sorry, my child, this is all I can give you.”
The being above him shifted, and he felt lips press the back of his head, gently, softly, human, like a parent kissing their child goodnight. It was something so familiar, pulling at a memory buried deep in Ciríaco’s mind. He didn’t have time to reach for it, because as soon as the lips pulled away, everything went black.
Ciríaco was pulled from sleep gently, slowly more and more aware of gentle, colored light hitting his eyelids. Opening his eyes, he found himself in bed, Nico curled up in a small ball against him, Eneida sleeping soundly next to him, Matías in his crib by the bed. It wasn’t quite dark out, the curtain was pulled away from the window enough to allow for the orange light of dusk to filter in, the multicolored glass of the shop across the street catching some of the last rays of sunlight, a prismatic array of colored light spilling over the bed.
Blinking slowly, Ciríaco sighed. He was no stranger to nightmares, but never had they felt so vivid--
It didn’t matter.
Carefully, Ciríaco disentangled from Nico’s small, clutching hands. He looked down at himself, mind still on the nightmare. It wasn’t surprising to find his nightclothes pristine, skin unmarred. When he ran his fingers through his hair, it was free of dirt and twigs, only slightly tangled from sleep. His whole body ached as he stood and grabbed his crutch, but it was hardly unusual, it had been well over a decade since his body had been pain-free. He grabbed a ribbon from the table, carefully tying his hair back; it must have been his imagination when he thought he felt something on the back of his skull, where he remembered that strange being pressing their lips to...
Walking to the kitchen, Ciríaco tried to shake the lingering dread his nightmare had left him with. He reached to open a cupboard, to start making breakfast for his siblings before he had to work. But he stopped, eyes drawn to his fingernails.
Under his fingernails, there were specks of green, like moss. Furrowing his brow, he turned to the door, planning to fetch a bucket of water and wash up, but he stopped dead in his tracks.
Balancing carefully atop the unlocked doorknob, was a barn owl feather.
TRANSLATIONS:
La Caza del Lechuzas: The Hunt of The Lechuzas
Lechuza(s): Word for barn owl. There is a belief in some parts of Mexico and Southern US (a belief I was raised with) that Lechuza is an omen of death and/or illness, and/or are malicious shape-shifting witches.
Ichpui: Ixaili equivalent of Lechuza, while omens and connected to death, they are largely seen as the embodiment of fate and as such should not be looked at or interacted with. They also serve as a psychopomp for dead and lost souls.
The Song (An Ixaili Prayer Song for Xáháipūz Tūlun [Divinitation Night]):
May the lost dead on Xáháipūz Tūlun pass through easy
May the Ichpui guide the souls beyond the mortal plane
May eyes be shielded from the Divine
May mortal hands not cut or touch the thread of fate
May the dead remain dead and not return on Xáháipūz Tūlun
Tūniez pùhqouxl zu kiupa wiuñȳ kimei sūni
Zehân supeil tutyoleipi ngá zah kimei sūni
Pui shū we nguapah kimei ngiñi nūmih wol jùleh shū we kimei sūni
Wi shū we Timiou nge Wioulūz atyi sūni
Shū ta pùn tsemuol tu puamul ngiñi sūni
May mortals changing the natural order be punished
May their dirty hands be severed by fate
May their eyes be forever open and their aura numb
May their body carry the mark of the dead
May they live forever foreign on every land
May the desecrated be returned to Nguozo
May the lost be returned to Izâl
May the unfortunate be returned to Apū
May Izâl return to Nguozo for one day
May no one remain lost when the sun returns
Words: 3199
Warnings: Brief mentions of injury and death
Notes: Footnotes at end contain glossary of terms used, pronunciation of names, and more.
Tszashou: v. An Ixaili play on words due from the similarity of the characters in tsâshou, meaning rest, and shazhou, meaning lesbian. First seen in a poem by 4th Century Ixaili poet Lialiaxl Szuñuo’pȳ:
Zázez ngue we titl shi kimeinū
Ngue wâh xuol zah zeluoz
Ka zaih ngue we yáñunū
Ngue wâh title nuâ tszashou
[My lover is like the sun
I bathe in her warmth
The light kisses my skin
As I rest in a sunny field]
Zieh ngue we, Kuanoutl nge zupuxl qual, nautiaxl nge ta wâh ngūlumu.
[Hear the thrum of life, my children, feel the pulse of energy in all things.]
Lâii’s first memory was of the forest, there was nothing else it could have been. It was not her mother or father or siblings or elders, but the forest, though she could see no difference between the two. She remembers sitting at the edge of a river, in the shadow of green mountains and greener trees. The moss-covered rocks and tangled roots of a tree cradling her as softly as a parent as she looked up in wonder at the light filtering in through the canopy of leaves above her. The sound of birds chirping, insects softly buzzing, and the calls and footsteps of the animals that called the forest home were as mesmerizing as any lullaby. As she slowly drifted off to sleep, she could feel the earth breathing.
Pui ko we nuñi, ngùñiláh qel nutl kimeinū qel. Tseih kázuozah e jùhqien so nge xiechpuih kimeinū.
[Open your eyes, see beyond what is visible. Fear not blindness, for sight is the root of deception]
Lâii grew up in the flickering candlelight of the temple. Much of the compound’s buildings had countless windows, many barely having walls to allow the vines and roots and moss of the forest in. The temple and shrines were different, though, having thick walls and few windows so the innermost parts were bathed in darkness. It did not keep the forest out, the stone of the floors and walls and ceilings were covered with moss, the roots and plants creating cracks to grow through even in the dark. Candles were only allowed during ceremonies or for offerings.
With Lâii, there was an exception made. The qumáu that lived in the temple would leave candles lit in the hallway for her, knowing she was too young to be held to the standards of initiates, let alone a qumáu. But she was also too young to understand the kindness, and desperately wanted to copy how the others lived. Like a child trying to use their parents’ makeup, Lâii would walk around the temple hallways. extinguish the candles and try to walk like the others.
As disorienting as the dark was, Lâii was never afraid of it, and as she tried to walk through the temple, she found that the dark revealed just as much as it hid. She never had a destination in mind as she stumbled and felt her way around the temple. Wherever she ended up, she would sleep for the night or until one of the qumáu found her and carried her sleeping form to bed.
Ngáupuñi ko we nuñi, ko ngaùhol nge zupuxl quai tinù pȳ ko we semoz.
[Open your mind, let the beat of life guide your feet.]
For months, Lâii’s legs were mottled with bruises from bumping into things in the dark. Twice she twisted her ankle, once she tripped and bloodied her hands trying to catch herself on the hard stone. The qumáu were used to seeing her like this, she had grown up with perpetual bruises and scrapes from climbing trees and running barefoot through the forest.
When years ago she had fallen from one of the trees outside the compound, she had landed on her arm and side. Lâii was unsure if she hit her head on the way down or if she had blacked out because of the pain. She could vividly remember the hours she spent crumpled at the roots of the tree, tears slowly drying. At some point, the roots that had trapped her arm felt less like crushing claws, and more and more like a gentle cradle. She remembers thinking there must be comfort to be found in one’s tomb, in being gently laid and held with reverence. It was hours later a young qumáu found her, bloodied but sleeping peacefully in roots that tangled around her.
