TWIN-ORE I
Chapter four
A True Northern Jewel
The icy blade sliced through the thin flesh of her hand with unnerving ease. A slight whimper escaped her lips as blood welled up and droplets fell down onto the moonslit forest floor. Lady Ghendra Pomus had always known that one day she’d open her palms and bleed for the man she loved. Still, when the moment finally came, she was terrified. It was all wrong, nothing like she had always pictured. In the first place, they were forced to commence in secret, under cover of midnight darkness as opposed to the light of day, as was the custom—and out there!—at an old Baethylic shrine built among the eerie groves of colossal redwood that skirted the foreign city of Lucania. Ghendra had envisioned herself being married at the Father’s Royal Hall in Delphi or back home in Persephone City. And, of course, she had always thought her family would be there. But now (just like so many others), they wanted nothing to do with her.
The grim thought moistened her downcast, hazel-green eyes, but Ghenny resisted tears. Beautiful auburn curls fell weightlessly onto her shoulders and her brilliant white-lace dress stood in vulgar contrast to the red blood spouting from her self-inflicted wounds. Then, glancing up at the absolute love of her young life, her precious Lojin, all the troubles of the vast world suddenly seemed so trivial. Ghendra felt like she might choke on the irony – the man causing all her problems could also so effortlessly take them all away. Often, she would find herself lost in the sable eyes her faith had dehumanized and forbade her to love. For, indeed, regardless of this restriction, Ghendra adored her Lojin. Wide-eyed, she watched as her husband-to-be took the ancient dagger and deftly sliced his hands with no hesitation. Lord Lojin Dane made not a sound, but Ghendra winced for him. My stella, she thought, while somewhat outraged by his cavalier methods with the blade. She nearly yelled out, pleading with him to be less reckless with the body she loved so dearly, but she held her tongue and didn’t speak. Her mind, however, was racing off...
Of course, after growing up in this world as a Dane, a Forsaken, one would have little fear of a prick to the hand. And with this, I become Forsaken too. Please, Father, forgive me.
Her negative gut reaction to the name Dane was so innate that she felt it even then, as she prepared to swear holy vows and take that cursed name for her own. While, early on, her young ore was torn and wrestled with this fundamental disobedience, Ghendra came to believe that the love her heart oozed for Lojin had to be the ultimate truth. She would not dismiss it. She couldn't.
She often recalled that morning back in Delphi, and the look on his face when Lojin asked her to marry him. Jarred out of sleep, he rambled and ranted about a dream that he said felt more real than anything he’d ever experienced; about a brilliant southern scientist and a cosmic force raining down on the planet of Aurion. And of an endless draw, he swore he could not escape. Squinting at him through still-blurred vision, Ghendra struggled to follow. But in the next moment, Lojin’s voice tapered off until he merely sat up in their bed and silently gazed off in reverie. After some minutes, he snapped out of this fog and, at once, took Ghenny by the hand. Her eyes were gleaming morning emeralds as Lojin, with sudden (almost overwhelming) presence, said, “My love, I must travel south. And I must have you by my side...…For this excursion and for all others... For now and forever. Marry me, my lady.”
Ghendra wouldn’t need to answer. In fact, Lojin never truly posed a question. Of course, the two lovers would be joined in wedlock. Their twin-ore had been affixed deep within the stella many futures before. Ghendra loved him with all the temporary matter that made up her body and all the timeless energy that constituted her fractal being. She would have followed Lojin anywhere, whether it was to the south or all the way to Aurion’s outer moon of Renque. Wherever they ended up, Ghendra’s happiness would only depend on being with her Lojin. On that morning, after Lord Dane’s proposal, Ghenny just kissed him with intense fervor and they made passionate love until the afternoon. From that day on, their lives were a whirlwind of hastily made preparations for their departure.
Ghenny smiled while reliving that morning. Her heart melted for her dear Lojin. He had been so gentle and sweet to her. These pleasant memories slowly evaporated before Ghenny’s eyes and revealed beneath, cloned tears of crimson simultaneously weeping from each of her palms. Then, all lightness wilted away as the Tempered Lance Lord stumbled into Ghendra’s periphery and donned a rusted metal mask. Wrought from meteoric iron, the heavy mask was secured behind the old priest’s head with a worn leather strap. A bitter gust of wind howled in from the north, licking off the waves of the sea and Ghendra felt a sharp chill cut through her.
