Forever DM for my dnd parties and part time social worker who’s trying to believe in people again. This is my shredder of all things I like. If you’re here I like you too!
Dm Note: Yea, I did it again. This time with another player's family background. To my Tyranny players, I love ya to the Astral Sea and back.
Summary: Dima and Desmond have a wedding but not before exchanging a few words.
__
Arrangement
The Rajeem estate overlooked the Shining Sea like something ancient enough to outlive empires. White marble terraces spilled down the cliffs in elegant layers wrapped in flowering vines and silk prayer ribbons. Hundreds of lanterns swayed overhead, their warm light reflecting against pools carved directly into the stone. Musicians filled the lower courtyards with the pulse of hand drums and sitars while incense smoke curled lazily through the evening air in pale ribbons scented with saffron, jasmine, and myrrh. All paid by a very advantageous groom to be.
The house was alive.
Servants hurried between halls carrying trays of sweets and ceremonial oils. Cousins darted through corridors chasing one another until elderly aunties barked at them to stop wrinkling formal clothes. Somewhere deeper in the estate, two uncles were already loudly debating trade tariffs with the Mahons before the wedding had even begun.
And at the center of the storm sat Dima Rajeem, trying very hard not to cry over her own jewelry.
“You are doing it again,” one aunt said knowingly.
“I am not.”
“You have tears in your eyes.”
“The necklace is heavy.”
Another aunt sighed dramatically while adjusting the chains draped between Dima’s horns. “If she starts crying now, imagine the ceremony.”
“I will not cry at the ceremony,” Dima muttered. Three women laughed immediately.
Dima glared at them through the bronze mirror while gold bangles were slid carefully over her wrists. Her wedding silks pooled around her like poured wine, embroidered with infernal blessings so old only temple scholars could fully translate them now. She was a lovely bride, the youngest in the family, the most temperate down to the muted red of her skin. Dima was never flashy; she was a wallflower. She enjoyed her embroidery and long walks in silence…
The weight of her arranged marriage settled across her shoulders warmly like being wrapped in generations. She could feel the swell of pride as her aunties and cousins watched her. Their wallflower Dima, quiet temple girl, chosen by the elders to marry. The honor made Dima’s stomach churn.
“She is nervous,” her cousin announced.
“I am not nervous.” She stuck her chin higher.
“Yesterday, during rehearsal, you apologized to a chair because you bumped into it.”
“I thought someone heard me!” She flushed under her muted red skin. Her gold eyes were already looking glossy as the room dissolved into delighted laughter.
Unfortunately, it was true. Dima had always been emotional in ways that embarrassed her when she was younger. She cried during temple hymns. During arguments. During particularly beautiful stories. Once at thirteen, she cried because an elderly fruit vendor gave her an extra orange “for her studies.” Her mother still teased her for it.
And tonight, oh, it was no different. Tonight her feelings sat so high in her chest she feared one sincere compliment might kill her instantly.
“The Mahons have arrived!” someone shouted from the hallway.
“You mean to call them the _McClains_,” one of the uncles sneered, before spitting on the ground. He quickly bowed his head as he met the mother of the bride’s eye. Like a spell ready to be cast from her disapproval of his disrespect. Once he left, the hens erupted into chaos.
“Oh, gods.” One aunt began to pray.
Dima panicked as she fanned herself. “Already?”
“I heard they brought gifts from Waterdeep.”
“I heard his brother insulted a Baldurian duke at dinner.”
“I heard _they_ invented a firearm that exploded through a stable wall.”
“That was allegedly.” She responded, trying to catch up with the chatter. Dima stared quietly at her reflection while excitement swelled around her.
Desmond McClain. Dehmir Mahon. The man she was supposed to marry.
A progressive heir from a rising family of infernal industrialists. Inventors. Merchants. Engineers were forging infernal metals into machines the world had never seen before. New money wrapped in old ambition. She knew stories about him. The rumors of low-born boys rising to power after using devil machinery to bring great advancements. The opinions of their Northern greed threaten the sacred cultures of the Isles, even forgoing their natural-born names for common ones.
And the Arguments. Some admired the changes the men were making, and others called their bluff. Many claimed their riches would be short-lived as they were men trying to be gods.
And somehow that uncertainty frightened her more than the marriage and rumors themselves.
Before anyone noticed, Dima slipped quietly from the bridal chambers and disappeared into the rear gardens. The noise of the estate faded behind her. Here, the cliffs breathed softer sounds; the crash of distant waves below, waterfalls spilling through carved stone channels, the whisper of wind through banyan branches tied with prayer ribbons from brides long dead. Lanternlight painted gold across the pathways.
Dima settled beside the shrine overlooking the sea and exhaled slowly.
“Lady Firehair,” she murmured softly to Sune, pressing her hands together, “if love is sacred, I would appreciate it if the sacredness could feel slightly less terrifying.”
A pause. She opened one eye, waiting for a sign, then sighed when nothing happened.
“And if he is unbearable, all I ask you is to have him trip down the aisle.”
The sea crashed below.
As did a loud thud.
Dima blinked upward. Another crash followed immediately after. Startled, she stood from her kneeling prayer position and looked at the garden wall.
“…Ow.” The distinct sound of expensive fabric catching on stone.
Another thump. Then a curse in Infernal spoken with the exhausted dignity of a man losing a battle against architecture.
Dima pressed her lips together. “You are very loud for someone attempting secrecy,” she called.
Everything went still.“…You can hear me?”
“No,” Dima replied dryly. “The wall speaks Common now.”
A startled laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “Forgive me, bride,” Desmond spoke in infernal now, bringing a warmth to Dima’s face. Her arranged husband!? Her before their wedding? She prayed that no one caught sight of him, and she quickly turned to make sure she didn’t catch sight of him either.
Luckily, Desmond did not make it over the wall, nor did he attempt more tries. Perhaps because he remembered the tradition forbidding the bride and groom from seeing one another before the ceremony. Perhaps because the wall had already won.
Instead, he remained hidden on the opposite side beneath hanging moonflowers while the waterfall between them blurred his silhouette into shifting shadow. Dima found she preferred it that way. Not seeing him made honesty easier somehow.
“I should begin by saying this was a terrible plan,” he admitted.
“And yet you committed to it fully.”
“I was optimistic for at least the first thirty seconds.”
She smiled despite herself.
Then his tone shifted slightly.“I wanted to speak to you before the ceremony.” He spoke carefully.
“All right.”
“I dislike arrangements like this.” Dima leaned back against the marble bench, listening quietly. Her knuckles pressed to her lips. Was he…going to back out of their arrangement? She prayed Sune would have her drop unconscious before she faced that.
“My brother married through arrangement,” Desmond continued. “Family compatibility. Political convenience. Financial alignment.” Bitterness crept into his voice. “The poor woman looks miserable.”
