Chapter Text
In all of the days, in all of the possibilities, never did Lyra think to simply float above the crowds. Never did she even hope to walk among them, not truly.
For Lyra, her malformation was enough that she would never have braved the crowd. Brave the terrace path winding down all the way to the sheep’s pen, perhaps, but only with her good crutch, the one with wool padding.
But this crowd was also one she never imagined. People, big and small, well dressed or not, paupers and aristocrats parted on their own, paying respect. Nor did she have any need for her crutch at all. Instead, Lyra rode atop a grand feather soft sella; the cult of Achelois provided all she had needed during her travels—save company.
The journey was nearly over, she knew. Even in the bustling streets of the city of Dodona, she could see the Temple at Dodona, resting stately atop the nearby hill.
It was as far as she had ever traveled from home, of course. Pydna may as well have been as far as Mount Olympus, for as unfamiliar as this place was. It was the air, she noted, that marked it. It was devoid of the sea's breeze.
Again, she glanced down after brushing aside her red-brown hair, looking at the only change that felt real. Everything else was passing, intangible. On the valley of her breasts, exposed as they were in her parted robes, were words.
Supplicant to the Oracle at Dodona
Her mark. Her soulmark. Not such a strange thing at all. Not even uncommon. Those the Gods deemed destined manifested them as they entered their maturity, or perhaps shortly later.
The Gods even blessed those fitting after a time, together in some capacity, with an acknowledged mark.
They were a statement as much as they were art. Starting small, mere symbols and growing like they were watered by Demeter herself into spectacular frescos. They drove people together, in twos or more, and brought happiness. They were guideposts for the lost, sometimes said to be lanterns in the darkness.
To ignore your soulmark was unthinkable; it brought ruin. If you attempted the feat, you would be plagued by the Nosoi spirits, visited by an inescapable pestilence for your defiance of the Gods. It wasn’t some trial for the heroes to overcome. It was true destiny.
Lyra’s destiny, for now, wept blood. Streaks, like tears, dotted her chest. When her soulmark caught the light, she swore that they reflected crimson but were always black again in proper lighting.
Ahead, the city fell away, and the stone road up the mountainside terminated at an arched gate. There stood several women, statuesque, and in Lyra’s same robes. Some held items. Items of significance, no doubt. A bronze chime, a scroll, a staff, a rod, and a whip.
Before the sella and its bearers ascended the hillock, Lyra jolted. At a landing, some dozens of paces from the arch at the apex of the hill, Lyra's bearers lowered her to the ground. Xanthos, head of the cult oikos, approached.
“Priestess. It is time. Know now, as we have spoken before. Always address our Goddess graced Oracle as Lady. Always give her your silence and unquestioning obedience."
The road worn man, swathed in travel clothes, spoke once more, more kindly, so only Lyra might hear.
“And mind the lessons we have taught you along the road.”
For Lyra, though she was not especially devout and was a lame shepherdess, knew better to so quickly rebuke her God’s given place. Lyra had spent a great deal of time sitting and listening to her elders tell tales, and she knew how these things went.
“Yes Oikonomos.” Quietly, she offered a question. “You’re not coming?”
Xanthos returned to the sella’s side, rod straight, proud, and bold.
“Our Lady leads the temple,” he declared, “and only her priestess resides within it. We enter only to escort the chosen few who are permitted to seek their fate.”
The implication was clear. She would need to walk inside herself.
“I cannot,“ Lyra stressed.
“You must,” said Xanthos.
So it was to be this way then. A test of character already.
“My crutch?” Lyra pleaded. Surely they did not mean to make her crawl.
A bearer appeared shortly with a crutch. It was not her crutch, and it was not wool-padded.
Gingerly, because there was no other way to do so, Lyra hoisted herself. The cult had learned early that she would not tolerate any assistance.
After such a time, even upon a bed of feathers, Lyra’s bones groaned to support her as she took her steps.
