Summer 15, 510 AV
Veldrys had visited the Temple of Viratas every day since he had returned from Lhavit about two years prior. The journey, his first longer journey to the surface, had been enlightening in more ways than one. He had found out things that he hadn’t known before, about himself and the world around him. He had come to the realization that love could take all kinds of forms, that those of mixed blood weren’t necessarily monsters, that not all humans were animals. Since then he was convinced that the solution to his race’s problems could be found there, among the sun and the stars, beneath the sky.
Kalinor had become unbearable for him, suffocating. In Lhavit he had known freedom, for the first time in his life. After his return he had thought he would go mad. He was twenty now, a grown man. He had completed his education. He was old enough to look for a wife and find a surrogate. His parents urged him to go on a Harvest nearly every day. In a way he could understand them. Their Web needed to continue. Their entire race needed to continue. It was better if humans died instead of their own people.
He knew that, he really did. But he still couldn’t bring himself to participate. There had to be another way. Why did Hellebore, why did all those great doctors not spend at least some of their time trying to find a way to weaken the venom? Why did they nothing but hunt human women and imprison them? They couldn’t rely on others to bear their children forever. It hadn’t always been like that. Before the Valterrian there had been no need for the Harvest. They had been free then. Why couldn’t they return to the way things had been before?
Sometimes he was tempted to run away, to abandon everything. Sometimes he told himself, if they weren’t willing to look for a cure, he would do so. He would travel the entire world, visit every library, talk to every person that might know something. Didn’t the Nuit and the Jamoura live for centuries? One of them had to be able to help him! The situation couldn’t be hopeless!
At other times he hid in his home or worked the whole day to distract himself from those unpleasant thoughts. Symenestra didn’t run away. Symenestra didn’t abandon their people, not even in the name of research. He had a duty to his Web. He was the only son. What would Viratas say if he left Kalinor and didn’t come back for years? That worried him, more than the accusations of his parents. He wanted to please his god. He wanted to serve him and become his priest, if he accepted him. He couldn’t bear the thought that Viratas might disapprove of his plans.
He knelt in front of the pool of blood, in the very center of the temple. His feet were bare, and he was dressed in a simple robe of white silk. His head was bent, and numerous shimmering silver strands obscured his face. In one of his hands was a knife. He ran a finger across the blade to see if it was sharp enough, and then he quickly cut himself. The blood began to flow into the pool in front of him where the blood of hundreds of other Symenestra had already been collected.
„Viratas“, he whispered. „Am I doing the right thing? Your priests say that all creatures that bear blood are precious, but it is equally important to preserve one’s own bloodline. Is the sacrifice of humans acceptable? Can a Symenestra that leaves Kalinor ever find your approval?“ He cut himself again, and more blood flowed down his hands, into the pool. His hands weren’t white anymore, but a strange shade of red.
As his blood mixed with the blood that others had sacrificed, he murmurred a prayer in Symenos, the language of the Symenestra.
Veldrys had visited the Temple of Viratas every day since he had returned from Lhavit about two years prior. The journey, his first longer journey to the surface, had been enlightening in more ways than one. He had found out things that he hadn’t known before, about himself and the world around him. He had come to the realization that love could take all kinds of forms, that those of mixed blood weren’t necessarily monsters, that not all humans were animals. Since then he was convinced that the solution to his race’s problems could be found there, among the sun and the stars, beneath the sky.
Kalinor had become unbearable for him, suffocating. In Lhavit he had known freedom, for the first time in his life. After his return he had thought he would go mad. He was twenty now, a grown man. He had completed his education. He was old enough to look for a wife and find a surrogate. His parents urged him to go on a Harvest nearly every day. In a way he could understand them. Their Web needed to continue. Their entire race needed to continue. It was better if humans died instead of their own people.
He knew that, he really did. But he still couldn’t bring himself to participate. There had to be another way. Why did Hellebore, why did all those great doctors not spend at least some of their time trying to find a way to weaken the venom? Why did they nothing but hunt human women and imprison them? They couldn’t rely on others to bear their children forever. It hadn’t always been like that. Before the Valterrian there had been no need for the Harvest. They had been free then. Why couldn’t they return to the way things had been before?
Sometimes he was tempted to run away, to abandon everything. Sometimes he told himself, if they weren’t willing to look for a cure, he would do so. He would travel the entire world, visit every library, talk to every person that might know something. Didn’t the Nuit and the Jamoura live for centuries? One of them had to be able to help him! The situation couldn’t be hopeless!
At other times he hid in his home or worked the whole day to distract himself from those unpleasant thoughts. Symenestra didn’t run away. Symenestra didn’t abandon their people, not even in the name of research. He had a duty to his Web. He was the only son. What would Viratas say if he left Kalinor and didn’t come back for years? That worried him, more than the accusations of his parents. He wanted to please his god. He wanted to serve him and become his priest, if he accepted him. He couldn’t bear the thought that Viratas might disapprove of his plans.
He knelt in front of the pool of blood, in the very center of the temple. His feet were bare, and he was dressed in a simple robe of white silk. His head was bent, and numerous shimmering silver strands obscured his face. In one of his hands was a knife. He ran a finger across the blade to see if it was sharp enough, and then he quickly cut himself. The blood began to flow into the pool in front of him where the blood of hundreds of other Symenestra had already been collected.
„Viratas“, he whispered. „Am I doing the right thing? Your priests say that all creatures that bear blood are precious, but it is equally important to preserve one’s own bloodline. Is the sacrifice of humans acceptable? Can a Symenestra that leaves Kalinor ever find your approval?“ He cut himself again, and more blood flowed down his hands, into the pool. His hands weren’t white anymore, but a strange shade of red.
As his blood mixed with the blood that others had sacrificed, he murmurred a prayer in Symenos, the language of the Symenestra.
