Don’t Take Life Too Seriously; It Might Be Lilaquith

I paced about my room, tonguing my canine as I mulled over the most recent correspondence from the mirror. I still checked it out of habit, though it had provided nothing of use for some time—for better or worse—but that ended today. The instructions were simple: “Be ready to report on the Uvald response.” The reaction was in relation to a plan they would soon put into motion. Sistilla would head to Lilaquith temple shortly, seeking treatment for her... Ailment, I guess you would call it? I refused to call it a curse. Regardless, her planning the trip was no secret, and I thought little of it at the time. However, now it was absolutely essential that I accompany her.

Of course, you might remember that I was currently in the middle of a large project with Linglang, and the astute among you surely realized he wasn’t one to grant time-off requests. This was the chief obstacle, as I was sure Sistilla would welcome my company; she had become quite fond of me ever since the severe domestic insufficiency incidents, and I had cause to see this narrative brought to its end.

In such cases, there can be only one solution—if you are a slave: appeal to a higher authority. And that higher authority was, as strange as it sounds, Amillia. She technically had charge of me, though Linglang had mean-mugged her into submission. But if I threw my weight behind her, she wouldn’t fold—she was stubborn like that. Unfortunately, this would mean Amillia would go as well; she wouldn’t let me leave her behind. And... my mind drifted. Amillia would be going as well... No, I couldn’t think about that. This might be the only chance I get.

The plan went off without a hitch. I merely mentioned the trip to Amillia, and she tore after it like a dog chasing a mail truck. It chagrined Sistilla to have her kid sister accompany—can’t blame her—but she had no qualms about me joining. Linglang pitched a fit, but Amillia stood firm; I might have warned her about Linglang’s reaction ahead of time and reminded her she was the final arbiter. He stormed off, shouting something about two days.

Lucial had intended to travel with Sistilla, but reconsidered after learning of my attendance. She had more tact than to call out the real reason, instead stating her father might not approve of such a trip while casting a resentful gaze my way, remedying any suspicion that I might not have been the cause. Though it pained me more than I care to admit, it was for the best that she wasn’t on the trip. So perhaps the incident the other day was a blessing. On a side note, I stopped testing telepathy on anyone other than hougen and the occasional stray animal.

Within three days of intercepting the corresponding, we loaded up the auto-carriage and stepped onboard: Sistilla, Amillia, the driver, a small retinue of guards, and me. We got to ride in the latest of auto-carriages: a limo by any standard. Plenty of room to amble about, luxurious plush seats with enough room for a full-grown human to stretch out on—there was even a refrigerator! It seemed, after learning that his strong-willed daughter had shown an interest in making a pilgrimage to the temple of Lilaquith, goddess of homemaking, that Conroy was bending over backwards to facilitate this more agreeable preoccupation. He still forced a four-guard escort on us, much to Sistilla’s vexation. I don’t think she ever told him why she was going. Otherwise, I imagine his amiable reaction would have been more haughty and patronizing.

Regardless, I couldn’t complain about traveling in luxury, though that only enabled me to stress in comfort. Sure, a bored Amillia ensured no peace would be had for the approximately 300-mile trip to the capital city of Leits, where the temple resided. For the six-hour ride, she nagged us about being the first to have an in-carriage tea party while prancing about the carriage in her lacy green dress WITH matching wide-brimmed hat—a lady cannot be too careful about sun exposure after all, though little sun made it into the cabin… And while I suffered through the various games and other antics she tried to employ, in truth, I welcomed the distraction; I had no way of knowing when it would happen, and ruminating on it would only cause my hue to fade.

We had left early, and the midday sun was somewhere near its zenith with only a few nimbus clouds about when we arrived. Amillia sprinted out of the vehicle like an uncaged jackal, with the four guards taking up sentry positions.

“Sistilla! I have to pee!” Amillia said, showing all the telltale signs of a full bladder. Considering she had drunk heavily of the onboard beverages, it was impressive she had made it this long without resorting to the old trucker standby. Sistilla looked off towards what I could only describe as a palace, ignoring her sister, with a faraway smile.

“Sistilla!!” She called out again, bouncing between legs. Of course, such a delicate maiden would be unable to handle this in a more primitive way. I, having no such compunctions, took advantage of the nearby foliage and heaved a heavy sigh of relief, and not just for my bladder.

