yael

Religion is confusing. The tenements of it are fairly straightforward: believe, worship, recieve guidance or protection. And yet for many, that is not how the story goes. Everything gets messy when morality is involved, when rules are ‘dictated’ or the deity is absent. That, and there are some who will always be drawn to power, who try to hijack something with the potential to be wonderful and twist it to benefit them and their inner circle. Religion and a bevy of priests ultimately destroyed her tribe, while greed for power took her kingdom and her family from her.

This place will likely hold more questions than answers for Yael, and she already knows they are not likely to come in a straightforward manner, if at all. Nevertheless, she persists. Some things must be attempted, regardless of their potential outcomes.

For weeks now, Yael has debated with herself about visiting the place of the Gods, and even now, she’s not sure what she seeks or hopes to find. Wariness sets in, as well as a natural caution that has always served her well, as she slowly crosses the lava flows. Before, doubt plagued her about whether or not one of them would show, but after coming here with Rikyn, she is less nervous (and how silly it is for her to be nervous, when she once almost stood on their plane!). Is it jealousy she seeks to avoid? Coming face to face with capricious beings she cannot help but judge a little, though she knows that she, too, has faced judgement and fallen from grace. A heavy sigh passes through her lips as salty winds tease her silver-white locks and a fine ocean mist settles on her coat. A light shiver runs down her spine, as the four altars come into view.  

Even here, she faces indecision: whom does she invoke? The Moon is the Edge’s  - no, her - own patron, whom she’s met twice – that would be the obvious choice. The loyal choice, but her loyalty likes with those who are dead, and so you’ll have to forgive her if she’s a little skeptical. But the Sun draws her, for some reason, perhaps a natural reaction to a lifetime spent under its blazing rays, sweating into sand and carving out a life under harsh circumstances. It is an environment not everyone can handle. Ah, but the Earth! There is something in her that draws her that way as well, perhaps in part due to Isopia, or to her identification as a mother. Indecision keeps her in the middle, gaze flitting between the three markers. Eventually she comes to the decision that it might be best to leave it up to fate, (almost) sure that she will be happy with whomever deigns to answer.

“Xello?” she calls into the gray, cloud-covered day, throwing her voice out into rolling, murky colored waves and beyond, beyond. The silence before her is deafening, on the lifeless pile of rock, and she wonders if it’s intentional, if they mean to make it so isolating.

“I’m not sure xow to do zis, but… eef anyvone ees villing, I vould very much like to xaf a chat.” I t’ink… she manages to keep to herself, as if bottling it up it inside could hide her insecurities from them.  

yael

Oh. Yael is quite obviously surprised by the voice’s almost immediate response; she is not alarmed, simply acknowledging that what she’d imagined in her mind - this is not it. And that’s okay. Salt is replaced by a fresh, light, yet earthy smell, while light and darkness separated under a cloud-filled sky and become… something. She peers at it thoughtfully, trying to discern if it looks like any particular shape, or even has definitive lines. It doesn’t… but after their conversation at the altar, she finds it easier to accept that he will not take a solid form. This time, she has something other than a rock to look at - that’s nice. Some men sure do like to stay mysterious...

What startled her wasn’t the sudden appearance of a deity, but the ‘appearance’ of Kaos. Here. In this place. For some reason she assumed he was somewhat restricted to his altar area (a foolish thought, given the variety of occurrences on patrols) - perhaps even that this place was off limits to him. Not in a malicious way, of course, but simply in naivete about how the Gods really operate. But now that he is here, it makes her wonder about the amount of power he truly has. This is the other God’s place, surely if there were one place they would ‘catch’ him, it would be here? Hmmm… it is an interesting question indeed, and one that she imagines will remain mostly unanswered until Kaos wants to reveal it.  The golden mare offers the dark (though not threatening - no, there are no creepy, spidey-sense vibes coming from it) mass a shy smile as soon as it calls her clever, and it remains on throughout the niceties.

She makes a dismissive sound in the back of her throat, gesturing with a black wing-tip as if to brush her vast knowledge away. “A circumstance of birt, zat ees all. Vit no vone to speak vit, a language ees generally useless…” One corner of her mouth quirks upward in a slight grin eyeing the vague shape with a look of mixed appreciation and appraisal. “Unteel now, eet seems.” A breath catches a question in her throat, wanting to know how he, an amalgamation of the Rift Gods knows the language of the Children of Yisrael, but she has a bigger, far more expansive question in mind.

