-Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human
O God...
She knelt rigidly at the rail, clasping white fingers tightly together, as if her piety was judged by an outward show of complete absorption. And perhaps it was - she was achingly conscious of her two witnesses. They were her protectors (her wardens), and she knew that their presence was merely a prelude to what was coming, but still...she wished that she could have been left alone for this, at least.
The ritual was much like the wood beneath her bloodless hands, firm and polished smooth. She had learned early to take comfort from it, from its strange mixture of shame and sacrifice and numb absolution. It didn't matter what she was before she bent her head and pressed dry palms together. Laughter and lust would be wrung from her soul like spilled wine from a errant sleeve, leaving a pure expanse of white behind. Once again she would be God's vessel, empty and undoubting, to go forth and fulfill divine dictates.
She longed for that unfeeling void to burn all of her frantic human frailties away. That was Heaven. That was God.
Ovelia had never thought to visualize Heaven, but had she been asked to paint it, she might have drawn something like Orbonne Monastery. The stones underfoot and overhead were gray, a mottled composition that seemed to whisper of sins and misery. In contrast, the wooden pews and doors were a deep brown, an epiphany of unconditional love and rich satisfaction. If Ovelia had been possessed of an unusual surge of gaiety, she might have dipped her brush in yellow, and streaked drops of sunlight across the room, mingled with the crimsons and blues and greens from the stained windows.
And in the corners, dark shadows congregated, waiting and watching...
She wouldn't have included herself in the picture. It would never have occurred to her. It would have been very easy to paint her, though, had anyone ever so desired (No one had ever so desired). Had there been sunlight, it would have lit the light gold of her hair, cascading down the shoulders of her white attire. Her skin was the very palest of pale, and only showed any hint of color when contrasted with the stark blankness of her dress. For all intents, she might have been carved in marble, only lightly splashed with oils by some clumsy painter. The perfect little snow angel, the innocent little lamb.
And even though she didn't see herself in Heaven, the other two in the room did, and knew that she was too good and too pure for this mortal life. The Church may cover saints in glory, yet the unpleasant thought remains that every saint was once a martyr. The praise and worship lavished on them after death only serves to highlight the misery and blood they experienced in life.
O God...
Sounds carried through the dusty space of the monastery like blood in the snow, each drop distinct and human against a background of cold severity. There was the low breathing, the rustle of fabric as stances were changed. Each little noise, each smudge in the white canvas of sound, served to highlight Ovelia's stillness. She didn't move from her kneeling position, didn't utter an audible sound in prayer. She was perfection personified.
(If she had been told this, Ovelia might have laughed, or at least smiled in grim amusement. She knew the flaws that ran through her core, the weaknesses throughout her marble base)
There are some who point out saints and say that they are without vice, living embodiment of vaguely defined moral concepts. They're wrong, though. Saints strive so hard precisely because they are sinful, and the anxious thought lends fear and shame to their every moment. Saints feel temptation all the time. They know that any minute they could tumble into that dark abyss and cling to their ethics and morals and sanity as long as they can. Saints are no more than the heretics and madmen of tomorrow, saved only from infamy by the fortuitous timing of their mortal demise.
Someone shifted restlessly behind her and said, "Princess Ovelia, it's time to leave." Agrias' voice, like the woman herself, was respectful but sharp, a ball of silver spikes politely restrained within ribbons. Press too hard, and the points would emerge, exposing pinpricks of blood.
"Please, just one more moment," Ovelia said, pressing her palms closer together. I have sinned, My Lord.
"The knights have been waiting, your Highness! If we're to reach shelter by nightfall..." Agrias' crimson words faded to an angry mutter, and Ovelia mentally saw her, tall and brave and strong. No doubt Agrias would silently accept her destiny, instead of denying and delaying it. Ovelia felt a surge of pale inadequacy next to the radiant knight.
"Princess, don't give Agrias any trouble," the other, Simon, pleaded, and Ovelia inwardly cringed. She had never meant to be any trouble to anyone, but it seemed she couldn't help it, it seemed that the very fact of her birth was an inconvenience to the universe at large...
"Please," Ovelia whispered, opening her eyes to regard the rail. Please, my Lord, forgive me of my doubts. Give me the strength to follow your plan. I know that you will shelter and protect me. O God...but... O, she was weak.