“Alright, let’s go find a place.” Sistilla shielded her eyes as she scouted the area.

“The bush over there works pretty well,” I said. “Got great coverage.” Amillia looked over with an angry frown, and even Sistilla didn’t seem to approve of the quip.

Ignoring the comment, “Look. There is a tavern,” Sistilla said, guiding the conversation back onto its rails. “We can take care of it there.” She sped off, forcing Sistilla to give chase—a chubby noble would make a tantalizing target for kidnappers. The driver bowed, as did the guards, and said they would keep watch of the carriage until needed. Normally, the guards knew well to leave Sistilla be, but Conroy’s authority superseded hers. Now, far away from Reastera, they knew better than to push the issue.

The capital was an old city made new, or so Baafa claimed. Learning that Amillia would be visiting the capital, she had used the opportunity to tutor on this subject, hoping that the relevance would stimulate Amillia’s interest; it didn’t. Everything here was old, but with a fresh coat of paint. They had paved over the roads for the modern auto-carriage, but the original city planner had laid out the streets with foot traffic in mind; driving would be slower than walking, unless you were content to run people down. Most buildings had stood for over two centuries but had undergone renovations and appeared in good repair, with many having integrated recent engrave tech. And of course, there were plenty of shops, and since we had come with Amillia, she beleaguered us into stopping at many of them.

“This would look great!” Amillia dug through a shelf full of overpriced scarves. We had already wasted the better part of two hours on these distractions, and even Sistilla was growing stone-faced. However, that might have been her eagerness to get to the temple. Despite her tomboyishness, she had enjoyed shopping… for the first hour.

I had dozed off in a corner when arms wrapped around me, and I felt something twist around my neck. My eyes shot open, and I reached up, trying to pull it away, but something had me pinned to the wall.

“Yep! Just like I thought. It’s a perfect complement!” Amillia trumpeted. Oh... just Amillia. My tail fell between my legs in shame, having been so oblivious. Somewhere, Moonlight Guardian shook her head in disappointment. And really, considering the circumstances, I should be ashamed.

“Don’t you think, Olavir?” She asked, only then occurring to me that she had wrapped something around my neck. A yellow scarf with a red stripe running through the center. What more could I say?

“It’s a scarf...”

“Um!” she nodded. “It brings out your indigo hue, and the red matches your eyes perfectly!” More of an astute response than I would expect, but she did have an unhealthy interest in fashion.

“…Does it?” I looked it over again. “It’s still a scarf.”

“Huh? What’s wrong with that?” She placed her hands on her hips.

“It doesn’t exactly get cold around here.”

“Hmm...” She looked up in thought. “It does sometimes... But what does that have to do with anything??”

“I mean... scarves are to keep you warm...” Am I wrong?

“And? All clothes are to keep you warm! That doesn’t mean we walk around naked!” She looked somehow offended.

…Was Amillia making a cogent argument? Even worse, she had me on my back foot. Well, this couldn’t stand! I had an untarnished record to defend!

“Yes, but—”

“Okay, that’s enough, you two.” Sistilla cut me off! “This isn’t a shopping trip. We need to get to the temple before dark.”

“We still have time to buy the scarf, right?” Her eyes glisten with genuine concern.

Sistilla gave her a tired smile. “Alright, but don’t dawdle.”

“Okay!” she said as she ran off to the clerk, slipping the scarf off with uncharacteristic adroitness.

“But scarves are optional articles of clothing!” I cried out my rebuff, but there was nobody to hear it.

By the time we reconvened, the argument had passed; my attempts to revive it met with the more characteristic confusion on Amillia’s part, and I spent the rest of the walk to the temple with an unbecoming bitterness. Otherwise, the rest of the way was uneventful, save for the scarf now hanging around my neck like an albatross. I would never live down my humiliation. How could she call time and let Amillia win on points!? The game was rigged! Rigged, I tell you!

