In The Absence of God
Although everything in Ouroboros continued as normal, Atia could still feel the absence. Not just the absence in her own life, but the absence in the upper levels of Hecate's pyramid, too. Often as she traversed the grounds she caught herself stealing glances at the ziggurat's apex, imagining the Goddess' austere quarters (she pictured a circular room empty save a pedestal for the goddess to pose upon, all cold stone like the outside of the temple or the grand corridor which spilled into the atrium. She was incorrect. Rather Hecate's personal suite was an opulent spread of silk sheets, down pillows, and mellow lights. Her chambers were more akin to a sultan's harem than a monk's cell) now empty. At the top of Ouroboros a yawning chasm threatened to engulf them all, a gaping void in the sky that all the Daughters and Hounds besides herself were oblivious to. Where the watchful eye of the Goddess once kept vigilance, the sky was now a dark and sinister emptiness.
Years ago when she first arrived at Ouroboros Atia was introduced to Hecate worship mainly through Julia's less-than-reverent interpretation. She was an outsider from the beginning, an unwitting heretic, ostracized for the sins she unknowingly perpetrated and carried over from her past life. Her shepherd into the cult was not a woman of perfervid belief; for a newly-appointed high priestess Julia lacked the fanaticism that could be reasonably expected of her. The way she spoke about the goddess made Hecate sound more like an eccentric grandmother than an all-powerful deity. Someone that had earned respect, certainly, but whose odd proclivities were more tolerated than revered. Julia stressed the practical benefits of Hecate worship above the dogma, proudly boasting of her cult's modern medical practices and feminism. Atia had to admit Ouroboros felt like such a wonderland that she still wasn't sure whether or not she really had survived exile, that it wasn't all a wonderful dying dream. In any case, the taste of a fresh apple (not that she'd enjoyed such a delight for more than a year) was enough to convince her of the goddess' divinity more than any proselytizing.
And so it came that time passed. It was six years after her informal induction into the cult of Hecate, baptized a heretic, not with the oil, wine and powder (said to be lunar dust but actually just ashes scraped off the bitter earth) that anointed hallowed Daughters but in the amniotic fluid that soaked her sheets and announced the imminent arrival of her heretical bastard child, her virgin birth. Once free of the maternity ward and neglectful of her sin she was just another Daughter, as decadent and devoted as any other Sibyl. Finally welcomed into the flock, she was immersed in the true culture of Ouroboros, where Hecate's power and authority was absolute. To question the Goddess was as unthinkable as questioning the sun or the rain. Slowly, slowly she was drawn into the mysticism of the Hecate cult, the weird rituals and the devotion to the beloved, all-powerful Goddess.
Her conversion from skeptic to fanatic was gradual, but aided immensely by bufo and wine, which she not only enjoyed with gusto but was in fact obliged to partake in in accordance with Hecate's doctrine. For once the goddess' logic was not so cold or calculated behind her facade of divine love, dogma not in service of her manipulations or eugenics, but instead inspired by a very wasteland logic, namely that life is suffering. So Hecate took it upon herself to enforce the most extreme comfort and relief she possibly could. Perhaps the only tenet of her religion that truly sprang from her own love (regardless of what her priestesses said) the fact that it made people pliable and more open to manipulation and religious exultation was just a happy consequence of the drugs and discotheque and doctrine of hedonism. Atia, free of the maternity ward and embraced by sisterhood, could feel that love wash over her, envelop her, flow through and around her. It made it easier to believe the goddess hung the moon, or rather snatched it from the sky at her whim.
More than drugs and an infectious rhythm, though, what truly converted Atia was a sense of belonging. Among Caesar's slaves there was a strong sense of camaraderie, born of desperate necessity and the shared indignity of bondage, but it was discouraged in slaves that weren't laying down their lives in war. Even then it was only allowed among his soldiers for practical purposes, and if men fought as well without it he'd discourage fraternizing among them, too. As for his other slaves collusion was actively suppressed, women and children and unfit men who were seen forming attachments were separated or even crucified. Although Caesar was a man of great and terrible ego he was not so arrogant enough to believe that if his slaves were allowed to collectivize they wouldn't rise up against him. He'd read enough anti-union literature from the early 20th century to know what to expect and how to take appropriate steps against it. Even still, plenty did find ways to subvert his iron rule, but none of them were willing to do so on Atia's behalf, in accordance with Caesar's design.
