Chapter Text
Colette was eleven when she found the library.
She had been asked to go to the rooms at the back of the House of Salvation, where the priests lived, to find a particular book of scripture for use in service later that day. Since the room belonging to the priest who had asked her was in a different part of the rectory from where Colette had lessons, and since she wasn't asked to run errands often, she managed to get herself lost after only a few minutes.
Though the building wasn't as large as the temple that overlooked it, it was filled with narrow, creaking corridors and a dozen doors that all looked the same. The room Colette was looking for was supposed to be the second on the left from the end of a hall, across from a small window. Well, she was at the end of a hall, and there was a door across from a window. The floorboards squeaked beneath her as she turned the knob and peered in.
It wasn't a priest's room. It was a study, it looked like, with a nice lamp sitting on the large table in the middle. What was more, there were books, and lots of them: thick books with cracked spines, ornate books with gold leaf flaking off the edges, pilgrimage pamphlets that were nothing more than a few sheets tied together with string, and more, all stuffed with hardly a free space in the short shelves lining the walls. It was more books than Colette had seen in her lifetime, since even her own study room in the House had only a single shelf, and it was in pondering this that she came upon the word: library.
It wasn't where she had been sent, but she figured there might be a copy of the book she needed in the library anyways. Her eyes landed upon a shelf of books that looked like scripture. She went over.
This shelf came up to her chin. The spines of the books bore the angelic language, but none of the titles looked familiar. Curious, she hooked her finger in the spine of one ancient-looking tome, pulled it out, and opened it at random. What kind of books besides scripture would be written in angelic language? Saints' stories?
Not quite.
After saying this, Mithos stood alone between the two great armies, bearing the holy sword aloft by his injured arm. The forces heeded none of his words, and converged upon him. At once Martel herself swept to his side, saying: "Do not harm this boy! He is to me brother and son and successor, and has risked all to speak to you here. If you have any respect for me, you shall listen to him; but if you fear for your own lives, you shall stay back!"
This was the story of when the hero Mithos had stood out on the battlefield between two warring armies and convinced them to leave in peace. And it had indeed been told that he had done so "with the strength of the Goddess' protection." But Colette had never heard it this way, in which the Goddess Martel had descended to his side, claimed him her son, and stood down the armies herself.
Nor had she heard that the hero Mithos had been injured at the time. Or ever, really.
She flipped back a bit until she found another passage.
Martel remained there and lamented the wickedness of the world. "If our good acts are so small as to be blown away like sand in the wind, what worth is it?"
What is this? thought Colette, feeling like the book was suddenly much heavier in her hands, a weight that sank to the pit of her stomach. Heresy?
In anguish, Martel sought solace in the one she loved. He said, "I had believed that the world was even more wicked, and it was you who saw me wrong. The good you did that day may have been small, but it was not sand: it spread like a flame." But Martel said, "It may have been so then, but few people will allow themselves to be burned. They block off their hearts, because they fear that like fire, goodness will hurt them."
The one she loved said, "Will you take the path that others have suggested? Would you burn the entire world to find out?" And Martel became upset, saying, "No! I cannot burn the world in any sense. I can spark the hearts of those who will listen, but no flame I cast can purify them – they must want to burn with goodness for themselves."
What was this, thought Colette again, that had the Goddess Martel say such unholy things? It read like scripture, or at least close enough that Colette could follow the angelic language. And it was old – so somebody must have thought it worth keeping. Yet, to have Martel denouncing the world, and doubting her own power in it...
But there was something in the words that struck Colette's heart.
She heard a shuffling down the hall outside, and the priest's voice. "Chosen, are you down here?" A few heavy, sloshing steps in her direction. "I've found the readings."
Colette snapped the book shut and shoved it back in the shelf – then winced and gently aligned its spine with the others, reminding herself that this was still a church book and therefore something with which she should be careful. She darted out of the room, hoping to make it to the hallway before the priest saw exactly where she had been. "Yes, Father. I'm here."
"Father," she said after the service that took place inside the House of Salvation had ended, "I, um, I found something in the House that I want to talk to you about..."
Father Andrew, the priest who had asked her to hunt for the readings earlier, was very old and very well-read, even among the rest of the clergy. Colette had cornered him while he was clearing off the altar. He folded the old altarcloth, careful to keep from bending it over a patch where the embroidery was coming out, then turned to her.
"What is it, Chosen?" he said, not unkindly.
"Um," said Colette. "When you asked me to go look for the book earlier, I got lost and ended up in a library. I looked at one of the books there because I thought it might be the right one, but what I found was...I found a story about the ancient war..." She trailed off. Father Andrew's expression hadn't changed.
