Eleanor
Blood squirmed to a place between places, a crossroads muddled by a seemingly endless woods. It filled a cup, singing the lore of the crimson Grail, and soon enough it swelled with a covering of flesh. The vessel fell, the womb burst with a violent movement, blood and viscera pouring onto the floor. Gasping for breath, a newborn Eleanor slowly rose to her feet. And then she laughed, swaying drunkenly in a manner more enticing than any dance.
Ohh... Ohhhh! It hurt so much! That pain! To be ripped apart, torn open, to have every bit of sloughed flesh turned to ash. Eleanor slipped into a chair, lounging with a giddy smile on her face. She'd forgotten so much, the sweetness of it all. A Sisyphus who had finally managed to take a bite of fruit and remembered how sweet it is. Could you go back to starving when you had finally tasted sweetness? No, of course not! Absolutely not! You'd rip the tree barren of fruit, you'd crush the wood of it between your teeth glad to taste anything at all, and you'd drink the lake around you utterly dry!
Her thoughts dyed red, Eleanor slept. In her dreams she walked the path of the Grail's Church. But rather than stopping to sample its delights she moved forwards, approaching the light of the Glory. She passed into the shadow of the Watchman, who knew mercy was only found in shadow, and she retrieved what she sought. A jar, clean and shining with bits and pieces of eyes.
When she awoke Eleanor held it in her hands. She cradled it like a newborn child before taking it to her workshop. She filled a basin of water, dedicated to the Witch-and-Sister. She brandished a book of the Secret Histories, pages sharp enough to slit a throat. She held it with one hand, speaking of things that may have been as she reached into the jar and took a few squirming bits before dropping them into the water as she whispered, "The Mother of Ants is the child of two rivers. The Horned-Axe is the last god-from-Stone. The Meniscate was born in the Moon from Light. The Moon and the Threshold and the Revelation are all the Gate’s aspects, and here is their secret doctrine..." The words that she said could not be transcribed or written, the secret ways of opening beyond anyone else in the city to repeat or truly know.
From the basin came light, the Glory, and the things that would burn the mind to know. From that light arose a Name, and that Name was Baldomerian. "Oh, this world is flat, quite flat. But it undulates so beautifully. What a curious place. Still, I won't stay long. I shall not. Tell me a secret, Eleanor." The priestess of the Grail gave an almost expectant look to the woman who cast no shadow at all.
"Teresa, let us speak of time." The other grinned dangerously, and in languages older than mankind they spoke of the Long grown into Names, the Hours and Sun, and of course and always, they spoke of the Glory. How great and terrible, how terrible and great indeed...