That injury didn’t stop her from climbing trees again, even before she had fully healed. Lâii had grown up with a confidence that made her climb the tallest trees with the most fragile branches; confidence that could not be shaken even with every branch that snapped beneath her weight and sent her tumbling into freefall. And perhaps, that same confidence is why she tried one night to run through the temple, even with her legs freshly bruised from the previous nights.
She couldn’t bring herself to be surprised when she tripped over one of the roots growing through the floor, falling at full velocity into the sharp corner of a stone pillar. In the pitch black, Lâii realized, it was hard to tell if her eyes had closed, if time had passed, if she had blacked out for minutes or hours or not at all. Time meant nothing in the inky void, the only thing grounding her the thick bed of moss and tangled roots that made up the temple floor. Part of her knew she should try to stay awake with such a blow to the head, but how could she keep her eyes open when she couldn’t tell if they were open to begin with?
Tsâni once told her that when he had fallen off a ledge in the mountains and hit his head, he had felt a sense of doom creeping up on him every time he started to lose consciousness. He told of fighting a losing battle to stay awake, of feeling sick and detached and plagued by the acute knowledge he may never wake again.
Lâii felt nothing but a sense of peace, of belonging, of home. The moss felt softer than usual, the roots careful not to poke her, the air warm like a blanket, the silence like a mother’s lullaby. She wasn’t sure how long she lay there, she wasn’t sure when the thought first came to her head.
I’m by the silence room, if I want to be found first thing in the morning, I should go to the shrine.
In her state, she didn’t question the knowledge, nor did she question what force guided her to her feet and through the twisting hallways of the temple towards the central shrine. She only knew the gentle hum of the moss and leaves beneath her feet and the knowledge that she was going the right way. The qumáu that found her in the morning, found her asleep, sitting cross-legged, leaning against the central altar, dried blood and specs of moss covering part of her face.
The gash on her forehead would never go away. It healed, scar tissue all too prominent, dark and pulling the skin of her forehead strangely. Another story to tell, another reminder of her reckless confidence. The qumáu would tell her story as one of the endearing folly of childhood.
The way Lâii continued walking the temple at night with the same confidence as before, a testament to her stubborn determination. The scar would never fade, but the bruises on her legs would, the hum of the moss floor guiding her on a path free of obstacles.
Ko kuloù ko we quai tinù kyitui nge zupuxl ngaùh.
[Let your heart beat to the drum of life.]
Everyone in Xáou Lūá had to make a pilgrimage to one of the temples before they reached adulthood. The only exception once again had been Lâii, since she grew up at the Temple. It seemed only natural for her to become an initiate when she became of age, she didn’t need a pilgrimage to realize her faith and fate were calling her here.
Plenty of people from the north and the other islands chose the Southern Temple on Ngechyoh to be their adolescent pilgrimage if only to see Nih Tsoutlà Zauzūyehqál, The Sacred Forest. Few of the pilgrims would decide to pursue initiation, but initiation was never the point of the pilgrimage. Regardless of the beliefs and faiths across the island, the temples were part of everyone’s history. The temples and their deities were the roots from which Xáou Lūá has grown, and everyone knew to pay respect to their roots and the elders before them.
Lâii had already seen a pilgrimage countless times. As a child, she had been told not to bother pilgrims to the temple, and that only made her more curious. But she had dutifully listened to the word of the qumáu, stayed away from the pilgrims those months even as the curiosity was killing her. Once initiated, she had been eager to see the pilgrimage, only to be told the 1st rank initiates hadn’t been allowed to mingle with them.
Tried of waiting and fueled by curiosity unbecoming of an initiate, Lâii flew through the first rank as quickly as she could, with flying colors that meant to qumáu couldn’t admonish her reasoning. As a second rank initiate now, though, part of her duties were to assist the higher-ranked initiates as they guided the pilgrims. Specifically, each second-rank initiate was to welcome one of the zùñū and lead them to their quarters.
The arrival of each zùñū were usually staggered, the distance between Kuolùtu and the other islands too varied for each island’s pilgrims to arrive together. Lyonâ had instructed Lâii to wait at the west gate for the first day of arrivals, even though pilgrims rarely arrived then. Lâii had begrudgingly accepted, spending her first hours at the entrance silently cursing Lyonâ. As noon approached, Lâii sat against the tree that marked the entrance, heat of the suns above warm enough to feel like a cozy, thick blanket.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep nestled against the roots of the tree, but by now it was hard to resist. The warmth and comfort were more akin to a bed than the cot she had in her quarters. It was the sound of the arrival bell that jolted her awake, an audible reminder of the duty she had nearly forgotten. The bell was far enough away from the entrance that by the time the pilgrims drew close enough to see her, Lâii had hastily straightened and dusted off her robes in an attempt to look presentable. She took a few steps towards the group, to return to the position she was supposed to be in, but before she could get there, the zùñū were close enough that Lâii could make out clearly and she stopped dead in her tracks.
The one leading the group was standing tall, with perfect posture and careful steps. They were dressed in the red and gold Kȳi robes that designated them as hailing from the Qal’kou sect of Tszachuatl and stood as a stark contrast to the forest and Ngoulâ colors. Their face was round, skin dark brown with symmetrical patches of pale skin, and gold-flecked black eyes. The edges of their draping robes and headscarf were ornately embroidered in gold that matched the painted gold mark of Nguozo on their forehead, warm and glittering in the filtered afternoon sunlight.
“Nȳpuoh qù titl nūmih tuan qául,” They said as they stopped 20 feet before the gate, dropping carefully to their knees to prostrate.
Lâii stood frozen for a moment, mouth hanging open, tongue dry as cotton as her mind scrabbled to catch up, cheeks warm. She was a second-rank initiate, but struggling for the response even a first-rank initiate knew by heart.
“Ka nūmih kunáuz, zū wonùz ngiñi sūni,” She managed, bowing slightly, heart pounding for a reason she couldn’t place.
The leader rose to a kneel, clasping their hands in front of them and keeping their gaze lowered in respect.
“I am Zchá, leading the zùñū of the Qal’kou sect, children of Ápū. I humbly request our privilege to make pilgrimage to the Temple of Nguozo and the Sacred Forest. Ápū was the trusted love of Izâl, child of Nguozo, we children of Ápū should not forget the sacrifice Nguozo made for Her and Izâl.”
“Yes!” Lâii said before she could stop herself and remember the proper response, her tone unmodulated and sounding far too eager for an initiate leading an entrance ceremony, “I mean–”
Lâii cleared her throat, trying desperately to compose herself, “It is only right to allow Ápū’s children into Nguozo’s domain, without Ápū’s generosity and care for Izâl, the Blood of the Divine would not have survived to flow in our veins countless generations on.”
She tripped over her words, cursing not practicing the lines beforehand, but as she finished, she saw Zchá smile softly and look at her and suddenly all she could hear was the beating of her heart, thunderous and in time with the thrum of the earth beneath her feet.
