"Answer to a Prayer"

Log Date:
	6/14/01

Log Cast:
	Kedar, Faanshi, Khalid

Log Intro:
	It is a Faanshi shattered in heart and soul who has returned at
last to Atesh-Gah following her long sojourn among the Ettowealona. She
has been safely escorted into the court of Thalia Tritonides Khalida by
Geridan Kentari Rashid, who brought her back from the Sylvan lands -- and
Geridan has reported with her on the circumstances surrounding the death
of the Varati man Mehul, who had been revealed as the murderer of several
Sylvan graisha.
	The Varati man Mehul, who Faanshi had loved, and who she saw
killed before her very eyes.
	Sunk into a fog of emotional detachment, Faanshi knows deep inside
her that something is wrong with her. And so she does not protest when the 
Maharani immediately perceives that she is not herself, and declares that 
she needs to realize she is in need of help. But still she cannot banish the 
images of blood and violence from behind her eyes -- or the weight within 
her heart of all the other losses she has suffered, brought once again into 
sharp relief by this latest, most acutely painful death.
	Desperate for guidance, desperate for wisdom, and desperate to
understand how she can continue to bear it if she must suffer loss after
loss, pain after pain, death after death, the shudra healer has come to
spend the rest of the day within the Temple of Khalid Atar. There she has
immersed herself in prayer, unaware that for once, an answer will come to 
her prayers, not only from a young Lion of Fire who owes her his health, but 
also from the one she has been taught to revere ever since she was born...
	The God-King Himself.

*===========================< In Character Time >==========================* 
             Time of day:  Night
          Date on Aether:  Monday, June 15, 3908. 
           Year on Earth:  1508 A.D. 
       Phase of the Moon:  New 
                  Season:  Summer 
                 Weather:  Clear Skies 
             Temperature:  Hot 
*==========================================================================*

Inner Sanctum - Temple of Khalid Atar - Atesh-Gah - Haven
     Sweeping, majestic arches dance courtly waltzes amongst the high ceiling, 
  grand domes spacially created with simplistic, artistic values. Towering to 
  their full heights and supporting such enormously extravegant architecture 
  are golden columns, their girths tickled with feathered etchings. Central to 
  the entirety of the temple is a shrine of offering, risen upon a marbled 
  dias and laden with treasures and incense. 
     Sleek, hand-crafted tiles spread their glimmering rainbows of fantastic 
  imagery as a uniform compilation to create each wall within this lavish 
  temple. A veritable history unfolds from one brilliant grouping to the next, 
  figurines created with an assortment of florid hues to ultimately depict 
  Khalid Atar, from babe to God-King full grown, and the tales of His triumphs 
  thereafter.
     In a deep enclave just to the right of the entrance, nested beneath an 
  miniature archway boasting of vibrant flame etchings, are two typical items 
  for daily worship. Lined in perfection and upon a hip-high table of mahogany 
  is an array of prayer bells, their shiny, silver surfaces untarnished and 
  well-defined with tiny lettered blessings. Filling the remaining space are 
  mounds of woven, patterned pillows devised so as to aide in healthier 
  joints. A veritable heaven is not complete without the lush cultivation of 
  thriving plants, those which clamber and sprout forth, wrapping with 
  caressing leaf for a resoundingly peaceful conclusion. 
                         (OOC: +view is enabled here.)
Contents:
Kedar
Offerings
Obvious exits:
Antechamber <A>  Ornate Staircase <U>  Courtyard <C>