“T’ere ees much I vould ask, as a stranger een a land zat ees not as strange as eet vonce vas, and even more of you, Kaos, geeven ze current circumstances…” Yael pauses, uncertainty crossing her features as she speaks again. “I am not even sure you can answer zis…” Or if the other Gods would freely discuss the topic with her, a nosy, intellectual mortal.

So. Without further ado: “Vhat ees ze nature of mageec een Xelovia?” No, that’s not quite the right phrasing, she must elaborate. “Vhat I meen ees, ah, vhat are ze parameters, vhere does eet come from, and vhy do t’ose xoo had eet outside xere no longer xaf eet? Are ze Gods ze source of eet all, or are t’ere ozer povers at vork?” For a moment, just a moment, she looks desperate, lost, yearning for answers that can put her heart at rest. The pain of a year’s worth of grief colors the edges of a normally calm voice until she catches it and swallows heavily. The truth is that her motivation is twofold: scholarly and personal. The personal part likes to lay in wait for her scholarly part to get lax or nervous, then jump out and embarrass her when she leasts expect it by hijacking her body and taking it on a joyride.

At least this time, the etiquette police are on patrol and manage to yank away the personal bullhorn efore she can ask a thousand more questions. How did Yael get here, how did Weaver get here? Where are her twins, and can she ever go back?

yael

Let her be judged, if that is what he wants – he will find within her heat an unceasing fount of love and goodwill, though the water it spouts cannot entirely hide the bloodstains that mar the porcelain basin – faint, but there for those who seek for some sort of flaw. Like most mortals, she is somewhat short-sighted at times and prone to outbursts of emotion. But it all stems from love; love for her children, her kingdom, her friends, and above all to do whatsoever she can to protect them from the evils of B’kanna, of which there were many.  Those indiscretions, the deaths she’s caused, they all weigh heavy on her mind from time to time – usually when the rest of her world is falling apart – but she manages, for the most part, to use them as a vow to do better.

Here, in Helovia, it seems like she may have a change to do just that. Repent. Redefine. And yet, even will all that mental fortitude, she finds her resolve wavering, a woman walking a tightrope between two very, very tall buildings, unsure if her safety net is beneath her or not.

“Eet’s se strongest barree-er I’ve ever encountered…” she starts, thoughtfully, knowing that what he says makes perfect sense. But then, how do they do it? Such a large and powerful thing requires great energy to maintain, especially if it’s strong enough to strip all her powers from her. And in that moment, Yael suddenly becomes resentful – angry, even – about the things over which she’s had no control. It sparks like wildfire, flaring up in dry grass and running rampant through her body. It sears her veins and turns her phoenix heart to ash, heat stealing the breath from her lungs until her chest aches. Eyes flash with a rare, hostile intensity as the shadow appears to shrug. Her ire is not directed at him, but at the loss that still runs a rapid course through her, try as she might bury it all in rock and mud. Rivers are clever things; they change course so gradually, that even stone cannot withstand its constant power. Ever changing. Ever adapting. Placid and turbulent but always the giver of life.

She must not be the fire. She must be the river. Which, you know, is hard for a woman with a dragon alter ego.

“Eet took everyzing from me… po’er, eemortalitee… maybe even my cheeldren…” Her throat closes around the word as she swallows their names. Tariq. Tzion. Eyes that moments ago held an inferno within them now look with understanding upon the being before her, this indeterminate shape who has caused such a ruckus in Helovia. “Ees t’is vhat you feel? To some ekstent?”  To hear her own mouth frame the problem in such a way is a small revelation, something that she imagines many Helovians could easily understand.

After waiting for a response, Yael shakes her head dismissively, following it up with a sad chuckle. “Xow could I possiblee choose vich of my mageecs ees next favoreete?” She shrugs, looking off to one side. “I xaf my dragon-self…” a smile creeps across her face, the joy she takes in that form evident. “She ees enough. But eef I could cure loneleeness or stop vinter, I vould not say no to zat.”

