The day Tifalla became a priestess was, unlike many of her memories, quite vivid in her mind.

  She lived in a village in The Afternoon Cadence named by outsiders as Calix. Those within called it simply “The Wold.” Life inside was utterly divorced from the outside world. Nothing exciting nor intriguing happened, but it was peaceful and aged like its population. The fences that surrounded the Wold were frail and ineffectual, but few stepped outside of them. Tifalla certainly never did. At least, not until the temple's emissaries arrived for her sentencing. They needed women— desperately, like starved wolves searching for a meal. When they found their catch they refused to let her go. Tifalla became the latest because she was the only young woman available; the only child of the Wold.

  She stood in the wheat fields that day, tickled by the swaying grains against her skin. When the sun set upon those fields, the golden brown ocean that surrounded her caught the sun's rays perfectly. Her only woe in that sea was whether she should commit to a sun kissed nap in the fields, or return home to gorge on the bread prepared by Grandma. Neither would come to pass.

  In place of warm meals and warmer naps, horse drawn carriages greeted her from beyond the boundary of all she ever knew. She was dragged beyond that line, and her small voice, though shouting and wailing, failed to carry across the fields towards her grandmother's home. Even if it had, little could be done. She never said her goodbyes.

  Her treatment on that journey was callous and harsh. Why, Tifalla had seen cattle treated better than she was. The elements were brutal enough without her cries being beaten from her frail form. She was dragged across dirt and snow, stripped of her dignity, and only hastily bandaged up to prevent infection and death.

  A turn was only taken when she arrived in The Midnight Silence. Worn from the battles of travel, her wounds had to be treated with potent weeping moss oil. The ensuing scars ran deep but most were covered well by her attire. That is, sans the wound upon her upper lip. When the medicinal oils scarred the wound near instantly, her lip retained a noticeable groove in the skin. As she stared at it in the mirror, she heard whispers of men punished brutally for harm against a priestess. It was then she knew how treasured she had become.

  Her thick coils, once matted and caked with blood, were freed from their state to be braided beautifully in layers with small strands of hair left out from every braid. In the skilled hands of elder priestesses, Tifalla went from a farm child to that of a sacred young woman fit to be wed even to a Lord.

  That day, she was clad in the hefty ceremonial dress of a newborn priestess, and her hair adorned in flowers and veils.

  She chose her Lord that very night with little time for further deliberation. Her initial choice was, consequently, impulsive, made only because she was fearful of what would become of her had she not. With trembling hands she grasped the butterfly statuette and listened to the vows that united her with her Lord.

  Her fate was sealed from that moment onward.

  “I'm so tired! I didn't sleep at all because Jean couldn't stop talking!” Rhea groaned, her head pressed deep into Tifalla's shoulder.

  “Oh no! What were you two talking about?” she asked, pupils wide.

  “Whatever it may have been, it couldn't have been worth staying up for,” Laetitia said.

  “That's the problem!” Rhea cried. “It wasn't worth it at all! She said she had something important to tell me and she spent five hours just rambling about some man!”

  “Jean, you said? Was she not thinking of marrying this man? She mentioned it once or twice,” Tifalla said thoughtfully.

  “Or a billion times. Seriously, who on Fantasia thinks of marriage with this much work on their hands? I'm too tired for that!”

  “But marriage is beautiful. There's nothing wrong with wanting it and there's nothing wrong with not wanting it. Once Jean leaves, I hope she'll be happy.”

  “Blegh, of course you'd say that, Top Officiant.”

  “Did I say something wrong?” Tifalla said, her face growing warm.

  Rhea took one look at her countenance before sighing, loudly. “No, no. You're right. I'm just cranky is all.”

  Tifalla's hand met Rhea's hair, careful to not disturb the style she painstakingly created. Poor her, she thought, a socialite in distress. Tifalla let herself be used as a pillar, carrying the increasing weight of her sleepy companion.

  Laetitia, on the contrary, carried far less sympathy for Rhea's plight. “Don't get caught sleeping on the job,” she said, her eyes shut in a quiet contemplation so common to her.

  Rhea groaned louder, its sound barely muffled by the fabric on Tifalla's shoulders. Touched by the vibrations of anguish, she couldn't help but giggle, amused.

