#isiere

[altheathewriter]

A drabble

Isiere finds someone important in the temple library.

I stood outside the temple library and took in the stone facade. It matched the temple in construction and material, and the front steps were worn into grooves from hundreds of years of use by knight and priest alike, but I had never come here before.

"Go to the library," Trenn had said. It didn't seem like a suggestion. "Ask for Alven."

The Sisters had blessed me with the knowledge of letters, but that did not mean I was comfortable with them. The practice of picking a book and opening it, and sitting to decipher the words was never mine. And it did not seem that I needed to take up this habit to preform my duties.

So I was curious, perhaps a bit apprehensive, as I stood there, waiting to enter this foreign place. I wished someone was with me. Kaen had offered, but Trenn said for me to go alone.

I climbed the steps, my boots fitting into the worn grooves, and wrapped my hand about the handle of one of the huge wood doors. I pulled it open to reveal a large and dim space, filled with a smell I'd never smelled before, and a quietness that rivaled that of the temple.

It was a place of long wooden shelves stuffed with leather wrapped books from floor to ceiling, with central stairs and metal spiral cases winding through the many floors. I knew, even having never read a single book, that there were more books here than a man could read in one lifetime. For a moment I was transfixed by it all, and forgotten why I was there. I thought, perhaps, if my life had been different, I would have liked to spend time in places like this.

It took a moment for me to realize I had not seen anybody here. I took a metal staircase up to the next level, then the next, and yet I felt I was the only one there. I decided to climb to the uppermost level, just to see what it was like.

I had seen the colorful Dormer style windows from outside, and they splashed the inside with soft crystal hues. This level was indeed different, with desks say in neat rows, and scribes situated behind a few here and there. One of them, the closest to me, looked up to me, and her mouth slid open as if she'd never seen a knight before.

"Please excuse the intrusion," I said. "I am looking for..."

"Alven, yes." Her eyes gave me a small look over, as one does when one didn't know exactly what to do with the person stood before them. She stood, her blue scribes robes unpuddling from her seat to drape over her hosen legs. "Follow me."

I did as I was asked, but I was aware of all the other scribes, now paused in their work, watching me from their seats. I was led through a few more bookcases. "The knights must not come through here often," I said.

"The knights visit plenty," she said. "Although I've never seen you here." She paused before the bookcase corridor opened up to another such sitting room, albiet smaller in size. She motioned for me to continue without her. So I did.

Here a single window spilled sunlight on a solitary occupant sat at the single desk in the room. He sat writing the words from one filled book to an empty one, his hand moving with assured precision as his pen blocked out the letters. Red hair shocked through with a bit of grey at receeding temples was slicked back to fall to his shoulders. Blue eyes did not see me. A beard covered a face that was otherwise so much like my own.

"Danitie, if that's the rest of the prepared order, just set them there, and I will begin..." He looked up then, and saw me. Whatever he had to say ended there, as I was not Danitie. He took up his pen in both hands then, and looked me over much like the other scribes had, but I knew him as he knew me, in that moment. "Oh," he said. "I see."

Yes, as did I. And I didn't know what to do. Something seized up within me and I could not hear The Sisters at all. I could not even hear myself. I was not afraid, and I suppose I didn't feel sorrow. The time for that was gone, or perhaps, it was yet to come.

The rightness of it all was what stilled me. Him, after all this time, at the temple, where so many prayers of mine had been answered with this being yet another added to the blessings bestowed upon me by the gods. And in a place such as this, with books. His hands, steady, writing, a world away from everything I've ever known and him being the sole citizen of it.

He looked down at his hands, where he saw me staring. "They do seem odd, don't they?" He pulled back a sleeve to reveal a wooden brace that lined his forearm and wrist, keeping it immobile. "It's the only way I can get any work done."

He disengaged a few buckles, and I saw that the device was attached to the desk itself. I caught the tremble in his thumb and forefinger before he folded his hands before him.

"You look like your mother."

"I look like you."

His eyes wrinkled up at the corners, and he laughed. I laughed how he did. Almost silently, and just enough to express mirth. It was gone with a soft smile left in its place. "Yes, you do. I swear my heart almost stopped...it's like looking in the mirror! Well...into the past."

