Childhood 3 – Not a Maiden
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The bells rang clear before her, and small sprites sparkled from her chime. They were faint and translucent, mere wisps of white smoke, but it was something. She was so close, if only she could push herself past that last step, climb that final threshold. She repeated the mantra, rang the chime again, and a faint aura appeared around her. As soon as it was summoned, the glow faded. The miracle slipped from Verna's grasp.
"Gracious, child!" the evangelist exclaimed. "Can you not properly recite even a novice tale?"
The girl bowed her head as she leaned back on one knee. "Apologies, Matron Medeline. I understand the tale, I do, I just... I can't..."
"You understand it, but you do not believe in it. Caitha would grieve all the more if she knew of such lacking faith! She did not die a thousand deaths for your doubt, Verna. Read the prayer again."
She grimaced, and raised herself to one knee. She held the chime aloft as she repeated the story, recalling the countless lives Caitha had suffered through, the countless rebirths she had undertaken. She remembered every tear that fell from the goddess' covered eyes, yet she did not sympathize. No matter how many times she recited it, the tale would remain just that — a tale.
The faint glow did not even appear this time, and the evangelist groaned. "Child, you take one step forward, and two steps backward. If you cannot cast such a basic miracle, how can you ever hope to become a maiden?"
Verna let the chime fall by her side, remaining silent. She did not know how to tell the Matron of her hopes, none of which included being a maiden of White. She wished not to devote herself to the tending of the flames, to spend the rest of her lifetime by their side. She did not want to be held captive any longer. She wanted to roam free, travel distant lands and spread the word of their Lord, like the heralds and missionaries. She wanted to face the dangers of the Abyss without fear, side by side with her fellow clerics. She wanted to...
"Verna," the evangelist snapped her out of her reverie, "you will return to your quarters and recite Caitha's blessing forty-four times. You will say it until your thoughts hold naught else, until you believe in naught else. We will make a proper maiden of you yet, child, one way or another."
The girl kept her head bowed, so that her deep crimson locks masked her reluctance. "Yes, Matron Medeline. Thank you."
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The Archdeacon stared at the tutor. "What do you mean, she will not be a maiden? She must! We are beholden to the King, what would you have me tell him?"
The evangelist shrugged her broad shoulders. "I am only speaking the truth, your holiness. Your daughter cannot even cast the tale of Caressing Tears, which other novices have long since mastered. How could she possibly tend to the flames?"
"There must be something we can do, some way to teach her."
Medeline shook her head. "She possesses not the wisdom to become a maiden, nor even the patience to be a cleric. I fear there is little hope for her. I am sorry to have failed your holiness, but there is nothing more I can do."
Klimt nodded vacantly, and the evangelist left him alone on the high walkway. He stared across the cathedral, feeling as if he too had failed, and desperately sought some way to resolve this. For a moment, his eyes rose to an even higher balcony, one that appeared separate from the rest of the church, but he quickly averted his gaze. The Archdeacon refused to entertain that notion, now matter how desperate he became.
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As Verna returned to her quarters, she heard a curious sound. People were chanting, but not a solemn hymn of the clergy. They were singing, soft and joyful, and she realized what that sound meant. The young girl skipped down the nearest stairwell and made her way to the grand hall, where she beheld a parade of children chaperoned by the evangelists. At the front of the procession was Matron Dorhys herself, gleefully leading the chorus.
Verna could not resist her curiosity. She snuck along the shadowed corners to crouch behind a pillar, less than foot away from a towering cathedral knight. With a quiet breath, she carefully slipped right in front of the warrior without a sound, and the knight was oblivious behind his narrow visor.
She hugged the wall, expecting to be caught at any moment, but managed to get just a few feet from the children. She ducked as an evangelist spun overhead, then snuck next to the procession and whispered, "Hey! Where are you going?"
One of the boys replied, "We're going to see Saint Aldrich!" The girl's jaw went slack as he skipped merrily past her, and she immediately questioned another. "Hey! Are you going to see the Saint?"
"Yeah!" a blonde girl replied. "Have you ever met him?"
"No, never," Verna admitted regretfully. "I've always dreamed of seeing him." She stared down the steep staircase, to the thick double doors at the bottom, and imagined their valiant savior waiting on the other side. She had already snuck into the parade, she was so close. Perhaps...
"Well then," the girl continued, "after I meet him, I'll come back for you, and we can go see him together! I promise!"
"Really? That would—" Verna was cut short as the cathedral knight stepped between them, and she fell back in surprise. One of the black-haired boys stuck out his tongue at the guard's back as the blonde girl waved with a grin.
"I'm Verna!" the redhead called out, even as the knight moved between them again. "What's your name?"
"Anri! Of Astora!"
As the children were led down the stairs and into the mausoleum, Verna glared up at the imposing guard. "Why do they get to see Saint Aldrich, and not me?"
The knight snickered as he looked down on her. "Are you a maiden yet?"
"Well... no."
"That girl was. Those children are all maidens and squires, chosen by our Saint to fight alongside him in his endless war against the Dark. They are special, and their souls pure." As Verna watched the last child disappear down the deep stairwell, she could not help but feel jealous of their good fortune.
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"This is unacceptable, brother!" Royce paced about the chamber, nervously wringing his bony hands. "We swore an oath to the King! Do you know what he would do if we broke our promise? He could crush us, drive us from the Cathedral, from these very lands!"
