Lightblessed

The Reformation of the Illuminari and its Council took place slowly over centuries. With the ousting of the Lightblessed, the Illuminari formed a Regency ostensibly dedicated to preserving their place in the Illuminari until their return. In its bid to retain power, the Regency instead authorized the covert elimination of both Lightblessed and shaman with ruthless efficiency.

***

A young man in an elegant servant’s tunic and trousers opened Lord Elanreu’s carriage door. Elanreu stepped out and offered his hand to her, and Trynneia followed. Several paces away stood a woman wearing a green dress, open at the shoulders with a moderate bodice laced with golden tassels, hands adorned with one ring each, and a thin silvery necklace.

Trynneia took in the sight as Elanreu grasped this woman’s hand with both of his and brought it to his chest. She appeared of an age as the Lord, graying locks of hair swept to either side of her otherwise brown locks and were pinned back with a simple brooch. Smiling, the woman slashed at Elanreu with her free hand. He easily deflected the attack, pinning her hand behind her back and pulling her close to him. They embraced.

“Well met, sister,” he said as she hugged him back. The young servant retrieved the fallen weapon and returned it to the woman. “Glad you haven’t lost your touch.”

“You’ve been gone nearly a month, Elanreu. Who’s the tart?” The woman fixed her stare on the younger woman, and immediately Trynneia felt embarrassed, ashamed even. “Youngest girl I’ve seen you bring back yet. Finally find someone to put to wife? Clearly too old to train in our trade, so that’s the only thing I can think of.”

“Desi, must you think so lowly of me?” Lord Elanreu reached out to her, beckoning Trynneia closer. “For now she’s simply my ward, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Hrmph, she’s pretty enough. Beautiful amber eyes,” she mused, grabbing Trynneia’s cheeks, tilting her head side to side as if searching for an imperfection. Trynneia looked pleadingly at Elanreu. “Don’t see those every day,” she continued.

“This is my sister, Desdemona,” he said, introducing the two. “You can call her Desi, she loves it. Desi, this is Trynneia Oathbreaker.”

Desi chuckled. “That’s a ridiculous name, Elanreu. Come up with it yourself?” She looked at Trynneia. “So you’re to become one of his new children?”

Trynneia’s heartbeat began to speed up, unsure of the situation. Desi’s aura surged a dark, unwavering purple, billowing out behind her in a wispy tuft as the trio turned to walk into the estate. The young man trailed behind carrying their bags as the driver took the carriage away.

“Not something I’d considered asking her. She has enough to think on.”

“You stink of the Atrium. What were you doing with those ignorant fools? What’s her deal with them?” Desi stopped and looked back. “Wait,” she said now that the light of the estate revealed more detail. With a turquoise fingernail she lightly trailed the side of Trynneia’s face. “Lightblessed? You brought her here of all places? Your balls are bigger than I thought.”

“If you could only know,” he muttered. “She’s my ward-”

“As you’ve said. Your other children won’t care who she is and you know it.”

Trynneia clasped her arms to her chest, both to feel surreptitiously at the wound aching between her breasts as well as to keep herself warm. Her wariness grew as Desi talked to her brother, and she felt her Lord protector seemed for once to be no longer in complete control of the situation.

“Let it be on your head then,” Desdemona said as she entered the estate.

Lord Elanreu had done well for himself, Trynneia saw, though it had come from blood money. He flaunted his wealth openly here, the stark contrast between this estate and his temporary home in Praxoenn lay before her.

Sumptuous chairs of burgundy velour beckoned their soft comfort in the vaulted entryway as a massive staircase rose up to a half-landing that curved in either direction up to the floor above. Hallways lit by those same floating sconces spread to her left and right, the rich hardwood covered by woven runners that spanned half their width with beige and cream carpet.

“My home,” he said as he watched Trynneia look about with wonder. What he didn’t see were the masses of colors swarming about every object, doubled and redoubled to glisten in the warm glow of the floating globes. Trynneia wanted to cry at the beauty, but coughed uncontrollably instead.

Desdemona entered a room and shut the door behind her, leaving the three in the hallway. Trynneia felt rather than heard a murmuring roar of activity somewhere further away, but couldn’t decide if some form of equipment or machinery churned away in some strange activity, or if a battle raged.