I smiled.

"Please, sit." He motioned to the seat across from me. I complied, my movements returning to me with ease now that the shock had worn away. He extended one hand to me. "I'm Alven."

I took it. "Isiere."

[altheathewriter]

Your OCs Backstory - Week 2 Prompt: Family

For @yourocsbackstory

Isiere

The fourth hole.

Worn leather marked the fourth hole of the strap of the buckle of the saddle.

The fourth hole. The fourth one. One, two, three, four. Simple.

It was not simple. My hand grasped the leather strap between the thumb and finger, too hard. I’d managed to get the strap through the buckle, but getting the tang through the hole was another issue altogether. I rested my left elbow heavily into the mare’s side, steadying it as much as I could, as the other hand pulled the strap. 

The third hole would be too tight, and the fifth, too loose. The saddle would swing down to her belly as soon as someone tried to step into the stirrups. 

The fourth hole.

My hand wavered. Back, forth. The more I tried to press the tang through the hole, the harder the tremor took my limb. The metal of the buckle rattled with the effort. The tang would slip in only to slip out the moment I let go to press the strap through the keeper. I let go of the saddle to steady my wrist with the other hand, which now had the duty of performing this task alone.

“For someone’s suppose’d t’be so smart and strong like your mother swears you can be, you sure are stupid.”

I was shoved off. My feet backpedaled, and I ended up slamming my back into a post. The saddle slipped from the mare’s back to the ground, causing her to sidestep and snort.

“Can’t even do up a buckle.” Stepfather spared me a sidelong glance before retrieving the saddle. I watched as he put it back on the mare and did up the strap with one simple movement. “I don’t even know why I bother with you. Could’ve just done it myself.”

I bit my lip. I had nothing to say to that, because it was true.

“Go, get. Do something useful, if you can. Or just get. Doesn’t make a difference t’me.”

“But what about...”

“I said get out.” He rounded on me, and I could see the back of his hand waiting. I couldn’t help the flinch. He’d held back now that I was bigger. But he knew I couldn’t hit him back.

Not really.

So I went.

[altheathewriter]

New WIP opening line?

"The night I was born, it was not yet spring but still no longer winter, but I squalled as if struck by a mighty chill that could not be warmed. Mother prayed to the gods for me to be silent, and on the third month, I did so and remained that way ever since, much to Mother's chagrin.

One must be careful for what one prays for."

[altheathewriter]

Your OC’s backstory - Week 3: Education

@yourocsbackstory

Isiere is from A Constellation of Hearts. It is in the planning stage. You can learn more from the WIP page here.

Which sort of school did they attend? 

Isiere was raised in the country, on a small farm belonging to his stepfather. There was a local temple, which was small and had a priest and priestess, and a few lesser knights (knights being devoted warriors who receive the gods’ powers), but not much more. All gods had to share the same temple. Isiere was often left to fend for himself as his tremor disorder didn’t allow him to be of much use around the farm. He would go to the temple and learn the doctrines of the gods there, however, he never learned how to read. 

How did they get along with their teachers? 

The priest and priestess didn’t mind him, but didn’t spend too much time with him either. His presence was accepted, and if he asked questions they would answer. He got on a bit better with the knights, who allowed him to help them even if he was slow and fumbling. They taught him swordsmanship even though his tremor did not allow him to advance much.

The priestess finally took notice of him one day when he recited the entire doctrine of The Sisters. She noticed his piety and began to teach him more. She wanted to train him to be a priest, but then word came along that the previous vessel for The Sisters had vacated, and she sent a letter to the main temple that he would be a good candidate.

How about fellow students? 

Not many other people in the village and surrounding areas were interested in learning at the temple. Everyone was too busy farming and surviving.

Were they eager to learn or problem students (or both?)? 

Isiere was eager to learn. He found comfort in faith, and felt he had found a place to belong. He was never hurt or insulted when at the temple, and he found it easy to memorize the doctrines. He was used to being ignored, so he didn’t take insult to the priest and priestess not paying much attention to him. When the priestess did start taking notice of him, he proved to be an apt pupil. He did learn some reading, but he’s not very good at it.

When he comes to the main temple as a knight, knowledge is given to him through The Sisters, including language and math. However he knows it is not his knowledge. It comes to him when he needs it.