Dima frowned faintly as he spoke of his brother.
“Clive is not cruel,” Desmond clarified quickly. “He’s just… Clive.” That somehow explained everything. “He dominates every room he enters. Every conversation. Every decision.” Desmond sighed softly. “And everyone calls it successful because she fulfills her duties and smiles in public.” The waterfall thundered softly between them.
“I hate that,” he admitted. “I hate traditions that trap people simply because someone older declared them sacred.”
Dima traced one finger along her grandmother’s embroidery on her sleeve. “You think tradition itself is the problem.”
“I think falling in love after marriage sounds absurd.” He leaned slightly against the opposite side of the wall. “How can that be love? You are marrying a stranger.”
Dima was quiet for a moment.“Anyone can become a stranger.” She said in soft defiance. The waterfall filled the silence afterward. “Hearts change,” she continued bravely. “Minds change. People change.” Her voice gentled thoughtfully. “You can spend twenty years beside someone and wake one morning realizing you no longer fully know them.”
Desmond did not interrupt. “I think the tradition understands that better than most romances do,” Dima said wistfully, her back leaning against the wall as she stared up into the faces of several moon lilies. “It teaches that love is not something you stumble into once and possess forever.”
The lanternlight flickered across the marble pathways around her. “It is a choice.” Desmond finished her thought.
A quieter silence now.
“You choose to know someone,” she murmured. “Then choose again when they change. And again. And again.” A small smile touched her mouth. “Love is continuing to choose someone as you continue discovering who they are.”
When Desmond finally spoke, his voice had changed. Softer, less argumentative, as though he came rehearsed to talk down his bride-to-be.
“I think,” he admitted quietly, “that may be the first defense of arranged marriage I have ever respected.”
Dima smiled faintly. “There would be no innovation without tradition.” She held up a finger using an old infernal saying.
“That sounded painfully aged and rehearsed.”
“My grandmother says it constantly.”
“That explains everything.”
She laughed softly. “You build firearms, yes?”
“I allegedly build firearms.”
“You innovate because someone taught metallurgy first, right? The ancient devil smiths? Mathematics first. Languages.” She tilted her head toward the unseen figure beyond the wall. “Tradition is memory that survived, Desmond.”
“Your grandmother’s lectures are better than some professors I’ve met.” Desmond chuckled.
The tension eased after that. Something warmer and more curious filled Dima’s chest now that they were talking.
“So,” Desmond said eventually, “tell me something important about yourself.”
“Important by whose standards?”
“Yours.”
Dima considered. Then sighed dramatically. “I hate spicy food.”
He gasped softly. “Finally. A reasonable woman.” There was a pause as Desmond added, “I hate loud chewing.”
Dima giggled in agreement. “My cousin chews like an owlbear.”
“My brother sounds like warfare.” Desmond chimed in.
“And if someone touches my plate without asking,” she added, “I become capable of violence.”
“That feels spiritually justified.”
“And you?”
A pause.
“I’m a night owl.”
“That is not strange.”
“It becomes strange when I somehow manage to function on so little sleep.”
“How much sleep do you get in one night?”
“Perhaps…four hours at most.”
Dima blinked slowly toward the wall. “Horrifying.”
“I contain multitudes of horrifying things about me.” Their laughter faded into a softer silence afterward. Then Desmond asked quietly: “Do you want children?”
The question caught her off guard. Dima looked down at her hands. Feeling the pressure of her own apprehension. “…Maybe...No…”
The words came quieter than intended. Immediately, she regretted them. The silence afterward stretched just long enough for panic to creep into her chest. Oh gods. There it was. Dima thought to herself. She had ruined it. Of course, she had ruined it. Every noble family wanted heirs. Continuation. Legacy. Especially families like the Mahons, clawing their way into power. Dima stared at the marble beneath her feet, already feeling embarrassment begin to burn beneath her skin.
“Do you mind if I ask why?” No disappointment in his voice, Dima could swear it was just…quiet curiosity.
Dima swallowed softly. “I used to think…” She hesitated. “I used to think I would not want children like me.” She thumbed the sari around her shoulder. “I cried constantly as a child. Nervous all the time. Emotionally over everything.” She laughed softly at herself. “I once cried because a bird with a hurt wing flew away before I could help it.” Desmond stayed silent, listening. “My mother said I apologized to furniture after bumping into it,” Dima admitted quietly. A softer silence settled between them. “She would say people that fragile will break, and no one wants a glass bride…at least that’s what she said others would think.”
The answer came immediately. “I don’t.” Something tightened painfully in her chest. “The world has enough people proud of their cruelty,” Desmond said quietly. “I think softness is harder.”
Desmond stared at the wall, as though he could see her back to him, turn, as Dima began to face the wall, standing with her side towards him. “I think,” he continued carefully, “that if we ever had children, I would be very lucky if they turned out like you.”
Warmth flooded her so suddenly it nearly frightened her. And suddenly Dima found herself desperately wishing she could see his face.
Voices echoed through the garden before she could answer.
“Dima!”
Her aunties approached through the lantern-lit pathways in a dazzling storm of silk and jewelry.
The second Dima heard them getting closer, her eyes widened. “You should run.”
“What?”
“My aunties will smell unmarried wealth from across the estate.”
Desmond snorted softly.
“I can handle aunties.”
“You cannot.”
The voices grew louder.
“Oh gods,” Dima whispered urgently. “If they discover you have money, they will start discussing cousins.”
A horrified pause.
“…I do have plenty of money.”
“RUN.”
Desmond laughed outright then, warm and startled and bright enough that it pulled helpless laughter from her too. The sound of retreating footsteps disappeared behind the wall just as her relatives swept into the garden.
“There you are!”
“We have been looking everywhere.”
“Your mother is threatening people again.”
“That means she is emotional.”
“She threatened a florist.”
“He deserved it.”
Dima pressed her lips together, trying not to smile too obviously.
Her mother appeared behind them moments later, already exhausted. The aunties and cousins parted like curtains, clearing a path between Dima and her mother.
“It is time.” She nodded at Dima, who, for once, did not have a nervous tear in her eye.
The music from the ceremony swelled louder beyond the gardens now. Dima stood slowly, pulse hammering against her ribs. Before leaving, she glanced once toward the empty wall.
“You still hate tradition?” she asked softly, hoping she was right. Hoping Desmond did not run like he was told, and he was still nearby.
A pause. Then his voice answered faintly from somewhere farther down the garden path: “…I think I may hate it less than I did an hour ago.”
Warmth bloomed painfully in her chest. The aisle stretched across the cliffside like something pulled from myth. “See you soon,” She whispered, taking her first steps out of the garden and into the ceremony. Marble pathways suspended above reflecting pools filled with floating crimson petals. Lanterns drifting into the darkening sky. Priests beneath silver archways recited ancient infernal blessings while waterfalls thundered behind the altar into the sea below.
