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If there was ever a day that Lidya wished for normal, clear rain, it would be today. The second blood storm of the month had begun just shortly after the sun had risen, bringing along with it the threat of the Beast Sickness once again. Normally, she wouldn't be hindered by such a normal occurrence in the weather, but to have it only days after the first was most certainly abnormal. There was always at least a week or two between storms, and most of the time you could see the signs before it happened; dark, almost red-black clouds in the sky, the smell of blood in the air, and unrelenting humidity.289Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ321zVKxdiy
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No one knew what caused the blood storms specifically, or where the blood itself came from, but there were theories--Vile Church theories--on how it came to be.
The most commonly accepted one, and one Lidya could somewhat agree might be true, was that the blood was from the dead beasts slain by the godlings. Each beast slain equated to three droplets, and every godling felled was worth sixty droplets. The gods would then collect it from the air and bodies, weave the red clouds into the sky, and allow it to fall upon the world in memory of the beasts--or former humans who were exposed to the Beast Sickness. There were many problems with the theory itself, such as the blood giving humans the Beast Sickness when some normal beasts did not, or how the beasts from the Veil did not seem to apply to the theory at all.
The second one was more foolish to believe in, but not entirely out of the question, either. It was one her father, sadly, agreed with, instead of the first; that the gods were punishing them for their sins and misbehaviors. She didn't believe the gods themselves were above sinning and misbehaving, either, from the stories and propoganda the Vile Church spewed forth every Day of Abretas, the holy day. It made no sense that she, a human, would be held to higher standards than a god would hold themselves, because surely that meant they would be superior, not the gods.
Whichever one was true, Lidya was still yearning for the smell and taste of normal rain. Even a small shower or two would be fine with her, if the world could afford it. It had been such a long time since their last normal rainfall, almost six months ago, that a lot of the crops were withering and their water supplies were running low. The well they used was tainted with the blood of the beasts, rendered useless from the start, so they got their water from the rain whenever it fell from the sky. Even the animals were unable to quench their thirst, because if they drank the tainted water, they too would become revolting beasts.
She had seen many of her neighbor's and her own precious pets fall victim to the blood more than she liked to admit. Her cat, Marmalade, had been the last one in the village to go, but only because Lidya had been sneaking her clean water from their stores when her mother wasn't looking. She supposed she was glad that she had more time than others with her cat, but not by much. Interestingly enough, the animals not affected by the blood at all, or that were affected but extremely docile in the presence of humans, were the prey animals. Birds, horses, cows--all of them had mutated to become not quite normal. The horses, for instance, grew taller and stronger, with horns curling from behind their ears to frame their faces, not unlike a bull's would. Their spines grew out from under their skin, forming an odd row of sharp spines that looked like the sail of a fish. Even their hooves were affected, the bottoms harder than steel and just as sharp.
Lidya had petted one of the mutated horses before they were carted off to one of the royal capitals to serve one of their many monarchs. The fur was like velvet, and it was quite the sweet creature despite looking like it had come from the depths of the Veil. Before she had mutated, her name was--funnily enough--Sugar, and she was just as sweet as her namesake suggested, even as a beast-horse. Sometimes when the royals passed through their village, which wasn't often, she thought she saw her black and brown coat, but it was always too quick to tell.
Blowing hair out of her face, she finally decided to stop reminiscing and picked up Fenharrow's journal. She hadn't even gotten a few pages in, and the content was already a bit over her head because godling duties weren't privy to the public. Finding Paolgo and killing beasts was all she could imagine them doing at all, really.
After closing the curtains to hide the blood raining down from the sky, she slipped off her shoes and got comfy in her bed. There was no use for them when she wasn't going outside for the day.
Fenharrow's next entry was more bland than the last one, that was for sure. The journal was written in fairly close to the month of his death, so old age had to have been getting to him by then.
"Day of Naicar, X020.
The days grow shorter and the nights even longer. It worries me that by the time I may be dead that day might not exist at all for humanity; something to think about while I rest, I suppose.
"Day of Abretas, X020.
People speak to me of a black clothed menace killing godlings faster than we can replace them. The rumors speak of them wearing a mask similair to that of the Vile Mother's, hiding their face from their victims, and a long cloak of black feathers stained even darker with blood. I have never heard of this person--or godling, as they would have me believe--and hope that I do not encounter them. A peculiar weapon has been spotted in their hands as well: a long lost artifact by the disgusting name of 'Mother's Womb'.
In truth, the weapon's name is accurate for what it is modeled after. Paolgo's cowl still existed and had not yet eroded the year the weapon was made, so the reference was there to draw from. Some sketches depict it as a sharp, oddly bulbous blade. In all honesty, it appears just like I would imagine a god's cowl would, lumpy and inhuman.
