☆ Fatalys ☆

1

Night was falling over the plains and valleys scattered with rocks and many rivers. In the daylight, a magnificent golden tapestry came to life before dying under the stars. For a moment, everything seemed frozen. In the midst of these plains stood a forest denser than the others, within which was a community living safely from the outside world, safe from what? Most of them didn't even know.

The village revealed itself more easily in the night, the torches and lanterns hanging from the inner walls lit the main areas of life, like a group of fireflies flying together around the same point. The outer walls, palisades, or ramparts were high enough to conceal this light from the rest of the world. Thus, it could only be seen from above.

One of the least lit areas at this hour was the vegetable and fruit fields. In one of these fields, a solitary lantern slowly made its way through the growing darkness, with a gait that was as awkward as that of a lame duck. It was Mirabelle.

Mirabelle was one of the key figures in the community, an old hunchbacked woman with a back as twisted as her cane. Despite this handicap, she never failed in her duties and missions. She leaned forward and dug a hole with her thumb before tossing a seed over her shoulder. She continued this cycle until interrupted by the sound of hooves pounding the earth. The old woman raised her head and observed the sister hurrying toward her. When she was close, the sister stopped her horse and assumed a grave expression. Around them, the air was cold, clinging to their robes like the wind clinging to tree branches. The freshly plowed, damp earth carried the heavy, strong smell of the days after rain. The sister hesitated to speak, choosing her words carefully as she studied the wrinkled face of the supreme sister before her.

- "The child is born... The mother won't survive the shock; she's bleeding out... The sheets... The screams... Everything is exactly as you predicted."

- "I’m not one to predict," Mirabelle replied curtly, moving closer to the horse, attempting to mount. "It's written in the books that dictate our rules." She spoke with a dry tone as she positioned herself on the horse. "Dying is the best thing that the mother could have done for her son... Now, move your ass."

The sister sighed and reluctantly advanced. Mirabelle may have been the best among them, but her language was far from the praises and grand speeches she delivered during rituals. Once the old woman was comfortably settled on the animal, the sister spurred the horse into a gallop.

Not being one of the higher-ranked members of the temple, this sister wore a triangular white veil adorned with an eye. It held her hair back, away from her pale face. A finer veil fell over her eyes. Her long gray robe was raised to reveal her white, plump knees as she hurried through the fields, as if trying to escape the encroaching night over the village of Brumrocht.

Soon, the temple came into view. The earth gave way to dark cobblestone streets that formed the paths leading upward to the temple. The hooves struck the ground like thunder. The followers and other religious figures stepped aside, watching as the horse galloped toward the narrow paths leading to the top of the hill and the temple, without even dismounting. Mirabelle and the sister hurried into the temple, for tonight was far too important to slow down.

Once inside the temple, Mirabelle pretended to dismount on her own, swinging one leg over the side and then the other. A priest helped her down and began recounting how the birth had unfolded in detail, making grand gestures as if to illustrate his words, leading her to the birthing room. The cries of the dying mother tore through the air despite the closed door.

Mirabelle entered, observed, and then removed the bloodstained sheet with her cane. Finally, she took a moment to look at the young woman, her long hair clinging to her sweaty face, her eyes rolling in her wide sockets. She screamed like a pig, her mouth contorted, gaping and panting. Mirabelle had seen this spectacle before, she knew it all too well, but this time was different. She was aware of it.

Naturally, with professional calm, she took the available tools, although they were rudimentary, and went to work. By dawn, the screams had ceased. The young woman's body lay with her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her mouth open in one last gasp. Her body tensed and twisted one final time, and then... death. Across the room, the old woman held the child in her bloodstained arms, rocking it gently. She had carefully wrapped it in a sheet just minutes before.

- "Your skin is marked with white... You look like a glass of coffee with milk... a little café au lait. You’ll need a name, little man."

Mirabelle walked to the window, looking at the rising sun while whispering these words. She gazed down at the baby in her arms, rubbing its head against the newborn’s forehead, whose eyes were closed. It had barely cried.

- "Astaroth... It's a heavy name for a child, but you'll deal with it... It's important, understand? Anyway, I can't give you a choice. What's written is written. That's life."

Mirabelle smiled as she left the room. Outside, the priest who had helped her dismount was waiting. When he saw the child, he opened his arms and stepped closer. The wrinkles in his face made him appear older than he was. Mirabelle kept the child close to her, casting him a dark look. She knew the traditions and finally, reluctantly, handed him the child.

