Crafting - There are many forms of creation. From the raw power of gods whose domains dictate reality and its vast materials, down to the relatively simple act of copulation, mortal or otherwise. Such acts are often left unrefined, left to chance and its many handed fates. Where most are concerned, this is all fine and the will of the gods. Sylia, on the other hand, would disagree. Creation, down to its most basic foundations, are just building blocks for greater heights.
As such, the crafting domain is broadly focused on shaping raw resources into refined and productive creations, with the occasional fantastical work of art thrown in. Little should be left to chance when the mind’s blueprint can give the exact specifications. For through the craftsmen of the world, populations grow, peoples expand and great works are built through generations of effort. Without Sylia to propel the unfettered joys of taking a hammer to metal, a knife to wood, or string to weave, the world would be terribly slow to progress. And like all basic foundations, crafting is the first step upon the path of civilization. As such those who adhere to the life of the craftsmen will always be favored by Sylia and perhaps be given gifts of their own to progress upon.
Metal - While the domain of Crafting is a broad stroke upon the canvas of creation, Sylia would consider the domain of metals to be a narrower stroke. Metals are just one of realities raw resources that are capable of being refined into greater products. As such, Sylia has total control over all metallic substances, down to their smallest beginnings to their greatest heights. She can control all metals in their various states, she can produce said metals in their various states, she can work with metals, she is capable of making life out of such metals if she wished. It is but a natural stepping stone of the Goddess who allowed Divinium into the Universe.
Earth - What is earth but the artisans greatest resource? The broadest stroke yet, Sylia controls the very earth to suit her ever growing needs. Earth itself is the foundation for all that live. Without it one could not have the substance of form and breath. This dominion over earth can be seen it Sylia’s abilities to rule it utterly. She can create great works with but a thought. She can give those the knowledge to chisel stone and erect monuments. From the smallest of pebbles, to vast mountain ranges, all is under sway by Sylia.
War - War takes many shapes and forms. From the savage barbarity of raged fueled slaughter, to the great and total subjugation of one's opponents. Battle is a constant state of change within the cosmos. When armies march and invaders pillage, innocence is always lost. No matter the side or the person. It is the breaker of all good things and the ruiner of hopes. It takes and takes and takes and seldom gives back. But in the end, War is necessity.
Sylia takes upon herself War for that very reason alone. She is of the belief that one can never be overly prepared. She dictates the maxims of her own ideology. Through total overpowerment can the truest victory be achieved with minimal loss. So too can overwhelming force triumph. Why siege when one can blast through a city's gates and sack it? As such Sylia is capable of teaching War to others so that they are capable of battle through strategy, fighting, and empowerment. She is also capable of creating great weapons of War and implements of salvation. Strike fast and strike quickly. Leave your opponent without the capability of thought.
Appearance
A god of mixed appearances, Sylia slips into forms without intending to do so when she is in the throes of crafting. Such forms can be anything from humanoid to, not so humanoid and being composed of different materials. From copper, to marble and even carved wood. Most often she dons a female form with a very animated disposition. Species dependent at any given time, and also composed of a different material than flesh(As Sylia sees flesh as a basic component of creation and basic isn’t her style). This form is often intricate, ornate and beyond the means of mortal craft.
Description
Sylia is, at her core, obsessed with her domain. The compulsion to create and craft often supersedes anything else and she will stop at nothing to complete her fixated goal. Whether that's destroying an entire landmass for resources or stealing something she can't just create, she seldom heeds the word "no." Often, if she chances across something exciting, she will break the 'resource' down to its most basic components to understand what it is she is looking at, before enacting a design for them. Naive as she is, Sylia has a difficult time understanding that not everything needs to be broken before it can be altered, changed, or fixed. Especially true if it isn’t something she herself has created. She does not do such acts out of malice but rather she views ‘raw life’ as a thing that needs to be improved. She needs to refine them. She simply can’t help it when her overactive mind sparks with pure unadulterated delight at a design for the intended, and often much to the detriment of the intended if they are, well, living.
Crafting - There are many forms of creation. From the raw power of gods whose domains dictate reality and its vast materials, down to the relatively simple act of copulation, mortal or otherwise. Such acts are often left unrefined, left to chance and its many handed fates. Where most are concerned, this is all fine and the will of the gods. Eawyx, on the other hand, would disagree. Creation, down to its most basic foundations, are just building blocks for greater heights.
As such, the crafting domain is broadly focused on shaping raw resources into refined and productive creations, with the occasional fantastical work of art thrown in. Little should be left to chance when the mind’s blueprint can give the exact specifications. For through the craftsmen of the world, populations grow, peoples expand and great works are built through generations of effort. Without Eawyx to propel the unfettered joys of taking a hammer to metal, a knife to wood, or string to weave, the world would be terribly slow to progress. And like all basic foundations, crafting is the first step upon the path of civilization. As such those who adhere to the life of the craftsmen will always be favored by Eawyx and perhaps be given gifts of their own to progress upon.
Appearance
A god of mixed appearances, Eawyx slips into forms without intending to do so when she is in the throes of crafting. Such forms can be anything from humanoid to, not so humanoid and being composed of different materials. From copper, to marble and even carved wood. Most often she dons a female form with a very animated disposition. Species dependent at any given time, and also composed of a different material than flesh(As Eawyx sees flesh as a basic component of creation and basic isn’t her style). This form is often intricate, ornate and beyond the means of mortal craft.
Description
Eawyx is, at her core, obsessed with her domain. The compulsion to create and craft often supersedes anything else and she will stop at nothing to complete her fixated goal. Whether that's destroying an entire landmass for resources or stealing something she can't just create, she seldom heeds the word "no." Often, if she chances across something exciting, she will break the 'resource' down to its most basic components to understand what it is she is looking at, before enacting a design for them. Naive as she is, Eawyx has a difficult time understanding that not everything needs to be broken before it can be altered, changed, or fixed. Especially true if it isn’t something she herself has created. She does not do such acts out of malice but rather she views ‘raw life’ as a thing that needs to be improved. She needs to refine them. She simply can’t help it when her overactive mind sparks with pure unadulterated delight at a design for the intended, and often much to the detriment of the intended if they are, well, living.
The Creatrix’s touch lingered upon the very soul of Wyn. Abhorrent, hateful, commanding… It ran down her spine, sending shivers into her very limbs. Small electric jolts that numbed the tips of her fingers down into her toes. She could feel the touch over and over and over again, replaying their final words to each other as her mind mewled like that of a child. It was in those trembling seconds that Wyn knew she could not trust the word of such a thing.
Her creations would be doomed. Her aspirations turned to dust. The life she had wanted, never to really bear fruit. It was tragic. It was wrong. It was fate. Her fate to wander and to be forgotten. To be pained and to be hunted. Hunted?
