Rhea, Part I: The Sage Who Cannot Speak

"What good is knowledge, without the will to use it?"

The monastery of St. Lothaire's Mercy stood small and quiet within the folds of the northern Reikwald Forest, nestled in the eastern foot of the Skaag Hills. An ancient structure, heavy with the weight of knowledge, rising amidst the trees like a symbol of the Empire itself; order and civilisation, forever enduring amidst the crushing oppression of nature and savagery. Here, it stood, solemnly, shrouded in early morning mists and the hush of devotion. Its halls were built of old grey stone, cool and pitted with the weight of centuries. Within those walls, knowledge slept—stacked high in ancient tomes, bound up in scrolls and whispered across candlelit lecterns.

In one of the imposing hallways, past paintings of the numberless Emperors who had ruled since Sigmar, moved a soft patter of feet. A small, anonymous figure hurried towards the library. Towards another day of toil, in the service of knowledge, to the betterment of Mankind. The massive oak doors to the library dwarfed her, as a small hand reached out to push them open on well-oiled hinges. She stopped in the doorway, and breathed deeply, taking in the scent of old books and parchment.

Rhea was the youngest soul in the monastery, and the one amongst the inhabitants who was never allowed to leave. She moved in silence, gliding between bookcases like a shadow in soft slippers, her simple robe the colour of parchment and her white-blonde hair cut short. The monks called her Sage, but not in jest. Her memory was perfect. Unflinching. Infallible. One reading, and the words were hers forever. One glance, and a picture belonged to her until the day she died.

And so, Rhea read. And remembered. Day after day. Volume after volume. Endless paths of words that lead her across the world, through stars and celestial bodies, betwixt a multitude of philosophical ideas and theological conundrums. Her mind took in the vast scope of cultures, stories and myths, heroes and villains without number stored in her perfect little mind.

But for all her knowledge, Rhea never spoke. Never advised. Never debated.

That was not her role, she would always be told, when she attempted to voice her opinion, or to provide examples of the past that might benefit the future. Her lot was, after all, to record, not interpret.

This morning, the library was hushed except for the scratch of a quill and the occasional murmur of turning pages. Brother Mattheus, the Prior, stood nearby, watching her as she entered. As she took her place at her desk, he nodded and held out a tome to her.

"This one. Catalogue it, and memorize the index. You are not to open the final section."

Rhea took it with both hands, feeling the weight of it in her hands, and bowed her head low. Her voice was the tiny squeak of a mouse as she replied.

"Yes, Brother."

Brother Mattheus turned, and walked away, to see to another of the seated scribes. But when he left, Rhea's eyes drifted to the final part of the book. The seal cordoning it off was old, red wax crumbling like dried blood from the wear of decades. It would have been so easy to open it, to break the seal and skim through the knowledge inside.

Her hands trembled. Not with fear. With want. With the weight of knowing she could, and the festering frustration of being told not to.

Hours passed, minute after tedious minute of reading, page up and page down. The candle beside her had long since melted into a pool of wax, spilling over the side of the bronze candle plate, a tiny flame dancing restlessly. At last, Rhea paused, as the last words on the page seeped into her relentless mind. The rest of the book was already committed to memory. But her fingers hovered over the seal, fingernails idly toying with the crumbling wax.

She whispered to herself, voice quiet as the breath of the forest outside the walls:

"Why am I allowed to know… if I am never to act?"

No answer came to her, neither from inside nor out. All the knowledge of the world at her fingertips, and nothing that could explain the reasoning for this restriction. Nothing that could tell her why using her knowledge for good would do so much harm. No patient teacher, to listen to her frustrations and ease her feelings of impotence. The only answer that came, mocking and hollow as her own life, was the distant toll of a prayer bell.

She clenched her jaw. Her chestnut eyes narrowed.

There were things in the library, she knew, that could heal. Protect. Warn. She had read about the signs of plagues and pests before they came. About what terrible warlords were like before they rose to power. About the omens that predicted the festering of cults before they killed and corrupted. These were all things that could be stopped, hindered, altered, with just the right knowledge and the right steps.

But the monks—men like Mattheus—chose inaction. The world, it was claimed, was not theirs to steer. That was reserved for greater men, they said, and their task was merely securing the knowledge of the world for future generations.

And in that, she was their tool.

Her fingernails dug into her palm until they left angry red lines in her pale skin.

When she finally broke the seal, the flames didn't come from the parchment. They came from her. A faint, golden shimmer danced across her skin, like the touch of something ethereal and old. It lasted for but a few moments, then vanished, like it had never been. The ink on the final page began to blur, rearranging itself before her astonished gaze. It wasn't words, or symbols, or any familiar characters from a dozen old languages. It was merely shapes, shifting, primal. Wrong, somehow. Not meant to be read, but to be felt.

For a moment, Rhea hesitated. What she had done was wrong. Mattheus, even if he might believe that the seal had simply been old, would still suspect her of transgression. That should have made her feel guilty. She expected to feel shame at her own defiance, for giving in to the temptation, but she did not. Nor did she feel fear, that the brief sensation she had felt heralded some terrible omen.

Instead, she felt… vast. Vast and hollow at once, like a cavernous room. As though her mind had expanded, in order to let something else peer into her.

But most of all, Rhea felt a single, very recognisable and familiar emotion.

Anger.

A sense of betrayal.

And beyond it, a voice, not her own, behind the veil of reality. It was not a voice she heard with her ears. It was like a memory she hadn't known she possessed, a flaw in her flawless mind, unspooling inside of her. A small laughter. Knowing, pleased, patient. Like a game piece being moved on a board.

She pushed the voice away and rose to her feet. Her small hand slammed the book shut on the desk, little flakes of brittle wax scattering over the smooth stone floor. There she stood, small fists clenched by her sides, whispering angrily to herself.

"You ask me to remember everything… but not to understand it. I will not be your vault. I am not a door to be locked."

The candle, at last, sputtered and died.

For the first time, she had spoken and not asked permission. And in the quiet of the library, her newfound voice flexed its muscles, while her rage simmered; silent, focused, patient.

Not yet fury.

Not yet rebellion.

But the first crack in the marble.