Apotolofo

Hera sweats.

Hera glances down at her arms, and the many tattoos there. She looks in the mirror, tilting her head to better see the faded brand upon her neck. The mark of Azdromoth. It had been decades since the brand had been in use, she had disconnected it over half a century ago. She thought of the strange patterns she had seen upon Sermi's skin, all those ages ago. . . "Well, I guess I see the reasoning." Hera murmured to herself. ". . . Meh- I'm already seen as a heretic anyways." With that, the Sort-of-Canonist Shaman cleaned off her altars, lighting Akezo's candle, then setting a sprig of blissfoil before Saint Amyas's shrine.

Aveline Kazimira's jaw hung slack as she read the missive. Her brows furrowed deeply- she wanted to deny it all, but in the end. . . She knew it to be true. She scrunched up her face, and the paper in her hands- refusing to let the angry and hurt tears fall. A liar. A player. No one can fix him. She was also quite aware of the other much more serious implications. But she wasn't too focused on them.

Hera is actually blind right now, but she appreciates the sentiment. Edit: Hera, being canonist, would probably be sweating at being called an 'Icon.'

For the third time that week, Hera awoke in a cold sweat, sitting up in bed as the remnants of prophetic smoke and embers left her mind. The room was left dark- her countless candles had not been lit in many months. So many visions, and yet- what good did they do? When they finally came to pass, she was left utterly helpless to lessen the blow. After all, thought she, bitterly. I am pathetically blind to the present. How many times must I be manipulated? Lied to? She paced her room, wringing her hands together. The azdrazi, Remon, Sermi, Laelia, Nehtamo- the list was never ending. Those that I loved and trusted- those that I gave more second chances than I can count. More than they deserved. Like a sick puppy, crawling back to its owner no matter how many times it's kicked. I am a fool. A blind, cowardly fool. She paced until she passed the mirror. She sat down before the unused vanity, her eyes closing as she massaged her temples. Humming a tune, that she had heard some days prior within Numendil's tavern. A sad, nostalgic song, that brought forth many memories. Her eyes opened, and watched idly the reflection she had grown accustomed to. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep- or perhaps she was finally going mad. But there, in her reflection, she saw them. Her friends. Her past. Each one silently waltzing across the room, to a song Hera could almost hear the piano play, reminding her of those imperial balls- dancing in Orenian halls. That was where it all began, wasn't it? The war. The descent. She could still hear their whispers. But she couldn't turn away. Just like every other time- she couldn't let them go. Join us. They enticed. Help me. They begged, with a sick smile on their lips. For they knew, as well as Hera knew- no matter what they did, she would always come back. Why do I always come back? And there, behind those ghosts, was another figure. One of shadow, that watched her always. The feeling brought her comfort. But why? This man, this figure- He and His followers, the dark horsemen of death, bringers of chaos and ruin. It was everything she stood against. But their sweet, sweet words. . . Their honeyed view of the future. They murmured softly in her ear, speaking of rest, and healing. They urged her to lay her head down, and close her eyes. To do nothing. To say nothing. To be used. How did I get here? She watched that shadow, as it lurked in the back of her mind. She remembered that fateful day, when she had joined Him. The way His followers had droned, preached of His blessing as if they'd heard it thousands of times before. Like it was a fundamental truth. Like they were brainwashed. As if there was no reason to believe otherwise. The greater good. She remembered. They told me it was the greater good. But how? The raids, the warfare, the suffering, the darkness. How did she, the so proclaimed Daughter of Flame, and bringer of light- become His slave follower? When she truly thought about it, it made no sense. Have I been used, yet again? Am I being manipulated? How have I joined my enemy- Pain. A sharp headache pierced through her mind, a feeling quite familiar in the past few months. As she shook the pain from her head, she gazed back into the mirror- she no longer saw the ghosts. Just the shadow. His shadow. She felt Him smile at her- and she smiled back. "I just had the strangest sense of deja-vu." Hera told Him. "Or- like I had lost my train of thought. Isn't that strange?" You are tired. Sleep, child. But still, she couldn't shake the feeling that. . . she was so close. Though He urged her to rest, she grasped at the strings, fishing for answers she knew were there. Somewhere, just beneath the surface. "Fresh air." she decides. "Then, I'll rest." It was a foggy morning, a blanket of soft mists spread across the valley. Hera was wrapped in furs, as her feet crunched through frost encrusted grass, nature's diamonds melting upon her leather boots. She approached the lakeshore, settling down to watch the ducklings in the water, the mother goose trailing behind with a sharp eye. "Don't worry, Mama." she murmurs. "I ain't gonna hurt your babies. I ain't gonna hurt anyone." I never wanted to, anyways. As she watched, a cold feeling of dread began to tug on her soul. I haven't hurt anyone. But wasn't watching in complacency just as bad as wielding the knife? If anything, inaction is merely the cowardly form of action. I don't want to hurt anyone. They said I don't have to hurt anyone. But how long would that last? How long until I'm a weapon again? A tool? Am I already one? A flicker in the water's surface, and Hera saw them again. They gazed down at her, only visible through the reflection of the water. They smiled at her, self satisfied smirks, selfish, sadistic bastards. For they knew, as well as she knew, she was being used. And just like every time before, she had no one to blame but herself. Salty tears, reminiscent of the seas she once sailed, trailed down the sunken valleys of her cheeks. Where once her features were welcoming, and kind, they were sallow and pale. She was fragile, weak. When was the last time she had left the castle, before today? She couldn't remember. The days had faded into blurs, days turned to night, light was shadowed by Him. She felt the migraine coming on again, and rage filled her. She glared down at the figures in the water, as His shadow began to approach. You want to use me? You want me to be your tool? The figures continued to grin, and driven by their taunts her hand flew to her boot. A flash of pale bone, a sharp tooth, its handle comfortable in her hand. The headache began- so she didn't think. She brought the blade up to her face and- Blood joined those salty tears. Already she could feel her train of thought abandoning her, the station was empty. But a lingering feeling of dark satisfaction remained. I have broken your tool. Now, won't you let me go?

Those names were read by pale blue eyes- the Wayward Shaman's tan complexion made white from shock. The missive fluttered out from those ringed fingers- shaking. Fragile. She thought to herself. . . "Just how many times must I be used, until I finally understand. . ."

A muttering of some old, ancient language left a Wayward Shaman's lips- a comforting copper aura shrouding that poor owl. The healing blessing of Akezo, imparted upon the creature. The Shaman gazed at the letter, recalling that strange Malik. A hum left her lips- and folding the missive away, she began to pen her own letter.

Aveline Kazimira sat at her desk, silent tears falling from her face. Her gaze shifts to the unfinished sketches and designs, the gems laying around. . . I will finish this collection. For her.

Me too. It should have been longer.