"What about it?" he asked.
"Well," began Colette, "in it, Martel was saying things about how the world was wicked, and...um...it didn't seem to me like that was right," she finished quickly, eager to show that she hadn't been swayed by the book, or anything like that.
Father Andrew did not seem surprised. "Yes, we do have some old stories about the war back there," he said. "They're a little bit more imaginative than the ones we consult for teachings."
"Imaginative?" repeated Colette. "What do you mean, Father?"
Father Andrew shuffled towards the rectory. "There are the books that we've been given by the Goddess Martel herself," he said, "and then there are books like those, which were written by human hands. That particular one is a very old story...perhaps as old as when the first Chosen spoke with Martel at the Tower of Salvation. I'm sorry, but could you carry this?" He interrupted himself to hand Colette the altarcloth so that he could pick up the book of scripture as he slowly made his way around the altar. "Thank you."
Colette remained where she was. "Um...are you saying," she started, "that those stories aren't real?"
"Are they factual?" said Father Andrew, setting off towards the rooms in the back. "Probably not. They're more of a...dramatic retelling of the ancient war."
Colette stepped down from the altar to follow him. "Why do we keep them, then?"
"Because like all stories, they can serve as a source of inspiration." He braced himself on the wall as he took the three steps down to the rectory door. "What you mentioned about the Goddess Martel, for instance. In that story, she's portrayed as being human, in order to convey how close the Goddess was to humanity during that time. This is actually...very common in ancient texts, most likely because it's how people perceived the spirits who were previously worshiped..."
"But there's nothing wrong with reading them?" Colette waited until Father Andrew had gotten off the steps safely, then joined him at the crooked threshold. "Would I get in trouble if the pastoress found out?"
"Trouble?" repeated Father Andrew, as though to himself. "No, not trouble... Don't let it worry you, Chosen. It's a story, nothing more."
Colette couldn't help but let the book worry her. As she left the House of Salvation that day, she glanced next door to the Temple of Martel, which dwarfed it. All her life she'd studied the stories of scripture backwards and forwards, and these were stories she hadn't heard before. Like she might find in a novel, which her grandmother didn't like her to read. This was a church book, so her grandmother would think it was okay, even though Colette still wasn't sure if she should be reading it. Overall, it was probably best that she not let it distract her.
Still, she remained curious.
Her father was waiting for her at the end of the path to walk her back to the village, like usual. He carried the knife that he always brought with him whenever he walked to the temple. In order to protect herself in the forest, Colette had a chakram that she kept in a round leather bag she wore over her shoulder. This was so that she didn't hurt herself with her fingers so close to the edge of a knife, though she had been told repeatedly the bladed half of the chakram could still cut her up badly if she wasn't careful. Because of this, she thought she might be too nervous to use her weapon if it was ever needed; though there hadn't yet been a chance for her to find out, since her father said it was his responsibility to fight off any monsters they came across while walking back to Iselia.
There weren't any incidents on their way back that day, for which Colette was grateful, since she felt anxious even standing in the back during a battle. She took her chakram off as soon as she got into the house.
"Everybody's safe?" asked her grandmother, as always.
"Yes, Grandmother," said Colette.
"What would you like for dinner, Colette?" asked her father.
"She should finish her schoolwork first, Frank," said her grandmother, who sat at the head of the table with the family scripture open in front of her.
Colette sat down beside her. "I actually started my schoolwork at the temple today."
"You finished with all your studies there, I hope?"
Colette nodded.
That night, as she lay in her bed and prayed before pulling up the covers, Colette thought about the book. Thank you, Martel, for helping me not be confused, she said inside her own head. I'm sorry if I shouldn't have read the book, and I'm sorry that I was distracted when I was supposed to be helping Father Andrew. But thank you for showing me to somebody like him who could explain it, and thank you for letting me come home without doubts...
After Colette finished her lesson with the elderly pastoress at the House of Salvation the next afternoon, she declined help on her schoolwork and said, very politely, that she would like to read something on her own for a while. The pastoress left the room. Colette gathered her papers into her schoolbag, put the books she had been studying back on their shelves, quietly opened the door, and found her way to the library at the back of the rectory.
The library was unchanged from the day before. Colette wondered how often the priests used this room. She closed the door behind her, then took the book about the hero Mithos and the Goddess Martel to the table with the nice lamp and sat down.
So long as she remembered it was just a story, as Father Andrew had said, there shouldn't be anything wrong with reading.