Later, Zchá would laugh, a sound as soothing and warm as sunlight, their eyes soft, and Lâii would once again forget all the passages of the Kiahqn that she knew like the back of her hand. But her heart was filled with so many colors and feelings, that Lâii couldn’t admonish her reasoning.
Ngūlumu puamulâz wol, ta hueiñū. Zieh ngue we, ko seimel wol ko we wȳ uñu nūmih tszūtá ku ko teñun nge ngūlumu we.
[Every living being has an aura, an energy. Reach out with yours and realize you, my children, are part of it all.]
By the lake, the dense canopy of the forest parted enough for unfiltered sunlight to reach the ground, for the vivid blue sky to be seen unobstructed while floating in the water or laying on the soft ground of its shore.
The water was warm, the air was warm, the sunlight warmer. Warmest was Zchás body heat as they lay on their back next to Lâii. They weren’t touching, the inches between their shoulders, their hands, a boundary neither seemed brave enough to cross yet. The outer layers of their robes lay drying on a nearby log, though Lâii knew they wouldn’t dry fully before they had to go back. The warm water of the lake lapped at their feet that lay in the shallows.
Zchá was talking, a soft, meaningless stream of words as insistent but beautiful as the waterfall nearby. They told Lâii about home, about the dry savanna and shrubland of Qal’kou, of the bustling cities and open-air markets full of so many vivid colors and smiling faces. A street vendor there sold the best fried bread, another had the most beautiful and soft scarves with the most delicate embroidery, another vendor was an older couple who sold sweets but always insisting on giving some to passing children for free.
Zchá told her about their family, about their childhood, about their training. About the times almost set their desk on fire, or the times their peers fumbled with their magic, or times they tried to sneak into town instead of focusing on their studies. Their seniors would punish and scold them for the mischief they caused and the lack of respect they had for the importance of their future position.
A niá’kaupù, they had told her softly, suddenly lapsing into silence. Recording histories and stories and events and knowledge, protecting the knowledge from past generations and ensuring it lives on. It was a high honor, a role with the same importance as the role in Lâii’s future. The silent, solemn smile on their face was not from what they said, but what it meant.
Niá’kaupù weren’t allowed to leave the archives and vaults. Qumáu weren’t allowed to leave their temple’s compound. After Zchá’s pilgrimage finished and they returned to Tszachuatl, they wouldn’t be able to leave and see Lâii again. After Zchá left, Lâii would return to her initiate duties and path towards being a qumáu. Lâii had never dreamed of leaving the forest, had never pictured herself in the future as anything other than a qumáu.
Somewhere in the silence, Lâii finds the courage to move, to cross that invisible line and lace her fingers with theirs. There’s a comfort she feels immediately, a warmth that spills from her heart at how right it feels to hold their hand.
She wanted to open her mouth, to say something comforting and poetic, something sage and wise that would sound right coming from the mouth of an initiate.
Lâii could tell them about Nguozo, about the Ichpui, about fate and trusting it completely and knowing that whatever happens will be right–but Lâii wasn’t sure what right meant for this.
She could tell them about Nguozo and Izâl, about the sun and moon, how love has no distance and sometimes the greatest love happens from a distance–but what Lâii felt was more than that kind of love.
Instead, Lâii wanted to tell them about Izâl and Ápū, about the two suns. She wanted to tell them that the love forged between people from different worlds is the love that started it all. She wanted to tell them about the celestial bodies so full of light and love and so close together, even when they were countless miles apart.
It was a story Lâii knew well, a story Lâii had grown up hearing, the story that Lâii thought of whenever she thought of love. She knew the story by heart, she could recite in her sleep. But as Zchá shifted ever so slightly closer and now she lay shoulder to shoulder with them, her tongue suddenly felt too heavy, her mouth too mortal to express the divine love in her heart.
I’ve never been more certain about anything than I am the fact that we will see each other again, in this life or the next. I’ve never believed in anything as hard as I’ve believed that I love you. The only thing I know about my fate is that it is entwined with yours.
Were the thoughts sacrilege or piety? Was it more sacrilegious to care about this love more than her position or to care about her position more than love?
Lâii was the initiate here, she was supposed to be the expert, she had grown up in the heart of the temple, but in this, she was just as lost, just as inexperienced as Zchá. And maybe that was right. Maybe she couldn’t be an initiate here, maybe right now she wasn’t a future qumáu and Zchá wasn’t a future Niá’kaupù, maybe they just were themselves, just people, mortal enough to be young and lost but find each other.
Maybe she could speak not as an initiate, but just as Lâii. As the girl who grew up an exception to rules, who grew up scaping her knees on holy ground, who grew up climbing fragile trees and running around in the dark unafraid of being hurt.
“We don’t have to be back until first dusk,” Were the words she found, “I used to come out here to sleep between prayers,”
She could see Zchá smile out of the corner of her eye, their eyes fluttering closed, fingers still laced with hers.
In the quiet, it was hard to tell if the heartbeat she could hear was her own, Zchá’s, or the earth’s.
There wasn’t a difference, really, Lâii mused as she closed her eyes. The moss between her fingers was as warm as full of love and life as the fingers laced with her own.
Name pronunciation:
Lâii: La-eye
Zchá: Zhh-cha
Terms:
Nȳpuoh qù titl nūmih tuan qául: Peace be upon the two suns and moon.
Ka nūmih kunáuz, zū wonùz ngiñi sūni: Light and dark, may they always cycle.
[Full breakdown of the dialogue used can be found here]
Qumáu – (koo-maow) The equivalent to monks in Ixaili culture and faith. They live at and tend to the temples, among other duties. All qumáu have magic abilities, generally stronger and more refined than the average mage. In Ixaili society, qumáu have a high rank, the 3rd highest rank in Ixaili society, just below that of the Council and Lupá (a spiritual leader of a sect).
Initiate – The stage before becoming a qumáu. Initiates generally start around age 15/16. There are 13 ranks of initiates, first-rank being the lowest and 13th being the highest. To graduate from one rank to the next usually takes at least a year, though there is no set deadlines or rules.
Kiahqn – (Key-h’-kun) The holy text in the Ixaili faith, though frequently refers to the oral tradition and recitation rather than the physical text.
Zùñū – (zhu-nyuh) The term for a group of young pilgrims hailing from the same sect. The Zùñū consists of a leader, usually the child of one of the sect leaders, and typically 6-24 other pilgrims. While everyone in Xáou Lūá is required to go on a pilgrimage to one of the temples, adolescent pilgrimages are usually reserved for mages and the most promising students from each sect and it is a high honor to be part of a Zùñū. Unlike the typical pilgrimage, these pilgrimages are steeped more in tradition, are longer, and also consist of a number of lectures as they serve also as a way to educate and pass on traditions especially relating to the use of magic.
Ngoulâ – (Ng-ou-lah) South/Southern, Ngoulâ colors in this context meaning the color of their traditional robes, which are green in the Ngoulâ region.