Kedar
Kedar is not tall, for a Varati, just short of six feet. However, the lack of 
  height is more than made up by the well-proportioned muscles, which make his 
  frame not so much bulky, but give it both strength and agility. The speed, 
  precision and vigilance of the man's movements banish any thought of 
  weakness and harmlessness. 
Unlike the rest of his bronzed, scarred and hardened skin, the man's face is 
  smooth and flat, with slim features. His black hair is cropped short in a 
  very pragmatic way, leaving little way for fashion or beauty. Contrasting to 
  the dangerous appearance of the warrior are the big brown, slanted eyes. 
  They reflect his young age and still show innocence and lack of experience 
  with the ways of this world, yet also reveal self-confidence and firmness. 
  Betraying that light of innocense is the inverted star of burned white 
  flesh, etched deeply into the smooth dusky skin of his forehead -- the mark 
  of a criminal convicted by the Delphi. The control Kedar shows over his 
  motions cannot hide the youth that remains in his expression. Surely, this 
  lad has not seen his twentieth summer. 
His clothing is entirely black, lacking any sort of adornment: A loose cotton 
  shirt with a big 'V' going down his hairless, sculpted-like chest and a pair 
  of tighter leather breeches are completed by matching leather boots, 
  reaching up to his knees. The only part that breaks the darkness of this 
  outfit is the sheathed falcare at his hip whose pommel is crafted into a 
  lion's head, the sign of an Agni-Haidar.

Faanshi
     At first glance, some things about this individual are easy to discern. 
  The garments worn are those oft seen on Varati females, yet, this figure 
  stands at only 5'9", small for a woman of that race. But woman she clearly 
  is, if the glimpses of slender hands and feet and of the shape beneath her 
  flowing garb are to be believed. What portions of her skin are visible are a 
  warm shade of gold. Shy or perhaps simply trained to submissive silence she 
  must be, for she rarely raises her eyes to anyone unless specifically 
  bidden, and she speaks so seldom and so softly that it is nigh impossible to 
  determine the quality of her voice. Only the most astute of observers might 
  notice that every so often -- perhaps when she thinks no one is watching -- 
  this silent one peeks with furtive curiosity out from behind her veil at the 
  world at large, with eyes set at a slight un-Varatish slant in her face, 
  eyes the color of summer leaves.
     At the moment she is clad in red and gray garments of Varati make, a 
  voluminous sari wrapped about her slender frame and almost concealing the 
  simple choli and skirt beneath. She is veiled, though perhaps those who know 
  this maiden might glean that the translucent silver-gray gauze before her 
  face is not quite the usual sort of veil she wears; it admits glimpses of 
  her mouth and the shape of her chin beneath it. So too it is with her hair, 
  which is unbound for once and which falls about her shoulders and back in a 
  loose coal-black river of curls.
     Although she comports herself with perfect propriety, her tone and 
  demeanor those of a respectful servant, there is nevertheless a certain 
  strange detachment about the girl -- a remoteness to her tone, and a look to 
  her eyes that suggests some fundamental portion of her being is not in 
  residence behind them.

Under the watchful eyes of its guardians, Kedar takes a closer look at the 
  collection of offerings.

Khalid enters the warmth of the temple from the courtyard beyond.
Khalid has arrived.

Not that Atesh-Gah in general is not vigilantly guarded at all hours of the 
  day and night -- it is, after all, the residence of the most important 
  Varati in Haven, not to mention that of the Amir-al Himself when he chooses 
  to visit this candala city -- but the temple in particular is _always_ under 
  watch. It is holy ground, and therefore must be guarded at all times.
Faanshi knows this -- but for once, the prospect of the Atarvani seeing her 
  enter the place has caused no fear to enter her heart. Dismissed from 
  Thalia's court, she has come to this place in search of a quiet corner in 
  which to kneel. Hours have passed in which she has remained, gazing with 
  empty eyes up at the sacred altar where many offerings have been placed in 
  honor of the Hawk of Heaven. But only when afternoon slides into night does 
  the shudra stir.
With the coming of night, the temple is comparatively deserted, only the 
  presences of the occasional Atarvani here and there hinting at signs of 
  life. No one disturbs the shudra in her borrowed clothes of Clan Rashid as 
  she approaches the place of offerings and kneels there, reaching into a 
  small bag she has brought with her, and pulling forth small white candles. 
  One after the other, until she has a dozen before her.

Being a guard himself, there's hardly a place Kedar fears to enter within 
  Atesh-Gah -- or perhaps even outside. Yet he always felt inappropriate at 
  the temple. A place ruled by others, a place where Agni-Haidar are accepted 
  to watch, but still do not belong. It's not the first time he enters, but 
  the first time he chooses to come by his own will. 
Hard, metal-capped boots upon polished marble announce the entrance of the 
  off-duty Janizar. His kin at the door hardly spare him a glance, and he 
  avoids to give either of them a closer look. His eyes flicker only briefly, 
  nervously through the near-empty hall, before focusing on the ground in 
  front of him. Unconsciously, his steps take him towards the space for the 
  offerings, right where Faanshi is sitting.