.....

The pews in the old temple were worn and splintered. Quite a few had been taken out due to rot. The thatched roof leaked onto the floor before the many altars, which were crammed into the chancel alongside each other, the icons of the gods near shoulder to shoulder, for the temple was poor, and all worshipped here.

I’d come here before, and just as before, no one paid me any mind. I slipped into one of the pews and waited for the doctrines to begin again. It was near evening, so the dedications would be for The Sisters, who were my favorites anyway. Usually it was the priestess who led this ceremony. And this day it looked to be as I would be the only worshipper in attendance.

The book of doctrines was laid out before the altars. The configuration of marks that made up the words crossed the page in neat rows. Curls and lines in some pattern I never learned. But it didn’t matter when in the temple, what it was that you knew and did not know.

The priestess entered from the side, her robes layers of sheers overlaid with the blue cloak of night and embroidered with the Sisters’ constellation. The woman was old, one of the oldest people I’ve ever seen. Her skin was soft and saggy upon her arms and cheeks, and her lips puckered in where her a full set of teeth once had been. Grey waves spilled from her head under her priestess’s diadem. Each priestess had one, and it had to be the most expensive item within reach of the village.

Her voice was clear as she spoke. The words were not foreign, so I understood them easily. I lifted my hands in prayer, hoping she did not notice as I rested the back of my wrists on the pew back before me, as I recited them in a whisper to myself. I almost knew them by heart.

“...from where time ends, time begins. What has come to pass is yet to be. We are the unmovable object within time’s flow and yet always moving within time’s stillness. Take comfort in knowing that everything you are and everything you will be has already happened. All is as it should be, and what should be is yet to come...”

Many did not understand the Sisters. Time to them moved forward and left in its wake only death and pain. It was something we all struggled to leave behind yet clawed to still as days passed. I knew of mother, who worried of her wrinkles and graying hair. The tombstones lining the forest’s edge. A babe was born in the village just the week before. Year in and year out, to a child it was a slow and fascinating process, and to the old, it moved too fast to thoughts that had grown slow.

“You there.”

I halted my muttering. My fingers curled in on my hands. For a moment, I was unsure of who spoke, or where I was. Prayer had a way of doing that, for me. Removing me from my mind and troubles. But it was the priestess. She was looking right at me, and had interrupted the doctrines to speak to me.

“Was I speaking too loud?” I asked. “I will be quieter.”

She didn’t answer the question. She walked over, her old, bare feet leaving the altar to give cracks of bones and joints on the way to the pew in which I sat. She looked me over.

“What is your name?”

“Isiere.”

“You know all the words to the doctrines?”

My mouth floundered, gaping open and shut for a moment. I did not know the words, not the ones on the page. But I knew what they said. “Yes?”

“Come. The gods have heard from me for decades. I’m sure they’d delight in a new voice.” She stepped to the side. I hesitated but for a moment, but obeyed. I stepped from the pew and brought the sole of my shoe onto the worn aisle carpet. I immediately lifted my foot. One must connect from the earth to the skies before the gods.

My feet touched cold stone ground as I shed my shoes, and I tried not to let a shiver disrupt me. I went slowly to the altar, as this was the place for knights and priests, not for me.

Not for some lowly boy who could not even know the words of the doctrines.

I looked upon the book and marveled on it. It was twice as wide as my shoulders and edged in worn leafing. The letters were plain and black, but precise in design. I could see the marks used to guide the drawing of the letters. I could imagine some learned scholar drawing these marks, knowing exactly what they meant. They were skilled and intelligent, whoever they had been, for the book was older than even the priestess.

“I don’t know the letters, Mother.”

“You know them. I have heard you.”

“But those are only the words you have spoken.”

“They are one and the same.” She reached over me and pressed an arthritic finger to the page. “...in time’s grasp I leave my self, and my wants, for they are as fleeting as flesh...”

“...for time has no hold upon that which cannot die, the spirit within, splintered from the gods and given life by dust and pain and thought,” I finished. “A borrowed shard returned to the gods, never beginning, and never ending.”

That is what I loved about the Sisters. One was important, and one was insignificant, all at once. One could live such a wretched existence as mine, and yet, know that suffering was inconsequential in the spanse of all things.