  Their time together passed with minimal fuss. When the doors to the inner chamber opened, they set out towards the start of their day.

  Every morning priestesses gather to give worship in the very chamber they were inducted in. It sat located in the innermost sanctum of Cantabile and acted as the gathering place for all clad in robes. Though only priestesses were permitted inside, its grounds were protected by guards armed and primed. She was told ever so long ago— when her eyes were cast upon them with fear— that they were instruments of the Lords who protected every bride. Tifalla wasn't sure if this tale was true, but it was a comfort to her mind. The inner chamber came to represent safety and routine. It was a lone constant in a life full of alterations and change.

  Much like other structures within the Cantabile temple, the inner chamber reflected the age and history of the land. Thick pillars supported the chamber's ceiling while the floor was paved in cold, white marble. The statues and wall carvings that detailed the ever changing history of Fantasia were of faded bronze; its warm honey tones coated in a jade green shine. Every Lord observed the space from up above, their symbols; their eyes, peering down at the humble droves of priestesses.

  Tifalla sat beside Laetitia and Rhea. Their positioning mattered little when it was only them inside. For but a few scant minutes, their only real goal was to give worship and praise. Some priestesses whispered their troubles in hopes of aid, and others sang praises in an endless stream of affection. So long as it was quiet, a priestess's manner of worship was a quirk unique to just her.

  Silence fell over the chamber in waves. Moderate chatter was reduced to hushed whispers, and then, a stark silence. Eyes shut, knees tucked, and hands clasped, outer prayer was uniform across the rows of priestesses. The true differences lie in the mind. But, reading minds was impossible for a mere priestess. All Tifalla knew were the words and images her own mind conjured.

  Her prayers were an embarrassing sort. Never lewd nor perverse, or disgusting or worse, rather, something so terribly innocent it bordered on childish. When her eyelids fluttered shut, she craned her head down to hide her indignity.

  She could never forget the day she became a priestess. Not just for the bone chilling fear or suffering, but for a profound shift in her very being.

  It was the most agonizing and beautiful moment of her life.

  She was caught in a web, trapped on the boundary between joy and fear. For a woman who knew so little, who lived her entire life caged in by old fences, the celebration of unity was unlike anything she had ever known. She knew of love, she knew of marriage, she was but a child when she saw one of her grandfathers kiss his lover upon his cheek, but displays so tender and minute never encapsulated the magnitude of emotions swirling within. Not until she felt them for herself.

  She danced that night, held in the arms of another priestess initiate. She was spun by her until the hollowberry wine upset her stomach. She was dazed, confused, but pathetically drunk on the sights, smells, and motions she had never experienced. Shouted in her ear by voices unknown were promises of love and affection.

  “It was her claim, her right, to be loved by her Lord.”

  “For all she would do for him, for the price of her dedication, only the most tender of care would be returned when her life finally ended.”

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  She had made her promises and vows, and, as she was told, so did he. They were joined in matrimony.

  It was the first wedding Tifalla had ever experienced. The whirling chaos of emotions so beautiful was a poison. It seeped deep into her delicate heart and turned her mind to rot. She could think of no greater joy than bearing witness to displays of love so blatant and bold. She was hooked from that moment onward.

  She would never know if Lord Eiwar watched their ceremony. It didn't matter if he did. All she wished for was more time. To let the ceremonies last longer, to let love last longer. For herself, and for the world around her, she wanted love to be everlasting. Every morning she prayed for a hope that was painfully silly. Reduced to mere pleading, she leveraged her position as a priestess in hopes that maybe, in some future, her wish could come true.

  Tifalla, since that day, bore witness to many things. When she listened to private confessions, she would hear the worst of humanity. She learned of those ravaged by cruelty, illness and famine. She heard unspeakable crimes uttered with voices of glee. Fantasia was a world full of monsters. She was not naive to the suffering. Yet, her wish never changed. If anything, it only grew stronger.

  If there was a possibility, an outcome where love prevailed over suffering, she wished for it to be so.

  Won't he hear her pleas?

  Crack.

  “...!”

  Her eyes snapped open. She heard a noise; something fragile breaking. When she whirled her head around to find it, no one else reacted. It was solely her with her head up and alert.

