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tamingthemuseTitle: The Living God
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Malleable
Warnings: none
Rating: PG
Summary: The gods live among us, always watching, judging us for that day of reckoning. When not even the most powerful of people know who the living gods are, who are they to turn to when demons come to destroy the world?
“The gods are always watching,” Grandmother told her, long ago. “Listen, carefully, child, for this is the most important thing I will ever tell you,” she said the day she had first taken Naxcha under her tutelage. “The gods watch, for one of their own lives among us. If we treat that living god well in this life, then, when our mortal time comes, the gods will treats us well when we join them in the afterlife.”
Naxcha remembered leaning forward, her small hands resting on her grandmother’s boney knees, her own digging into the hard dirt of the floor of the hut that was the old witch’s hut. “Who is the living god, Grandmother?”
For as long as Naxcha had been alive, she had been told that the living god was there, listening, watching; learning. When her mother took her to the market, and some old woman struggled with her stubborn mule, her mother had always said, “The living god is there, Nax, and as the obedient servant of the gods, we must help.” When a stranger broke his leg at work, her father had nodded and said, “The living god is there. I will go to his house and offer my hand at the fields.”
Nobody knew who the living god was, it could be any one of them, but surely Naxcha had thought at the time, the old witch would know who it was.
She shook her head, the thin white braids shifting with her motions. Beads and chunks of gold clattered as the braids fell over her shoulders. “That’s not for us mortals to know,” she had said, then. And Naxcha had accepted that answer, because why not? Nobody could know the will of the gods, and nobody knew the identity of the living god. It was just the way things were.
She hadn’t thought on it much since then, but it had always stayed with her, because after that first lesson, Grandmother taught her something very different.
She taught her the ancient magic that had been passed down from mother to daughter, reaching back to the times when the gods had truly lived among them.
She taught her the history of both the gods and the mortals that worshiped them.
She taught her to think in a way that was so vastly different than the common folk, that it didn’t take long for Naxcha to become regarded with the same sort of awe and fear that her grandmother had.
When Naxcha had been just a child, suddenly without close friends, as the girls her age were being taught how to cook, sew, weave, and court, she had gone to her mother, begging for a reason behind her far different education.
“Why can’t it wait,” she had asked, her hands buried in her mother’s thick cotton skirts, the scarf of vivid red soaking up her tears. “I can learn to weave with Shash and Lexie, and then when they marry, then I can learn from Grandmother.”
Her mother had hushed her and dried her tears before kissing her cheeks, one kiss each before moving on to her brow as she always did when Naxcha cried. “You’ve made toys in your father’s kiln, yes?” she had asked, her voice soft.
Naxcha had nodded, and her mother cupped her hands between them.
“And when you make the toy to put in the kiln, you think, ‘it’s ready.’ So you put it to the fire and as you watch it bake, have you ever wished suddenly that you had added something more to it?”
Naxcha had thought for a moment, biting her lips between her teeth. “There’s always something more to wish for,” she finally said, repeating something she had heard her father say time and again. Her mother smiled and smoothed Naxcha’s black hair away from her face.
“But you cannot add it, because the clay is no longer flexible, it is set. And learning the magic of the witch is the same. You must start while you are wet and malleable. There will be time for you to learn weaving and sewing, but it is now that you must learn the magic.”
“But my friends.”
“I am so sorry, my little love, but you are not allowed to be selfish any longer. You belong to the People, and you must learn the magic for the benefit of us all. People will always fear you, and they will avoid you because of that fear. Do not fret, little love, because I will always love you.” She wrapped her arms tightly around Naxcha as she cried until her eyes burnt with the sting of tears. “The People love you, and the gods love you.”
Grandmother had been gone for three seasons now, and it was to Naxcha the People came to for help when illness stuck. It was to Naxcha the People came to for charms and blessings.
She was secure in her position as the Witch of the People, for she was good at the magic her grandmother had taught her. The chief himself had gifted her with three mules and a llama for her talents when he called upon her to heal his first wife and their fourth son.
She was content in her life, and happy to serve, if sometimes lonely.
Naxcha spent the lazy days gathering herbs and reading the old stone tablets that her grandmother had left her, refreshing herself with the lessons of her youth, slowly fanning her face with the small feather fan that had been payment for setting a bone. And it was on one such day that had her lounging in her garden, fan in hand, and small tablets scattered around her like pebbles when she heard her name being called by the chief’s finest warrior.
Curious, heart pounding in fear for the young boy she had seen to only half a season ago, she gathered her feet under her, adjusted her red head scarf to cover her hair, and dusted grassy debris from her white skirt.
