A Record of Ash & Ruin: The Grieving Lands

Book 1: Epilogue

Exquisite could not begin to describe what he saw before him. The strokes and subtle application of line and shadow, each accent and touch a study in technique-both effortless in their execution, yet perfect in style. The colors drew the eye here and there, a new shape for the imagination to take in before drawing them back to the overall piece and its true magnificence. Each time he looked upon his work he saw new aspects that he, himself, had never seen before. Perfection, and thus would go unappreciated by those who saw it only with their eyes, and not through the lens of their soul. The true aspect of the divine transcended brush, paint, and canvas.

The artist began to add imperfections to his work, his heart breaking with every adjustment, with every distortion that he was made to render. When he could finally take no more, he forced himself, exhausted, to a lemon-scented bowl of water placed near his desk by one of his aides, where he splashed himself with icy water.

Then the horror came back. The horror that had haunted him through childhood, that propelled his art to levels that debased, created, and molded him. He saw his own face distorted across the water’s surface, the colored oils twisting his visage into a monster as he saw the stigmata of the goddess. It would seem that no matter what heights he reached, to whatever new levels of artistic or spiritual nirvana, the mark would always hold him back, even as it propelled him up the ranks of the ecclesiarch.

Jealousy, once hot, but had since grown cold with the passing of the years, flared before he was interrupted from his thoughts by a knock at his door.

“A hundred pardons, your eminence, but you asked to be informed if there was any news of the location of Her Champion,” said a tonsured bookish man, bowing low as he entered the room.

“Then spit it out, Fedius. You have interrupted my meditations on the nature of the goddess, yet again,” said the artist, in annoyance, stealing a glance at his latest work before donning the robes of his office.

“Yes, Cardinal Mauros. One of our assets in the Grieving Lands, in the heathen city of Ansan, has detected the God-spark of Her champion,” said the nervous aide, looking with awe at the cardinal's latest piece of art.

The oil painting showed the veiled Goddess of Justice with an expression of righteous anger. However, the lines of her body displayed the welcoming warmth of compassion, like a mother’s invitation. In her right hand, she held the long heavy sword of Judgment, and in her left she gripped the short knife of Mercy. The whole painting was truly sublime, showing movement and motion shackled in a single moment, frozen forever in the stillness of eternity.

Mauros, one of the highest-ranking members of Her church, stopped for a moment. New emotions added to his seething mixture of annoyance and threatened to spill over into violent rage. With a supreme effort of will, he stopped himself from throwing something at the bearer of the news.

“You have, of course, verified this?” said Mauros, his anger turning into the cold professional calculation that had allowed him to reach his high rank.

“Yes, of course, your eminence. They are one of our most trustworthy agents. However, there was an irregularity...” he said as he bowed even lower, fearing the ire of his master.

“You do say…?” the cardinal replied, a cultured eyebrow raised in a mix of annoyance and curiosity.

“The God-spark was detected, yet disappeared after a few hours, according to our source. It is posited that perhaps the Champion has found a way to shield his or her divine grace,” continued Fedius, bowing even lower, in brazen defiance of physics.

“No matter, we must pursue all leads in regard to God-spark. We will send a team of our best inquisitors and knights to the region but do be sure that they go under no banner and that the rites of secrecy are observed. By our very best, you will also see to it that the Light of the Faith leads them. Also, be sure to send that overly zealous hothead, the one the lay priests call the ‘the little goddess’ as well. I believe that she should be used to dealing with the locals there. You will collar the bearer of the God-spark with blessed metals and bring him into the loving arms of the church, the Goddess will have it no other way,” proclaimed Cardinal Mauros, the authority of his office echoing with each word like the judgment of the hammer.

“It shall be as you command, your eminence. As the Goddess wills,” intoned the aide reverently, with no little relief.

“Yes, as the Goddess wills my child,” replied the cardinal automatically, sure in his conviction and interpretation of the divine will. Inwardly, he still seethed. Because, for all his efforts, and despite a righteous life lived, he could never be her chosen.

How dare they go against Her great will, he thought. He would chain Her rebellious champion to Her divine intent. Even if they chose to cross to the other side through the veil of death, he swore that he would bring them back, a thousand times if necessary.