THE HOLY GATHERERS

Chapter Five: Owning The Gift

Several weeks had passed since I became a Holy Gatherer, and the voice from my dream echoed continuously in my mind. It was a comforting whisper, guiding me as I adjusted to my new life. But my experience had been markedly different from the others. While Meme had fought against life-like creatures from the old lands and emerged victorious, wielding the weapon she desired most, Ivy's journey had taken a dark turn.

Meme recounted Ivy's tale one afternoon during our training, her brow furrowed with concern. "Ivy was chasing after the mythical sword," she said, shaking her head. "You know the one-the one that's said to bleed the goddesses? It's just a fable, yet she believed it was real."

"She thought she could handle it, but it led to her downfall," I replied, recalling the hushed whispers that followed Ivy's name. "The Goddess of War did not look kindly on her ambition."

Meme sighed, her expression solemn. "She was stung by the poisonous roots. It was a harsh lesson, but some just don't know their limits."

"Do you think she learned anything?" I asked, curiosity piquing within me.

"I hope so," Meme said, glancing toward the training field where Ivy was practicing. "But she's been different since then-more withdrawn. The others won't even look at her."

I nodded, feeling a pang of sympathy for Ivy, despite her earlier arrogance. It seemed she was paying the price for her aggression, while I had been labeled brave but reckless. I was the only one who had walked into the temple alone, disregarding Mother Cora's advice to stay together. Now, it felt like the privilege of being a sister was a distant memory; I was no longer a sister but a mother in training, and the weight of that title pressed heavily on my shoulders.

Overa was an isolated and hidden community, located at the center of towering mountains, protected by a powerful cloaking spell. Our homes were domed structures made from the very soil of the land, covered in vibrant wildflowers that connected to the roots of the goddess trees we worshiped. The temples of the goddesses sat at the edges of our settlement, majestic and sacred. Each path leading to them was lined with tall grasses, their colors reflecting the sigils of the corresponding goddess. At night, the grasses illuminated softly, collecting prayers from every family in the community.

"Are you ready for today's training?" Meme asked, snapping me out of my reverie.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I replied, though a sense of dread gnawed at me. The year of harvest was upon us, and we were training intensively with the weapons bestowed upon us by the Goddess of War. Yet, with each session, I felt the immense responsibility that came with ownership of my gift.

Training pushed us to our limits, challenging our physical and mental strength. Some of the Holy Gatherers struggled to control their weapons, which seemed to have minds of their own. Others found themselves battling not only their foes but the ghosts of previous owners who clung to their weapons like shadows.

Meme, ever the optimist, threw her hands in the air, exasperated. "You're so lucky! Your weapon doesn't run away from you or try to kill you! This is more challenging than being chosen by a goddess!" she exclaimed, panting from her relentless efforts to capture her wayward arrows.