Post by Adiris on Jan 6, 2021 5:56:38 GMT -6
They say the birth of the prophet Adiris was blessed.
If anyone cared to ask her, she’d more than likely tell you it was cursed.
She was born early, a crying babe in a cold barn. Small, shivering, her mother cursing the hands of fate that stole Adiris from her womb with her last breath. Adiris was raised very aware of that last breath. Her mother’s passing was blamed on her premature birth. Her birth deemed her own fault. Her mother’s death a direct result of her life. She cursed the hands of fate, just as her mother had, for years. During her youth, when her siblings would receive full bowls to her scraps. When she sat alone in the church, praying someone would take her in, and care for her.
And perhaps those hands of fate had listened to her, in the same sick way they always had.
From the way she clutched her robes around her, it was clear she didn’t belong in the church she had spent so much time in. Bare feet on cold stone, she sobbed against the shoving hands of her father as she was left, alone, in the pews. And as she cried she felt those same hands on her. Not her father’s, those had left her long ago. But the hands of fate that took a simple life from her.
Thin, sharp, and dark, they held her as she sobbed.
She felt them on her as the priests took her, and gave her a new home. She felt them on her as she tended the gardens. As she prepared meals for the clergy. They tightened their grip as she carefully, oh so carefully, polished the ceremonial censers to a shine. Adiris always felt them on her, after that. Pushing, pulling. Always keeping her in the church, any wanderlust squashed as instantly as it arose. It became routine.
And then she woke up alone. No eyes, no hands, no prodding touches on her mind. Just a sore throat and a shiver. Deafening coughs filling her church, the distinct sound of the sick.
Then it all clicked into place.
Was this her fate? The sick, and dying?
She mourned for the life she could've had as she washed and fed the plagued. She tried not to think about the very real reality of her own encroaching symptoms.
She tried not to think of a lot of things.
She kept herself occupied. Told herself this was all for a reason, that this is what fate led her to. That this is what all the suffering was for. To help those who needed it. To be a shining light for those in the dark.
And quickly, quick enough it scared her, that is what she became.
If anyone cared to ask her, she’d more than likely tell you it was cursed.
She was born early, a crying babe in a cold barn. Small, shivering, her mother cursing the hands of fate that stole Adiris from her womb with her last breath. Adiris was raised very aware of that last breath. Her mother’s passing was blamed on her premature birth. Her birth deemed her own fault. Her mother’s death a direct result of her life. She cursed the hands of fate, just as her mother had, for years. During her youth, when her siblings would receive full bowls to her scraps. When she sat alone in the church, praying someone would take her in, and care for her.
And perhaps those hands of fate had listened to her, in the same sick way they always had.
From the way she clutched her robes around her, it was clear she didn’t belong in the church she had spent so much time in. Bare feet on cold stone, she sobbed against the shoving hands of her father as she was left, alone, in the pews. And as she cried she felt those same hands on her. Not her father’s, those had left her long ago. But the hands of fate that took a simple life from her.
Thin, sharp, and dark, they held her as she sobbed.
She felt them on her as the priests took her, and gave her a new home. She felt them on her as she tended the gardens. As she prepared meals for the clergy. They tightened their grip as she carefully, oh so carefully, polished the ceremonial censers to a shine. Adiris always felt them on her, after that. Pushing, pulling. Always keeping her in the church, any wanderlust squashed as instantly as it arose. It became routine.
And then she woke up alone. No eyes, no hands, no prodding touches on her mind. Just a sore throat and a shiver. Deafening coughs filling her church, the distinct sound of the sick.
Then it all clicked into place.
Was this her fate? The sick, and dying?
She mourned for the life she could've had as she washed and fed the plagued. She tried not to think about the very real reality of her own encroaching symptoms.
She tried not to think of a lot of things.
She kept herself occupied. Told herself this was all for a reason, that this is what fate led her to. That this is what all the suffering was for. To help those who needed it. To be a shining light for those in the dark.
And quickly, quick enough it scared her, that is what she became.