Categories > Original > Drama
She descended to the shrine, ensconced beneath their dwelling. Antioch, the old place, the birthplace of so many new ideas, was their home, and this house, their dwelling. An old building, though not in the least in a state of disrepair. The strangest thing about it was its lack of furnishings and absence of life during the day.
She descended the stairs, the hems of her dress, sash, and shawl dragging and lightly draping each lip of the steps as she moved downward. Her hands held the ends of the shawl, wrapping it around her porcelain face. The steps themselves were no less shod - gold-lined, the tiles depicting stones, grass, and small streams. All of it led down into the darkness; beautified aspects of the daylight hours, brought into the darkness of the night for someone's pleasure.
For /their /enjoyment.
The shrine itself was more than anything the stairs could amount to. While in darkness, all slept - catching fire on a cedar stick, she lit a lamp. One lamp, two, five, twenty, fifty lamps, shining and banishing the darkness. Soon the shrine was lit as if the sun itself had been caught in a basket and placed on a table top.
Nothing less would do for them.
She stopped a moment to admire the shrine - the fruit of so much labor. The floor was shiny with gold tiles, laid out in thousands of patterns. When the wall met the floor, a smooth line of emerald tiles joined them, each tile a different shade of green. The walls themselves were painted with fantastic murals - murals of golden fields heavy with ripe wheat, green forests, shadowy yet dotted with shafts of cheery sunlight, vast oceans touching beaches, connecting all the world, their waves rolling with clean, white foam. The ceiling was a smooth panel, sky blue, dotted with clouds, and in the center, a sun. Not /the /sun, but a sun, one that was whimsical, perhaps imitating Ra instead of the center of the solar system.
The lamps hung from the walls, shedding their light evenly so that no darkness might escape them. Satisfied with her work, gladdened by her maker's handiwork, she turned to the large wooden cabinet, set against one wall; the doors were smooth, no carvings. The top, bottom, and sides would be found the same if one were to look - nothing to mar the perfection of the lacquered wood, cherry brown, the handles a smooth silver circle. She approached it, the only object in the shrine - the object that held what the shrine was created for. She approached it, murmuring words in a foreign tongue, and gently pulled the doors open. Kneeling down, she pulled again on another handle, pulling forth a dais on which two large statues were seated.
The statues were carved in the likeness of a man and a woman - Egyptian in style were their clothes and headdresses. She, the woman who had come from the surface, was the daughter of the female statue, though through blood and not flesh. Once upon a time, the daughter longed to replace the crown on the Mother's head, to make her what she had once been - a goddess in all right, with power over the dead. The male was nothing more than the Mother's consort - not even fit to be called king. He protected her, kept her with him, gave her what she might need, but it was she /who ruled. /She who made them all what they were. But now the royal couple was motionless as the stone their flesh had become.
The daughter knelt before the dais, kneeling in supplication: the strangers had come again, the young fledglings who knew of the royal parents, the ones who wanted to be shown the secret the daughter hid here in Antioch. She had slain them, like so many who had come before them, like so many who would come after them. Now she knelt in prayer, asking what might be done. So much blood shed, so many lives wasted to protect this secret.
My Goddess, My Mother, what should I do? What should /we /do? They will not stop coming, and their numbers swell - there shall be no end to these ignorant supplicants, asking for your whereabouts. O Great Mother, please hear me!
As always, the Mother was silent.
The daughter grasped her hands, knuckles growing white, trying to control the anger she felt. Not so long ago, she would have given everything she had to help the Mother rise to power; now she felt somewhat abandoned, betrayed. Oh, her maker had told her time and time again - She will not hear me, nor you. She will hear no one. She will not move, she will not sup - it is all we can do but to protect her. She had shaken her head, calling him a fool, that the Mother had chosen her to help, to aid, and that she would. She would do anything the Mother asked of her. Now she was regretting that promise.