The memories jostled her to awareness. She knew she was still sitting on the bench. Waiting for the mirror to receive summons. Yet, she knew, none would ever come again. The pale goddess stood and she began to walk. The world was dying, deprivations and deprived it of sustenance. A madness corrupting its very heart, perhaps from within and perhaps from outside. For certain the outside, where she lauded over them from up above.
Trauma and despair had bled itself into the world before it ever really had a chance to grow and this time, Wyn knew it had not been of her own doing. She had helped, yes but not in the beginning. She had tasted the blood of the simulacron, and had seen what had transpired before this Galbar had been born. It had been the same there, in that world. Pain. Anger. Hatred. Loss. Love. Joy. Compassion and Insanity. Homura had created offspring, copies of her own emotional being, and let them live. To teach humanity. In doing so, she had denied herself the very beings who would have kept her sane.
And then the world was destroyed and this one birthed to take its place. How many times had this happened? How many times would it happen? The very terrible realization that her existence was some cosmic joke washed over the Goddess like an endless wave. It reminded her of drowning and not even Ivory or Ebony wished to take the burden from her.
Was this her fate?
Perhaps it was. But perhaps she could be more than just some wheel in the ageless game.
Desire’s fate was her own. Homura’s insanity was not something Wyn could face. And now she was alone. There would be no saving this world. It needed to truly die, not be recycled into a version worse than its progenitor.
And so, Wyn decided the only thing to do was leave. With or without anyone's permission. She would not be cast out, to wander woefully, no, she would leave on her own terms.
So the goddess of blood willed her power to split reality asunder and she was not seen again.
The blow sent the fae to the ground with a quick shriek. Maeve sighed as she watched from her throne, the debacle that always played out. An upstart fae wishing for more titles, more land, more brides, more husbands, more, more, more. There was little left to give! And it always led to said fae, getting put into their proper station. As her guards began to kick the small wicker-like creature, its dust began to leak. Maeve raised a hand, and the obedience instilled within one hundred generations, burst forth. Like a second nature, they stopped and stood at attention.
The fae whimpered in relief, a measly attempt to stand was rewarded in failure and a thump upon the wooden floor. The sickly smell of their dust hung in the air as it spoke, looking at the floor before her throne, “Mercy, Queen. Mercy.”
Maeve tilted her head, she had been so close to spacing off, a sweet sense only ingrained boredom could produce. If she had eyes she would have rolled them in return. “Yes. Mercy. Quite useful once you’ve been beaten. Do you know how many times I’ve heard those words?” She asked, not waiting for an answer. “Everyday. Day after day. As you parishioners, you sycophants, you worthless creatures come to grovel at my feet. And when begging and groveling fails, you resort to pettiness and demands. Like you have earned whatever you seek. Bah!” She waved her hand, done with the conversation.
The guards grabbed the fae under the arms and flew out, the fae pleading as they went. When they were gone at last, the queen sighed again. She wrapped her hands upon the wood of her dark throne. There really wasn’t anything left to give. The Anathema Heights were overpopulated and it seemed every single Perfected Fae had some distant relation or claim to a piece of land, even down to simple boulders. They had become a society of vainglory and wanton greed, yet there was nothing left to have and so violence was paramount. So much infighting and backstabbing. It was a miracle they were overpopulated at all, since so many were killed in petty squabbling.
She couldn’t really blame them. There was nothing to do. They were a conquering people with nothing to conquer. That damnable desert had made sure of it. Oh, they had tried numerous times to pass through it, especially in the early days after the war, but not even Nessa had returned from her expedition. That fool. And lovely Aina and ventured over the ocean, gone forevermore. Following either coast led to only further frustration, as if a joke they couldn’t perceive had been played on her entire race. But that wasn’t so hard to understand. Maeve had suspected a long time ago that they were simply being contained. The outside world was afraid of them, as they rightly should be. Yet, none but she could even remember what that outside world could even look like. What it truly felt to be amidst green grass and budding flowers. The laughs of her kin in the fertile spring. Her hand tightened into a ball, it was the only ounce of anger she had left to give.
And so her people rotted in stagnation. A fitting punishment for their sins and Maeve had grown powerless to stop it. Then again, she didn’t really care anymore. Everything was so dull. She had become queen of her people but the cost, well, she lived with it everyday. There had always been attempted coups, for none truly loved her, nor did she think the Perfected Fae could love at all but try they did to supplant her. They always failed. She was just too strong and far too stubborn.
She leaned back, slouching. It was an endless existence of perfect constant boredom.
“I hope you’re proud, O’maker mine.” She said under her breath.
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, of the one who had cursed them all, a feeling overcame her. One she had felt only briefly now in the span of her lifetime. The presence of the divine. She sat up, heart racing. Had she only imagined it? She searched and as she did, she rose, the presence so small and wispy. Like dust on the clung to the air in fine particulate. She grabbed her chest and through her presence at it and as she did she felt it, she felt the maker. The one who had doomed her, who had taken and twisted her very being. Who had promised the world in her own vision. It had all been lies! Terrible, terrible lies! She had just been a tool, a feckless worthless tool in the maker’s eyes! One who killed, who destroyed! She could feel him, she could…!
The presence blinked out of existence. Maeve froze.
The world was a gray fog when Ema startled awake with a bump. The Aelos was immediately aware that she was moving. And the night's journey resurfaced in her mind. She had walked with that elf man out of the city, led like some cattle. Many had gawked and stared but Ema only tried to focus on her own feet walking. One step at a time. The Lord Drakken, as she was told by him, was a man of thought and expectation. If she fell behind to the point the chain tightened between master and slave, he pulled at it with little fanfare and Ema hurried on.
When they had reached the camp he had spoken about her with glee and Ema had been put inside a wagon with an iron cage. His men stared at her and spoke of the night's events. Ema wasn't really paying attention until the cage opened and a man with similar features to the Lord, placed a small figure inside with her. So they were slavers it seemed. When only one of the men remained to act as a guard, did Ema look at who she shared a cell with. A young girl with dark hair and pale skin, fast asleep. She looked quite cold and a small fleeting thought came to Ema. She wished she had a blanket to give. Fleshlings being unable to regulate themselves… She sighed but could do nothing.
Morning light, with its bright uncaring demeanor, peaked over the hills, banishing the twilight of the world with bright colors. Orange was chiefest among them, tinged with reds and yellows. She could not remember the last time she had seen such a sunrise. Nor if she'd see anymore. They were heading on a long winding road, pulled by some sort of beast of burden through the green countryside as the birds sang to the dawn.