There wasn't anything on the front of the book – it was just worn, pinkish hide with remnants of what looked to be green ink around the border. She opened it from the front this time, properly, and found the title page: The Last Years of the Great War and the Triumph of the Hero Mithos. There was no index, but the page right after had a smaller title before the first paragraph:
I. How Mithos came to be a wanderer, and how Martel found him in the wood.
Not even divided into smaller books, but chapters. It really was like a novel.
Colette was three-fourths of the way through the first chapter – at the part where Mithos, wandering the woods after his home was destroyed by invaders, had figured out that somebody was leaving food for him and clearing monsters from his path, but hadn't yet figured out who – when the door opened. She jumped in her seat.
"Oh, Chosen – I'm sorry." One of the priestesses, a short woman with small eyes, blinked at her from the doorway. "Did I startle you?"
"N-no," said Colette, her heart still pounding.
The priestess frowned a bit, like she'd been startled into forgetting what she was doing there. Then she looked down at the book in front of Colette. She smiled. Colette had never had a lesson from her, and didn't think she had ever really spoken with this priestess, which was odd. There was something distinctly auntish about her, Colette thought.
"The Last Years of the Great War. That's one of my favorites," said the priestess. She quickly lowered her voice and added, "But don't tell the pastoress. I don't think I'm actually allowed to give that as an answer."
"Why not?" asked Colette, as though she didn't already know.
The priestess tipped her head towards one shoulder. "Because it takes a few liberties with the sequence in the holy books. But I'm not saying there's anything wrong –" She held up her hands, delicately, as though defending herself. "The Chosen would know that, right?" Now she leaned into the room. "I haven't seen much of anybody here recently. How far are you?"
"I'm...not very." Colette fidgeted with the corner of a page. "I just found it. I'm not very fast at reading, and..."
"And? Do you like it so far?"
Colette glanced back up. The priestess was smiling. With the sense of confessing a secret, Colette allowed herself to return it a little. "I think so. It's..." She struggled for the words. "It's not like any of the other books here."
"No," said the priestess, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's really a gem, isn't it?"
Her name was Mother Kallista, and over the next week Colette just happened to slip away to the library every day around the time the priestess would come in to study.
"So, you're still not done, Chosen?" asked Mother Kallista one day as Colette found her place in the book. She had the rather impolite habit of leaning over the table opposite her and reading in front of Colette's shoulder, so to speak, but Colette didn't mind.
"I'm getting closer," said Colette, running a fingernail down the edges of the hundred or so pages she had left. "Is it bad that I need so long?"
Mother Kallista blinked. "Bad? Why, no, it's not bad," she said, then swung herself off the table and meandered over to the shelf that contained books on law. She was an academic, and had studied in Palmacosta before joining the church there. While on her pilgrimage after ordination, she had ended up at the Martel Temple with neither the energy nor funds to return, or so she had said, and thus had let the group she had come with go on while she stayed. "In fact, I'm almost jealous – I go through things so quickly, there's hardly time to enjoy them." She stopped with her hand on the spine of a book. "Was that arrogant? I'm sorry."
Colette had also learned that Mother Kallista's specialty was ethics. She handled disputes for the priests at the temple, and said she did the same for people in Iselia whenever the Mayor requested it, though Colette couldn't recall having ever seen her in town.
"Mother, I have a question," said Colette, once Kallista had returned to the table. "Who is 'the one Martel loved'?"
Mother Kallista lounged as best as she could across the plain wooden chair. "Ah, yes...that's a good one, isn't it? He never gets a name."
"But do you know who he's supposed to be?" asked Colette. "Martel and Mithos save him near the border of Balacrouf. I don't know of any saints that have a story like that."
"Well...you're right," said Mother Kallista. "We don't know who he's supposed to be. From the text, we can guess that he had some sort of involvement with the military – otherwise, he wouldn't be near the border of Balacrouf during that time. And if he was a refugee, it probably would have said –"
"Like it described Mithos himself," added Colette.
"Yes," said Kallista. "The text doesn't draw attention to Mithos' virtue the same way it usually does when he helps somebody downtrodden, so this man was probably someone important."
"But...he doesn't really act like it, does he, Mother?" said Colette. "I know it says he helps them in Asgard, but after that, the only thing he really does is talk with Martel. I mean...that is really important, but isn't it a little strange for somebody Martel loves to not do anything else?"