“Chachtan? What do you here? Is it Ixna?” She froze on the threshold of the garden at the sight of four strange men standing with Chachtan. She pulled her scarf tighter around her shoulders. “What has come to us?”
Chachtan touched his hand to the golden amulet that hung around his neck before he stepped closer.
“Naxcha, the King has sent out a proclamation that every witch in his empire must come to him. It is said that demons have come to kill us and he needs all the magic of the witches to defeat these demons.”
Naxcha covered her gasp with her hand, wide eyes shooting to the men, royal runners, she now saw, as evident by the purple and gold ropes around their necks. “The demons,” she whispered, her voice refusing to carry. Chachtan stepped forward, head tilted to one side in question. She shook her head. “I have heard rumors in the market of pale demons from the east. They came from the sea to see harm done to all of us. It was hearsay.”
“It is truth,” one of the runners said. His face was stern, deep lines carved in red skin. Stress and fear and long days on the road left him with little humor in his eyes. “They are making their way toward the Royal City, killing all that they encounter. What’s more; they send their curse before them, weakening the People and leaving them ripe for the reaping. They kill the weak and tired, with no ceremony.”
She heard Chachtan hiss in a breath beside her as his hands fisted at his sides. “Demons,” he spat.
“Those souls are lost to us,” Naxcha murmured, making a sign with her hand that asked the gods to look after those that had not been gifted to them with the proper respect.
One of the runners motioned to another. “Go to the City and tell them that she comes.” The runner nodded once and turned away, feet light on the ground as he began the journey without even pausing to drink from the pouch at his hip. The first runner turned back to her. “Gather your belongings and be on your way. They will expect you.”
The other three runners then left Chachtan and Naxcha in the gateway to her garden. She watched them go, eyeing the messenger as he quickly disappeared around a bend in the road that would take him to the path up the mountain and toward the Royal City. She knew the journey would take him four days, and it would take her nearly twelve days of nonstop walking.
Chachtan shifted beside her, startling her out of her thoughts. She turned on her heel to retreat into her hut, but Chachtan reached out to her, stopping just from brushing her shoulder with his fingers. She jerked away in surprise.
“Chachtan?”
He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then repeated it again. She tilted her head to one side, tugging at the scarf as it tightened around her neck. “Chachtan?”
“I will go with you. You have never been to the Royal City and do not know the way. The walk is long, and you will have need of a man to watch over you.”
Surprised, Naxcha gaped at him. “You will need the chief’s permission,” she finally said. “The demons come from the east, and this city is yet east of the Royal City. When you leave here, you leave this city one warrior less.”
Chachtan’s eyes went wide, as he hadn’t realized the danger they were all in until that very moment. He took several deep breaths before he nodded and put his fisted hand to his chest, over his heart. “My heart tells me I must go with you on this journey. You are the most powerful witch I have ever met, and it is my belief that it will be you that will save us. If I do not see you safely ensconced in the Royal City with my own eyes, I will fear for the People. I will go with you, and with the chief’s blessing. Pack what you need, and I will prepare the mules.”
He turned to walk to the enclosure where her mules munched on the grass, unaware. She watched him go for a moment more before she finally ducked into the hut.
In an instant, the scent of the herbs and potions closed over her. She closed her eyes and let the magic in the hut come to her, bringing with it the memories that she hadn’t known she had forgotten.
On her grandmother’s death bed she had clutched tightly to Naxcha’s hand, her voice hoarse with age and weak with fatigue. She pulled at Naxcha with sudden strength until Naxcha was kneeling over her, cold, dry lips brushing her ear as she whispered, “The living god is with us.”
Startled, Naxcha tried to pull away to stare at the woman that had only ever mentioned the living god once before to Naxcha, but her grandmother held firm. “Demons will hunt the living god, so it hides behind the snake, sleeping until the time comes.”
“It lives with us,” Naxcha couldn’t help but to say.
Her grandmother shook her head, finally releasing Naxcha to sit back on her heels. She rested her hand on her grandmother’s boney knees and her own were digging into the hard dirt of the hut’s floor. “Who is it, then?” She asked. Who was it that would hide away from demons when it was a god? Why would it not strike them down?
Her grandmother shook her head again, panting for breath, struggling to hold on a bit longer. “That is not for us mortals to know.” She slipped into that deep sleep that came before death, and Naxcha bowed her head, praying to the gods to accept the old woman with open arms.
Grandmother had taught her that the gods and demons were of no concern for mortals. They lived on a plan of existence that was very far removed from their own. Worship and piety were for the common people that couldn’t understand the ways of the world around them, but not for the witches that served the People.
So why, on her death bed, had Grandmother offered her that bit of dogma? What had she known about the living god that she hadn’t told her?
Even more, what hadn’t she taught her about demons?
