Bound

The priestess proved just. She had been only so young, yet the leaders would seek her blessings, asking her to pray to God on their behalf. "I will look to it," she would say in her small, meek voice. Just as practiced. Just as her father told her to say.

She would nod to the people as they told her of their issues, mimicking sympathy for people who were much older, seeking guidance from the child priestess.

"My husband beats me."

"My children are disobedient."

"My lover has married elsewhere."

Unable to deliver a response, unable to understand them, she would only say what she had seen her father do—console.

"Your test is great, but there is bitter resentment from God. Give charity, give yourself to His cause," she said. Big words she herself did not yet understand.

And then they would shriek, fall into a bow, kiss her hands, and take their leave. She would do this day and night, having to see helpless people tell her of horrors she had never faced. And often, she would sit in silence, in what was meant to be time for meditation, and she would ponder their conditions.

Often, in a state of meditation, the child priestess would feel a sting. Sometimes across the face, other times on the arm. Her mother would often dismiss it.

"You've slept wrong," or "You must've taken a wrong step."

"I don't remember feeling any pain before," the priestess would respond, but she would be shrugged off.

But that one particular day, as she slipped into her meditative state, she didn't just feel its sting—she felt the weight of each and every single blow. She screamed and shouted, but it would not go away. The pain spread. First to her leg, then to her face, then to her arm. Like being struck by a hot iron rod, she had no control and no way to dodge it.

"What happened?" her mother asked in a panicked manner as she rushed into the room.

The priestess convulsed on the floor uncontrollably, her hands flying in the air as if she were trying to stop the pain, but it did not stop. And her desperate cries grew louder and louder. Those voices haunted the worshippers for a long time. But for the priest, they were a death sentence. For when he went to inquire about the screams, his puzzlement changed to shock.

"What is she doing? Pick her up! What's wrong, Nargis? Pray, what has taken over you?" he shouted as he rushed to her side, picking her up and carrying her to her room.

Nargis, still convulsing, did not stop to catch her breath. The priestess only wanted the pain to go away. The priest, however, could tell by the bruises that had formed on her face and arm that her pain would not go away anytime soon.

He laid her down on the soft mattress and held her hands down in an attempt to calm her, but she did not stop.

Though the wind of Harbinger had passed, they had not noticed. Everyone in the temple had collapsed to the wind; to the priest, it was simply a shift of focus. The sudden silence was filled with the screams of Nargis. She had felt the sudden drowse, but she did not sleep. And when the darkness of Harbinger enveloped the two, she only entered a state of staleness, wherein nothing resided in her eyes, and a shrill tingle took over her senses.

The priest felt the sharp cold, and a shiver ran through him. And when he heard the decree, he felt as though his mind had contorted and his senses had tricked him.

"Her body feels only what he does. What he suffers, she shall too."

The priest turned his back to his daughter, who had been taken into the darkness with him, suspended in an uncomfortable nothingness. He stared at the Harbinger and felt his feet give way. A black shroud, where there was no time, no light, and no matter. He could see the cloak of a poor wanderer, hear a man whose mouth had been sealed shut, and feel him advancing like one could feel a wave in the ocean through its vibrations.

"You speak on a whim, Harbinger! In my temple!"

"In a place of God's worship, you seek refuge from the decree of God?" replied Harbinger with a tilt of the head, his bony fingers wrapped greedily around his staff.

"So you are Harbinger! I cast out thee—"

"For you, there has been made an exception. For you, there has been laid out a choice instead of a promise—"

"I refuse your business. You don't speak truth; you only rain terror—" the priest scrambled, his hands reaching for the small idol that hung on his chest. He held it out for the wandering Harbinger to see.

"A sacrifice has been made. One that withheld your daughter from the afterlife," he spoke voicelessly.

"I cast out thee!" the priest shouted repeatedly, but it did not stop the advances of the Harbinger.

"She was born bound, body and soul. Upon finding her other half, you will know, and you will tell her of her decree."

"Never!" said the priest with a quivering lip.

"Your God is merciful. He has given you the will to choose otherwise."

"Then leave at once! I reject this!" he said, still holding out the idol.

"If the priestess does not find it from your mouth, the city of Vetia shall burn itself to the ground," said Harbinger, as his body collided against that of the priest. His words were only an echo, his body only a smoky illusion that dissipated into nothingness.

The priest was then taken back to reality, sucked into color, noise, and warmth. There was no sign of him, and yet he knew—it was as real as his beating heart.