(no subject)

[monolike]

Being raised in the church isn't so bad.

Empyrean worship isn't as prevalent as before, even in the capital of Loegress, but the priests and attendants are all friendly and more importantly, it's safe. That's what they tell Sorey over and over, it's safe within the city, and he supposes it must be true. Sometimes he'll hear whispered stories when he's cleaning the pews, on his knees in the shadows as Brother Mathley and Brother Ferengard murmur, another village, did you hear, what a pity.

And though his heart longs for the outside world, as far back as he can remember, he's only seen the city walls. And the priests don't believe him when he tells them about the spirits; about the nice old kitty who tells him stories from when the mountains were still being born, about that man who could make the wind do as he wished. They were good spirits, Sorey could tell, but almost nobody could see them.

...nobody but Artorius.

He had only visited the capital once, with two other people. He was younger than the brothers but much older than Sorey, and he looked every inch the explorer Sorey wished he could be. Sorey had hidden behind the altar with the cat spirit as they spoke with High Priest Gideon, as he told them something about violence and nonsense before turning them away. Artorius (Sorey would learn his name much later) had seen him, looked at him and then, very deliberately, looked at the cat as well. Then he'd smiled and raised his finger to his lips before he and the others left.

"Don't associate with those types," Father Gideon had said to him, but Sorey knew, one day, he would join them.

The Scarlet Night happened, and now everyone could see monsters. And then it happened again, and everyone could see spirits. Artorius returned, Father Gideon welcomed him with open arms, and the moment Sorey turned seventeen he joined the Abbey's ranks. He'd practiced bowmanship and swordsmanship before at the church as a way to keep fit, but now his skills would be used to protect people, to kill daemons.

He would be given a malak, today, to use to those ends. And though it makes him feel a little deceitful, as Sorey pulls on and straightens his uniform for the ceremony, all he can think about is finally, finally leaving the city walls.

Comments

[nerdeology]

Over and over, again and again, Mikleo couldn't stop thinking to himself, I should have listened to Gramps.

His entire life he'd been warned not to leave the sanctuary of the mountains, not to venture past the domain of Lord Zenrus. At first it was merely due to age and lack of power; as a young malak, he'd had yet to properly develop his artes and grow into his abilities as the elders raising him had all done over the centuries of their long lives. During the last ten years or so, however, the warnings had changed, and the punishment for pushing his luck had grown more severe. Gone were the gentle scoldings and worried embraces of Mason or Natalie, gone were the exasperated lashing tongue of Melody when she caught him wandering the woods outside of the gate without permission. Now it was Prime Lord Zenrus who dealt with him more severely, with strict rules and supervision, with lightning and booming thunder in his voice, a genuine force of nature that Mikleo was afraid to cross more than he could get away with.

"I know you're lonely, Mikleo," he'd growl, his pipe snapping sharply against the edge of a fire pit, seated cross-legged under his favourite tree. "Your heart has always been drawn to adventure, and watching the world from above isn't your way. But these days the land below isn't safe for our kind. Wait a hundred years or so, and in time, things will change. You'll see."

They were eternal, if nothing killed them; he knew that just by looking at Zenrus's unchanging face. But waiting a few years was hard enough, nevermind hundreds. The world below called to him, and he ached to see it all. He wanted to explore the lake nearby, to follow the river and find the ocean, to see a human city, to sail on a ship.

He wasn't stupid, of course. He knew the risks, not only because of the countless warnings he'd been given but because of Kyme, who had left the safety of Elysia years ago on an errand and never returned. The others had tried searching for him, but Shiron had mentioned something about feeling "exorcists" in the wind, and Zenrus had called it off immediately. They hadn't tried to find Kyme again after that, and speaking his name was practically forbidden. Mikleo had tried to argue with Zenrus about it, demanding answers, and he'd gotten the thrashing of a lifetime and learned his lesson. Whatever the truth was, the implications were clear: whatever was keeping him in Elysia is what stole Kyme away from them, and "exorcists" were at the core of it. More dangerous than daemons, more frightening than anything else by which the land could threaten a malak.

Even then, even knowing all of that, he still let the temptation get the better of him, using the excuse of a particularly disgruntled prickleboar tearing through the woods to venture outside of Zenrus's protected domain. It would only be for a little while, he promised himself. Maybe he'd just sneak out to see the lake for a few hours. If he was careful, his disappearance would go unnoticed, and even if he was caught, surely it would be worth the trip.

He hadn't even made it to the lake. The prickleboar had been fleeing a pair of white-clad knights who'd been hunting it, and when Mikleo stopped to watch, he'd been ambushed and swiftly captured by an old man and, of all things, an empty-eyed malak child who fought by his side.

After that had been a blur; he'd been locked away somewhere dark and ethereal, and his body hadn't felt real. He'd tried to use artes, but his own element hadn't responded to his call. He floated in darkness for a long, long time, his voice swallowed by the emptiness into which he'd been thrown. Even calling for Zenrus didn't help, and it always, always had. He was outside of the domain, outside of that warm, safe bubble he'd always felt and loved.

I should have listened to Gramps, he thought, lonely and regretful and more frightened than he'd ever felt in his life.

Eventually there'd been a sudden thrum of power, a burst of light, stronger and more terrifying than even Zenrus's lightning, and he could do nothing but tremble as it washed over him, immediately longing for the cold dark again, because somehow this was even worse. It invaded his mind and pushed, pushed, pushed, as if attempting to force him out of his own body. He was shoved into a corner, beaten down, chained and locked up tight when he had no energy left with which to fight back. It was then that he heard a voice, and although it was quiet it carried the same unmistakably commanding presence of Lord Zenrus himself.

You will obey, it told him, and Mikleo knew he would. The thought had come unbidden and left him trembling, terrified. He would obey. He would obey every word, and he didn't even know who to obey but he would, he will, for the rest of his life. From that moment onward the thought has been driven irrevocably through his soul like a worm, wrapped around his mind and leaving him lost in a cloud, empty and unaware. He doesn't move when he's summoned to be examined, or when a mask is fitted on to make him nothing more than a faceless tool for the soldiers of the Abbey. He moves when he is told to demonstrate his powers, every gesture mechanical and practiced, and he stands still as a statue for a full three days until the old man in white is satisfied that he's been "properly sealed", whatever that means. He hasn't been ordered to think, nor to question it.

When he's summoned at last in front of a crowd of white knights, he stands still as ordered, facing the stranger to whom he's meant to be tethered. He stares, unmoving as a doll, and says nothing.

He hasn't been ordered to scream, so he does not scream.