moments in time

read from the beginning (link) read on ao3 (link)

[jorvikpov]

What is this? A retelling of Star Stable Online's main storyline and an imagining of how it all might end told through short moments in time and almost no dialogue. It started as a writing exercise (and escapism, but what's new) and now we're here. This fic is now finished and there will be no more posts.

Who are you? @jorvikzelda!

Special thanks... To the regulars <3 and to @shiroselia, who beta read and helped me brainstorm when I got stuck or got up to plot shenanigans.

[jorvikpov]

Jorvik feels strange these days.

For a time, you thought the world as you knew it was doomed to end. That you would be forced to stand by and watch as the island succumbed to the storm. Now, you know better. It never will. Not as long as your age-old magic courses through its roots. Not as long as the moon and stars shine upon it. Still, you sometimes feel like everything did end, only in a different way; nothing feels like before, after all, and what is an ending if not simply great, irreversible change? Jorvik is quiet. Calm. Peaceful. There’s nothing lurking in the shadows. There’s nobody watching your every move, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Your dreams and visions carry little meaning, for there is little to be said.

Everything has changed, and yet you are no different, no more or less, than you have always been. You are still everything. You are still only you. Your horse is by your side as always, warm and comforting and just as unchanged as you are. When you look up to the sky, you still see yourself in every ray of sun and in the moon and stars beyond and in the clouds slowly rolling away over the eastern mountains. In Silverglade, just by the forest’s edge, there is a small, snowy meadow. It shines a brilliant golden white, lit up by warm, bright sunbeams, and perhaps, too, by the ancient light shining deep within you. There is laughter all around, bubbling with quiet, comfortable joy. One of your friends calls out a name that’s yours, and yet isn’t. You aren’t sure where the line is drawn—in fact, you aren’t always sure it exists at all—but you don’t truly care to find out. You are still you, after all, regardless of how much else you also are. When your friend shares the joke she just told the other three, you laugh with your whole heart.

The days are slowly but surely growing brighter. With each rise and fall of the sun, you feel your breathing grow easier and easier. You are no longer bound by fate, nor by duty. You have not attempted to prod at the future beyond the rare, peaceful visions that come to you of their own volition; it will bring whatever it may. You have learned by now that the island will take you where you need to be. These days, you trust it more than ever.

All you know right now is this: tonight, the stars will be bright and the northern lights vivid across the night sky. Tomorrow, the sun will rise a little earlier than it did today, and the island it casts light upon will be different in one of the small ways it is every morning. The sun will keep rising and falling. Keep changing the island little by little. Winter will become spring and the rivers will melt, rushing once again down to the ocean, and in the awakening forests every bird will come together in a choir of chirps and whistles. Spring will become summer, and the neverending sunlight will blaze hot and bright even filtered through the crowns of the forests’ many trees. Summer will become autumn, colouring the island in golds and reds and oranges and bringing rainstorms the likes of which you’ll wonder if you’ve ever seen. One night late in October, the first frost will fall, and then once again it will be winter, all muted blue days and snow glittering in the moonlight. With every passing year, Jorvik will be different in one of the small ways it always is. You don’t yet know how, and you don’t care to.

Whatever it brings, it will be the future. That is all you could ever ask for.

[jorvikpov]

Jorvik feels strange these days.

For a time, you thought the world as you knew it was doomed to end. That you would be forced to stand by and watch as the island succumbed to the storm. Now, you know better. It never will. Not as long as your age-old magic courses through its roots. Not as long as the moon and stars shine upon it. Still, you sometimes feel like everything did end, only in a different way; nothing feels like before, after all, and what is an ending if not simply great, irreversible change? Jorvik is quiet. Calm. Peaceful. There’s nothing lurking in the shadows. There’s nobody watching your every move, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Your dreams and visions carry little meaning, for there is little to be said.