It was only with the help of young El Thomas that Ghenny reached an arrangement with that dishonored minister earlier in the day. Thomas was a Ryder-enhanced Alyxandrian who had joined the party just days before. Yet, because of their similar religious upbringing, he and Ghendra found welcome company in each other. He was, by nature, a bookish and amiable youth, even if a bit too honest for his own good. They found the cyberman awaiting their arrival at the Lucanian shipyard after crossing the narrow sea (known as the Serpent’s Road) between the Fatherland and the Northern Chip. He approached Lojin and said, “Lord Dane, I presume. My humble name is Thomas, milord. My mentor and master, Doctor Belore Synclaire, bade me head north to find and aid you and your party.”
Lojin smiled and, looking back at Thomas, repeated the name, “Doctor Synclaire. The southern scientist!” His eyes shot to Ghendra. “I knew I hadn’t gone mad.”
“Aye, Doctor Sync,” said Thomas. “You’ve had word from him?”
“No, friend. I’ve had dreams of him.”
“Strange. That sounds like you’ve been tapping into the Ryder Stream… but that’s not possible. Fear not milord, the doctor will know and shed the appropriate rays. With your leave, I will guide you and yours to the ancient city of Castalia. We mustn’t linger very long, milord. For danger may lurk in every shadow and the Doctor is awaiting your arrival.”
Lojin was lost in his head at that moment, stunned by all of the mystic dreams and the cryptic pull being validated. So it was Ghendra who replied. “Your support is greatly appreciated. Thank you, good sir.”
Ghendra had always known that they left the Vetro-Delphi Zone with inadequate aid. She was happy to have been joined by El Thomas and his Ryder-enhanced strength. Loejin was trained in basic combat and battle studies, as all wellborn boys were, but he was an artist. He spent most of his adult life touring the world as a musician, not some career-soldier. But from the start, Lojin had vowed to lay this burden upon no other Delphian. He hated even trying to explain his strange reasons for this trip south. Its proper description evaded him and he told Ghenny that just listening to himself struggling to put it into words was driving him mad. He confessed that he initially entertained a fifty percent chance he had been stricken with lunacy. Regardless of his early efforts to ignore the dreams and the odd magnetic pull, they persisted and intensified. And in the end, he could ignore it no longer. Lojin, of sound body and mind, knew he had to go south and discover its source. Still, he wasn’t so bold as to employ valuable House sentries on the grounds of a mystical draw. No, Lojin had planned for them to make this trek alone; come what may. Thus, eschewing the assistance of the sworn House garrison, the star-crossed couple departed the city of Delphi with only the Plutonian Knight, Sir Draxyn Swordknot, who could be induced, neither by threats nor by promises, to abandon Lojin’s side on this dubious trip south. Sir Draxyn was the captain of the Dane House guard and had protected and looked after Lojin ever since he first stepped foot in the royal city in 8888, the cursed year. Days after the infamous Battle of Ravenna, Draxyn arrived in Delphi carrying the rotting corpse of Lord Theojin Dane, Lojin’s father. When questioned, the Plutonian would only say that he was bound by honor to return Lord Dane to the royal kingdom of his birth, so he might be laid to rest with his ancestors. Despite enduring spells of significant prejudice in Delphi, Swordnot refused to return to his home in the Belmontonian hills, only rarely citing the barbarous Plutonian war tactics he witnessed while fighting in the North as his reason. He opted to stay on with the Dane House guard and quickly excelled due to his tremendous martial skill. Ghendra was happy to have Sir Draxyn along, as well. Still, his cold northern heritage meant that the Faith of Baethylism was all but foreign to him. Plutonians worshiped different gods. Immortals of the moons and other strange deities were said to be revered at their mystical monoliths in the far north. For Ghendra, among this small party assembled, only Thomas would be of any assistance in retaining the services of a priest, as both he and Ghenny were raised in stringent Baethylic households. Lojin and Sir Draxyn knew little and cared even less (if at all) for any such strictures of Baethylic matrimony.