Lord Elanreu relaxed, walking slowly past a hallway that went some distance then bisected to either direction once more further back into the rear of the estate. “It’s called Briarthorne Estate by the locals. Its formal name is not for your ears.”

“Not very thorny,” she observed. “I rather like it here.”

He turned and grasped her forearms where her hands remained clasped to her chest. “There are thorns everywhere you look, you just haven’t seen them yet. Don’t let them prick you,” he said.

As if on cue, she felt something sharp prod the small of her back as a hand gripped her mouth and pulled her back, away from him. He let her go. Forgotten, her totem fell to the floor.

“All I have to do is push,” whispered a girl into her ear. “More prey for us, Father?” she asked, addressing Lord Elanreu. “There’s no challenge here.”

A white and yellow aura burst around Lord Elanreu, and he smiled, stroking his chin. Unable to move, Trynneia tried to struggle but only felt the point cutting into her back and drawing blood.

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Shallin. There’s more to her than you think,” he said warmly. The point dug deeper, and Trynneia winced, unable to stop her tears of pain.

Spots of orange coalesced around the nearest lamp sconce, and Trynneia shut her eyes, willing herself to feel out with her intuition for it. Even without a gesture, she captured it, pulling it into the back of Shallin’s hand. Her captor shrieked and let Trynneia go.

“What the fuck?” Shallin yelled, shaking her singed hand and pointing the dagger with the other at Trynneia as the girl pulled away towards Lord Elanreu. Shallin’s eyes widened when she saw the craggy remnants of the runes upon Trynneia’s face. “Lightblessed!” She hissed.

A nearby door cracked open, but slammed shut when Elanreu glared at it. “Oh Daughter, she is so much more than that,” he admonished.

“Serves you right,” Trynneia muttered.

“I see. Is she your whore, Father? One fucking hell of a trophy you’ve picked. Spent your life killing them and now…?” Shallin looked at the two while licking the tip of her dagger. “You’re insane.”

Lord Elanreu draped his hands protectively around Trynneia’s shoulders. She felt trapped once more, caught between a wildcat and a bear. Watching the other girl tasting her blood, Trynneia’s anger blazed. Dots of blue and white responded with the taste of -Strike back- and -Let us respond- in a glaze of lemon and honey. She shrugged Elanreu off.

It felt so easy to acquiesce to the urge pulsing within her in time to her heartbeat, to grasp at those threads and agree. Lord Elanreu backed off as Shallin fell to her back, held in a cocoon of the unseen. Trynneia knelt before the other girl and plucked the dagger from her nerveless fingers.

-A lesson, a lesson!- flurried about her mind, as her eyes drew upwards following a spiral of green and red streaming lights sweltering off Shallin. -To fight, to muse, to crave, to use- Whispers filtered their way into her mind against the din of distant noise and the amused chuckle of Lord Elanreu. -Earn your place.- She shook her head. Blood trickled out of her nose, leaving a trail onto her lip that mirrored the prick near her spine.

“I am no one’s whore,” she swore, pushing at the invisible tendrils arrayed all around Shallin, restraining her adversary to the floor. More doors opened up, just in cracks. A blood red haze filled her vision. Trynneia straddled the prone girl.

“You will find that I’m not helpless,” she said, cutting into Shallin’s blouse. Blood dripped from her nose onto the girl’s chest while her own witch’s mark blazed, only infuriating her more. “I’ve been helpless for too long. Too long.” A black halo spread around Shallin’s golden hair as she began to quiver in fear.

With each drop of blood that fell, Trynneia’s eyes closed a little bit more, and the whispers tore at her. -Proof proof proof- -There is no agony only life- -Life begets death- -Ever ceasing never beating- -Turn turn while your mind burns!-

“I am done being pushed. Done being bullied.” Tendrils of color snapped around Shallin’s arms, slamming them to the ground, outstretched. In her mind’s eye, Trynneia saw Ditan strung up in the carriage, waiting for his punishment. For her punishment. Just as helpless. -Make her pay, pay, pay, all night, all day!- She ripped away the cloth covering Shallin’s left breast, pushing the dagger into her soft flesh.

