Syntra
Baba Yaga
The twin suns of Hypathia were hanging high in the sky, bathing in the carmine light brought by the eastern winds. (A lucky omen, many Hypathians would say. A messenger of good fortune, bathed in the blood of fearsome beasts. But, how could that be? Not only was the greatest one of them still alive and kicking, but she was about to wear a crown. The beast called Sidra, that was.)
It had all happened quickly-- far too quickly for anyone to be able to consider the resistance to be dignified. Actually, it may have been a stretch to call it 'resistance' at all. Hypathia, a tiny planet in a corner of the galaxy far too unimportant for most great powers to know, let alone care about, had had a single line of defence. The nature of the defense? Indeed, that very irrelevance! It had served them well, really, until it didn't. (To be fair, nothing would have saved them from Sidra. Some claimed the woman was a demon in a human skin, feasting on the entrails of their enemies-- some, struck by a different kind of inspiration, thought that she was destruction personified. The reality, though? The reality was worse. Sidra was Sidra. The word that could accurately describe her wickedness hadn't been invented yet, they said. It hadn't and probably wouldn't, because the empress would have it erased from the records, along with the poor bastards foolish enough to craft such an expression.)
And so Hypathia had bent the knee, in a staggering display of unheard of unity. The nobles had agreed, after their initial reservations had been melted in blood; the commonfolk had agreed, mostly indifferent to which noble asshole would sit on the throne; the priestesses had agreed, with great reluctance. 'For the good of the realm,' they whispered. 'Yes, yes! No point to ruling over ashes-- ashes and scorched earth and, ah, rotting corpses. So, so many corpses.' It was a wonder that their heads hadn't fallen off from all the nodding, honestly. And Calytrix... Calytrix would agree, too. Right? Right?! It wasn't like the young goddess realistically had any choice.
Of course, the problem was to get her to appear. The problem of her future self, Sah'ra had said to herself, back when it had been established that they'd, ehm, give the empress her hand in marriage. You know, for the peace! The issue with that kind of thinking? Why, that the initially very, very distant future kicked you in the ass faster than you could say 'I'm so screwed.' (For the record: she was. Very much so. Judging by Sidra's track record, Sah'ra would be vaporized in, like, three minutes from now. And that was the optimistic prognosis, too.)
The high priestess knew not the thoughts that were to be found in the empress's head, but she thought that she could make an educated guess. The silks they'd wrapped her in, for one, couldn't have been pleasant to wear-- it was hot, as it always was on Hypathia, and Sah'ra was aware firsthand just how quickly those got slick with sweat. ('It's a tradition, oh great bringer of peace,' they'd told her. Of course it was! The ceremony was sacred, and, as such, unchangeable. Now, they might have chosen this particular brand of silk to introduce their new overlord to a little bit of suffering, but she didn't need to know that! ...or rather, Sah'ra hoped she didn't. Because, if she did? The high priestess's chances of being vaporized her just risen by about 500%.) The music, far too loud for anyone to be able to hear their own voice, could only be described as needlessly aggressive-- the drums were pounding against the poor listeners' abused ears, bam bam bam, in a rhythm that was both annoying and relentless. The audience... well, they were there. That much, at least, could be said about them. A bunch of uncomfortable looking aristocrats had gathered before the Skywind Temple, and were currently in the process of trying their hardest to pretend that they were somewhere else. And, judging by the mild dread in most of those people's eyes? Sah'ra would say that they were failing. (Blasphemy charges were a serious thing, after all! It wasn't like Calytrix would push them, but... well, let's just say that those things ran deep. The impulse to be afraid of that very thing often meant the difference between life and death, here on the planet of Hypathia.)
Ehm. Speaking of life and death, though? Please, please, let Calytrix appear! She hadn't for weeks now, and if the goddess wouldn't do it now... shit, Sah'ra was in no way interested to find out what, exactly, her organs looked like.
The empress was to come alone, surrounded only by the most faithful of servants. The ones that had been chosen for her were helping her with her garb-- a clumsy thing that it was, it required at least three pairs of hands unless you wanted to drag it over the ground. Which, spoiler alert, you very much didn't! Especially not near the Skywind temple, where the boundary between 'dirt' and 'mud' was very, very, very thin. (The birthplace of the world, it was called. And, just like all the places where births occurred? It was warm and wet, oozing with strange fluids. Often, Sah'ra thought it was... uh, an interesting metaphor that weddings were to be held there. Interesting, even if a little unimpressive visually. Eh, at least the temple itself was striking? A large, cracked shell reaching the skies, faded out with age. Never before had the priestess seen such a brilliant white, and probably never again would.)
Finally, the empress was brought before the sacred pond. (Not a hint of wind blew, yet somehow, it waters were moving, shimmering, dancing. And, when Sidra's reflection fell on it? The music stopped abruptly, as if the players had been waiting for that very cue.)
"Welcome, blessed one," Sah'ra said, fighting her gag reflex as those words spilled from her lips. "Oh, great Destroyer of the Worlds, it is time for you to call your bride." Please, please, don't get angry. And you, Calytrix, cooperate for once. "See, the goddess is... ah, a romantic soul. You ought to sing her a love song if she is to appear, as the tradition demands." Or rather as Caly demanded, but, again, Sidra didn't need to know everything. Too much knowledge hurt one's head, after all! "You should, ah, make her feel that you ache with your want for her."