Everything else she could want is either impossible in this world, it seems, or too great to a gift to ask for. Yael has some sense of propriety, keeping quite some distance from the line that changes ambition to greed.

yael

Yael, too, had been weak; the backlash of strong magic chewed her up and spit her back out on Helovia’s doorstep, leaving her without a sense of time or recent past. So very, very, weak, both in body and spirit. Almost a full season passed before she began to feel like she was at full strength again, and even then, the biting cold of winter wreaked havoc on her summer-land body. The former mage never stood a fighting chance against the barrier, and if that is the truth of the matter, then it is easier to accept than whatever guilt she’s held onto for almost an entire  year.

Her romanesque nose bobs up and down, until something gives her pause, and she glances up at the now shifting mass of ink. Break them apart? Is Kaos, then, the true form (whatever that means) of the Rift Gods, like when the Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers come together as the Megazord? For as many answers as he gives her, a hundred more questions pop into her head, and G-d, it seems like she could stand here forever, order some tea, and have all the intellectual conversations.

That, of course, assumes that they are something resembling equals, and Kaos goes on to dash right through that little fantasy of hers, calling the wishes useless, and marking a stark difference in their natures. “Perxaps to you,” she chides ever so gently. To Gods who already stand aloof from their creations, emotions must seem useless, fleeting, and childish. “But most of t’em are not eemortal. Zey t’ink deeferently about time, and deat, and relationsheeps…” The little golden mare is not so old that her mind has changed about such things; she still finds friendships and kindness terribly important to everyday life, even trying to go out of her way to offer small moments to everyone she comes across.

Can he see the truth within her tiny, relatively frail body? That the knowledge she has of the world has made her love it that much more? Her mentor gave her so much, showed her the endless miracles of life, the thousands of possibilities that lay within a single individual. How can she not want to work to take away the misery around her?

It is a thankless, never-ending task she sets herself up for, knowing full well that there will always be someone so walled off that they cannot be reached, and those who take delight only in pain and, well, chaos. Only in actively choosing a (mostly) unconditional love for her fellows can she begin to let those failures go without blaming herself. “And zat does not mean I should stop tryeeng, futile effort t’ough eet may be at times.” Her shoulders shrug, indicating that she knows how silly it may sound, but he isn’t down on the front lines every day, listening and watching and falling in love with the world around them. How could she ever explain it, when Yael, herself, does not completely understand the complicated ebb and flow of love she has for this life?

“But I suppose I should start vit my own faults... my own loneliness...” she says, meeting invisible eyes and an admission of weakness. Life would be better for her, if she weren’t quite so lonely. It is an unfortunate side effect of not being quite like anyone else.  

yael

Some (large) part of her knows better than to disagree with Gods, and she feels fortunate that Kaos has not taken offense to her gentle insistence. She does not mean to be contrary just for difficulty’s sake - but in an effort to explain some things to someone who might have an inkling of understanding - or inclination to listen.

Whatever his reason for showing up, she is thankful for it; it makes her feel special and odd at the same time, because part of her still thinks she shouldn’t feel special. Cognitive dissonance is a wonderful thing to work through, even when he continues to surprise her with pleasant gifts.

A soft gasp falls from her lips as the serval kitten comes tottering out of the darkness, blinking in the dim light of the gray day, yowling at her, as if it needs her. Yael’s eyes dart from the kitten to the black shape and back again, before taking two small steps forward, and sinking down to her knees. Extending her nose to the kitten, she breathes out slowly, drinking in the smell and sight of the spotted feline. A feeling of fright trickles through, slowly, at first, then more quickly, until it is tinged with curiosity. Her love floods out, fighting against the stream of infant uncertainty, until it is quelled and replaced by a soft, steady purring. She grins, looking upon the kitten with some version of motherly adoration and knowledge that he is so much more. "Shalom, Zani…” she whispers to the kitten moments before it rubs up against her, marking her with the side of his mouth as his.

Zani. Her Gift from God. Kaos’s request reaches through a fog of happiness, and after she helps lift Zani up to nest himself between her wings, she turns back to the God with a solemn look. “Of course. Eet shall be done… T’ank you, Kaos.”

Turning, the gold and silver mare and her new companion leave the veins - fulfilled in many new ways, but also still teeming with questions. A task lies ahead of them. It will be done.