I tell you, they will never stop coming - what should we do? We cannot risk staying here for much longer - should we flee this place we have known for so long? Please, I ask of you, answer me!
Silence.
She struck out at the tiled floor, leaving dents from her blows. Tears threatened at her eyes - she had given up her very /life /to serve the Mother! Why should she choose now to ignore her? She quickly brought her hands to her face, calming herself, apologizing for the damage done to the shrine. Quick to promise that all would be fixed, repaired and made anew.
She rose and approached the dais, bending toward the Mother to bestow a chaste kiss of thanks on her cheek, to show her love and adoration for the only Goddess that she would ever follow. Her lips had barely brushed the Mother's ivory stone skin when she saw the movement. It took her by surprise - the statues had never moved before in the years she had lived here with her maker. It had never happened! And now - the Mother struck out at her daughter, knocking her to the side, striking her across the face. The daughter landed on her back, rising up on her elbows to stare at the Mother, still in shock, this could not be happening. She raised a hand to her mouth and found a thin line of blood coming from her lips; she licked it away slowly. She moved her body to her knees, kneeling, unsure if the Mother would move again.
Hours later, she finally worked up the courage to crawl to the dais, to push it back into the cabinet, to reverently close the doors. She moved around the dents she had made in the floor, the obvious signs of her displeasure. But now her worst nightmare had come true - she had fallen out of favor with the Goddess. For so long she had served, so long had she sacrificed, all now to end in utter disgrace. She should have never let her own desires, her own emotions, come before the Mother, before the royal parents. She left the shrine, going back up into the world, locking the double pairs of doors behind her, sliding the locks home with her unnatural strength.
That night she fought with her maker.
She ran from the home, wanting only a few moments to herself - she found herself sleeping in an old graveyard.
The next night she returned home to find nothing.
No one.
Her maker was gone, upset and prideful, leaving her possessions behind. He had taken the parents with him as well, for it was /he /who was their keeper. She was but a lost priestess of the Mother - now, a discarded follower.
In the library where she had passed so many happy nights with her maker, she sank to her knees, her long curly brown hair falling about her like a shawl, sank to her knees and covered her face.
And cried.
She descended the stairs, the hems of her dress, sash, and shawl dragging and lightly draping each lip of the steps as she moved downward. Her hands held the ends of the shawl, wrapping it around her porcelain face. The steps themselves were no less shod - gold-lined, the tiles depicting stones, grass, and small streams. All of it led down into the darkness; beautified aspects of the daylight hours, brought into the darkness of the night for someone's pleasure.
For /their /enjoyment.
The shrine itself was more than anything the stairs could amount to. While in darkness, all slept - catching fire on a cedar stick, she lit a lamp. One lamp, two, five, twenty, fifty lamps, shining and banishing the darkness. Soon the shrine was lit as if the sun itself had been caught in a basket and placed on a table top.
Nothing less would do for them.
She stopped a moment to admire the shrine - the fruit of so much labor. The floor was shiny with gold tiles, laid out in thousands of patterns. When the wall met the floor, a smooth line of emerald tiles joined them, each tile a different shade of green. The walls themselves were painted with fantastic murals - murals of golden fields heavy with ripe wheat, green forests, shadowy yet dotted with shafts of cheery sunlight, vast oceans touching beaches, connecting all the world, their waves rolling with clean, white foam. The ceiling was a smooth panel, sky blue, dotted with clouds, and in the center, a sun. Not /the /sun, but a sun, one that was whimsical, perhaps imitating Ra instead of the center of the solar system.
The lamps hung from the walls, shedding their light evenly so that no darkness might escape them. Satisfied with her work, gladdened by her maker's handiwork, she turned to the large wooden cabinet, set against one wall; the doors were smooth, no carvings. The top, bottom, and sides would be found the same if one were to look - nothing to mar the perfection of the lacquered wood, cherry brown, the handles a smooth silver circle. She approached it, the only object in the shrine - the object that held what the shrine was created for. She approached it, murmuring words in a foreign tongue, and gently pulled the doors open. Kneeling down, she pulled again on another handle, pulling forth a dais on which two large statues were seated.