"Ah." Mother Kallista jabbed a finger toward Colette. "There's actually quite an interesting theory, in regards to why he has that title, at least." She waved about her hand as she spoke. Colette got the sense that she was younger than her bird-like face implied. "Some people have proposed that 'the one Martel loves' is supposed to be a stand-in for the reader. No, think," she said, holding up one finger again before Colette could cut in. "What description do we get of him? Do we get a name or nationality? No – only that he was someone who had 'witnessed the deeds of Mithos and Martel, and set aside his life to join them.' Then, after the visit to Asgard, his role is just to interact with the Goddess and witness her and Mithos' journey. He's not a character: he's a blank slate upon which the pious reader can imagine themselves taking part in the story; or, to be a bit more charitable, an example of what a good attentive disciple should have done at the time."
Colette paused. She thought he talked too much to be a blank slate, but she liked the idea. "That makes some sense. It's kind of funny that they would still write him as a 'he', though."
"Funny that the writer would make it sound like the Goddess Martel had a boyfriend, you mean?"
Colette quickly looked down. "Um, yes, I was kind of thinking about that..."
"But throughout the entire story, Martel's portrayed as nearly human," said Mother Kallista. "She's even wounded by an arrow at one point, isn't she?"
And her holy blood seeped between her fingers. "She heals herself right after, though."
"She still bled," said Mother Kallista. "I think everything points more towards the more human interpretation, personally."
Colette fidgeted. Mother Kallista leaned on one elbow. "Does that make you uncomfortable? You're a bit young for boys, aren't you?"
"What–?"
"Chosen, dear, we're human. The hero Mithos and all the saints were human." Suddenly serious, she stared into the lamp with her finger on her chin, looking quietly pensive. "I don't think it offends Martel for us to want...to think of her in those terms."
Looking for a different topic, Colette flipped back through the book, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Martel didn't only love one person," she said. "I remember. It says Mithos is the one she loves most of all, over and over..."
"The Goddess is supposed to love all her children," said Kallista, still staring into the lamplight. "What can I say? Perhaps the phrase here means something that's been lost to time."
"Mother, what about the other man?" continued Colette, having failed to find a citation. "The other 'one who loved Mithos.' Who was he? It couldn't have been the same thing, as between Martel and..."
"Well, it might," said Mother Kallista, and Colette's eyes went wide. Kallista retreated, but it seemed like she was stifling a laugh. "The one who took them to the palace city, right? I think he was just an ally. He doesn't come up nearly as often, does he?"
"No, it's mostly Mithos and Martel." Colette shook her head, and tried to find the place she had left off. "Mostly...Martel, actually." She looked up. "That's another thing that's interesting...isn't it? Mithos is the hero in the title, but when you look at the story, it's Martel who's saving him."
"I think that's the point," said Mother Kallista.
"I know it should be," said Colette. "But...even after reading so much through, I feel like I don't know him very well. Compared to Martel, that is." Colette frowned. She felt like she was on the edge of something, as though one of those threads in the text that Mother Kallista could see plain as day was finally revealing itself to her. "I mean, I know I might be wrong, but..."
Mother Kallista crossed her arms. "I don't know, because you haven't said what about." Her expression twinged with exasperation. "You're allowed to argue with me, Chosen. You've been doing it this entire time."
"Okay," said Colette quickly, straightening her back out of habit. "I'm sorry. I'm just not sure that I can say something like this on my own, but..." She bit her lip. Mother Kallista was looking at her kindly.
"Go on," she said.
Colette took a deep breath. "It's funny to me," she began, "that, after the beginning, the story still talks more about Martel. It's about why she's with Mithos, or why she's saving him, more than why he's trying to stop the war. Like when they need to ask something of the Spirit of Earth, and Martel is the one who comes up with the idea of bringing him offerings and figures out what he's capable of, even though Mithos is the one she sends to talk to him. And then it's Martel who wonders if it was right to involve any of the Spirits, and is the most sad when they find that the Spirit of the Great Tree is missing, and..."
This time, after a moment, the words came to her instead of the other way around, and suddenly all made sense. "What I mean is, it's like she's the heroine."
It really was interesting, thought Colette, that their entire religion was centered around Martel, and yet Colette had never imagined her as the heroine of her own story.
Maybe, as a goddess, Martel wasn't supposed to have her own story, at least not in the way that a hero did. A hero was a single person, with a single lifetime: Martel was the protector of the entire world. The struggles of the world were her story. Mother Kallista had proposed that Martel's involvement in the plot could have been meant as an exaggeration of how she guided Mithos throughout his journey, and pointed out that, even if Martel was making most of the decisions, it was Mithos who actually carried them out.
But not all of them, Colette thought now, remembering how Martel had rushed – or rather would rush, as Colette had not reached that part yet – out between two warring armies in order to save the hero she loved most of all.