Walking was never easy. Standing was never simple. Sleep-deprived, sore, off-balance, and crippled, crossing the archway was akin to the great Olympics.
Why humiliate her? Was this to show her what place she would hold at the temple, despite her Gods given blessing?
Lyra had not asked for any of this. She had not so much as dared to be happy or find peace, let alone ascend beyond a cult following to become their priestess, marked directly for the renowned Oracle at Dodona.
So close now, each step taking her near to the peak, Lyra could see the faces of the priestess. They wore select sacred accessories, of course, some veiled, some with arms swimming in fine bolts of cloth, and some with bronze bands upon their fingers, wrists, and necks.
In their eyes, she found trepidation. To the last, each looked desperate. Eager to leap forward. Was it to catch her?
Were they here not only in ritual but to drag her inside should she fail the rise? Seeing in their eyes no pity, no derision, was an ember. It fueled her final steps, perhaps promising mercy at the very least. Perhaps these women were marked like her, or similar marked at last, as companions, champions, or slaves.
With a burst of strength, Lyra crested the hill, and the temple finally came into its grand splendor. As she sweated and panted for air, her eyes roved over its massive structure. Multiple stone stories, grand carving. Edifice thresholds were carved from massive blocks.
Steam rose in one corner, an outbuilding. The amount was great, pillaring into the sky. A hot spring?
A pair of priestesses walked from one building to another, but otherwise the outside was more desolate and quiet than bustling with activity.
“Come,” spoke a gentle voice to Lyra’s side. “You are to meet the Oracle as soon as able. May we assist you, have you any needs?”
Lyra declined, swearing off any of her needs, more eager to conquer the big day than delay. The other priestesses departed, scattering in multiple directions.
“I am Hypatia; if there is anything I can do, you need only let me know,” spoke the remaining.
The priestess, wearing a veil and carrying a wooden rod, cracked as she spoke. Not in pity, Lyra didn’t think, but in naked concern, curiosity, and compassion.
And so the ordeal continued. A deep ache sent radiating splinters of pain into her hips. Pain that tore at her back, pinching and raging against the dregs of muscle on her frame. Hypatia made her way slowly, taking measured steps, waiting at every corner, fingers brushing the wall while Lyra caught up.
Tortuous step after tortuous step Lyra was led inside, around corners along hallways, and once, agonizingly, down a flight of stone-cut stairs.
Hypatia eventually, mercifully, stopped. A cyan-blue curtain awaited them at the end of the hall. This was their destination, Lyra realized.
“What is the Lady like?” Lyra asked, breathless from the walk and for other reasons besides.
But already a set of curtains pulled open, and a new attendant took Hypatia’s place to shepherd her through the last corridor.
Incense permeated Lyra's nose as she entered the room. Lit, but much dimmer than most of the temple had been, she could not make out much as her eyes adjusted.
“Thank you, Mirai, if you would please.” Spoke a voice. Pleasant, airy, soft, and beautiful. It was ethereal.
Lyra did not need to know. Did not need to see. Her heart beat faster. It raced. This was her person.
Though her body ached, oh how it ached! Lyra also felt a spark of something good inside.
After a time, following the attendants departure, mouse quiet steps padded closer until the Oracle at Dodona was close enough to reach out and touch her. Lyra winced. Not from the proximity, but at her disheveled state, at her own weakness.
The Oracle’s arm raised, like an involuntary motion, reaching out before locking place and then falling back to its owner's side.
“Please, take your rest,” Spoke the Oracle, turning and gesturing to a pile of pillows and lounging coaches.
So Lyra sat, and some measure of relief soothed her.
Lyra’s eyes came to see what was hidden by the darkness. The room was no study, no altar room, no meeting hall. It was personal and complicated. It was a bedroom. The Oracle’s bedroom. A large bed dominated a distant wall, and simple dressers flanked it. Scattered about were rugs, urns, tables, and pots with flowering plants, devoid of sunlight to sustain them. One corner was plush and soft and made for relaxing. The increase burned there. Crisscross lattice panels were set on much of the walls; from them hung items as simple as herbs to things Lyra had never seen before.
