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For the Love of All Things Good & Holy

For the Love of All Things Good & Holy

Post « Ruth Attwood » Tue Oct 01, 2019 6:32 am

She brought the children back to the house, tucked them. Alyson still wasn't talking to her. And if Azzil was right, now she might lose her to someone that could understand her better. How much of Ruth's life had she lived in silence? How much had she seen that she had to keep secret? Her people were demonized enough. Speaking up would only fan that fire.

The truth was, there were too many parts of her life that simply she couldn't quite remember. Her memories were a collection of stories that people told her, of written investigative reports that she had to read over. What she could tell was the truth, as she knew it. For all she knew, she could be Lord Winford's daughter. The only way she could talk about herself was by recounting the tales that she had learned about. She trusted that they were hers - she had to. Why hadn't she cared to find her real parents, the ones that had left her? She just accepted - she had to. Otherwise, what was there?

Ruth knew lots of things. She had a neat hand, she was a scribe. This she knew. She wanted to be a Knight, she had since she was a child. This she knew. The Winfords gave her lands, and lodgings - set her up so kindly. The Cult of Saint Theris, they employed her readily and kept an eye on her. But what happened between birth and when she sat on this porch? Had she gone through something incredibly hard, that she desperately had to block out? That was her signature on the deed. This armor was fitted to her perfectly. And that sword, and bow, felt sure in her grip. Prayers to God, came readily.

Memories came in brief flashes that struck bitterly like winter, hatefully like a hot iron.

She slapped a Knight. She remembered that. She wasn't loved much growing up, she remembered that. She had nice clothing, she remembered that. Whatever she ate, she felt like it was good. She had the white blanket with her first name on it, to prove the story of her founding, that somewhere, once upon a time, it happened.

The questions of her daughter? How old was she? Who was her mother? Her father? What was it like, growing up in the Winford Estate? What about Glorian? And the road? And the Knight? And being a demonslayer?

She was twenty (that's what she looked like in the mirror, but she felt older, seriously).
She was raised by Lady Abrah Winford (that's what she read, in her records. The old woman was dead, died when she was in Glorian).
She never knew her parents (never, really? not even briefly, just once?).
Lonely (She imagined it must've been).
She had glimpses of Glorian, from a window in a room, where she sat amongst men and worked (Imagined, maybe. There were records - she had scribed there).
The Knight, she left him (She remembered, briefly, slapping him, when he asked to marry her).
She did some terrible things for very good reasons (She didn't like what she read in the reports. She made a point to never talk about this).

And when someone made her think about her life? Her heart clenched and, her mind raced, searched, scoured until her lungs heaved and her head hurt her considerably, and she tried to ignore the scars there. She was a healer, and it worried over it every time. But she always searched her mind, until she cried.

Was there a family looking for her? A husband and children, elsewhere, waiting for her? A village, that needed her to come save them? She didn't know. But she wanted - needed - to think that she had lived must've been good and that God, for whatever reason, had to take it away from her. She knew one thing for certain - being a monster, that wasn't her - morality is built, over time. Villainy was not her. Always, always - in her heart, she had always been something good. She had too much money for any wrong she'd done.

Ruth couldn't talk about what she didn't know. She didn't want to think about it, either. She had a new life to live, something she was trying to make better, without anyone feeling bad for her. Sure, Ruth, could tell you basic things. Talk about the records with conviction from her own perspective. Her name was on them, these actions must have been hers. But as knowledgeable as she could often be, her own truth escaped her too easily. Instinct readily guided her in matters every day.

Away from the city, her solace, a place of peace, that's where God was. The forest though, it always drew her. But her memories, the lack of them, it haunted her. And the empty bed, the only room she had left to put together, scared her. Should the bed be single, double? Two wardrobes? One? What side did she prefer? Did she ever have one? Who was she?

No, really, what of her?

All she didn't know, all those secrets; she'd take them with her to the grave - every single one.
Last edited by Ruth Attwood on Wed Oct 02, 2019 4:08 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Ruth Attwood
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Post « Jens » Tue Oct 01, 2019 3:36 pm

Processed.
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Jens
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Post « Ruth Attwood » Wed Oct 02, 2019 12:48 pm

She most certainly didn’t blame them for leaving.

No records from the Church were readily obtainable on whatever caused this.

And there was truth to those words, that there was a reason for that. But what if it was being covered up for good reason? What if they were protecting her from a truth that was terrible? Secrets existed for safety, always. Sometimes that meant being the keeper of them. Sometimes, it meant being kept from them.

What if the secret wasn’t out of an act of malevolence? What if, they were trying to show her kindness?

What was kinder than the ability to start over again? To create a life that she wanted?

Ruth knew that sometimes, this could be the right answer under certain circumstances.

She wasn't ready for everything to rend apart, for everything she truly knew and built to change. She knew that for many people, this could be too much. Her home, her life, it was a haven, Heaven in some sense to her, she thought.

"Is that why you won't tell me?" came the soft voice from the door. That was her daughter's bare feet at the door's edges, even in the dim flickering. "You don't know anything, do you?"

How much had Alyson overheard? Ruth's face twisted again, and she answered the girl with new tears. What would the truth do to her? What if it took her away? Her sobs confirmed Alyson's suspicions enough.

The girl approached the bed and crawled in. With the same silence that Ruth often showed her, Alyson pulled her mother into her arms, and set her to cry into her shoulder. Ruth had expected the girl to run away, to scorn her, to shun her, to hate her. She didn't know Alyson was capable of this level of compassion. "Promise that we'll be together so long as we're both breavin'..." whispered her daughter.

She let Alyson comfort her, her hands curling against her hair and nightdress. She hugged her mother tightly in her arms. "I promise," cried Ruth. She meant it, even through her tears.

There was silence, silence that Ruth cloaked her fears in and stuffed them down, away, as she hugged her daughter tightly and for once, told her how much she loved her. This she knew, as a prayer engrained.

And for that very reason, she'd have to search for the answers that she was so uncertain of discovering.
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