“They are your favorite.”

“Yes.”

“Then finish the doctrine.” The priestess moved to the nearest pew, leaving me to stand before the altar alone. She sat with a slump that barely caused the wood to creak, as her birds bones held little weight. “Its been over thirty years since someone has preached them to me, boy. Your voice is clear and steady. You needn’t know letters to speak the words with the love you hold in your heart.”

The pillowed out seam of her lips upturned, pushing wrinkles up into her eyes.

I turned to the altar. The figure of the Sisters was crude at best, with paint worn away to reveal the wood from which it was carved here and there. Small offerings of blue painted stones were laid at their feet. The particle of time was just a simple painted sphere between three outstretched hands devoid of definition, so their fingers were but paddles with painted lines.

I raised my hands. The light of the candles of the altars glowed between my fingers and illuminated the motes in the air. My palms circled, gathering the dust on their own accord. I bowed my head.

“Such it was at the beginning of time, and so will it be at the end...know and trust that death has no meaning, for you are the blood that beats within the hearts of gods...”

[altheathewriter]

Another drabble

Isiere is not the smartest when it comes to affairs of the heart.

...

“You know,” the lesser knight said. What was his name? Nathern. Nat, they called him. I didn’t look up from my work in cleaning the armor but I knew who it was. “They have people here who do that work for you.”

I smiled to myself. “Yes, well. I like to do it myself.”

“You don’t think they do a good enough job?” He was putting his own armor away. He stilled before he set his helmet on the shelf amongst the others, however. Instead, he pulled one leg over the bench and sat, and set the helmet it between his legs so that he could rest his elbows on it. 

“I did not say that.”

I could feel him studying me. He did that quite frequently. Stared. Looked. Waited until I looked at him. I was not unaware of it. After all, Kaen had done much of the same when I first met him. “I don’t understand you.”

“What is there to understand?”

“Most of the time when you holy knights come down to drills, its because your holiest knight has sent you there for punishment. Now, I know your captain can be...strict.”

“Disciplined is the word I would use.”

“But I know he didn’t sentence you to drill with us ‘lesser knights’ for three months straight.”

I raised my eyes, now. He didn’t look away. His eyes were grey, like a stormcloud. Keen and narrow, set under bold black brows with thick black hair cut in a short curtain to frame them. Shapely yet slim lips quirked in encouragement. “I enjoy the drills.”

“Nobody enjoys drills,” he grunted. He reached over for a rag and began working on his own helmet. “Just like how nobody enjoys cleaning.”

“You do not have to stay, if you don’t want. From what I understand, there are people here who can do this work for you.”

“I am not staying because I enjoy cleaning.”

I almost hesitated in my work. Almost. 

“And why are you staying, Isiere of...wherever you come from?”

“Its not important.”

“Hmm,” he finally focused on his helmet and what he was doing. I’m not sure if he ever cleaned a helmet in his life. He was not doing it right. “Avoiding someone?”

“Where I came from. It is not important.”

“Alright. So why this, when you could be off...praying or whatever it is you do when you aren’t running drills?”

“It reminds me of home.”

“I thought you said where you came from isn’t important?”

“It’s not, but...” I paused. My eyes drifted to the side as I remembered. “I trained with the knights stationed at the temple. Or I tried to, anyway.” I shrugged and returned to my task. “They didn’t have people to clean up after them, or cater to them. Everything in their lives, they did themselves. And they told me that the knights here did not live the same. They told me that...to take care of what you have is an act of thanks. You are grateful for the blessings you have. And when the gods see that you care for what they have given you, they know you can handle more, and will not think twice to gift you once again.”

He had a single brow raised when I looked to him again. Those grey eyes looked me over before he shook his head and pretended to work on his helmet.

“What?”

“Isiere of nowhere important, blesses the gods in thanks of his blessings,” he chuckled. “And I am sure the drills are blessings as well.”

“They are.”

“Working for hours with sweating, stinking men and women, in the cold, early hours of the morning, when you could be in bed, warm and cozy...is a blessing.”

“You do not see it the same way?”

He shrugged his large shoulders. “I don’t see anything the way you do, I think. You are a vessel. I am just a man.”