There were plenty of slaves as well-read and well-spoken as the little blonde girl in coke-bottle glasses, and there were quite a few with even better education. Among his court of centurions powerful, clever men petitioned for the right to administer his holdings. His priestesses frequently presented him with their own suggested secretaries, hand-picked from the slaves they were tasked with indoctrinating. Even Graham, with his cold pragmatic villainy, offered to step away from the front lines and dedicate himself to the arduous task of managing Caesar's ever-expanding army. For a while Edward considered his oldest ally's offer. Since the very beginning the Mormon had refused to play along with his game of dress-up and make-believe, and at first he'd ignored the insult. It made him angry, but he was short on allies and Graham was his best, not just for the man's command of every tribal language for miles around, but also, as time went on, his increasing prowess in battle. The resentment Caesar nursed against Graham's refusal to play pretend had metamorphosed in his breast into real fear as the lie spread, and his power depended more and more on it. Unfortunately, Graham's abilities as a leader and general had grown in concert with the threat he posed to Caesar's authority. While it would've neatly taken care of the inconvenient questions Graham's presence on the Legion's front lines slowly attracted, and although Caesar was confident his Legate would make a fine administrator, he instead ignored all counsel and made the selection with his predator's instincts. His choice proved to be a masterstroke.
Atia was chosen by the son of Mars personally. He even left his opulent command tent and graced the slave pens with his divine presence. When he first saw her, a child standing among the slaves who confessed literacy, he knew she was perfect. A small, slim girl with shimmering hair, her survival depended on being overlooked. Her tribe was freshly conquered and she still hadn't been broken yet by his priestesses or his soldiers. By making her an administrator in his nascent empire ("The Heart of the Legion" by her own assertion) he isolated her from everyone except Legates and Praetorians and the Priestesses of Mars, all three of whom disliked her either because she was female, because she was young, or simply because no one with any empathy or compassion made it to the top of the Legion hierarchy, by design. She was absolutely and completely loyal to Caesar and Caesar alone, because there was no one else in her life that didn't openly loathe her. The son of Mars bred further resentment by publicly affording her small favors, not out of gratitude but simply to make her a pariah, ever more dependent on him and him alone. She took to it like none other. When the presumptive emperor of the wasteland appointed her his secretary she quickly understood that it meant she was superior to the other slaves. That feeling of superiority helped her cope with the isolation, and she used every opportunity she could to treat everyone like garbage because that was how she dealt with loneliness.
Ultimately, though, she was only a means to an end for Caesar, and after almost a decade of loyal and talented service she was tossed aside without a second thought. The son of Mars did not take good care of his personal property, no matter how well it served him. One night, she was summoned as usual, but rather than being brought before Caesar she was instead left with Aurelius of Phoenix, who wasted no time in 'breaking her in,' as he put it. By the end she was bruised and sobbing, and as he informed her of her new appointment he crushed her glasses in his hand. She soon found herself among a collective of similarly abused women, but even among Aurelius of Phoenix's wives Atia remained apart, scorned by her sister-wives. It didn't help she still stank of hubris like rancid garbage. The faded glory of her superior enslavement kept her alive but kept her apart.
Among the Daughters, there was nothing to isolate her like that, so long as she refused to acknowledge her son. By the time she admitted parentage of her blasphemous child she'd developed strong enough bonds that her friends forgave her, and that was enough kindness to make her cry. No one had ever forgiven her for any of her obnoxious behavior in the Legion, even though she was only a child and couldn't know any better. Her fellow Daughters, on the other hand, embraced her openly and without reservation, and the love they shared with her was called the Goddess's.
But now the goddess was gone. And if the goddess was gone, Atia couldn't help worrying that her love left with her. The night air seemed colder, the darkness surrounding Ouroboros seemed darker, and the relationships she'd built never felt more tenuous. Usually when she felt like that, like the world was closing in on her and she was overwhelmed by the sick feeling that she was a slave again, that hunted caged feeling of Aurelius' slave tent, she'd turn to Julia. Yet when her first friend suddenly reappeared, it didn't give her comfort.
