[Lore] Idolatry

The night drew to a sombre close, the whispers of war and the rumours of sorrow suffocating every man, women and child in who tread these lands. They were told that their son, their brother, their father, their husband would survive this but what if they didn’t? What would those left behind have left, recompense? Doubtful.

They’d be the ones buried behind famine and mysterious death, they’d be the ones who felt the wrath of gods and man alike when there was no one left to protect them. Not the Lydden’s in their high castle, burrowed in comfort and luxury unbeknownst to the common people. Even as the pride of victory swelled beneath the surface, the macabre, menagerie of death and dishonour still loomed over head like an executioners axe, sharpening for the final blow.

The stainless architecture of a Sept, isolated in a wooden growth of flora, enclosed, hidden like a treasure shrouded in the beauty of faith, ardent, undying, never to be forgotten even as the most frigid of fates smother all ye faithful. Hasty knew, fervour was all one needed, it was the divine beacon of light that would lead you through the entrails of darkness, out into the open arms of freedom, drowned in the possibilities, the responsibilities.

There was a quiet hum, not enough to be disturbing as the songbird danced in its minuscule nest, up high upon branches of long, extended rest, a sanctuary for all life that wished for its own preservation, under the Mothers careful gaze. There was no immaculate nature to humanity, nor to the world itself, that was savoured for the Divine and them alone, each walking being had flaws, impure creators of mistakes. From King Robert to a Whore of Lys, each one made their mistakes, some took them in stride and some cracked under the momentous pressure.

Ser Bonnifer’s hands dripped like gauntlets against mud, slowly lingering and getting stuck on the marvel that he was beholding, nothing compared to the Sept Of Baelor and yet it still held its own unique beauty, just knowing that this had held the prayers and thoughts of thousands of faithfuls before him was enough, enough to bolster his every smile, every laugh, every recovery. Even as pain winced against broken skin, remnants of a past of blood and war he wished to forget, though never would, the screams of the righteous and innocent would forever be a stain upon his conscience, now he could only work to cover it up.

He came to a kneel as he met the statues of the Seven, radiant emblems of past, present and future. Each one, divine in its own sacred way, his eyes glazed across them, the Warrior, the Crone, the Stranger in no particular order. Ser Hasty would feel their embraces at some point in his life, he knew it, he could only hope it to be warmth that they bring, not the frigid throes of hellish flames that seemed more like ice than fire to him.

His gaze of gentle storms lingered upon the maiden, harshness forged in holy crusades coming to a halt, melting as whatever carved face seemed to blossom into something more, familiar features emerging upon the marbled stone. A quiet tremble like a crackle of a child’s voice reached Bonnifer’s lip, he knew who that was, he was all too familiar, even now he still remembered the subtle feel of her cheek as they both flushed red in unison under the sunlights gleam. He was young back then and she was living.

“Rhaella” he muttered, her form of ethereal beauty slowly withering under his sight as the marble seemed to take flight like a bird running from a nailed beast. Wrinkles formed, immaculate in nature as his breaths became hesitant, his stony expression turning weak as he watched her leave him again. “No” he growled, almost guttural as he staggered to a stand, hands outstretching, the veneration of his gods being forgotten as he clung to the statue. Fear trembling across his face, each creased line of age and stress, each gaunt finger that wrapped around her, he couldn’t lose her again, he’d forsaken her, her love, given her to that creature without fighting. If only he had known, he’d fight, he’d rather lose his head than lose her again.

Then a voice, serene but tainted with pain and torment, the kind that lingered no matter what you did to get rid of it, there was a weakness to it, small and meek, beaten down by dragon claws that did not deserve its throne “Why did you leave me? Why Bonnifer, why?” She seemed to weep as the marbled expression became that of a sobbing woman to him, tears of stone slowly slipping against adornments of gold and jewels alike. Silk of purple, linen of red, fabric of black, intertwining as it draped across the divine form.

Tears of bottled up emotion, crystalline and cloudy as they dripped across rough cheeks and on to coarse skin ran across the knight like a river flowing into a sea at its estuary. A darkness emerged once again as if it was something sort of demon destined to block him from his faith, to dry his fervour out, until finally he was cut off entirely. Thoughts of sin, trickled into him, greed and gluttony, envy and pride.

His eyes begun to sting, watering as they waited to be closed, but if he closed them would he lose her again? Would she fade once again as colour drains and last breaths are taken due to a tyrant “Damn you, Aerys, I spit on your name” he cried out, less a shout and more a screech of sorrow and dishonour, one that hit against arched vaults with a resounding strength like a brute kicking an infant. The knight didn’t move, he betrayed all sense and just latched on, closing his eyes and hoping she would still be there when he opened them.

But she wasn’t.

She was gone, vanished into the midst of the Stranger once again, dragged down by her name, taken from him for her status. “Forgive me” he murmured, over and over again like some mad man as his brow seemed to settle in a permanent furrow, a scalding scowl settling across his face as he laid his head to rest in the crook of a sculptures neck.

Though this wasn’t Rhaella, this was just the Maiden, pretty but not Valyrian, not Violet of eye nor silver of hair, this was just a statue of marbled stone, carved with a nose not like hers, eyes more unfamiliar than hers and no trace of trauma and the sort. But even then as dawn came on, he couldn’t leave, he just latched on like a leech, draining himself of all hope as he recited a thousand prayers calling for her return. If only he was a god, he’d drag her from the depths himself, even if it shattered his soul in the process. She deserved better, he could have given her better and yet he let fear cower him. What kind of knight was that?

Was it a miracle, a gift from the gods or delusion, an enrapturing moment, granted by sin itself?