Everything has changed, and yet you are no different, no more or less, than you have always been. You are still everything. You are still only you. Your horse is by your side as always, warm and comforting and just as unchanged as you are. When you look up to the sky, you still see yourself in every ray of sun and in the moon and stars beyond and in the clouds slowly rolling away over the eastern mountains. In Silverglade, just by the forest’s edge, there is a small, snowy meadow. It shines a brilliant golden white, lit up by warm, bright sunbeams, and perhaps, too, by the ancient light shining deep within you. There is laughter all around, bubbling with quiet, comfortable joy. One of your friends calls out a name that’s yours, and yet isn’t. You aren’t sure where the line is drawn—in fact, you aren’t always sure it exists at all—but you don’t truly care to find out. You are still you, after all, regardless of how much else you also are. When your friend shares the joke she just told the other three, you laugh with your whole heart.

The days are slowly but surely growing brighter. With each rise and fall of the sun, you feel your breathing grow easier and easier. You are no longer bound by fate, nor by duty. You have not attempted to prod at the future beyond the rare, peaceful visions that come to you of their own volition; it will bring whatever it may. You have learned by now that the island will take you where you need to be. These days, you trust it more than ever.

All you know right now is this: tonight, the stars will be bright and the northern lights vivid across the night sky. Tomorrow, the sun will rise a little earlier than it did today, and the island it casts light upon will be different in one of the small ways it is every morning. The sun will keep rising and falling. Keep changing the island little by little. Winter will become spring and the rivers will melt, rushing once again down to the ocean, and in the awakening forests every bird will come together in a choir of chirps and whistles. Spring will become summer, and the neverending sunlight will blaze hot and bright even filtered through the crowns of the forests’ many trees. Summer will become autumn, colouring the island in golds and reds and oranges and bringing rainstorms the likes of which you’ll wonder if you’ve ever seen. One night late in October, the first frost will fall, and then once again it will be winter, all muted blue days and snow glittering in the moonlight. With every passing year, Jorvik will be different in one of the small ways it always is. You don’t yet know how, and you don’t care to.

Whatever it brings, it will be the future. That is all you could ever ask for.

[jorvikpov]

Jorvik feels strange these days.

For a time, you thought the world as you knew it was doomed to end. That you would be forced to stand by and watch as the island succumbed to the storm. Now, you know better. It never will. Not as long as your age-old magic courses through its roots. Not as long as the moon and stars shine upon it. Still, you sometimes feel like everything did end, only in a different way; nothing feels like before, after all, and what is an ending if not simply great, irreversible change? Jorvik is quiet. Calm. Peaceful. There’s nothing lurking in the shadows. There’s nobody watching your every move, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Your dreams and visions carry little meaning, for there is little to be said.

Everything has changed, and yet you are no different, no more or less, than you have always been. You are still everything. You are still only you. Your horse is by your side as always, warm and comforting and just as unchanged as you are. When you look up to the sky, you still see yourself in every ray of sun and in the moon and stars beyond and in the clouds slowly rolling away over the eastern mountains. In Silverglade, just by the forest’s edge, there is a small, snowy meadow. It shines a brilliant golden white, lit up by warm, bright sunbeams, and perhaps, too, by the ancient light shining deep within you. There is laughter all around, bubbling with quiet, comfortable joy. One of your friends calls out a name that’s yours, and yet isn’t. You aren’t sure where the line is drawn—in fact, you aren’t always sure it exists at all—but you don’t truly care to find out. You are still you, after all, regardless of how much else you also are. When your friend shares the joke she just told the other three, you laugh with your whole heart.

The days are slowly but surely growing brighter. With each rise and fall of the sun, you feel your breathing grow easier and easier. You are no longer bound by fate, nor by duty. You have not attempted to prod at the future beyond the rare, peaceful visions that come to you of their own volition; it will bring whatever it may. You have learned by now that the island will take you where you need to be. These days, you trust it more than ever.

All you know right now is this: tonight, the stars will be bright and the northern lights vivid across the night sky. Tomorrow, the sun will rise a little earlier than it did today, and the island it casts light upon will be different in one of the small ways it is every morning. The sun will keep rising and falling. Keep changing the island little by little. Winter will become spring and the rivers will melt, rushing once again down to the ocean, and in the awakening forests every bird will come together in a choir of chirps and whistles. Spring will become summer, and the neverending sunlight will blaze hot and bright even filtered through the crowns of the forests’ many trees. Summer will become autumn, colouring the island in golds and reds and oranges and bringing rainstorms the likes of which you’ll wonder if you’ve ever seen. One night late in October, the first frost will fall, and then once again it will be winter, all muted blue days and snow glittering in the moonlight. With every passing year, Jorvik will be different in one of the small ways it always is. You don’t yet know how, and you don’t care to.

