Flashback [Starting gnosis(approved)]Held in unexpected favor

[Therizo Tafos]

86th day of fall, 512AV oocI hope this is ok, I thought it would make sense for what happened in Blackrock to be posted here. Please tell me if it isn't, or just delete the thread and I'll notice. “Come on get up, please, let’s go,” standing above him, Therizo could see his father slouched sloppily over the bed where his wife had struggled for so long. Or was it father who struggled? Yes, that seemed closer to the truth; his mother never seemed concerned with dying and suffered only to the extent of her illness. Her biggest sorrow was indeed the sight of her husband reduced to pure grief, though she never did seem to understand why it struck him so. Father gave no answer and merely buried his face into the palms of his hands. “The burial is in an hour,” Therizo tried once again to coax a response shaking Mathiatias’s shoulder, “mother wouldn’t want you to miss it.” At that, the grieving father raised his face from out the warm embrace of his hands, and said, not looking at his son: “A burial? You mean celebration?” he slowly turned his head towards Therizo, who could now see his blood-shot eyes looking at him accusingly. “I have no intention of celebrating the death of my wife. You can go join your death cult yourself.” Therizo gave him a disapproving look, but saw that his father was beyond reasoning with. “Very well, I will tell her family that you aren’t feeling yourself today,” he gave a short pause, “I’m sure they’ll understand.” His steps were heavy upon the checkered tiles that paved the streets of Dira’s isle, as he walked to join the ceremony. He gazed up towards the grey skies, heavy with rain that threatened to plunge upon the floor still wet from its last descent, and wondered if his mother’s mother and her husband truly would understand. He scarcely understood himself. Though he missed his mother’s presence, he’d been thought that a person’s passing was not a tragedy, and he had never felt it as such. His father on the other hand, was struck beyond imagination - a man with whom he once studied ghosts, and who had always seemed so enamored by Blackrock’s foreign outlook -. Carried by such thoughts he arrived at the graveyard’s gates. He could already hear the sounds of gathering, and as the hatches creaked to a close behind him, he could see the crowd that congregated amid the tombstones. He made his way through the family and friends of the deceased, giving them his greetings as he went towards the elderly couple in their center. As he approached, the man looked at him and then beyond him, as if searching for someone: “Is your father not here?” he asked with an expectant look. Therizo stopped abruptly and wavered for a second before replying: “He isn’t himself today,” the tone was not convincing, and the man’s expression exchanged the attentive smile for a momentary frown. “I see, well I hope he feels better soon,” his tone none the more convincing. Therizo turned to the woman beside him with a courteous nod. “Hello, I trust that everything is going well.” The woman had a kindly face, as kindly as her daughter’s, though the black tint of her hair remained only in strands that cut across the grey. She smiled a warm smile, gesturing him towards her. He extended his hand for the embrace that the woman had compelled upon each of their meetings. She accompanied it, as always, with the familiar peck on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re doing well. Sorry that father couldn't come.” She patted him on the back in response, “I understand. He isn't accustomed to our ways; it’s to be expected.” As he stood back upright, he saw that her husband did not share the sentiment, if the scowl he bore was anything to go by. “Well we best go; it’s almost time for the speeches.” The speeches in Lateria’s memory were given by several family members including Therizo. They ranged from short, concise words of commemoration, to long discourses about the many virtues of the deceased that the speaker felt needed mentioning. What followed was the putting to rest of Lateria’s body. She lay in a wooden coffin, and was covered in inexpensive but clean white cloth, with her head resting on a layer of two pillows. Her face bore a serene expression, and though her illness had clearly left a mark, the mortician had done a good job of covering most of the blemishes to create an idealized impression of her, to go along with the memories. Everyone was expected to give their respects by placing trinkets or flowers by her side. After that, her father stepped forth once more to give a final speech before the coffin was closed shut and placed gently into the freshly dug hole, marked by a marble tombstone, to be covered with soil and ornamented with flowers. As was appropriate, Therizo and other close family members left only after all the other guests had shuffled out; at which point Syna’s diurnal journey was all but finished. He said his goodbyes to his mother’s parents, and went with hurried steps back home. On his way, he wondered if his father had moved at all during the day, or if he was still sitting by that empty bed, cursing the gods and the city. When he arrived, the bedroom window giving view to the entrance of the house was unlit, and there was no sign of a candle burning in any other room. He pushed open the wooden door and looked around