The Venerable

Part II

By Kysra

As the seasons turn and she grows, Leeba sees changes in herself and the way others view her. Long forgotten is the bare caress of another's mouth against hers, so strange and unexpected and masked by the overwhelming alarm she associates with that time; and she longs for a bit of romance (even if such trivialities are often discouraged) for herself as her friends begin to fall into other houses and find suitable mates.

It is a volatile time, full of euphoria, anger, and tears as Leeba is not short of prospects nor is she short of opinions. No man can meet her extensive requirements, and she cannot comprehend the exasperation of her family, neighbors or herself. She wishes for nothing less than companionship. Her parents wish for nothing more than her happiness. And it is because of this that she feels as if she is failing in some fundamental aspect. Her studies are going well and though she has become quiet and somewhat withdrawn in the time and space since infancy, she is still in constant motion and possessed of a mind filled with absolutes.

Master Theyador chastises her when she apologizes to suitors, citing that she is better as friend than anything that requires the promise of intimacy. It is a promise she cannot make, a vow she cannot give since she has no intention of keeping it. Her heart has already voiced its preference though her mind has yet to acknowledge it; and sometimes, when a certain smile is thrown her way and a touch is made to linger, her heart flutters in recognition and her breath catches and she can barely see anything but pure golden eyes laughing down on her in benediction and love.

Leeba is not quite certain when it happens, but at some unspecified, unquantifiable point, her heart and mind begin to agree on issues she has pretended ignorance of until now. She is edging on eighteen seasons and her parents' have begun to despair of seeing her away in a house all her own; but as she moves through the town and speaks to the people and goes about her lessons and duties as the newly appointed Chief Magistrate, she - now called 'Azar' by citizens - admits to herself that she is not yet ready to settle away from her family.

Unsteady and nervous, she is in constant question with the Council and herself. Her fear is that she will misstep, that she will gain her grand-mother's disapproval. There is a subtle heat emanating from the rings adorning each ring finger of her hands - the heirlooms also bearing grand-mother's name, and Leeba often wonders how to act in a manner mimicking that of the Founder before allowing the thought to worm through that she will never match such greatness.

It is the uncertainty eating at her insides that sends her into her parents' arms and the bosom of her little corner of their hut. Here she is many things and expectations are high in the air but such sharpness is softened by the warmth in her mother's eyes and the frankness of her father's tongue. They are ever wise, intuitive, and free with their advice and encouragement. Their support fills up her empty spaces and supplies her with confidence for the morrow.

. . . However, when her parents are unavailable or the house is empty, she does not sit idle waiting for comfort. Her master-teacher is a mere half-days' walk away, a short distance when grave situations weigh heavily on her beleaguered mind. She makes the trek often; and when she cannot, he comes to her . . . as if he intuitively knows he is needed.

It is raining one day when they meet in the middle, and they laugh at each other's bedraggled appearance, laughing harder when Leeba slips upon a patch of muddy earth to fall upon her bottom with a loud, squishy thud. He stumbles to her side, his legs threatening to give out as hers had, and cups her cheeks in both hands. Their faces are rosy with happiness as the chuckling lessens and dies, outlived by smiles, and their eyes meet and hold, dusky gold against moon silver.

She knows in that moment that he knows, and that they both feel similarly. His jovial mouth softens, the laugh lines gentling about the corners, as she bites at her bottom lip, feeling nervous and expectant and too many other things to name.

"Live with me," he breathes, and her world is shrunken down until all she can feel is the violent tremble of her limbs as the rain mingles with her tears and cools her heated skin. Her head bobs in a frantic nod, her tongue thick and awkward in her mouth where it presses tightly to her palate as her voice whimpers and she falls into his arms. There is only the warmth of his breath in her ear and the calming pressure of his mouth against her skin; and later, with her face nuzzled against his chest and their legs entangled, lying as they are within the circle of golden fireglow, she finds the strength and words to speak, giving him a respectful, resolute affirmation.

And it is in this way that Leeba leaves her parents' house for the first and last time.

Nary four months into cohabitation, Leeba finds herself alternatively sick, hungry, and growing round with child despite precautions. Azarath is a sprawling world of vegetation and wilds; however, the area settled is small and compact, and the population controlled seemingly by a natural instinct ingrained within its people. Considering the history of their little world, the citizens were largely content to dedicate their lives to spiritual purity and forgo the distraction of reproducing. The rest, those spontaneously gifted with progeny or those who had planned for such a future, only managed to produce an average of at least 5 and no more than 10 children a season.

Leeba belonged to neither group as she had never been particularly adept or interested in the abstractness of her spirit nor did she ever truly believe she would find the means let alone the desire to spawn. She is, therefore, somewhat ignorant as to the changes of her body until her midriff begins to balloon and the child within begins to move. When the realization finally sets in that she is to be a mother, she finds herself somewhat apprehensive, a touch excited, and largely euphoric.

