Trial of the Valkyrie

Forget About Mine

Chapter Twenty-One - Forget About Mine

Song: Small Hands - Keaton Henson

"He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."

― Emily Brontë in Wuthering Heights

G     W     Y     N

Gwyn had heard of counseling – had seen other, older priestesses make use of it in Sangravah, but at the time it had seemed like something for... other people.

  Troubled people. People with horrors dotting their memories like stars in the night sky. People with battle scars on their soul and pock-marks in their mind. It wasn't for snarky, ginger priestesses who spent more time playing hide and seek with the children of the temple than in their studies. Counseling was for the cursed.

  And damn, if cursed wasn't what she had become since the night of Hybern's invasion. Since those male's had killed Catrin and had thrown her–

  The door to the High Priestess's office creaked open, and Gwyn nearly jumped out of her seat when Clotho entered.

  She pressed a hand to her chest, slowly regaining control of her breathing. "Sorry."

  From beneath her hood, Clotho gave Gwyn a wry smile. One that, despite only having been here in this library for a few weeks, Gwyn understood was meant to convey reassurance. Understanding.

  Clotho lowered herself into the large, leather upholstered chair on the other side of the mahogany desk, folding her gnarled fingers before a stack of blank sheets of parchment. The ink-pen to Clotho's left levitated and poised itself over the paper, then began scratching in deft, fluid motions as though held by an invisible hand.

  Gwyn hooked her hair behind her ears – a nervous habit – and waited for the High Priestess to finish. She'd known to expect this sort of communication when she had approached Clotho about accepting counseling. Gwyn hadn't asked for Clotho specifically as a counselor, but she had asked the High Priestess for 'whoever wasn't too busy.' Clotho had responded with a single note that read 'Please meet me in my office tomorrow before the dusk service.'

  Finally, the pen stopped scratching and the parchment spun on the desk, then slid towards the edge, where Gwyn sat.

  Sitting forward in her own leather chair, Gwyn peered down at the note, the balls of fae-light that hovered about the cozy, book-stuffed room turning the parchment to gold.

  It read: I didn't expect you to accept counseling so soon but I am glad that you have. We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to.

  Gwyn smiled weakly at the words, then turned her attention back to Clotho who sat patiently waiting for her to respond. "I appreciate you seeing me personally. I'm sure as High Priestess you are very busy with your work."

  Clotho's shoulders rose and fell and the pen scrawled over the parchment: Counseling my fellow priestesses is part of my work.

  She felt her smile broaden. "Fair enough." Gwyn gestured to the shelves that lined the walls of the office, except for a small space where a water pitcher and several glasses were laid out on a small desk, "You've got quite the library of your own. What do you like to read?"

  The High Priestess tilted her head, thinking for a moment, then the pen wrote: I am fond of the classic works. The occasional mystery is as exciting as I get with my reading.