Perhaps it wasn't such a big thing for a goddess, to stop armies when the situation was right.
Still, Colette liked the implication that Martel was a goddess who thought like a human, who became upset and lonely and had to actively work to change history. Who had enough of a body to bleed.
That afternoon, when Colette and her father had crossed the gates into Iselia and were halfway to the house, they heard a boy scream from some distance away.
"Father," said Colette, "did you hear that?"
He paused. "It was probably somebody playing," he said, placating. "It came from within the village."
Colette nodded, but a few seconds later, she heard more screams, and they were angry, and she recognized them. "I think I know that person," she said quickly, and ran down the path.
"Wait – Colette!"
She was right. Next to the garden she saw a younger boy from school – Bogi, she thought it was? – standing down another boy and girl from her class. All three had fists raised.
Colette ran up to them and spread her arms. "Stop! I don't want anybody hurt!"
All three flinched. Bogi, the boy who stood alone, immediately let his arms slump to his sides. The other two also slacked for a minute, and looked around as though they suspected somebody else would arrive, but when nobody showed they both turned to Colette.
"Who don't you want hurt, exactly?" asked the girl from her class, stern again.
"All of you," said Colette. A pause. "Who was the person who screamed?"
"That was him, trying to cover himself after picking a fight with somebody smaller," said the boy who stood next to the girl, practically straining at the bit.
"I wasn't trying to pick a fight!" yelled Bogi, who despite being younger did in fact have a few inches on the other two. "And smaller doesn't count if it's two against one!"
"All I was doing was making it even!"
"Stop!" said Colette, throwing out her arms again. This time, they actually stepped back. "Whatever you're angry about, none of you should fight over it!"
"What are you even doing here, Colette?" asked the girl. "This isn't your fight!"
"No," said Colette, "but I'm the Chosen. I'm supposed to make sure people get along!"
That wasn't necessarily part of the description, and the older boy seemed to realize. "Being the Chosen," he muttered – just loud enough that Colette caught it – "doesn't mean you get to be a snitch."
"I'm not trying to be a snitch," Colette insisted, "I just don't want you to hurt each other. And, and if that means I have to get Mr. Taban or somebody –"
"Fine," said the girl sharply. "We won't fight, if that'll make you happy. All right?"
Colette nodded. The girl stormed off, and her friend followed her.
"He really was going to fight me," said Bogi, holding up his hands as though in defense. "I didn't start it. I swear."
"But you're okay, right?" asked Colette.
Her father finally came running up to her from across the garden. "Colette, what are you doing? What's gotten into you?"
He reached for her arm, and Bogi took the opportunity to run off in the other direction. "I'm sorry," said Colette, "but I thought somebody was hurt."
"Do you even know those children?" asked her father.
"Yes. They go to school with me."
Her father shook his head. "Even in the village, please don't go running off. You should have asked me to go with you."
"I know," said Colette. "I'm sorry."
"Especially when you could be hurt..." He sighed, then let go of her arm. "Please don't ever do that again."
"I won't, Father."
Her father shook his head again. "It's all right, Chosen."
The title could be either a bad or a good sign, but he said it respectfully, which usually signaled that he was done with discipline. "Will you not tell Grandmother? Please?"
"I won't," he promised. "But we should get home before she starts to worry."
Colette wasn't sure whether her heroics had been successful or not, given that her classmates hadn't resolved whatever they were fighting about in the first place; furthermore, she realized in her room later that night, it had been a little silly to run between them as dramatically as Martel on the battlefield.
Still. Doing something had to have been better than doing nothing. And they all had run off without actually starting a fight.
Martel in the stories had doubts about great things she had done, even after the fact. Not that anything Colette had done counted as great. But if Martel thought about great things the same way as a normal girl would think about normal things, then maybe if Colette ever had the power to do great things, it wouldn't mean so much of a change in herself...
That was the first night that Colette, without thinking too much about it at the time, directed her prayers to the Martel she knew from the books. That night, she spoke to the Goddess who bled.
She realized after the fact that this was probably somewhat blasphemous. It wasn't even the real Martel, after all. And yet, the Martel from the books seemed so much more real to her than the Martel she had been speaking to her entire life. Could that be an honest way of talking to the Goddess: through the character made in her image? Was this what Father Andrew meant when he spoke of stories as a means of inspiration?
As she pulled up the covers, Colette admitted to herself that she was wishing – hoping – that Martel really was more like the Martel in the story. Because if Martel was nearly human, then Colette could almost imagine one day becoming a part of her.