Kȳi – (Kuh-eye) Western/One of the West, in this case refering to the distinct style and colors seen in traditional robes on Tszachuatl (one of the 5 Islands of the Ixaili nation)’
Niá’kaupù – (Nia-kaow-poo) Literally translates as “Keeper of the past”. While qumáu duties are religious and spiritual and about the preservation of those traditions, Niá’kaupù duties are similar, but instead of religious, the history and traditions they preserve are those outside of religious contexts. They similarly live in a quasi-isolation, living at the archive and devoting their life to their position.
Full passage from the Kiahqn:
Hear the thrum of life, my children, feel the pulse of energy in all things. Open your eyes, see beyond what is visible. Fear not blindness, for sight is the root of deception. Open your heart, let it feel what your eyes cannot. Open your mind, let the beat of life guide your feet. Open your spirit and feel my embrace and know I will guide every step you need to take. Every living being has an aura, an energy. Reach out with yours and realize you, my children, are part of it all.
Let your heart beat to the drum of life. The pulse of the earth is the same pulse in your veins. The bumps and lines of your skin are the same mountains and valleys of the world. The color of your skin the same as the rich soil of this planet. The light in your eyes and soul the same light that nurtures all life. Protect the earth, you are its kin, and it shall protect you.
Fear not death, for it is not the end, the earth’s pulse never dies. The drum of life beats on as you journey through the underworld. The earth and I will be at the end of your journey and welcome you back with loving arms, and the breath of life will enter you again. Do not fear, life will always return to you, and I will always accept and love you.
(Based on a scene in a F&HW session, so dialogue heavy, a lot of the dialogue is straight from the session)
Warnings: Depression, slight suicidal ideation
Update 12/12/2021: Fixed some minor grammar issues and did some editing to have a bit better flow.
When Keane had woke up that morning, the house had been empty. He almost assumed that the others left him behind, he wasn’t part of their group, he had just stumbled across them, brought them to Nizar. The group had their own matters, rushing to save the life of their cursed friend. They didn’t exactly need him.
But he hadn’t been abandoned completely, N’Abjidynen had been left behind as well. They didn’t even bat an eye at his request to carve a sigil into his arm, not that he was certain they ever blinked. Keane had only known them for a few days, but he had picked up quickly that they weren’t the type to be fazed by anything, maybe he was thinking into it too much. He could never tell if the fluttering in his chest he felt around them was the start of feelings or his fight or flight response.
When he had asked them if they wanted to go get a drink--his blood still on their hands, their shadow flickering like a candle--he hadn’t expected them to accept. He was glad, though, he had hoped it would be something good for both of them. A well-needed break, a semblance of mundanity between two so estranged from it.
Instead, Keane now was stuck in a president’s bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the fine sheets of the bed, wearing a stolen silk robe that probably cost more than everything he owned, a low panic settling into his gut at what he just witnessed.
Necrioso had hardly paid him any mind, Keane supposed he saw him as collateral, he had meant to abduct Abjid but Keane had been there too. An accomplice, a witness, a loose end. He could only listen to them talk, listen to Abjid list their crimes with a frighting calmness, listen to Necrioso talk of the god possessing Abjid like it was common knowledge. Keane didn’t have a chance to talk to Abjid before they pulled a dagger from their robes, cut their palm, and signed a contract in their blood without so much of a glance at the paper.
Necrioso had taken the contract and left them alone for now. Keane watched as Abjid wandered around the room, idly opening drawers and cabinets, going through their contents, inspecting personal items. They seemed surprisingly calm, they always were. Watching them thumb through a stack of papers, he could almost imagine they were somewhere else. That the last hour never happened, that he only knew Abijd as an eccentric and sickly sorcerer.
“You’re going to just, kill an empress? No questions asked?”
“Why not?” Abjid replies almost instantly with a shrug, not even looking up.
“I mean… there’s the political aspect of it for one. She’s an empress.”
Keane waited for a moment, trying to see if Abjid would react. They didn’t, still focused on the contents of the drawer they opened.
“You live here, you know more about her than me. What do you know about her?”
After a moment, they finally looked up at Keane, eyebrows raised.
“She’s the empresses of Hiel. She’s pretty old, 2000 years? She’s been the empress for 600 years,” Keane watched Abjid’s face closely, hoping to see dawning realization. There was none, even as he continued, “She’s the most powerful person on the planet, hands down. She’s morally dubious at best, but she’s kinda the lesser of two evils,”
“What’s the other evil?”
Keane let out a bitter laugh, “At this point? Probably you.”
He almost winced at his own words, reckless and harsh, but looking at Abjid, they just nodded.
“Understandable.”
They were just as composed as ever, and Keane almost felt angry tears start to well up at it. It was like they didn’t understand the gravity of the situation.
“Fucking-– ‘I have a Shadow God in me and I didn't mention this until I walked into the fucking president's palace’-–”
That got a reaction, a small raise of their eyebrows, a shrug.
“You didn’t ask,”
Abjid’s words were calculated, despite their careless tone. A carefully selected truth. Abjid could lie, he’d seen them do it, seen them charm and persuade even the most strong willed individuals. Now they were choosing not to, choosing the bitter and twisted truth for a reason.
“I didn’t think I’d have to!”
They blink, looking back down at the papers they were leafing through, shaky hands trying to stack them neatly.
“I don’t think about it too much. Sure he threatens me or torments me or tries to take control, but that’s just my life--”
“How, though,” Keane interrupted, “How did it happen, it didn’t just show up one day.”
“More or less that is how it happened, though,” They shrugged one again, carefully acted nonchalance even now, “I just woke up one day and...”
For the first time, Abjid hesitated, freezing in the middle of returning the stack of papers to the open drawer. From where Keane sat, the loose end of their headscarf obscured their face. The anger tempered as Abjid was silent, frozen. Keane opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Abjid laughed, shakily, unsteadily.
“I woke up with a lot of things, so I mean, why not? Being possessed was the least of my concerns then, hardly even noticed it. When I did later, I…,” They laughed again, pain creeping through the cracks, “I figured with everything else that happened, this might as well happen too.”
Still, still, they returned to composure, their voice free of emotion, still pantomiming careless indifference even as the cracks began to form.
Keane, though, was never good at acting.
“Okay. You have-– I don't usually think of myself as a high-strung person, but my life has currently been thrown upside down, for lack of a better term. I... the tattoo that allows me to go out in sunlight was removed so I'm left hanging out with you folks for,” Keane let out a breath, “several days. I discover that most of you are unhinged-– to a degree that I have never seen before. I mean, and I work with people who are just are the craziest, bloodthirsty individuals that are around; assassins–”
Abjid interrupted him before he could finish, “I'm not going to make excuses for myself, but just for some context, these people I'm traveling with are the first real people I've talked to... in my known memory.”
Keane froze this time at their words, at the layers, at the implications, at everything he could unpack. There was an honesty to their words, something genuine slipping into their speech among the rehearsed words, something that suddenly tempered his anger, that stole away whatever point he was going to make.
“You need to get more friends, Abjid-– I think that they're a bad influence. You've told me that they've stabbed you several times.”
“They were justified in that.”
