Say a Prayer Ch. 01

Author's Note: This story is the fifth installment in my Wish Granted series. The proper order of these stories should be listed on my profile's biography section. If you start from here without reading the previous stories, you might end up confused and not knowing anything about many of the characters involved. Not only that, but the previous stories will be completely spoiled. This particular installment will be much sadder than the previous ones. All graphically described sexual content in my stories involve characters that are at least 18 years old. This story will involve some mild foot massaging, pregnancy, breast milk contact, urine contact, exhibition-like behavior, role-playing, bondage, non-consent, and physical abuse. However, the physical abuse will be gently glossed over. During all graphically described sexual acts, there will be no injury, no lasting damage, and nothing more dangerous than being tied up. Also, I'm not actually finished writing this. I've decided to publish something that's not done. I'm trying to figure out if this will encourage me to write faster. If this turns out to cause me to have inconsistencies in the story, I'm terribly sorry. I do promise that I will at least TRY to finish this story.

******

Known as the Lotus Shell, this particular temple was devoted to The God of Hope. It was a tall, white, stone building located in Henrisk. Between the building and the street, there were two small gardens with little man-made ponds shaped like circles, each one filled with elegant lotus flowers. The fact that the white and pink flowers had bloomed so early in spring was considered to be a sign of good luck. Those lovely flowers were usually more vibrant in summer.

On this morning, a service was being held in the ceremony hall. Two apprentice priests slowly danced around and down the aisle between the rows of seats, smiling at the audience members. The apprentices were wearing formal black coats and loosely knotted scarves of white fabric hanging around their necks. At the front of the room, on a slight stage, there was an official priestess playing a violin. Instead of a masculine coat, she wore a feminine gown, but it was black, and she had her own white scarf. One would note, though, that her scarf had black lotuses embroidered into the fabric.

Eventually, the apprentices had to finish their dance, seemingly floating their way back up the aisle, to the stage, and as the priestess ended the music on a chirping note, they bowed low to the audience. Polite applause was given.

As the apprentices left the area to see to their other duties, the priestess put her violin inside of a plain case. Quickly, mechanically, her pale little fingers reached out, and her brown boots drummed on the wooden surface beneath her as she moved to stand behind a podium and open an ordinary looking book.

"So pleased I am," she said with a gentle voice, as soft as a light rain that buzzed instead of pounded. The hall of the temple was quiet, and so, she didn't need to yell. "So pleased I am. So pleased I am. To see all of these people, so generous, so calm, and so full of that wonderful thing we all need, ah," and here, she gave out a fuzzy, dramatic exhale, bowing slightly, her fingers folding over the edges of the podium, "yes ... hope, sending twinging little dots to my head." One of her hands rose. Her pink fingertip tapped onto her temple.

Then, a grin came, widening her normally heart shaped face. In her thoughts, she had always called it her madwoman's grin.

A strand of tightly curled brown hair fell out of her plain coiffure. It caressed her fingers, then her brow, her high cheekbone, the chin, and finally, the scarf on her body.

"It's a refreshing dive into a cold lake after a hard day's work under the sun. It's a fire's comforting glow when the winter turns cruel." The loose curl of hair was slightly nudged as the priestess weaved her fingers together under her humbly covered little bosom. "However, hope can also be something not so pleasant." A pause, and her madwoman's grin shrunk into a motherly pout, a knowing sadness. "This is more common when your hope is a lie, a false hope. It's best to avoid such hope. It often leads to anguish. False hope contradicts reality, and so, one can never be fulfilled by it."

With a slight bow to the audience, the priestess advised, "Please don't ever fall victim to false hope."

***

Delma Abnelon was her name.

Like her late father, she was a Child of Hope.

There was no preference towards physical sex concerning such a position. Priests and priestesses were both quite common. They were encouraged to marry and produce children, because priests and priestesses often took their own children in as apprentices. This was how Delma became a priestess. Her father had practically taught her from birth to be a Child of Hope.

It wasn't a bad occupation. There were several ways to earn money.

For example, on a warm night, Delma had an appointment at an aristocrat's townhouse. The husband of a certain Marchioness had made an appointment with her. Delma was expected to give a few prayers, perform two small rituals, and leave behind a charm. Each of those tasks would have a price.