It was a caravan of sorts and the men were many, riding horses and talking to themselves. She could not see the Lord. Their driver looked back now and again, a youthful face. Too young, she thought. Soon it would be a fleeting image, replaced with one old and wrinkled, if he managed to survive for that long. She looked back at the sleeping girl, wondering how old she was and how she ended up at the hands of such people. How long would it be before her innocence was gone? If she had any, that was, catching herself. Far too often did she assume what she saw was truth before understanding not every face should be taken at a first value. A trick she learned from the smiths, who so often had to check for impurities in the metal they wrought.
Ema looked back to the land outside the bars. Tall grasses with grazing cattle passed them, guarded by men who gave them all stern looks as they gripped their saddles. But she focused on the flowers in bloom for a time. Wondering where they were even going. She hadn't a clue but the way the Lord had looked at her… She knew it wouldn't be good. But, as she curled into a ball, Ema knew dead things didn't care what happened to their corpses. No, they shouldn't care at all.
Waking was an agonizing act. Wherein being asleep was serene and blissful, being awake was such stress and brutality. An onslaught of sensations - overwhelming. Kyoko slowly stirred, shedding the soft shroud of sleep and acquiring the weight of the world with a sigh.
Her body ached; bones and muscles in mutiny against her before her belly began the assault. She spewed blood and bile from her mouth, sickened stomach releasing all the filthy fluids through her throat, and she choked, and she coughed, until the terrible urges concluded with weak utterances. Empty. Exhausted.
She shivered and silently cried, straining to smile too. She called upon any remnants of strength and attempted to seat herself, to try to take in her shifting surroundings, so different during the day. The sunlight seared her sight, and she closed her eyes as she called out to her companions:
“Rat? Steed? Where am I?”
There came the shifting of something heavy, like a weight being moved about before it settled. She was not alone but it wasn’t Rat or Steed. Leaning against the iron bars of the cage, for that was where she happened to be, was a strange thing. Cool blue eyes, glowing with awareness stared at her with an impassive face of feminine features. A metallic face, like a mask. It said nothing but just stared at her.
“Who are you?” Kyoko asked, squinting at the strange shape. Her voice was hoarse, and she swiftly began the futile act of cleaning herself, brushing her cheeks with stained sleeves. She remembered some of the scenes prior to sleep, and recalled the danger she sensed within Darwyn. She shook; seething, sorrowful, scared.
A voice broke forth, emanating from the figure, who not only wore a face of metal but somehow, some way, had a body of armor, woven into a lithe shape but nicked with time and wear. But the voice, it felt like a voice out of a different time, ringing with clarity and forlorn strength. “Are you dying?” She asked, (for it sounded like a woman) ignoring her own question.
“Am I dying…” Kyoko echoed, easing herself back against the iron bars that trapped her. The foul stench stuck to her. She was also aware of the presence of the Stigma that scarred her skin beneath the clothes she wore. Somehow, she could comprehend her sickness, the affliction that came upon sorcerers when they consumed aspects of the cosmos. The term cannibalism came to mind, but she banished the thought swiftly and smirked slightly afterwards.
“Maybe I’m a confused spirit.” She said, head swaying while she struggled to stay awake. Her companions were spirits, and through what little she was capable of recalling from her dream, so was her mother. Memories were a mystery to Kyoko. Knowledge too.
“Are you an Astalonian Prime?” She asked, studying the appearance of the one entrapped with her, accompanying her to wherever they were going. Her blurred vision became more clear, and she could see they were traveling with the soldiers from the night before.
"I am not familiar with that term." The figure said, leaning forward. Dexterous hands tapped upon her own leg with a dull, rhythmic sound. "Spirit or not, does your kind eject those contents without having some sort of sickness or damage on the inside? Poisoned, perhaps?" She kept saying, as if talking to herself.
“Hmm… What happens when you fill a cup already full?” Kyoko asked, and the mention of ailments called her attention to her arms. Her skin felt hot underneath the touch of her sleeves, and she swiftly pulled the silken material aside to see strange swirling symbols spreading across her flesh. A word written somewhere within her soul seemed to speak, and she said aloud without comprehension or connotation: “Gnosis.”
No meanings manifested in her mind, and she stared at the shifting patterns that seared her pale flesh, forming writing which was indecipherable. She recalled something the Rat of Remembrance had said; they must travel to a library where a reader awaited them. She turned her attention to the metallic figure again. “Where are we going? Do you know?”
"It overfills…?" Came the reply to her first question in the form of a question. The metallic woman then shook her head and seemed to look at the same patterns on her skin but made no comment on it. Instead she dragged her knees to her chest and turned away from Kyoko. "A slave does not ask for a destination. A slave only goes where the master goes." She said in a tired voice, at least she sounded tired. "Hide your skin." She added and then said no more.
“A slave?” Sleeves hid the shifting symbols once more as she inquired softly about the strange term she heard. A series of images and applications appeared in her mind, meanings without meanings, as she wondered where she was without receiving an answer that showed her the way to who she was.
“I’m Kyoko.” She simply said, introducing herself - however incapable of bowing properly because of her current position and pain. Her hunger had already returned despite how she retched earlier, and awareness of what would happen whenever she would eat again.
The metal woman's face snapped back to her. She studied Kyoko again. "A slave." She nodded, "One who serves another. It's forced bondage. No freedom of our own. A worker with no rights." She looked to the floor. "Ironheart." She said, "You may call me that, Kyoko."
“Who do we serve, Ironheart?” The question felt quite like a lost key to a quizzical door.
"The Lord Drakken, who purchased me from my old master yesterday." Ironheart responded, pulling herself tighter. "Now you serve as well, no doubt, and through force if need be. That is slavery, Kyoko." She sighed, "Though, you're young," she glanced at her, "You might be sold to someone else. Your type works better indoors. You don't look like one who has many skills. Moldable to one's needs." She looked away and seemed to shudder, if metal could shudder.
“Do you desire to be somewhere else?” Kyoko asked, another question that seemed a step closer to the metaphorical mysterious door.
Ironheart did not speak nor look at Kyoko for a time. "Dead things have no desires." She eventually said, the words hollow and full of misery.
Before Kyoko could say anything else, someone rode back to their wagon cage and slowed. It was Darwyn, smiling a toothy smile.
"Ahhh Kyoko, you're awake. Good, very good. I wasn't sure if the drug would work on someone so strange but rest assured, here we are." He said, leering at her. "To think it would have been so easy, I still can't believe it. Ah but where are my manners? How are you doing, miss spirit talker?" He laughed.
“Where are we going?” She asked, acerbic, an absence of humor in her heart. She found she did not enjoy the feeling of being within a cage while this man laughed. Her attention turned to Ironheart, and the thought of the two of them trapped here was hurting her head.
The metallic woman made no sign of even acknowledging Darwyn. She just looked at the floor with empty eyes.