It was after midnight, a month and a half after Julia left with Hecate, and a full moon. Atia spent the evening clubbing at the temple, celebrating her first day off in two weeks, and for once not giving her night over to worry. She conscripted her friend Sunflower into babysitting Julius. Like many of the orphaned Harpies who overran Ouroboros after their tribes were conquered by the Legion Sunflower was desperate for something to do. The overburdened gardens had been greatly expanded to accommodate the influx, but not everyone could work in the gardens. Although it was kept from the general population, as a Sybil Atia was privilege to all the hottest gossip, and word among the Sybils was there were a few women who couldn't take their uselessness any longer and had instead taken their own lives. Sunflower was three months pregnant with another sure-to-be-beautiful Child of Hecate (At least as predicted by the computer that cross-referenced her and her Hecate-mandated partner's genetic markers. If the child proved to be a less-than stellar combination of all its potential genes it would be disposed of, as Hecate no longer had enough tribal worshipers to swap it out for one of their healthy offspring), so she wasn't exactly despairing, but jumped at the offer all the same. She was happy to get some time to herself in Atia's luxurious private apartment, as the other three women she lived with were not similarly blessed with the future of the wasteland and they acted accordingly. Atia found her asleep on the couch, and unlike Sunflower's roommates she tried not to wake her.
She carefully stumbled to her bedroom door, but when she opened it something was wrong. The two-floor adobe building was carefully designed to stay cool during the day and warm at night, but her room was chilly, from a slight midnight breeze that whispered through the open window. Her heart caught in her throat and she sobered immediately. Her first instinct was to run to Julius' room and make sure he was safe.
"Hey," a familiar voice said before she could react.
"... Julia?" she stumbled and leaned against the door-frame, letting the light from the hallway guide her to the dresser where Julia sat.
"How's it going?" Julia asked her. On approach Atia noticed the smell. Julia hadn't taken off her armor since she left, and she smelt overripe, her sweat mingled with the metal and kevlar and leather. She also smelled overwhelmingly of alcohol, the kind of cheap poison she liked to keep in the cupboard above the stove. In the morning Atia would discover it was exactly that, three whole plastic bottles of it.
"Did you come through the window?" Atia incredulously goggled at the ground two stories down then shut the window. Julia shrugged in apology. There were deep bags under her bleary, bloodshot eyes, and she slumped on the dresser like it was the first time she'd sat down in days.
"Why didn't you come in through the door?" Atia said dumbly, but dropped it when Julia only stared at her in silence, not knowing the answer either.
"How'd it go out there?" she asked timidly but more seriously, "Did you... did you find what you were looking for?"
Julia's face, already tired and worn, collapsed at the question. She stared numbly at the bed, then slowly her eyes fell to her gloved palms. "Yes," she said suddenly. The word sounded like an echo, like it had bounced around in her hollow chest before it escaped her mouth, "Yes. I think I did."
Atia smiled warmly and drunkenly at her. She grasped Julia's hand with her own, and the high priestess looked into her eyes.
"I missed you," Atia admitted.
Julia slowly broke out in her sly I know something grin. All the sorrow and guilt and exhaustion hidden behind the smile she looked like herself again.
"I missed you, too," she said softly, "Sorry I smell like a wet fart."
Atia burst into giggles, but clamped her hand over her mouth and mock-angrily chastised, "The babysitter is asleep on the couch."
Julia's grin broke out into a broad smile, and the last traces of her fatigue were pushed away, as she loudly explained, "I wouldn't worry about it. I knocked over your jewelry box when I crawled in and she didn't so much as snore." She'd even sat on the end of the couch to drink and Sunflower still didn't wake up. Atia playfully punched her arm and admonished her to "be nice," then led her to the bathroom and kept her company while she bathed. Julia mostly listened to Atia as she gossiped about Ouroboros in her absence, but occasionally she'd make a quip or an observation. There was no more discussion about where she'd been or what she'd done.
The next day when Atia walked Julius to school in the morning, she stole a quick glance at the top of Hecate's pyramid. For some reason, it still seemed empty.