A dozen candles, plus one. Faanshi lifts each consideringly, and as she does 
  turns her attention to the many offerings that have been placed before the 
  altar already. Space is a precious thing, and she is not about to disturb 
  any gifts or rida scrolls that have been left for the Atarvani to take and 
  relay to the God-King, or otherwise use in his service. But there is a small 
  open space at the foot of the altar, and into this Faanshi lays a final item 
  from her bag: a tray of fired clay, upon which she begins to arrange the 
  candles.
It would not do, after all, to have melted wax spill upon the sacred floor.
Behind her, then... footsteps? Her heart seems empty and cold to her, and 
  after the Maharani's advice it does seem to her that she should not feel 
  this way... but there is nothing wrong with her senses. Summer-green eyes 
  peek over her shoulder, and as she espies the young Lion approaching, she 
  turns where she is already kneeling to incline her head to him.

Eyes still on the richly decorated ground, Kedar is unaware of who exactly he 
  is approaching. And not really noticing the gesture of respect given to him. 
  "Atarvani," he addresses the half-breed neutrally, his voice calm and 
  controlled. "I came to seek spiritual guid..." Only now, he raises his gaze, 
  and notices just who he is talking to. The admissing is abrubtly 
  interrupted. "You are not an Atarvani. You are the shudra healer." The 
  assertation is made in the same calm, flat tone as before, lacking any sort 
  of either reverence or superiority. "I did not want to disturb your 
  prayers." Even though that's exactly what he did. If it's an excuse for his 
  prompt action, it doesn't sound like one.

"Yes, Imphadi," the maiden replies, her voice as soft and earnest as always, 
  just as deferential. Yet tonight, there is something different. For 
  starters, she keeps talking, after that habitual 'yes, Imphadi'. "I am she. 
  You have disturbed nothing... it is all right."
And secondly... though her tone is not flat, per se, there is nevertheless a 
  calmness about it that rivals Kedar's own. A remoteness, a detachment. But 
  there is also a solemn, childlike innocence to it, as she pauses in her 
  arrangement of the candles, never looking up, her slender form seemingly 
  patiently at ease. "I have paused my prayers to make my offering, but I will 
  cede my place to you if you need guidance as well. It is right that the 
  Atarvani should attend to one of the Amir-al's own Lions; I can wait."

Kedar raises one hand, indicating to Faanshi that she may stay where she is. 
  "You are faithful. That is good." The emotional distance in the Janizar's 
  tone is replaced by one of serene satisfaction, derived from the knowledge 
  that the world is alright again if the shudra keep their faith to the 
  Eternal Flame. Eyes showing hardly more maturity than those of the kneeling 
  girl wander over the candles, studying their arrangement silently. Finally, 
  the Lion explains, "Continue your prayer and offering. Agni-Haidar are 
  warriors. We offer Khalid reverence in our fashion. Our altar is the 
  battlefield. Each dead enemy an offering." He takes a long breath, then 
  adds, "We do not require guidance by the Atarvani." Usually. Something is 
  clearly disturbing the young soldier that he came here to seek what he just 
  denied. Something out of the ordinary. And the fact that he admitted this 
  weakness to a mere servant doesn't make things better.

One of the great temple doors opens on gathering dusk, then swings slowly 
  closed once more; for that moment, a lone, cloaked figure is framed there. 
  It is plunged in darkness thereafter, but the soft echo of bootsteps mark 
  the figure's progress until he materializes at the edge of a warm pool of 
  torchlight. Diminutive for a Varati, this one; he is all but lost beneath a 
  fall of rough, brown cloth, but the strong outlines just visible within his 
  looming hood suggest a male of the species.