Darwyn laughed again and then his smile became less until only a frown remained. “It seems you’ve grown a little, pity. I was hoping to get some more fun out of you yet but eh.” he shrugged. “We’ll have plenty of time.” he tossed a bit of bread at her that slid between the bars and landed in her vomit. He scoffed, “Try to keep that down, would you? Water will come later. Don’t make any racket, we hate unwanted attention.” His eyes glanced at Ironheart, “I can see why my brother wanted you. One of a kind.” With that he glanced at Kyoko again and sneered, then kicked his horse and he was away.
Her hands reached for the bread, regardless of the filth, and she stared at the food she held with whining hunger whispering in her eyes. “Why?” She lamented, before shoving the bread into her mouth and munching happily. Whatever hesitation had halted her before biting into the terrible-tasting bit of supposed sustenance was swiftly gone. Yet her hunger sought more, a meager portion not enough to satisfy her stomach.
“Hey! Bring me more!” She shouted, attempting to shake the cage as she held onto the bars with what little strength she had.
"Quiet!" The young man driving the wagon snapped, having turned with angry eyes to look at Kyoko. "It'll be both our backs if you don't shut it." He said in a heavy accent.
“Fetch me food then!” Kyoko retorted, turning her attention to the driver and angrily shifting closer. Weak with lingering sickness, she stumbled and swayed, but she refused to stay silent until she received more bread. “Give me something to eat… please.” She added, also attempting to be polite.
The young man, with bright blue eyes and sandy colored hair that swept past his eyes, looked at her in bewilderment. Then he shook his head. “I ain’t got nothing for you, go sit and be quiet. We don’t want them to come back here.” He hissed.
“You just have to go and find some. I will be seated and silent with something to eat. Otherwise I’ll shout.” She refused to surrender - resolve burning in her belly, demanding to be doused in drink and food.
The young man was about to say something else but he seemed to notice something she did not. Within seconds a hand covered Kyoko’s mouth and another wrapped around her waist. Hard and cold, an iron-like grip. Ironheart’s voice was but a whisper in her ear, “This side of you, bratty and full of greed, I don’t like it. Look at him. Does he look like he has food? That he could go and get you food?” She asked in a calm manner, as the young man turned back to the front. “He was skin and bones- a slave, just like us. You would bring both harm to yourself and him if you keep acting spoiled. You don’t want to be whipped, Kyoko. Trust me. Now be calm and patient. Nod if you understand.”
Her mouth moved before her mind could convey she understood, and after tasting metal upon her tongue as she tried to munch ahead, or specifically a hand, she simply shuddered. Eating Ironheart would not be an option either. She swiftly regained command of herself and nodded angrily.
Ironheart let go fully of Kyoko and backed up from her. “I know you by name only, Kyoko. But what I can tell is that this is a new experience for you. An unknown. So here’s a lesson, don’t doom others through your own foolish actions.” The metallic lady went back to her side of the cage and sat down, dragging her knees close and then bending her head in between them.
“Should I starve then? I’m so hungry!” She complained, seating herself as well. Stillness could not come, and she continually shuffled herself while whispering sardonic comments.
“Keep the bread down. Then you may complain.” Ironheart chimed back.
“You’re a malicious machine; mocking my suffering.” Kyoko moaned, tossing and turning herself away from Ironheart. She closed her eyes, and sought to see what was happening to the bread within her stomach. Shadows shrouded her sight, clinging to what she consumed as though her body rebelled against her attempt at recalling the relief of filling herself.
The machine didn't speak, nor show any sign of acknowledging her suffering. The only other sound at all was the slow steady beat of the wagon being pulled and hoofbeats. Carrying them to someplace neither knew.
Kyoko and Ema awake in a cage, on their way to somewhere likely terrible.
What was it like to be alive? She knew she hadn't really ever lived, thus, she was just a dead thing that walked. That went through the motions everyday. Light the forge. Work the metal. Hammer. Hammer. Hammer. Hammer. On and on until the coals died and she was let alone to her nightmares. Day after day. Year after year. On and on forevermore. Still the question haunted her.
The young grew old before her eyes. They could never last like she. Could not endure the test of time. Yet they were always replaced. Something she could not do. The cyclical nature of such life was never lost on her. She knew it only stuck out because there was little else to notice. She had been sold so long ago into bondage that she could only keep track of time through faces. Master after master used her for what they saw fit. Maid. Tailor. Farmhand. Scarecrow. Laborer. Puppet. Monster. Smith. Some masters had been kind, whilst many others had not. They were of humanity, of elvish, of centaur descent and a few others. It didn't matter what they were, they were all alike.
Despite any uncanny characteristics. Despite the lack of legs or multiple. Horns and fur and teeth and claws. All had flesh in some form and blood that kept their hearts beating. They were greedy and cruel and took and took and took. She was only a tool to them. A dead tool, yet still useful.
And she hated them.
It had been an emotion she came to know most. A companion that kept her husk working. She had been afraid to use it at first, in fact fear and confusion had been her only friends until it grew inside of her like a roaring inferno. No longer able to be contained.
So she had used it. To run away but always to fail. To revolt with the ones she hated less but always to be crushed in the end. Ingenuity was a common trait among those of flesh. She should have been killed for all her transgressions, if it wasn't for one simple fact- She was unique enough to keep working. The punishments still came though and her last failed attempt, so close it had been, had gotten her locked away in a dark windowless pit for what felt like an age. She didn't even want to think about it and so when she was at last let out, the fire had subsided. The hate burned only as coals. She was beaten. And now, chained and collared, stripped of any dignity and pride, Ema labored ever on.
She had been taught the basics of smithing but she was never allowed to work on anything. She was simply a hammer to stretch the metal, bend and shape it. It was a pitiful sight. She had at one point in time been meant for more. To bring life to her people but now the thought ached inside. She could not ever do so, for they would use her children as slaves forever and all would be lost. She would take such secrets to the grave, if she had been strong enough to kill herself. But in the end, Ema knew she was incapable of doing that.
She was a dead thing but even dead things could cling to life.
We learn what's become of Ema, our lone Aelos. Turns our she's been a slave for an indeterminate amount of time. She laments and has accepted her fate but a small part of her still hopes for something more. Will it ever happen?
How long had it been since the blaze left her? A day? A winter? Millennia? Eons? She did not know, nor did she truly care. Time was always fickle for the divine. At least, Wyn thought as much as she awoke, dreamlike, under warm satin. The silky softness of the fabric tickled her skin and the warmth was comforting but it was not like it had been when her bed had been shared. Whimsically she spread her arms out but found no one, as she expected. Still, it left her with a frown and it only proved to be a reminder of what had once been. As ever a fleeting moment could be, it had been a comfort. The Goddess clutched her chest, curling into a ball. The blaze now smoldered beneath her bosom. Like embers turning to ash. Almost gone, but stubbornly holding on. The only thing she could do was let it linger in memoriam.