Their reply was instant, like they didn’t even have to consider it. Flat, matter of fact. He could feel them retreating back behind their mask, slipping back into an act. Keane couldn’t tell how much truth was behind their words. Every aspect of Abjid was something careful, a meticulously choreographed dance that Keane couldn’t hope to learn.
Now he couldn’t help distress slipping into his voice, “Don’t you care for your wellbeing at all?”
At that, he saw Abjid move, tilt their head to the side slightly. He could see part of their face now, though he couldn’t read it.
“I don’t think god will let me die,”
They enunciated the words clearly, carefully, like it was something they had rehearsed, something they had thought countless times before. There was nothing light about their words, no joking tone or dry wit.
“I don’t think that’s a way to live, I mean, I’m a vampire but I don’t go running towards wooden stakes,”
“I mean--,” Abjid paused again, this time he could see their face, see a flicker of consideration cross it, a slight fumble before quickly being replaced with a mask of indifference, “I have my reasons,”
Sighing, Keane closed his eyes, some part of him drained at the realization he won’t be able to change their mind, no matter what he says. He couldn’t negotiate with them, couldn’t match Abjid’s dance. He didn’t have Abjid’s careful choreography and trying to guess the steps only played into their hand.
“Okay, I… I grew up with a lot of people that... didn't really care for their well-being, because we were taught not to and, I just... Maybe it would be good to just... take a step back before you leap into killing an all-powerful goddess just... because.”
Abjid was silent, they were still, looking down, face softening ever so slightly. They opened their mouth to speak, only to close it again. Another crack in the mask, a misstep in their dance. Keane expected them to retreat again behind indifference and apathy.
“You know I-- I mean… I tried to-- I tried to not-- to not hurt people,” Abjid stumbled over their words, uncharacteristically, struggling to string together the right words, “I've tried to be a better person. Genuinely. But, at the end of the day, no matter what I do, I'm still possessed by this god. I'm just a pawn in his great game. So I've found it's best to just... go with it.”
They shrugged, looking down as they carefully placed the papers back in the drawer.
Keane froze for a moment, reeling from the honesty, the vulnerability of their words. He could see a faint discomfort on their face, a self-conscious realization of their openness that he could almost feel them hastily trying to cover up, pulling their true self back behind their cracked mask.
He didn’t let himself think, desperate to reach them before they retreated once more, he blurt out the first thing that came to mind.
“Isn’t-- is there a way to… unpossess you? Something you could do?”
They raised their eyebrows slightly at his outburst, for a split second looking at Keane with almost... curiosity? pity?
“I’m fairly certain he’s the only thing keeping me alive. Make no mistake, I think the world would be better off if I wasn't around, but you know,” They shrugged again, weakly, an honesty in their voice almost cut through Keane.
“I--”
“I tried-– I tried a lot of things, for a lot of years, but... nothing ever stuck. I tried so hard for years. And I don't have the energy to fight back anymore. No matter what happens, no matter what I do or what I want, I will always end up killing someone and so it's best just to... not care.”
The mask was gone completely, their words, their actions no longer carefully choreographed. It was what Keane had been trying for but...
He couldn’t find the right words, the right way to respond.
“Abjid…” He started, unsure of what to say.
“You heard everything. The Shadow had me kill an entire city. I alone killed one of my only friends. Now Necrioso wants me to kill an empress, what difference does it make. He wants me to kill her, so I will.”
“Do you want that?” Were the only words Keane could find.
Abjid laughed, this time the bitterness, the pain and anger were clear.
“Does it matter what I want? Do you ask a blade what it wants? Should I keep building a sandcastle of hope right as the tide rolls in? No matter what I build or don't, it doesn't stop the tide. I can't control the ocean. Should I rage against the waves and try to change the sea? What will that change? You don't have to agree or like me Keane, it’s best if you don't. But I'm tired. Whether you direct your ire at the builder or the tide, the blade or the wielder, it doesn't matter to me.”
There was a long silence before Abjid spoke again, voice almost too quiet to hear, “I'm tired, Keane. What I want doesn't matter, it didn't even matter when I was alive.”
They closed the drawer in front of them with a click, turning away from Keane to limp to another part of the room, finding another drawer to open and look through halfheartedly. Keane was left to grapple with the sinking feeling of his chest, once again unsure if it was out of care, or dread.
One of the first things Fenris picked up about Joaquín was how social he was. Unless Fenris stayed inside all day, there was hardly a day he didn’t see Joaquín. They didn’t always talk, sometimes Fenris would catch a glimpse of him in the markets or just rolling through the streets. Which isn’t to say that they didn’t talk, of course, Joaquín loved to talk. Walking with him in the streets he would have a near-constant stream of words, more than happy to fill any silence when Fenris wasn’t talkative.
He wasn’t as talkative when it was business, though it was a low bar to clear. Like with the others, Joaquín did frequently drop by to ask if he’d be willing to help out with a job. He usually cut to the point and explained the job and saved the idle chatter for when they were traveling. Fenris had expected as much when he promised to help him--that Joaquín would find him, ask him to help with whatever mercenary work he came across, and then let Fenris be until he needed a fighter again.
Which is why it had surprised him then when Joaquín showed up to the mansion one day alone, no quest or job he needed help with, just to talk. Fenris wrote off the first few times as pleasantries, attempts to solidify a business relationship, but even after months of knowing each other, Joaquín still showed up to his mansion once a week, just to see him. Almost always with something for him, usually food or trinkets he found.
It was already difficult to write off his visits. Joaquín lived in Lowtown, a decent hike from the small district of mansions in Hightown, even when you didn’t take the ramps tucked away in the corner of the city. Not to mention carrying food.
A few times Fenris had turned him away, just to see what he would do. Usually, Joaquín would just smile, hand over his gift and wish Fenris a good night. Never lingered, never tried to change his mind, never looked hurt. One time he laughed sheepishly, said he didn’t want to bother Fenris and could stop visiting like this if he preferred. (“It won’t hurt my feelings if you want me to leave you alone, y’know, it’d probably hurt more if you let me keep doing it if you hated it.”)
Fenris didn’t hate it though, he realized. Joaquín was a mage, loud, and overly friendly, and Fenris liked his presence.
So it became almost routine from then on. Every Thursday evening, Joaquín came to visit. He would bring food, they would eat and talk, sometimes Joaquín would help him practice reading, or he would read aloud or share stories with Fenris (Fenris shared stories too, but he found he liked listening to Joaquín talk). Fenris tried sometimes to teach Joaquín how to use a sword, in return, Joaquín tried to teach him to knit (which was equally as successful as Joaquín’s sword practice).
He hardly noticed how used to the routine he was until Joaquín didn’t show up one Thursday. Half an hour after their usual meeting time, Isabela came knocking to tell Fenris that Joaquín wouldn’t be able to make it and had forgotten to send word earlier. (“It’s a holiday, you know,” Isabela had explained while she sat with him, “A nice one too, I’ve seen the celebrations. People dressed up all fancy and throwing a feast and stuff. Varric says Hawke always spends it with family.”)