“That is all any of us are, Nathern.”

“So you know who I am.”

“Of course.”

“How?”

“Same as how you know me?”

“In that I notice every time you are on the green, and every time you are not? In that I notice your ridiculous length of hair, or the shine of your armor on any given day, or how you take your seat upon a saddle?” His hand pulled at the rag upon the helmet. It made a singing noise. “Or perhaps like every moment that I know you look upon me, as if you think I would not notice?”

I blinked. I now knew why he was here. And I should have known. Nathern was a quiet domination during drills and practice. A tall man, taller than even I was, and made of thick muscle and a quick mind. He was quick to go through targets, quick to strategize an exercise, and quick to succeed. Effortless, punishing, and without a care for his opponent’s designs.

Everything was as he wanted.

Why was I so surprised?

I set the armor on its shelf and stood. I could hear him curse under his breath when I moved past him to the door.

“Perhaps I am mistaken. I did not mean to offend.”

My hand was on the doorknob. I let my fingers slip down to the lock, and turned the latch to lock the door. When I turned about, he was watching me from over his shoulder. His head gave a nod, and he abandoned the bench, and his helmet to cross the space between us with that steady but heavy footfall of his. This man could never be stealthy.

Nathern pressed a hand on the door above me, and then drew me in with the other. I opened my mouth for his kiss, and he took me in with his tongue on mine. I felt his breath on my cheek. His hair against my skin. A rough stubble under my fingers.

“You are not expected anywhere, anytime soon?”

“No.”

“Good.”

[altheathewriter]

Notes on Isiere

I did something with him that I've never done with a character: I projected my own medical issue on him. He has a tremor disorder and so do I.

I've never seen a character with one that didn't have Parkinson's or drug problem. But they can happen and can be a symptom of other health issues.

For Isiere, it really impacts his self esteem, as in, he is seen as worthless because he cannot help his parents and do things that require coordination and fine skills. And like many people who feel worthless, he feels he needs to try harder than everyone else and prove himself, which often creates blows to ones esteem when they can't be like everyone else. So he trains to be a knight and of course this doesn't go well, but the gods accept him because he is willing to try despite this tremor.

For modern and non fictional people, minor things can be a hassle. Lifting a fork without spilling food. Putting on mascara or make up. Grabbing things, walking, it really all depends on the tremor disorder and how bad it is.

People also make assumptions. Do you do drugs? Are you diabetic and need to eat something? Are you anxious or scared? Since I was 12 I've had to be like...nah, I just shake a lot.

On bad days, I don't even want to eat in public because either food will shake off my fork or I can't even get it in my mouth. Or I spill water on me.

I am also an artist and I've struggled with doing art. I've had fellow artists and teachers tell me that if I cannot do art the right way, and cannot make a straight like without shaking, I'm just cheating myself. I often have to hold my drawing wrist with my other hand to steady it. Painting is a struggle. I use a lot of digital programs and shortcuts to do what other people do easily.

Doctors have dismissed me and I have never had any therapy for it.

Isiere's shaking will have a part in the story. It's not just his backstory. There will also be another character who is an amputee. I want to really write these characters well. Isiere and I have very few things in common but I really wanted this to be a part of his story.

[altheathewriter]

Your OCs Back Story Week 1

I am way behind but I will pick Isiere

This is for @yourocsbackstory.

Isiere:

For the first time in my life, my hands held steady before me.

The fingers were still, palms up and controlled in prayer as I knelt before The Sisters. Such as that they were, my mortal hands, as the single instance of Time held, gilt of bezel about crystal, between their outstretched hands. Frozen in the reaches of the universe, flowing with the energy of something that was and wasn’t all at once. A beginning, a middle, and an end. Moving forever and yet forever still.

I felt their power within me. It was foreign, but beat through my veins and arteries as if from a second heart. I came to know things I hadn’t known, in this power, yet still did not know and could not understand, because it belonged to the gods. I was merely a vessel. Piety rewarded. Faith blessed.

I called that power up through my fingers now. It was blue to my eyes, but the strands of time held no and all color. My human perception was still so severely limited. I embraced knowing this, and gave praise to The Sisters for the lack of comprehension inherent to what I was. 