Hundreds of guests rose as Dima appeared. Her heartbeat climbed higher with every step. The ocean wind tugged gently at her veil. The music softened.
And there at the end of the aisle…stood Desmond.
For one suspended moment, Dima forgot how to breathe.
He stood beneath the waterfall altar, wrapped in ceremonial black and silver, infernal embroidery gleaming against blue skin, while sea mist curled around him like smoke. White hair stirred softly in the ocean wind. Rings glinted against nervous hands clasped tightly behind his back.
He looked…Gods. Dima felt her face warm up, and suddenly she was moving faster down the aisle than the tempo allowed. Desmond didn’t look powerful or obscenely wealthy or the heir to a rising dynasty. He looked overwhelmed, like someone standing at the edge of something enormous and hoping with his entire heart not to ruin it.
Then his eyes lifted. He met her gaze. The crowd disappeared into silence. The drums became distant thunder. Even the crashing sea below the cliffs seemed to fade beneath the sudden, impossible awareness of him. Because Desmond looked at her as if seeing her had struck him breathless. Wonder broke openly across his face.
Raw. Almost disbelieving.
And Dima saw it happen in real time, the exact moment he forgot every argument he had ever made against tradition. His shoulders loosened. The kind of relief like someone was coming home, unguarded and grounded. Dima’s breath caught painfully in her chest.
Because suddenly she understood why poets wrote about destiny despite themselves. Not because fate forced love into existence. But because sometimes, against every philosophy you built your life upon, you met someone and your soul recognized them faster than your mind could.
Dima forgot nearly everything that happened that wedding night. The party, the celebration that lasted days. She forgot her name because the moment she stepped into Desmond's life, she was already McClain.
Me? A humble DM writing fanfiction for/about my player's characters.
Title: Duty Bound
Summary: Úna's parents are important people and ultimately it kind of sucks for them.
___
One hot night in this month of Flamerule.
The blanket of night had barely tucked the sky away on this summer night. Selune’s moon shone like a dull sun over the capital of Suzail. A glorious port city sat on the shores of the Dragonmere Sea. Though the seaside city could but keep at bay the humid night, the stars twinkled like sweatdrops along the brow of a weary traveler. A cloak over her small body as a young knight nervously sat across from her in the rocking carriage. His hand resting, uneasy, on the hilt of his sword. He was green around the ears, fresh from the Purple Knight’s training grounds by his birth home.
“Please, Ser Fenwyr, you’re posed in such a way that you are giving me reason to be worried.” Zayna lifted her hood just enough, her green eyes peering at his hand, then back at his boyish face.
The moment she spoke, a jolt ran through the man’s body, before he turned his head away from Zayna. Something she was not used to at all. “Precious cargo, your Grace.”
A groan threatened Zayna’s lips, but years of training behind castle walls had trained her to keep her composure. Good too, as soon her composure would be everything to her persona now. “Hardly, no one knows of the Queen’s news. I am just an advisor’s daughter going home.”
“There are no secrets among nobles, your Grace.” Fenwyr met Zayna’s gaze softly, “as anyone else would see it, the future of all of Cormyr is sitting across from me. I am both honored and unnerved at the fact that I am all you decide to enlist.”
“Where I am going is far safer; you’re all I need.” She smiled, glancing out the carriage window against Fenwyr’s wishes, as out of reflex he reached a hand to pull her away from the window. Though his hand was trained to never touch a Queen-to-be.
“Your confidence in my ability is kind, however--” the carriage rocked as something landed on the roof. The motion alone made Fenwyr take to his feet, sword nearly out of its sheath. He turned his head to the sound of Zayna sighing with a smile on her face.
She leaned out the window more while answering Fenwyr, amidst being interrupted. “Less your skill, Ser Fenwyr, and more so…well, the perks of being lovers with a Harper is that there is little that gets passed him. Including a visit.” She gave a small wave to the clean-cut blonde elf who was perched at the top of the cart. “Evenin’ Vander.”
The cart climbed a winding dirt road to a home built along the woodlines of the King’s forest, north of the capital, leaving the seaside vista for the quiet, forest knight. The home was small, quaint, and made to blend in with the trees. Fenwyr would have missed it, with no signs of light and smoke at first. He stared for some time as Zayna stepped out of the carriage, refusing Fenwyr’s help.
“It’s not a spell,” Vander spoke freely as he walked after Zayna. “Your eyes are young, mortal; in time, you might grow to see the truths of many things. Including what is in front of you.”
Fenwyr nodded, staying by the carriage. “Your Grace.” He spoke just before Zayna crossed the threshold of her home. “We must return to the castle by high sun tomorrow.”
“I know.” Her fingers gently gripped the wood of the doorframe. “Give me a few hours, please.”
There was no need to speak more as Zayna crossed into the home, and suddenly she felt as though she was worlds away. The interior was the complete opposite of the Castle Obarskyr, cold, massive hallways, ceilings that had never been reached or touched. No, this was her home. Paintings hung on walls, the ceiling was low and made of the same warm wood as the walls. A fireplace, a simple living area, and standing in the center was the warmest point in the room.
A handsome blonde elf, identical to Vander, but worlds different in expression. He was tired around the eyes, and his hand pulled back away from his face, which was smart. As tiny hands reached up curiously at his face, a baby swaddled in his arms. “I did try my hardest to have her in bed by this time.” Reevan turned to the mother of his child and the lover of his lifetime.
“I’m sure you gave it the good ol’ Harper try.” She giggled, looking the baby over—wide green eyes, alert and glancing between her parents, as a toothless grin graced her face. “There is our little harper.”
“Our little princess.” Reevan was quick to correct her.
Zayna’s face tensed at the curt correction. “So you heard?”
“Are you surprised?” he chuckled at her clear, growing annoyance.
“So you spied?”
“--tis’ the Harper’s way. Though I personally did not, I was home with Úna.”
“You had your _brother_ spy?!”
“You should speak with the Purple Knights, Vander mentioned it was far too easy to access you. Fenwyr was right about no secrets about nobles--”
“Re!”
“Na?”
With a quick snatch, Zayna took her daughter into her arms and began to rock her. Almost on command and comfort, the baby began to lull to sleep, blissfully unaware of the tension that grew in the warm home. “Zayna, you are already the most important person to me. Now you are going to be the most important person to a lot of other people.”
“You don’t know if I agreed. The Queen is making her announcement tomorrow.” She softly challenged in a sing-song voice, rocking and bouncing while her eyes narrowed.