It cut so easily, no pressure required, the blade’s edge honed razor thin, parting the flesh as blood pulsed slowly out of the wound. Colors of light and intuition haloed about it. Trynneia looked up from the dagger to Shallin’s eyes as she pressed the blade further in. More tendrils bound the girl’s jaw, and she could not cry out as tears streamed down the sides of her face, eyes lit with unmasked, wild fear.

“I deserve this punishment, Ditan, I do,” Trynneia said comfortingly, tears of agony and hatred upon her own face. “You don’t deserve to live, Shaman!” she exclaimed, all the while feeling the acid burn her ears, rasping her tongue. Shallin’s wound puckered as her back arched, only to be yanked flat by powers she could not see, only experience. Lord Elanreu crossed his arms and watched as Desi quickly approached from down the hall. “You will never be safe under the Light.”

People gathered in the hallway, keeping a safe distance from the spectacle of the two girls entwined on the floor. Elanreu’s intent stare flicked warningly up at his sister, who watched in furious fascination but declined to interfere once she saw her brother’s forbidding stance.

“You are the darkness we were warned about,” she said, leaning further down. She pulled at the halo, pulled at the colors, pulled at the blood draining from the wound. Trynneia bound the injury while extracting as much pain as she could, pulling it into herself. Completely restrained by Trynneia’s magic, Shallin shuddered weakly as her body convulsed, caught between life and death.

“Ditan, why did it have to be you? You?” Trynneia’s voice broke, her love of her friend taking hold. “I can’t hate you, I can’t…” She shoved the dagger through, embedding it into the hardwood floor. Blood stained the carpet but continued to pulse through. She twisted her hand, and Shallin’s legs twitched. “We do this to each other, over and over again. Tomorrow. Always another tomorrow,” she whispered.

Colors settled down onto Shallin, streaming down her body like water, pooling in a rainbow shimmer beneath her. Trynneia withdrew the dagger slowly, and the colors pulled up through Shallin’s body to fill the crevasse left behind. “You are my oldest friend,” she said, kissing Shallin on the forehead, the blood that had dripped upon her lips leaving a printed stain. “All we have is each other. We’ll get through this, Ditan. Together.”

Trynneia stood, dropping the dagger onto the cloth that had once covered Shallin’s now unwounded breast. Shallin breathed shallowly, unconscious. Normal colors returned, merging once more with the people and objects around her. Lord Elanreu nodded approvingly.

“All I had to do was push,” she said, but her voice remained far away and distant, as she reexperienced other times, other memories.

Desi and her nameless servant knelt to Shallin, both to cover her up and examine her for further injury. She lived, lost in her mind to her own agony.

Trynneia watched as Desdemona stood back up, clenching and unclenching her fist in undecided fury. Her glare burned with barely restrained hatred as she passed the girl, punching Lord Elanreu in the face with all the frustration held within.

“She could have died, Elanreu. Should have died. What the fuck just happened? She’s our Daughter, you bastard!” Desi beat on her brother’s chest. “I leave you alone for one minute…”

“Shallin chose this for herself,” he said as he blocked and contained her attacks. “So did Trynneia.”

She watched this short exchange, more interested in the merging of the siblings’ auras, how they spiraled and pulsed within and around the two. Purples and oranges and whites filtered each other in a distracting slalom of synergy. Trynneia smiled happily just to see auras, even as they lifted up, up, up. Those in the crowd picked up their fallen sister, ushering her away while keeping wary eyes upon the broken girl who’d ravaged Shallin so effortlessly.

-The taste, the taste, no waste, make haste!- -Wield us further- -We are here for you, touch us, taste us- murmured the voices, hushed but incessant, with every variation they could muster. She tried to tune them out. Trynneia reached for one of the sconces with her right hand, bandages beginning to unravel. Vanilla caressed her eyes, its taste warm like the light of the twin suns, comfortable.

She looked up, wiping blood away from her nose, and saw that here, an intricate mural stretched across the ceiling in both directions. Half hidden in the shadows of the vaulted arch above, Lord Elanreu’s wealth amazed her anew.