"My poor, sweet wife barely leaves her bed," the husband had claimed. "I had to weep and beg for her to come to Henrisk. Please put a bit of hope into her heart."

She was Marchioness Lillitu Masen, Lady of the Kloen province.

And she didn't look very well.

Even with the dim candlelight, Delma could tell.

Haggard, terribly thin, and there were bruise-like spots under her large eyes. The Marchioness was propped up against a stack of pillows against her bed's headboard. Her hair was bare, oily, and more loose than a whore desperate for money. Despite the weather, the Marchioness had thick layers of blankets over her lap. Her upper body was barely covered by a baggy chemise. There wasn't a set of stays on her waist. That was possibly the most telling fact about her mental condition than anything else.

And inside her frail fingers, there was a simple worry stone.

"You're a useless sort of person, you know," the Marchioness weakly said a soon as Delma entered, staring up at the priestess with an impatient expression, putting even more hollowness in her cheeks. "Foolish Bram, the tender thing that he is ... he assumes that a Temple Child can do what a doctor cannot."

Delma didn't know this person. She didn't know if she was being rude because she was naturally this way, or if she was being rude because her heart had absorbed all the gloom in the world.

None of it mattered. Delma forced joy into her brown eyes, hoping they sparkled in the firelight. She curtsied and said with a bubbling voice, "Good evening, My Lady. I'm honored to meet you."

"What stupid waste of time are you going to put me through?" the marchioness asked as she pressed her small thumb into her worry stone.

"Your honorable husband has requested that I give some prayers, perform two hopeful rituals, and give you a charm."

A sigh, and the Marchioness dryly asked, "Are you proud of yourself, you con artist?"

Delma's lower eyelid twitched, but there was nothing else that could suggest a negative reaction. "With My Lady's permission, I'd like to being the prayers." She put the backs of her hands together, her straight fingers closed and forming an X shape.

Squeezing the worry stone under her fingers, Lillitu Masen muttered to Delma, "If you don't, my husband will never cease his harping."

With a deep bow, Delma recited multiple short prayers, asking the God of Hope to find the time to assist this depressed person. Her voice was rushed, because she didn't want to force this unwilling woman to endure any more religious content than necessary. Then she straightened her back and searched one of the pockets under her skirt.

A small glass jar was between her index finger and thumb as her hand rose. Inside, there was a dainty pinch of pure salt. Standing near the length of the mattress, Delma loomed over the miserable aristocrat and held the jar under her sallow face. "Would you please eat this salt?" It was meant to "purify" the victim of misery ... somehow.

The Marchioness rolled her eyes and popped the tiny lid off of the jar. Then she tilted her head back and poured the salt into her mouth. There was a grimace on her face as she handed the jar back to Delma.

The priestess put her jar back into her pocket. Then she pulled out two pieces of wood joined by a hinge. With a flick of her wrist, she opened the wooden pieces and locked them together, forming a longer, wand-like shape. It was known as a Folding Staff, and it was often used by Temple Children.

Silence arrived as Delma drew religious symbols in the air, her eyes closed, since the movements were memorized and it was best to seem like an expert. Once she was finished, and her brown eyes opened, she saw the Marchioness staring up at her with a combination of embarrassment and disgust. Delma gave her a polite nod, folding her staff and putting it away. Then she fished out a string of wooden beads, polished and clean.

Making a whirling, click-clacking noise, Delma swung and twirled the beads around and around, like a bored child might do. Her face was serious, though, her plump lips tight.

Then, Delma abandoned her grip, letting the beads fall onto the mattress.

"Ah," Delma said with a smile, "the beads have formed a pleasing pattern. There is hope yet, My Lady."

The Marchioness rubbed one of her eyes with her fingertips, visibly unimpressed.

Delma scooped the beads up and put them back into her pocket.

And she sighed.

And she thought to herself, "Such a pitiable, sour thing you are."

Delma's skirt rustled over her bum roll as she knelt down, putting her palms on the mattress, sweetly and kindly gazing at the Marchioness. "My Lady, would it be ill-mannered of me to ask why you've reached such a wretched state?"