(When she was a child, she had dreamed of witches in black coming to visit her, feeding her sugar cookies and making her tea, and they had loved her and she had loved them, and even after waking, she couldn't shake their claim on her. The only thing that kept them at bay was prayer, and God, and Orbonne Monastery)
Her fingers constricted as the traitorous plea rose up within her. Please, please, please let me stay here. I won't be a trouble, I'll be a saint, just let me live here. O God, when I'm here, I'm safe. If I go out there - O, I'll bring misery and suffering with me, God, because that's all I that I ever cause, and then, and then, and then, they'll get me then. She bent her head, feeling the waves of guilt assail her. What right did she have to ask God for mercy? Everything moved as he ordained - did she think that he would alter his universe just for a foolish girl's whims? St. Ajora had only smiled at his execution, and now she was wailing because she had to leave the dour building that had been her home for a handful of years. Surely God was the only shield the faithful needed, and if she could only be faithful, she would be safe. She felt tears welling up at her selfish nature, and desperately tried to choke them down. My Lord, forgive me.
Behind her, the monastery door opened, allowing the chilly evening air and the loud voice of one of her escorts. "It's been nearly an hour! What the hell is taking this long?"
"Show some respect, Gafgarion," Agrias snapped. "When everything is ready, we'll leave. Not before."
The door was shut, and there was a scuffle of boots against the stone floor. "And will all of this be all right, Agrias? This is an urgent issue for us, and a storm is coming. We're in a hurry."
"You are in a hurry?" Agrias growled. "Ah, forgive me. I had forgotten we moved to the whims of the Hokuten. Or are we to move to your whims, Gafgarion? Forgive me, I was not familiar with their practice of hiring such knaves." Her tone was piercing and cold and thin.
O God...
"Remember, my Lady, we are merely mercenaries." Gafgarion sounded amused. "We're not obliged to show you any respect."
Ovelia slowly rose and faced the others, as Agrias made a motion to pull out her sword. "Please, that's enough. I'm ready to go." Lord help me.
Agrias sullenly turned, stuffing her half-bared sword back in its sheath, and a smirking Gafgarion dropped to his knee. His two companions, a plump young squire and a lean honey-haired knight, followed suit. Simon folded his hands within the sleeves of his robe, smiling up to her expectantly. Ovelia looked down to them, and felt her heart drop. They looked to her as a princess, they expected her to be a princess. She knew she would disappoint them. She wasn't capable and glorious, she was limp and ineffectual. Far safer to simply kneel at the rail.
Instead, she stepped forward, towards her waiting attendants. There was no honorable way out of these summons, and the most she could do was merely follow God's bidding, like an obedient servant. St. Ajora had been tortured and killed for his beliefs - all that was asked of her was to make a little journey. As long as she had faith in God, he would shelter her. What did she have to fear?
Her stomach twisted inside her, but she concentrated on making her steps deliberate.
Simon bowed his head. "Go with God, Princess."
Does God go with me?
"You, as well," she said, choking down the traitorous thoughts. O, I am an obedient child, God.
Agrias turned, satisfied that her charge was coming, but before she could take more than a step, the door burst open with a violent noise, admitting a staggering woman and the first raindrops of the coming storm. The knight fell just inside the threshold, and as Agrias ran to her side, Ovelia could see the spreading crimson stain against the side of her tunic. O God...
" 's the enemy...Goltana..." the knight gasped out as Agrias desperately tried to judge the severity of the wound. Ovelia felt herself grow lightheaded for a moment. They were fighting...they were fighting over her.
Gafgarion growled, and barked a command to his two companions, who nodded and ran out into the rain. He looked to Agrias, and a grin slid over his face. "What one must do to make money in this world," he said with a feral smile, and then dashed outside, sword at the ready.
Agrias stood up, her hands red with the knight's blood. She looked at the doorway, and then turned towards Ovelia, her expression unreadable. She regarded Ovelia for a minute, and then she sighed, and her face became grim. She motioned towards Simon. "Take care of Lavian, Father. Princess," looking up at her young charge, "please stay here." Ovelia managed to nod, the tiniest of motions. Agrias stood there for a moment more, her dark eyes focused on Ovelia's white face, before running out to join the melee, golden braid bouncing against her blue coat and the gray rain. In a moment, she was lost from sight.
Simon came to kneel beside the fallen Knight, his gray robes brushing up against the crimson-stained flagstones. His face grew long and concerned as he regarded the wound. He whispered something to the girl, too low to be heard, but it gaspingly propelled her to her feet, supported by Simon. He turned toward Ovelia, and he looked somehow exhausted, as if he bore more than the weight of one fragile girl. "I'll take her to the dormitory, Ovelia," he said, and she nodded, the tiniest of motions. The girl gave a soft moan, and they stumbled off into the darkness, towards clean sheets and dusty air.