A line of seven... a line of five. And one set aside on its own, closest to 
  the altar. Faanshi stares down at them with her absent gaze, then moves her 
  dainty hand to the seven, separating off a pair on the left and a pair on 
  the right, leaving three in the center. "Thank you, Imphadi," she murmurs. 
  "I have tried all my life to be faithful, even when it is hard." Is she 
  conscious of the oddity of how the young warrior is addressing her? If she 
  is, it does not show in her lightly veiled face, and neither does she 
  display any sign that the fact that she is actually speaking to him in 
  return can be considered odd as well. She moves now to take flint and tinder 
  from her bag, patiently and unhurriedly working to make the first small 
  spark with which she may light the candles she has brought. "The Lions are 
  truly blessed. From what I have been honored to witness, there must be great 
  comfort in knowing that His flame is strongest for you, His hands your 
  hands, His strength your strength."

Watching the religious ritual with the silent curiosity of a child who is just 
  witness of something he could never understand, Kedar remains attentive, one 
  step behind the shudra. He does not interrupt her as she lights the candles, 
  but replies once they're all lit. "Only hardships can strengthen true faith. 
  And lead to strength." The youth doesn't seem pertubed by explaining his own 
  beliefs to this girl he just randomly stumbled across. And doesn't seem to 
  mind the conversation as well, even if his answers still sound like they've 
  been read out from an Agni-Haidar cookbook. "We are his tool. His sword, his 
  fist and his shield. Nothing more, nothing less. As such, we do our duty." 
  The newcomer is briefly noticed, but Kedar's attention doesn't linger on 
  him. The simple, brown garb hiding the figure marks him as some random, 
  unimportant civilian looking seeking prayer -- in the warrior's view, at 
  least.

Not quite as observant as the Janizar, for the stranger has not come close 
  enough to Faanshi to suggest to her that he, or perhaps she, is someone from 
  whom she must accept an order or someone to whom she must yield her place, 
  the shudra keeps her attention centered upon the tiny flames she kindles on 
  the tray before her. As each springs up it casts a miniscule sphere of light 
  into being and sparks off golden reflections in the shudra's deep green 
  eyes; she stares down into the flames now, perhaps entranced, perhaps seeing 
  something visible only to her within them. "The Imphadi Warlord of Messala 
  told me that I would be strong because part of my blood is Varati," she says 
  then, musingly. "How do you know when you are strong?"

Kedar's assessment of the newcomer seems to be borne out by events. The 
  cloaked man makes his silent way to the altar's side, not far down from 
  warrior and supplicant; after a few murmured words, deep-voiced but 
  indistinct-- a prayer of some sort, perhaps-- he sinks to his knees, the 
  rough weave of his garb gathering in folds upon the temple's pristine floor. 
  With his head lowered, the man's face is largely hidden from view.

Even though Kedar is looking at the same flames, his flat expression shows 
  that he cannot find anything deep or interesting about them. Any 
  significance is lost on the young warrior. Must be a chick thing. "If I am 
  not strong, I fail. And die. I am alive. Therefore, I am strong." It almost 
  sounds like Descartes had some influence upon this Agni-Haidar's logic. 
  Despite the absurdity of the explanation, the angry mark of burned flesh 
  upon his forehead bears silent witness to his belief. With distant 
  attention, he tries to make out the words of the prayer, but spares the 
  believer otherwise no heed.

Faanshi slips a glance sideways at the young warrior, her brow furrowing evr 
  so slightly, just a hint of distress somewhere beneath her mask of 
  tranquility momentarily getting through. Kedar's logic sounds intoxicatingly 
  simple... but things have never been quite so simple for her. Is there 
  something she's missing, some piece of wisdom that those of pure blood 
  possess, that she does not? Or is his assurance borne of his exalted 
  position? Somewhere within her she feels the tiniest flicker of bemusement 
  that she is speaking so freely with him... and yet, her mistress _did_ tell 
  her to seek guidance. Is it coming to her in the form of this young Lion?
"Imphadi," she asks then, shyly, "may I ask a question of you?"