"I know, Royce!" Klimt gritted his teeth. "I am aware of the consequences. That's why we must seek an alternative, immediately! If Verna is unable to recite a simple miracle, she will not be able to fulfill our oath regardless. We cannot change who she is. Not even our divine powers can do such a thing."
McDonnell made a guttural noise from his chair, which could barely contain his girth. "You are mistaken, brother. Perhaps your fatherly instincts are clouding your judgment. It is well within our power to change what she is."
The Archdeacon bristled. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that our good mother could remedy this problem with ease."
"Are you mad? She is but a child! We can't risk putting her through such a trial, and even if we did, her soul is not strong enough to make a difference. We could lose her forever, and we would be no better off!"
McDonnell glanced to Royce, who shrugged helplessly. "He does have a point. Powerful souls benefit the most from rebirth. It would be a frivolous use of our good mother's blessing."
"Well, what do you suggest we do instead? She is your daughter, Klimt, and this was your idea. It must be you who resolves it."
The elderly man took a breath, and prayed to the Gods that this would work. "I... I know someone who might be able to help, one of our brothers in Carim. He is an apostle of the Archbishop, and owes me a debt of favor. With some luck, he may be able to procure a maiden worthy of tending the flame."
McDonnell guffawed. "That's your plan? We promised Lothric the daughter of an Archdeacon. What if he refuses a replacement? What if she too is not worthy? What if Carim suffers the same curse as we?"
Klimt raised his hand. "I understand your concern, brother, but I beg for your trust. I have heard tales from Carim, and I am certain they have what we need. Tell me, do you think the King would be so displeased if, instead of a daughter of an Archdeacon, we delivered him the daughter of an Archbishop?"
McDonnell's frown faded, and he raised a hefty eyebrow. "Your guile is impressive, Klimt. Perhaps your plan is not so preposterous, after all." He mused to himself for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. Contact your friend in Carim. Find out if he can get us what we require."
"Thank you, brother," Klimt bowed graciously, and immediately stung with regret. Why was he treating McDonnell's word like it was the deciding vote? They were all Archdeacons, brothers serving together for the glory of the sun. If anything, he should look to them, being an outsider and the newest of the three. "I will send the ravens immediately. I promise, no matter what, the King will have his Fire Keeper."
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The young girl knelt beside her cot, chime in hand, and recited Caitha's blessing for the thirty-seventh time. Just like every other attempt, a meager glow shimmered across her sleepwear, then faded without a trace. No matter how much she practiced, no matter how hard she believed, she could not cast the miracle.
"Why do you even bother?" another girl echoed her thoughts. The redhead tried to focus on her chant, but yet another began mimicking her, and more snickered in disdain. Verna could feel them watching; she struggled to keep balanced. Her chime rang out of rhythm, and the spell dissipated.
"Aw, did we ruin your prayer? You almost had it that time!" The group burst in to laughter as Verna glared at them. She recognized her heckler as Cliope, one of the older trainees. The tall girl smirked confidently as she approached, never breaking her gaze. "Want me to show you how it's done? Really, it's no trouble, just watch."
Verna glowered as the brunette knelt before her and began praying. A familiar white glow surrounded her, but something felt amiss, which the child could not place. Suddenly, the older girl stood straight with arms raised, then thrust her chime forward in a burst of force. Verna was caught completely by surprise, and her body flew limply through the air.
The small girl somersaulted once, then struck the corner of a bedpost before collapsing to the ground. The other girls gasped, and even Cliope looked concerned for a moment, but Verna eventually wobbled to her feet. She clutched the back of her head, a thin stream of blood trickling down her face. The room was silent until Cliope regained her bravado.
"Well, no wonder she forgets her prayers. Her skull is thick as a shield!"
Something snapped within Verna's mind. She stood, ignoring the throbbing pain in her head, and marched deliberately towards the older girl. Cliope's smirk faltered as she raised her chime. "Stay back," she warned. "I'll blast you again, I swear!"
The child ignored her threat. The brunette hastily recited her prayers, and Verna tried to move faster, but her vision was swimming, her legs weak. She was almost within reach when Cliope's hands went up again. Verna flinched as the chime shot forward.
This time, however, nothing happened. The bell jingled, but there was no burst of force. Cliope stared in confusion, turning the chime over as if expecting to find it broken, and Verna did not hesitate to take advantage. Flipping her own chime around in her palm, she swung with all her might and connected with a dissonant clang.
Nobody moved as the echo faded. After what felt like ages, Cliope raised a shaking hand to her temple. There was a thin gash where the metal had connected, and though it appeared shallow, the wound abruptly spurted blood across her face. The older girl shrieked as the red raced out in torrents, bringing clergymen rushing into the room.
"What in the Gods is going on here?" one of them cried.
Another child pointed at Verna. "She struck her with her chime! She tried to murder her, she's evil!"
The clergyman glared at the little redhead in astonishment. "What have you done, Verna? Did you attack a fellow maiden?"
It all seemed like a dream. The girl glanced down at her chime, its golden bell bent and crumpled along one side, blood staining the rim. She watched a clergywoman drag the weeping Cliope from the chambers, small puddles trailing behind them. It was a wonderful dream. "She wanted to show me how to be a proper maiden," Verna explained calmly. "I thought healing wounds was part of it?"
The cleric shook his head in disgust. "You are mad. Your father will hear of this, I swear it!"
Despite the warm liquid streaming down her left eye, Verna fought back a smile. She cared not if her father knew. She cared not if she was unworthy. If she could not become a maiden, she would just have to be better than one.