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Malleable
Warnings: none
Rating: PG
Summary: The gods live among us, always watching, judging us for that day of reckoning. When not even the most powerful of people know who the living gods are, who are they to turn to when demons come to destroy the world?
“The gods are always watching,” Grandmother told her, long ago. “Listen, carefully, child, for this is the most important thing I will ever tell you,” she said the day she had first taken Naxcha under her tutelage. “The gods watch, for one of their own lives among us. If we treat that living god well in this life, then, when our mortal time comes, the gods will treats us well when we join them in the afterlife.”
Naxcha remembered leaning forward, her small hands resting on her grandmother’s boney knees, her own digging into the hard dirt of the floor of the hut that was the old witch’s hut. “Who is the living god, Grandmother?”
For as long as Naxcha had been alive, she had been told that the living god was there, listening, watching; learning. When her mother took her to the market, and some old woman struggled with her stubborn mule, her mother had always said, “The living god is there, Nax, and as the obedient servant of the gods, we must help.” When a stranger broke his leg at work, her father had nodded and said, “The living god is there. I will go to his house and offer my hand at the fields.”
Nobody knew who the living god was, it could be any one of them, but surely Naxcha had thought at the time, the old witch would know who it was.
She shook her head, the thin white braids shifting with her motions. Beads and chunks of gold clattered as the braids fell over her shoulders. “That’s not for us mortals to know,” she had said, then. And Naxcha had accepted that answer, because why not? Nobody could know the will of the gods, and nobody knew the identity of the living god. It was just the way things were.
She hadn’t thought on it much since then, but it had always stayed with her, because after that first lesson, Grandmother taught her something very different.
She taught her the ancient magic that had been passed down from mother to daughter, reaching back to the times when the gods had truly lived among them.
She taught her the history of both the gods and the mortals that worshiped them.
She taught her to think in a way that was so vastly different than the common folk, that it didn’t take long for Naxcha to become regarded with the same sort of awe and fear that her grandmother had.
When Naxcha had been just a child, suddenly without close friends, as the girls her age were being taught how to cook, sew, weave, and court, she had gone to her mother, begging for a reason behind her far different education.
“Why can’t it wait,” she had asked, her hands buried in her mother’s thick cotton skirts, the scarf of vivid red soaking up her tears. “I can learn to weave with Shash and Lexie, and then when they marry, then I can learn from Grandmother.”
Her mother had hushed her and dried her tears before kissing her cheeks, one kiss each before moving on to her brow as she always did when Naxcha cried. “You’ve made toys in your father’s kiln, yes?” she had asked, her voice soft.
Naxcha had nodded, and her mother cupped her hands between them.
“And when you make the toy to put in the kiln, you think, ‘it’s ready.’ So you put it to the fire and as you watch it bake, have you ever wished suddenly that you had added something more to it?”
Naxcha had thought for a moment, biting her lips between her teeth. “There’s always something more to wish for,” she finally said, repeating something she had heard her father say time and again. Her mother smiled and smoothed Naxcha’s black hair away from her face.
“But you cannot add it, because the clay is no longer flexible, it is set. And learning the magic of the witch is the same. You must start while you are wet and malleable. There will be time for you to learn weaving and sewing, but it is now that you must learn the magic.”
“But my friends.”
“I am so sorry, my little love, but you are not allowed to be selfish any longer. You belong to the People, and you must learn the magic for the benefit of us all. People will always fear you, and they will avoid you because of that fear. Do not fret, little love, because I will always love you.” She wrapped her arms tightly around Naxcha as she cried until her eyes burnt with the sting of tears. “The People love you, and the gods love you.”
Grandmother had been gone for three seasons now, and it was to Naxcha the People came to for help when illness stuck. It was to Naxcha the People came to for charms and blessings.
She was secure in her position as the Witch of the People, for she was good at the magic her grandmother had taught her. The chief himself had gifted her with three mules and a llama for her talents when he called upon her to heal his first wife and their fourth son.
She was content in her life, and happy to serve, if sometimes lonely.
Naxcha spent the lazy days gathering herbs and reading the old stone tablets that her grandmother had left her, refreshing herself with the lessons of her youth, slowly fanning her face with the small feather fan that had been payment for setting a bone. And it was on one such day that had her lounging in her garden, fan in hand, and small tablets scattered around her like pebbles when she heard her name being called by the chief’s finest warrior.
Curious, heart pounding in fear for the young boy she had seen to only half a season ago, she gathered her feet under her, adjusted her red head scarf to cover her hair, and dusted grassy debris from her white skirt.
