Azarath. Before.
It wasn't the pain that was intolerable.
It was the way his stoic eyes stared blankly ahead as he delivered each cut of leather across her wrists. One for each offense, and hers were cumulative.
"You understand, Morrigan, why I've delivered these marks unto you?"
"Because you like it?" Morrigan grumbled quietly.
He bent his knee so that his lips hovered just above her ear. "What was that, child?"
Morrigan lifted her face to his. "I understand, Your Honor."
Magistrate Jadis returned the thong to a buried chest across the room. "I do not enjoy this, I hope you know. In all my years of serving this position, I have never dealt with others such as you, Morrigan. So unruly and destructive. You have tested me."
I wonder, Morrigan thought bitterly to herself, how Azar would feel if she knew one of her most trusted servants was a man of violence?
There was a reason he pulled her into a room without eyes to witness him assess the arrested.
Morrigan caught the subtle upwards pull of his lips as he told her the lashes' namesake. He said this, with the same confidence in which he switched her, knowing well his wickedness was safe within these walls. The voice of the spurned, angry girl was not respected like that of this dignified chancellor.
"I do not deserve such exaltation, Your Honor," Morrigan said quietly.
"That, girl, is something we may agree on."
Morrigan held her tongue as she observed the four reddening slashes across her forearms. Her hands gently rubbed the tender flesh as she remained on her knees in the middle of his chamber.
As the Magistrate stood before her, Morrigan carefully pulled her sleeves down to her wrists and faced him.
"They say Tabitha's wounds may never fade. I do hope her scars haunt you. For now, your penance is to serve the Temple archives. Master Kylen will expect you at dawn."
"But, Your Honor, my training-"
"Those who abuse power to hurt others do not get to continue their education. Lady Azar, herself, has acknowledged these terms."
"Your Honor?" Her tone was desperate.
"If it were up to me, you'd be banished from Azarath entirely. Lucky for you, our sovereign takes pity on you. Always has. If you cannot be expelled, you will be controlled. Let us be honest, girl, you would have made a poor healer. Now, silently take your leave, Morrigan."
Even as rage thickened beneath her sternum, Morrigan was wise enough to know when she's beaten. She found her feet and left the Magistrate's chambers.
Her jaw clenched at the satisfaction the Magistrate must feel for his grand trickery. Who would believe irrational, violent Morrigan over his worship? Would Azar even care to listen to her accusations when Tabitha lay justly wounded at Morrigan's hand? Maybe the gentle High Priestess already knew how Jadis took her justice into his own hands?
The flesh around her wrists itched as she crossed the corridor from his chambers to the lobby. Morrigan didn't need to pull her sleeves up to know that the red marks were swiftly fading, even if their ache would persist for days to come.
The Great Library was one of the more impressive and vast sectors of Azarath's oldest Temple. Its walls towered over the endless rows of shelves as daylight seeped through its glass-stained skylights.
In the evenings, the monks would ignite the many candelabra across the main hallways. This was one of Morrigan's first duties until she was caught lighting the torches without using the provided rushlights, for when Master Kylen caught wind of this, he reassigned her to strict reshelving duties.
It seemed to Morrigan that every day called for a reorganization of Azarath's agricultural records. Yet, every so often, she had privileged an allowance to work in the historical archives. She understood she would see little outside of these endless rows that behaved as cell bars.
It could always be worse, Dante would try to convince her, his eyes avoiding the large iron bangles around her wrists.
Her former peers came to relish in her humiliation, tossing books around for her to pick up, calling her to fetch titles from the far reaches of the Temple for them, only to disappear before she returned.
And so, as those days spun into weeks, Morrigan's rage lost stamina, waning to indifference. Like a neglected candlestick, she felt she grew smaller with each day.
The only solace she took was her tea time with Dante, for at least this boy remained loyal to her. He'd even risk his own freedom by showing her the culmination of his lessons, a flicker of entertainment when no one else was looking.