At any rate, we arrive at the temple of Lilaquith in short order, and it very much looked like what you would expect a temple to a pagan god to look like: a white granite construct, with august columns holding up a solid awning sheltering the entrance to the building, like the Parthenon, but with a smaller budget. The interior took me by surprise, though. I had expected something closer to a church, with seating and a pulpit to preach from. Instead, the space was... homey? Faint floral aromas carried through the air—coming from the vases of flowers placed about, I suspected. Mahogany panelled the walls, and well-placed light fixtures gave everything a welcoming glow. On these walls hung engravings and depictions of a middle-aged woman tending to various household duties, from decorating to child care: Lilaquith, I imagined. If you felt the need to take a seat and contemplate these artistic works, two long, inviting benches lined either side of a carpet that stretched out between the entrance and an elegant marbled altar situated about three-fourths of the way back. And the place was spotless, which brings me to the staff. Numerous women cleaned on hand, knee, and even back in several unusual places, with a diligent determination. Judging by their ceremonial and matching olive green robes, they were all priestesses. And, going by the immaculate state of the entire building, they spared no surface from this treatment; even the ceiling looked to have never known a cobweb.

“Wow…” escaped from Amillia’s open mouth as we passed through the doorway. “The ceiling is so high.” It was true. In some ways, it said a lot about her upbringing that a high ceiling is what caught her interest, as the rest of the large chamber was ripe for comment, but maybe not so much for one habituated to chateau living. Sistilla, however, had more important matters to attend to than to stare off at the ceiling like a slack-jawed turkey during a downpour.

“Excuse me,” she said politely to one of the young women scrubbing underneath a bench like she was working on an old Chevy. She halted and looked over at Sistilla. “Who can I talk to about performing services?”

“Oh, are you looking to get married?” The woman said, wiping sweat from her brow with a forearm.

“No, well...” Sistilla blushed. “Yes, but this is about something else.”

“I see... Well, sister Cel can help you.” She shrimped out from under the bench and looked about. “Over there, by the back wall.” In the back corner, a blonde priestess wearing a simple white robe stood in front of a carving. We excused ourselves and made our way over.

“Excuse me,” Sistilla said to the woman’s back. She continued picking away at the wall carving, oblivious. “Umm... Hello?” Still no response. From this close, you could see the woman poring over her work, tuning out the rest of the world. Her work comprised cleaning the intricate detail of the stonework engraving with what looked like a toothpick. She wore a magnifying eyepiece but still pressed her face against the stone, like a miserly jeweler against a gemstone. “Umm, sorry to bother you—” Sistilla reached out to place a hand on her shoulder, but just before she could…

“Do you see that?” The woman pulled her face next to hers.

“…See what?” Sistilla said, baffled, as she stared at what appeared to be a factory-sealed level of clean.

“Here!” She stuck the eyepiece onto Sistilla and pulled her head back to the spot.

“Umm… what am I looking for?” It looked like Sistilla’s intentions got superseded.

“Does that look like a speck to you?” The priestess pointed it out with the toothpick.

“I don’t think I…” Sistilla scrunched her face. “Wait, I see… something.”

“I knew it! There is a speck there!”

“Actually, I don’t think it’s a speck. It looks like maybe a crack or a chip.”

“A... CHIP!?” The girl went pale. “That can’t be! There was never a chip there before!”

“How do you know it wasn’t there before?” I asked.

“Because I go over every millimeter of this carving every week!” It appears she took my question as an assault on her pride.

“Every week?” I said, eyebrows flared.

“Of course! Just like the rest!” She swept her arm around the temple, which consisted of ten additional carvings, three on each wall except the entrance, which only had two. Judging from her stern look, she was serious.

“Well...” I tugged at the scarf. “Maybe it was overzealous cleaning...” She paled again.

“What? No... It couldn’t be... But that is the only thing that makes sense...” She fell against the embossing. “Mistress! I’ve failed you…” she lamented as her face slid down the facade. We all shifted about, hands in pockets where possible, until Sistilla spoke up.

“I-Is it really that bad?”

“It is! This temple has stood for over 500 years and has remained undamaged. But now, under my stewardship, it has been vandalized! And by my own hand no less!”

“Entropy, unavoidable,” I tried to seed the idea into her mind, as this was going nowhere. “I could just be natural wear and tear; things break down eventually, even stone,” I said to give outside validation. She perked up a bit.

“Maybe...” She wiped tears from her eyes. “But still, what can we do about this?” This ended her paroxysm of grief, as she stood up and made herself presentable. “Sorry, how can I help you all?”