Whatever it brings, it will be the future. That is all you could ever ask for.

[jorvikpov]

All around you, the ocean is dark and wild. Cold, harsh winds howl over Jorvik, whipping flurries of snowflakes around the ocean and tossing foaming waves ever harder onto the shore. You stand untouched in the eye of the storm, where all is eerily still. Face to face with you is the tempest’s catalyst.

An ancient creature towers over you. He does not move closer. Neither do you. You look into his many eyes, and for a moment, you almost feel like the two of you could come to an understanding. In some strange way, you are a pair—parallel lines across time and space, intersecting only at the very beginning and in this very moment. You have trodden the same path, separated only by the line between good and evil, and now you must both destroy the other. For a moment, you almost feel like there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes. Perhaps he loves this island just as much as you. Perhaps there is more to this than you thought.

Except then his eyes harden, and he moves to harm you. You cannot let it happen. Your paths may run parallel, but here, his must end. You cannot let his chaos reign over Jorvik. You cannot let the Dark Riders succeed. It was you, though it may have been a different you, who brought life to this island many, many years ago. He had no part in that creation. He has no part in that joy. He will have no part in the island’s future.

Deep within your soul, something is beginning to slowly buzz and hum. It grows into a quiet ringing in your ears and then a rushing and roaring through your body, no longer a hum but rather loud, garbled noises. You have never felt anything like it before, and yet it feels almost familiar. It is overwhelming; by this point, you feel like it consumes your entire being, and yet it is still growing. It wants to grow far, far beyond anything you have ever done. For a moment, you hesitate, tightening the reins on it and slowing, almost stopping, the flow of magic.

In front of you is an ancient, towering being, lit up by a gentle, golden glow. His many eyes bore into yours. His many limbs reach for you, stretching and curling through the air. The magic strains at the rope that you hold it by.

Let go.

The roaring in your ears grows.

You will know what to do.

You take a deep breath, and then you let go.

There is a great, primitive roar, like that of something ancient and unknowable coming back to life. It is no longer in your ears, but a real, deafening sound. It may be yours. It may be his. It doesn’t truly matter. It grows and grows until you can hear little else. Though you can hardly see it from the eye of your own storm, you know that you glow with something ancient and powerful. The Light Ceremony could never have held a candle to you. What you are doing is something unspoken, unknown, unknowable. Even you hardly know what it is, only that you can and must do it. 

You need not even ask your horse to step forward. In this moment, you are as good as one. It moves closer to him, and he recoils, almost as if in pain. The light is so bright that it is almost blinding, and your throat is beginning to grow sore. Your small, fragile human body was not made for this—your hands, your eyes, your heart are beginning to burn and to ache—and yet, this is where you belong. Magic courses from the depths of Jorvik’s roots and through your bloodstream, radiating out from every inch of your being. The dam is broken down and long forgotten, as are the reins and ropes you held around your magic. There are no more reasons to hesitate.

Though you aren’t sure how you know to do it, you raise a hand. Your light shifts. Focuses on him. He begins to recoil, as if in pain. Your roar grows louder and your light brighter until you cannot see or hear anything else. You close your eyes. The island courses through you. Galloping hooves. The moon and stars behind the thick, dark clouds. The raging storm. There is a second roar. It is not yours. It is something deeper. It is desperate. Pained. Garnok’s. Your light is bright even through your closed eyelids. The wind whips around you. Snow lashes into your face. You stand your ground.

His time is up.

There is a sound so loud that you cannot hear it and a light so bright that you cannot see it. Then, it is truly silent. Dark. Peaceful. The storm has stilled. The chorus of roaring has gone quiet. You need not open your eyes to know that he is gone, but you do anyway, so that you may see the world.

