This Heart Resembles a Curse (1)
A month had passed since Lenoir met Sara Lorojin, the reincarnation of the goddess. Not much had changed between them. Throughout that time, Lenoir had steadily urged her to become the symbol of the church, and Sara had refused. The only minor shift was that Sara had begun treating Lenoir with greater familiarity, while he, in turn, found himself offering her lectures more often.
Today was no different.
“Why dost thou not act as a god?”
“But you're the one who gave me this new godhood! Gods wear out if you use 'em too much!”
“One wears them that they may wear. What meaning hath an object bereft of purpose?”
“Hmm... Even if shoes lose their meaning as shoes, don't they keep it as a gift?”
“'Tis wordplay.”
“But it's such a waste...”
Sara pouted her lips. Then, out of nowhere, she lifted her foot.
“So I wore different shoes.”
“Is that not merely leather haphazardly wrapped around thy foot?”
Heaven knew where she'd scavenged it, but Sara had tied a scrap of leather to her sole with cords and called it footwear. Her toes poked out, wiggling away—a sight so pathetic in Lenoir's eyes that it pained him. Yet Sara just giggled.
“It protects my feet, so it's shoes.”
“Thy cleverness veers toward cunning, little Sara.”
Sara was quick on the uptake. She grasped the essence of any lesson swiftly and applied it with ease. The trouble lay in the direction of her applications, which were invariably mischievous. Was it because she was the goddess's reincarnation that she was so sharp? The thought crossed his mind, only to sour at how her talents seemed wasted on mere backtalk.
Sara changed the subject.
“Shall we play today?”
“Dost thou now see me as some silver-spewing contraption? No games today.”
“Eek!”
“Take this. 'Twas for this I came.”
Lenoir handed her a small pendant. It was a silver circle crowned with seven twisting golden prongs like a tiara.
“What's this?”
“Since thou wilt not move from that perilous lair, I must provide safeguards. Should danger arise, clutch it to thy bosom and think of me.”
“Whoa! So you'll appear and save me?”
“I know not the art of traversing spaces. It shall merely shield thee with my power, and apprise me of thy use of it.”
Sara's eyes widened.
“Are you a wizard, my lord?”
“'Tis not the same, though our roots align.”
Magic was the mercy bestowed by the Lords of Creation upon this land—a deliberate gap in the laws of creation, allowing any who grasped its principle to inscribe and erase within that void as they wished. Thus, a demigod like Lenoir could wield it effortlessly. If anything differed, it was that his power was more primal, more fundamental.
Sara fiddled with the pendant, then beamed.
“You always give me gifts, my lord.”
“I give what thou needest.”
“Most folk don't give everything you need. Because you're not family...”
A ridiculous notion.
“Thou art not 'other' to me.”
“Then what am I?”
“A vital figure. One I cannot lose, nor suffer to languish as she is.”
“That church thing?”
“Aye, and beyond—even thy mere existence holds meaning for me.”
The goddess's soul was Lenoir's guiding light. Not mere reverence drove this; he was made to be born thus, to live thus. One might call it a curse. He had not known it when she was near, but wandering the world alone, this heart had become his curse.
Thus, let it curse no more.
He yearned to awaken her as the goddess, to meet her anew. Yet he would not press for such reasons alone.
Faith begins when the being herself believes in her own divinity.
If Sara did not accept herself as the goddess's reincarnation, no amount of enthroning her in worship would awaken her mystery. Better to take time—even if she grew old as a crone—until she believed it herself. Then begin. Time was near infinite to Lenoir. Only Sara's lifespan was finite.
Thus, with Sara Lorojin still a child not yet come of age, he had no cause for haste.
He drifted in thought. Sara nibbled her lip, then giggled to herself. For all her clarity and quick wit, she was a girl of that baffling age, and Lenoir often struggled to read her mind. Now was such a moment.
“What dost thou laugh at so vacantly?”
“Oh, you know!”
“Thou art truly peculiar. I think I know thee, then do not.”
Twilight fell. Lenoir exhaled briefly.
“Go inside now. When that turf war resolves, tell me at once.”
“Yes! Today was fun too!”
“Fun, without our games?”
“Yep! 'Cause I was with you, my lord!”
The grubby slum girl flashed a grin wide enough to show her teeth. In her blue eyes, Lenoir saw innocence. Fulfillment bloomed within him—a volatile glow that, once faded, left a thirst more fierce than before.
“Begone.”
Bitterness tinged his tongue. Oblivious to it, Sara scampered into the alley, turning every few steps to confirm he lingered, giggling all the while. Such rituals had woven into their routine, binding him motionless until she vanished from sight.
The back alleys grew rowdy and bleak at dusk. Those incongruous traits blended because drunken stragglers already wandered amid the crumbling buildings, staggering in their haze. To Sara, that precarious balance felt familiar.