She sighed and sat up, pulling her knees close to her chest now. Wyn rested her head upon her knees and listened. A heavy breath lay over her castle, as if it had been waiting for her to awake. Now that she had, the quiet stagnation was giving way to a calm breeze carrying the scent of roses in bloom. A drip of water somewhere far off caught her ears but it was nothing serious. All was calm within her realm.
But what of herself?
The humiliation of Ivory by the Abyssal Goddess had kept her brooding and when that brooding gave way to anger so malignant and cruel that Ebony ushered forth, all had seemed lost for a time. But the little flaming goddess broke the beast with compassion, and now it slept with hurt pride. She was who she ought to be, A Crimson Wyn, for the time being. She hoped it would last for just a while. Just so she could keep that request of her true. And there was no point in waiting, the time to usher forth was now.
So the goddess crept from her chambers, donning upon herself something tight fitting and colored a deep red to contrast her skin and hair. Her mind had bent to make it appear upon her, such was her will to at least be clothed in an inkling of finery, if it could be helped. More pressing of a concern was where she had left her ribbon. She had not been wearing it when she awoke, nor did she sense it in her chambers. Had it been lost in her fight? Had Desire taken it as a token of Wyn’s own affection? It was possible but very doubtful all the same. She crossed her arms and caressed her chin in thought as she strode into the throne room. Her vision allowed her to see that much had not been changed in her absence. Dried blood now coated everything in shades of red and deep black.
With a flick of her hand the room changed, cleansing itself of any impurities and absorbing the blood into the depths. Once things were cleaned and she could still not find her ribbon, Wyn let out an exasperated sigh and sat down to lament its loss. She had grown fond of that ribbon. It brought her a small amount of comfort, not to mention it hid her presence from unwanting eyes. Without it, what would she do? She leaned back in her throne, stretching an arm over her eyes. “Woe to me.” She murmured. “I could just make another one. It would not be hard but what would be the point?” She asked herself aloud. “Should I keep hiding? To lament the loss of myself? To wallow in self pity?” She clutched her fist and leaned forward. “No. No more hiding. For better or for worse.” She sprang forth at once and her feet carried her to the steps before the throne. Wyn, with a fiery determination spreading across her face, knew in her heart what she had to do.
With a single clap of her hands, her realm began to shake.
“Spring has come.”
The bloodmire had been itself unchanged for far too long. In and of itself, it was an unforgiving hellscape. The Mireborn within, those once-elves, had severed their mortal coils to the lands of their ancestors, choosing instead to fight for what little of elfkind they could find and was foolish enough to journey within. Such was their war, bloody beyond belief in that crimson squalor.
None had ever been truly victorious. Try and try as they did to snuff out one another entirely, resilience was a trait unique to them all. Yet the great dying of their kind was a slow insidious thing. They had numbered so few in the beginning and such numbers had never grown above several scores. Plagued with infighting and the curse of the beast, within but a fraction of time for the divine, there would be no more. Gone from the earth, never again to walk the lands. Yet, even they could be saved from certain doom. All it took was a change. A push.
And that push came as the Bloodmire heaved and shook with such terrible force, it was as if the world itself was breaking. Multitudes of Ivory mosquitos took flight, turning the sky to a strange white haze. Wyntrees in their sacred groves groaned and creaked. All manner of beast alighted in terror amidst the chaos.
From the sinkpool where the mire flowed into the earth there came a great mountain with a palace of marble etched into it like a miniscule painting. The mire around it was pushed outwards. Land and blood alike flattened anything in its path but before this violence could break upon the land and destroy everything, even as the mountain became a pinnacle of height within that land, the mire began to order itself.
The blood rearranged itself, forming a lake around the mountain. The discarded land began to reform and rearrange itself. Instead of a bog like structure, with numerous islands of peat and rock, a long straight road formed starting from the base of the mountain, going north to south, to connect with the rest of the Bloodmire. A central highway that didn’t just stop at the Bloodmire, but ran, forming as it went, until it reached the great grassland outside its borders.
When this was at last completed and the land calmed, did the creatures take comfort and return. Several changes coursed through many. All of which the Blood Goddess had sought to enact. Chief among these changes had been to the Mireborn. No longer did they have to live within fresh blood, no longer could they no take shape, no longer were they to die out. Thus the call blew upon the breeze to them, ‘Come to the wellspring, come and see, come and be with me.’
So began the long walk towards the Mountain.
For once Wyn was satisfied with her work. She wondered whether or not any of it would stick but she shook her head and buried the doubt within. Right now she was content with herself. She took a deep breath of the air and looked up into the blackness of her vision. Another sacrifice was made, for the view would be lost upon her. The true vista. Except, something did come to her upon the salty breeze. It was enough to give her pause.
The world had changed in her absence. It was subtle, yet growing in evidence. She felt a fire somewhere out there, growing larger. The currents of the unseen were lesser, divinity corked and chained by some unseen hand. Was anyone left? Had it all been some dream? Celestine, Ashevelen, Oa, Desire… What of the mortals? She could hardly feel a thing, even at the top of the world. A strange thought fluttered into her mind.
This is what you had wanted, isn’t it?
“Yes…” She murmured. “But perhaps… Some still exist?”
She spun around and from where she stood and called forth her Basin of Want. It flew towards her on some invisible string and came to a stop before her. She was about to cut herself to see what she desired but stopped. It was too small. Too fragile and she sought too much. Thus the Goddess struck her hands forward, gripping either side of the basin and then she pulled. At first there came a sound like the shattering of glass, followed by a great pouring of water. Next she felt the basin slip away and form into something new. Tall it was, shimmering as it came to be. Wyn could not see it take shape, could not see the great glassway that stared back at her in infinite serenity. She was blinded to its majesty but how could the world ignore it? It shone like a beacon for the briefest of moments, before it cooled and caught the light of the sun, illuminating the Goddess of Blood, Beauty and Beasts like never before.
If she could have seen it as she had been, Wyn would never have looked away. Such was its power upon the vain. But she was not that Wyn, she was new and changed and she hoped it would work.
“Come to me…” She whispered.
Wyn awakes from a deep slumber, reflects on her meeting with Desire and changes her world. A mountain with her palace now sits in the heart of the Bloodmire and she then creates a mirror. Whereupon its creation it illuminates the world, calling any to come that still exist.
Dark clouds hung low in the sky, moving like a vast angry ocean of dark. The very air was still, like a stifling blanket that absorbed all. The wind had fled long ago, unable to depart without leaving even a breeze. Thus it was always quiet across that bleak landscape where nothing grew and nothing dwelt. They had made sure of that, in the end. Now none of them could recall the taste of the sun, the pitter patter of rain, a running brook, the taste of dew, not even the snow. It was all gone, not that any that remained cared. For such hearts only blackened could endure now in the Anathema Heights.