He is.

In front of you is a vast expanse of darkness. The ocean, you realise once your senses begin to reaccustom themselves to the world. The moon is bright, almost perfectly half-full, and its light glitters in the water. The waves lap gently against the shore. A gentle wind blows past you, rustling the fabric of your coat before moving further along the coast. You look up at the sky, eyes still adjusting to the low light, and one by one, the stars begin to blink into place.

At long last, there is peace.

[jorvikpov]

All around you, the ocean is dark and wild. Cold, harsh winds howl over Jorvik, whipping flurries of snowflakes around the ocean and tossing foaming waves ever harder onto the shore. You stand untouched in the eye of the storm, where all is eerily still. Face to face with you is the tempest’s catalyst.

An ancient creature towers over you. He does not move closer. Neither do you. You look into his many eyes, and for a moment, you almost feel like the two of you could come to an understanding. In some strange way, you are a pair—parallel lines across time and space, intersecting only at the very beginning and in this very moment. You have trodden the same path, separated only by the line between good and evil, and now you must both destroy the other. For a moment, you almost feel like there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes. Perhaps he loves this island just as much as you. Perhaps there is more to this than you thought.

Except then his eyes harden, and he moves to harm you. You cannot let it happen. Your paths may run parallel, but here, his must end. You cannot let his chaos reign over Jorvik. You cannot let the Dark Riders succeed. It was you, though it may have been a different you, who brought life to this island many, many years ago. He had no part in that creation. He has no part in that joy. He will have no part in the island’s future.

Deep within your soul, something is beginning to slowly buzz and hum. It grows into a quiet ringing in your ears and then a rushing and roaring through your body, no longer a hum but rather loud, garbled noises. You have never felt anything like it before, and yet it feels almost familiar. It is overwhelming; by this point, you feel like it consumes your entire being, and yet it is still growing. It wants to grow far, far beyond anything you have ever done. For a moment, you hesitate, tightening the reins on it and slowing, almost stopping, the flow of magic.

In front of you is an ancient, towering being, lit up by a gentle, golden glow. His many eyes bore into yours. His many limbs reach for you, stretching and curling through the air. The magic strains at the rope that you hold it by.

Let go.

The roaring in your ears grows.

You will know what to do.

You take a deep breath, and then you let go.

There is a great, primitive roar, like that of something ancient and unknowable coming back to life. It is no longer in your ears, but a real, deafening sound. It may be yours. It may be his. It doesn’t truly matter. It grows and grows until you can hear little else. Though you can hardly see it from the eye of your own storm, you know that you glow with something ancient and powerful. The Light Ceremony could never have held a candle to you. What you are doing is something unspoken, unknown, unknowable. Even you hardly know what it is, only that you can and must do it. 

You need not even ask your horse to step forward. In this moment, you are as good as one. It moves closer to him, and he recoils, almost as if in pain. The light is so bright that it is almost blinding, and your throat is beginning to grow sore. Your small, fragile human body was not made for this—your hands, your eyes, your heart are beginning to burn and to ache—and yet, this is where you belong. Magic courses from the depths of Jorvik’s roots and through your bloodstream, radiating out from every inch of your being. The dam is broken down and long forgotten, as are the reins and ropes you held around your magic. There are no more reasons to hesitate.

Though you aren’t sure how you know to do it, you raise a hand. Your light shifts. Focuses on him. He begins to recoil, as if in pain. Your roar grows louder and your light brighter until you cannot see or hear anything else. You close your eyes. The island courses through you. Galloping hooves. The moon and stars behind the thick, dark clouds. The raging storm. There is a second roar. It is not yours. It is something deeper. It is desperate. Pained. Garnok’s. Your light is bright even through your closed eyelids. The wind whips around you. Snow lashes into your face. You stand your ground.

His time is up.

There is a sound so loud that you cannot hear it and a light so bright that you cannot see it. Then, it is truly silent. Dark. Peaceful. The storm has stilled. The chorus of roaring has gone quiet. You need not open your eyes to know that he is gone, but you do anyway, so that you may see the world.

He is.