“Are you okay?” Sistilla asked.

“I’ll be fine,” she said with a fragile smile. “This is just another trial of the Matriarch. Please don’t trouble yourself.”

“Well, okay...” Sistilla rubbed the back of her head. “I have been having a bit of an issue that I was hoping you could help me with...” She then launched into the story about how she had desecrated a statue of Lilaquith in this very temple. Cel just covered her mouth like a startled young maiden at the unfurling of the tale.

“That’s...” Considering how unhinged she became at a microscopic blemish on a stone carving, I expected nothing short of a full excommunication. “Terrible... Why would you—”

“That loogie wasn’t for Lilaquith; it was for my father!”

“But you didn’t spit on your father...”

“Yeah...” Sistilla shelled up. “That might have been a bridge too far.”

“…But desecrating the sacred representation of the Matriarch wasn’t?”

“Mmmm...” Well, this seemed downright civil. Maybe because you could clean off a loogie, but a tiny nick was forever?

“I wasn’t even thinking about Lilaquith at the time! It was purely spur of the moment!” Sistilla became theatrical in her gestures, throwing her arms out wide.

“I... guess I can understand that. Did you come to clear your conscience, Ms... I’m sorry, I forgot to ask your name.”

“Sistilla. You can call me Sistilla,” she said, and I couldn’t help but notice her trying to obfuscate her pedigree. “And no, I didn’t just come to clear my conscience...” Her posture deflated. “I’ve been having... issues.”

Cel pursed her lips, not understanding. Why would you come to a temple because of an issue you were having, unless of course it related to a crisis of faith, and, by every indicator, it was not? “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Well, you see...” She wrung her hands; I guess this would be an awkward conversation. “I have been having trouble with certain tasks... domestic in nature.”

“Oh!” The priestess perked up. “Were you looking for instruction? Teaching domestic skills is a core tenet of our Mistress, and we would gladly accept you as a student... For a small contribution, of course.” She blushed, turning her gaze down.

“I’ll gladly pay any fee, but my issue doesn’t seem to be a lack of skill. More of a...” She struggled to say the words, and I can’t blame her; it was ridiculous.

“She is cursed!” Amillia shouted, without regard for the sensitive nature of the conversation.

“C-Cursed?” Cel stammered.

“Several people have said as much, and there doesn’t seem to be any other explanation...” Even Sistilla didn’t seem convinced.

“I can assure you, no matter how bad you think you are, a little instruction can go a long way.”

“I don’t know about that,” I cut in. “I’ve seen this girl take perfectly wholesome ingredients and turn them into a weapon of war, and I’m not being facetious.” Cel still looked dubious. Can’t say I blame her.

“Well, we can start with some cooking lessons and—”

“Not to sound rude, but can we cut past the intermediate steps? I’ve already been told I’m hopeless by multiple skilled chefs.” Sistilla interrupted. “Can’t you just ask Lilaquith how I can atone?”

“Well... of course we can commune with the goddess, but that is not something we do lightly. It would take considerable—”

“I’ll pay any amount!” Sistilla snapped. Had she lost her patience?

“Really? Are you in a position to do that?” Her eyes narrowed. It must cost a pretty penny.

She hesitated, but then announced, “I am of House Uvald. Money is of no consequence.” I can second that.

Cel staggered back, eyes widening. “Oh...” She bowed, back near vertical. “I am terribly sorry. I had no idea I was talking to nobility. Please accept my humblest of apologies.”

“Eh,” she muttered. “Don’t apologize. I was hoping not to have my identity revealed. Just treat me as you would anyone else.” Cel gave a sceptical lip curl. “Anyone else with a lot of money...”

And with that, a sizable donation found its way into the temple coffers, and a divine communing was arranged for after formal visiting hours. While we waited, we made lodging accommodations and dined on the local cuisine. At every opportunity, Sistilla would cast a far-off gaze at that palace-like construct. It turned out it was a palace. Guess that made sense, being the capital and presumably where the king lived.

When we returned, the temple had gotten much darker. The numinous place had taken on an eerie glow, illuminated by a small brazier placed in the center of the altar. Six sisters of Lilaquith flanked the final segments of red carpet just in front of the display. The ritual would be performed by Cel, the head priestess. Or rather, was being performed. It turned out that our presence was unnecessary.

