The Scion Of Nyx

X

Eulalia

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The chains of pearls hanging off of my veil clinked together as I walked, their weight burdening me, heavy as manacle chains. With Acheron marching behind me, I felt more like a prisoner of war being marched to the gallows, besides a Saint being escorted to temple for morning prayer. 
So this was the true glory of Sainthood: stripped of my freedom, deprived of my free will, the memory of me revered, yet my presence scorned. Sainthood meant nothing, if not for declaring my rage sacred.

I kept my head down, as a pious priestess was expected to, my face hidden by the veil of hanging pearls. My hands were clasped together timidly, swallowed whole by my white prayer robes. I enjoyed this concealing attire more than anything else Nyx strapped me into.

The robes were simple in structure; white, hooded cloaks with openings on the sides for wide sleeves. They were embroidered with silver, glimmering thread, that I now recognized as sikh,  to represent my high status. My robes depicted images of Sainthood, entire stories of the Mother threaded into the thick material.

Sikh was spun from the gossamer moths, that pollinated the Breath of the Mother, making my garments woven with magic. In the case of danger, I could pull the magic from my very clothing, and utilize it. I did not know if it was purposeful or not, but the importance of them was not lost on me.

Nyx declared my morning prayers nonnegotiable. I was to attend every single one of the never-ending prayer session, during the first hour of daybreak. Often, I sat with my head bowed down piously and observed the patterns in my robes, in attempt to feign off boredom, besides actually praying. These daily prayer sessions in the temple would certainly leave me hunch backed and crooked-necked, with how often they forced me in here. It was all a big, fat waste of time.

Everyone else in court believed me pious and devoted, often praising me for my daily ritual of prayer in the temple before my breakfast. They noted how I never skipped a day, even when a blizzard had broken in through one of the wards, freezing the palace grounds. None of them knew that I was forced to do so, and spent more of my time in the chapels tracing patterns into my robes and staring open-mouthed at the ceiling, besides actually praying.

My knees ached and groaned from the hard, pebbled stone digging into them. It had been what felt like hours, though I knew it was not. The deafening silence and lifelessness of the chapel made it feel as though we were frozen in place, isolated from the natural progression of time.

Acheron and I were the only ones in the grand prayer room, as acolytes and true priestesses waited outside, milling about their duties. As per Nyx's request, we were usually alone during these periods, swaddled in dead silence. Whatever she hoped for me to achieve during these meditation sessions, she did not wish for the others to observe me while doing it.

Nobles came here periodically to gawk and squabble, in attempts to flaunt their devotion to the Great Mother, but hardly ever stayed long. They always left promptly, after lighting a single candle and providing a donation for the tithe. They came here in their decadence and best Sikh gowns, with jewels in their hair so heavy, that it did not allow them to bow their heads properly at the alter. They always leered at me, before leaving just as promptly.

I always disappointed them, being covered completely by my veil and garbs. They wanted to glimpse something holy of me. They believed that I, oracle-child that I was, connected with the Mother during these prayer sessions, and wanted to steal a sliver for themselves.

"Come. The hour is up" Acheron stated. I rose with weary bones, as though an old crone. Yes, I would surely be hunched of back soon enough. Acheron led our way out, his twin swords chinking at his sides with each step. Weaponry was not allowed in the royal temple, but the acolytes did not dare strip him of them when we entered.