And so, Ghenny and Thomas set out into the streets of Lucania to find the Baethylic minister, which alone, was no simple task. They spoke with over a dozen Lucanian Lance Lords, with little luck. For the few clerics who could see past the wooded location and the midnight ceremony, the mere mention of the cursed name Dane quashed all discussions. Ghendra was angrily advised (perhaps in jest) to find a disgraced pastor who lived in the gutters of the Great Lucanian Rectory. When they located this man, even he refused. But for all that, Ghendra won over the tattered priest with some of Thomas’ southern silver and a large jug of strong northern wine. She had brought that fine vintage from her childhood home near Kore Castle in Persephone City, planning to open it with Lojin in celebration on their wedding night. But, to Ghendra, securing a Baethylic reverend for the ceremony carried far more importance. According to the Holy Standard Text, the Tempered Lance Lord served as a conduit to the Father during all Baethylic rites. It was written that all Ore who would take part in a sacred Baethylic ceremony without one was committing a profane atrocity against Father Baethyil himself. And sadly, Lady Ghendra’s Ore already felt quite heavy on supreme atrocities. For her mind was made up. In all events, despite the genuine fear she had for her god’s divine retribution, she was to sin and marry her sweet Lojin, a Forsaken, that evening. Yet, just the same, Ghenny’s traditional upbringing also compelled her to make frantic attempts to appease the Father. She strictly vowed to adhere to all other Baythlic standards and ceremonial conventions as desperate acts of propitiation. Aside from her defiant coupling with a Dane only recently, Lady Ghendra Pomus had rarely rebelled against the morality of her Baethylic upbringing, and at times, she was deeply perturbed by this new dearth of harmony felt between her and her god…
All this because of Lojin, she thought. How could someone so beautiful cause so much discord? And my heart... Am I to deny true Love!?.. O sweetest stel, how cruel is Love? A con... A ruse... In the goliath garden of the God, wretched Love embodies only the finest of plums... Yet, each one, cored with an arsenic pit. Their fleshy cloaks coax and seal in Love’s dire hoax… an alluring toxin I’ve gladly swallowed up whole. . .
Ghenny felt like a mere passenger. Clearly, any such decision—with ramifications stretching to every aspect of life—should be heavily considered and weighed. However, Ghendra hardly saw a decision to be made at all. She knew Lojin was her twin-ore, as she was his. Regardless, in the days prior to departing Delphi, Ghendra’s manic thoughts were insufferable, dominated either by the desire to grow old with her love, or the fear of the punishment acting on that desire would bring. She simultaneously viewed her betrothed as both the man of her dreams and a wilful transgression for which she needed to beg forgiveness. She hoped and prayed that through her dismal repentances, perhaps she could somehow escape a union cursed by the Father. But within, Ghenny knew that, for this, any chance of absolution was impossible.
The priest stood at the couple’s side, preparing the items for the ritual and murmuring soft prayers. His jagged iron mask restored the ferocity the old bumbling drunk must have easily emanated in youth. Just then, though, Ghenny was absent. Her thoughts were back on the Northern Chip. She was still consumed by the cryptic words…
“This is madness, girl!”
Ghendra could hear still the shrill voice of old Pythoness Paige hissing in her ears; needling through her ill-at-ease mind like the rattle of a snake. Her skin turned clammy and goose-bumped in the whipping winds as Ghenny recalled finding the Pythoness on the wooded road while returning from her childhood home. Lady Ghendra had gone back west to tell her mother and father that she had fallen in love with a Delphian named Dane and she intended to travel south with him as his wife. Both of her zealot parents displayed their shock and opposition harshly, and Ghendra tearfully rode out of Persephone City unsure if she’d ever see them again. She was nearly back to Delphi when the holy woman suddenly appeared on the road. Pythoness Paige almost seemed to be waiting for Ghenny in the thick brush about a league away from the royal gates. “Well met, m’ dear,” she said.
“Oh Pythoness, my lady. What brings you all the way out here?”
“Ah, merely collectin’ Addelon Ore, ‘n scarcely that. Scant what the Father gives us, child. Always so very scant to give ‘n very great to take away, bless-ed be. But new potions always needin’ to be prepared ‘n me shop, so an old woman on hands ‘n knees I am, ‘n the wild wood.” She noticed a tear running down Ghendra’s cheek then and said, “Ahh, come now, don’t cry. Listen to me, sweet girl. Forget this Dane! Abandon this false ‘n impure desire, this ridiculous quest south. The future that’s held ‘n mind ‘s not the one that truly awaits, m’ dear. Set it all aside! Return home, build a family ‘n live a long wonderful life, as the Father wishes.”