In the red-light district's outskirts, a cramped side room off a shop. With passing scenes flickering beyond the window as backdrop, Sara pulled out the pendant to show off to the madams.
“Ta-da!”
“Oh, what a precious thing!”
“Yeah! My lord gave it to me!”
“He truly seems no ordinary man.”
Selbes smiled gently. Sara braced to defend Lenoir, anticipating the usual: He's just seducing you with money to make you his lover. But today differed.
“...Sara, tell me. Have you no thought of going with him?”
“Huh?”
Sara blinked, uncomprehending, so Selbes pressed on.
“He must be a good man, surely. To spend every day thus on thee alone, asking nothing in return. Perhaps 'tis pure kindness. The world hath folk leisurely enough for such.”
At last, even the madams saw Lenoir favorably. Pride swelled inexplicably, and Sara giggled.
“Right? He's super nice! But I won't go. Then I couldn't see you sisters anymore!”
The madams smiled sadly. Selbes stroked Sara's hair. Thick perfume wafted, cloying yet comforting to Sara.
In a soft murmur, Selbes said, “The turf wars worsen. Something big may erupt soon.”
“Huh? Then you sisters...”
“That shan't happen.”
“...Why?”
“We've lived here our whole lives. We know no way to live elsewhere. We've strayed too far to wash off this filthy mire.”
The back-alley prostitutes all guarded the street's secrets—gleaned pillowside or pouring drinks, scraps that became collars around their necks. Thus bound to the streets. Wherever they fled, the alley lords who remembered their secrets would not let them be.
But Sara differed. The women had hidden her so thoroughly that even the street bosses saw her not as treasure. Thus, Sara could flee anytime opportunity arose.
And ironically, now was that time. The turf wars peaked. Sara had a safer haven than these alleys—at least for her.
That was the madams' wish, led by Selbes.
“...Wars have always been. What's new?”
Overly affectionate and stubborn Sara would never heed such words.
“Anyway, my lord's no bad guy! I'm off! Gotta hide inside before dark!”
“Sara...!”
“See ya tomorrow!”
Sara bolted. Heavy sighs escaped the madams.
In her burrow-like nook amid stacked planks, Sara endlessly admired the pendant. Each glance drew giggles from her lips.
Nothing in her life sparkled so. Not just its shine—nothing had existed solely for her sake. Even a meaningless wood scrap would have thrilled her thus.
Lenoir had given her two such already. Thinking of him filled her with spreading joy. Dignified, spouting oddities, steadfast—he had become indispensable in this short time. As vital as the madams.
Her thoughts turned to their words. Sara pouted.
What's the big deal?
The alleys had always churned chaos since her birth. At three, she'd first seen a rolling corpse; ever after, her memories held this tumult. Nothing new.
BOOM!
Right, like now.
Ugh, starting again.
Sara tucked the pendant away, scowled, and pulled a straw mat over her head.
Since Orin Church's announcement choosing relief groups, the uproar hadn't paused a day. Lately, fiercer. But dawn always hushed it. Same today, she figured. Sara shut her eyes, seeking sleep.
BOOM!
BOOM!
The raucous lullaby rattled her ears. Then—
Knock knock.
“Sister. Sara sister. Art thou here?”
Sara peeked out. It was Wilson, the Orin priest who always smiled, sharing bread at distributions.
“Priest?”
“Ah! There thou art! Come out, please! 'Tis urgent!”
His voice sounded truly frantic. Perhaps he'd tarried exiting the alleys and now risked peril. If so, she must hide him. Sara rose and opened the door.
Whoosh—blood reek billowed. From Priest Wilson.
“Ah, thou art safe!”
“Priest...?”
Blood-splattered face, robe soaked crimson. Longsword gripped in hand. Behind him, the vista evoked hellscapes.
“Aaaagh!!!”
“Kill! Kill 'em!!!”
Gangs clashed armed knights. No—were massacred by them. Orin symbols emblazoned the knights' armor.
What madness? As her lips parted in shock—
“No time to explain. We must leave. Follow.”
Wilson smiled, extending a hand.
Something foul erupted among the gangs; the church came to save the slums. She could only assume thus, reaching for his hand.
But for the cry—
“Sara—!”
A raw, tearing shout. Brian, one madam ever hearty in laughter, rushed forth—her lovely blue locks disheveled. Spotting Wilson, eyes mad, she drew her dagger and stabbed his shoulder.
Then bellowed:
“Run—!”
Wilson screamed.
“Agh! You fucking bitch!”
SLASH!
Sara's breath halted. Spinning aloft was vividly blue, trailing red spray. Realizing what, the scene turned surreal. Time slowed. The instant Brian's head hit the ground stretched eternal.