Marchioness Lillitu Masen's face actually softened, but only moderately so. Her pale lips formed a delicate smile. Her eyes shimmered. And she said with much, much less salt in her voice than one would expect, considering the circumstances, "Asking of the reason is the only helpful thing you've done for me."

Delma's straight nose wrinkled and she made a soft, fox-like yip of a noise. Then she sighed. "I honestly dislike witnessing despair. I'd love to help you."

The aristocrat's voice was gentle, but disappointing. "No, no, silly Temple Child. I know why I'm so weary of life, and I know there is no solution. Nothing you say will assuage me."

"Ah, but My Lady, there must be something I can do!" Delma purposely let her body bounce somewhat, pushing on the mattress. "You are still alive, and the nation is alive, and we're all alive! There's an excess of hope to be had here!" Delma let her body relax then, choosing to kneel instead of crouch.

The bony woman chuckled very quietly. Then she swiped some of her heavy, dirty hair out of her gaunt face. "I'm a reasonably intelligent person. If there was hope for me, I'd have found it."

"You won't even give me the reason?" Delma asked, moving back to a standing position. "How can I help you if I don't understand the problem?"

Still fiddling with her worry stone, Lillitu Masen looked away and said with a mild sough, "Give me your ridiculous charm and leave me."

Delma focused on the aristocrat's pointed face. Did she have any fat left in her? Poor thing.

A sigh, a long, sympathetic sigh, and then Delma's fingers went back to her pocket. She revealed a tiny charm, a little sculpture of gold shaped like a lotus flower, attached to a small loop of leather. She placed the charm on a nightstand and prayed over it, asking the God of Hope to remind Marchioness Lillitu Masen of all the good things in the world. There really was quite a bit of it.

Generous donations given to the poor. Innocent babies laughing at the simplest things. Long walks in fine weather. Flowers that bloom and smell sweet. Hot cider during the winter. A mother patching up torn clothing. A father wrestling with his son and then teaching him how to fight.

So many good things were still in the world, putting hope in everyone's hearts.

"Have you finished, Temple Child?"

Almost.

Delma finished by saying, "And let her not forget her kind husband, who hired me to see to her. Let her not forget her child, who needs her guidance. Let her not forget all of the people in the world who care for her, and worry over her, and I will do my best to never forget her, even when I am old and gray."

"That's fine and well, Temple Child," the Marchioness said, "but would you please let me be? I'm craving a sliver of slumber."

"Of course, My Lady. I wish you well." Delma curtsied and quit the room, closing the door behind her and putting her fingers against her chest, feeling an emptiness there.

Poor woman, poor, unfortunate woman. Something loathsome and unforgiving was plaguing her.

Her heels met a long rug on the hallway floor, quieting her steps.

Delma knew she didn't do a damn thing to help her, nothing at all.

She walked down the hallway and downstairs to a drawing room, where she met the Marchioness' husband, Bram Masen. He was technically a marquess, but he had never seemed to be the kind to accept that fact.

"Ah, how is she doing, Priestess?" the Marquess asked, running his fingers through his thinning dark hair. Concern was the most obvious emotion on his face.

After a quick curtsy, Delma replied, "She's firmly placed in her melancholy. I'd rather not accept payment."

"Nonsense," the Marquess said, shaking his head and cutting the air with his hand. "You gave a sincere effort, didn't you?"

Humbly, Delma nodded and said, "I did, My Lord, but if I received payment, my pride would be damaged."

"Put your pride away, then." As he said this, he reached into a pocket of his waistcoat.

Delma sighed and waited for him to count out his money. Her eyes idly wandered around, and she noticed a beautiful gun on display behind the man. "Oh, that's a lovely piece. Do you use it often?"

The Marquess turned and said, "Oh, the rifle? I ... wait."

He dropped his money. The coins clanged and scattered on the wooden floor.

Delma recoiled and gasped, her fingers rushing to her lips. "What's wrong, My Lord?"

"There should be two guns there! A rifle and a pistol!"

A BANG rang out from upstairs.

Delma and the Marquess hurried to the stairs, their shoes pounding on the floor. As they ran upstairs, they heard a woman scream. Once they were on the second floor and at the hallway, Delma saw a maid incoherently squeaking and pointing at a doorway. She had apparently opened the door to the Marchioness' bedroom.