Kedar's eyes narrow for a moment -- nobody has ever asked him before whether 
  they could ask a question. Fellow Agni-Haidar just demanded that they were 
  answered or things get done, and others simply did when he got them that 
  something needed to be done. A flicker of confusion shows in his gaze, but 
  then he nods silently to the devout servant, gesturing with his hand to 
  proceed. Despite the fact that he cringes inside to answer a question a 
  servant could ask. He was not made to talk or to guide. He was made to kill.

"I know that we are supposed to rejoice, when someone passes on to their next 
  life..." Even now, as she bobs her head gratefully in acknowledgement of the 
  permission granted, Faanshi does not look up to meet his eyes. Instead she 
  looks to the altar, her face still starkly impassive beneath the dapplings 
  of candlelight that glimmer along her veil. "But when the Agni-Haidar see 
  their brothers fall in battle... do they miss them?"

"No. There is no reason to mourn or miss." The answer is firm and clear. "A 
  brother who has fought to last to do his duty has died in glory and will be 
  reborn in glory. A brother who has failed in battle does not deserve to be 
  missed. We have to act to continue our duty. Above all else." Kedar's eyes 
  drift off momentarily, focusing on a single flame. The memory of a friend he 
  killed during training deep in the rocks Masada comes back to him. Memories 
  of their closeness. Does he miss what happened between them? Does he miss 
  the trainee Akbar? He was too weak to survive the training. Kedar was strong 
  enough not be overcome by feelings of grief. And survive. No regrets.

Without batting an eye, without diverting her attention a fraction of an inch 
  from the thirteen flames before her, Faanshi says softly, "I have seen 
  death, and death, and I try to tell myself that the Lost Ones are all gone 
  to their next lives and there is nothing but my duty. But the Queen-Maharani 
  says something is wrong with me now, and my heart is as ashes within my 
  breast. I cannot tell if she is right, or if I am getting stronger." One 
  heartbeat, two, and the maiden's gaze settles upon the candle closest to the 
  altar. "I suppose that I will have to pray harder."

Kedar's gaze lowers to the kneeling figure in front of him. "She is right," he 
  asserts in a tone leaving little room for discussion. He doesn't even bother 
  to reason for his assertation. It's clear, isn't it? She is Queen-Maharani, 
  and Faanshi is her shudra, so she has to be right. "Do what she tells you to 
  do. And you will be what you should be." Wasn't he coming into the temple to 
  seek spiritual guidance? It looks like the positions got reversed, somehow.

"She has told me to pray," Faanshi agrees, "so I will pray tonight, and ask 
  the Amir-al and His Holy Mother for wisdom and clarity." She has learned to 
  stop asking for peace -- it hasn't come yet, and her exhausted soul no 
  longer expects such a gift in this lifetime.
Still... the blanket of remoteness about her is not all-enveloping, or else 
  perhaps the girl is more observant than she looks, for she does also 
  earnestly append, "I will include you in my prayers, Imphadi." And pray that 
  he receives the guidance he claims he wasn't actually here to seek.

Kedar gives Faanshi a long, bewildered look. It just begs the question _Why 
  would I need a prayer from /you/, a shudra woman?_. But he says nothing, 
  having said all there is to say. Explanations of his own experiences can 
  come another time, and perhaps from somebody else. Without a bid of farewell 
  to the shudra he has just extensively talked to, he turns around and stalks 
  off to the exit in the precise, acute manner befitting for a warrior.

She is given no farewell, and neither does she expect one. Nor, even, does 
  Faanshi quite believe that her humble prayers would bring guidance to one 
  such as the Janizar... but still, she had sensed _something_, and a 
  remaining ember of concern beneath the shroud about her thoughts counsels 
  that an extra prayer for him couldn't _hurt_.
She does not watch him go -- but she does dip her head in silent reverence, 
  spending the time punctuated by his departing footfalls in winging a prayer 
  forth to those ears she hopes can hear her, that that young Lion might find 
  what he pursues.

The cloaked man keeps his place as Kedar makes his exit, although his head 
  does come up; firelight catches the most outward angles of a hard visage, 
  and bright eyes look out of shadow at the tales told in elaborate 
  arrangements of tile upon the temple walls. Only when the soldier has left 
  the sacrifical altar does he murmur, mildly, "If I may, Imphada..."

