An Angel Called Eternity

The Field Rat's Banquet - Rhema I: A Jester's Throne

Rhema I: A Jester's Throne

The Eleventh Day of the Ninth Moon, 872 AD
Anaria, Western Teleytaios, Klironomea.

"The hour grows late, and you have yet to move."
The young Prince looked out of the window and snorted. It was the early morning, hardly what one would call late, but then he supposed that he had never really been one for attending meetings and the like on time. He shrugged at the woman who had turned to look at him.
"I got lost on my way here?"
The words came out more as a suggestion than a statement. To be honest he didn't care what Marshal Crowe thought, the woman had made it clear that her support belonged to him no matter his own actions. In a way it was comforting to have someone skilled in the martial arts so close to him. By all means, he trusted in his own abilities to protect himself if it all went to shit, and he knew Seventh definitely kept a few tricks, and knives, up their sleeves, but he wasn't sure if he could protect everyone else he was supposed to either. Her though... well, there was a reason she was the first woman in Teleytaios to reach the rank of Marshal-at-Arms. If anyone could get someone out if it went to shit, it was her.
"-my Prince?"
He blinked twice, his gaze refocusing.
"Hm? My mind ran away from me again. Why were we meeting?"
Her eyes softened somewhat, clearly misinterpreting forgetfulness for madness, but there was no other indication that she cared to pursue that thread, or Angels forbid, pitied him. When he saw the pity in his brother's eyes after he slipped up on the night of their reuniting it nearly broke him, though his willingness to move past it was one of the ways Rhema could reaffirm that he wasn't any less himself for his bouts.
Nights like that always tasted of fresh grapes and fine wine.
A hand was laid on his shoulder, calloused and heavy but surprisingly gentle.
"Come, Hieromonk Auldwyrm and the Seer await our arrival. Events are moving faster now than ever before. Have you heard the rumours from the south?"
The south? They were in the south right now, and he had yet to hear of any happenings. Well, he had yet to listen in any Inner Council meetings either, so he couldn't be completely absolved of blame there. It wasn't his fault that all the meetings were so boring! Wait, did she say-
"Hieromonk Auldwyrm? As in, head of the Drake Church?"
She nodded, rebuking him while she did so.
"If you refer to the Cult of Ampithere-Worship as such I doubt he will be so friendly towards you. They may be a minor sect of the faith now, but they are venerable and proud."
"Too proud. The dragons have been gone from the world for as long as anyone knows. If there is any basis in their beliefs, it's long since lost relevance. And their insistence on only using High-Klironomean in their iconography, liturgy and literature is infuriating and endemic of that pride. Honestly, the Drakotheous Agiathos? Come on, it sounds cool but so do the names of all of the major sects when spoken in High-Klironomean. Archaearchonian Agiathos, Anoikos Idonistikos Agiathos, Athorybe Agiathos Aenethar-"
Marshal Crowe must have realised he had lost his trail of thought, and cut him off before he could continue, eyebrow raised.
"I wasn't aware you paid attention in your religious studies. Forgive me for the assumption, but I could never imagine you paying attention to scripture."
He shrugged noncommittally. She wasn't wrong, he hadn't ever paid attention in the lectures he'd been subjected to, he much preferred studying in his own time, or else with a friend. He'd hyperfixated on the Church of the Saint in all of its variations for a while after his madness had first started manifesting, hoping that it would lead to his 'salvation', whatever the fuck that even meant to him anymore.

The arrogance of his religious lecturers brought back old feelings of anger when he walked. He must have partaken in dozens of methods to satiate his madness throughout his life. What right did the clergy have to condemn his vices? When he was younger, he had spent more time praying each day than most did in a month. He would confess, he would light candles, he would listen to the sermons, sing the hymns, walk amongst processions of flagellants, all of it for nothing. When he knelt before the stone carving of the crucified mother and the stained glass depicting the hanged son, he poured his soul out to them, and they ignored him. He had never trusted the church since then, never willingly set foot in a holy place. How could he, when he knew he was not wanted by the divine? He wondered if his brother had ever had that same feeling of aloneness, of being cast adrift amidst an inky-black sea. He hoped not. He didn't deserve to feel that way. He couldn't think of anyone who did. Once, not that long ago, he had a nightmare in which he stood before not a statue of the crucified mother, but the crucified form of the young Seer in his retinue. The young servant looked terrible, as though they were hours from death, with tears of blood leaving pink trails from their eyes to their cheeks, hair matted and suck to their head with sweat and ichor. He still remembered the way Seventh had gasped between, slow, shallow breaths.
"My Lord, My King, My God, forgive them, they don't understand what they're doing."
He remembered waking up and immediately throwing up afterwards. Ever since nightmares had always tasted of sweat and fear. When he had seen the same image again while scrying it had sent him into a nervous breakdown that had lasted the rest of that day and the next, and neither he nor Seventh felt comfortable scrying for some time after that, the sight of one of his closest friends dying a death as slow as that dampening any enthusiasm he had for dream-magics for weeks, especially seeing as their abilities painted them in a very negative light in the eyes of the overly-zealous idiots that made up the more radical followers of the church.
He sighed as they came to a stop outside his private quarters. It would do him no good to get stuck in the past at the moment. He could indulge himself in happy memory after happy memory as much as he liked when the grand performance was through and the curtains drawn.
"After you."
Came the voice to his left as the door was opened for him.
He braced himself for dealing with another zealot, letting out a resigned sigh.
"Fine."