Pele - Linear Clocks and Daughters
7. Linear Clocks and Daughters
Short story, 1094 words
She was told, years later, that Valentino of the Milo River had only agreed to adopt her and her brothers out of exasperation. Look at it this way, they said: his name was Valentino, and only Valentino, for as long as anyone could remember. Robert always, in a half joking manner, dragged the taller Hunter out on his night escapades for “better luck.” The two would dance and roll with the women until dawn, when Robert pulled delicate wrists away and Valentino forgot his words. It just seemed that the seasoned Hunter always accumulated more endings than beginnings. The women, intimidated by his deferred, lonely past, gradually slipped between his fingers when they learned that he simply wished to stay broken.
“Do you even want a legacy?” Robert once asked.
However, before Valentino could even answer, fate slapped him with a trio of Blessed. He had not even been present at the Parisian HQ when the Valentine Episode bloomed-hell, he had been up north, hunting down vampire nests at the edge of the frosty deserts. But at the very minute when he stepped back into the HQ, Weiss clasped him on the shoulder and threatened, “You have to take in these fucking brats. I mean, holyfuck, your name is Valentino. ”
Two twin babies and one glaring toddler. The priestesses of the Lower Valley’s Goddess of Love discovered the little boy hastily hushing his crying brother and sister. When the white-clothed women surrounded the child, his trembling stomach growled fiercely but his luminous emerald eyes remained stern. The priestesses, who immediately recognized the markings of their goddess upon all three children, attempted to coax out familial origins from the toddler with pieces of bread.
Twenty years later, elder Hunters still fed Eric deMilo stories about how he, as a crying child, somehow defied these priestesses and adamantly held his silence while starving to death.
Eventually, the strange romance behind his name pressured Valentino to adopt all three children. Luckily, both Eric and Nicolas developed strong magical talents. The girl, however, faltered. Her bombshell crimson hair, radiant emerald eyes, and slender figure caught flattering attention, but she could not manage an ounce of magical or physical talent.
And so, Valentino’s foster daughter, Venus, spent her days wandering the premises of the HQ. She spied on her brothers’ training sessions and bandaged their wounds. She sought after Chime, who, at the time, suffered from chronic fevers and the Leader’s wrath, and pulled on the edges of the girl’s mouth so that she would smile. She stood in the shadow of her tall foster father, who, although moved like running water in the company of his peers, always stood rigidly before his children. She clung onto Valentino’s pant leg, only to have her hand removed.
On her thirteenth birthday, Chime suddenly asked why Venus did not live in the temple.
“I’m a representative, not a priestess,” Venus explained, stumbling over the syllables.
“Like an avatar?”
The redhead shook her head. “I’m not the goddess. Avatars are gods, who descend to Exile. I’m just a… a… representative.”
Chime took in the answer with impatient brows. “But you are Blessed. Everyone knows that. You’re the Goddess of Love, on Exile.” The cringe of her best friend’s mouth only spurred the brazen, adolescent summoner on. “You should go to the temple, and answer their prayers. You should go. They’ll believe in you. The people who go to pray about love and stuff. They’ll believe.”
Venus entered temple out of curiosity. The priestesses embraced her with startling excitement and the public clamored after her radiant bombshell hair. Even her shadow glowed. At first, Venus would sit down upon the blushing pillows, before the shining eyes of her goddess’ fervent admirers, and search desperately for the answers to those life-threatening questions: Does he love me? Does she love me? Will we be happy together? How do I make him fall in love with me? How do I become beautiful? How do I love?
At first, Venus stammered and fretted, whispered and squeaked. But soon-perhaps too soon-her words melded into liquid gold and flowed like rivers. Her words moved continents and molded hearts. The priestesses felt witness to the birth of a saint.
But Venus could not understand.
“They are the same questions, over and over again!” Venus exclaimed, one night at Nysa, to her best friend. They had just turned eighteen that year. “It’s always about does he love me, or should we marry, or how do I make him fall in love with me-things like that! I even get the same people over and over again!”
Chime’s eyes widened at the outburst. “But you-you’re answering their questions, aren’t you? Your answers are working. At least, they’re comforting. That’s why they keep on coming back.”
The Blessed threw her hands in the air. “Who cares about that? These people aren’t learning anything. I say-you should hear what I say. I just repeat myself day after day. Oh, if he loves you, he will talk to you. Oh, you can’t make him fall in love with you-you cannot force love. Oh, the goddess blesses your marriage because it is one of love. Chime. Chime. Listen to my words. They are trite. I cannot scrape beyond the superficial because these people-these people-do not want to hear about anything else!”
“But you are making them happy,” Chime repeated, still bewildered.
“Don’t they have anything else to be happy about?” Venus sputtered. “Don’t they have anything else but love?”
The summoner’s eyebrows furrowed. “But isn’t love the highest thing you can achi-”
“No!” Venus shouted. “Love is a part of you; it is not you. If you are just love-then gods help you, you one dimension nitwit. … oh, I’m sorry Chime, I didn’t mean you. You know what I mean. We’re people, Chime, we’re not love. I get these people coming in-oh, you should see them. They’re so worried; they don’t know how to love. They don’t know how to get rid of their rage. I want to tell them-I want to tell them so badly-to rage. To scream, to shout. That it’s okay to rage, to be angry. That it’s okay to mess up and not love sometimes. That you do not need to always be at peace with the world and yourself. Because we are people, not love.” She clenched her fists and asserted, “I am a person, not love. I am so much more.”