The man seemed overjoyed, as if it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Tears flowed from his eyes, first one by one, then in a steady stream like rain. Mirabelle quickly reclaimed the child from the priest, hurrying down the corridor toward the temple's exit. Outside, she followed the cobbled path leading to the village square. The air was fresh and calming compared to the sweat and blood still on her hands, hardened from work. The woman's shoes made a loud clattering sound against the cold ground. Once on the square, she sat on the edge of the fountain, holding the child carefully but firmly in her arms. She took a few moments of silence, whispering promises that slowly blended with the sound of the water. When the entire village was awake and ready to listen, she would present the newest and most important addition to their cult, the vessel and spokesperson of their god, Raziela.

Mirabelle had returned to the convent, passing through the main hall of the Temple. On the white walls and the oversized stained glass windows, ancient myths were illustrated, telling the legends of the gods. Raziela was depicted at the center, as a mother goddess. She was represented as a feminine figure, although she had never been either a woman or a man; Raziela was a being above the human bodies predefined by sex. The goddess was shown as a woman for the imagery of motherhood, femininity, beauty, and desire. Thus, the depictions of the goddess wore two masks, one resembling a war helmet, covering her eye sockets and forehead, curving in a semicircle on the sides of her face. This mask was topped with three fine silver metal spikes, intricately embroidered at the base of the mask like a crown.

The second mask covered her nose to her chin. Many considered this mask to be a real part of the goddess rather than an artificial decoration. It was so delicately painted that it resembled porcelain dolls; such a beautiful and delicate face could only inspire a need for possession and evoke the first glimmers of passion in the hearts of young men and women, as well as jealousy and shame in some. As for the goddess's attire, she was usually painted in a simple, pure white cloth, sometimes, depending on the artist, it was her milky skin that was so pale and holy that it glowed, enveloping her human appearance in a radiance of light. But the paintings in the temple were old, so old that no Matriarch remembered who had painted them, not even Mirabelle, the current Supreme Sister, knew. Yet she had studied the books and personal journals left by those before her for a long time. What she was truly seeking was not the names of the painters, but the moment when Raziela had lost that divine appearance.

For a long time, the goddess had lost that skin and that charming appearance, but this was a secret known only to the highest ranks of their community. Soon, very soon, as soon as the little head of Astaroth was ready to wear a three-pointed mask without faltering or complaining, the child would join the closed circle of those who knew the truth. He would soon meet the remnant of holiness that once paraded among the gods like a peacock among crows.

Mirabelle had placed the child in a cradle made of wood and metal. The bars were carved with grotesque animal figures chasing each other, creating the impression of fantastic and miniature battles, made for the child’s amusement. Astaroth was not very large but quite thick, with wide and awkward ankles and wrists. He seemed already weary of being the idol of an entire village, even though he had just been born. The festivities would continue for a few more days to celebrate his birth and the renewal it brought. The old woman turned to her belongings, washing her hands from the dried blood of Astaroth’s mother before limping towards her wardrobe to change her outfit. 

Before his birth, she wore her worker's attire, which was much duller and darker than the other robes she owned.

As a rule, the Temple’s Adepts wore a veil or scarf in a specific color to announce their status. Usually, a shade of blue was worn by the Adepts who oversaw the smooth running of society and the cleanliness of the village. Yellow and brown represented manual or agricultural labor. Not all the villagers or artisans wore a scarf or color-coded marker, but those who did were recognized by all as working under the high-ranking guards. The high ranks, those in charge of prayers and studying the words of Raziela, wore white, while those working under them wore gray.

Mirabelle was the current Supreme Sister; in a way, she was the head of their community, one of the few people to be in direct contact with Raziela. As a consequence, her attire was somewhat different. It was a stiff white fabric reflecting her hard and cold personality, although adorned with golden jewelry and trinkets. On her head, she wore a headband decorated with three long spikes like those on Raziela's mask and the one Astaroth would soon wear. Once dressed in this ceremonial costume, she approached the cradle again and observed the newborn yawning and wide-eyed. 

Although he had not cried much and seemed calm, the child was lively, wriggling in his cradle as if trapped in a very comfortable prison. What Mirabelle watched with great interest was Astaroth’s skin; it was slightly darker, the color of café au lait, a drink she adored. The discolored patches on the infant’s skin did not worry her; they didn’t seem dangerous, though they were quite unusual in the village. Mirabelle saw in these intriguing patterns the mark of Raziela, who had recognized Astaroth as her true spokesperson among the faithful of the cult.