Here is a child of her own body and Theyador's, combined of their souls, blood, and flesh; and for a moment, she knows how to love unconditionally.

Childbirth is a new and awesome thing, and completely painful. Leeba has no enemies, cannot even comprehend such an outlandish concept; but she knows without knowing why that she would not wish such atrocious agony on such characters no matter their sins. It lasts a small eternity (which Theyador assures her was a mere half-day), and she loses all sense of herself several times during the ordeal; but when it is over, there is a tiny person, wet with blood and other bodily fluids, screaming with hearty lungs and scrunched face. This new soul is squirming jerkily against her bare stomach and seems calmed by the jiggling of her body as she laughs with relief and joy.

She has never known such an emotion as she does when she looks upon her child - her daughter - for the first time, tears misting the image but masking none of the poignancy. This feeling is more than the happiness of companionship with Theyador, stronger than the grief grand-mother's Passing caused. It transends all, grants her strength, holds her secure, and grounds her with responsibility even as she soars with lightness. It takes all of her energy but fills her with purpose.

Here is her blood and there is her eyes, and Leeba holds on to this precious bundle, wondering why when she feels so wonderfully fulfilled, there is a shadow weaved intangible into the netting fabric of her baby's aura.

"We should name her." Theyador says one night as Leeba sits with the baby in her lap, feeding from her breast by fire flame. Leeba merely smiles and nods and goes back to studying the fluttering eyelids, pudgy fingers, and kitten fine hair of her child.

"All things have a time." And the time had not yet come to name their girl. Azar, the Founder, had been a great believer in the power of one's name, and Azar, the younger, did not stray far from such a philosophy. She wanted to gift her child with a name which would be flexible enough to foster and define her growing personality without smothering her with influence. It was a delicate thing, the act of naming, and Leeba was far from certain as to the perfect calling for her perfect baby.

He chuckles from across their little space, stoking the fire where their dinner cooked sedately, smoke drifting in tendrils to exit through the oculus. "You become spoiled with her."

She grants him an answering grin, her eyes bright as platinum shining under moonglow. "I think, perhaps, you are right."

Because Leeba has a keen understanding of the solid and coarse. She knows that she loves her child above all things; and feeling such for one single being is dangerous to entertain. It opens the way to pain, suffering, and a poisoned soul; but Leeba does not care for the preaching of her society or conscience, and it is the lack of fear that drives unrest into the heart of her mate.

It is dark, cold, and gray when winter sets in. It is a bleaker time than any Azar has seen yet in the twenty-two seasons of her life. She has taken to bed with a vengeful sickness that rages for 17 days, and by the end, she is no longer robust and fit but wasted away and fragile. Her skin has blanched a muted gray and her hair cries streaks of silver.

Those dark days she finds movement a chore and standing an impossibility. Theyador is patient and gentle in an abrasive, forceful way as if he is nervous and does not know quite what to do with her. The baby-who-is-no-longer-a-baby and affectionately called Atarah (for truly, she had become from the moment she was birthed, the very queen of her parents' hearts) is taken away to spare her little bones from such a terrorizing illness, and Azar only feels worse for it.

The fever lingers yet, even as the delusions subside and her skin breaks into sweat so precious and needed from her dried husk of a body. It is in the throes of mirror-dreams and nightmares that she loses herself to the largeness of the universe and the writhing, temperate threads of her own aura. And when she wakes, breathless and cold and happy for it, Theyador's warm hand is cupped against her damp forehead and she suddenly fears the knowledge he has written there.

"Why?" Her voice is low and coarse. She hates the sound of it as she can imagine this is what she will sound like in age.

Her mate looks sad and vaguely sheepish, like a little boy who knows he is in trouble. It is difficult to reconcile what she knows of him with this strange grown child looking down on her, scared and chastised. "You needed guidance and as you are never convinced without experience, I deemed such measures necessary."

She looks up to the oculus, trying to paint the colorless sky with her memory. "It is cold there. I froze and it was like . . . Passing."

He narrows his eyes as she begins to cry unwillingly, sobs tearing from her swollen, sore throat. "You disappoint me. Passing is not to be feared or abhorred but welcomed as a homecoming."

Azar closes her eyes and breathes deeply despite the pain such an action causes, fumbling to find her center - green grass, spring and butterflies, sunbeams raining down warmth and light . . . "This is not what I wanted for us . . . " She says finally, her heart breaking beneath the weight of newfound knowledge and the harsh stab of understanding that which should not be understood. There was the absence of laughter, the aching silence, the missing hands and soft baby-skin, but - more - the emptiness gaping in the center of her chest where Theyador's epithet is now scribbled behind her eyes and leaking inky tears to her temples and beyond. "Our girl is gone . . . "

She feels Theyador shift to lying next to her, his arms and legs coming up and around to brace around her body, warming her even as his own face, wet with tears, rests against her bosom. "Yes, dear one. Our girl is gone."