Reevan nodded at her, impressed at her ability to soothe a baby while remaining annoyed at him. “If I know my sparrow, then I know she will do exactly what her duty asks of her. Because she is just, she is smart, and she is and will be the Queen Cormyr deserves.” He walked slowly behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “I will love you and--”
“You will love me from the dark?” She turned to face him, holding her sleeping daughter close to her chest. “Love us? You know, in taking this position, everything changes. I will not leave the Castle, Úna will reside with me, and will be expected to be next in line, and you…you will not have this. All of this is gone, our time together, our lives, and--”
“The greater good demands great sacrifice.” He smiled gently at her. “You will do what you must, as will I.”
“...Reevan, I don’t think you understand this means the end of us.”
“I disagree, this is a change, but it is not the end.”
“What if I am asked to remarry?”
“Then you will and--”
“What if they asked Úna to marry and leave for another land?”
“Well then, she has--”
“What if--”
“Zayna, please, you are not giving me a chance to speak!”
“Because nothing you’ll say will be the right thing to say to me!”
A silence fell upon the home as she gently placed the baby into a small crib. “What do you see for us, Reevan? What do you see our lives as?” He reached for her, only to see her move away, her eyes fixated on their daughter’s sleeping face.
“I see you serve as a dutiful and beautiful Queen. I see you quell a growing turmoil. I see you build back a trust that stifles any rebellion or question of the crown. I see the same woman who aided against the goblin battles and raced to the aid of the Nettles in the Hullack Forest. A woman who knows how to serve, how to aid, and how to lead uses all this knowledge and makes her late father proud. An advisor’s daughter, a Queen chosen for ability, not blood. I see Cormyr thrive, and our daughter live in the lap of luxury where every opportunity is at her fingertips.” He continued speaking, hovering his hands over her shoulders.
“...you know what I see?” She turned to face him now. “I see all of what you said, but nowhere in what you said have you mentioned you…where are YOU, Reevan? The future you’ve painted, you are nowhere to be found.” Hot tears began to prick at the corner of her eyes.
“I will be there, always when you need--”
“‘But never to be seen’ enough, Reevan, please for a second stop. Put the Harper badge down. Stop speaking as though all you see is goodness. Are you so resolved in all of this? Are you so certain that this choice is what’s right for us?”
“There was never a choice, Zayna. You are Queen, and I am a Harper. These are the natures of our fate, and we cannot fight them. So why are you speaking as though you will refuse it? Will you refuse the crown?”
A silent beat.
“You will not. As I will continue to be a Harper, I will provide, we will …we will make this work.” He finally touched her, and she did not pull away. He placed his hands on either side of her face, but as he stared, he saw her green eyes glaze in some unknown way he had never seen before.
“We will. Duty first and then the rest.”
“The rest will come.”
“The rest will…” Her eyes moved from Reevan’s face back down towards Úna.
Me? A humble DM writing fanfiction for/about my player's characters.
Title: Duty Bound
Summary: Úna's parents are important people and ultimately it kind of sucks for them.
___
One hot night in this month of Flamerule.
The blanket of night had barely tucked the sky away on this summer night. Selune’s moon shone like a dull sun over the capital of Suzail. A glorious port city sat on the shores of the Dragonmere Sea. Though the seaside city could but keep at bay the humid night, the stars twinkled like sweatdrops along the brow of a weary traveler. A cloak over her small body as a young knight nervously sat across from her in the rocking carriage. His hand resting, uneasy, on the hilt of his sword. He was green around the ears, fresh from the Purple Knight’s training grounds by his birth home.
“Please, Ser Fenwyr, you’re posed in such a way that you are giving me reason to be worried.” Zayna lifted her hood just enough, her green eyes peering at his hand, then back at his boyish face.
The moment she spoke, a jolt ran through the man’s body, before he turned his head away from Zayna. Something she was not used to at all. “Precious cargo, your Grace.”
A groan threatened Zayna’s lips, but years of training behind castle walls had trained her to keep her composure. Good too, as soon her composure would be everything to her persona now. “Hardly, no one knows of the Queen’s news. I am just an advisor’s daughter going home.”
“There are no secrets among nobles, your Grace.” Fenwyr met Zayna’s gaze softly, “as anyone else would see it, the future of all of Cormyr is sitting across from me. I am both honored and unnerved at the fact that I am all you decide to enlist.”
“Where I am going is far safer; you’re all I need.” She smiled, glancing out the carriage window against Fenwyr’s wishes, as out of reflex he reached a hand to pull her away from the window. Though his hand was trained to never touch a Queen-to-be.
“Your confidence in my ability is kind, however--” the carriage rocked as something landed on the roof. The motion alone made Fenwyr take to his feet, sword nearly out of its sheath. He turned his head to the sound of Zayna sighing with a smile on her face.
She leaned out the window more while answering Fenwyr, amidst being interrupted. “Less your skill, Ser Fenwyr, and more so…well, the perks of being lovers with a Harper is that there is little that gets passed him. Including a visit.” She gave a small wave to the clean-cut blonde elf who was perched at the top of the cart. “Evenin’ Vander.”
The cart climbed a winding dirt road to a home built along the woodlines of the King’s forest, north of the capital, leaving the seaside vista for the quiet, forest knight. The home was small, quaint, and made to blend in with the trees. Fenwyr would have missed it, with no signs of light and smoke at first. He stared for some time as Zayna stepped out of the carriage, refusing Fenwyr’s help.
“It’s not a spell,” Vander spoke freely as he walked after Zayna. “Your eyes are young, mortal; in time, you might grow to see the truths of many things. Including what is in front of you.”
Fenwyr nodded, staying by the carriage. “Your Grace.” He spoke just before Zayna crossed the threshold of her home. “We must return to the castle by high sun tomorrow.”
“I know.” Her fingers gently gripped the wood of the doorframe. “Give me a few hours, please.”
There was no need to speak more as Zayna crossed into the home, and suddenly she felt as though she was worlds away. The interior was the complete opposite of the Castle Obarskyr, cold, massive hallways, ceilings that had never been reached or touched. No, this was her home. Paintings hung on walls, the ceiling was low and made of the same warm wood as the walls. A fireplace, a simple living area, and standing in the center was the warmest point in the room.
A handsome blonde elf, identical to Vander, but worlds different in expression. He was tired around the eyes, and his hand pulled back away from his face, which was smart. As tiny hands reached up curiously at his face, a baby swaddled in his arms. “I did try my hardest to have her in bed by this time.” Reevan turned to the mother of his child and the lover of his lifetime.
“I’m sure you gave it the good ol’ Harper try.” She giggled, looking the baby over—wide green eyes, alert and glancing between her parents, as a toothless grin graced her face. “There is our little harper.”
“Our little princess.” Reevan was quick to correct her.
Zayna’s face tensed at the curt correction. “So you heard?”
“Are you surprised?” he chuckled at her clear, growing annoyance.
“So you spied?”
“--tis’ the Harper’s way. Though I personally did not, I was home with Úna.”
“You had your _brother_ spy?!”