  Her heart thundered in her chest, a terrible pulse that felt most prominent in the veins of her neck. She tried then and there to settle herself, but her eyes continued searching. The noise, whatever it had been, was not far from her. It was hauntingly close, settled just behind her ear. Yet, upon double inspection, only an older priestess sat in the space. Her eyes were shut and her pale hands trembled. She was in the midst of deep prayer.

  Tifalla turned from her to the way forward. She couldn't return to focus. Her mind was already drifting and she, hopelessly so, couldn't reign it in. She opted to wait until prayer ended.

  She first thought of the sheep back at home. Were they still well? Lucy must have given birth to her lambs. What colors were their fleece? Did they prance about the fields eating grain without her there to scold them? They could be growing so round!

  Her subsequent thoughts drifted to and fro, ricocheting between memories and wistful hopes until the eyes of every priestess opened. Life returned to the quiet room shortly following the perceived end of prayer. It was the only one for the day, so many were eager to end it.

  Tifalla and Laetitia were forced to wake up Rhea after she dozed off. Yes, the both of them. Rhea fought every step of the way. When she was finally dragged to her feet, she was as sluggish and heavy as a sack of bricks. Tifalla did her best to carry her out alone.

  “Next time just leave her there. The council will find her,” Laetitia said.

  Rhea snapped up, suddenly very aware and very awake. “Y-You wouldn't leave me to the beasts like that, right?”

  “Not unless you don't conduct yourself properly.”

  Laetitia, notably, never left Rhea behind. Though the frailty of her own leg made it an impossibility to pick another up, she patiently waited until Rhea or Tifalla could carry the weight.

  Tifalla giggled at the thought.

  “Tif! You can't laugh! I still have to survive a few more weeks here!”

  Tifalla stopped herself promptly, but only succeeded in making herself hiccup with the sudden gulp of air.

  “Sorry- hic.”

  “I was just joking, Tif.”

  Laetitia stared at her as if it was obvious. Was that a smile gracing her features or was it Tifalla's imagination?

  The three said their farewells and separated for work. Priestesses were always kept booked and busy.

  Tifalla, just a few short weeks in her new role, found her first task placed upon her bed. They came in the form of handwritten notes, prescripts the older women called them. Tifalla adopted their language as best as she could.

  Each prescript gave a brief list of instructions. If the primary task proved simple, another prescript, the secondary task, would be set alongside it. All tasks had to be completed by the end of the day. Tifalla had a wealth of fortune as she rarely found herself with two prescripts in one day. Her singular tasks, however, often required most of the day to complete.

  Marked A54. 098, Tifalla's prescript read as so,

  “Lady Cathrella and Sir Darian are to be wed by sunset. Craft their vows according to Silence customs, lead the ceremony, and facilitate the exchange of blood between both parties.”

  Tifalla recalled it well; how her stomach fluttered when she read her first prescript. She, still crashing from the high of her own ceremony, was responsible for another. Well, only partly so. She was not permitted to lead ceremonies as a new priestess. She was too inexperienced and lacked sophistication. She was tasked with watching another conduct the ceremony instead. It took a year of learning for her to receive such a job all on her own.

  She was not a woman partial to reading. Yet, with tomes older than Cantabile itself in her hand, she was swept up by the winds of tales and rituals. She was expected, as all were, to memorize these rituals, and it was a burden Tifalla took upon her back with glee. She learned the four styles of marriage ceremonies and the nine rituals each style could conduct. From the binding blood exchange of Lord Phi's worshippers to the kiss of smog common amongst followers of Lord Cyphan, Tifalla cultivated a deep understanding of Fantasia history. Love, unity, and ceremony were constant across every text and every tongue. It was ever changing, yet equally rigid in so many ways. She wanted, nay, needed to know all.

  When the day came that she, alone, would lead a ceremony, she felt the very same way she did in the present; awash with happiness.

  She took her prescript and placed it in her desk drawer. There, stacked in neat rows and columns were her older prescripts. Well above a thousand in total, the older papers were wrapped in twine to keep them steady. The newer papers sat in more loose stacks that she then added her most recent orders to. There were times when sentimentality possessed her to read them over again, invoking old emotions and memories nearly buried. She would likely rid herself of them in the future, but for the time she remained as a priestess, she would surely keep them safe.

