The Seal Breaks

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Not everyone wants magic to return to the world.
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This is my attempt at a "normal" story after the mindscrew of Powerless and the borderline guro of Eternal. Of course, that's a relative term--it has a lot more talking than screwing, but it's still got excessive cum, lactation (towards the end), and a few other fetishes that I'd hate to spoil this early. As always, comments and criticism are welcome.

Also, this is all in third-person limited, although the perspective changes frequently. Take that into account when considering how the characters refer to each other, and to themselves. (In particular, some characters use pronouns in very different ways than others.)

Also also, I have a lot of projects to work on, so I might be out for quite a while after I finish this. I promise that I'll come back eventually--I still want to write more stories in Eternal's setting.

Prologue (May 5 and August 7, a century apart)

As I write these words, I am no longer Grand Priest of the Church of the True Divine. There's nothing left for me to be Grand Priest of.

I must write for both the present and the future. In the present, priests across the no-longer-Blessed land must already be scared and confused, wondering why the Divine no longer answers their prayers. In the future, generations that grew up never knowing the Divine will need to understand why it was so beautiful, and so corruptive.

I will not here explain the nature of my deed. Suffice it to say that, in committing it as Grand Priest, I have placed a seal on the Divine that will never be broken. What I will explain is why I did it . . .

--The Apology of Jovan the Blasphemer

"I'll let you sum up the rest," the instructor told them. "How did the Blasphemy come about?"

For a moment, Astra wondered whether she was back in primary school. Every Blessed over the age of six knew this story, and most could probably recite the first two lines from memory. Then she noticed that the instructor was looking at the seat behind her. "Hashan, you get to answer this one," he continued, and Astra realized how much the next quarter of Basic Theoretical Crystalology was going to suck for the one student in the class who wasn't Blessed.

She had to admit that he cut a nice figure as he stood up from his desk, dressed in a poncho and pants rather than Blessed robes, his exotic black hair hanging behind him in a ponytail. She might even have called the soft curves of his face cute, different as they were from the points and angles of the Blessed. "We call them Scorned," he recited confidently, "because the Divine has not gifted them with magic. But I have studied their 'crystalology', and while it is a weaker power than our own, it has an important trait that ours lacks--"

"You've memorized it," the instructor interrupted.

"It's interesting," the Scorned replied. "He thought in strange ways."

"I didn't ask you to memorize it," the instructor told him. I didn't ask you to come in here with that stupid Scorned hair, and that stupid Scorned clothing, and flaunt that your people have studied this for centuries longer than mine have, he said in all but words. "I asked you to answer the question. Can you answer in his place, Mercy?"

The sound of her surname caught Astra off guard, and she stood and answered before she'd really thought it through. "Well, I'm of the opinion that he fried his own brain trying to mix crystalology with Energy magic--"

"WHAT?" the instructor bellowed.

She knew she was digging herself deeper, but she couldn't seem to stop. "They studied him--I mean, when he died--there were marks on his brain--"

"Broadaxe, your turn. Jovan wanted us to use crystals instead of magic. Why did he want that?"

Broadaxe Perrin turned out to be a short, soft-voiced boy she'd never met before, who looked surprisingly calm in the face of the teacher's rage. "Crystals are egalitarian. Magic required a very strong will--no woman or Scorned could ever become a priest--but anyone can use any kind of crystal."

"Exactly right. So why are you here?"

The boy seemed out of his depth. "Uh, because I want to be a healer . . ."

"Let me rephrase that question. If I handed you a crystal right now, you could call power forth from it. But in Scorned lands, most of the people in this class wouldn't be allowed to so much as hold one. And let me take the opportunity to remind you all--" Here he looked at the Scorned just a little longer than necessary-- "That even here, it is a crime to use one with neither a license nor proper supervision from an instructor like myself. Why is that, Broadaxe?"

"Crystals do weird things sometimes. We need to know how to keep them under control."

"Precisely! I may seem harsh sometimes, but I've worked with crystals for decades. I've seen life crystals rip people apart from the inside, cold crystals freeze people's fingers off . . . It's my job to ram the theory into your heads, not so nothing ever goes wrong, but so you can fix things when they do go wrong, hopefully before someone gets killed."