Short story, 1094 words
She was told, years later, that Valentino of the Milo River had only agreed to adopt her and her brothers out of exasperation. Look at it this way, they said: his name was Valentino, and only Valentino, for as long as anyone could remember. Robert always, in a half joking manner, dragged the taller Hunter out on his night escapades for “better luck.” The two would dance and roll with the women until dawn, when Robert pulled delicate wrists away and Valentino forgot his words. It just seemed that the seasoned Hunter always accumulated more endings than beginnings. The women, intimidated by his deferred, lonely past, gradually slipped between his fingers when they learned that he simply wished to stay broken.
“Do you even want a legacy?” Robert once asked.
However, before Valentino could even answer, fate slapped him with a trio of Blessed. He had not even been present at the Parisian HQ when the Valentine Episode bloomed-hell, he had been up north, hunting down vampire nests at the edge of the frosty deserts. But at the very minute when he stepped back into the HQ, Weiss clasped him on the shoulder and threatened, “You have to take in these fucking brats. I mean, holyfuck, your name is Valentino. ”
Two twin babies and one glaring toddler. The priestesses of the Lower Valley’s Goddess of Love discovered the little boy hastily hushing his crying brother and sister. When the white-clothed women surrounded the child, his trembling stomach growled fiercely but his luminous emerald eyes remained stern. The priestesses, who immediately recognized the markings of their goddess upon all three children, attempted to coax out familial origins from the toddler with pieces of bread.
Twenty years later, elder Hunters still fed Eric deMilo stories about how he, as a crying child, somehow defied these priestesses and adamantly held his silence while starving to death.
Eventually, the strange romance behind his name pressured Valentino to adopt all three children. Luckily, both Eric and Nicolas developed strong magical talents. The girl, however, faltered. Her bombshell crimson hair, radiant emerald eyes, and slender figure caught flattering attention, but she could not manage an ounce of magical or physical talent.
And so, Valentino’s foster daughter, Venus, spent her days wandering the premises of the HQ. She spied on her brothers’ training sessions and bandaged their wounds. She sought after Chime, who, at the time, suffered from chronic fevers and the Leader’s wrath, and pulled on the edges of the girl’s mouth so that she would smile. She stood in the shadow of her tall foster father, who, although moved like running water in the company of his peers, always stood rigidly before his children. She clung onto Valentino’s pant leg, only to have her hand removed.
On her thirteenth birthday, Chime suddenly asked why Venus did not live in the temple.
“I’m a representative, not a priestess,” Venus explained, stumbling over the syllables.
“Like an avatar?”
The redhead shook her head. “I’m not the goddess. Avatars are gods, who descend to Exile. I’m just a… a… representative.”
Chime took in the answer with impatient brows. “But you are Blessed. Everyone knows that. You’re the Goddess of Love, on Exile.” The cringe of her best friend’s mouth only spurred the brazen, adolescent summoner on. “You should go to the temple, and answer their prayers. You should go. They’ll believe in you. The people who go to pray about love and stuff. They’ll believe.”
Venus entered temple out of curiosity. The priestesses embraced her with startling excitement and the public clamored after her radiant bombshell hair. Even her shadow glowed. At first, Venus would sit down upon the blushing pillows, before the shining eyes of her goddess’ fervent admirers, and search desperately for the answers to those life-threatening questions: Does he love me? Does she love me? Will we be happy together? How do I make him fall in love with me? How do I become beautiful? How do I love?
At first, Venus stammered and fretted, whispered and squeaked. But soon-perhaps too soon-her words melded into liquid gold and flowed like rivers. Her words moved continents and molded hearts. The priestesses felt witness to the birth of a saint.
But Venus could not understand.
“They are the same questions, over and over again!” Venus exclaimed, one night at Nysa, to her best friend. They had just turned eighteen that year. “It’s always about does he love me, or should we marry, or how do I make him fall in love with me-things like that! I even get the same people over and over again!”
Chime’s eyes widened at the outburst. “But you-you’re answering their questions, aren’t you? Your answers are working. At least, they’re comforting. That’s why they keep on coming back.”
The Blessed threw her hands in the air. “Who cares about that? These people aren’t learning anything. I say-you should hear what I say. I just repeat myself day after day. Oh, if he loves you, he will talk to you. Oh, you can’t make him fall in love with you-you cannot force love. Oh, the goddess blesses your marriage because it is one of love. Chime. Chime. Listen to my words. They are trite. I cannot scrape beyond the superficial because these people-these people-do not want to hear about anything else!”
“But you are making them happy,” Chime repeated, still bewildered.
“Don’t they have anything else to be happy about?” Venus sputtered. “Don’t they have anything else but love?”
The summoner’s eyebrows furrowed. “But isn’t love the highest thing you can achi-”
“No!” Venus shouted. “Love is a part of you; it is not you. If you are just love-then gods help you, you one dimension nitwit. … oh, I’m sorry Chime, I didn’t mean you. You know what I mean. We’re people, Chime, we’re not love. I get these people coming in-oh, you should see them. They’re so worried; they don’t know how to love. They don’t know how to get rid of their rage. I want to tell them-I want to tell them so badly-to rage. To scream, to shout. That it’s okay to rage, to be angry. That it’s okay to mess up and not love sometimes. That you do not need to always be at peace with the world and yourself. Because we are people, not love.” She clenched her fists and asserted, “I am a person, not love. I am so much more.”