  Tifalla, with a destination set, adorned herself in the proper garments. Lady Cathrella and Sir Darian were followers of Lord Phi, and their wedding will be of Silence origin. Week-long processions, intricate dresses, bountiful banquets, and plentiful flora were all key symbols of Silent weddings. If Tifalla wished to play a part in the couple's happily ever after, she had to do her best to end the festivities well. Better than before, better than after.

  With help from her sisters, she successfully pinned her hair into a half bun and put on her final pieces. Talismans hung from her hips as jewels fell from both neck and wrists. Their brilliant ruby red sheen was akin to bloody wounds, a perfect match for Lord Phi's followers.

  It is said that the human body's vitality came through blood. There is no greater terror and no greater pleasure than sharing it with another.

  She arrived before the guests of the wedding. Showing up after to stand watch were priestesses younger than she; those with substantial time still on the clock. In their eyes, peeking through the fabric of their veils, were traces of apprehension. They looked to Tifalla first. When she smiled, their gazes turned shy. She could see the confidence sinking in. They were in good hands.

  With the hall deemed suitable, it was a pale canvas painted with pockets of red. Red lilies and their wide petals poured from every vase available sat upon tables covered with freshly smoothed white linen. A feast fit for a Lord was already being prepared, only awaiting the reception's start to begin serving. It did not detract from the spiced and sweet scent of lilies. At the stage where, like a hive, flowers sat piled upon themselves in arranged displays, Tifalla stood with two clean blades in hand.

  The guests siphon in first, small crowds taking tables and greeting one another warmly. When everyone is seated all watch as the two families enter. The matriarchs to both families walked side by side, arm in arm. The lone patriarch followed after. The bride's closest friends entered the hall one after another. Then the groom's closest friends followed up in the rear. The priestesses, unified in step, stand at both the exit and stage

  The bride entered first concealed by both a veil and a wide umbrella. None dared meet her eye as she walked. Instead, the talismans hanging from the rim of her umbrella caught eyes as they swayed with movement. All that remained visible of the bride's upper body were her hands. Her finger tips and nails were dyed a striking red that faded into the pale pink skin. When she reached the altar, she stopped.

  The groom followed in similar fashion. Concealed by an umbrella, he took slow and careful steps forward to the awe of the crowd. The strings, jewelry, and charms attached to his umbrella were a stark red to clash against the pristine white of his outfit. Though covered by shadows, Tifalla saw his hands dyed in the same red as his betrothed.

  They met at the altar. Priestesses rushed to their sides to lift the umbrella from their hands. The crowd gasped and cooed, all for good reason in Tifalla's eyes.

  They had alluring makeup, pristine attire, and sinfully beautiful looks.

  The crowd's eyes were on their looks. Tifalla watched how they looked at each other.

  Affection, adoration, love, it was a look so pure she could have melted then and there. Despite both of their older ages, Tifalla couldn't help but liken them to two youths in the throes of a whirlwind romance. Yet, she couldn't ignore the maturity both show. There was responsibility, reassurance, and dedication— the necessary foundation needed for an everlasting bond.

  She knew not of what the future held for them. But, she could, and would, ask for more time. More time in love, and more time together.

  Lord Eiwar, should he listen, please, she begged…

  “May you share your every meal. May you dance, sing, and rejoice as one. May your conflicts be resolved swiftly. May life provide a lifetime of spirit.”

  …Grant them a love as fervent as her own.

  “As you look into one another's eyes, know that you are loved; unconditionally, eternally, and honestly. Hold one another through pain, desire, and all that lies between.”

  Tifalla held up her hands. The glint of the blades shined in the light. Her grip was firm. She neither trembled nor faltered.

  The blades pressed against the bride and groom's arm. With one delicate slice, blood fell from the gashes. It dripped onto their clothes, the floor, and their stained skin as a waterfall of red.

  “Drink upon the blood of your beloved. Share your scars, and carry their vitality.”

  A thunderous applause rang out as the bride and groom's bodies stood flush against each other. They drank from each other, feverish and hungrily. Their ceremony ended with a bloody, messy kiss.

  Tifalla stood by. In her clasped hands sat the blades held like a thrown bouquet. It would be nice if she could be so fortunate, but she didn't need such blessings.

  Another had his eyes on her.