the dimly lit entry hall, whose only source of light was the pale moonlight protruding through the lingering clouds and curtain veiled windows on the other side of the chamber. It was not unusual for his father to go to bed early, so Therizo didn’t think much of it. He closed the door behind him and stepped towards the one that lead to the dining area, throwing his cloak on to a wooden bench in passing. He lit the half-burned candle that stood on the small wooden table, and took a seat by its side. Closing his eyes, he leaned back and reflected upon the burial. He wondered where his mother was now. Did Dira take her into her realm or was her soul to walk a different path - here on Mizahar? Suddenly the hatches in the main hall creaked, and woke him from his thoughts. He heard hurried steps, then, moments later, his father’s form appeared, leaning on the jamb of the dining room door. Therizo looked at him surprised, but before he could open his mouth to speak, Mathiatias said, with finality in his voice: “We’re leaving Blackrock tomorrow. A boat is ready to take us away in the afternoon.” Leave Blackrock? Therizo could not believe what he was hearing; to leave a place where he had spent the first 19 years of his life, seemed impossible to imagine. “What are you talking about? Why would we leave?” His father’s face did not show that he had heard the question. “There’s a wooden chest in your room. Put whatever you need in it!” The words were not spoken as a command, but as if the voyage had been long agreed upon, and the action of packing a self-evident next step. Incredulous, Therizo leaned back in his chair. “I don’t understand. What brought this about?” there was a brief pause, then his father said: “It’s for the best,” before turning on his heels and hurrying away, leaving his son to wonder. Early next morning, Therizo was woken by the sound of wood scraping against wood. It sounded as if something was being dragged out of the opposite room; at first towards him until it reached his door, then, after a brief pause, recommenced, this time fading away. He sat up on the side his bed, and looked at the empty wooden chest that stood by its foot side. Sighing, he bent down to pick up the clothes that he had thrown there the previous night. He pulled the shirt over his shoulders, then put on the trousers that lay beneath. By then, the scraping was replaced by the sound of approaching footsteps. His father opened the door of his room. His face was fresh with purpose as he stepped inside, towards the chest that Therizo was supposed to have filled with necessities; but as he bent to drag it away, he realized that that was not the case. “Aren’t you taking anything with you?” he asked with a voice that refused to acknowledge any other reason for the chest being empty. Therizo gave his father a weary look. In truth, he had expected him to sober up and abandon his mad notions, and so did not bother to do as he was asked the previous evening. A weary look still on his face he asked: “Where are we to go?” He hadn’t yet had the chance to ask about their destination, nor did he expect his father to have one in mind. “To Zelitva of course, where else?” Therizo’s question seemed to come as a genuine surprise to Mathiatias, who paused briefly before answering. Zelitva, though Therizo; that’s where father grew up. He had to admit, that if moving was a given, Zelitva would have been the most reasonable location. “And what of our livelihood? I have a job here; I can provide for us; who knows if I’ll find anything there?” his voice rose slightly from the collected tone that assumed certain success in persuading his father of the folly of his sudden obsession. Mathiatias frowned; he didn’t like the fact that he was relying on his son for a livelihood, being openly stated. “I studied at the university there before coming to this wretched place; I’m sure I’ll find something,” he made sure to emphasize the last ‘I’. “Where do you have the money for this then?” He knew that his father would resent him, if he withdrew what he had in savings from the venture, but he saw no other choice. “Don’t worry yourself about that, I won’t ask you for a single Ashl,” replied Mathiatias in a reproachful tone, seeming unworried by his son’s lack of cooperation. Therizo raised his eyebrows, uneased by his father’s confidence. He had yearned for his father to regain the certainty which he had lost; but now that it was here, the resigned widower would have been preferable. “With what money?” he asked, hoping that there’d be no clear answer. Mathiatias, however, did not weaver, “I sold the house so we have plenty of Ashl and a few mizas to get by,” he said, his voice calm. Therizo could not believe what he was hearing. His father sold their home for uncertain prospects, and what was worse, hadn’t even though of consulting him. “You did what?” he said incredulously, his outrage unconcealed, “who the Hai bought it?” The question lingered in the air for a moment as the two men looked at each other. At last, Mathiatias answered: “Your grandfather did.” Therizo was taken aback. He knew that his mother’s father and his own hadn’t seen eye to eye since Lateria died, but he hadn’t expected his grandfather to go as far as to finance Mathiatias’ leaving. “Why didn’t anyone ask me about this?” he asked, feeling betrayed by the extent to which this had gone behind his back, “Damn