Fireflies and Forbidden things

Chapter 6

Sometime in the night, it had begun snowing.

Nikita had never been bothered by the cold. In fact, she had never needed wooly blankets or thick robes to keep her warm. It was as though the black flames she barely had control over burned in her core. Presently, she was lying awake, staring at the golden rays of dawn that had begun spilling in through her window.

After cleansing herself, carefully draping her robes over her shoulders, and bounding her unruly hair in a tight plait, she stared at her reflection in the small and only mirror she was allowed to possess. Nikita always thought reflections were strange. It just felt weird that people saw her the same way she saw herself in the mirror.

It was way too early in the morning for self-realization. But being sleep-deprived did that to a person. Nikita was exhausted and groggy, which meant she was going to be living in her head more vividly than usual. She was often chastised for daydreaming but she couldn't help it. Nikita always had more to imagine than to do, and sometimes when she looked out of her little square window, the world seemed so bright and vast her chest ached.

As if fueled by her thoughts, the black shadows tickled her fingers. She panicked at the sight of them but that only made the flames burn darker. Nikita forced herself to breathe; imagining her mind erasing itself of feeling and thought. Slowly, the flames subsided, vanishing along with the trail of shadows they spewed.

Nikita didn't know how much longer she could keep this up.

Suddenly, the walls were closing in around her. Fumbling, Nikita pulled a pair of gloves over her hands. She was tired and angry and exhausted that nothing was working. Maybe that was what made her snap, maybe it was the knowledge that she would have to spend her entire life gallivanting around with a tight-lipped smile, prisoner to so much she didn't understand.

Nikita was going to understand. She was not some ignorant girl sitting and waiting for the answers to come.

She grabbed the diagrams she'd been constructing, the detailed documents she'd been scripting; hours of research, and sleepless nights. Maybe they would amount to nothing but there was only one way to find out. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror and still, it was a stranger. Nikita vowed to unveil her secrets.

The winding halls of the grey towers were enchanting. The high ceilings and flickering candlelight made the shadows of the hooded priestesses sway and bob as though they were alive things.

The grey towers had been Nikita's home for as long as she could remember. Granted, the gaping chambers could be lifeless and lonely at times, but that hadn't stopped Nikita from discovering the secret passages and hidden alcoves riddled in the walls of granite. When she was little, she had spent hours discovering new rooms and playing hide and seek in forgotten hallways.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the weathered face of sister Cathyra. Nikita immediately shoved the scrolls she had been clutching into the folds of her robe and bowed her head low. She felt sister Cathyra's gnarled fingers upon her hood and rose slowly to meet the wise one's gaze. Underlining the rims of her eyes were the ancient marks of Nya. 

Of course, excluding the Silver Bloods, only very few had the will to harness that power. It was rumored that sister Cathrya used the Nya marks to communicate with the higher deities, but that was ridiculous because the priestesses firmly forbid any arts that tampered with the borders.

"Come along dear, you're just in time for morning prayer," Cathyra rasped.

"But-" Nikita was cut off by the firm set of Cathyra's lips. She had always been the one who entertained Nikita's endless curiosity; who allowed her unrestricted access to the archives of the grey towers, who excused Nikita of her priestly duties when the robes became too suffocating and all she wanted to do was lay under the sky, staring at the stars.

She had been the one who accepted Nikita when she had nowhere to go. No one to go to.

The last thing Nikita wanted to do was disappoint Cathyra, which was why she found herself chanting her thanks to the goddess Himara; the silver-haired deity of winter residing in the higher realms. She lifted her hands in prayer, in sync with the rest of the priestesses; pleading for gentle snowfall and protection from ice demons spreading sickness and blizzards that killed the old and froze the young. Their voices reverberated in sync, shrill and sweet, bouncing off the high altars and glass windows.

Did Nikita believe ice demons existed? Maybe. Did she believe they were responsible for the weather in the mortal realm? No.

She had many arguments to prove this; the main one being why ice demons would wait for winter to freeze the land. If she were an ice demon, the land would have been frozen all year long, and obviously, it wouldn't have been cyclic, because Nikita couldn't be bothered with returning every year. Also, why would anyone, let alone a demon visit this boring village? And if the realms were supposedly separate; how would a demon penetrate the barrier in the first place?

See. She could point out one hundred logical flaws behind this. Nikita had tried to prove her point, but she never got far enough because according to all the other priestesses, the gods should never be questioned. Nikita thought it was poppycock, but she kept that opinion to herself; just in case a higher deity happened to be listening.

By the time the morning prayer was concluded, Nikita had been standing for so long her knees were buckling. As the final chanting began to waver, she had already gathered her robes and was bolting from the altar. From the other side of the room, Nikita felt sister Emera's disapproving stare. She ignored it. She was not in the mood for Emera's condescension.

The wind was a whip against Nikita's face, snowflakes kissing her cheeks and numbing her skin. All around her, the world was coated in a sheen of white. Gentle and loving, the frost had begun caressing the land; pine trees glistened with snow and tiny flakes glinted in the frigid air. Nikita knew this was a bad idea. She knew she ought to abandon trudging through the snow in search of trouble.

But the pounding in her head reminded her why she didn't have a choice. Yes, she'd suffered constant headaches before; heard the whispers. But she'd always managed to sate the hunger of the beast within her; to leash it before she hurt anyone.

She felt it laugh. Phantom cackles running fingers down her spine. The pounding in her head intensified; the dull hammer of a prisoner trying to break free. When the rabid creature pounced, Nikita needed to make sure that she and it weren't the same.

Nikita's pace quickened till she was running. Till all she could hear and see was the wind roaring in her ears and the blurry landscape passing by. Soon enough, she was sprinting through the village square, bunching up her sweeping robes and leaping over laundry buckets of washerwomen who yelled in exasperation.

To them, she was nothing more than an uncultured twig of a priestess; content to idle with the village children and laze throughout the day, utterly unfit for her sacred duties. To them, she was just the daughter of a madwoman. Taken into the temples by the benevolent high priestesses because she was pitiful, abandoned, and unwanted.

Nikita whooped into the air, shrieking like a wild, untamed thing.

The quaint village of Menik was insufferable, with its narrow-minded people and narrow streets. She knew every crack that webbed the town square, every thatched hut that was strewn on the shores of the Emanos river, every shriek and every voice that echoed down the winding streets. Sometimes, she felt utterly alone; her only company being priests that didn't believe in attachment and children that couldn't fathom her want for something more significant.

There was only one person who ever understood. Nikita ignored the apprehension churning in her gut and pushed open the rusted gates, stepping into the unkempt lawn of the Menik asylum.

She was going to meet her mother.