Little Dark One

A white cloak drapped over a slim frame; a sea of crimson trailed behind, flooding the street. Seven pairs of pale hands grasped candles amidst the procession of blood and purity, seven flames licking steadily at ivory wax. In the distance barren peaks rose sharply, piercing the full moon and schewing the long silver rays into reaching, ethereal fingers. A blessing.

Small hands grasped a mother’s skirt while grey eyes gazed out from behind the fabric, intimidated and entranced by the strange ritual. A glimpse of red hair flashed amongst the long white hood of the First, causing envy to rise within a small chest. Her own hair, near-black as the evening shadows, hung in tangled waves about her shoulders–so very different from the bright curls beneath that hood.

As those grey eyes watched, the procession passed by and the white hood rose ever so subtly until blue pools appeared amidst the white and red, looking directly at her. Hands clenched within the fabric of her mother’s dress, but she did not break contact with that bright gaze. It was as though the First, the most important of those solemn priestesses, saw only her.

And then it was over, and the train of cloaked figures disappeared into the stone archway of the temple. Suddenly, the warm spring wind felt chill against her skin, and only the gentle tug of her mother’s hand drew her away from the sight of that broad doorway.

~ by eeratka on January 20, 2007.