A moment after they were gone, Ovelia realized what she should have done. She should have ran after them, and aided Simon in supporting the bleeding knight. She should have grabbed a white pitcher of cool water to clean the mud, or a bundle of soft bandages to staunch the wound. She should have...she should have helped. But no, all she could do was stand there, white and trembling, and nod her head.
It was raining in earnest now, and she could hear the steady staccato of raindrops against the wooden roof of Orbonne. From outside the half-open door, Ovelia heard someone scream, high and loud and long, and then stop with ominous brusqueness. They were fighting...they were dying on account of her, a foolish, powerless princess. Why? She wasn't important - they had sent her to convent, simply because she was of no use. And now, now that she was eighteen, they would have taken her to Igros, where she would have taken her place in the excess nobility and been married off in a few seasons.
She knotted pallid fingers together, trying desperately to pray, for her companions and for herself. They had always told her that if she placed her faith in God, he would provide. O God, where are you? Have you deserted me? He had asked that she go to Igros and take her rightful place, and in her hubris, she had thought to go against his will. Now, he would punish her.
And in the corners, she could feel the dark witches raising up, watching her, reaching for her with bony fingers...
She closed her eyes, feeling a sickening lurch of fear in her stomach. O God. Ovelia's elbows rose automatically, so that her rigid fingers brushed the bottom of her chin. She had done wrong in doubting God, and she must atone. She must pray for forgiveness - but the prayer itself would be a comfort, an old familiar friend. She drew in a breath, her face solemn-
"Say one word and I'll have to hurt you."
-and let it go in a gasp, feeling a cold steel edge next to her neck.
"That's good," the hard, male voice continued. "Are any of your retainers around? Whisper, now."
There was a great raspy void where her vocal cords should have been, and for a moment, Ovelia doubted that she would be able to say anything. Sheer animal panic summoned a hoarse "No." She should have lied, she instinctively felt, she should have told them that they were within easy screaming distance. No, perhaps that would have been worse.
I should have lied...I should have helped...I should have hurried...I should have been obedient...
"Well, then." The knife against her neck disappeared, and her left elbow was roughly grabbed. "You'll come with me. Don't try anything, and you'll be fine."
Ovelia turned her head to look at him, feeling her heartbeat echo through her ears and skull. He was tall, with dark mahogany hair swept back over a somber face, dark eyes intent on her own face. They stared at one another for a moment, and then he pulled on her elbow. "Come." It was not a request.
So she went. His long fingers gripped her crooked elbow securely and steered her towards the back of the chapel and the small door set in the corner. The distance was short, yet the walk seemed an eternity. She seemed detached from her body, feeling her feet move as if they were controlled by some other entity, stepping forward with almost swift smoothness. The blood was pounding too hard for her to hear anything, and she could only see the door in front of her, the door that the presence at her side was moving towards so quickly. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think. And then his free hand was around the knob, and the door was opening to the gray storm outside.
And she thought, I'm being kidnapped. The thought was distinct and clear, floating in the panic-frozen blackness of Ovelia's mind. She felt no emotions from it, as seemingly detached from the situation as she was from her body. She was helpless, but oh, she had always been helpless, pulled along by her role and responsibility. This was nothing new. Her captor pulled her through the door frame, into the cold rain. Then,
He's taking me away from Orbonne.
The thought snapped through her mind, and she instinctively jerked back, from the idea and loss of safety and the vulnerability and the witches that ringed her, and from her captor with a force that startled him.
She flung herself back towards the door but it was too late, her guard had been let down and her shield had been lost, and they were all around her with their sharp teeth and bloody claws, tearing into her dress and hair and skin. She screamed then, a wordless wail of desperation, and she felt them move inside her, curling up within her stuttering heart.
The dark-haired man grabbed her with a bruising force and desperately hissed, "Shut up, shut up." Ovelia couldn't stop screaming, though - their sharp elbows were sticking into her lungs, and now they were slinking up her throat and peering out her eyes and O God, please!.
He stared at her with horror and anger, and through her frantic consternation, she thought she felt his grip loosen. Then there was a distant noise, towards the front of the Monastery, and something hard and resolute passed across his face. He hit her, with a hard crack across the face, and as she stumbled back and down into inky unconsciousness, she heard him say, "What an annoying princess."
And then she fell for a long, long time.
The witches were waiting for her at the bottom.