Perrin nodded enthusiastically, until the teacher told all three of them to sit down.

"Now, let's see who bothered to do the reading. Fisher, can you tell me the first principle of crystalology?"

Astra took it back--this next quarter would suck for everyone.

-- -- -- --

She met the Scorned again the next day, at the absolute last place she'd expected--the outdoor physical training grounds, where he was working through a warm-up routine with a wooden rod. She stood a safe distance in front of him and went through her own routine, not meeting his eye until she was done. "I didn't know Scorned trained with staves. How good are you?"

"Not very good," he replied. "I'm getting better, though." He examined both her and her staff, and she couldn't resist a smile as his eyes widened. "That is a very good staff. Are you good?"

"My great-great-great-grandfather was Mercy Orsin," she told him. When it was clear he had no idea what that meant, she added, "Of the Order of Orsin?" When he didn't respond to that, "Orsin commanded that we heal the sick, never kill, and never use edged weapons. I've been learning the staff since I was five years old."

"My father's father's father's . . . however many, all of them were merchants. I've learned to buy and sell since before I was five. I cannot buy and sell like they can." His smile was gentle, but his question was serious. "Are you good?"

She twirled her staff overhead for a few seconds, then swung it downwards. It made a satisfying THUNK against the packed dirt. "I'm the best my age in the order, though Piety Alban would argue the point."

"The best at one of Orsin's three commands. You study life crystals to fulfill another. Am I correct?"

"I was wondering if you remembered me from class." He was clearly smarter than she'd expected.

"I found your why. Can you find mine?"

"Uh, you like the climate? You think bread tastes better than rice? You have a thing for yellow-haired Blessed girls?"

For some reason, that last one amused him. "You are funny, miss . . . Mercy, it was? I will give you my why as a gift. I am merchant caste. Few merchants rise to warrior caste, and fewer warriors rise to crystal-worker caste. I want to see if it is true that Blessed have no castes." He hoisted his staff above his head, then slowly lowered it. "I would challenge you now, but you said you are good. I must first challenge another who is not good. I will challenge you when I beat him."

"Hold that thought." Out of the corner of her eye, she'd noticed Alban together with Merritt, both in padded armor. "Come over this way. This should be fun to watch."

Alban had already donned his helmet, and was giving Merritt his usual warning. "I hope you're better prepared for this than last time."

Merritt was giving his usual reply. "Best of three, loser pays for lunch at The Boar's Head . . . Hey, we've got an audience! I'll try to fight extra hard!"

He did. He truly did. For the first time in six matches, he actually scored a hit. But as always, the first thing out of his mouth when his ass hit the dirt for the final time was "I'll get you next time."

Astra took over the introductions once he'd stood again. "These fine folks over here are Piety Alban and Charity Merritt. If the names didn't tip you off, they're fellow members of my order. And this strapping fellow is . . . er . . . Hasan, was it?"

The Scorned made a sound that reminded her of a sneeze. "But you Blessed say the given name last, so . . ." He repeated the sneeze with some of the syllables switched around. "Blessed never pronounce it right, though. Call me Hashan Sahe."

In retrospect, she thought it significant that he thought backwards from how she did. At the time, however, she simply smiled. "If you'd like to have lunch with us, Hashan Sahe, I'm sure Merritt's finances can accommodate one more person."

Merritt started to protest, of course, but they all ignored his whining as they made their way off the field.

Horace (September 14, late afternoon)

It is not a simple task for a priest to master his powers, for he must keep his powers from mastering him. In the Divine, we find all--all good, and all evil--and only through the strength of our wills can we withstand what it shows us. The first step on this road is self-understanding.

If yours is the magic of Matter, the simple things in life make you happy and cheerful. At times--but only at times--you sometimes think wistfully of extravagance. Find friends and lovers with the power of Shadow, and the time you spend with them will make you more generous. Cessation, however, will give you tools you can't be trusted with.

--The Primer of Talents

At the moment, the only thing that would have made Bravery Horace particularly happy and cheerful would have been a plateful of roast chicken at The Boar's Head. Astra had promised to pay if he'd take part in the ritual, and he was eager to get it over with. He didn't want to spend any more time out in the middle of the woods as it got closer and closer to sundown. But no, the Scorned kept asking questions!

