Nightingale knelt in prayer.
Alone in her small room in Kholingen's Hall of Defenders, the objects which made up her own small shrine to her Goddess, the staff of her office, the bowl of pure water and the draped cloth of the healer were laid neatly upon the small table in front of a small ivory statue of the Goddess.
She prayed silently with no ritual or ceremony. The simple devotions which were as much a part of her daily life as breathing. The tranquility she felt during these daily prayers were as close as she ever came to true serenity. For a few brief minutes, three times every day she was transported away from the pain and suffering which were so much a part of her normal life.
As she continued with her devotions an image floated into her mind's eye. The face of a child racked with disease. She remembered the courage with which that little one had fought. But to no avail. Death had claimed him that same morning. A single tear trickled down her cheek. She knew that she couldn't save them all. Despite her best efforts some would still die if that was their fate. Sometimes her spells to return the fallen to life would fail too. She understood and accepted this. No man was born to live forever. If his time came to return to the care of the Gods then no power of Nightingale's could save him.
"But why the children my Goddess?" she whispered. "Why them? I have sought a cure for the Cordor plague victims for so long now. The arts you grant me can ease the suffering. But nothing I have tried... nothing that I know of... can cure them. What am I to do Divine Salandra? I strive... I have tried so hard..."
Her eyes blurred with unshed tears which she brushed away in irritation. She remembered the first instruction, the first lesson she had ever been taught by her Temple Mother.
"Never allow yourself to become personally involved with those in your care," the venerable old priestess had said, "And as you walk the byways as a Salandran remember those words as you look after your charges. One day you will repeat them to the priests and priestesses who you will teach."
"You never became personally involved with any of your patients?" Nightingale had asked.
"Every last one of them my dear," the old priestess had replied with twinkling eyes, "It's what makes us what we are. You will know heartache and grief beyond measure on this path you now step upon."
"Then why... "
"Because for every moment of heartbreak you will know ten of joy. The first cry of a newborn. The look on someone's face when you lift the veil of blindness from them... The first time you are thanked for sealing a wound... aye and every time thereafter. Believe me when I tell you that the rewards of our life are worth more than any mountain of gold."
A small smile appeared on Nightingale's lips as she remembered her old teacher. And how wise she had been.
"Enough of feeling sorry for yourself, Honour," she told herself, rising and dabbing the moisture from her cheeks with her sleeve. "There's work to be done."
It wasn't until she arose from her knees that she noticed the water in the bowl on her makeshift altar. Instead of crystal clarity it now swirled with cloudy milky patterns.
"Watch!" The voice was barely audible but was well-known and well-beloved. It emanated from the small statue.
"Goddess!" Nightingale bowed her head.
"Watch!"
Nightingale fixed her eyes on the swirling water. Slowly the cloudiness shimmered and images began to appear in the bowl. Familiar images at first.
She looked upon the once mighty castle of Benwick. Creepers and vines now festooned its walls. Stonework was beginning to crumble. The castle had been uninhabited for a very long time now, Gale knew.
"My first home in this realm," she murmured.
"Watch"
Now the view changed. Swarms of dwarves climbed over the surface of the castle, hammers in hand. As Nightingale watched the dwarven artisans proceeded to demolish the ancient castle.
Nightingale sighed as she watched the first home in Amia that she had known reduced to rubble. Then the rubble was cleared away until only bare earth remained.
"Watch"
Now more dwarves and many others, gnomes and human too scurried around the site. Scaffolds were erected and dray horses pulling enormous carts hove into view. Dressed stone blocks and slabs of marble were unloaded and more and yet more wagons arrived. A small army occupied the site and as Nightingale watched a new structure arose where the castle had stood. Neatly laid out herb gardens framed the grounds. An avenue of Laburnum trees led to the building. Gleaming white pillars framed a magnificent entrance. Marble floors stretched into the distance within. Light from the high vaulted windows shone and reflected from the marble. Fountains sparkled and tinkled their song. And in the centre of the great hall which lay just inside the entrance the statue of a woman raised her hands in blessing over all who entered. The face of the statue was as familiar to Nightingale as was her own.
"Salandra," Gale whispered.
"Build me a temple," the soft whisper came from Gale's tiny statue. "Bring the children to me. Bring those afflicted with the plague. Bring the wounded. Bring the infirm and the old. Bring them to me. Bring them all."
Exultation filled Nightingale. She bowed deeply before the statue then knelt.
"It shall be so." she affirmed, "Your devoted priestess shall see to it that this is done."
"Priestess no longer," the voice whispered.
A moment of shock and panic filled Nightingale's heart at these words, replaced moments later with a delirious joy she had never believed possible as the Goddess's voice came to her for the last time that day.
"Arise Temple Mother."

_________________
Never knock on Death's door.
Ring the bell and run away!
Death really hates that!

(//apologies, Rep.. need to assume command of Gale for a sec.)


The newly christened Temple Mother rose to her feet, tears flowing from her eyes. As Nightingale's mind began to wrap around her Goddess's Edict, she stepped forward, and opened the door. The Duties of a Saladran made it nigh-impossible to remain in one place for long, and there was healing to be done.

As the oaken door closed behind Gale, something odd happened: A silver mist began emanating from the Holy Cistern, billowing out into the room, slowly, but steadily. As the mist layered itself on the floor, a vaguely humanoid-sized area appeared, as mild currents swirled the mist. Within the placid whirlwind, an image took shape: Her oldest ally, and most devoted friend, Akela. The ghostly figure silently turned, and gazed into the silver bowl, as the images replayed themselves. A fnaged smile crossed Akela's face, as he spoke, in an ethereal tone "Akela....is pleased." The plane-scattered being spoke to the mist, and it obeyed, picking up the draped cloth, and folding it into the shape of a four-petaled flower, much like the white blossoms of the tree Erok had shown the two of them, so long ago. The mists ebbed, and Akela took one of his hunting knives, that burned brightly with the Blood of the Mountain in battle, and placed it, still in the sheath, on top of the folded cloth.

Dipping the thick fingers of his right hand into the waters, Akela traced out a blessing on the wooden table,in the language of his tribe (//which, to anyone who can read celestial, can be roughly translated, as a broken backwoods dialect of said language): "May The Great Spirit fill Temple Mother Nightingale with the Strength of The Mountain". As his finger traced the words, the water on it froze solid, leaving an icy calligraphy behind, so cold that it would leave its words burned into the wood, long after the ice had melted.

A peaceful look on his face, Akela gazed skyward, as a large pair of white wings unfurled from his back. He unslung the Voice of Mountain, and gripped it in both hands, dropping into a crouch. With a mighty wing flap, he leapt into the air, and vanished, as a voice hung in the air, with no one to hear it........

"Akela.......lives........"


With Akela's departure, the mist quickly dissolved into the air, as though chased before the rays of morning's first light.

_________________
You are still wrong.
And I am outta here - they are tired, write the eulogy.

angel45 - gone, not forgotten