“You should speak with the Purple Knights, Vander mentioned it was far too easy to access you. Fenwyr was right about no secrets about nobles--”
“Re!”
“Na?”
With a quick snatch, Zayna took her daughter into her arms and began to rock her. Almost on command and comfort, the baby began to lull to sleep, blissfully unaware of the tension that grew in the warm home. “Zayna, you are already the most important person to me. Now you are going to be the most important person to a lot of other people.”
“You don’t know if I agreed. The Queen is making her announcement tomorrow.” She softly challenged in a sing-song voice, rocking and bouncing while her eyes narrowed.
Reevan nodded at her, impressed at her ability to soothe a baby while remaining annoyed at him. “If I know my sparrow, then I know she will do exactly what her duty asks of her. Because she is just, she is smart, and she is and will be the Queen Cormyr deserves.” He walked slowly behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “I will love you and--”
“You will love me from the dark?” She turned to face him, holding her sleeping daughter close to her chest. “Love us? You know, in taking this position, everything changes. I will not leave the Castle, Úna will reside with me, and will be expected to be next in line, and you…you will not have this. All of this is gone, our time together, our lives, and--”
“The greater good demands great sacrifice.” He smiled gently at her. “You will do what you must, as will I.”
“...Reevan, I don’t think you understand this means the end of us.”
“I disagree, this is a change, but it is not the end.”
“What if I am asked to remarry?”
“Then you will and--”
“What if they asked Úna to marry and leave for another land?”
“Well then, she has--”
“What if--”
“Zayna, please, you are not giving me a chance to speak!”
“Because nothing you’ll say will be the right thing to say to me!”
A silence fell upon the home as she gently placed the baby into a small crib. “What do you see for us, Reevan? What do you see our lives as?” He reached for her, only to see her move away, her eyes fixated on their daughter’s sleeping face.
“I see you serve as a dutiful and beautiful Queen. I see you quell a growing turmoil. I see you build back a trust that stifles any rebellion or question of the crown. I see the same woman who aided against the goblin battles and raced to the aid of the Nettles in the Hullack Forest. A woman who knows how to serve, how to aid, and how to lead uses all this knowledge and makes her late father proud. An advisor’s daughter, a Queen chosen for ability, not blood. I see Cormyr thrive, and our daughter live in the lap of luxury where every opportunity is at her fingertips.” He continued speaking, hovering his hands over her shoulders.
“...you know what I see?” She turned to face him now. “I see all of what you said, but nowhere in what you said have you mentioned you…where are YOU, Reevan? The future you’ve painted, you are nowhere to be found.” Hot tears began to prick at the corner of her eyes.
“I will be there, always when you need--”
“‘But never to be seen’ enough, Reevan, please for a second stop. Put the Harper badge down. Stop speaking as though all you see is goodness. Are you so resolved in all of this? Are you so certain that this choice is what’s right for us?”
“There was never a choice, Zayna. You are Queen, and I am a Harper. These are the natures of our fate, and we cannot fight them. So why are you speaking as though you will refuse it? Will you refuse the crown?”
A silent beat.
“You will not. As I will continue to be a Harper, I will provide, we will …we will make this work.” He finally touched her, and she did not pull away. He placed his hands on either side of her face, but as he stared, he saw her green eyes glaze in some unknown way he had never seen before.
“We will. Duty first and then the rest.”
“The rest will come.”
“The rest will…” Her eyes moved from Reevan’s face back down towards Úna.
**Writer's note**
This is my take on Exandrian lore and how I wanna portray the gods given some canon information.
Word Count: 2301
TW: Violence, death, Greek-like tragedy
There are ancient hymns forbidden even among the gods.
Not because they are false. Because they are too painful to sing aloud.
They speak of a time before the Calamity, before betrayal and hellfire and divine corpses drifting nameless through forgotten planes. A time when the heavens were still young enough to believe love alone could keep creation gentle. In those first days, before mortal prayer had shape, before kingdoms and sin and grief, Pelor walked alone through creation.
The Dawn Father was beloved even then. He was warmth. Fire. Dominion itself. Stars bent instinctively around his radiance. Worlds bloomed beneath his gaze.
Yet for all his brilliance…
He was alone. He was the first. The first of many, but still the first. The leader, the eldest brother, the mentor, the God to begin anew on this world he and his siblings would craft. None would know him, walk in the loneliness of his path, stand by him that was until:
The First Makers saw this.
They saw how Pelor poured himself endlessly into creation yet kept nothing for himself. How he loved the cosmos like a father loves his children, yet possessed no equal hand to hold in return. The sun gave warmth to all things while remaining forever untouchable. And so the First Makers crafted a companion worthy of him.
Not a servant.
Not a sister.
Not a lesser. But as an Equal.
They shaped her from the first dawn spilling over still water. From the warmth that lingers after grief. From every gentle thing, existence would one day need to survive itself. They crafted the last note missing from their great house of divine bodies.
Where Pelor burned, she soothed.
Where he judged, she forgave.
Where his light exposed truth, hers taught others how to endure it.
Sarenrae entered existence smiling. The first thing she ever did was laugh.
The second was to take Pelor’s hand. She knew him at first sight. Pelor knew her for all of this moment and knew, he had been searching for her in every creation. “How do I search for something I had not known and yet, am blinded from how much I’ve missed you.”
“And I you.” She spoke, and her voice made the cosmos quake, as her voice seemed to turn the universe in her favor. “You are the place in which my love was meant to rest.”
And for the first time since creation began, the Dawn Father did not look lonely.
The heavens adored her instantly.
Flowers bloomed in her footsteps.
The newborn stars brightened when she passed.
Even the coldest divinities found themselves gentler in her presence.
And Pelor, he rejoiced. Pelor loved her openly but not possessively.
He loved her so completely that he shared her warmth freely with all creation. He brought her to celestial feasts, tucked against his side with pride radiant upon his face. He placed her hand in those of sullen gods and said:
“Here. Speak with her. She makes sorrow easier to carry.”
And Sarenrae did.
She sat with lonely divinities at the edge of creation while stars were born. She soothed mourning celestials after failed worlds collapsed. She walked among the younger gods with patient warmth, teaching them gentleness before ambition could harden them. Pelor watched all of this with quiet joy. He wanted everyone to love her. He never realized one god would love her too much.
Part 2. Death in Spite
Asmodeus fell in love slowly.
Quietly. Dangerously. At first, he mocked her. He called her naïve before crowded celestial courts. Called her mercy childish. Claimed her endless forgiveness would one day rot the spine of creation itself.
“You coddle mortals,” he would sneer while lesser gods shifted nervously nearby. “And when they inevitably betray you, what then? Will you forgive them for teaching you wisdom?”
Sarenrae never argued angrily. That infuriated him most. She would only smile softly and answer: “They hurt because they are capable of love. I would rather suffer that pain forever than become incapable of it.”