Twenty-six seasons have passed since her birth, but she feels as if there have been 100 marking her steps as she climbs to the high altar to take her place among her grand-mother's ilk. No longer a mere magistrate - supreme or no, but also High Priestess. She takes a position near her mate as he places a wreath of laurel and olive upon her head. The dry twigs catch her hair, the leaves caressing her cheek. There is the heavy scent of incense in the air and the cold stone surrounding them on all sides. Her heart is beating with more and more speed as Theyador draws closer to perform the blood oaths, and she wants nothing more than to run.

He smiles at her gently even as she fights to maintain a statue sort of stillness. His fingers brush her hair back unnecessarily as he baptizes her with tallow and kisses her mouth, lips closed and grin still in place.

Unwillingly, she smiles back, her eyes taking him in as if for the first time. He has ever been tall and strongly built like her father; however, he is also lean and dark-skinned with braided, bronze hair and those beautiful, strange golden eyes. He jokes with every look that - if for no other reason - they have been brought together by their utter difference. She, pale as the moon. He, dark as the night. She, in constant motion. He, a fixed pillar.

Their hands entwine as he makes the cut - one for each fingertip, then releases her to wash her bloody hands in a mortar basin. She is still uncertain on whether she is fit to be this as well as Council. She is just beginning to feel comfortable making broad judgments and long-ranging suggestions and persuading others that this is the way. Her heart is squeezing in her chest when Theyador breaks tradition for the first time in his life and presents her with a bone-jarring, breath-stealing kiss that lights her whole body on fire and causes their audience to squirm uncomfortably though they will no doubt be forgiven, the incident dismissed as a symptom of impetuous youth.

Azar breathes to his mouth as he whispers of how proud he is to pass the mantle down to her, that all has come full circle and the Founder, her long absent soul residing in the rings warming her fingers, can finally rest easy knowing that her wishes were now reality.

"I . . . am not certain I am strong enough. I fear I shall make mistakes . . . "

"Sweet, to err is human." He held her just a little closer, skimming his lips over her cheek to whisper in her ear. "You are the strongest person I have ever known."

She somehow knew he was - as ever - attempting to teach her a lesson. It warmed her in a strange way and suddenly it was as if a shadow standing over her for the bulk of her life was finally illuminated.

Sabe is a child of ill-temper and perpetually skinned knees. Her hair is a rat's nest of plenty, and her face is ever crusted with dirt from eating mud pies with the other children. It is an easy thing to dismiss her for something low and comely; and when the girl is presented before Azar for dispersing, Azar has a moment of recoil.

It is one of the duties she loathes most. There are a very scant number of orphans here; and those few are her direct responsibility. She must feed, clothe, and shelter them. She must find them families in which to assimilate. She must mother them, and face their heartbreak. It is like losing her own child over and over and over again.

When Sabe is brought to Temple, before the ever-burning spirit flame, her skin is rosy and clean, her hair sweet-smelling and combed into bouncing ebony curls. There are pale scars standing out against the healthy tan of her hands and feet, a smoldering scowl pinching the little face. The child stands straight and glares without censure directly, a veritable wall pushing back against the High Priestess' approach. Azar grins despite the gravity of the situation. She finds that she rather likes the look of the little girl, defiant and wary but brave in the face of uncertainty.

"What are you called?" The question echoes in the expansive emptiness of the blue-lit stone building, and Sabe slightly cringes at the sound, so imperious in tone and cadence. Azar allows her grin to deepen to visibility before lowering herself to the girl's level.

"She is Sabe, madam." The girl's temporary guardian speaks for the waif. "The child of Samson and Rith."

Azar had known the couple, they having been of a similar age and playmates for a time. The man had succumbed to fever, the woman had not remained behind.

Lips thinning, Azar stares into the child's amber eyes and sees the understated fear and soul-deep weariness etched there like a gaping wound. It is not long before a decision is made. "You shall live with me, I think. Would you be unwilling, child? Or will you allow me to give you home and hearth?"

Sabe is a strong child, willful and sharp and decisive; but her life has been altered beyond repair and no one can salve the wounds of abandonment she feels to her marrow. Brown eyes swerve to the man at her side - an old family friend who is at once familiar and contemptible to her for bringing her here to this place before this woman who wishes to kidnap her. He pats her head and shakes his own. He cannot help. This is her decision.

Azar speaks again, a smile palpable in her voice even to Sabe's roaring ears. "I understand this is a substantial problem and an unexpected solution. If you wish it, you shall have time to prepare a suitable answer. I leave you to your temporary guardian for now; however, I shall expect your heartfelt response in seven days' time."

Sabe leaves that place, cold despite the fire, without looking back to the gold and silver-haired woman whose words had offered her hope; and though she has been given seven days to reflect, it takes only three to come to a decision.

Mistress Azar and Master Theyador welcome her into their cramped but warm little hut with open arms and loving hearts, and Sabe almost feels as safe as she did with her parents.

To Be Continued . . .