The Burden of Faith

The Babaylans, battered and drained, were escorted to a place where the wounded and ailing were treated. The building resembled a hospital, though it differed significantly from the ones on Earth. Instead of sterile white walls and modern medical instruments, this place was adorned with glowing runes and mystical symbols. Crystals of various colors emitted soothing lights, and the air was filled with the scent of healing herbs. Beds lined the walls, each surrounded by an array of magical artifacts designed to aid in recovery.

In a separate room, Babaylan Whang-Od lay motionless, her face etched with despair. Her eyes stared vacantly ahead, her spirit seemingly shattered by the backlash. She felt as if her soul had left her body, leaving behind only a shell of anguish and hopelessness. Attendants bustled around her, administering healing potions and chanting incantations to aid her recovery.

As Whang-Od stared soullessly in one direction, a man entered the room. Unlike the elders and other powerful beings, this man exuded no distinct aura of power. He appeared to be a normal middle-aged man, indistinguishable from an ordinary human on Earth. The attendants noticed his arrival, but Whang-Od did not.

The middle-aged man sighed deeply as he looked at Whang-Od. With a gesture, he signaled the attendants to leave the room. Despite his unassuming appearance, their eyes shone with reverence as they obeyed, bowing deeply as they exited. His presence commanded respect, for he held a very special and significant status in Biringan and throughout the realm of Mayari. This man was a magical tattooist, a position of immense importance.

In Mayari, magical tattooists wielded considerable influence. Their ability to impart the power of Bathala or the natural world to warriors made them highly sought after. Tattooists could enhance strength, agility, and various abilities through their craft, affecting the power dynamics of the realm. Clans and factions vied for their favor, and wars had been waged over their allegiance.

A long silence hung in the room before the man spoke. "I told you to lay low," he said, his voice tinged with frustration.

Whang-Od's eyes flickered with recognition. Every year, she and her fellow Babaylans undertook this dangerous ritual, despite the risks. Many powerful Babaylans before her had fallen into similar states of exhaustion and despair due to their unwavering dedication.

"If I stop, would there be any hope?" Whang-Od replied, her voice weak but resolute. "We all know that the only thing binding us is hope. If we lose our hope... then we're all done."

Wrinkles marked her face, evidence of her long years of service and sacrifice.

The man, Lapu, shook his head. "If you don't stop, you'll die. We all know that. If you die, then we also lose hope. What's the difference between what I believe and what you believe?"

Whang-Od smirked, a bitter smile playing on her lips. "Because we are different, indeed different." She stared at him, her gaze intense.

"Lapu, we know from the very start that we are different, a tattooist and a Babaylan. We can both have connections with Bathala; you can impart their powers to anyone. However, I am the only one who can directly communicate with Bathala. You can control the power of nature, but I am the only one who can commune with them. You ask me what's the difference?"

She spoke with great emotion, her voice rising with each word. "I am the only one who can communicate with Bathala, but that very ability that a Babaylan can do was taken. We lost our very purpose! You can easily say to stop because we are wasting our efforts, but if we stop, then what's the difference between us and a crippled warrior?"

"You can still use your power. Even if the gods have gone missing, you can still impart the power of nature. But if a Babaylan cannot have connections with the gods, then... you know my current status in Biringan." She laughed, tears streaming down her face.

"I can hear those murmurs. I can see in their eyes that they despise us, the Babaylans who were once respected but now are just symbols used for someone's political ploys."

Lapu interrupted, "I told you not to mind those stupid elders! They are blind and corrupted! They don't know a thing except their hunger for power!"

Whang-Od's expression hardened. "Tell that to your father."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of their words hanging in the air. The struggle between maintaining hope and confronting reality was a battle that both Whang-Od and Lapu faced daily, each in their own way. The silence lingered, a testament to the complex and fraught relationship between them, their roles, and the turbulent world of Mayari.