But its lethality in battle is unquestionable, I think. Godlings have been completely decapitated or ruined past regeneration with it; a hard feat for any weapon in existence. Many I know have supposedly been killed by this person; Mortia, Pasi, Boldr... I do not think revenge would be an option here, lest I die myself in the process.
The gods have been stealing people away, discreetly, without proper ceremony to choose them. I cannot say if this is a good thing or a bad thing; we need more godlings, but if we exhaust the prime candidates before they can even succeed, is it such a wise idea?
Perhaps this world is coming to an end more quickly than I thought."
Lidya frowned, pulling a piece of paper out from behind the entry and unfolding it carefully. The paper was wrinkled and dry, as if someone had crumpled it up, regretted it, and tried to smooth it out long after the damage had been done. Once unfolded and some of the creases smoothed out, she could see that it depicted a visual of the supposed godling who killed other godlings. Even if Fenharrow's handwriting was awful, his artwork was something to behold, even drawn from imagination and not reference. All of the shading, small details, and the mask suggested he had seen the face of the Vile Mother many times to get the accuracy of it all. Even the weapon was something she could imagine in her head, except it was colored in with something that looked suspiciously like dried blood...
"Lidya!" Her mother's voice had her panicking before she could stop it. "Lidya, are you awake? Breakfast is ready!"
"Coming, mother!" Before she could have a fit about potentially being caught, she stowed the journal under her pillow. Then she realized that today was supposed to be laundry day. Unsure if it was changed because of the weather, she chose a different hiding spot this time, piling it under the many sketches in her desk drawer and putting a mound of thread over it for good measure.
Once she was certain her hiding place was secure, she pulled her shoes back on and made her way downstairs. She smelled the boghog bacon before she saw it; it never smelled quite right, not like normal pig's meat, anyways. It smelled more like burnt blood than savory meat, but she couldn't blame her mother or the animal for that. They had no control over what meat did and did not smell like.
"Good morning," Lidya yawned into her shoulder. She took a seat at the table, rubbing her face tiredly, and was about to prop her feet up in a very unladylike manner on the other chair before she did a doubletake.
Her father sat in the chair opposite her, cleverly hidden behind the enormous fake flower arrangement in the middle of the table. He wore his normal civilian clothes, not the poofy white robes of the Vile Church employees--a sight she would never get used to--but kept the Vile Church's symbol around his neck, a series of interlocking circles and stars, signaling that he was low in the ranks of the church.
"Good morning, Lids," he replied tiredly. The bags under his eyes were horrendous, and the wrinkles made him look twenty years older than he actually was. "How did you sleep?"
"I slept fine." She frowned at him. "You don't look like you got enough, though, Papa..."
Even his hairline was starting to recede, and she wasn't sure it was from stress or just hairloss.
"It will be fine," he replied quietly. "Besides, work has been canceled today; the Godling Ceremony has been officially called for by the gods. It starts tomorrow."
"That's good, isn't it?" Her mother turned away from the pan of frying meat, picking up a somewhat bruised tomato. "More godlings will be chosen, and we won't have as many beasts in the area."
Her father was staring at the table now, the tiredness in his eyes unable to be hidden the more exhausted he became. He worked fourteen hour shifts, it was bound to happen the moment he got a break. He never got a day off, even on the Day of Abretas--there was always something to do in the church that kept him away. She figured the exhaustion would catch up to him sometime or another, and today just happened to be that day for him.
"That's not what I'm worried about." He was quiet for a few more moments, stroking his beard not in thought, but worry. "Lidya's old enough to be chosen."
It was like a bomb had been dropped over their heads.
Her mother's mouth worked like a fish, opening and closing in rapid succession, before she managed a strained,"What?"
Lidya herself didn't know what to say, staring at the table in mute shock. That was impossible, wasn't it? They didn't choose people under twenty-three--that was what the church said. But by the look on her father's face, that didn't seem true at all.
Suddenly, she was fearing for her future.
"They changed the ages," he said bitterly. "From twenty-three all the way down to sixteen. According to the priestesses, they can't afford to wait for people to turn the proper age. They need godlings now, and quickly. Already, four have been killed according to the godling archives, and another is close to their death from sickness."
Lidya's mind quickly flashed back to the names Fenharrow had listed in his journal. Mortia. Pasi. Boldr. The fourth obviously had to be Fenharrow himself, but who was the fifth? Godlings didn't just get sick like normal people did. They were immune to all sicknesses that plagued the human population, all diseases and plagues. Except for poison, their immune systems could fight anything off, but she didn't think anyone would be stupid enough to poison a godling.