It does not seem to sink in immediately for Faanshi that the softly voiced 
  'imphada' is meant for her. Only after a moment or two does the shudra girl 
  lift her own head ever so slightly, peeking in the direction of the cloaked 
  figure, a passing wraith of something faintly resembling bemusement 
  marring the unnatural calm of her expression. "If you address me, Imphadi," 
  she says in that childlike gravity of voice, even appending as it occurs to 
  her that this individual might have mistaken her for someone else, "I am but 
  a shudra... do you require me to move?"

The other gives a brief shake of the head. "No." His voice is rich, resonant; 
  although he does not speak loudly, each word reaches the ear with ease. "But 
  I... couldn't help, overhearing your discussion with the honored Janizar. Is 
  it your contention that we ought *not* to grieve the loss of those who we 
  know have lived well, because they will have their reward in the life to 
  come?" It seems to be a question of academic interest for the stranger.

Her sungolden brow crinkles up again, delicate dark brows knitting, as Faanshi 
  realizes distantly that an opinion is being sought of her. This is not the 
  first time -- but it has happened so infrequently that she cannot help but 
  peek again to the stranger. Seeing nothing but a cloak, she lowers her gaze 
  down to the thirteen candles once again, the blanket once again pressing 
  down upon her thoughts. An opinion has been requested; she will give it. 
  That's easy enough. "I do not know, Imphadi," she answers without 
  hesitation. "That is part of what I have come to pray about tonight. No one 
  has ever counseled me about it."

Another small nod follows, visible as a shift in the set of the stranger's 
  voluminous hood. "The honored Janizar counsels contentment in the face of a 
  life lost nobly," he returns, without any clear disapproval. "But his is a 
  warrior's faith, appropriate to one who deals in death. And you are not, I 
  think, a warrior." For a moment, he is silent. "*I* believe that the grief 
  of loss is incident to our mortal state. Surely the knowledge of the life 
  that will be is some comfort, but we have lived with the men, the women, who 
  *are* and *were*; and *those* lives are no more, whatever may wait beyond 
  the final shadow. We live and feel in our own brief moment. Why should we 
  lay waste to those feelings because we also know of Atar's higher truth?"

The shudra girl shakes her head, by way of agreement of the cloaked one's 
  assessment of her. "I am but a woman," she murmurs, "and I do not like 
  fighting very much--"
Memory spikes through her, three forms locked in a dance of death. 
  Superimposed over them, a sword strike through a dark neck, the dull thump 
  of a head striking the ground--
And her eyes go empty again, while she asks in her oddly guileless, oddly 
  distant tone, "But what if they are candala, Imphadi?"

A slow breath escapes the recesses of the stranger's hood, somewhere between 
  weary and sad. "Those who have not lived well will not be reborn well," he 
  opines, with no suggestion of anger or self-satisfaction. "And for them we 
  must feel a double grief: woe that we have lost them from our lives, and woe 
  that they have lost their way in their own." He turns his head just 
  slightly, enough to consider the shudra with one luminous eye. "Should we 
  not mourn the candala? They who of all the world are most forlorn?"

"I want to," Faanshi murmurs in reply, "because mostly, only candala have been 
  my friends, but then they keep dying, and I have begun to wonder if I have 
  angered the Most High or His Holy Father or Mother, because I made friends 
  with them. And some of the Children of Fire, too, but now they have also 
  been struck down." Her words come out of her without a trace of a stammer, 
  without a change in that absent tone, starkly innocent against the hollow 
  gaze she rests upon her candles. "I want to mourn, but it seems as if I have 
  done nothing but mourn since the day the Amir-al sent Imphada Kiera to free 
  me and now there is nothing left in my heart. And I am very confused, and no 
  one will tell me anything, even though I have been praying for hours now."

"You have not been punished, Faanshi," the stranger returns, peculiarly 
  confident. With the cloaked man's sympathy runs an inescapable undercurrent 
  of bemusement. "Do you suppose yourself to have been at the nexus of all of 
  these lives? That the gods have made these men and these women--" a brief 
  gesture at the candles-- "live and die in accordance with the purity of 
  *your* faith and conduct?" A brief shake of the head. "All men find their 
  own fate. Mourn them, but do not succumb to the arrogance of blaming 
  yourself for their loss."