In front of you is a vast expanse of darkness. The ocean, you realise once your senses begin to reaccustom themselves to the world. The moon is bright, almost perfectly half-full, and its light glitters in the water. The waves lap gently against the shore. A gentle wind blows past you, rustling the fabric of your coat before moving further along the coast. You look up at the sky, eyes still adjusting to the low light, and one by one, the stars begin to blink into place.

At long last, there is peace.

[jorvikpov]

All around you, the ocean is dark and wild. Cold, harsh winds howl over Jorvik, whipping flurries of snowflakes around the ocean and tossing foaming waves ever harder onto the shore. You stand untouched in the eye of the storm, where all is eerily still. Face to face with you is the tempest’s catalyst.

An ancient creature towers over you. He does not move closer. Neither do you. You look into his many eyes, and for a moment, you almost feel like the two of you could come to an understanding. In some strange way, you are a pair—parallel lines across time and space, intersecting only at the very beginning and in this very moment. You have trodden the same path, separated only by the line between good and evil, and now you must both destroy the other. For a moment, you almost feel like there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes. Perhaps he loves this island just as much as you. Perhaps there is more to this than you thought.

Except then his eyes harden, and he moves to harm you. You cannot let it happen. Your paths may run parallel, but here, his must end. You cannot let his chaos reign over Jorvik. You cannot let the Dark Riders succeed. It was you, though it may have been a different you, who brought life to this island many, many years ago. He had no part in that creation. He has no part in that joy. He will have no part in the island’s future.

Deep within your soul, something is beginning to slowly buzz and hum. It grows into a quiet ringing in your ears and then a rushing and roaring through your body, no longer a hum but rather loud, garbled noises. You have never felt anything like it before, and yet it feels almost familiar. It is overwhelming; by this point, you feel like it consumes your entire being, and yet it is still growing. It wants to grow far, far beyond anything you have ever done. For a moment, you hesitate, tightening the reins on it and slowing, almost stopping, the flow of magic.

In front of you is an ancient, towering being, lit up by a gentle, golden glow. His many eyes bore into yours. His many limbs reach for you, stretching and curling through the air. The magic strains at the rope that you hold it by.

Let go.

The roaring in your ears grows.

You will know what to do.

You take a deep breath, and then you let go.

There is a great, primitive roar, like that of something ancient and unknowable coming back to life. It is no longer in your ears, but a real, deafening sound. It may be yours. It may be his. It doesn’t truly matter. It grows and grows until you can hear little else. Though you can hardly see it from the eye of your own storm, you know that you glow with something ancient and powerful. The Light Ceremony could never have held a candle to you. What you are doing is something unspoken, unknown, unknowable. Even you hardly know what it is, only that you can and must do it. 

You need not even ask your horse to step forward. In this moment, you are as good as one. It moves closer to him, and he recoils, almost as if in pain. The light is so bright that it is almost blinding, and your throat is beginning to grow sore. Your small, fragile human body was not made for this—your hands, your eyes, your heart are beginning to burn and to ache—and yet, this is where you belong. Magic courses from the depths of Jorvik’s roots and through your bloodstream, radiating out from every inch of your being. The dam is broken down and long forgotten, as are the reins and ropes you held around your magic. There are no more reasons to hesitate.

Though you aren’t sure how you know to do it, you raise a hand. Your light shifts. Focuses on him. He begins to recoil, as if in pain. Your roar grows louder and your light brighter until you cannot see or hear anything else. You close your eyes. The island courses through you. Galloping hooves. The moon and stars behind the thick, dark clouds. The raging storm. There is a second roar. It is not yours. It is something deeper. It is desperate. Pained. Garnok’s. Your light is bright even through your closed eyelids. The wind whips around you. Snow lashes into your face. You stand your ground.

His time is up.

There is a sound so loud that you cannot hear it and a light so bright that you cannot see it. Then, it is truly silent. Dark. Peaceful. The storm has stilled. The chorus of roaring has gone quiet. You need not open your eyes to know that he is gone, but you do anyway, so that you may see the world.

He is.