"You haven't told me much, Astra. What is this ritual?"

"It's something the order does to remember the Divine. We try to set things up so at least one is performed every month of the year--that way, the Divine won't feel like it's only remembered some of the time. Any six people can perform it, so long as they hold a love for the Divine in their hearts . . ."

Merritt didn't seem to be holding any more love for the Divine at the moment than Horace, stamping his feet to keep warm in the chill air. Alban was engrossed in his work, using a stick to draw a circle of runes around the edges of the clearing (or rather, the bare patch of dirt Astra had dignified with the term "clearing.") Sahe seemed mildly curious, but not exactly invested, and the friend he'd brought along was completely unreadable, standing in place and silently watching.

"Why me?" the Scorned asked. "I can't know the Divine. And Perrin . . . is Perrin," he finished, as if that was reason enough.

"As a woman, I can't know it either. But that doesn't mean we can't love and honor it. Besides, you'll just be watching if Lucius and Curtis finally show up. Which they should any second now . . ." The two spectacularly failed to appear. "Figures. Sahe, you can stand in for Lucius as High Priest of Shadow. Perrin, you'll be Cessation. All you'll need to do is repeat part of a rhyme in the old tongue."

"Can I be Shadow this time?" Merritt asked. "I like the way the words sound. 'Rossiu rassio! Rossiu rassio!'" As if on cue, he shivered. "Also, can we finish this quickly? I'm sure the Divine wouldn't want us to be out in the cold like this."

"Okay, then, you can be Shadow. Sahe, you're Energy, and every time I say 'tawu sangio', you say 'crevu menio.' Got it? 'Crevu menio.' And Perrin, when he says that, you'll say 'Silu henio.' I'll be Grand Priest as well as Void, so I'll say other things at the start, too. Now, Sahe stands on this rune; Perrin stands on that one. Merritt will know when it's time to stop."

This is so boring, Horace thought as Astra began the litany. Does she really think the Divine will listen to all this? Then, as the chant passed from person to person, Kind of a waste, such a nice body given to such a fanatic. If there's anything left in the world that's truly Divine, it's between the legs of women--

Horace would later realize that his careless thought had done several things, and only the most minor was that it had given some insight into what the Blasphemy must have been. They'd known that Jovan had done something on the most sacred altar of the church, and they'd suspected that he hadn't acted alone. Only one act, treated as unholy, could have forced the Divine to leave--until the same act, restructured in holy terms, allowed it to come back. At the time, all Horace knew was that he suddenly couldn't see.

Things hadn't gone black, nor had they gone white. Horace was beyond colors at the moment. He was naked, his back against the dirt, his front against someone else's skin. They were warm together in the cold air, and there was something around them that he couldn't identify--something powerful, something . . . magical.

Almost abstractly, he wondered whether to be afraid. Then the other body moved, and he felt something inside him in a place he didn't recognize. He shifted against it, slowly at first, testing the way it felt.

Then, before he'd realized what he was doing, he found himself kissing this magical body's lips. It was startled at first, but then it pressed against him, comfortingly firm as it knew just what he wanted.

They joined in two places, his tongue in the other's mouth and the other's . . . something in him. They rocked and bucked, faster and faster, until he had to stop moving, had to break from the kiss, had to cry out in a high voice that was not his . . .

The world returned, and Horace found himself on his back, his legs spread wide. The body atop his was frail and light, but it was also quite clearly male. To his left, he turned his head to see a Scorned woman (whom he was fairly certain had recently been a Scorned man) sucking at a smaller woman's breast, only to stop, suddenly aware and ashamed. To his right, two more women were lost in their own world, one moaning with her eyes closed as the other's head bobbed between her legs.

He would have looked up at the sky, but a face he couldn't stand to stare at blocked his view. He closed his eyes, and directly into that face, he shouted the three most appropriate words ever said.

"What the fuck?"

Kyrie (September 14, evening)

"I am not eternal," the Divine told them, "and in two ways may I leave you. Reject me, with the full force of hate, and I will go away until I am wanted again. But neglect me, and I will never return to you. There must always be a priest for all of my aspects, and should even one be missing from your Church, my power will vanish from this world."