The halfbreed girl does not have much in the way of experience with the world 
  -- but she can safely say that she has never before had anyone accuse her of 
  even the danger of arrogance, much less the actual sentiment. She actually 
  blinks, wondering for a moment if she has actually managed to draw the 
  attention of one of the Atarvani at last -- and wondering, too, that this 
  man appears to know her name. "I," she begins, and for a moment or two that 
  is all she says, while her thoughts just halt entirely on the peculiarity of 
  the notion that something _she_ has done might have been overly prideful. 
  That would be a switch, for she who is accustomed to being told that she 
  should have more pride than she does. But something flickers in her bleak 
  expression, suggesting that the idea is taking hold. "I had not thought of 
  that," she admits then, humbly. "Imphadi, are you Atarvani? Do you know me?"

And then, lifting one hand to either side, Khalid takes down his earthen hood. 
  The trim, golden crown of his office is lacking, but the God-King's strong 
  features are unmistakable; eyes of the deepest blue, verging on the violet 
  of the hottest flame, meet the shudra's hesitant gaze. And then he smiles. 
  "I do know you, Faanshi," the god returns, the depth of his tone almost 
  palpable now. "And you know me." Cloth flows up from the ground as Khalid 
  rises. "You have had great pain in your short lifetime, my servant," he 
  murmurs watching her. "Do not fear it. Do not permit it to kill your soul. 
  Embrace it, and let it pass."

As he rises -- as she sees the One who has stopped to speak with her -- 
  Faanshi forgets to breathe. She also forgets, at least for a brief fleeting 
  instant, that she is not supposed to meet the eyes of mortal men, much less 
  the Hawk of Heaven; in that instant, eyes of summer's green are caught and 
  held by fathomless azure. _Then_ she remembers, and she presses herself 
  swiftly to the floor, brow to her hands--
But for once, she does not tremble. And within her she feels a stirring of 
  surprise, some for the fact that the Son of the Dawn is here to speak with 
  _her_, but even more for the fact that her voice has not died in her throat 
  as she distantly hears herself answering, "Forgive me, Amir-al -- but I do 
  not know _how_...! Your honored wife says that there is something wrong with 
  me -- but if there is, I do not know how to heal it...!"
Two heartbeats, and then she adds, her voice small against the resonant depths 
  of the other's but a prayer from the very core of her soul nevertheless, 
  "Help me...!"

Khalid bends slowly over the kneeling creature; one dark hand emerges from the 
  folds of his cloak to settle lightly against her shoulder. "You have always 
  been strong enough to feel deeply," he explains, with every appearance of 
  assured calm. "It is at the core of your healer's soul. What is your art but 
  that of taking on another's pain, and then purging that pain away? What is 
  its engine but your love of your fellow creatures?" The hand lingers a 
  moment longer, then draws off. "Lose your passion, and you will lose your 
  gift. Understand your gift, and you will understand the way back to your 
  pain. Embrace it as you would a death-wound. Fill yourself with it. And then 
  let it go."

The strongest of shields could not stand, if lightning fell from the sky to 
  destroy it -- and so too does the shroud around Faanshi's thoughts begin to 
  fray, at the touch of the God-King's hand. She begins to tremble, her eyes 
  squeezing shut.
And yet, she still somehow manages to keep her voice, a breath of wonder 
  pulling it ever so faintly away from the plaintive tones of a lost child... 
  and further towards a young woman whose struggle into adulthood has been a 
  daily trial by fire. "I have... lived... for months and months with nothing 
  but pain in me, Amir-al... how can I fill myself with it _more_?"

"Because you cage it. Because you clutch it to your heart." A touch of 
  sympathy colors the divine voice, now, running beneath eternal calm. "Where 
  would your art be if you held the wounds of the years within you? If you 
  carried them like a burden upon your back, heavier with each eldritch 
  working, from cradle to grave?" Gentle remonstrance follows. "Heed all that 
  I have said. Take it. Live it. But allow it to pass *through* you. Let it 
  go."