Joaquín apologized profusely when they next met, even though Fenris waved off his concerns. Even then he tried to make it up to Fenris with a small basket of baked goods and a new blade. It was… cute, at the time that realization was confusing. Later he would wonder if that was when he first started falling for him.
After that day though, it simply became another part of the routine. Joaquín visited every Thursday, except the times when the Thursday was part of a holiday.
This year Fenris had already anticipated the holiday, though Joaquín reminded him anyways. He had already sent Joaquín well wishes as he settled in for the evening. They had grown… much closer than previous years, but Fenris didn’t expect Joaquín to leave his family just to spend time with him, no matter how close they were.
When he heard a knock at the door, Fenris had almost expected Isabela to be the one knocking. Instead, in the doorway was Joaquín. He looked different than usual-- his long hair pulled into neat braids with colored ribbons and flowers, his usual war paint gone. He wore some of the finest clothes Fenris had seen Joaquín wear, a black tunic with colorful intricate embroidery and a matching skirt. In his lap lay a box, not too dissimilar to the one Joaquín typically brought gifts in.
For a moment, Fenris simply stared at him, confused.
“Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating?”
“I am! Well, I mean, I thought--” Joaquín let out a small laugh at his stumbling over the words, “If you didn’t have anything planned for the night, I thought you could join us?”
“I- I wouldn’t want to intrude, you always celebrate with your family,”
“Yeah, exactly,” Joaquín nodded, “You’re my family too, it’d be weird without you.”
Joaquín spoke with such matter-of-fact-ness and confidence, like he didn’t understand Fenris’ confusion, like he was talking about something as simple as the color of the sky.
In the moment it took Fenris to process what Joaquín meant, he saw a flicker of emotion flash across his face. Self-consciousness. Something Fenris had never seen on Joaquín’s face.
“I mean, if you don’t want to that’s fine, it’s not like I’m going to make you participate against your will. That would be antithetical to the point, you know. Carver sometimes acts like he’s being forced to participate though, but you know how he is. Actually, you know he used to--”
“Joaquín,” Fenris said, interrupting his rambling.
Joaquín stopped, looking up and Fenris, eyes wide, the vulnerability and hope in them barely veiled. He could tell him the truth, that he’d be honored, that it means so much to be considered family. But the words stuck in his throat, for now, they were best unspoken. Joaquín wasn’t the type for a bleeding heart confession or the blunt vulnerability of stating his thoughts outright. He could joke, dance around heaviness and truth, but not face it. Not yet. And Fenris couldn’t either. They could only dance closer and closer to the truth.
Joaquín took time away from his family just to find him, just to invite him to the celebration, just to call him family.
“I hardly have anything to wear,” were the words Fenris found, tone light and dry, “What will your mother think when you bring home an elf in street clothes?”
Joaquín lit up at that, lifting up the box in his lap.
“Mamá thought this would fit you. She bought it for Carver the other year but of course, Carver had an issue, doesn’t like the color apparently… If you don’t like it you could just wear normal clothes, it wouldn’t be an affront to the gods or anything.”
Fenris carefully took the box, opening it to find fine blue fabric with similar intricate embroidery and silver accents. It was expensive, Fenris was sure, new as well, free of any wrinkles or signs of wear. He almost wanted to say he can’t accept it, that it was too nice a gift. But if Joaquín’s mother wanted him to have it, he knew by now there was no way she would let him refuse.
“I’m sure Carver will miss this terribly,”
Joaquín laughed at that, genuine and warm, corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Oh of course, I don’t know how he’ll cope with the loss,” He smiled, before pausing, “Does this mean you’re coming?”
Fenris couldn’t help his own smile as he closed the box again.
“I’d hate to incur your mother’s wrath, give me a few minutes to change.”
Okay, so this is long first off, but second this is all characters/world/lore I wrote for a project I mess around with in my free time sometimes. There are some terms and a pair of lines from the Ixaili language, which is a conlang of my creation, while most stuff should be apparent enough with context and full meanings of certain terms aren’t needed, at the end I will also have a run down of some of the important terms used. Also, the bolded text are lines from an except the Kiahqn (The holy book in the Ixaili faith), which I will also include at the end, for those interested in the meanings and context of some things.
[NEW FORMAT AVAILABLE HERE]
Hear the thrum of life, my children, feel the pulse of energy in all things.
Lâii’s first memory was of the forest, there was nothing else it could have been. It was not her mother or father or siblings or elders, but the forest, though she could see no difference between the two. She remembers sitting at the edge of a river, in the shadow of green mountains and greener trees. The moss-covered rocks and tangled roots of a tree cradling her as softly as a parent as she looked up in wonder at the light filtering in through the canopy of leaves above her. The sound of birds chirping, insects softly buzzing, and the calls and footsteps of the animals that called the forest home were as mesmerizing as any lullaby. As she slowly drifted off to sleep, she could feel the earth breathing.
Open your eyes, see beyond what is visible. Fear not blindness, for sight is the root of deception.
Lâii grew up in the flickering candlelight of the temple. Much of the compound’s buildings had countless windows, many barely having walls to allow the vines and roots and moss of the forest in. The temple and shrines were different, though, having thick walls and few windows so the innermost parts were bathed in darkness. It did not keep the forest out, the stone of the floors and walls and ceilings were covered with moss, the roots and plants creating cracks to grow through even in the dark. Candles were only allowed during ceremonies or for offerings.
With Lâii, there was an exception made. The qumáu that lived in the temple would leave candles lit in the hallway for her, knowing she was too young to be held to the standards of initiates, let alone a qumáu. But she was also too young to understand the kindness, and desperately wanted to copy how the others lived. Like a child trying to use their parents’ makeup, Lâii would walk around the temple hallways. extinguish the candles and try to walk like the others.
As disorienting as the dark was, Lâii was never afraid of it, and as she tried to walk through the temple, she found that the dark revealed just as much as it hid. She never had a destination in mind as she stumbled and felt her way around the temple. Wherever she ended up, she would sleep for the night or until one of the qumáu found her and carried her sleeping form to bed.
Open your mind, let the beat of life guide your feet.
For months, Lâii’s legs were mottled with bruises from bumping into things in the dark. Twice she twisted her ankle, once she tripped and bloodied her hands trying to catch herself on the hard stone. The qumáu were used to seeing her like this, she had grown up with perpetual bruises and scrapes from climbing trees and running barefoot through the forest.
When years ago she had fallen from one of the trees outside the compound, she had landed on her arm and side. Lâii was unsure if she hit her head on the way down or if she had blacked out because of the pain. She could vividly remember the hours she spent crumpled at the roots of the tree, tears slowly drying. At some point, the roots that had trapped her arm felt less like crushing claws, and more and more like a gentle cradle. She remembers thinking there must be comfort to be found in one’s tomb, in being gently laid and held with reverence. It was hours later a young qumáu found her, bloodied but sleeping peacefully in roots that tangled around her.
That injury didn’t stop her from climbing trees again, even before she had fully healed. Lâii had grown up with a confidence that made her climb the tallest trees with the most fragile branches; confidence that could not be shaken even with every branch that snapped beneath her weight and sent her tumbling into freefall. And perhaps, that same confidence is why she tried one night to run through the temple, even with her legs freshly bruised from the previous nights.
