[[Backdated to mid-October, soon after Penthe’s transcendence]]

It was the first time she had walked on her planet’s ground since it had given her the gift of strange markings and whatever other powers she now had. She hadn’t experimented much, but it felt...well, she felt stronger, better, more powerful.

And as she walked down the grand central street of Telnarquel, towards the Colosseum, she noticed that something else had changed.

The doors to the grand temple - the Pantheon, something in her mind whispered - stood wide open, beckoning. Her heart began to race, and she bolted towards the doors, half-expecting a magic barrier to stop her, but there was nothing. She was inside, and the doors shut behind her, and for a moment her markings were the only light but then ---

Strange glowing orbs, the magic lights that were all over the library, made the inside of the Pantheon as bright as day, even without windows. The beautiful statues, hewn of khalizi and painted to look like Penthesilea’s people, stood watch.

And Evadne, fully a Senshi now - Penthesilea-the-present recognized her own first-stage fuku - stood next to Andromache, who pointed to each statue.

“Elgar’nan,” she gestured at a woman in full golden armor, holding a great sword, “the first Queen of the Gods, lady of war and vengeance, your first and mightiest patron.”

“Mythal,” a softer woman, in a beautiful white dress, “Elgar’nan’s bride, the protector and goddess of love.”

“Dirthamen,” a woman dressed in dark colors, leathers, like a spy, with a scroll in her hand and the shape of knives at her belt, “keeper of secrets and protector of plans, the wisest tactition of the quar'valsharesi.”

“Falon’din,” a woman in black, garb which Evadne recognized as funerary and solemn, her face warm and welcoming and her hands outstretched, “the friend of the dead, who guides us all to our final rest.”

“Andruil,” a woman dressed as a huntress, bow drawn, hair carved as if it were blowing in an invisible wind, “goddess of the hunt.”

“Syliase,” a woman carved as gentle as Mythal, a cauldron at her side, “the goddess of the hearth and protector of the home.”

“Ghilan’nain,” a woman holding a sheaf of grain, with bountiful food around her bare feet, “goddess of the harvest and bringer of plenty.”

“June,” a woman in practical clothes, holding a knife to a wood block, clearly involved in carving, “goddess of crafts.”

“What about…” Evadne began, and Andromache placed a finger to her lips. She pointed at the last statue, a woman reclining in a chair.

“Fen’harel, the betrayer. Watch your step, for she seeks to test and trip us all up, guide us away from what is right and honorable. But the right intercession might make her turn her eyes towards your enemies.”

The memory faded, but the glow-lamps lit all around her, and there were the statues, in all their splendor - still almost new, and she could see the remains of old offerings at their feet.

It had been years since Penthesilea had felt moved to religious feeling. Her mother was devoutly Catholic, but when she had come out as a lesbian, her mother had brought her to the parish priest, who had spoken of sin and damnation and God’s disfavor.

It had hurt, had struck at something deep inside her. God did not and would not love her, she had found. God did not love a woman who lay with other women, and who had marked a trail in blood and violated practically every other commandment and felt no remorse.

She had no care for that God.

But here, surrounded by these beautiful goddesses who had seen no worship in a thousand years, who had once watched over her people and Evadne and every single Penthesilean...she was moved in a way she had not been since she first set foot in a cathedral.

She sank to her knees in the center of the temple, and around her, she could almost hear the sounds of worship, and she felt as if she were at the center of it.

It was these goddesses whose marks were on her body, for on their painted faces and hands and arms she recognized the patterns that had written themselves on her skin.

Vallaslin, the word whispered in her mind, markings of honor from the quar'valsharesi.

Penthesilea had not felt moved to religious feeling since she was a young girl.

She was moved here, and she bowed her head, and she whispered a prayer, the words of which came to her from a thousand years back.

“Elgar’nan, guide my blade, and ensure that I strike down my foes with swiftness.
Mythal, guide my hand that I may protect those who need it most.
Dirthamen, keep my plans from my enemies and guard my secrets close.
Andruil, guide me on the hunt, so that I may bring my people prosperity.
Ghilan’nain, bless me with grand harvests and good food.
June, help me create as you create, and let my hands be used for more than killing.
Syliase, keep my the ones I love from harm.
Falon’din, let my death be glorious and carry my soul to the next life.

Gi Thal, mrigg ussta rah wun thalack lu'wun gre'as'anto, wun ultrinnan lu'g'jahall, wun lilbh'iahin lu'wun roesor.

Lu'xal l'Og'elend neitar ouhyll ussta unboi'en.”