Edren's voice carried across the procession before the rest stop was visible.
"We make camp here. Tend to your feet, to your thirst, to your hunger. The road continues at first light."
There was no ceremony, only the announcement of a man whose words had lost meaning and no mention of when or if the next rest would happen. The procession responded with reluctant relief — the farmers began unloading the cart, the elders were already moving, the guards took positions at the edges of the designated clearing. Edren and the other devotees to the ritual handled minor tasks and civilians followed suit.
"I have to go; the elders have been giving me the stink eye for a while now."
Lyra threw one last glance at Corvin and stepped away as her smile dimmed. He watched as the wall of elders enveloped her.
Corvin stayed out of the way and observed the gathering. The clearing had definitely been used before. Many times, probably — the ground was worn flat in the center, old fire rings of stacked stones waiting to be lit again. Someone had built this place a long time ago and generations of frightened people had maintained it without being asked. They were only the next.
He found a spot at the outer edge of the farmer cluster. His feet hurt, his legs sore.
'We're expected to maintain this pace without slowing down. And without knowing when we can rest...'
An old lady carefully sat down and started to tend to her foot. Corvin suspected that some may not make it. If so...
'Why are they even here?'
Fires ignited in stages. Lanterns were unhooked from the cart and distributed to the people, along with other supplies. The camp organized itself the way it had probably always taken shape — elders at the center with the Accepted, farmers and common pilgrims arranged around their own fire, the guards at the periphery facing outwards. Corvin blended in and sat with the common pilgrims, towards the margins where he could see everything.
Beyond the firelight was a veil of darkness. Nothing was visible, actual darkness unlike the dim outskirts that still filtered light from the inner city. Somewhere out there were the Mother's children. They could be at arm's length or a mile out; there was no way of knowing. The smell of cookfire ash filled his nostrils as he noticed the guards grip their spears tighter.
He decided to keep his eyes on the camp instead.
***
Corvin's stomach grumbled as he took a sip from his water skin, only to find it was empty. He sighed and tossed it into a pile of used things while standing.
'Now where can a nameless pilgrim get some food...'
He shuffled through the crowd towards a fire. On the way, two farmers were talking and lowering their voices had obviously not occurred to them. An older man and woman.
"...knew it the moment I saw the boy. Same look and walk as his mother."
The woman nodded her head in expected agreement.
"His family's obligation, not his. Should've been his father making the walk."
The man shook his head in contempt.
"Father's dead. So why is he here? Duty? Guilt? He doesn't even want to be here; he doesn't deserve it."
The woman gestured to Corvin with a finger pressed to her lip, and both of them quieted down.
Corvin made his way further in, unbothered.
'They're talking about his father.'
Apparently, this walk was inherited, and his father was supposed to be the one here instead. If he was alive. And now the Nameless Pilgrim was here in his place, and the people around him had decided that reluctant obligation was a form of disrespect. To others, he was unworthy of the road.
'But who exactly was his mother?'
He arrived at the main fire of the farmers, where charred meat was rotating on stakes. There had been a line, but Corvin had already waited it out earlier.
The fire flickered and crackled as it fought against the surrounding darkness, and Corvin caught a glimpse of Lyra kneeling on a folded cloth that had been prepared for her when they arrived, one fire over.
The elders were gathered around her, the ritual keepers — as Corvin had recently learned they were called — huddled behind them around their own source of warmth.
Lyra seemed... too still. Her smile felt static.
Corvin lingered on her ceremonial braid, then reached down to grab himself a stake of meat—
A wrinkled hand slapped his wrist. Corvin pulled it back as it stung.
"Boy. That one's meant for those of us who truly walk in faith."
Corvin gazed upwards, then stood back up. Looks like one of the elders had decided to get dinner as well — her old face shriveled, long grey hair falling onto her shoulders.
A twig in the fire snapped.
"I apologize, which one am I allowed to eat? If you don't mind me asking."
The old lady scoffed and pointed to the smallest piece near the edge with her wooden cane.
"That one should be enough for your frail body."
Corvin shook his hand behind his back and nodded.
"Okay, then I'll have that one."
The elder looked satisfied with herself, and her worn cloak almost dirtied itself as she gripped two stakes. She turned and unhurriedly made her way towards Lyra.
Just as he was told, Corvin strolled over to the smallest piece of food, and grabbed the larger one right next to it when no one was looking.
***
Lyra was visible through the firelight. Corvin could see shadows dancing across her fair face, but the emerald eyes that had peered through him before were out of place, her energy nowhere to go but absently at the ground.
She sat in the middle, surrounded, as always. A lantern hung nearby casting half of her in warm gold, the fire nearby lighting the rest.
A man approached her.
It wasn't a farmer or an elder, but rather someone from the middle of the procession. A keeper. He was older and unremarkable wearing ceremonial robes; the only standout was the expression on his face. Like he was not looking at a person but rather an object of worship.
In his hands — an offering of some kind. He cupped an object wrapped in cloth, presenting it with careful reverence.
He started to speak. Corvin was too far to make out every word, but he caught enough.
"Chosen... of the Mother..."
The man's voice was shaking.
"Heed... offering..."
He stepped closer. Lyra gripped the cloth at her knees tighter.
"...please... bless me..."
The fire crackled loudly. Lyra's face tightened, her eyes darting everywhere but at him. Corvin's fingers dug into the ground, but he was unable to do anything.
The man was breathing heavily as he knelt down slowly in front of her. After carefully placing the offering down, he reached for her hand. The man was smiling.
Lyra's hand slowly started to slide back.
An elder moved fast and gripped the man's shoulder firmly.
"Do not taint the Accepted with your ugly pleas."
The keeper's hand started to shake as he looked beseechingly up at the elder.
"No... touching the Accepted is sacred, because her skin carries divinity, because —"
"Enough!"
The elder's hand tightened. Another one rose. The wall of bodies closed. The man was guided back, firmly, in the direction he'd come from. He didn't resist. He went with the deflated look of someone being corrected for something he hadn't understood was wrong.
All that was left was a deliberately wrapped offering in his place.
The man's faith was genuine, and the elders' intervention had nothing to do with her comfort and everything to do with maintaining the shape of a ritual that required her to be a symbol rather than a person.
Lyra carefully pulled her knees up.
Corvin was disgusted.
Another twig in the fire burnt and snapped.