Debts of Old Ages
Thirteenth Day of the Twelfth Month 293 AC
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Ceria took in a deep breath... the fluttering of wings and the shaking of glass almost imagined, the sparks drifting from her eyes not of anger but sympathetic in nature, almost like calling to like amidst the strange arcane melodies. There were no shouts of fear and anger outside her door here, nothing to bind her to the earth and sky, nothing calling to her attention and keeping her here... she could just float up and away and never stop, set herself apart from the world under the sun until nothing could harm her, yet she did not because someone was here...
no one should be here.
"
Are you ready to speak?" The speaker's voice was high and clear but held a strong echo, almost like two voices twinned together, a deep voice marred by age and abuse, like someone had lifted it again and again walking upon a thousand battlefields, bellowing orders and encouragements to drive men to victory again and again. She wanted to scoff or try to ignore it, ignore the twinge of concern she felt in her chest, like an elder who was infirm shakily rising to greet a favored niece even though it risked their health. No more could she press away wind and rain, not yet at least, to blind herself to that which was in front of her wasn't her nature anymore than His.
"You are weak," she said, cursing how shaky her voice sounded, making her seem upset rather than disdainful as she had meant. "Why bother me now, when the clouds barely weep for old slights and men cast down no foes in your name yet?"
"
I've... had time to reflect on the nature of vengeance, more than any mortal on this world could possibly imagine, child," the voice said, nearly tremulous now, rather than sparking in anger as it had all those nights ago, when she and her friends had nearly died to a bandit king without the good sense to know he was dead...
he's still out there, she remembered, a score to settle, a wrong to right, even if it troubled Dorne and not Sorcerer's Deep, she felt a sense of responsibility for it because she had involved herself. "
Much like magic, grip the hilt too tightly and you shatter the blade, you'll have another foe cut you down before long."
She spun around, not knowing if fury would blossom at the sight or
what, but the sight of an avian form which was that of a bird and not stopped her, wind danced beneath its wings with ease and sky-fire sparked from wing-tips razor-edged. It's black eyes were rimed with a burning aura, sputtering and faint but ever-present.
And it was in pain.
"
I wish you to do me a service, and help an ally in turn, one who will be good to you," the voice coming from the spirit paused on that note, almost uncertain, but more considering, "
Kinder than the world has known."
Kinder than you have known, she knew He meant.
She realized at once what he meant. "The Earth Mother... that boy priest of hers?" She guessed His intent, carefully gripping the loose shift she wore, the piles of old lore and tomes around her suddenly coming into focus again. She understood.
"You want me to share the lore I gathered with him?" She whispered. She was not used to the idea still, she had given what she had struggled to collect with her own hands over to the King's Scholarum, and it had paid back tenfold what she had reaped, concepts she had struggled with coming easier than ever with such lore at her disposal, copies of books that might be rare anywhere else in the world almost common place. Readily enough available to someone with the means and wealth to invest in their own library, at any rate.
"
She is quiet still," the voice whispered, growing fainter, "
Stubborn in her own way," they said, mildly fond. "
He will need help." The last was a rasp, barely there, only the high clear tones of the spirit left, and she herself had seen better days.
She looked down, reluctant to say yay or nay, but knew she would not have much time to say much of anything note either way. "Fine." She hated how hard it was, to fight tears at the impenetrable sense of helplessness at hearing this stubborn fool come seeking her out again and again, so little power left to waste, driving home even Gods can die, of age and the poison of prayer. "Don't die, you old fool." She couldn't bring herself to say anything else,
not yet.
"
I did not plan on it," the voice said, suddenly stronger and deeper now, like new life had been breathed into it, and sounding so inordinately proud of itself, like it was His deed alone, or like an expectant father.
When Ceria looked up again, the spirit was gone. All at once the pounding on her door came back into focus, like she had not noticed someone was raising Hell just outside. How many hours did she sit here in a trance? "Wake up!" A familiar voice shouted, a mix of anger and concern that could only belong to a beleaguered Ser Criston. "There was an attack!"
Ceria snatched up her warhammer and ignored the dumbfounded expression of Criston as she left him in her wake, wearing naught but her night clothes and prepared to smite whatever fool thought it was to attack the Capital.
Her home.