At first, defensively, Ghenny was going to deny all the implied anxieties and doubts. She had already become woefully familiar with downplaying and disregarding the grave concerns of countless others. But as the old Pythoness spoke, Ghendra’s facade broke down. Sobbing, she shrieked back, “But what of Lojin!? He is my Twin-Ore! My whole stella! My lady, a life deprived of him would be utter torment. The longer the worse.”
“False,” interjected Paige. “He is thy curse! Though perhaps unfair ‘n cruel—I know, fo’ I’ve grown fond of this Dane as well—his blood be nonetheless impure. Wed a godless fiend? This is madness, girl! The Father will ne’er abide by it! Go through with this, ‘n add the Jagged Immortal himself to thy lengthy list o’ enemies! Listen to me. I see it, girl. This DOES NOT end well for thee. ”
While staring back at Pythoness Paige, Ghendra’s expression moved from simpering misery to more of reassured determination as her inner resolve visibly strengthened against such stark opposition. More firmly, she merely said, “My heart has been claimed. I do think much of your sweet concern, my lady, but there is naught else to say.”
Conceding with an easy smile, Pythoness Paige said, “O’ course, o’ course. Right, midear.” The old woman took hold of Ghenny’s hand then and continued, “My sweet, sweet stella! What loveliness!” Lightly caressing her, she said, “‘N such darling hands. Ahh, just singular beauty. A True Northern Jewel.” All sweetness completely drained from the old woman’s face then and she said, “Pity...”
And with that, the Pythoness briskly took her leave. Ghendra didn’t see her again before departing Delphi, but she swore she felt the old woman’s milky eyes fixed on her once or twice more. Their strange “chance-meeting” in the woods lingered in Ghendra’s mind as if she was constantly being reminded of it. She suspected that her heightened apprehension and pervasively crestfallen aura on the following days were largely due to Paige’s spellcraft. The Pythoness had lived at the end of Lojin’s cobblestoned street in upper Delphi since before he was born, and she had rarely been warm towards Ghenny. Her mystical shop, The Royal Occult, was a staple in the neighborhood for ages. Pythoness Paige offered esoteric Ore readings and drew spirit plates for the local Baethylic faithful. And every evening as starbreak concluded in the west, a large crowd of neighborhood children would gather at her storefront. There, under the purpling evening sky, they would all sit around the old woman and listen intently as she told the great legends of Aurion’s history. Lojin had told Ghendra that he remembered being one of those kids when he was growing up. He said that he would just sit there, riveted to the ground in suspense as Paige told her tales. Lojin had known the Pythoness for as far back as he could remember and admitted that she always frightened him as a child. To him and his mother, Rosalind, the old soothsayer’s often misleading visions of the future were nothing aft of common. Strangely, no one could say for sure how old the woman was, but most stories suggested the impossible. Lojin advised Ghenny to pay little mind to the senile clergywoman and her illusory clairvoyance. Yet, Ghendra could not rid her mind of the echoed voice of the Pythoness, while standing there, across from Lojin on their wedding night.
“Pity...”
Coming up at the side of the bride and groom, the priest prayed softly and reached out over the young couples’ hands nearest him. With a slight twitch of his wrists, the Lance Lord let fall a strange black sand into the bleeding palm of Lojin, and a trickle of the Sacred Tincture into Ghendra’s. While the drunk reverend somehow accomplished all this with a fluid motion, he said, “Exult in thy Love. For only Love’s true Ore may suffer the Dark...”
Then, closing his eyes, he silently murmured a prayer and reached both arms straight ahead to the two open palms farthest from him. The same jerk of the wrists occurred, but when he released the arcane substances, they had inexplicably switched from one hand to the other. This time, Ghendra received the black dust and Lojin, a drop of the Sacred Tincture. Again, he deftly performed all this with a graceful motion and said, deeper, “Behold thy basal dreads. The sordid Ore of Hate which dwells within Awe and Fear. To clasp thy hands; ‘tis thine own heart to swear. Yet, measure thine Ore’s leal bond, if thou dare.”
For a long moment, Lojin and Ghendra stood there, just looking into each other’s eyes. Their upturned hands crackled and sizzled in the black powder and steam arose from their wounds in the brisk night air. Lady Ghendra’s hands flinched as she began to reach out for Lojin, but in a moment of fear and doubt, she looked into his sable eyes and said, “My Love. Promise you won’t let go?”
With half a smile, Lojin responded, “Never.”
