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.
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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.