I couldn’t tell you how the ritual started. By the time we arrived, Cel appeared unconscious, floating in the air with the sisters performing sigilry, presumably to accomplish the feat. I would have loved to observe, but a seventh sister, who seemed to stand guard, ushered us away to a distant corner of the temple. The ritual continued for what had to be 90 minutes; my eyelids hung heavy. But eventually, they concluded, and we were told to approach.

“Are all rituals this boring?” Amillia said, having remained calm during the whole proceeding.

“No,” Sistilla said. “They are usually more boring and require monotonous participation.”

The sisters looked exhausted. I guess waving your hands around for an hour and a half would do that to you. Cel, however, yawned like she just rolled out of bed, though not so much as a hair was displaced.

“…I never look forward to waking up.” She said with a stretch.

“Were you asleep the whole time?” Amillia said, irritated.

“Well, yes... How else was I supposed to commune with the Matriarch?” She tilted her head.

“Wait? Did you have to go through an entire sleep cycle?” I said. “Is that why it took so long? Because you had to wait for a...” I didn’t know the word for it in Caster. “Dream cycle?” I settled on. My guess was that a word for REM didn’t exist in Caster. Maybe in Hozlovian?

“Dream Cycle?” It wasn’t just Cel that looked at me with slanted eyes. “I don’t know about this dream cycle, but yes, the Matriarch communicates through dreams.”

“Did you ask her about my... condition?” Sistilla asked with a nervous timbre.

“Huh... Oh! Right!” She cleared her throat and took up an austere expression. “I did ask the mother about your curse, and she is... Well...” Her inexpressive mask broke down. “She is very angry with you.”

“She is!?” Sistilla paled.

“Well, of course she is! Isn’t that why we came here in the first place?” It seemed Amillia was the only believer among us, as I still had my doubts, despite the inexplicable nature of what I’d seen.

“She is indeed!” Cel regained her more authoritative frame. “She says you have not only defiled her sacred idol but also shown her no respect!”

“What! How? I take full responsibility for the defiling part, but how have I disrespected her otherwise?” Sistilla could be dangerous with her expressive hand gestures—best not to get too close.

“Well, she says you never offer her any prayers...”

“One can’t be expected to pray to every god!”

“Though you make regular offerings to Bromar, Halls, and Marathaa...”

“They are directly involved in my trade!”

“And you offer up the occasional prayer to Deater, Gremelda, Tyriler, and even Ziksis...”

“Show me one person who hasn’t beseeched the God of Weather when caught out in the open during a storm!”

“And...” Cel hesitated. “I hesitate to mention this, but did you ask for a boon from Hungus?”

“I-It was a complicated situation!” Sistilla tried to pull her head into her thoracic cavity. “But there are plenty of gods I’ve not associated with...”

“If that were true, then perhaps my Mistress would have been more lenient with you...”

“What do you mean?”

“Well...” She placed a finger on her chin. “Did you ever... ridicule a follower of Lady Lilaquith?”

“Ridicule...” I could almost see the question mark form above her head.

“Yes, like a fine gentleman who would ask the Matriarch to look out for his household while he was away—”

“Oh yeah! Dodalis! What a dandy! What kind of man offers...” She caught herself, but judging by her scowl, Cel was not amused. “Well... Maybe I was out of line...” Sistilla tugged at her collar.

“And then there was the incident with your mother,” Cel continued, listing infractions.

“My mother is crazy! You can’t expect me to go along with her impromptu festival!” That seemed harsh. I would say Valarina was mostly in her right mind, just a little... eccentric.

“And overlooking—”

“Okay!” She cut off. “I get it... I have done wrong by her.” She looked thoroughly beaten, with sunken posture and stooped shoulders. “But what can I do to get back in her good graces?”

“Well...” She pondered. “A life of service to Lilaquith.”

“Umm... anything shorter?” A life of service would defeat the point, and spending all day scrubbing…

“Hmm... You could humble yourself before the Matriarch,” Cel offered, having now come down from her outrage.

Sistilla perked up. “Oh, that sounds doable. How long does it take?” Cel shot her an eye. “I mean, I do have responsibilities.”

