Lastland (Stormris) Oneshots

What Does a War God Look Like?

Like the flower, my eyes are opening petals, and by the light of the rainbow, I see every truth and color.

Even though it weighed no more than a gold coin, the glittering brooch resting in Lydia's pocket felt heavier than a gold crown. It was a gift from her patron deity, her new patron deity. The warrior woman's stomach twisted in humiliation and indignation. She knew enough to be outwardly polite to the new God—Goddess—but the gift, no matter how well-intentioned, was patronizing. It was nothing but another cruel reminder that she was no longer permitted to serve Zeus or Ares.

They always spoke of how one battle could turn the tide of a war, but the adage never became true to Lydia until she lived through it herself. Not only had she lost the battle, but after losing the favor of both Zeus and Ares,, everything she'd ever worked for was ended faster than the blink of an eye. There was no chance for her to even begin to explain, let alone receive forgiveness. Her only option was exile, and even that was considered a mercy. Death was the other penalty, but in exchange for her years of service and loyalty, she was granted clemency.

She was not, however, spared from the pain of rejection. What a cruel sting the haughty rebuke of Ares was, and even though Zeus was "gentler", his rejection managed to hurt even more. Not only was he King of the Gods, but her name and place of birth were one of the apples of his eye. It had been hard enough for her, a mortal who shared no blood with him, but her ferocity and devotion caught Zeus' eye anyway. He considered her a pride and jewel representative of her city, but now, he could not keep her. She had lost all meaning to the city, and so had lost all meaning to him. It didn't matter that they'd battled together and that she'd trained under him. The Gods did not feel as mortals did.

And yet Iris... Lydia again thought of the shining brooch that weighed so heavily in her tattered pocket. It was small, shaped like an iris flower, its petals open wide. Resting in the center of the flower was a carved eye, a glistening amethyst. Lydia knew that if she turned the pin this way and that, the purple eye at the center would flash rainbow. Likewise, should she trigger the pin's primary purpose, a jet of rainbow would shoot from the amethyst iris. That was how the Goddess would be able to find her newest "ward". The very thought made the warrior woman shudder in disgust. As she thought of the gift, no matter how well-meant Iris was, her every action was patronizing.

I don't need her to "look after me". Even Zeus and Ares were neither father nor brother on the battlefield, rather, commander and comrade. But just as Lydia's fall from grace was her own fault, so too was her union with Iris. She could've gone quietly, forsaking another Olympian patron, but instead, she was desperate not to fall too far from grace. She begged, pled, and prayed at every altar, temple, and shrine she could. She was rejected by every last God and Goddess. Though some Gods appreciated mortal desperation, the type she reeked of was pathetic. Only one eye was gentle and merciful enough to look upon the warrior woman with compassion, and it was purple.

Ah, but how could one who ruled over the fleeting colors of the sky compare to the might of the Olympians of storms and war? Lydia's lip even curled in disdain the longer she allowed her bitter thoughts to roil. Her disdain for the brooch, and its benefactor, was palpable. The notion that such a delicate ornament could offer salvation was a bitter jest reflecting Iris and their relationship. But Lydia already knew from experience that she could not part with the brooch. Whether she tried to sell, destroy, or lose it—whether on purpose or by accident—it always reappeared in her pocket. Even if Iris was a pathetic Goddess, she still outranked a mortal like Lydia. The thought made her lip curl again.

ooo

A guttural roar reverberated through the trees. Lydia's heart leapt into her throat as a monstrous figure emerged from the undergrowth, hulking and hairy. An inhumanly large human hand pushed through the leaves, and a horned head emerged, huffing.