She does not want to tell the God-King Himself that His words seem to her to 
  be more easily said than done -- and as soon as that thought enters her 
  head, the maiden struggles to squelch it. As Kedar had uttered that the 
  verdict of the Queen must surely overrule the verdict of her shudra, so too 
  does Faanshi's heart strive to adhere to the unshakeable foundation of 
  existence that if Khalid Atar says it, it must therefore be True.
"It will be done, Most High," she whispers. There is doubt it in her voice; 
  she cannot hide it. Right now, here in this place and before this being, she 
  could not begin to hide it. But the doubt is not for her God-King -- merely 
  for herself, and how she can possibly hope to carry out His bidding.

No one has ever supposed that the commands of a god would be either 
  comfortable or easy. Still, Khalid Atar offers the shudra Faanshi a faint, 
  parting smile, a shallow nod. "Trust in your own strength," is all he 
  answers, turning to make his way across the immaculate floor towards the 
  exit. "The strength of your soul, and the strength of your faith. And you 
  will prevail." And then-- with as little fanfare as he arrived-- the god is 
  gone.

*==========================================================================*

Postlude:

	For the longest of times, the shudra maiden remains prone upon
the floor, stunned to the fundamental core of her being by what has just
befallen her. There is no fire in truth along her skin, but nevertheless to 
Faanshi it seems as if her shoulder burns where the Hawk of Heaven has 
touched it.
	And at last, a thought penetrates her daze.
	_Twice He has touched me..._
	The memory of the sword that took Mehul's head from his shoulders
is still etched in flame behind her eyes, but another recollection rises
up to challenge it: the Amir-al, every inch of His mighty form radiating
divine rage as He swept down from His throne. To come to her, to touch her
with His hand and call her His faithful birr.
	Tonight, again, He has come to her.
	_The least of His servants... and yet He has come to me in darkness,
to bring me back to light..._
	Somewhere behind the shroud that has twined itself around her
thoughts, a spark ignites. It grows inexorably, sweeping across her soul 
until she feels scoured in fire. Gratitude is the first thing she feels, she 
realizes dimly, even as she hears her own voice whispering fervent prayers of 
thanks to Holy Ushas for moving Her Son to the act of mercy He has committed 
this night. With it comes the pain she does not want to let herself feel,
threatening to paralyze her, threatening to choke the very breath in her
throat.
	But because Khalid Atar has commanded it of her, she makes herself
rise, to gaze once again upon the candles she has lit for each of her Lost
Ones. Her hands tremble, but as if in a dream they move, to find parchment
and pen, to write out the names that echo through her consciousness.
	Milane.
	Thomas Murako.
	Ianthe.
	Samein.
	Sunset Tide.
	Craft.
	StormBearer.
	Hakan Adham-Numair al-Behzad.
	Delilah Kirseem alam'Zulyat Messala.
	Ulima Jaroun Sarazen.
	Lyre Talespinner.
	Mehul.
	_Let it fill you like a death wound--_
	Her memories of them all swell through her thoughts until it 
seems that there is no space within her for anything else but grief. But
bit by bit, letter by letter, she writes their names on the rida scrolls
and burns each in a candle flame, whispering a farewell to each behind her
veil. She does not cry, for there is no room within her for that either,
not with the fire that has scoured her heart.
	Hours pass.
	And when the sun begins to rise anew, she has but one candle left.
	With hands that still move almost of their own accord, Faanshi
draws the sari from atop her head, baring ebon locks to the light of the
single tiny flame. She brings forth the dagger called Hornet to cut through
the braid that confines her tresses, till her head is free of a weight that
to her seems somehow to match the weight that has slipped away from her
spirit.
	With reverent care, she curls the braid around the candle that
remains. With reverent care, she writes out a final rida scroll, to consign
her severed strands to be burned in honor of the Amir-al.
	_--and let it go._
	And at last Faanshi leaves the Temple, stepping into the burgeoning
light born of the glory of Ushas's ascent in the east -- and lifting 
summer-green eyes turned clear and clean to meet the morning.

[End log.]