Purport v. 1: to have the often specious appearance of being, intending, or claiming (something implied or inferred); also: claim, 2: intend, purpose

A new age dawned for the Solari.

Or so every other gossip and passerby felt the need to inform her, each other, and every potted plant they passed. The sun had chosen a representative in their time, on their mountain! And oh, what a champion it had chosen! Only sixteen, but wise beyond her years. She was beautiful, she was kind, she was strong, and brave, and humble, and devout, and every other remotely positive adjective they could think of.

It's like a disease, Diana thought. The Chosen had infected the sun's people with the inability to talk about anything else, and blinded them to their own obsession.

As darkly amusing as she found these same fools who had just last week denounced the Rakkor as a bunch of war obsessed psychos praising them for producing someone so refined, elegant, and intelligent, she couldn't escape to her library refuge fast enough. But even her sanctuary had been invaded by fair weather readers who all suddenly felt a burning need to read everything by, about, and tangentially related to the Chosen of the Sun. The sacred laws of the library meant nothing to them, so enthralled were they in their chosen-centric daze. Even in her place of power, poor Irene could not contain this madness.

The day the Chosen would be presented to the entirety of the Solari could not come fast enough. Hopefully that at least could end this seemingly endless speculation and conjecture.

Diana considered skipping the stupid thing. Ceremonies bored her, and the Solari had more than enough even before Chosen mania swept Mount Targon's peak. The week of celebrations to follow at least promised that the intruders would vacate her library.

She sat near the back, sprawled on her perch on the wall around the auditorium. The chamber was packed, the entirety of the Solari having turned out for this momentous occasion. The closer to the dais the closer the bodies were packed, heads moving next to each other like pouring beans from a bowl.
The Elders appeared. They spewed their usual long-winded speech, which for once the other Solari had as little interest in as Diana generally did. They were here for one person only.

Finally, finally, the Chosen was announced.

There was no way the girl could live up to the hype, but Diana had expected more than this. Though she towered over the hunched old men on the stage, her thin frame swam in the ceremonial robes they'd found for her. What she could make out of her features were utterly ordinary, and the smile she gave the crowd hardly improved things. Yes, she seemed to glow even in the sunlight, but the sunlight had never held much beauty for Diana.

Then she caught something. Just the slightest glance, away and past the adoring masses.

Diana knew that look intimately.

I know you. You're alone. Like me.

And she couldn't look away.