In some faraway realm, far removed from earth, the sun enveloped the land in its rays of resplendent crimson, peaking from over the horizon like a ball of celestial fire. The day was cold; clouds filled the azure sky, and rain mourned the land in a torrential downpour.
Whether it was the weeping of angels or the nymphs that lay moored on the clouds, from fragile blossoms to sturdy oak, Mother nature's creations evoke wonder with every stroke.
In the city, the people were not as moved by these natural beauties.
There were no trees nor shrubs for them to admire, so they did not miss them at all. They had other things to occupy their minds—things such as the blackened chimney that once stood upon the ruins of what was left of a witches home.
As morning rose, the stormy skies were illuminated by a strange light that made everything seem alive and vivid. The citizens who could not sleep gathered around windows and balconies where they watched the lights dance against the darkening canvas of the heavens.
Alice, who wore a long cloak of mauve velvet with jet buttons at her throat, while her tight-fitting corset accentuated her alluring, concave torso, spoke to the child beside her.
"This phenomenon isn't uncommon, you know. It's called The Aerial Flame of Celestial Heaven. Some believe that in the radiant glow, one might catch a glimpse of the Creator's face as He gazes upon us from His heavenly throne."
Her words were so soft and demure, yet they contained unmistakable melancholy with a hint of derision.
These overly cloying words only added to the enigma of the young woman who, despite being very beautiful, was devoid of any sense of pride or vanity.
She was dressed in the latest style—the Victorian Era—but Alice did not care for the fashions.
Her hair was a deep, velvety red, which seemed to flow like molten lava down her back. Her eyes, too, were red; and when she looked into the distance, they gave off a dim, violet hue.
"You look just like your father when he was young." I only wish you'd let me dress you up more often. You look very handsome this way."
The boy, whose face was deeply wrinkled despite his youthfulness, smiled softly and said, "Yes, ma'am. His eyes, too, felt far beyond his years."
Alice ruffles Michael's flaxen hair, then nods while turning to speak to another woman standing nearby. Her hair, which fell past her waist and was tied into two long braids, was an even deeper red than her own.
"There you are. How about you come and join us?" Alice gingerly waved her over.
As Michael nestled comfortably on Alice's lap, the two of them sat together on a pew within the hallowed Aurelian, the Archon of the Sun and Fire's Cathedral. Olivia gracefully joined her 'dear' friend, effortlessly gliding over to where they sat, her presence bringing a refreshing breeze of joy and warmth to their meeting.
"I'm glad to see you here, dear," Alice began, her voice carrying a gentle warmth unbecoming of her dour expression. "We've been looking for you everywhere."
Olivia nodded, smiling sweetly. Then, taking her seat next to the other two, she began to tell of the troubles plaguing the community.
"It's getting worse, Alice. And there doesn't seem to be much we can do about it."
"The rivers are drying up, crops withering and dying. People are losing their homes because they're unable to pay taxes, and the merchants are going under. There have also been reports of strange creatures seen in the forest?"
"No doubt from those heathens who worship false gods. We should send out some missionaries to put them right again."
"That's exactly what we've done," Olivia replied, "and you mustn't worry.
Our missionaries have always known how to handle the natives. In fact, most of the trouble comes from the new ones—the newcomers."
While it was common to receive wandering vagrants seeking refuge from their flooded homes or displaced lands caused by the annual storm, these particular migrants exhibited an intriguing and unmistakable peculiarity
Alice fell into a pensive silence as she contemplated the arrival of the unfamiliar faces who, year after year, sought to make a home in the city.
Though she recognized several of them, she had never taken an interest in forming connections.
Without fail, every newcomer would arrive on the final vessel before the onset of the Ethereal Tempest, an ominous phenomenon aptly named the Veilweaver's Wrath. Upon disembarking their ship of refuge, a perpetual sadness seemed to shroud their hollow eyes.
Draped in filthy, torn, and patchwork coats, their appearance was strikingly poignant, forlorn figures united by their identical garbs.
Among them, both men and women could be found, yet they all shared the same placid, gray eyes and hair, and solow conplextion, that of the deep north. Their expressions conveyed only sorrow or utter disinterest.
When questioned about the profound sorrow that seemed to engulf them, they confided in anyone who would listen, sharing their heartbreaking stories of being compelled to leave their families behind in search of employment in the bustling provincial capital of Avalora.
All shared similar sob stories, appearances, and motivation upon their arrival.
it
"If I didn't know any better," Alice pondered, "I would liken them to remnants of a forgotten existence or perhaps phantoms from our ancestors' memories. They don't fit in around here, and something tells me that they aren't really from this world at all."
Their existence is ineffably ethereal, reminiscent of a figure from a reverie, devoid of palpable attributes, or a defined persona. It's like their walking huskes.
"Alice, please, can you provide assistance?" Olivia cooley asked in ernest.
As the conversation continued, Alice's words grew more impassioned, her frustration evident. "How can such destitute figures prove troublesome for the Inquisition? I've never known these so-called 'apparitions' to be...dangerous." She paused, seemingly lost for words.