I heard someone come down the aisle of the temple, their footsteps giving away the slight stick of skin to cold, stone floor. Barefoot in the presence of gods, but that was not why he did not wear shoes.

“Hello, Kaen,” I said.

He came to kneel beside me, and brushed the red curtain of my hair from my face. “Are you done praying yet?”

“I will never be done praying. I have much to be thankful for.”

Even so, I lowered my hands. Their blue light faded.

“Yes, well, the gods are eternal and I’m sure they’re aware of your thanks.” Slender hands pulled up my own, until I stood. I was met with that impish smile of his. He had mischief planned. “And we are still so very mortal.”

“I am sure you have plans for us this evening, then?”

“Time may always exist,” he said. I allowed him to pull me down the aisle, our bare feet threatening to run in disrespect. We heard the sexton tut at us in disapproval as he swept between the pews, but paid him no mind. “Earthly delights will spoil, and I have no desire to let their existences be meaningless.”

I heard The Sisters argue in my mind. Such delights would always come and go, and their effect, the same. But I was a mortal man, as Kaen said, and his god was the god of the earth. Time held passage only in our minds, and his was an existence that held meaning in the point that I occupied, now, right then. I would endeavor for time to remember him, as futile as an endeavor I knew that it was.

[altheathewriter]

A Constellation of Hearts Drabble

After Isiere screws up.

“I saw you.” Kaen’s face was twisted, lines and hatred pulling upon the soft freckled curves of his brow and cheeks. Vines creeped up over him, lacing with audible creaks and groans. Thorns pierced through his thicket armor and aimed their pointed ends towards me. “It didn’t matter if I saw you. Everyone is whispering of it. Kaen’s lover, sealed up in the armory with the lesser knight. Isiere the red, taking the lesser knight in his bed. Does Kaen know what Isiere does, when his fiery prince is off, alone?”

The last bit came with a bit of a shove, for I had tried to reach for him. I took a step back. The touch did not hurt, but I felt I reacted as if instantly bruised.

“But you were not alone. You were with him, while I was telling you of my love for you. You gave only your tears to me, and were kind enough to let me dry them and feel your sorrow, while he had you happy and complete, secret and what? What did you do with him, that you could not do with me?” He turned his face away, as if to hide the wetness that rimmed his eyes. “If you did not love me, all you had to do is tell me. I am humiliated.”

“Kaen...” I did not know what to say. Obviously I had done something wrong. My time with Nathern...I had miscalculated something, I had stepped over something I was not aware of. “But I do love you.”

He shook his head at me. His hands clutched at his elbows. “The time teller is also a liar, it seems. Stay away from me, Isiere. I do not want your touch.”

He turned to go.

Panic rose up within me. I realized, then, that I had made a horrible mistake. I didn’t know what it was. But Kaen was hurt, and Kaen was...he was not just turning away to go to his rooms. He was turning his face from me completely. Fear clenched my heart and curled in on my chest, pounding and stabbing all at once. “Kaen, wait!” I ran for him, and reached out for him.

The thorns scratched my palm and blood swelled at the lip of the cut. I retracted my hand as if burned. He only looked on me with a glance over his shoulder.

“Please, Kaen! I don’t...I don’t know what I am doing. I have never done this before.”

“Then consider this a learning experience,” he said. The thorns about him grew and twisted their way towards me. I could only stare back at their tangled mess as he walked away. “Consult your books if you are confused. I am not your teacher.”

I lowered my hand. Blood trickled down my fingers and patted against the floor in time with his steps. He flung open the door to his rooms, rooms I had spent so much time in, and when the door shut behind him, thorned brambles poked up through the caulking of the temple stone, disrupting them, to lock up across the doors. The hinges groaned with the strain, and the briars even dared to stab through the wood of the door.

I felt each one through the heart of me, each thorn through my very bones and viscera, stabbing through my organs and clasping close to my lungs. I could not draw in a breath, it seemed, and I could do little else but sink down to my knees, then draw myself to a seat along the adjacent stone wall.

Red followed me from the point where confusion met finality. Somewhere in his rooms, Kaen wore it upon him. But it was I who had killed us, somehow, at some point when in Nathern’s arms. Of that I was sure.