In front of you is a vast expanse of darkness. The ocean, you realise once your senses begin to reaccustom themselves to the world. The moon is bright, almost perfectly half-full, and its light glitters in the water. The waves lap gently against the shore. A gentle wind blows past you, rustling the fabric of your coat before moving further along the coast. You look up at the sky, eyes still adjusting to the low light, and one by one, the stars begin to blink into place.

At long last, there is peace.

[jorvikpov]

Slow, heavy hoofsteps thud against the snowy mountain path. The elegant strides of a shining silver mare. The quick, light steps of a rugged pony just barely keeping up. The slow, heavy beats of hooves older than any of you can fathom. The calm, steady treading of a yet calmer, steadier horse. At the front is your horse, whose steps only sound like home.

Dark, rough cliffsides frame the bone-white path in front of you perfectly; the slope only becomes gentle enough for snow to have properly settled on it far above you. Even so, you do not feel trapped, for where the stone walls of the dam once were is now a world only waiting, even begging, to be seen and heard and felt, and you only need to reach out a hand to feel it. The island is eerily still—not a wind along the coasts, not a wave in the ocean, not a trembling leaf in the forests—and you know, now, that this is the calm before the storm. Finality rests on your shoulders, as heavy as the world itself. Each breath you take and each step forward brings you closer to the only moment that has ever mattered. The only moment that ever will matter.

It is the first day in weeks that the sun shows itself. When golden light fills the mountain pass at midday, you climb a nearby lookout point to watch. Never before have you seen something so beautiful. The snow-covered mountains shine so brightly that they nearly blind you, and the inhospitable cliff walls surrounding the mountain pass almost begin to look warm. In the distance, the sea glitters with oranges and golds brighter than you’ve ever seen. In a crevice next to the lookout, a small, babbling brook gleams in the sunlight, somehow still flowing even in the deep, harsh cold.

Jorvik’s winters have always felt special. Now, you feel every tree’s pleasure at the sun’s return, the warmth once again cast upon their cold, weary branches. Every snowflake’s whimsical joy at finally getting to glitter bright golden once again. Every animal small and large stopping for a moment to feel the sun upon their skin. It leaves you awestruck in the same way Jorvik’s sunrise did the very first time you witnessed it. The sun slips back beneath the horizon after only a short while, and yet you feel like the glimpse of warm, golden light could keep you satisfied for an eternity.

Only long after sunset, when you are all far too worn out to keep riding, do you settle down for the night. You still have a long way to go, and it is best to keep up the pace. There is tension in the air; none of you have spoken since before you left, and something is beginning to bubble underneath the surface of the unbroken silence. You wait patiently. You have known since you began your long ride that the Soul Riders will ask you how you knew that it was time. When they finally do, huddled in a small half circle around a makeshift campfire, you answer honestly and without fear, for you feel all the island’s hope within you, and your horse’s muzzle is warm against your shoulder.

Off the coast, something is coming back to life. You have never been more ready to face it.

[jorvikpov]

Slow, heavy hoofsteps thud against the snowy mountain path. The elegant strides of a shining silver mare. The quick, light steps of a rugged pony just barely keeping up. The slow, heavy beats of hooves older than any of you can fathom. The calm, steady treading of a yet calmer, steadier horse. At the front is your horse, whose steps only sound like home.

Dark, rough cliffsides frame the bone-white path in front of you perfectly; the slope only becomes gentle enough for snow to have properly settled on it far above you. Even so, you do not feel trapped, for where the stone walls of the dam once were is now a world only waiting, even begging, to be seen and heard and felt, and you only need to reach out a hand to feel it. The island is eerily still—not a wind along the coasts, not a wave in the ocean, not a trembling leaf in the forests—and you know, now, that this is the calm before the storm. Finality rests on your shoulders, as heavy as the world itself. Each breath you take and each step forward brings you closer to the only moment that has ever mattered. The only moment that ever will matter.