She couldn’t bring herself to be surprised when she tripped over one of the roots growing through the floor, falling at full velocity into the sharp corner of a stone pillar. In the pitch black, Lâii realized, it was hard to tell if her eyes had closed, if time had passed, if she had blacked out for minutes or hours or not at all. Time meant nothing in the inky void, the only thing grounding her the thick bed of moss and tangled roots that made up the temple floor. Part of her knew she should try to stay awake with such a blow to the head, but how could she keep her eyes open when she couldn’t tell if they were open to begin with?
Tsâni once told her that when he had fallen off a ledge in the mountains and hit his head, he had felt a sense of doom creeping up on him every time he started to lose consciousness. He told of fighting a losing battle to stay awake, of feeling sick and detached and plagued by the acute knowledge he may never wake again.
Lâii felt nothing but a sense of peace, of belonging, of home. The moss felt softer than usual, the roots careful not to poke her, the air warm like a blanket, the silence like a mother's lullaby. She wasn’t sure how long she lay there, she wasn’t sure when the thought first came to her head. I’m by the silence room, if I want to be found first thing in the morning, I should go to the shrine.
In her state, she didn't question the knowledge, nor did she question what force guided her to her feet and through the twisting hallways of the temple towards the central shrine. She only knew the gentle hum of the moss and leaves beneath her feet and the knowledge that she was going the right way. The qumáu that found her in the morning, found her asleep, sitting cross-legged, leaning against the central altar, dried blood and specs of moss covering part of her face.
The gash on her forehead would never go away. It healed, scar tissue all too prominent, dark and pulling the skin of her forehead strangely. Another story to tell, another reminder of her reckless confidence. The qumáu would tell her story as one of the endearing folly of childhood.
The way Lâii continued walking the temple at night with the same confidence as before, a testament to her stubborn determination. The scar would never fade, but the bruises on her legs would, the hum of the moss floor guiding her on a path free of obstacles.
Let your heart beat to the drum of life.
Everyone in Xáou Lūá had to make a pilgrimage to one of the temples before they reached adulthood. The only exception once again had been Lâii, since she grew up at the Temple. It seemed only natural for her to become an initiate when she became of age, she didn’t need a pilgrimage to realize her faith and fate were calling her here.
Plenty of people from the north and the other islands chose the Southern Temple on Ngechyoh to be their adolescent pilgrimage if only to see Nih Tsoutlà Zauzūyehqál, The Sacred Forest. Few of the pilgrims would decide to pursue initiation, but initiation was never the point of the pilgrimage. Regardless of the beliefs and faiths across the island, the temples were part of everyone’s history. The temples and their deities were the roots from which Xáou Lūá has grown, and everyone knew to pay respect to their roots and the elders before them.
Lâii had already seen a pilgrimage countless times. As a child, she had been told not to bother pilgrims to the temple, and that only made her more curious. But she had dutifully listened to the word of the qumáu, stayed away from the pilgrims those months even as the curiosity was killing her. Once initiated, she had been eager to see the pilgrimage, only to be told the 1st rank initiates hadn’t been allowed to mingle with them.
Tried of waiting and fueled by curiosity unbecoming of an initiate, Lâii flew through the first rank as quickly as she could, with flying colors that meant to qumáu couldn’t admonish her reasoning. As a second rank initiate now, though, part of her duties were to assist the higher-ranked initiates as they guided the pilgrims. Specifically, each second-rank initiate was to welcome one of the zùñū and lead them to their quarters.
The arrival of each zùñū were usually staggered, the distance between Kuolùtu and the other islands too varied for each island’s pilgrims to arrive together. Lyonâ had instructed Lâii to wait at the west gate for the first day of arrivals, even though pilgrims rarely arrived then. Lâii had begrudgingly accepted, spending her first hours at the entrance silently cursing Lyonâ. As noon approached, Lâii sat against the tree that marked the entrance, heat of the suns above warm enough to feel like a cozy, thick blanket.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep nestled against the roots of the tree, but by now it was hard to resist. The warmth and comfort were more akin to a bed than the cot she had in her quarters. It was the sound of the arrival bell that jolted her awake, an audible reminder of the duty she had nearly forgotten. The bell was far enough away from the entrance that by the time the pilgrims drew close enough to see her, Lâii had hastily straightened and dusted off her robes in an attempt to look presentable. She took a few steps towards the group, to return to the position she was supposed to be in, but before she could get there, the zùñū were close enough that Lâii could make out clearly and she stopped dead in her tracks.
The one leading the group was standing tall, with perfect posture and careful steps. They were dressed in the red and gold Kȳi robes that designated them as hailing from the Qal’kou sect of Tszachuatl and stood as a stark contrast to the forest and Ngoulâ colors. Their face was round, skin dark brown with symmetrical patches of pale skin, and gold-flecked black eyes. The edges of their draping robes and headscarf were ornately embroidered in gold that matched the painted gold mark of Nguozo on their forehead, warm and glittering in the filtered afternoon sunlight.
“Nȳpuoh qù titl nūmih tuan qául,” They said as they stopped 20 feet before the gate, dropping carefully to their knees to prostrate.
Lâii stood frozen for a moment, mouth hanging open, tongue dry as cotton as her mind scrabbled to catch up, cheeks warm. She was a second-rank initiate, but struggling for the response even a first-rank initiate knew by heart.
“Ka nūmih kunáuz, zū wonùz ngiñi sūni,” She managed, bowing slightly, heart pounding for a reason she couldn’t place.
The leader rose to a kneel, clasping their hands in front of them and keeping their gaze lowered in respect.
“I am Zchá, leading the zùñū of the Qal’kou sect, children of Ápū. I humbly request our privilege to make pilgrimage to the Temple of Nguozo and the Sacred Forest. Ápū was the trusted love of Izâl, child of Nguozo, we children of Ápū should not forget the sacrifice Nguozo made for Her and Izâl.”
“Yes!” Lâii said before she could stop herself and remember the proper response, her tone unmodulated and sounding far too eager for an initiate leading an entrance ceremony, “I mean--”
Lâii cleared her throat, trying desperately to compose herself, “It is only right to allow Ápū’s children into Nguozo’s domain, without Ápū’s generosity and care for Izâl, the Golden Blood would not have survived to flow in our veins countless generations on.”
She tripped over her words, cursing not practicing the lines beforehand, but as she finished, she saw Zchá smile softly and look at her and suddenly all she could hear was the beating of her heart, thunderous and in time with the thrum of the earth beneath her feet.
Later, Zchá would laugh, a sound as soothing and warm as sunlight, their eyes soft, and Lâii would once again forget all the passages of the Kiahqn that she knew like the back of her hand. But her heart was filled with so many colors and feelings, that Lâii couldn’t admonish her reasoning.
Every living being has an aura, an energy. Reach out with yours and realize you, my children, are part of it all.
By the lake, the dense canopy of the forest parted enough for unfiltered sunlight to reach the ground, for the vivid blue sky to be seen unobstructed while floating in the water or laying on the soft ground of its shore.