When they went to the doorway ...

They saw ...

Blood.

***

The delights of the Social Season were put away for quite a few people. They had to go to the Kloen province, and later, to Castle Masen, a small estate near a river rumored to have healing properties. The rumors were very much false.

The scarred Duke Adurant, his wife, and his three boys were there.

The handsome Duke Bransted, his wife, and his little boy were there.

The widower, the Marquess Bram Masen, and his stepson, Ismael were obviously there.

And one other person was there, but she spent most of her time refusing to speak to anyone, her teeth gnashing, her head lowered.

That was Esther Urvine, a former friend of the deceased.

It was common for funerals to be held as soon as possible, and so, Esther still had questions in her mind regarding Lillitu's death.

A suicide, that's what was said.

The pistol came from inside the house, and the gunshot was heard while the woman was alone in her bedroom. Her husband had been talking to the priestess.

Esther hadn't been assigned to investigate the death, but she was allowed to ask questions about it.

What bothered her were two facts.

One, Lillitu's corpse was lying down. The blood that came from her head was mostly on her pillows and mattress.

When a person shoots oneself in the head while in bed, and that had certainly happened before, that person normally does so while sitting up. It was simply more comfortable that way.

Two, when the pistol was examined, it had almost no hint of body oils or fingerprints, not even on the trigger.

The Marquess had regularly cleaned his displayed guns, but he didn't shoot them often.

And ... if Lillitu did shoot herself, her own fingerprints would have been on the pistol.

But they weren't there.

Esther hadn't been assigned to investigate, as was stated before, but she certainly was able to request for the authority to investigate, and she had done so.

That didn't make her feel any better, though.

***

They had worn shades of gray and white with no lace. Different people mourned in different ways, mostly because of the influences of several gods. The Adurants mainly focused on the God of Hope. That was the only god Erdgar showed any faith for, but his wife often asked if he was lying to please her.

Followers of the God of Hope tended to publicly mourn for the shortest amount of time. They were encouraged to find as much hope as possible, which meant being as cheerful as possible, even if it meant being dishonest.

There was honesty inside one of the guest rooms of Castle Masen, though. Erdgar Adurant was seated on an edge of a bed, his back curled over. His arms were folded in a seemingly disconsolate manner, his great fingers clawing at the space above his elbows.

Across the hall, all of his sons were squeezed in a room with the governess and the nanny. The room beside that one had his wife's new handmaidens. They were nice girls, really. As for his wife, whom he still loved quite dearly, she was in a corner of the guest room Erdgar sat in, dimming down an oil lamp. The night claimed a little more of the room as she turned the dial until the lamp only had a gentle glow.

A similar glow was from a candle on a nightstand, on the side of the bed that Erdgar Adurant sat on. The flame slowly pulsed in the air, dutiful and hot. The duke's fingernails dug even more into his arms, wrinkling the sleeves of his white shirt, which looked yellow in the firelight.

The duchess, Danetta Adurant, carefully walked around the bed, holding her oil lamp. Her feet were in a pair of stockings, which made her steps gentle. She passed her husband to put the lamp on the nightstand. Then she sat down beside him, smoothing down the back of her over-skirt.

She was nearly silent. Her breath was the loudest thing about her, scraping the air and trembling as it moved.

Erdgar's frame quivered. Then he sucked in a breath so weak that he sounded like an old, delicate man. Then his arms loosened, his hands falling to his lap, and he sobbed and sniffed with all the grace of a frustrated toddler.

"Oh, Erdgar," his wife crooned, leaning into him, putting her hand on his thigh. The other hand went to his uneven, traumatized face.

He wept loudly, making her flinch, but she withstood it.

His friend was gone.

Well, she had been Danetta's friend too, but Erdgar had known her longer. His wound was deeper.

So, she held him the best she could, since he was so much taller than her. She pulled his head down and kissed him, uncaring that she was tasting his tears and a bit of mucus. She'd happily become his living handkerchief if that would comfort him.

Then guilt rose in her heart because her body responded to him. Here this man was, nearly dying of lamentation, desperately needing a soothing, and Danetta's womanhood was greedily blooming and asking for attention.

Ignore that, she thought to herself, her husband needed an extra dose of love tonight.