“Well, it depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On how long the Matriarch feels you need to repent.”

“So theoretically, it could be very short?”

“Well... yes.”

“Okay! What is involved?”

“Oh, it’s simple, really. You must bear yourself naked in front of the altar until you receive a sign.”

*Cough! C-Cough...* I started choking on air. I had not expected such a proposition from a religious institution. And Cel said it with such a straight face. Guess things are different for pagans.

Sistilla’s face lost all muscle tone and just hung there as if nailed to a wall. Amillia had remained quiet throughout this entire exchange, grinning the whole time, but even she realized what a big ask this was.

“By ‘naked’ you mean...”

“Not a stitch of clothing.” She said promptly. “That includes jewelry, hair ornaments, footwear, body paint...” Her eyes reach up, searching for more. “Only what came out of the womb.” Damn, no loophole, but I guess a goddess wouldn’t take too kindly to loopholes to begin with.

“And it takes place here?” Sistilla tried to pull herself together.

“Yes, right where I’m standing, in fact.” She pointed down to the spot just in front of the altar.

“And when?”

“When? Well, whenever you decide to undertake the trial. Though once you begin, you may not leave until you have received your sign.”

“So eating, sleeping...”

“They are done right here.” Both Amillia and my eyes ping-ponged between the two, stupefied by the absurdity of the trial.

A look of dread entered Sistilla’s eyes. “And even???” Cel tilted her head, confused, but only for a moment.

“Oh, heavens no!” Sistilla let out a sigh. “You can take care of that as needed. But remember to act in good faith, Lilaquith knows your heart.” Well, I guess that was something. Wouldn’t have to shit in full public view.

“But what about parishioners?”

“They will be here.”

“And able to see me?”

“Of course! It wouldn’t be much of a punishment if people couldn’t see your shame!” No dignity to be had if she went this route.

“Am I just supposed to stand here until I get the signal?” Sistilla strained to hold on to her composure.

“Any submissive position will suffice. You can even change position as needed.” How generous.

“What constitutes—”

“You know, Sistilla, you don’t have to do this,” I cut in, embarrassed for her. “You could live perfectly fine with this curse—if that is even what it is.” I added under my breath; still couldn’t bring myself to buy this “curse” thing, though it seems the priestess knew things she couldn’t have known otherwise... Sistilla wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed.

I redirected my attention to the priestess. “Does this kind of thing happen often?”

“No, not often,” she said. That made sense; otherwise, I would imagine Lilaquith would be a much more popular deity, but among all the wrong people. “It is usually undertaken by sisters of the order, and mostly for their own peace of mind. The Matriarch is often merciful in such cases, and the sisters usually receive a sign within a day, sparing them prolonged penance.”

“You mean people voluntarily submit themselves to this?” What kind of people do you got serving here?

She smiled. “I could see why you would think that way, but for us devotees, staying in our goddess’s good graces is more important than personal dignity.” Yeap, definitely a cult, a cult with a powerful divinity’s backing—possibly. “I will say, though, I’ve never heard of someone being actually cursed—I didn’t think that kind of thing happened. Therefore, I cannot say how long the Matriarch will take to accept your penance.” A silence followed as Sistilla wrestled with herself. It looked like she was trying to squeeze the life out of herself.

“Olavir, what does she mean when she says, ‘bear herself naked?’" Amillia turned to me with a worried look.

“Exactly what it sounds like.” And it sounded outrageous.

“It sounds like she wants Sistilla to stand here buck naked,” she stated as if it were a ridiculous notion and therefore couldn’t be the proper interpretation. You poor, naive girl.

“That is exactly what she is asking.”

“But she can’t ask that!” She shouted. “It’s not right for a lady to go around naked!” Her outburst drew the attention of Cel, but I didn’t bother to hush her. This ask was clearly the more outrageous event. But the sister didn’t seem offended.

“There is always a life of service... I’m sorry, we have never had to deal with this kind of issue.” Well, I guess I could buy that, though you would think they would have more options for penance.

“Can I think this over?” Sistilla asked, looking unwell.

“Of course, you couldn’t start tonight anyway, and a humbling is not something to undertake lightly.” Well, I guess it depends on how you define “undertake lightly.”