“Lyra,” The Oracle whispered, sitting close enough to spook the unwitting priestess.
“Lady?” Lyra choked, as if she had drunk her wine foolishly and been forced to breathe it instead.
“Please, call me Eumelia,” she spoke, curt and breathy.
Lyra hesitated. A test? A kindness?
“Lady, it is not my place, surely?” She asked earnestly for no tales prepared one for this.
As Lyra made her plea, she only now grew to finally see the Oracle.
Bronzed skin, hair shimmering like honey and wheat. Her features were like a hawk, threatening and alert, all straight lines, especially her face, and her chin was almost sharp. She wasn't at all rounded, like the statues one might see of an oracle. Her face was alive with emotion. In her eyes danced promise and uncountable other things, and it was frightening, like looking into a fire and hearing memories of the past. Her robe was plain and simple—too simple.
The Oracle at Dodona, Eumelia, did not answer Lyra. She instead tugged at the tie on her robe. Lyra paled, unsure, and confused.
When her tie was loose enough, Eumelia pulled her left arm through, freeing and exposing it.
Upon her collarbone, all the way around her front, it would seem, were a series of twisting spirals, branching curves, and thread-like ends branching into infinity, as well as three words.
Oracle of Achelois
But that was not what Eumelia was revealing. Instead, she brought her arm to Lyra. A painter’s brush stroke ran down her arm, thickest at the shoulder. At her finger tips, the line turned into a splatter of small drops, almost like-
Along its length were words.
Inamorata of Lyra, Daughter of Iphigenes.
Daughter of Iphigenes was fading into nothingness. Lyra was not.
“Please, call me Eumelia,” she asked again.
Lover and Mistress of Lyra.
“Eumelia,” Lyra tested. It tasted like the thrill she felt climbing father’s cypress tree on that fateful morning a lifetime ago.
There was water on a table within reach. Eumelia brought it to Lyra.
“You must be thirsty from travels.”
With both hands, Lyra took the proffered cup and drank deep.
Time no doubt passed, but Eumelia didn’t speak, and Lyra knew not what to say. Instead, Lyra rested. Gradually, her aches lessened. Over time, she sank into the lounging sofa cushions.
It was a needed break. A required rest. Tonight Lyra would sleep well, despite the uncertainty and foreign world she found herself in.
Eventually, Eumelia drew in a deep breath and set her shoulders, though still partially uncovered and exposing her body beneath.
“Knowing is near to understanding. Understanding is near to mastering. If you wish to master your pain, you need to understand pain. This I have seen. This, I believe, is why the Gods have brought you here.”
Lyra’s throat constricted. She felt a rise, anger on her neck, and heated blood.
“Understand pain?” Lyra keened, incredulous now and leaning out of her comfortable seat. “It is my bedfellow.”
Lyra held her tongue further, seething inside and quaking outside.
A myriad of responses ripped across Eumelia, plain as day. Though Lyra expected her too, she did not chide Lyra for her outburst.
“I do not doubt you,” she responded. “I only wish to help. I implore you to let me. I beg you to know me, to see me, and to be seen.”
Lyra listened to Eumelia's words, but she did not hear them, though they stuck in her mind for a point yet undetermined.
“If these Gods given marks, as capricious as they are, deem you my lover and Mistress I can accept that, but you are also guided to, marked even for this task of hurting me? I am already hurt. That is not love. This I canno-”
Lyra would have continued. She would have raged. She would have denounced the Gods, invoked the Goddess Achelois ire, and only crawled back her remarks later with a cooler head.
Eumelia took Lyra's hand in hers and squeezed gently. In this, Lyra knew the touch was not false, unless Eumelia was a great deceiver.
“To hurt you is to love you,” Lyra’s lover prophesied.