Gold

11/27/18 - the single file within a folder titled “Gold.” Also, if you’ve read a couple of these unpolished posts, you'd realize I repeat a lot of the same names - these characters were recycled into story after story after story I tried to write. This was all that was included for one of them.

Dian swore as she stumbled over a tree root bulging out from the temple’s ruined marble. She caught her footing again, twisted around to make sure she wasn’t followed, and slid into one of the prayer booths that had yet to crumble. Her heart was a furious, pounding drum in her chest. The booth was cramped and suffocating, barely tall enough for Dian to fully stand, and the velvet, crimson curtain that would have closed the space dangled precariously by a couple of threads, frayed at its glorious edges. Dust motes floated in the golden beams of light slanting through the cracks of the ruin. Not many cared to pray these days.

But it was the silence that suffocated Dian, clogged her throat like thick honey or oil. The temple swept a clean, wide circle in the forest, as though the trees were cut down by the single, powerful swipe of a sickle. Sound disappeared as soon as one set foot on marble and gold, leaving a void where all that was left was the beating of one’s own heart or the rush of blood through veins. It was eerie. Unnatural. So far removed from the bustling comfort of Hearths or the simplicity of rustling leaves in wind that Dian knew the land had to be godtouched or cursed or both.

The sound of a match being lit. Shadows flicked on the walls. Only one person still came to give offerings.

“Imelia,” Dian hissed as she bent down to lay a hand on the girl’s shoulder. She didn’t mean to speak softly, but the silence always unsettled her, sent shivers crawling along her spine. Wind warped into whispers here. “I told you to stop coming here.”

Imelia hummed in response. Her beaten bronze robe slipped from her shoulders and sagged heavily to the ground. They pooled around her in a copper crescent as she knelt. Her hands cupped the small flame with reverence. “And I told you to stop following me.”

Thunder shook in the distance. Dian bristled at the sound and snapped, “Hardly fair considering you hired me.”

Imelia laughed, her eyes already half lidded as she stirred her fingers in the candle’s melted wax. “Yes, to protect me from people. I hardly need your help when it comes to gods.”

Dian frowned. Sometimes, it was better to let the priestess lie to herself. 

The marigolds in Imelia’s halo of hair trembled as she traced a wax covered fingernail over the runes of the temple, each stroke prompting a flash of gold. As much as it pained Dian to admit it, she loved it when Imelia translated runes. Loved the lazy stream of smoke that rose as Imelia burned through the ancient language and turned it new.

The priestess’s eyes slipped close. Her lips mouthed the lilting language of gods.

Another rumble. Dian knew if they did not leave now, they would be caught in the storm that followed.

“Imelia,” she whispered into that thick silence. A marigold tumbled onto the marble ground. The rumbling drew ever closer, more war drum than nature. “Imelia.”

The priestess scowled. “Not now, Dian. I’m so close. This is the one.”

“We have to leave.”

“Dian—“ 

The storm howled when it arrived. Dian was never sure how to describe it—perhaps the crashing of sea against stone, or the caving in of a sword against skull. It was always different depending on the god. One moment, unnatural silence. The next, a cacophony of sounds—filled with life in roars or voices or laughter. The storms now never came with rain, nor even the bunching of dark clouds. Just life followed by death. Imelia’s eyes flashed open. She quickly clasped a hand around the flame, snuffing it out of existence.

They waited.

Footsteps rang through the clearing. They squelched against the temple’s marble tile, slow and wet and even. Dian pressed herself in front of Imelia and slowly drew out the dagger clasped to her thigh. A wave of wind swept through the temple, sterilizing the air, sending gooseflesh up Dian’s bare arms. The crimson curtain shook as it dangled.

Dian scowled. Pestilence. Imelia must have noticed too because the priestess drew up her bronze robes and carefully fastened a cloth around her nose and mouth. They only needed to wait.

The footsteps neared.  They were slow, deliberate. Careful. Perhaps that’s what was even worse—that the attacks weren’t random or ravenous. Simply effective and cruel. Imelia began to mouth prayers.

It was right outside of their prayer booth. Each terrible, heaving breath sent tremors through the curtain. Dian could smell the rot off of it. She could feel its breath rankle over her exposed skin, simultaneously feverishly hot yet cold as death. Her grip tightened on the hilt of her dagger. It passed them.

A marigold tumbled out of Imelia’s hair. Dian and Imelia watched as it landed dully on the marble, hardly stirring the dust. 

“Shit,” Imelia sighed.

There was no warning, just a sudden whoosh of wind and the curtain before them turned to gray ash. The god was there. There—but not. What was once beautiful and divine, turned corrupt and terrible. Its foul mouth gaped open, unhinged at the jaw. Eyes a sickly gold. From its fingertips, dripped something foul and milky white, and each fat drop hissed as it landed on the marble. It reached for them.

Dian jumped onto it, toppling it over and thrusting her dagger downward into its mouth. The blade scraped against a stone tongue, and she pushed to break through it. The hands crawled up to grip her arms with surprising strength, and the milky white liquid overflowed and spilled over her. Dian screamed ate away the strips of cloth tied around her arms and then it was eating her. But she held her position and pressed until the stone cracked from beneath the dagger’s force. The monster writhed beneath her. It squirmed and fought and dug its grip deeper into her flesh. It drowned itself in its own substance, as white spurted from its gold eyes, seeped out from every pore, dribbled out of its ears and nostrils and mouth. Dian felt herself burn away, parts of her turned to ash, and she cried out as she leaned in all her weight and finally broke through its tongue. 

The being deflated beneath her. A noxious gas escaped from its last breath. Decay and ruin and death rolled off in hot, acrid waves that burned Dian’s throat and nostrils. It’s flesh liquified, until all that was left was a milky, white puddle and Dian, her arms now silver from wrist to elbow, the acid having picking her flesh off cleanly.

“It’s safe now,” Dian called out to Imelia as she stood up and did a cursory once over to check what was burnt away. She held up her forearms when the priestess walked out. “I think I need a new skin now though.”

Imelia rolled her eyes. “You think your replacements are cheap? You could be a bit more careful next time.” 

“Why would I do that if you’re going to pay for it anyway?” Dian asked cheerfully. She inspected the slightly frayed edges of her tunic. “Though I have to admit, the silver thread was a good investment.”

“I told you."

“Don’t rub it in. It’s your fault I even had to fight the damn thing in the first place.”

“What am I paying you for again?”

“Didn’t you say you only needed protection from people, High Priestess?” Dian asked with mock innocence. She pointed down at the white puddle beneath her. “That? Not a people.”

“Okay, I’ll grant you that,” Imelia said, but there was a spark in her eye. She drew a thread of gold letters in the air. “You can’t say it was all for a waste though.”

Dian’s eyes widened and she stepped over the remains of the now twice dead thing. “You’re kidding—you finished translating it?”

“Nothing if I’m not efficient.”

“We both know that’s a lie,” Dian mused, but it was half-hearted as she looked at the glittering letters in amazement. She gasped as the words flexed and shimmered beneath the sun, alive. “This is it, Imelia. This is the prophecy. The cure.”

“I know,” Imelia replied proudly. She was practically radiating with joy, and she glowed in the setting sunlight, her dark skin absorbing its warmth. “We have to tell Rushali.”

Dian’s stomach sank. She remembered where they were, in a temple on the outskirts of civilization. Ancient and old and forgotten. The prophecy glimmered in front of her tauntingly, words from another time. “She won’t believe you.”

“She won’t,” Imelia agreed. “But what choice do we have left?”