Prophet

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Witches and prophets have an history. A voice from a witch stolen and given to a prophet, as if it was a fair trade.

It's... not ideal I suppose. Bleeding myself dry just to see. It's better than waiting for the outcome though, even if the outcome comes in dark red streaks of light. I guess the alternative is blind faith. When dark red drops of life bring future untold by any other, one must do what they have to, holding the fate of themselves in vials. An untimely visitor might assume I wanted to drag an emerald athame across my throat, light enough not to cause too much damage, but hard enough to summon the voice of all knowing saints, but they would be far from correct.

 Life drips from hands of the miserable into the welcoming embrace of fire, hissing out prophecies like an unforgiving poet. 

Do not assume, dear, that I understand the words of the fallen prophet. For that will be your downfall. 

Clunky agate and selenite crystals rub on open wounds but I have learned to stifle my flinch. There are others, of course, ones more like me than you, but we all share a forefather. We feast on the harvest that Mother Light gives, and share the hissing whispers in bitter laughing tones. We find solace in each other, in that we are not alone in our crimson troubles. 

The night falls and I have to make my way back home with only glowing thimble sized fae to light the path. A sigh, heat and smoke empties out of damaged lungs. A flash of something harmless and small races into darkness, I grit my rotting teeth and fill my mouth with the taste of dust.  I choke on it and cough, breathing in a metallic taste, thick and unforgiving. I can't breathe, but why would I want to? To breathe is to think and to think is to know that I am in pain and this is my time, and I cannot change.

 I shake and scream without making a sound, only crunching twigs underneath my feet as I kneel. I can feel my voice being stolen away, given to another. My prophet rises. He has come. My prophet has come. He is here and he is healing everything but me.

Adam was born perfect, but without a voice. A kindly witch gave him a voice for in return he would protect her. The perfect man had perfect fighting skills, the purest love. Ever since, unwilling witches had their voices stolen for Adam's sons. A purely patriarchal system. But love is not what I sought from the prophet.

The Change burnt. It sears itself into my mind, I claw at my throat for the type of release that only comes with pain. My fingers are wet and bloody. I can't hear anything, or if I could, it isn't there.

I was born an unwilling victim to an unkindly mother who sold my talents for profit. I spent the better half of my earlier life under the table of a fortune teller hut, slitting my throat just for my mother to tell the customers what they wanted to hear, no matter if it was correct. Even as a child I knew it was morally wrong. 

I let out a hoarse scream. I don't want to go, I don't want to lose my voice. Soft fingers caress the side of my face, running a thumb over scar from when I got in a fight with my mother, the last time I saw her.

"I don't want to lose it, please don't make me, I don't want to, please, please," I babble in a pained whisper. I am engulfed in warmth and fur coats, and thin finger comb through my hair. It feels like its falling out. I realize that I am crying, thick heavy tears.

"Don't cry, my dear. You are going to be magnificent," I am going to be magnificent. I try to speak but all I can manage is a whisper. 

"Please," I want to scream. She- the voice had been gentle, loving and female- wipes away my tears and unclips the crystals from around my sore throat. She thumbs the wounds on my neck, lightly and carefully. She tips my head upwards, facing her, and presses her lips to my forehead.

"My name is Elizabeth Adamdottir, I am the first daughter of Adam's line, and the first female prophet. And you, my dear, are my witch," She scoops me up, one hand under my neck, the other under my knees and I don't bother to struggle. No, I am not able to struggle. She closes my eyes and I am whisked away by this woman in white.


Submitted: June 25, 2019

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Comments

Megan Fox

Hi Wildthing
This kind of reminds me of "The Crippled God" a character in a 10 book epic I've recently read (The Malazan Books of the Fallen by Steven Erikson). Tortured and broken, his followers steeped in pain as they revel in madness. Nicely done.
Megan

Tue, June 25th, 2019 4:58am

Author
Reply

Megan,
Thanks! What's The Malazan Books of the Fallen about?
Ron

Tue, July 2nd, 2019 10:13pm

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