The water was warm, the air was warm, the sunlight warmer. Warmest was Zchás body heat as she lay on her back next to Lâii. They weren’t touching, the inches between their shoulders, their hands, a boundary neither seemed brave enough to cross yet. The outer layers of their robes lay drying on a nearby log, though Lâii knew they wouldn’t dry fully before they had to go back. The warm water of the lake lapped at their feet that lay in the shallows.
Zchá was talking, a soft, meaningless stream of words as insistent but beautiful as the waterfall nearby. They told Lâii about home, about the dry savanna and shrubland of Qal’kou, of the bustling cities and open-air markets full of so many vivid colors and smiling faces. A street vendor there sold the best fried bread, another had the most beautiful and soft scarves with the most delicate embroidery, another vendor was an older couple who sold sweets but always insisting on giving some to passing children for free.
Zchá told her about their family, about their childhood, about their training. About the times almost set their desk on fire, or the times their peers fumbled with their magic, or times they tried to sneak into town instead of focusing on their studies. Their seniors would punish and scold them for the mischief they caused and the lack of respect they had for the importance of their future position.
A niá’kaupù, they had told her softly, suddenly lapsing into silence. Recording histories and stories and events and knowledge, protecting the knowledge from past generations and ensuring it lives on. It was a high honor, a role with the same importance as the role in Lâii’s future. The silent, solemn smile on their face was not from what they said, but what it meant.
Niá’kaupù weren't allowed to leave the archives and vaults. Qumáu weren’t allowed to leave their temple’s compound. After Zchá’s pilgrimage finished and they returned to Tszachuatl, they wouldn’t be able to leave and see Lâii again. After Zchá left, Lâii would return to her initiate duties and path towards being a qumáu. Lâii had never dreamed of leaving the forest, had never pictured herself in the future as anything other than a qumáu.
Somewhere in the silence, Lâii finds the courage to move, to cross that invisible line and lace her fingers with theirs. There’s a comfort she feels immediately, a warmth that spills from her heart at how right it feels to hold their hand.
She wants to open her mouth, to say something comforting and poetic, something sage and wise that would sound right coming from the mouth of an initiate. Lâii could tell them about Nguozo, about the Ichpui, about fate and trusting it completely and knowing that whatever happens will be right--but Lâii wasn’t sure what right meant for this. She could tell them about Nguozo and Izâl, about the sun and moon, how love has no distance and sometimes the greatest love happens from a distance--but what Lâii felt was more than that kind of love.
Instead, Lâii wanted to tell them about Izâl and Ápū, about the two suns. She wanted to tell them that the love forged between people from different worlds is the love that started it all. She wanted to tell them about the celestial bodies so full of light and love and so close together, even when they were countless miles apart.
It was a story Lâii knew well, a story Lâii had grown up hearing, the story that Lâii thought of whenever she thought of love. She knew the story by heart, she could recite in her sleep. But as Zchá shifted ever so slightly closer and now she lay shoulder to shoulder with them, her tongue suddenly felt too heavy, her mouth too mortal to express the divine love in her heart.
I’ve never been more certain about anything than I am the fact that we will see each other again, in this life or the next. I’ve never believed in anything as hard as I’ve believed that I love you. The only thing I know about my fate is that it is entwined with yours.
Were the thoughts sacrilege or piety? Was it more sacrilegious to care about this love more than her position or to care about her position more than love?
Lâii was the initiate here, she was supposed to be the expert, she had grown up in the heart of the temple, but in this, she was just as lost, just as inexperienced as Zchá. And maybe that was right. Maybe she couldn’t be an initiate here, maybe right now she wasn’t a future qumáu and Zchá wasn’t a future Niá’kaupù, maybe they just were themselves, just people, mortal enough to be young and lost but find each other.
Maybe she could speak not as an initiate, but just as Lâii. As the girl who grew up an exception to rules, who grew up scaping her knees on holy ground, who grew up climbing fragile trees and running around in the dark unafraid of being hurt.
“We don’t have to be back until first dusk,” Were the words she found, “I used to come out here to sleep between prayers,”
She could see Zchá smile out of the corner of her eye, their eyes fluttering closed, fingers still laced with hers.
In the quiet, it was hard to tell if the heartbeat she could hear was her own, Zchá’s, or the earth’s.
There wasn’t a difference, really, Lâii mused as she closed her eyes. The moss between her fingers was as warm as full of love and life as the fingers laced with her own.
Terms:
[Breakdown of the Ixaili dialogue used can be found here]
Qumáu -- The equivalent to monks in Ixaili culture and faith. They live at and tend to the temples, among other duties. All qumáu have magic abilities, generally stronger and more refined than the average mage. In Ixaili society, qumáu have a high rank, the 3rd highest rank in Ixaili society, just below that of the Council and Lupá (a spiritual leader of a sect).
Initiate -- The stage before becoming a qumáu. Initiates generally start around age 15/16. There are 13 ranks of initiates, first-rank being the lowest and 13th being the highest. To graduate from one rank to the next usually takes at least a year, though there is no set deadlines or rules.
Zùñū -- The term for a group of young pilgrims hailing from the same sect. The Zùñū consists of a leader, usually the child of one of the sect leaders, and typically 6-24 other pilgrims. While everyone in Xáou Lūá is required to go on a pilgrimage to one of the temples, adolescent pilgrimages are usually reserved for mages and the most promising students from each sect and it is a high honor to be part of a Zùñū. Unlike the typical pilgrimage, these pilgrimages are steeped more in tradition, are longer, and also consist of a number of lectures as they serve also as a way to educate and pass on traditions especially relating to the use of magic.
Niá’kaupù -- Literally translates as “Keeper of the past”. While qumáu duties are religious and spiritual and about the preservation of those traditions, Niá’kaupù duties are similar, but instead of religious, the history and traditions they preserve are those outside of religious contexts. They similarly live in a quasi-isolation, living at the archive and devoting their life to their position.
Ngoulâ -- South/Southern, Ngoulâ colors in this context meaning the color of their traditional robes, which are green in the Ngoulâ region.
Full passage from the Kiahqn:
Hear the thrum of life, my children, feel the pulse of energy in all things. Open your eyes, see beyond what is visible. Fear not blindness, for sight is the root of deception. Open your heart, let it feel what your eyes cannot. Open your mind, let the beat of life guide your feet. Open your spirit and feel my embrace and know I will guide every step you need to take. Every living being has an aura, an energy. Reach out with yours and realize you, my children, are part of it all. Let your heart beat to the drum of life. The pulse of the earth is the same pulse in your veins. The bumps and lines of your skin are the same mountains and valleys of the world. The color of your skin the same as the rich soil of this planet. The light in your eyes and soul the same light that nurtures all life. Protect the earth, you are it’s kin, and it shall protect you. Fear not death, for it is not the end, the earth’s pulse never dies. The drum of life beats on as you journey through the underworld. The earth and I will be at the end of your journey and welcome you back with loving arms, and the breath of life will enter you again. Do not fear, life will always return to you, and I will always accept and love you.
