Hand Crafted
And so the High Priestess holds us in her hands, molding our skin smooth out of the rough of the earth. Insidious creatures crawl through the cracks of her skin, trying to unfurl her embrace – and yet even as the world becomes ever more fractured, She still holds us together.
The dough sits like malleable clay in your hand, the grease coating your fingers as you burrow your thumb into the creases. You line them up on a tray, perfectly uniform, perfectly cut to size.
Everyone standing in rows, the numbers dwindling as the week goes on.
You place the tray on a small metal rack, embers glowing beneath it. It will take a while to bake, you think – the main firepit is currently being used, so this one will have to do. Small sparks dance in front of you, illuminating your palms, your fingers pull back every so often, just as one dares to land on your fingertip.
Light is a beautiful thing, I am able to look into your eyes and actually see what you are. With light you are more than just constructed flesh, you are a beautiful thing. She has shone Her light on us because we deserve to be beautiful.
But let me make myself clear, Salithra, light shines strongest in the darkest of places.
It’s not long before your cooking begins to garner some attention – the sickly-sweet aroma floats around the Bastion. A figure comes and kneels down next to you – you’ve come to recognise them as Rhys. He has a posture that is ever so familiar.
“Ah, Salithra! I was wondering where the amazing smell was coming from..”
“Oh… yes, well, I tried to use what we have..”
The wilting flower crown on his head. The wilting flowers in your hand.
“In fact, if you would let me, I will give you one if you can show me you’re… pure.”
A flinch from Rhys, hardly noticeable bar the contraction of eyelids.
“Ah yes… pure…”
You look at each other with recognition; you both seem to have history with that word. What does it really mean to be ‘pure’ – who has the means to decide that? Who gets to decide which of us are untainted.
You must understand, they have fled Her path.
Rhys pulls up his shirt sleeve. Apart from the dirt from pulling up weeds, he’s all clear. Maybe he hasn’t lost his faith yet. “Is…” You hesitate. “…has the Light been blessing your work?”
A flash of fear in his eyes. It’s one you recognise – although you wish you didn’t.
“It would seem so, yes.”
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A man stands atop a mountain. His helmet of antlers casts a shadow on those that stand beneath him. Warriors climb up the mountain, and stab at each other as a mass of limbs and blood writhe at the base of the cliffside. And yet standing next to the young man, is a small flock of deer. They lick at each other in affection.
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