He laughed at her then.
Laughed because he did not yet understand that every act of mercy she offered the cosmos only made him love her more violently.
Pelor remained blind to it. He would clasp Asmodeus by the shoulder warmly after celestial gatherings and say: “She adores your company, you know.” Asmodeus thought that perhaps he might someday kill him for those words alone.
But he never did. Because part of him loved Pelor too. Or rather loved how deeply Pelor loved her. There was no jealousy then.
Not yet.
Then mortals learned ambition. Then came the impossible.
A woman ascended.
Not born divine.
Not chosen divine.
She clawed her way into godhood by killing another deity and taking their dominion for herself. The heavens never recovered from the horror of it.
One sibling erased.
Another wearing their mantle.
Even now, the gods refuse to speak the dead one’s name aloud. Not from disrespect. From fear. Because if one god could die, then perhaps all of them could. The celestial courts descended into grief and paranoia. Some demanded the ascended woman be destroyed immediately. Others recoiled from her entirely.
But Sarenrae, oh sweet Everlight. Sarenrae mourned.
And then she forgave The Raven Queen. That forgiveness became the knife lodged forever in Asmodeus’ heart. He found her alone beneath a sky of trembling stars while the heavens argued themselves toward war.
“You cannot possibly mean this.”His voice sounded thin even to himself.
Sarenrae stood among pale flowers already wilting from divine unrest. Tears still shimmered upon her cheeks.
“She is afraid,” Sarenrae whispered.
“She murdered our sister.”
“She became something no soul was meant to become.”
“She committed deicide.”
“And now she must carry that grief forever.”
Asmodeus stared at her in disbelief.
“How can you still love creatures capable of this?”
Sarenrae looked at him then with such terrible sadness. “Because they are capable of regret.” The answer destroyed something inside him.
He understood suddenly, with perfect clarity, that she would forgive anyone.
Any sinner.
Any monster.
Perhaps even him.
But never love him the way she loved Pelor. And jealousy, in the hands of a god, becomes apocalypse.
…
The Betrayer Gods claim they rebelled because the Prime Deities had grown weak. They would allow creation to supersede the creator. This drove loves like Lolth and the Arch Heart apart. Would have siblings leave their celestial home and make new domains. It would mark the end of their family.
And it was a lie. Asmodeus rebelled because he could not bear what Sarenrae represented.
If forgiveness remained possible even after the murder of a god…then…
And …if redemption survived betrayal, then…!
So then, if compassion endured despite suffering…Then cruelty was not wisdom.
And if cruelty was not wisdom…
Then Asmodeus had damned himself for nothing. So he sought to destroy her faith. Not her worshippers alone.
The very idea of her.
He turned kingdoms against her temples. Corrupted rulers. Whispered despair into mortal hearts. He wanted the Everlight’s followers to finally break beneath suffering and prove what he had always believed:
That kindness was merely weakness awaiting punishment.
They endured, time and time again.
Murderers laid down weapons in her name. Victims offered mercy through tears; her faithful rebuilt sanctuaries atop their own ashes.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And every single act of forgiveness felt to Asmodeus like mockery. He had taunted her naïveté for centuries.
Yet time proved her right.
Mortals remained terrible. Cruel. Violent.
And still redemption endured. The realization poisoned him. Because somewhere buried beneath all his hatred was a terrible, humiliating truth: if she chose him, he would end it all. The fighting, the war, all of it.
He wanted Sarenrae to rage with him. He knew if she spoke true, the war would be over. Pelor would fall to her words; if the great gods and goddesses sided with him, then all was well.
Part 3. The Battle it need not Be
Their final battle came at the Battle of Barbed Fields. The world burned beneath them.
Forests had become pyres visible from continents away. Oceans boiled with divine blood. Mortal souls screamed across creation while gods tore reality open with grief and wrath alike. Far across the battlefield, Torog dragged nations screaming beneath the earth while Pelor fought desperately to stop him, sunlight and agony splitting the horizon apart.
And Sarenrae stood alone before Asmodeus. That was what finally doomed them.
Not hatred.
Hope.
Because even then
Even after the war
Even after the slaughter
Sarenrae still believed he could be saved.
Asmodeus arrived before her, wreathed in hellfire and ruin, beautiful in the way disasters are beautiful. The armies of his own creation, from a domain he built himself to writh in his own loathing, darkened the horizon behind him while celestial light gathered desperately around Sarenrae like frightened birds.
“Fight me,” he demanded.
Sarenrae stood amidst the devastation with tears in her eyes. “You do not want this.”
“I started this war.”
“You can still end it.”
The words struck harder than any weapon. Asmodeus felt something crack inside himself. Because she meant it. Even now, she was trying to atone for him. Trying to pull him back into the light with blood already drowning the world to its knees.
“You still think there is goodness left in me.”
“There is.”
“You are a fool.”
“No,” Sarenrae whispered. “You are the fool to ignore how much this war has hurt you.”
The tenderness in her voice humiliated him.
“You pity me.”
“No.”
“Then stop looking at me like I am something broken!”
His rage shook the heavens.
He tore through her defenses. She did not strike him. Infernal flame blackened her celestial form. She did not stop him. When divine blood fell from her like sunlight collapsing into ash. She did not ask for help.
Far away, Pelor screamed her name across creation itself, but Torog held him fast in catastrophic battle beneath collapsing mountains.
Asmodeus struck her again.
The blow came more desperate than furious now. Because terror had entered him. Not fear of losing.
Fear of her.
Fear that she could become another dead god. Another usurped throne. Another divine corpse erased from memory by ambitious hands. And somewhere within the horror of his unraveling mind, he convinced himself this was mercy.
Better him than mortals. Better death than desecration. Better ruin than witnessing the cosmos consume her gentle heart piece by piece. If Pelor loved her most, then why sit her among the same monstrous mortals that took from them? Did he not see!? Did he not love her enough to fear what these _things_ could do to her? The idea of her erasure, Asmodeus only needed her to fall into rage, to admit not all can forgive. That SHE could bear a single hate, even if it were towards him. If she could hate, if she could lack forgiveness, then it would end the war. It would end his war.
“WHY?” he roared, voice splintering apart. “WHY CAN YOU NOT HATE ME?”
Sarenrae staggered beneath another devastating strike, divine light fracturing across her body like cracks through stained glass.
Still she looked at him with love.
Not romantic.Not hopeful. Something infinitely worse.
Compassion.
Asmodeus broke completely. With a scream of grief more than fury, he unleashed enough power to shatter her divine visage itself. The sky exploded. Mortals across the world saw it; the Everlight fracturing above them like a dying sun.
Silence.
Asmodeus stood frozen amidst the ruin. Sarenrae lay broken at his feet, divine radiance spilling from her wounds in rivers of gold. And suddenly the rage vanished.
