Talent



  TALENT

  By Ariana Kenny

  Copyright by Ariana Kenny March 2011

  Table of Contents:

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  There was once a man named Julian the Apostate who died in 363AD, some time after being wounded in battle. It is said that when he died, the true pagan world died with him. That it was the herald of a new era, a new time for mankind. The man may have taken his last breath in 363AD, but by the time the world I lived in had started to change, it was over 500 years later. I guess the pain of so-called civilization being re-birthed takes time to sweep across nations, command people in the name of justice and righteousness. At least that’s what they said as I was taking my last breath….

  Prologue

  On an Autumn night in 836 AD a small town lay in quiet sleep, while the candles of the newly built church still flickered. The church itself was simple, built of basic stone, with a dirt floor and an aisle delineated only by soft light of animal fat candles that lead from the double wooden doors to the alter. On the alter lay a young woman, her body still, and her face covered with a thin white veil, barely obscuring her features and dark tumbling hair. A priest prayed over her body, while an older woman with greying hair - the girl’s mother - wept at the side of the alter. Only just visible through the veil a single tear rolled down the side of the woman's flawless face, and past the alter she lay on. “Please mama. Please. Help me.” She whispered.

  “You cannot be helped by anyone but The Lord now.” muttered the priest leaning over her. “If we pray for you, your soul may yet be saved.” The mother wailed and bowed her head.

  The girl, too weak to move, started to beg. “Please mama, she can help me, get Aunty Es...”

  “Stop. Don't say her name.” the mother hissed through tears.

  The priest took the mother’s hand before speaking to the girl. “She is a witch, and you have been taken in by her. That is what led you to this place. Her power comes from darkness and you need all the goodness you can get if you want our God to take you to him.” He continued on to sprinkle water over the altar and girl. “Lord, please accept this wayward girl in to your fold. Judge her as you will, but bear mercy.”

  The girl wept softly, realizing there was no help, as a powerful wind built outside. The doors shook, and the priest looked them over, alarmed. The wind rose again, and the door shook once more. The priest pulled the mother back and to her feet, as a moment of eerie silence descended.

  The doors blew open, causing the priest and the mother to take a sharp breath. In the doorway, a tall dark figure loomed. The girl lolled her head to the side, closing her eyes, finally out of the energy to struggle to keep herself from death.

  The wind died down, and the dark figure strode purposefully down the aisle and as he walked, the candles on either side of him extinguished themselves. They sizzled out, untouched by hand or element, and the priest crossed himself. The figure seemed larger than life as he reached the altar and looked down at the girl, then back at her mother and the priest. A soft growl emerged from the man’s throat. But this was not a man exactly. His name was Lormorian.

  The mother rushed forward to reach the girl, but was knocked down by an invisible force as Lormorian waved a hand at her. In response, the priest took a roughly carved wooden candle holder from the wall behind him and ran, ready to strike. Again, Lormorian simply flicked his wrist, and the priest flew against a far stone wall. Disgusted Lormorian spat his words out. “You would let her die! Your kin? Your blood?”

  The mother shrank back, raising an arm to defend herself. “I love her.”

  Lormorian never gratified her with a response. Instead, saying nothing he leaned forward and scooped the girl from the table.

  “Don't take her. Don't condemn her.” pleaded the mother, crawling a few inches forward on her hands and knees.

  Lormorian turned to face her, dark rage awash his features. “I am her salvation.” he said, ire seated in his voice. With a rush, he whirled around to face the door and advanced down the aisle toward the door. The candles relit in the wake of his steps, and as Lormorian reached the doors, flames engulfed the structure.