"They won't choose me," Lidya argued. "Look at me. I'm not the strongest girl in the village, not by a long shot. And I have the women's disease--I'd only be a waste of time and space to train, not to mention waste godsblood on."
As if reminding her, her mother quickly brought out a cup and her bottle of neon reflective goop, setting it in front of her. "Don't think I would let you allow me to forget, Lidya."
Her father's quick response didn't allow her the time to give her mother a proper, pitiful look.
"Women's disease or not, the gods don't discriminate." That would be his primary argument. "There have been wasteful godlings chosen before."
"Why are you so determined that she'll be chosen, Gaol?" Her mother asked softly. She took the pan off of the open flame, setting it aside to cool. "There are many here around her age that could be chosen just as easily."
"I'm preparing you for the possibility that you could be chosen," he said, looking Lidya directly in the eye as she chugged down her medicine. "I never said you would be. But the chance is there... and it's not very low. The Fairhold triplets died yesterday from the Beast Sickness, cutting us down to only ten in the age group."
Ten. Nine people that could be chosen other than me. Lidya stared down at the table, swiping her tongue over her teeth to get rid of the sugary dregs. That's four or five godlings they'll be petitioning for, and everyone knows that the commoners are the first pick.
And their village was the next on the list.
"The gods will be appearing in human bodies for the sake of the ceremony," Gaol added slowly. "They will be limited in what potential they can sense or choose from. If we're careful, we can boost your chances of not being chosen."
Both her mother and herself looked taken aback, and it was probably for the same reasons. Her father, the Vile Church devotee, believer in all sorts of propoganda and lies, would go against the gods just to keep her from being a godling? He should have been an ecstatic little follower at the idea, but instead, he was putting his beliefs aside for her.
"How?" Lidya blurted. "We can't hide from them, that's like treason. And I'll be required to attend mass because of it!"
Gaol's eyes narrowed, but she knew it was at her loathing of the idea of mass, not treason. "As I said, if we're careful, we can manage it. I'll have to recruit Derga to help, but if my idea works, then you won't have to worry about being chosen."
"What's the plan?" Her mother began setting out plates, forks, and glasses. "It can't be simple, can it?"
"I'm afraid not." He rubbed his eyes, pulling his glasses down from his head. "But it might work. I'll work out the smaller details tonight, but my idea is to bring in more people over the age group. Lidya, you stand out like a sore thumb with your mother's hair, so you'll need to wear the church veil to hide it."
Lidya frowned. She hated those veils. They made her feel like she was being carted off to be married, not attending a church service.
"Then," he continued,"we put you behind people far more likely to be chosen, like Eisa, or Lian. No one will notice you with those two putting on a show."
Eisa and Lian were best friends and, coincidentally, the strongest people in the village. They were also hotheads to boot, and didn't think things through, so it was very likly that they would end up showing off and getting chosen instead.
"That might work," Lidya said slowly,"but what if they don't show?"
"Then we figure something else out."
Food was set out, and they each fell silent as they got their portions. Lidya had gotten only a few strips of bacon, but more slices of the tomato than her parents, and whittled away at the bruised spots while they picked their own food.
"Okay, then that will be Plan A. We'll need a plan B, and if that fails, then a plan C. If everything fails, then we need a failsafe--something secure, so that it can't blow up in our faces," her mother hummed. "Maybe... Gaol, you have that priestess friend, don't you?"
Lidya watched with some confusion as her father's face turned deathly white. It was like watching a strawberry, red and full of life, be sucked of its colors until all that was left was a dry, pale husk. She didn't know he was friends with the priestess at all--but her mother seemed to. And juding by the mocking, accusing expression she had on, it wasn't a good thing.
She slowly put down her fork and knife.
Her father wasn't... He wasn't... was he?
"No," he said. It was strained. Her mother didn't look convinced. "No, not anymore."
Breakfast was eaten in silence for the rest of the morning. None of them dared to speak; her mother too ashamed to, her father too guilty. Lidya herself didn't know what to say. All of this had been happening right under her nose and she had been too blind to notice it, unlike her mother. Just how had she noticed? She was as bored as she was when they attended mass, and frequently passed notes to her back and forth about the doctrine.
As soon as it was acceptable to leave without seeming uncomfortable, even though that threshold was long past, she fled upstairs. Fenharrow's journal was a distraction she was keen on abusing, especially to ward away the doubts about her father and the accusation of her mother.
But when she opened the drawer and pulled the papers and thread up to pull it out from her new hiding spot, her stomach dropped to her feet.
The journal was gone.
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