gillian. (chiburui) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-11-08 19:42:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !complete, !narrative, !plot: fete of holy saints, gillian goodwin |
Words can be like knives, they can cut you open.
Who: Gillian Goodwin, NPC.
What: Fete of Holy Saints.
Where: Necrohol.
When: Long ago; this year.
Rating: PG.
Status: Complete narrative.
“You think this is a foolish holiday.” Gillian hadn't said anything of the sort throughout their entire visit. She was the model of a perfect subordinate in fact, standing perfectly at attention. Disciplined she was, honed sharp like the blade belted at her waist. Her gaze remained on the man leaning down to brush dead leaves from the gravestone at his fingertips, yet another in a countless succession of somber rituals she observed but it not partake in. “I haven’t said that, Sir,” she argued, her expression warring between skepticism and defensiveness. The man placed a rose atop the now-cleared stone, offering a final, silent prayer to the departed before moving to stand. He was tall, and his exceptional bearing made him seem all the greater in size--larger than life, his followers would say. “But you’re thinking it, Gilly. I know you.” The look on his face was something akin to regret. “If you’d only try to understand, at least while you’ve chosen to come along with me.” Respect, devotion, these she could afford. And Gillian thought herself capable of understanding these Pharist rituals well enough. More so than the man before her, she might’ve even claimed. Useless rituals serving no purpose but to quell the guilt and fears of the living. She wanted to say as much, but stood straighter instead, waiting to follow to whatever gravestone they would pay attention to next. The wind lashed around her longcoat, offering a glimpse of the sword belted at her waist to those nearest by. She pulled the collar tighter against her neck and kept walking. There was no need to dally around these grounds, such as the scatter of others with their heads bowed and with their hands carefully cupping their tiny prayer candles to fend off the wind--as if each flame lit in dedication would surely fail against the encroaching autumn breeze. She knew her destination, well enough not to get lost amongst the endless count of aging headstones. Even if it had been over a decade, this one in particular did not suffer forgotten. Flowers and tokens littered the ground around it, enough to prove something of an eyesore. Briefly, Gillian entertained the thought of kneeling and attempting to organize such a garish clutter herself. She did not pray. Back straight, at attention, respect duly afforded, she said what it was she came to say--as she always did this time of year, and placed her rose carefully with the other flowers. Over a decade later, and Gillian still wondered to herself whether or not she understood him yet. |