Ianthe is not pleased to be here. Despite it all – despite the gift of her life, despite the gift of a stranger’s care, despite a god’s mercurial favor, and the chance to fly again – Ianthe feels disgust and disgruntlement crawl across her skin like a deer fly just waiting to take its bite of flesh. It has not been hours since she had arrived in this so-called kingdom’s center, her wing tightly bundled against her side and the unfamiliar words of a stranger in her ears, it has not been hours and already these… these people are calling on her.
Heretics and heathens, she has seen some examples of their art, seen idols of a god she has only heard described. And how dare they – how dare they – make these paltry offerings of a gods worth? How dare they presume to know their shape? How dare they call the god of doorways and dualities Tempus? How dare they boil Janus down to a mere speck of his parts – as if time is the only thing he lords over? And yet – and yet…
Janus seems to consent to the maltreatment, and Ianthe is hardly strong enough to fight a god’s battles.
Ianthe now knows that it was He who stalled her fall enough to allow her life, He who was moved by pity enough to give her a chance to fly in some (too distant) future. Ianthe also knows that she was saved for a reason – is not so foolish to presume pity enough – and to know that perhaps the reason is this.
So, here she is, answering the call of this leader despite herself. (She knows better than to discount the words of leaders, of elders, of those stronger than her – and grounded as she is, she is so very weak.) This woman is not hers, just as Ianthe is not theirs, but Ianthe has been saved by a god, placed here by a god, and she is not so bitter as to laugh in His face (to court death) and turn away when she is summoned.
Still, she keeps herself as separate as she can manage, shuffles along the outskirts of the forming crowd, keeps her tongue behind her teeth and her displeasure from her face. Still, she stands beside the heretics and waits.
Heretics and heathens, she has seen some examples of their art, seen idols of a god she has only heard described. And how dare they – how dare they – make these paltry offerings of a gods worth? How dare they presume to know their shape? How dare they call the god of doorways and dualities Tempus? How dare they boil Janus down to a mere speck of his parts – as if time is the only thing he lords over? And yet – and yet…
Janus seems to consent to the maltreatment, and Ianthe is hardly strong enough to fight a god’s battles.
Ianthe now knows that it was He who stalled her fall enough to allow her life, He who was moved by pity enough to give her a chance to fly in some (too distant) future. Ianthe also knows that she was saved for a reason – is not so foolish to presume pity enough – and to know that perhaps the reason is this.
So, here she is, answering the call of this leader despite herself. (She knows better than to discount the words of leaders, of elders, of those stronger than her – and grounded as she is, she is so very weak.) This woman is not hers, just as Ianthe is not theirs, but Ianthe has been saved by a god, placed here by a god, and she is not so bitter as to laugh in His face (to court death) and turn away when she is summoned.
Still, she keeps herself as separate as she can manage, shuffles along the outskirts of the forming crowd, keeps her tongue behind her teeth and her displeasure from her face. Still, she stands beside the heretics and waits.