--The Parable of the First Church

"Our cause is just." The speaker's voice was loud and clear in the crisp evening air, and Kyrie would have rolled his eyes had he not been so caught up in the rhythm. "Our hands are empty, but our hearts are steady, and our time is now! Are you ready to stand against hatred and oppression?"

"YES!" Kyrie shouted, and many voices shouted with him.

"Are you ready to fight for your brothers and sisters?"

"YES!"

"We march!" the speaker finished.

Kyrie was on the edge of the crowd--which, not coincidentally, meant he was at the front of the march. He led the way down gaslit streets, past what seemed an endless line of befuddled bystanders at their front windows, repeating the chant of "Equal rights!" to pierce their literal and metaphorical slumber. It warmed his heart to hear the words in so many different tones, and for a while, he hoped that things would go smoothly.

Predictably, they only marched four blocks before the city watch blocked their way. Never mind that Kyrie had checked and triple-checked the regulations--it was late enough, and they were loud enough, that technical obedience to disturbance-of-the-peace laws meant diddly squat.

"Go home!" one of the watchmen shouted, barely loud enough to be heard clearly over the crowd. Kyrie responded with an obscene gesture, and beside him, a Scorned woman mimicked it. It slowly spread throughout the crowd.

Technically, the protesters attacked first, with an unidentifiable thrown piece of garbage that hit a watchman square in the chest. This was the only provocation the watchmen needed to close ranks. There was no room to dodge in such a tightly packed space, and Kyrie regretted his front-row position as a truncheon descended toward his head.

He didn't close his eyes, so he caught a glimpse of the flash of light that froze his attacker in his tracks. The Scorned woman beside him rushed forward, slamming the watchman aside and breaking the tightly packed ranks. Just past the blockade was a narrow alleyway, and he followed her into it as the crowd descended into chaos.

They didn't stop to catch their breath until they'd reached a parallel street. "Thanks," he told her once he'd finished gasping.

"For what?" she replied. Her voice surprised him--its depth seemed to belong in a much bigger body--but her tone was obvious. She was nervous.

"That was a time crystal back there, wasn't it?" he asked. "Don't worry, I won't rat you out if you don't have a license. I'm just happy my head's in one piece. By the way, my name's Kyrie. What's yours?"

Her answer was surprisingly straightforward. "My name's Sahe, and you don't have to thank me. My day has been very confusing. Your protest helped clear my head." Another pause. "Do you do these things often?"

He took a moment to look her over, and he decided that he liked what he saw. He didn't normally go for Scorned chicks, but there was a confidence in her stance that he found intriguing--and besides, he would never miss a chance for a date with a girl with such huge knockers. "I ought to go back to the protest--there are some people I need to check on--but if you want to talk some more about our cause, I'll be at The Boar's Head at noon tomorrow. Since you saved me, I'll pay for the meal."

Perrin and Merrit (September 14, late afternoon and evening)

If you are of Cessation, you're always thinking and questioning, but not often feeling. Light will help you understand your emotions, but Matter will influence you towards selfishness.

Priests of Shadow desire unity and avoid conflict, but beyond that, they often find themselves aimless. Matter will help motivate you, but Void will only make you more lost.

--The Primer of Talents

"I don't get it," Horace kept repeating. At least, Perrin thought it was Horace--the brown-haired, charmingly plump girl before him bore little resemblance to any Horace he'd known. "I just don't get it."

Perrin would have wondered if she'd cracked, but he wasn't entirely sure he hadn't cracked either. It was easy to think of Astra as "he," and not too hard to call each of the others "she." Yet every time he almost deemed himself "herself," he felt like he was standing with his feet on either side of a splitting faultline.

"We have to think rationally about this," Astra insisted. "What just happened must have been the work of the Divine."

Astra and Sahe had been the first to dress themselves, their clothes neatly piled at the edge of the rune pattern. Sahe had checked an inner pocket of her poncho when she'd thought no one was looking, and she'd breathed a sigh of relief to find something inside it that looked suspiciously like a crystal. At any other time, Perrin would have analyzed this new data for any possible significance, but at the moment, he found himself singularly preoccupied.