Only horror remained. “No…” His knees hit the ruined earth hard enough to crater stone.“No no no—” He reached for her, trembling violently now, hands slick with her divine blood.
For the first time since the beginning of existence, Asmodeus felt fear. Real fear.
Sarenrae lifted one shaking hand to his face.
Despite it all, gentle. “You mistake forgiveness for the absence of wrath.” Her voice was weakening. Breaking. Somewhere her followers were dying, she was dying. For a moment, it felt like all the world was dying with her. “I am furious with you. I grieve our sister. I grieve what you have become.” Tears slipped from her eyes like falling stars. “There is hate in me, rage in me, I must know it, to know how to forgive it.”
Asmodeus could not speak. “And still…” Her trembling fingers brushed against his cheek. “I forgive.” The words hollowed him.
“Because if I surrender that mercy…if I let suffering hollow me into something cruel, then this war has already devoured everything we once were.” Her expression crumpled softly beneath the weight of divine grief. “Had you loved me enough to understand that… had you looked upon me and truly seen me… perhaps we all could have gone home together.”
Then, silence as her form splintered into the same soft, celestial bodies of light that made her. Just as the First Makers did, she returned to the sun.
The sun?
Blinding.
Infinite.
Furious.
The heavens split open above them as Pelor descended at last.
But it was not as the sun. But as wrath.
The cosmos itself recoiled beneath his grief. Stars dimmed. Hellfire retreated instinctively before the sheer enormity of divine fury pouring from him.
Asmodeus looked up slowly and understood immediately:
Pelor had come to kill him.
Sarenrae’s voice echoed from all around, as her light faded from his view.
“But Pelor…” Light gathered behind her failing eyes.
**Writer's note**
This is my take on Exandrian lore and how I wanna portray the gods given some canon information.
Word Count: 2301
TW: Violence, death, Greek-like tragedy
There are ancient hymns forbidden even among the gods.
Not because they are false. Because they are too painful to sing aloud.
They speak of a time before the Calamity, before betrayal and hellfire and divine corpses drifting nameless through forgotten planes. A time when the heavens were still young enough to believe love alone could keep creation gentle. In those first days, before mortal prayer had shape, before kingdoms and sin and grief, Pelor walked alone through creation.
The Dawn Father was beloved even then. He was warmth. Fire. Dominion itself. Stars bent instinctively around his radiance. Worlds bloomed beneath his gaze.
Yet for all his brilliance…
He was alone. He was the first. The first of many, but still the first. The leader, the eldest brother, the mentor, the God to begin anew on this world he and his siblings would craft. None would know him, walk in the loneliness of his path, stand by him that was until:
The First Makers saw this.
They saw how Pelor poured himself endlessly into creation yet kept nothing for himself. How he loved the cosmos like a father loves his children, yet possessed no equal hand to hold in return. The sun gave warmth to all things while remaining forever untouchable. And so the First Makers crafted a companion worthy of him.
Not a servant.
Not a sister.
Not a lesser. But as an Equal.
They shaped her from the first dawn spilling over still water. From the warmth that lingers after grief. From every gentle thing, existence would one day need to survive itself. They crafted the last note missing from their great house of divine bodies.
Where Pelor burned, she soothed.
Where he judged, she forgave.
Where his light exposed truth, hers taught others how to endure it.
Sarenrae entered existence smiling. The first thing she ever did was laugh.
The second was to take Pelor’s hand. She knew him at first sight. Pelor knew her for all of this moment and knew, he had been searching for her in every creation. “How do I search for something I had not known and yet, am blinded from how much I’ve missed you.”
“And I you.” She spoke, and her voice made the cosmos quake, as her voice seemed to turn the universe in her favor. “You are the place in which my love was meant to rest.”
And for the first time since creation began, the Dawn Father did not look lonely.
The heavens adored her instantly.
Flowers bloomed in her footsteps.
The newborn stars brightened when she passed.
Even the coldest divinities found themselves gentler in her presence.
And Pelor, he rejoiced. Pelor loved her openly but not possessively.
He loved her so completely that he shared her warmth freely with all creation. He brought her to celestial feasts, tucked against his side with pride radiant upon his face. He placed her hand in those of sullen gods and said:
“Here. Speak with her. She makes sorrow easier to carry.”
And Sarenrae did.
She sat with lonely divinities at the edge of creation while stars were born. She soothed mourning celestials after failed worlds collapsed. She walked among the younger gods with patient warmth, teaching them gentleness before ambition could harden them. Pelor watched all of this with quiet joy. He wanted everyone to love her. He never realized one god would love her too much.
Part 2. Death in Spite
Asmodeus fell in love slowly.
Quietly. Dangerously. At first, he mocked her. He called her naïve before crowded celestial courts. Called her mercy childish. Claimed her endless forgiveness would one day rot the spine of creation itself.
“You coddle mortals,” he would sneer while lesser gods shifted nervously nearby. “And when they inevitably betray you, what then? Will you forgive them for teaching you wisdom?”
Sarenrae never argued angrily. That infuriated him most. She would only smile softly and answer: “They hurt because they are capable of love. I would rather suffer that pain forever than become incapable of it.”
He laughed at her then.
Laughed because he did not yet understand that every act of mercy she offered the cosmos only made him love her more violently.
Pelor remained blind to it. He would clasp Asmodeus by the shoulder warmly after celestial gatherings and say: “She adores your company, you know.” Asmodeus thought that perhaps he might someday kill him for those words alone.
But he never did. Because part of him loved Pelor too. Or rather loved how deeply Pelor loved her. There was no jealousy then.
Not yet.
Then mortals learned ambition. Then came the impossible.
A woman ascended.
Not born divine.
Not chosen divine.
She clawed her way into godhood by killing another deity and taking their dominion for herself. The heavens never recovered from the horror of it.
One sibling erased.
Another wearing their mantle.
Even now, the gods refuse to speak the dead one’s name aloud. Not from disrespect. From fear. Because if one god could die, then perhaps all of them could. The celestial courts descended into grief and paranoia. Some demanded the ascended woman be destroyed immediately. Others recoiled from her entirely.
But Sarenrae, oh sweet Everlight. Sarenrae mourned.
And then she forgave The Raven Queen. That forgiveness became the knife lodged forever in Asmodeus’ heart. He found her alone beneath a sky of trembling stars while the heavens argued themselves toward war.
“You cannot possibly mean this.”His voice sounded thin even to himself.
Sarenrae stood among pale flowers already wilting from divine unrest. Tears still shimmered upon her cheeks.
“She is afraid,” Sarenrae whispered.
“She murdered our sister.”
“She became something no soul was meant to become.”
“She committed deicide.”
“And now she must carry that grief forever.”
Asmodeus stared at her in disbelief.
“How can you still love creatures capable of this?”
