Chapter 8 #3
“This is the most interesting place in the palace?” Now it was his turn to look skeptical.
His brow furrowed as he found himself standing in the entrance of the royal chapel.
Stained glass adorned the windows, depicting images of the various impressive deeds of the Gods.
The pews were made of a deep rosewood, and the room smelled of incense and pine, both commonly burned during religious rituals in Emmental.
As they walked along the stone floor, Owain eyed Orla.
“Why this place?” he asked.
“You said to take you somewhere interesting, what’s more interesting than the house of the Gods?”
They walked by a large painting that depicted Gaius’s original bargain with Jove. Unsurprising, it was a common favorite amongst Elven nobility. Such a self-important lot. It’s surprising all the depictions weren’t of Elves themselves.
“The art is interesting, I suppose, but the rest… I don’t see the point in erecting whole temples to fables,” he said skeptically.
Owain had never been a particularly pious male. It was why when his father gave him the option between joining the battalion or the clergy, he picked the battalion.
“I thought all of you Elven nobles worshiped the Gods. Isn’t that how your lot justify being so much more powerful than the rest of us lowly creatures?”
He chuckled at the sarcasm in her words. Most wouldn’t be so frank about their disdain for Elven superiority. It was refreshing how candidly she spoke her mind, so unlike other Elves. The way she said it made him think that she wasn’t much for worshiping the Gods either.
“They do. Edam is full of chapels like this one. Though there, they mostly worship Gaius.”
Owain knew that King Mikki encouraged piety in his citizens. But Edam had been split off as its own kingdom for so long that new ways of worship had taken root. “Besides,” he said, looking at her, “there is only one goddess worth worshiping. Amara, the Goddess of Death.”
As he said it, his gaze intensified, taking in the lines of Orla’s face.
The way her nose was slightly turned up.
Those adorable, rounded ears. The way she looked at him in question.
He cleared his throat and forced himself to look away.
He didn’t know what it was about her, but he kept finding his guard slipping when he was around her.
He wondered if some form of nymph magic was the cause.
“God, you mean. Amara is male,” she corrected, pointing to one of the large paintings that depicted Amara as a large male shrouded in black robes.
“Not to some. Death has always been a female. Both powerful and gentle. Fearsome and a comfort. A balm that soothes a weary soul. No male has that kind of power.” Her mouth turned up at the corners in a small smile.
“I think I like your version better,” she said.
They stayed in the chapel a while longer, swapping stories of their favorite fables and deities.
“Were you ever told about the battle between Jove and Amara?” Owain asked. Orla shook her head no.
“It’s said that the two Gods had been at odds with one another, creation versus destruction.
The battle waged for centuries, Amara destroying whatever Jove made and Jove only making more creations; an eternal stalemate.
” Owain imagined the story as he told it.
Jove in his golden chariot blazing across the universe.
His white hair whipping around him as he urged his creations on.
He pictured Amara, her bronze skin and flaxen hair.
She was a unique beauty, both terrible and awesome to behold.
The power the two of them wielded shaking the heavens themselves as they battled.
“That was until the two agreed to stop fighting, working together. Jove would use his power to create creatures with the magic to create. That’s who gave the world creatures like witches, humans, and nymphs while Amara worked with him to create creatures of destruction, beings like Elves, basilisks, and minotaurs.
By having the creatures be a part of creation and destruction themselves, they would keep their world in balance so Amara and Jove could stop fighting.
But one creature needed to represent them both.
The two Gods decided to mate and create a creature that was both destruction and creation, and that’s how the phoenix was born.
Before our kingdoms all separated from the magic lands, the sigil for the continent was the phoenix.
Meant to represent every creature that called this land home. ”
Orla snorted a soft warm laugh that lit up his insides. “Of course the Gods had to fuck, otherwise how would we know it’s a creation story.”
“That’s the best part,” he said, winking at her.
“Wait, wasn’t Amara one of Joves offspring?” Orla’s face pinched in disgust.
“Not in this version. Anyways, it’s about balance, death, and life. One can’t exist without the other. I think a lot of Elves forget that.”
Orla seemed to think of that for a while, her brows scrunched as she worried her thumb between her teeth. “Is that why you like art?” she asked.
“Hm?” He had become so lost in looking at her, the way her brow knit, the way the mage lights danced off her beautiful dark skin that he didn’t catch her question.
“Is that why you like art? You get to embody both creation and destruction.”
Now it was his time to think. “Honestly, I never thought of it that way, I just like being able to bring a bit of beauty into an unkind world.”
“I get that. My garden back home has been my beauty in the darkness.” Her comment took Owain by surprise. What darkness could plague the realm’s hero so deeply?
Leaving the chapel, Owain played Orla’s laugh back in his head over and over again. He had completely forgotten that he hadn’t asked about the army or training even once.