you, and that bastard, the least that you could have done was tell me!” A feeling of powerlessness mixed with disappointment surged through him as he peered at his father. “It’s done now. Be ready to leave in the afternoon,” was all he got in response. After the argument, Therizo went reluctantly to the cemetery to inform the undertaker that he would need to find another assistant to replace him, and offered his apologies for the inconvenience, citing his father’s caprice as the cause. The news didn’t seem to cause the mortician too much distress. He sent him away with thanks for his service, though it was plain to see that it had been far from essential. Leaving the graveyard, he stopped at the arms master that had been instructing him. The rugged man was warmer in his response than the undertaker had been. It seemed that making corpses made for a jollier disposition than disposing of them, Blackrock’s quaint view of death notwithstanding. Lastly, he paid a visit to the scholar that had been his teacher ever since his mother fell prey to the illness that took her away. The man was old, his hearing impaired, so Therizo needed to repeat the sad tidings trice before they were understood. Thereupon, the man gave him a glum look and wished him all the best, knowing full well that it was, in all likelihood, the last time that he would get to see the young man whom he had grown fond of over the course of their lessons together. Going back home, Therizo felt numb. Syna’s morning rays burned his eyes as they reflected from the white of the marble that in large portion made up the structures and streets of Blackrock. Due to his work and study schedule, he hadn’t been out often at this hour, and the tranquility of the late morning served only to further dull his senses, as a daze carried him to the harbor. He was supposed to have gone to see his grandparents as well, but in his resentment chose not to; though he felt that his grandmother hadn’t had much to do with the whole affair and that he did her injustice by treating her as collateral to his malcontent. It’s was too late for second thoughts however; the ship would be leaving soon, and though he found his father’s action despicable he couldn't risk him departing alone. The man would likely brake down within a week of arriving to Zelitva, if not during the course of the voyage there. The ephemeral high that his new purpose brought him would soon be undercut by the mundane life of Zelitva, and he’d be back to hopeless grieving. Of that much, Therizo was sure. As he precipitated further, pondering such thoughts, he saw something that caught his attention, and brought him from out his daze. There, in the distance, almost at the horizon of his view, where the white of the marble met the blue of the sky, he could see form, three curious silhouettes. The middle one seemed to belong to a woman clothed in black. Her right arm was extended to the side. In it she held what seemed like a massive scythe, its blade reflecting the sunlight towards him. By her side stood two smaller forms, both slim four legged creatures with pointed ears and long, elegant jaws that occasionally opened, showing a line of glistening white teeth. As Therizo walked closer and closer towards the strange trio, he could see that they now faced him directly. Could it be that it’s me she’s waiting for? he though as he approached. Could it be her? he thought further when she was merely a few meters away. Her skin was as pale as the houses by which she was surrounded, her eyes had the color of burned wood. As she looked at him with her hard black gaze, he could tell that she was no human. “Could it be you, goddess?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly as he spoke. The form that stood before him had been made known to him by his deceased mother, who described the jackals, the scythe, and the goddess of death herself in reverent tones. Dira spoke suddenly but calmly, her words measured and resounding: “Therizo Tafos, you will be abandoning Blackrock this afternoon, on board a ship with your father.” She posed no question inquiring if she was perchance mistaken, but spoke with blunt finality. “That is correct,” he affirmed, his voice still disturbed by the unexpected encounter. He did not know what the goddess might want with him, though he was sure that it was not idle chatter that she sought. “Not many who are born here leave my island, and of those who do, not many respect life’s road, much less its final destination,” she said, her gaze still locked with his. “Take your father for example; the scholar who paid vain lip service to death but could not let his wife embrace it when the time came,” her voice betrayed no feelings of disdain as she spoke of Mathiatias, keeping her tone constant and unadorned. Therizo wondered if he was to respond with apologies for his father or keep silent. “You on the other hand,” Dira resolved his quandary, “are unlike you father. Born and raised here, I can tell that you understand the roll death plays on this world, so I am giving you a gift to help you serve it outside Blackrock.” As she finished, she extended her free hand towards his, and raised it up towards her lips, and as they touched his palm and kissed it, a curved, tapered line appeared there. Then, another line sprung from its wider end and stopped at his wrist, forming the handle of a black scythe.