Fear and Reverence

The suns had risen well beyond the horizon, and Osthryn sets off to the library. The night’s events remained thankfully undiscussed at the breakfast table, and were mostly forgotten by the time Osthryn’s boots met the cobbles of the main road.

The streets are busy this Westag morning, she notes. She feels an imperceptible ripple flow through the city, and all at once all eyes turn in unison to the sky. Osthryn follows their lead. After two months in Mountainkeep, her morning walk to the library has yet to grow tiresome and she had believed today’s diversion would be no different.

The sky is blue and clear, dotted with a few cotton clouds. Instinctively, her hands briefly clench into fists, as if she is able to grab and hold them. Osthryn wonders what could have drawn so much attention from the folk milling about, since the sky is empty but for the few clouds. Not even one of the Royal Fleet of mounted wyverns, who usually occupy the space above Mountainkeep in their regular patrols, appears. But then a great shadow covers the city. The wind rushing past her accompanied by the unmistakable sound of beating wings makes her hold her breath. All sound fades to a thin hum in her ears, and blood rushes from her head to her trembling hands as her heart races uncontrollably. She stands frozen, transfixed by the sight of a Dragon flying past her for the first time in her life.

Wonder quickly gives way to fear, and reverence is replaced with jealousy. Confusion fills her as her desire to join the Dragon on the wing is tempered by the vicious conditioning of her elders. Osthryn tears her eyes from her wayward kinswing to the folk about her. She braces herself for the savage bays for blood wielded with silver-tipped spears. She searches for the tears of women and children. The elders guaranteed this would come to pass if a Dragon dared show themselves. It came to pass for her for less.

Folk cry out and fall to their knees, but rather than cries of fear and pleadings for mercy, awe and wonder fill her ears. She looks on in disbelief as children are shooed outside their homes by their mothers, fathers lifting the small ones on their shoulders so they could better see the great beast overhead. Osthryn feels a jolt go down her shoulder when a young woman, face painted with the false scales Osthryn so despises, grabs her arm.

“Come, say a prayer! The Dragon will hear it, and carry it closer to the gods!" the young priestess presses, a frenzied joy bubbling over in her vice-grip on Osthryn’s arm. Osthryn looks back up to the Dragon who had flown far into the distance, banking to make another pass over the town. The priestess turns Osthryn to face her, bony hands firmly on both her shoulders, giving Osthryn no escape from the woman’s religious fervour.

“Quickly, before He leaves! It will be months before He appears again! Come, follow my lead!"

The shadow draws closer, and Osthryn could swear there is an element of pride in the Dragon’s second flight over Mountainkeep. The priestess releases her grip on Osthryn’s shoulders, taking her hands in her own. In a soaring, clarion voice, the priestess raises a prayer:

"Oh messenger of Heaven, we call out to thee! We plead you hear us, where you fly free – help us and our prayers heard to be!"

Like a cacophony, prayers and calls of thanks to the gods rise from the gathered crowd in response. Osthryn, knowing the priestess is expecting some reaction from her, simply bows her head in the manner of prayer and listens. On all the occasions she had played this moment in her head, never once could she have predicted that her first sight of a Dragon truly, freely in flight, would be this one. For generations the people of her homeland built their homes underground. The North was where Dragons were the personification of rage, greed, and evil. She doubts that any one of her kind could imagine a scene such as this if they were to take flight.

Slowly the cacophony dies down, and the priestess lets Osthryn’s hands go. With a smile through tears of joy, the priestess skips off to the temple district, singing songs of praise. The crowd disperses slowly. Supplicants and simple onlookers alike strain to catch a glimpse of the retreating silhouette. Osthryn lets the silhouette retreat, as she herself retreats into the recesses of her thoughts on the rest of her walk to the library.

--- *** ---

"Wēs hāl!" comes the cheery greeting from behind her. Osthryn pauses on the Library steps, turning to face Silovar. He looks quite pleased with himself today, albeit a little dishevelled. His stark, white-silver hair is tousled, and his steely eyes shine with a brightness that complement the slight flush in his cheeks. The persistent morning greetings were a small bother at first – but even the standoffish and reserved Osthryn has to admit that Silovar’s enthusiasm, like a stream carving through rock, had grown on her.

"Wēs hāl," Osthryn returns. It had not escaped her notice that Silovar enjoyed her trying to use this strange language of his.

“Did you have an interesting morning so far?" Silovar asks, practically bursting at the seams with excitement.

“If you could call a priestess hounding you into a prayer interesting, then yes," Osthryn replies. Silovar’s head cocks slightly, and Osthryn braces herself for the imminent rise in volume. “As if a whole Dragon flying overhead, twice, is not the most interesting part of your morning!" he gesticulates at the sky dramatically.

Osthryn giggles at Silovar’s apparent offense. “The priestess made it rather difficult to appreciate the moment fully, I am afraid."

“I would think that she highlighted the importance of it!" Silovar teases.

“Where were you? I don’t think I saw you," Osthryn notes.

Silovar stops, his jaw practically hanging on the floor. He composes himself, folding his arms, “I was there,” he says, perplexed. “You must have missed me with all the attention that priestess was giving you." Osthryn laughs. “Attention that I would have been happy to go without. Say, Southerner, I have a question for you."

"Ġēse?"

Osthryn shoots Silovar a look, her eye roll softened with a smile. “Why do so many, not just the priestesses, paint scales on their faces? I cannot begin to understand it."

Silovar pauses a moment, searching Osthryn’s face. “I find it a bit strange myself, but it has been a tradition for the last several hundred years at least. They believe that it brings good luck. It is said that the scales help carry their prayers that they have in their thoughts to the gods."

“If they are so obsessed with having their prayers carried up, they should try feathers," Osthryn snaps, the morning’s events wearing a little heavier on her than she expected.

Silovar smiles at her, silently letting the words fall into the space between them.

Osthryn sighs. “Sorry about that, the priestess bothered me a bit more than I thought. The Dragon was a very interesting part of my morning – the first time I saw one fly, actually."

“Really? The first time?" There is an unplaceable earnestness to his voice.

“First time in my life," Osthryn smiles. “Now, I need to get some work done. Unless you have some query cards to give me, you shall have to leave me be for now."

“Osthryn?"

Osthryn pauses, her hand on the door, a smile teasing on her lips "Ġēse?"

“You fascinate me," Silovar says, his face the picture of bewilderment.

“So you say, Silovar. So you say."