Sarenrae looked at him then with such terrible sadness. “Because they are capable of regret.” The answer destroyed something inside him.
He understood suddenly, with perfect clarity, that she would forgive anyone.
Any sinner.
Any monster.
Perhaps even him.
But never love him the way she loved Pelor. And jealousy, in the hands of a god, becomes apocalypse.
…
The Betrayer Gods claim they rebelled because the Prime Deities had grown weak. They would allow creation to supersede the creator. This drove loves like Lolth and the Arch Heart apart. Would have siblings leave their celestial home and make new domains. It would mark the end of their family.
And it was a lie. Asmodeus rebelled because he could not bear what Sarenrae represented.
If forgiveness remained possible even after the murder of a god…then…
And …if redemption survived betrayal, then…!
So then, if compassion endured despite suffering…Then cruelty was not wisdom.
And if cruelty was not wisdom…
Then Asmodeus had damned himself for nothing. So he sought to destroy her faith. Not her worshippers alone.
The very idea of her.
He turned kingdoms against her temples. Corrupted rulers. Whispered despair into mortal hearts. He wanted the Everlight’s followers to finally break beneath suffering and prove what he had always believed:
That kindness was merely weakness awaiting punishment.
They endured, time and time again.
Murderers laid down weapons in her name. Victims offered mercy through tears; her faithful rebuilt sanctuaries atop their own ashes.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And every single act of forgiveness felt to Asmodeus like mockery. He had taunted her naïveté for centuries.
Yet time proved her right.
Mortals remained terrible. Cruel. Violent.
And still redemption endured. The realization poisoned him. Because somewhere buried beneath all his hatred was a terrible, humiliating truth: if she chose him, he would end it all. The fighting, the war, all of it.
He wanted Sarenrae to rage with him. He knew if she spoke true, the war would be over. Pelor would fall to her words; if the great gods and goddesses sided with him, then all was well.
Part 3. The Battle it need not Be
Their final battle came at the Battle of Barbed Fields. The world burned beneath them.
Forests had become pyres visible from continents away. Oceans boiled with divine blood. Mortal souls screamed across creation while gods tore reality open with grief and wrath alike. Far across the battlefield, Torog dragged nations screaming beneath the earth while Pelor fought desperately to stop him, sunlight and agony splitting the horizon apart.
And Sarenrae stood alone before Asmodeus. That was what finally doomed them.
Not hatred.
Hope.
Because even then
Even after the war
Even after the slaughter
Sarenrae still believed he could be saved.
Asmodeus arrived before her, wreathed in hellfire and ruin, beautiful in the way disasters are beautiful. The armies of his own creation, from a domain he built himself to writh in his own loathing, darkened the horizon behind him while celestial light gathered desperately around Sarenrae like frightened birds.
“Fight me,” he demanded.
Sarenrae stood amidst the devastation with tears in her eyes. “You do not want this.”
“I started this war.”
“You can still end it.”
The words struck harder than any weapon. Asmodeus felt something crack inside himself. Because she meant it. Even now, she was trying to atone for him. Trying to pull him back into the light with blood already drowning the world to its knees.
“You still think there is goodness left in me.”
“There is.”
“You are a fool.”
“No,” Sarenrae whispered. “You are the fool to ignore how much this war has hurt you.”
The tenderness in her voice humiliated him.
“You pity me.”
“No.”
“Then stop looking at me like I am something broken!”
His rage shook the heavens.
He tore through her defenses. She did not strike him. Infernal flame blackened her celestial form. She did not stop him. When divine blood fell from her like sunlight collapsing into ash. She did not ask for help.
Far away, Pelor screamed her name across creation itself, but Torog held him fast in catastrophic battle beneath collapsing mountains.
Asmodeus struck her again.
The blow came more desperate than furious now. Because terror had entered him. Not fear of losing.
Fear of her.
Fear that she could become another dead god. Another usurped throne. Another divine corpse erased from memory by ambitious hands. And somewhere within the horror of his unraveling mind, he convinced himself this was mercy.
Better him than mortals. Better death than desecration. Better ruin than witnessing the cosmos consume her gentle heart piece by piece. If Pelor loved her most, then why sit her among the same monstrous mortals that took from them? Did he not see!? Did he not love her enough to fear what these _things_ could do to her? The idea of her erasure, Asmodeus only needed her to fall into rage, to admit not all can forgive. That SHE could bear a single hate, even if it were towards him. If she could hate, if she could lack forgiveness, then it would end the war. It would end his war.
“WHY?” he roared, voice splintering apart. “WHY CAN YOU NOT HATE ME?”
Sarenrae staggered beneath another devastating strike, divine light fracturing across her body like cracks through stained glass.
Still she looked at him with love.
Not romantic.Not hopeful. Something infinitely worse.
Compassion.
Asmodeus broke completely. With a scream of grief more than fury, he unleashed enough power to shatter her divine visage itself. The sky exploded. Mortals across the world saw it; the Everlight fracturing above them like a dying sun.
Silence.
Asmodeus stood frozen amidst the ruin. Sarenrae lay broken at his feet, divine radiance spilling from her wounds in rivers of gold. And suddenly the rage vanished.
Only horror remained. “No…” His knees hit the ruined earth hard enough to crater stone.“No no no—” He reached for her, trembling violently now, hands slick with her divine blood.
For the first time since the beginning of existence, Asmodeus felt fear. Real fear.
Sarenrae lifted one shaking hand to his face.
Despite it all, gentle. “You mistake forgiveness for the absence of wrath.” Her voice was weakening. Breaking. Somewhere her followers were dying, she was dying. For a moment, it felt like all the world was dying with her. “I am furious with you. I grieve our sister. I grieve what you have become.” Tears slipped from her eyes like falling stars. “There is hate in me, rage in me, I must know it, to know how to forgive it.”
Asmodeus could not speak. “And still…” Her trembling fingers brushed against his cheek. “I forgive.” The words hollowed him.
“Because if I surrender that mercy…if I let suffering hollow me into something cruel, then this war has already devoured everything we once were.” Her expression crumpled softly beneath the weight of divine grief. “Had you loved me enough to understand that… had you looked upon me and truly seen me… perhaps we all could have gone home together.”
Then, silence as her form splintered into the same soft, celestial bodies of light that made her. Just as the First Makers did, she returned to the sun.
The sun?
Blinding.
Infinite.
Furious.
The heavens split open above them as Pelor descended at last.
But it was not as the sun. But as wrath.
The cosmos itself recoiled beneath his grief. Stars dimmed. Hellfire retreated instinctively before the sheer enormity of divine fury pouring from him.
Asmodeus looked up slowly and understood immediately:
Pelor had come to kill him.
Sarenrae’s voice echoed from all around, as her light faded from his view.
“But Pelor…” Light gathered behind her failing eyes.
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