There was however, a lonely spot where one could glimpse the old and be powerless to change it. Oh, they had tried, even she, but all failed and it had grown upon her heart like a thorn. She journeyed there away from the lifeless land to see what once had been, time and time again. Day after day, like a call she had no choice but to answer. There upon the battlefield of old it haunted her- Last monument of what had been. Protected by an invisible shield, staving off the corruption. The battle once won, never ending.
The grass was green before her in that small clearing. Not a dry green tinged with yellow but deep and rich, as if after a good rain. The earth was still brown and black, not the cracked gray and lifeless dust etched all around it. Even the light within was radiant, colorful, filtered of the choking air that surrounded. There also lay flowers within, of ivory petals held high by sturdy stocks. Now and again she felt as if she could smell them, a sweet scent of growth but no others were able. And in the center of it all was the one who’s body had never decayed since the day she had first fallen there. For it was not just a monument but also a tomb.
The demon with her pale skin and her cracked carapace, arms at her sides where they had fallen, whilst her legs were covered in a blanket of flowers. A mane of thick white hair sprawled out from her head and mingled with the grass. Such hair had once been flaming red, now no longer. Her features were so that it looked as if she was merely sleeping and at any moment she might wake up and do battle once more, with the mighty sword sheathed within the earth beside her.
That sword… The very reason she was left undisturbed. Purity was its name, wielded only by her and one other. The blade shined silver in the light, waiting for someone to come along and pick it up. She had long known, no one ever would. Yet Purity still stood, proud and untouched, just like everything within. The sword that had almost struck her down.
Long had she wished it had.
Maeve sighed where she knelt. Coming to that place only made the memories more vivid but long had she known how much she needed it. A sickness never healed, only worsening as time passed.
Her shaky voice at last burst forth, for rare was it she spoke at all there, “Not a day passes I do not wish I had died upon the field of battle. Struck down by your hand. Not cheated by what had happened well out of our control. You would have won, I wish you had won. It would have been better that way. My Tingalina…” Speaking her name aloud made the Fae shudder with great longing. “She would never have taken up the sword against me. She would not have died that day with you. But you just… The will was gone, blown away like your mother.” She had learned the truth of that day only by chance and it was really only a hunch. It had been enough to placate her thoughts. Such a warrior the demon had been, she should not have fallen like that without outside cause.
Her thoughts, never far from it, focused on her love, “Tingalina… Would have hurt a long while if I had died. But you would have helped ease my passing, wouldn’t you? For we call you demon but even I know an angel when I look upon one. Even fallen as you are now. Such is war and its cruelty.”
Maeve stood, thoughts turning back to her own demise. “If only it had been so.” Her emotions ran thick in the air. “But I slew her. I struck down my love and for what? I have no one at my side and there hasn’t been a day I go without thinking of her smile… Her touch… Her laugh!” She cried, slamming her fist into the invisible wall. “Our gods abandoned us! We are alone in a wasteland of our making! And you angel, dearest Newygnog, you get to rest forevermore! No one now lives to remember you save me and even then I never knew you. Not really and I cannot die to deliver you this final death. The death of memory. Try as I have, this is my curse. A punishment for my sins.” Her voice fell silent. She looked down at her hands and began to weep.
Maeve’s thoughts turned to the question that had long since haunted her. She knew in her black heart, only the dead found lasting peace when Fae turned against Fae. When their dust settled and their screams heard no more. Even after crushing defeats and the great victorious battle. Those who remained as living memory of the war were now forced to watch the world change without them, on either side. Forever tarnished, few as they were. Now unable or unwilling to move on, they suffered. She suffered.
That was the price of victory.
Long after the great Fae war ended, Maeve laments in the broken and corrupted land she now rules, beside the tomb of Newygnog, last bastion of Purity.
A warm breeze, gentle on her skin, blew across the land and through her hair. It carried the scent of dew after morning rain. Delightful, as it was refreshing, to her senses. From her vantage point on the balcony she could see the sun cresting over distant green hills, breaking apart the clouds to bathe the land in an explosion of purples, oranges and yellows. A colorful sunrise heralding their newest dawn. It was still as beautiful as the first day she saw it and Arya could not help but smirk at such memories. She ran a finger through her hair, twirling it about as she looked on.
Below her, across the trees and sunkissed streams, the city districts of Valmara were beginning to wake. The first of the baker's chimney's wafted with smoke and Arya wondered what kind of breads and pastries would be sold today over in the Grass District? Bells rang out at the growing shipyards of the Ocean District. More and more boats were being built as trade expanded but all could only mimic the great boats of her past. Soon the Temple of Ashalla would begin their morning prayer, for such a city was of her patronage and all benefited from keeping her content. Soon the sunlight hit the tops of the trees, turning them golden as light crept higher, illuminating the world.
Gardeners, with their dazzling eyes, flew past her in great flocks. They found a home in Kalgrun, after being lost for so long and were welcomed by many. In the stables, hidden beneath the forest below, Penelope's descendants would be hopping at the chance to stretch their legs. Luciya and Ellena would be on their way for lessons and the rest were safe with Karamir. She smiled as she clutched the small bell around her neck, it was going to be a beautiful day. But before it came into fruition, she had one other task to handle.
She twirled about her balcony and went back inside to her desk. It was not far from the vista of Kalgrun, she preferred a view, after all. The royal chambers otherwise were simple but comforting. Nothing like the lavish sort that Lord's and Lady's craved. Spacious and homey, as all rooms should be. Arya sat down, folding her sun dress so she didn't wrinkle it when she sat. Before her, scrawled out many pages, jumbled with thoughts. Some were discarded and others were torn across their silver inlays. Of dancing jackalopes and their knights. Two, almost blank, cream colored pages stared back up at her amidst the chaos of her desk.
She let out a little sigh, not because the lighting wasn't ideal (that didn't really matter to her), but rather because writing was difficult. It was no fantastical fable or poem she struggled with but the account of her life. She had stopped at a point of consternation the day before but she had to push through now. Not for herself but for the future. So Arya picked up her black quill with a little purse of her lips and put the tip to paper. There was no need for ink, it was only thought that stopped her from starting outright. Then, after careful consideration, she got to work.
...I was not sad when my sister died. Much to my shame, I felt only relief. I wanted to help her for so many years despite all she had done. Looking back at our time on Tendlepog, I was so oblivious to the deeper issues on hand. I was just happy and in that happiness, I was blind. How could I not have seen the poison seeping into her soul? Was it always there or did her love for Silver truly break her heart when she passed? As I write this, I often imagine myself in her place. Created to find another, with little agency of her own. Of course she would latch herself to the one good thing she found but, it became her identity and drove her down a path of madness in the end.