It had all happened quickly-- far too quickly for anyone to be able to consider the resistance to be dignified. Actually, it may have been a stretch to call it 'resistance' at all. Hypathia, a tiny planet in a corner of the galaxy far too unimportant for most great powers to know, let alone care about, had had a single line of defence. The nature of the defense? Indeed, that very irrelevance! It had served them well, really, until it didn't. (To be fair, nothing would have saved them from Sidra. Some claimed the woman was a demon in a human skin, feasting on the entrails of their enemies-- some, struck by a different kind of inspiration, thought that she was destruction personified. The reality, though? The reality was worse. Sidra was Sidra. The word that could accurately describe her wickedness hadn't been invented yet, they said. It hadn't and probably wouldn't, because the empress would have it erased from the records, along with the poor bastards foolish enough to craft such an expression.)
And so Hypathia had bent the knee, in a staggering display of unheard of unity. The nobles had agreed, after their initial reservations had been melted in blood; the commonfolk had agreed, mostly indifferent to which noble asshole would sit on the throne; the priestesses had agreed, with great reluctance. 'For the good of the realm,' they whispered. 'Yes, yes! No point to ruling over ashes-- ashes and scorched earth and, ah, rotting corpses. So, so many corpses.' It was a wonder that their heads hadn't fallen off from all the nodding, honestly. And Calytrix... Calytrix would agree, too. Right? Right?! It wasn't like the young goddess realistically had any choice.
Of course, the problem was to get her to appear. The problem of her future self, Sah'ra had said to herself, back when it had been established that they'd, ehm, give the empress her hand in marriage. You know, for the peace! The issue with that kind of thinking? Why, that the initially very, very distant future kicked you in the ass faster than you could say 'I'm so screwed.' (For the record: she was. Very much so. Judging by Sidra's track record, Sah'ra would be vaporized in, like, three minutes from now. And that was the optimistic prognosis, too.)
The high priestess knew not the thoughts that were to be found in the empress's head, but she thought that she could make an educated guess. The silks they'd wrapped her in, for one, couldn't have been pleasant to wear-- it was hot, as it always was on Hypathia, and Sah'ra was aware firsthand just how quickly those got slick with sweat. ('It's a tradition, oh great bringer of peace,' they'd told her. Of course it was! The ceremony was sacred, and, as such, unchangeable. Now, they might have chosen this particular brand of silk to introduce their new overlord to a little bit of suffering, but she didn't need to know that! ...or rather, Sah'ra hoped she didn't. Because, if she did? The high priestess's chances of being vaporized her just risen by about 500%.) The music, far too loud for anyone to be able to hear their own voice, could only be described as needlessly aggressive-- the drums were pounding against the poor listeners' abused ears, bam bam bam, in a rhythm that was both annoying and relentless. The audience... well, they were there. That much, at least, could be said about them. A bunch of uncomfortable looking aristocrats had gathered before the Skywind Temple, and were currently in the process of trying their hardest to pretend that they were somewhere else. And, judging by the mild dread in most of those people's eyes? Sah'ra would say that they were failing. (Blasphemy charges were a serious thing, after all! It wasn't like Calytrix would push them, but... well, let's just say that those things ran deep. The impulse to be afraid of that very thing often meant the difference between life and death, here on the planet of Hypathia.)
Ehm. Speaking of life and death, though? Please, please, let Calytrix appear! She hadn't for weeks now, and if the goddess wouldn't do it now... shit, Sah'ra was in no way interested to find out what, exactly, her organs looked like.
The empress was to come alone, surrounded only by the most faithful of servants. The ones that had been chosen for her were helping her with her garb-- a clumsy thing that it was, it required at least three pairs of hands unless you wanted to drag it over the ground. Which, spoiler alert, you very much didn't! Especially not near the Skywind temple, where the boundary between 'dirt' and 'mud' was very, very, very thin. (The birthplace of the world, it was called. And, just like all the places where births occurred? It was warm and wet, oozing with strange fluids. Often, Sah'ra thought it was... uh, an interesting metaphor that weddings were to be held there. Interesting, even if a little unimpressive visually. Eh, at least the temple itself was striking? A large, cracked shell reaching the skies, faded out with age. Never before had the priestess seen such a brilliant white, and probably never again would.)
Finally, the empress was brought before the sacred pond. (Not a hint of wind blew, yet somehow, it waters were moving, shimmering, dancing. And, when Sidra's reflection fell on it? The music stopped abruptly, as if the players had been waiting for that very cue.)
"Welcome, blessed one," Sah'ra said, fighting her gag reflex as those words spilled from her lips. "Oh, great Destroyer of the Worlds, it is time for you to call your bride." Please, please, don't get angry. And you, Calytrix, cooperate for once. "See, the goddess is... ah, a romantic soul. You ought to sing her a love song if she is to appear, as the tradition demands." Or rather as Caly demanded, but, again, Sidra didn't need to know everything. Too much knowledge hurt one's head, after all! "You should, ah, make her feel that you ache with your want for her."