Grey swarmed around the Priestess. Her elaborate yellow-and-red vestments were swallowed whole. Heads tilted down in proper servitude, the vestels hurried into position. In moments, they’d surrounded the crowned woman, filled every inch of the stage. The crowd bellowed approval.
“Symbolism’s a powerful thing,” Margen said.
Elyx shrugged. “It can be. Sometimes, it’s just a pointless way of dealing with the world.”
“So it’s not so cut and dry?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Would you say there are shades of grey?” Margen asked, fighting back a grin.
“Ugh.” Elyx rolled her eyes. “You queued that one up in rehearsals, didn’t you?”
“Jealous?”
“Vomitosal.”
The two women were packed into the periphery of the ceremony. Dressed in the heavy garments of their northern country, they constantly fidgeted to allow some airflow to seep onto their skin. The overcast sky was a partial blessing, but it was still too hot for northern apparel.
On center stage, the Priestess produced a scepter from seemingly nowhere. Surely it had been spirited out by one of the vestels. She may be a disimmortal, but the Priestess couldn’t just make things appear. With her ubiquitous mask of seriousness, she lifted the scepter and began to chant. The crowd quickly took up the prayer, drowning her out.
“Must be lonely,” Elyx mused.
“How? She’s got a hundred people on stage with her, and a couple thousand hanging on her every word.” Margen thought for a moment, then added, “Plus another, what, billion faithful around the world?”
“And yet she never smiles.”
“Tell me about it. She was at our initiation a couple of months ago,” Margen said. “Five graduates, beaming parents and deacons, and the Holy House packed to the rafters. And this broad brooded the whole time like she was standing in dog poop.”
Elyx laughed. “No trepidation about badmouthing the leader of the Faith, huh?”
“Only by default.” Margen sighed. “I miss the Maverick.”
It had been eight years since the war ended. Eight years since the world’s religions had joined forces to fight back the godless invaders from the southern continent. Eight years since the horde had set the sea on fire, since the earth itself had opened up, since the disimmortals had met the challenge and, one by one, had been killed to protect their world.
They had succeeded, but at great cost. There had been a dozen, had been that many for a millennia. By the time the Priestess put a knife into the heart of the horde’s last general, she was the only one left.
“I miss him too,” Elyx admitted. “And we only knew him for forty years. Imagine how she feels.”
“Yeah.” Margen wasn’t convinced.
“All this pageantry,” Elyx said, waving her arm over the huge assembly, “All used to be split up, divided, shared between them. Imagine how lonely it must be having to do it all, in every corner of the world, for people that just want their own disimmortal back.”
Margen looked across the stage at the young face of the Priestess. Hour two had bled into hour three of the ceremony, and still she stood tall. Her makeup was perfect, her arms steady despite the weight of the scepter. She didn’t smile, but she also didn’t waver.
“It’s not possible to be that strong,” Elyx said. “Can’t die unless she’s murdered. Doesn’t age. Fought in, and ultimately ended, a world war. And now she’s the head of a faith that’s a billion strong.”
“Well maybe that’s where you’re wrong. Maybe she can find comfort among us normals.” Margen put forth the possibility, but she didn’t really believe it.
“I don’t think so,” Elyx replied. “The world was once only the disimmortals. It was a perfect garden until the first murder. The Great Dying followed, and they went from millions to thousands, then hundreds, then dozens, then finally just the last twelve. It took the Priestess and the Governor’s peace pact to stop the slaughter, to salvage what little was left of their world. After a thousand years, she must have thought death was reserved for normals only. Until the godless came.”
Finally, the chant ended. Once again, the grey sea swirled. In a hurry, the young women swept off stage. Behind the Priestess, the council vacated their posts as well. In moments, she was alone on the stage.
Elyx elbowed Margen, nodded. The women tilted their heads up a little to look.
The Priestess had her head down, but her eyes were open. The dark irises looked at the stage, but they saw something a thousand miles away. Rich, Queen, and alive, all at the same time. And yet, her eyes held no joy. Only the crushing weight of responsibility, the immeasurable pounds of a billion people standing on her shoulders to reach for the sky.
“And now there’s only one,” Elyx whispered. “The last of her kind.”
The Tall Tale Year 