by James Stone
‘So, what do I call you?’ Anclyn asked.
He upturned his palms. ‘I’m not your friend. You’re still a handmaiden,’ Cheyne spoke grimly. ‘Try not to get too attached. I’ve had many names, but no titles. I never stay long enough for those.’
She was taken back but decided not to act like it. ‘What should I call you, then?’
‘Actually, I’ve decided I rather like being called lord. Especially when it’s coming from your tongue.’ He licked his lips, and she turned away.
The trip continued on past ruined watchtowers, long abandoned by the Temple Guard who had been cut down or captured on the way back down. Anclyn wasn’t concerned with them, though; rather, she was growing sick at the thought of Cheyne following her from behind. She almost felt herself fall into some spiral of insanity as her head began to pound, and her footsteps faltered. But then, at last, the clouds trickled away into small brooks of rainwater, and the broken spires of the First Temple were in sight.
‘What do you hope to find here?’ Cheyne asked after a short while.
She ignored him and carried on across a mountain of ashen rocks, rain and ruin. All around her there was lamentation, and there was death. Perhaps two hundred Belliousans flocked over the blazing corpse of the Temple, draped in red and cowering over the blackened forms of their loved ones. Others cried Deih’s many names to the heavens, while the rest scoured the embers for golden amulets or just about anything else of worth that may have survived the night.
The husk of the First Temple was grey and brooding, and those who scuttled at its feet were insects. And yet, it was a shadow of its former glory; proud banners and sigils had turned to dust, intricate murals were all but recognisable, and the towers and winding corridors stood like jagged thorns from the earth, still flickering orange. Morning sunlight struck down into places it had never before reached, like a spear intent on destroying whatever remained.
‘Haggard old thing,’ Cheyne remarked. ‘Not a soul will pilgrim to Belliousa any longer. Better those cloaked in red find some new goddess to pray to.’
Anclyn sifted her feet through the muddy ground, watching pillars of smoke rise like young from a viper’s nest. She was attracted still to the allure of the Temple—to its otherworldly ambience and deadly light. The closer she found herself, the louder the cries of the Belliousans grew, but the more beautiful the tortured remains appeared.
She stepped through a wall in such a way that would have been impossible several hours ago, ignoring the protests of Cheyne behind her. She skirted broken corridors and splintered heirlooms which she’d fled from in terror last night. She was calm now. The morning had brought the First Temple alive.
She chased the complex to the underground chamber. But in its place, there was only rubble and decay and some hint of an inferno raging still below. It was a good thing, though, she assured herself. The mausoleum was buried, and she wouldn’t have to relive the night again.
The atrium was next, she decided. That’s where Deih had been killed, bleeding as the angels leered atop the burning ground. She could even make out the remnants of it from the base of the Temple—how easy it was to walk through walls and carry out her every whim. Magmaya had cursed the ground she walked on the night before; now she was revelling in it.
She walked between the barricades and over the towers, following ruins which formed a trail of where she wanted to go. The First Temple had burned, and now they gathered in the ashes.
The atrium was how she remembered, save for Cheyne’s presence. Parts of it were even preserved; from several busts and inscriptions which made up a surviving wall, to the mosaic floors and crusted remains of the fountain where Deih had died. But, of course, there was no sign of her now. The fire had seen to that.
In fact, Anclyn noticed, there was someone else there instead. She was facing away as she made her way through a burning arch, but it was clear she wasn’t doting the ruby-red robes of the other Belliousans as they fluttered about in pursuit of gold.
She was wandering wistfully around the shell of the fountain, a mop of hair singed to her neckline and nude, save for a few bundles of cloth that just about stuck to her shoulders and thighs with rain. She held herself in a sort of delicate way that made Anclyn’s heart leap into her mouth.
She was sobbing too, despite the murmurs of prayer and the downpour atop the mountain, there was a clear crying coming from her direction. And after a moment, it seemed she found the strength to turn around, her burnt hair swallowing her tears as she made a vain attempt to cover herself. She looked sad—that was the truest thing about her. But that sadness quickly enough turned to bewilderment.
The Belliousans murmured amongst themselves until one dropped gold at the girl’s feet and the rest followed in tandem. They ran to caress her, drenched in rain and screaming ‘Angelica, Angelica!’ They flocked to cover her with their robes, but she just stood, quiet, and looking at Anclyn.
‘Angelica, Angelica!’ the Belliousans continued, scampering over to nurse her burns. Even Cheyne shied away, until it was only her and Anclyn, standing tall upon a shore of ash and smoke.
Magmaya Vorr smiled the same way a phoenix died.
And then, Anclyn’s knees caved, and she dropped down before her. She closed her eyes and prayed; she prayed to every god, prayed to any god that would listen. She prayed until she felt a trickle of sunshine form fingers and brush through her scalp, and at last her prayers were answered.
A Note from the Author:
What started as a short story centred around the misdeeds of a man named Kharon Vorr has evolved into somewhat of an epic. The Girl and the Goddess has taken me four years to write and edit, from the first line, to the last full stop.
I dearly hope you enjoyed reading it.
There will be more to come.
I’d like to thank my parents and my sister for their continuous support, Edoardo Taloni for his incredible talent on designing the front cover, my friend, Alisha, for listening to me moan, and my rabbit, Yoghurt.