Yet during these meetings, the pitiful look in his silver eyes was enough to undermine any sliver of pride she clung to. After a while, most likely due to being ostracized by association, Dante's visits became shorter and more scattered.
Morrigan wondered if this conscious paralysis was what Lady Azar asked for that evening on the beach. Is this what emotional control should be? Exhausted numbness over misery and joy and rage...passion eroded to sands of nothingness?
Finally, the news of Tabitha's recovery reached Morrigan, but she knew there was no real reason to celebrate. She had already accepted to solemn truth that her penance would never truly end.
Kylen was all too complacent in how he freed Morrigan's wrists from the iron bangles that marked her as a serving malefactor, while simultaneously offering her a permanent residence as a junior curator. An esteemed position, he assured her, dropping the name of his third son as if Morrigan should count herself lucky to be among such ranks.
He called it redemption, but they both privately knew it was purgatory. What else would they have Morrigan do if not return to her training? What other means would they have of controlling her?
As he delivered his news, Morrigan studied the way eyes shimmered with anticipation, as he if craved her defiance. The Kylen family's affection for Tabitha was no secret to Morrigan, so keeping sweet Tabby's assailant on a short leash would be nothing short of gratifying.
But Morrigan held her tongue and praised her liege for the opportunity with surprising ease, and Kylen looked almost disappointed with her gratitude. He hadn't yet realized the unintentional freedom he foolishly presented.
Yes, she was expelled from her training. A disciplined arcanist or renowned light healer of Azarath, she would never be. This was Azar's sentence. But, even Azar must know that subscribing Morrigan to a curator's life in the Great Temple's Library would not keep the girl from teaching herself. Playing with others was never her thing, anyway.
It was the fourth consecutive day of overcast, and a distinct gloom poured in through the Temple's skylights. When Dante found her, Morrigan was on her way back from the Curator's chambers. Even though she was still sour with him from his prolonged and spotty absences from their tea times, the restless glimmer within his piercing gray eyes struck her curiosity.
"What is it?" she grumbled, sure to feign indifference carefully.
"I found something," his voice was soft as he tilted his head towards her as if he was afraid the walls around could bear witness to his social treachery, "something you will be most interested in."
"If you are so afraid to be seen with me," Morrigan hissed before stalking away, "then save yourself and be gone from my sight."
"Morrigan, please, I am sorry I haven't been able to come to see you." When she was unresponsive, he softly tugged on her cloak. "I assure you I am unrepentant of our friendship."
"Then why do you whisper?"
"Just...meet me at Rune Garden? This evening, after your shift."
"Or what?"
"Morrigan," he growled, "don't be so stubborn."
Morrigan crossed her arms with a tight scowl across her lips. "At least tell me what it is you've found."
"A way to your ancestral shade," he whispered, with urgency in his eyes.
Morrigan regarded him suspiciously. "Do not waste my time."
When a group of apprentices turned the corner, joining them in the vast and hollow corridor, Dante shot her an agitated look before backing away.
"See you tonight."
Morrigan turned away silently with natural disdain, yet her eyes narrowed ahead in curious disbelief.
What did Dante find that would contradict Master Saelbrooke's narrative of ancestral shades being distinct to native-born sorcerers? Interdimensional linkage? Perhaps, as she often wondered, family still lived on the other side?
It could also be a trick. After weeks "being unable to come to see her," Morrigan had a hard time accepting Dante has returned to her loyalties with such hopes. Saelbrooke clearly explained the inconsistencies of telepathic bonds between those of this realm and that of the transcendental. What could he have possibly found to negate that? One of Azarath's leading mystics and sweet and callow Dante has dismantled the cipher? Definitely questionable.
Yet, at this point, Morrigan might expect to uncover such conspiracies kept by the corrupt network of masters and magistrates of Azarath. They all seem to fear what raw potential and strength could do for this place. There must be something more worth protecting than Azar's ridiculous fantasies of peace over power.
Consequently, just as a fallen stone from a soft riverbank may diverge the flow of a faithful current, so would the events of a single evening enkindle the fire that would ultimately swallow Azarath.