On the Contemplation of Miracles <Open to All>

[Lady Eirian Gwenyth Apollius]

Two women had knelt on their knees in the pews of the Cathedral of Turas Lan on a moonlit night to reach the ears of God with the questions they needed to have answered. Stained glass spilled soft, silver backed color around them to make halos around earth bound angels who gave of themselves voice to the world's secret hopes, sorrows, and triumphs. Eirian and Moira looked up and saw one another from across the way. Soon, what was a solitary vigil was a shared one as they spoke on how the presence of God had touched them that night.

Each woman was special, with God seeming to have set out a purpose for her. The articles of what it constituted was of yet unclear, but as they both agreed, "The Father moves in mysterious ways." Eirian looked at her friend as she spoke of a revelation born of mists, and of herself? The Welsh woman admitted she heard the voices, saw what appeared to be a reaching, lingering tendril of substance enshrouding the floor before it vanished into nothing. On other things her mouth was sealed in a blushed rose secret: whispered among the market folk, the truth in her own mind.

Foresight was a gift and at once a curse. It exalted the chosen and condemned them to flames. No matter what the world had shown her, it was hard to relinquish the conditioning of years of catechisms. Fear of pointed fingers and hushed whispers kept her mum on what her husband had noticed e'en when first they met. Even to gaze in the sapphire jewels of her eyes was to look upon an extension of time and meaning if the spirit called out for it. It was in the way she touched people, and they touched her. Yet even as her friend spoke of the mists there was no freedom of yet to speak upon visions.

The contemplation of miracles would soon lead to their use.

[johanna]

Anothers prescence, two actually, would add to the others assembled in somber prayer within the walls of the cathedral. A six foot frame loomed against the shadows where the candles did not illuminate, moving down the isle of pews with a much shorter young boy just a step behind her.

Her tall and built frame, that no amount of lacey dresses she wore could deny her warrior's structure, was covered in a heavy mantel of thick white polar bear fur. The cowl was drawn over her head, distorting the features of her face, and her strikingly bright blonde hair was pulled into a side pony tail so silken strands were given the liberty to spill over her shoulder, extending a bit past her waist line. Sometimes she was mistaken for Bess, however once her lips parted to grant her voice air her heavy Bavarian accent marked her distinctly.

Ushering the boy beside her with a hand placed on his back between his shoulder blades she chose a vacant pew not a far distant from the others there. She guided Somerled ahead of her while whispering to him,"Setzt euch." She tended to speak in a sort of commanding, authoritive voice that there was no getting around. It made her an intimidating person and seemingly unapproachable. However, some customers of hers could vouch that once they, by chance, had seen something of a smile crack over her lips.

And the nuns and priests here would have to admit the woman had a very pious soul. She attended mass daily; if not early in the morning then she was there for vespers in the evening. She kneeled and stood at the apropriate times and participated in verbal prayers when she knew the words. She refrained from singing though; that just may just bring the stainglass to shatter-she'll save the yodeling for the mountains of Bavaria. And when her hands came together in the holy act of prayer, her eyes closed and she took on an earnet look that was deeply troubled by a low indentation in her brows. She also always had something to donate for the charity baskets, understanding that this land was in war and there was much use for an extra money that people may be able to part with.

Once the two had been seated she brushed the hood off so the ivory light may also indulge on a face that seemed to portray all that was scandinavian and saxon. Leaning down a moment to pull down the kneeler, piercingly light blue eyes glancing towards the others to whom she'd nod politely, and then taking on the semblance of prayer. The little one next to her mimiced her, however his wide and bright green eyes continued to look on at the women. He and Johanna looked almost identical; the fair skin, blonde hair, and sharp scandinavian features. Some said that he was her blood son, then that branched off into either a bastard child or she was a widower. Or those that frequented the Iron Maiden knew that he was adopted and from the shores of Norway, able to distinct because of the slight different of note within their accents. Johanna's was more rough, and Somerled's was softer.

Somerled did not mind going to church, but he didn't particularly enjoy it either. His gaze broke away from them to glance to his mother who remained stoic with eyes closed and head bent in prayer, and dared to lean back just a bit so that his rump was leaning against the edge of the seat. He dropped folded hands to his lap where he began twidling his thumbs, those wide eyes that seemed to retain every shade and hue of green trailing over the gargantuan stone figures and relics throughout the church.

There wasn't a rude boredom written across his youthful face, but rather a thoughtful idleness. And with that he gave a small little sigh through his nose.

[Lady Eirian Gwenyth Apollius]

The faithful answered a call to prayer no matter how many times it rung out in the day or night. A bell tolled the hour. Long before that, it foretold the prayers that were uttered with the cycle of celestial orbs in heaven. In the city, it was easy to lose track of the movement of the spheres or the whispered song of voices in praise. Merchants called out to sell their wares, women gossiped in the lane, and children ran around the corners to head out the gates into the fields to play. Eirian crossed the thoroughfare across the heart of the city to the large structure of soaring tower. Sunlight caught the stained glass windows. Already, the scent of incense blew to her, as if coaxing her in with the aroma of a banquet for the soul.

Attendance at daily mass was a practice that hadn't change since she learned of the child of her womb. It was kept now in ardent loyalty, in thanks, that life should be fashioned inside of her body. She put her hands to the belly that was still flat in appearence. Why was that so? A great laugh given, for in due time she would grow as round as the whole world. "You are the world," she spoke to the essence of life within, "You are the world to your father and I. We have waited a very long time for you." She pulled back the heavy wooden door, instantly taken in by the shadows falling over the faces of the faithful. Now, it could be said she knew everyone who chanced into the morning mass or vespers, especially the latter that allowed her the most time to be reverant. A little boy's eyes caught her own with interest, offering a little smile and wave to the woman. Grinning, Eirian would wave back as she adjusted the mantilla of lace over her hair.

Perhaps it was the silence of the sanctuary with little else to do that made the small boy peer at Eirian, or the way the candles seemed to glow against her skin. Whatever it was that made her seem either fairy like or a tool against boredom each now had the other's attention. Another evening in the contemplation of miracles brought her closer to Christ but no closer to understanding why. How often was it that she was too small to know the full will of God, but took the gleanings he fed her with relish? The kneeler was set out to accept her weight. A smile was given him, the curious one before her hands made the sign of the cross over herself. Whispers in the evening still were the prayers from her lips.

Eirian was a devout woman, there would be none in the church who contested that. A routine of prayer in the evenings, Sunday morning mass, and afternoon visits to the priests and nuns established her as a genuine woman of God. She lived by example, giving of herself as a teacher and in charitous venture for great works. If Christ had disciple among the walking common she would have prayed to touch his robes to join him on his journey if he thought to indulge her. " Let those in this world, near me and abounding, know the succor of peace in the arms of Christ Jesus. Thank you, for allowing us to place our burdens upon your shoulders so that we may be free. Amen."

Gothic saints stood guard, frozen examples of glorification to the entity of God. The eyes of the Artisan opened; a master of her crafts seeking to become the humbled apprentice so that she might take this learning to others in need of a sign things would be well. No matter the turmoil surrounding, the Lady Artisan enjoyed an almost eerie sense of calm as time went on. Deepening, she wanted to fathom it, to taste the make of it. There were often reasons when two strangers were poised together.

Another miracle worth pondering was often the nature of the sign.