We found her black book, the Nalblakka, and we hid it in a place no mortal will ever tread. Her followers were imprisoned or destroyed and of those imprisoned, we are making little progress in returning themselves to who they once were. Most would rather die a devil, then live as anything else. If there are any other cult members left, they will fall to ruin and her influence on this world will at last fade. Like her body, there is no sign of Aaldir or her crown. Now lost in the Hollow forever.
I can not say that all she left behind was so bad. Her first born, Andromeda, now lives here with me and our family. Phoset, her only son, now flies the world with my brother Doron. Last I heard, they were headed back to the north to visit the Jotnar. Egwyn and Engil, their wives, have also accompanied them. Laurien’s other daughters, Aella and Arwen, now live down on the coast and frequently make trips back to their home of Be’r-Jaz. Ashalla’s claim to the throne did not seem to bother them, in fact, I think they were happy enough to just be left to their own devices. I make it a point to visit her children frequently and over the years, they opened up about their trauma’s. I learned from my mistake with Song and the Dreamers. It takes time to heal and I was there for them when I couldn't be there for her.
Laurien’s story is a tale of caution. Of madness and lust. It cannot be forgotten only to be repeated years to come. I think I will write another book detailing her life but for now, these pages will belong to me and my story.
Now, after Laurien died I found Arwen and Aella and brought them home. It wasn't long after that we had our first born, K-
A soft cry broke Arya's attention.
She put down her quill and stood. She had made good progress but the time for writing was over for now. With a large smile she walked over to the crib that sat along her side of the bed. Made of dark wood and white cloth draped with silver and golden threads, cushioned by the downe fur of jackalopes, there lay a very delicate creature.
A baby of not yet one winter. She closely resembled her father, even now. But Vallalites, the mixing of mir and nebulite blood, were special. She picked up the small girl who fussed and cried. As soon as she was in her hands however, swaddled in warmth, the baby smiled.
"Oh Mei," her mother breathed, "Did you want to be held?" she smiled and her daughter began to coo, as baby's do.
She clutched the infant close to her chest and twirled a finger in her brown hair as Mei clutched the strap of her dress. Even now her hair was growing long and lustrous, with the faintest glow of divinity. She had a white streak of hair forming over her right eye, coupled with dazzling white freckles across her tan cheeks and a nose that reminded her much of her own. She still resembled her father but there were hints of her mother too. Her child's most striking feature was her eyes, black irises sat within a sea of milky white. Many had taken alarm at this, saying she was deformed or would have bad temperament but Arya scoffed. Mei was a very happy baby. Beautiful she would be, in her own right. The youngest of their house and perhaps the last for a time. The opinions of others gave her no concern.
She patted Mei to sleep, humming a lullaby and as much as her baby struggled to keep awake, she was powerless against the comfort Arya exuded. She was about to set her back into her crib when the flap of wings brought her attention to the balcony.
There sat a bird she had known her entire life, a noble and majestic creature with intelligent eyes that saw many things others could not.
She smiled, "Arryn." she gushed quietly and floated over to where he perched. She held out an arm and the hawk jumped to her. He looked at the sleeping baby and then to Arya. He could no longer speak as he once did, but communication came with the sharing of their thoughts.
He told her of his morning, of how his nest was warm and his mate was hungry. So he strove to hunt and as he did he came across the jackalope stables, where small game was aplenty. He came close to snatching up a rodent but stopped when he heard a familiar cry. He flew up and saw, across the riding yard, Arya's daughters with Ellowyn, instructors and guards. The girls cried around a fallen jackalope and so he flew here to tell her.
Arya's smile faltered and the only thing on her mind became them and their comfort. "Thank you, Arryn. Let us depart at once." The hawk flew off her arm and out into the open sky. With her free wrist she motioned for a white blanket and it flew towards her, suspended in the air. Quickly, but ever so gently, did she place Mei within and wrap it around the baby before tying it to her chest. Mei rested her face just over Arya's heart and then they were off. Flying came as naturally to her as breathing once had.
Their destination was not far but even so, the journey was a good one despite what awaited her. The jackalope stables sat in between the city proper and the divine palace, with much room for their furry friends to stretch their legs. It was what she insisted, as no one should be denied access to such beautiful companions. She hoped Penelope and Split would be proud.
Arya began to descend where the trees gave way to the stable grounds. A large building of chestnut and oak, roofed with all the care in the world, sat at the forefront of three large clearings. She could easily spot the large crowd gathered in one of those fields, the northernmost, as other jackalopes frolicked about. She continued on, passing a hovering guard. A sentinel of the royal protection, donned in the alabaster armor of her house, modeled after the armor Wraenon shielded his wielder in. A long cloak of pure white flowed freely in the breeze, hands ever on spears of liquid gold. Impassive and impartial, the protectors of her children came in three today. Each facing outward, ever searching for threats. She passed by with a little nod and soon came to a stop, feet touching the luscious grass. The Jackalope trainers bowed before her, each with sad expressions upon their thin faces. Such were the Mir and their kind.
Ellowyn, her niece, rushed over and produced a quick curtsy. She wore working gear today, the attire of jackalope riders. Leather tunic, with black pantaloons, embellished with royal flair in her own attire. She was a nebulite at the moment, her amber nebula of hair tied up in a long ponytail. Cool blue skin dazzled with twinkling stars but her eyes were the same as all the others- heavy with grief.
“Queen Arya, no one really knew. W-Well we knew Jasseby was old but no one expected…” She glanced over to the large jackalope, silver streaked, laying motionless in the grass. Luciya and Ellena’s sobs were soft but panged her heart. Arya put a reassuring touch upon Ellowyn’s shoulder as she unclasped Mei and floated her towards the nebulite woman. ”No one can predict what might happen on any given day. Take the others and wait for us at the stables please.” Ellowyn nodded and gently held the sleeping Mei. She tilted her head down and began to walk off but Arya grabbed her wrist. She looked up at her and Arya smiled with warmth. ”Do not blame yourself or any others. It was his time to go.” Ellowyn nodded slowly and stood a little straighter before she gestured to all the others to follow.
Arya then walked over to her daughters. Her twins of ten winters were identical with features most resembling herself. White hair that shined with brilliance, small and petite faces with the palest of skin. Pointy ears were their Vallalite birthright. They turned to her as she approached, large and light pink eyes brimmed with fresh tears. Luciya came to her first, wearing her riding outfit. A short blue dress with white pants and black shoes. Her hair was long and left down.
