"Before we move forward. Please call me Anastasia." She told him, and he questioned whether she was seriously a priestess or not, since one was to be referred to as 'sister.'
"Okay, Ms. Anastasia, then call me Brand as well." He spoke, and the oracle sighed. "I feel like an old woman." She muttered to herself before bringing a cup of tea to Brand, who was sitting down on a straw mat.
"You're not a follower of religion, are you?" She asked him. He shook his head and replied, "As far as my memories go, no."
Being religious generally refers to following the teachings of a particular God, rather than the actual existence of God. Being non-religious meant following the general moral and social compass of all humans rather than one set by a particular God.
"Me neither, to be honest…" She muttered and then spoke, "'The Sister' acts as a conduit of divine blessings and also the mediator to the lower realms. Let's say there are people far, far east who scorn Her divinity—what a pity. "
"Just making sure you're not one of them; She doesn't look at them pleasantly." She shook her head.
"Isn't she all welcoming?" He asked her. Anastasia nodded. "As long as you have a good heart, Brand."
"Speaking of heart, you seem quite in turmoil on the inside." She said, her index finger placed on her lower lip, "I wonder what it is that has troubled you?"
Brand was just as clueless as her, so he simply shrugged, "I don't know either; everything I've learned is within the past few days."
"You still retained the knowledge about the common tongue?" She questioned, He nodded, "and some general knowledge, not much."
"The magic used on you was likely a soul spell, then; memories and the soul are closely tied together, which also explains the turmoil in your heart."
She spoke before reaching her hand out into her pocket; from there she took out a pendant with a yellow stone in the middle, it was a jewel with great beauty within.
"Are you aware what it is?" She asked, and Brand shook his head. "It is an essence stone that can store the essence of a blessed. Right now, it contains mine."
"Why would this be relevant to the divination?" He asked with curiosity, and she chuckled nervously. "Well, uhh, I don't really have much essence."
"Aren't you one trained by the head priestesses in the mountains?" He asked her.
"I haven't trained since, heh… But it matters not."
Brand wondered if the girl could even perform the divination from the way she acted so casually and a-religiously.
I guess 'The Sister' really is forgiving… He thought inwardly before Anastasia spoke again.
"You'll just need to wear the stone, and I will do the rest." She told him, and he followed her commands.
The crystal felt cool to the touch and somewhat jagged at the corners; if pressed too tightly, it could probably poke a hole in skin. Even without the capability of utilizing essence, Brand could still feel something moving inside, akin to a swirling whirlpool in water.
"Arkash." She spoke, and thus the spell came to life. The crystal glowed a bright yellow for a second before darkness consumed the young man. Moments later, he fell to the ground like a dummy.
…
The stench of blood entered his nostrils, and his vision struggled to keep open. He felt nauseated.
The world around him felt quiet, almost too quiet.
Before him stood a magnificent palace, its pristine ivory walls splattered with red and decorated by relics of wars long forgotten. The bloodied floor gleamed beneath the light that struck from above as the Gods reveled.
A red carpet was laid out in front of him, reaching all the way to the end. Corpses of fathers and sons littered around it, their screams of anguish frozen by the blessing of death. On the other end of the bloodied hall was a skull of a creature large enough to swallow a man whole with open jaws and teeth keen enough to pierce steel like paper.
Beneath it was a majestic throne, and on it slept a mighty man—a king, a conqueror!
Unmoving, he sat upon a seat of blood and ruin, the gold beneath him glistening in his own blood. His bronze skin was littered with scars, new and old.
His calloused hands—matted by sweat and dust—wearily held on to a greatsword, and the subtle gloom of eternity lingered above him, grasping him in her hands and giving him the salvation he thirsted for.
He opened his eyes with great struggle and glanced at the sky, for he felt the call of the Gods; his shaking hand reached out almost as if to grasp the heavens and stopped midway.
"Forgive me."
And then came his salvation.
The conqueror died in the crimson court with his head still held high.
Silence fell upon the ivory hall; the lights that had once shone bright from the skies dimmed as though the gods themselves had turned their gazes away.
Darkness loomed over the palace like a foreboding force that had entered its halls. From the end of the chamber came soft footsteps and a long white dress flowing in the winds that penetrated the imperial chambers.
A woman walked in, her pale feet brushing against the puddles that reflected the glory of the broken man who lay on the mighty throne, her white veil dragging behind her and soaking the blood and turning her crimson.
She walked unflinching at the sight of death and the smell of blood and iron. Her eyes, hollow yet glimmering with a deep sorrow, were fixated upon the mighty throne.
When she reached him, she knelt and gently pried his hands away, the hands of a mighty warrior who had slain thousands for her sake. Her trembling hands lifted his cold ones and raised them to her mouth.
Reverently, she pressed her lips to the king's knuckles.
Then her lips parted, and the crown of the conqueror fell and clattered on the puddled floor; she stood and walked away from the throne.
Her apotheosis was complete.