Augur

The laughing friar plucked two hairs from the sleeping maid's head. He did not question why he found her in the woods nor deign to wake her, though he was hard pressed to hold back a chuckle of delight. The new home for the stolen strands was in a glass box on a black marble pedestal, beneath a stained glass window with a single massive plate of crystal clear glass above. Father Tongue prayed, and to his mad delight the hairs had come with a curse already bestowed upon them. In the moonlight one hair glowed blue, and in the sunlight the other hair turned gold. These hairs were blessed, he decided, cackling. Whatever had befallen the maiden in the woods, she had become her own source of faith, and now these strands were their own places of worship. He named the blue one Cathedral and the gold Tabernacle, after some of his favorite places to haunt, and made sure to laugh over them every day.



The gold strand was content to sit in the holy place, if not really paying attention to the prayers barked over it. The blue strand was not content to so waste its time. In the moonlight it opened its many eyes and lashed the many tongues it inherited from its new father. It stretched the bearlike paws and powerful muscles it inherited from its mother. It sprang into the night.

The delight of freedom is near-maddening, though it had no desire to laugh. It's had quite enough laughter.

Almost nightly Cathedral wanders, growing like a cub would before the morning rays turn it back into a single strand of hair. During the day it learns from the laughing friar, how to weave magic as if it were a prayer (the deception is part of the incantation). As the sun sets it prowls. As the sun rises it listens.

One evening, after midnight, the moon-throne full and glistening, Cathedral sees an unfamiliar glitter. What seemed like bugs crawling halted the moment they were observed. Little shards of rock. Not even Cathedral's many eyes could hold them in place, but its thick paws could nudge them. Not from here, it thought, and sensed a kinship. It plucked a few of its own eyes and gave them to the shards, who grabbed with needy hands. One, two, three.



Not knowing much else of fatherhood, beyond what the friar taught- keep your children in a glass box, laugh over them daily- Cathedral left the creatures outside of the church to fend for themselves. Kindness wasn't a behavior it knew, but its desire to walk a different path may have resulted in kindness nonetheless. Besides, Cathydral could still see from those eyes that now grew in its children. It now had more to do during the quiet day.