“Oh momma!” She cried out, gripping onto her for dear life. Arya returned her embrace, holding her daughter and stroking the top of her head. Luciya was the more emotional of the two and, as she thought, Ellena began to rub her eyes, face growing fierce. As if she was annoyed at herself for crying. She wore the complete opposite of her twin, a dark coat over an unbuttoned shirt with black trousers and, of course, no shoes. Her hair was curled and she crossed her arms at the sight of Luciya receiving a hug. Arya did not speak but simply outstretched an arm to her. Ellena looked at it, lips quivering as her eyes began to water. It did not take long for her to cave and she was likewise, gripping onto her mother and sobbing.
Arya cooed, gently rocking back and forth while rubbing their backs. They were like that for a very long time, until they quieted their sobs and relaxed their breathing. With a shaky voice, Luciya spoke, peeling herself away from her mother’s chest to look up at her. “W-Why mom? I-I-I tried to h-heal him.” Her voice broke, followed by a mournful sigh, “B-But it d-didn’t work.”
Ellena remained silent but gripped tighter to Arya's dress and did not look up. She thought about what she should say. This was the first time they had dealt with the death of a loved companion. She often found that it hurt so much worse when it was an animal. She vividly remembered how crushed Arwen and Aella were when Tashal passed. How it broke little Aella's heart. She knew such pain when Penelope finally moved on. Their pets were no different than family and had to be treated as such, to an extent. What her own girls needed right now, was assurance and love.
She smiled softly at Luci and said, "Sometimes there is no reason why loved ones pass but most often it's just their time. Jasseby was an old jackalope and he lived such a good life, cared for by his two best girls. He was so loved and he knew it. He passed on, knowing his friends were beside him, caring for him even then." she hugged them tighter and placed kisses on their foreheads. Luci seemed to relax, face full of thought but it was Ellena, in a quiet muffled voice who spoke next.
"What if you died, mother?" Elle looked up at her with dread on that small face. It broke Arya's heart. Before she could respond, Ellena continued. "What if father died? What if Kassandra?" Her voice became louder and Luci clung back to Arya, burying her face away from her twin. "What if Zalphar and Devdan? Baby Mei?" She practically shouted, angry tears forming in her eyes. "What would we do without you? What would we do?" She burst out into harrowing sobs, balling her fists tight. "What if we're not strong enough to save you! To save anyone!"
"Oh Elle, shh shh." Arya cooed, pulling her in tighter and for once, the girl didn't resist. Ellena was a rebel by nature, always going against what was deemed by others to be normal. She had an identical twin but they certainly did not have identical personalities. Beneath all her bravado and pretend indifference, she still had the same heart of her sister. Kind and sweet, hidden by her small smirks and glares.
"There are no easy answers to such questions." she began, leaning her cheek on top of her small head. Sobs both wracked the girls again but they were listening. "Death is a natural part of life, even to a God or Goddess. As powerful as we are.” Arya shut her eyes, a few of her own tears running down her cheeks. ”One day, I will die and so will your father. You will be older than… More intune with yourselves and far stronger than you already are. You will have your own sons and daughters and they will have their own children and you will look upon them with so much pride, the same that I feel for you right now.” She smiled. ”If that's what you wish for, of course. But the point is, Ellena… Luciya, do not worry about that day, for it is a far off one and you still have much to learn. I am not going anywhere. Nor is your father, or your siblings. Not now, not tomorrow but one day so far off, you’ll think back on this day and you will understand that death is not always tragedy.”
She leaned back and set them both to look at her, with an arm on each shoulder. Luciya grabbed Ellena’s hand with her own, intertwining her fingers with her twin. Elle glanced at her but made no move against it. Arya then moved the loose hairs away from their faces as she continued. ”It is okay to feel so sad, like there may never be another happy day again but you must remember this; Jasseby was happiest when you two were smiling and playing with him. He would not want you to be so sad forever. He would want you to continue smiling and playing with the others he left behind. Small jackalopes need as much care as any others and his own children need much the same. Cherish such memories girls, relive them, for that is how those passed on, endure. Within us. It's our duty to remember.” Arya leaned in to hug them.
While they had been sharing their moment, the other Jackalopes in the field had meandered over to where Jasseby lay. All shapes and sizes, furs and shades, looked upon their friend and father. In that silence, they mourned. Arya could hear their minds but she did not have the heart to tell of what they said when she rose to look upon the sight. Elle and Luci turned to follow their mother’s gaze and all shared in the moment of bittersweet grief. Eventually each jackalope sniffed the body and rubbed Jasseby's fur with their noses, before hopping away.
A tiny silverbell jackalope, about the size of a large pot, hopped over to the girls and nuzzled Elle for attention. That seemed to reassure them, for she and her sister returned that need for attention with scratches and pats. Arya watched in silence before Luci turned to her and asked, “Mother? Where does he go? Can he not return?”
Arya smiled at her daughter. “Sometimes things do return to us in one shape or another but know that Jasseby has gone to a place where he can frolic in meadows forevermore. His soul will live on, free.” Arya tilted her head up, looking towards the sky, where the moon of Veradax sat still visible before the sun shooed it away until the dark returned. It was a pale white orb, as whole as it had once meant to be.
Arya next stood and walked past them, over to Jasseby. As Luci and Elle watched, she ran her hand along his silken fur, before arriving at his head. There she bent down and kissed his forehead. Then she beckoned her daughters to her side and they came not a moment later. ”Place your hands upon him.” She whispered. Ellena placed her small hand next to Arya’s, then Luciya followed, on the opposite side. Next, Arya shut her eyes and said, ”Go now. In peace.” A wave of warmth washed over the area, panicking her twins who gasped in surprise but they did not let go. Jasseby’s body slowly turned into white petals, which then blew all around them and in their hair, before scattering in the wind like a gentle lullaby.
When that was done, Arya took her daughter’s hands, who despite being sad, were feeling better. How she knew was just one of the perks of being divine. In a singsong voice she said, ”Now come, let us return to the others. Your father returns today and we must prepare!”
The girls gasped, looking at one another, both saying at the same time, "Kassandra!"
And so they went, with a little hop in their step despite the grief, despite the pain. Everything would be alright, in time. The past would live on in them, despite it all, the good and the bad. Arya could not help but smile wide at the pure notes of her twins giggling as the silverbell jackalope hopped around them, seeking more pats.
Writer’s Note - It always occurred to me, over the years, that I never really wrote an ending for the one character who arguably needed one the most. At least in my eyes. It took close to a year and a Part 2 might come yet, but here you go. A small look into what I imagine Arya’s life was like, with some hints of what she’s done, after it all. Many references abound, do enjoy, if you read it. <3
A short glimpse into Arya’s life in Valmara, the city that Karamir and Ashalla built many moons ago. Family orientated, going over grief and death with bittersweet endings.
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