The statues were carved in the likeness of a man and a woman - Egyptian in style were their clothes and headdresses. She, the woman who had come from the surface, was the daughter of the female statue, though through blood and not flesh. Once upon a time, the daughter longed to replace the crown on the Mother's head, to make her what she had once been - a goddess in all right, with power over the dead. The male was nothing more than the Mother's consort - not even fit to be called king. He protected her, kept her with him, gave her what she might need, but it was she /who ruled. /She who made them all what they were. But now the royal couple was motionless as the stone their flesh had become.
The daughter knelt before the dais, kneeling in supplication: the strangers had come again, the young fledglings who knew of the royal parents, the ones who wanted to be shown the secret the daughter hid here in Antioch. She had slain them, like so many who had come before them, like so many who would come after them. Now she knelt in prayer, asking what might be done. So much blood shed, so many lives wasted to protect this secret.
My Goddess, My Mother, what should I do? What should /we /do? They will not stop coming, and their numbers swell - there shall be no end to these ignorant supplicants, asking for your whereabouts. O Great Mother, please hear me!
As always, the Mother was silent.
The daughter grasped her hands, knuckles growing white, trying to control the anger she felt. Not so long ago, she would have given everything she had to help the Mother rise to power; now she felt somewhat abandoned, betrayed. Oh, her maker had told her time and time again - She will not hear me, nor you. She will hear no one. She will not move, she will not sup - it is all we can do but to protect her. She had shaken her head, calling him a fool, that the Mother had chosen her to help, to aid, and that she would. She would do anything the Mother asked of her. Now she was regretting that promise.
I tell you, they will never stop coming - what should we do? We cannot risk staying here for much longer - should we flee this place we have known for so long? Please, I ask of you, answer me!
Silence.
She struck out at the tiled floor, leaving dents from her blows. Tears threatened at her eyes - she had given up her very /life /to serve the Mother! Why should she choose now to ignore her? She quickly brought her hands to her face, calming herself, apologizing for the damage done to the shrine. Quick to promise that all would be fixed, repaired and made anew.
She rose and approached the dais, bending toward the Mother to bestow a chaste kiss of thanks on her cheek, to show her love and adoration for the only Goddess that she would ever follow. Her lips had barely brushed the Mother's ivory stone skin when she saw the movement. It took her by surprise - the statues had never moved before in the years she had lived here with her maker. It had never happened! And now - the Mother struck out at her daughter, knocking her to the side, striking her across the face. The daughter landed on her back, rising up on her elbows to stare at the Mother, still in shock, this could not be happening. She raised a hand to her mouth and found a thin line of blood coming from her lips; she licked it away slowly. She moved her body to her knees, kneeling, unsure if the Mother would move again.
Hours later, she finally worked up the courage to crawl to the dais, to push it back into the cabinet, to reverently close the doors. She moved around the dents she had made in the floor, the obvious signs of her displeasure. But now her worst nightmare had come true - she had fallen out of favor with the Goddess. For so long she had served, so long had she sacrificed, all now to end in utter disgrace. She should have never let her own desires, her own emotions, come before the Mother, before the royal parents. She left the shrine, going back up into the world, locking the double pairs of doors behind her, sliding the locks home with her unnatural strength.
That night she fought with her maker.
She ran from the home, wanting only a few moments to herself - she found herself sleeping in an old graveyard.
The next night she returned home to find nothing.
No one.
Her maker was gone, upset and prideful, leaving her possessions behind. He had taken the parents with him as well, for it was /he /who was their keeper. She was but a lost priestess of the Mother - now, a discarded follower.
In the library where she had passed so many happy nights with her maker, she sank to her knees, her long curly brown hair falling about her like a shawl, sank to her knees and covered her face.
And cried.
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