“Chachtan? What do you here? Is it Ixna?” She froze on the threshold of the garden at the sight of four strange men standing with Chachtan. She pulled her scarf tighter around her shoulders. “What has come to us?”
Chachtan touched his hand to the golden amulet that hung around his neck before he stepped closer.
“Naxcha, the King has sent out a proclamation that every witch in his empire must come to him. It is said that demons have come to kill us and he needs all the magic of the witches to defeat these demons.”
Naxcha covered her gasp with her hand, wide eyes shooting to the men, royal runners, she now saw, as evident by the purple and gold ropes around their necks. “The demons,” she whispered, her voice refusing to carry. Chachtan stepped forward, head tilted to one side in question. She shook her head. “I have heard rumors in the market of pale demons from the east. They came from the sea to see harm done to all of us. It was hearsay.”
“It is truth,” one of the runners said. His face was stern, deep lines carved in red skin. Stress and fear and long days on the road left him with little humor in his eyes. “They are making their way toward the Royal City, killing all that they encounter. What’s more; they send their curse before them, weakening the People and leaving them ripe for the reaping. They kill the weak and tired, with no ceremony.”
She heard Chachtan hiss in a breath beside her as his hands fisted at his sides. “Demons,” he spat.
“Those souls are lost to us,” Naxcha murmured, making a sign with her hand that asked the gods to look after those that had not been gifted to them with the proper respect.
One of the runners motioned to another. “Go to the City and tell them that she comes.” The runner nodded once and turned away, feet light on the ground as he began the journey without even pausing to drink from the pouch at his hip. The first runner turned back to her. “Gather your belongings and be on your way. They will expect you.”
The other three runners then left Chachtan and Naxcha in the gateway to her garden. She watched them go, eyeing the messenger as he quickly disappeared around a bend in the road that would take him to the path up the mountain and toward the Royal City. She knew the journey would take him four days, and it would take her nearly twelve days of nonstop walking.
Chachtan shifted beside her, startling her out of her thoughts. She turned on her heel to retreat into her hut, but Chachtan reached out to her, stopping just from brushing her shoulder with his fingers. She jerked away in surprise.
“Chachtan?”
He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then repeated it again. She tilted her head to one side, tugging at the scarf as it tightened around her neck. “Chachtan?”
“I will go with you. You have never been to the Royal City and do not know the way. The walk is long, and you will have need of a man to watch over you.”
Surprised, Naxcha gaped at him. “You will need the chief’s permission,” she finally said. “The demons come from the east, and this city is yet east of the Royal City. When you leave here, you leave this city one warrior less.”
Chachtan’s eyes went wide, as he hadn’t realized the danger they were all in until that very moment. He took several deep breaths before he nodded and put his fisted hand to his chest, over his heart. “My heart tells me I must go with you on this journey. You are the most powerful witch I have ever met, and it is my belief that it will be you that will save us. If I do not see you safely ensconced in the Royal City with my own eyes, I will fear for the People. I will go with you, and with the chief’s blessing. Pack what you need, and I will prepare the mules.”
He turned to walk to the enclosure where her mules munched on the grass, unaware. She watched him go for a moment more before she finally ducked into the hut.
In an instant, the scent of the herbs and potions closed over her. She closed her eyes and let the magic in the hut come to her, bringing with it the memories that she hadn’t known she had forgotten.
On her grandmother’s death bed she had clutched tightly to Naxcha’s hand, her voice hoarse with age and weak with fatigue. She pulled at Naxcha with sudden strength until Naxcha was kneeling over her, cold, dry lips brushing her ear as she whispered, “The living god is with us.”
Startled, Naxcha tried to pull away to stare at the woman that had only ever mentioned the living god once before to Naxcha, but her grandmother held firm. “Demons will hunt the living god, so it hides behind the snake, sleeping until the time comes.”
“It lives with us,” Naxcha couldn’t help but to say.
Her grandmother shook her head, finally releasing Naxcha to sit back on her heels. She rested her hand on her grandmother’s boney knees and her own were digging into the hard dirt of the hut’s floor. “Who is it, then?” She asked. Who was it that would hide away from demons when it was a god? Why would it not strike them down?
Her grandmother shook her head again, panting for breath, struggling to hold on a bit longer. “That is not for us mortals to know.” She slipped into that deep sleep that came before death, and Naxcha bowed her head, praying to the gods to accept the old woman with open arms.
Grandmother had taught her that the gods and demons were of no concern for mortals. They lived on a plan of existence that was very far removed from their own. Worship and piety were for the common people that couldn’t understand the ways of the world around them, but not for the witches that served the People.
So why, on her death bed, had Grandmother offered her that bit of dogma? What had she known about the living god that she hadn’t told her?
Even more, what hadn’t she taught her about demons?