"They are just as inhuman as you lot! They would make perfect companions for your group of zealots. Why don't you gather a few of your people and head down to the docks to hire some of them as laborers? I'm sure they wouldn't mind..."
"You know, I have a child to care for," Alice began again, her voice tinged with weariness.
She glanced at young Michael, who remained quietly captivated by a mural in the distance—a striking depiction of a dark chapter in history.
Olivia sighed, conveying a momentary surrender. "Very well," she relented, albeit temporarily.
As the pair conversed, their conversation soon turned to the topic of the approaching tempest.
"What will happen to us? It's such an awful time," Alice cried.
"The storms always make the streets impassable, and no one can go outside until after the rain stops!"
"Don't worry so much, dear! It's probably just a little shower—just like the last one."
But Alice wasn't convinced.
"There's something wrong about it... it makes my skin crawl!"
"Maybe it'll pass before too long. Maybe if we pray hard enough."
***
As Michael nestled in Alice's embrace, his gaze remained transfixed on the mural suspended above the church's central altar. The painting depicted a haunting tale of war and bloodshed, unearthing the somber reality that the church had risen upon the countless fallen.
Though grotesque in its portrayal, there was an inexplicable allure within its depths, as if beauty and truth could be unearthed amidst the macabre. The mural whispered an alternative perspective, a narrative concealed by the veils of power that obscured the prevailing truth.
In Michael's young yet aged mind, he saw more than just the horrors of war and bloodshed. He saw the resilience of the human spirit, the capacity to find fascination and beauty even in the darkest of circumstances.
The mural's vivid imagery resonated within him, awakening a curiosity and a yearning for a broader understanding of this new, alternate world. As the conversation reached an impasse, Michael's gaze returned to his mother, only for his gaze to return once more to the surrounding, noting the ancient stained glass windows depicting scenes from the bible and the various religious artifacts 6 on display.
He noticed the small, gold plaques fixed to the wall beside him, bearing inscriptions which he read aloud to himself: "To the glory of God and the protection of our Heavenly Father, the founding fathers of this church erected this edifice on April 26th, 1062 A.E., to house the Celestial Throne and the Sacred Flame".
His imagination wandered as he pondered the whereabouts of the elusive flame. Was it still burning, perhaps hidden above the clouds, waiting to be discovered? The notion ignited a spark of curiosity within him, the possibility of one day witnessing its ethereal glow.
Yet, his reverie was interrupted by a sudden chill that crept up his spine, triggered by the dark, ominous clouds that loomed over the city, casting an unsettling shadow.
When he had stepped into the church, the sensation of unease seemed to intensify, saturating the very air he breathed. Michael's eyes scanned the grand hall, mesmerized by the vast expanse of polished wood flooring that stretched out before him.
His gaze lingered on the multitude of doors that led to unknown destinations, beckoning him to explore what lay beyond. The church, especially for a child his age and height, appeared larger than life, promising endless secrets waiting to be unraveled. Directly ahead, a door stood ajar, revealing a smaller room adorned with another row of pews.
They faced the majestic altar, commanding attention, with a central dais positioned at the rear of the sanctuary. His senses were enlivened by the hallowed atmosphere that enveloped him. The light filtering through stained glass windows cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the worn wooden benches, creating a serene yet mysterious ambiance.
As Michael took in the sight before him, he couldn't help but feel a sense of reverence. The rows of pews, like ancient guardians, seemed to hold countless whispered prayers and fervent wishes. The altar, adorned with delicate carvings and flickering candles, exuded an aura of sanctity and sacredness. The central dais stood as a focal point, a stage where faith and devotion intertwined.
For a fleeting moment, Michael imagined the echoes of hymns and sermons filling the sanctuary, the voices of countless worshippers that had once congregated here. The weight of history and the stories embedded in these sacred walls were almost palpable, drawing him further into the depths of his imagination.
But the allure of the church's mysteries tugged at him, and he knew that there was so much more to discover, far beyond the confines of this one room. With a gentle sigh, Michael turned away from the pews and toward his mother once again, his young mind brimming with anticipation.
There was a vast new world waiting for him to explore, and he was determined to absorb every fragment of its wonders, one visit at a time.
While Michael had always been mindful of his mother's concerns, he now found himself liberated from the burden of his aging and frail body, which had nearly entombed him while still alive.
In this foreign land, he saw an opportunity to escape his haunting past and embark on a fresh start—a chance to truly live again.
As they stepped out of the church, his mother's hand gently rested on his shoulder, guiding him along. It was only then that he realized Olivia was nowhere to be found, and their encounter had come to an end.
Undeterred, Michael walked beside his mother, taking in the sights of the vibrant streets.
His gaze rose to the towering buildings, their exotic architecture captivating his imagination. He found himself engrossed in deciphering the intricately carved words adorning each façade.
In a remarkably short time, Michael had grown fond of his newfound "mother." Perhaps it was an echo from the previous inhabitant of his current body—her own son.
Though only three days had passed since his awakening, this world already overflowed with enigmatic allure and archaeological wonders.
"Were do I start?!"