It is the first day in weeks that the sun shows itself. When golden light fills the mountain pass at midday, you climb a nearby lookout point to watch. Never before have you seen something so beautiful. The snow-covered mountains shine so brightly that they nearly blind you, and the inhospitable cliff walls surrounding the mountain pass almost begin to look warm. In the distance, the sea glitters with oranges and golds brighter than you’ve ever seen. In a crevice next to the lookout, a small, babbling brook gleams in the sunlight, somehow still flowing even in the deep, harsh cold.

Jorvik’s winters have always felt special. Now, you feel every tree’s pleasure at the sun’s return, the warmth once again cast upon their cold, weary branches. Every snowflake’s whimsical joy at finally getting to glitter bright golden once again. Every animal small and large stopping for a moment to feel the sun upon their skin. It leaves you awestruck in the same way Jorvik’s sunrise did the very first time you witnessed it. The sun slips back beneath the horizon after only a short while, and yet you feel like the glimpse of warm, golden light could keep you satisfied for an eternity.

Only long after sunset, when you are all far too worn out to keep riding, do you settle down for the night. You still have a long way to go, and it is best to keep up the pace. There is tension in the air; none of you have spoken since before you left, and something is beginning to bubble underneath the surface of the unbroken silence. You wait patiently. You have known since you began your long ride that the Soul Riders will ask you how you knew that it was time. When they finally do, huddled in a small half circle around a makeshift campfire, you answer honestly and without fear, for you feel all the island’s hope within you, and your horse’s muzzle is warm against your shoulder.

Off the coast, something is coming back to life. You have never been more ready to face it.

[jorvikpov]

Slow, heavy hoofsteps thud against the snowy mountain path. The elegant strides of a shining silver mare. The quick, light steps of a rugged pony just barely keeping up. The slow, heavy beats of hooves older than any of you can fathom. The calm, steady treading of a yet calmer, steadier horse. At the front is your horse, whose steps only sound like home.

Dark, rough cliffsides frame the bone-white path in front of you perfectly; the slope only becomes gentle enough for snow to have properly settled on it far above you. Even so, you do not feel trapped, for where the stone walls of the dam once were is now a world only waiting, even begging, to be seen and heard and felt, and you only need to reach out a hand to feel it. The island is eerily still—not a wind along the coasts, not a wave in the ocean, not a trembling leaf in the forests—and you know, now, that this is the calm before the storm. Finality rests on your shoulders, as heavy as the world itself. Each breath you take and each step forward brings you closer to the only moment that has ever mattered. The only moment that ever will matter.

It is the first day in weeks that the sun shows itself. When golden light fills the mountain pass at midday, you climb a nearby lookout point to watch. Never before have you seen something so beautiful. The snow-covered mountains shine so brightly that they nearly blind you, and the inhospitable cliff walls surrounding the mountain pass almost begin to look warm. In the distance, the sea glitters with oranges and golds brighter than you’ve ever seen. In a crevice next to the lookout, a small, babbling brook gleams in the sunlight, somehow still flowing even in the deep, harsh cold.

Jorvik’s winters have always felt special. Now, you feel every tree’s pleasure at the sun’s return, the warmth once again cast upon their cold, weary branches. Every snowflake’s whimsical joy at finally getting to glitter bright golden once again. Every animal small and large stopping for a moment to feel the sun upon their skin. It leaves you awestruck in the same way Jorvik’s sunrise did the very first time you witnessed it. The sun slips back beneath the horizon after only a short while, and yet you feel like the glimpse of warm, golden light could keep you satisfied for an eternity.

Only long after sunset, when you are all far too worn out to keep riding, do you settle down for the night. You still have a long way to go, and it is best to keep up the pace. There is tension in the air; none of you have spoken since before you left, and something is beginning to bubble underneath the surface of the unbroken silence. You wait patiently. You have known since you began your long ride that the Soul Riders will ask you how you knew that it was time. When they finally do, huddled in a small half circle around a makeshift campfire, you answer honestly and without fear, for you feel all the island’s hope within you, and your horse’s muzzle is warm against your shoulder.

Off the coast, something is coming back to life. You have never been more ready to face it.

[jorvikpov]

It is a beautiful day. The sun is soon to return; the pale, cloudless sky is brighter than yesterday, just as it was brighter yesterday than the day before. The trees stand almost unmoving, for the wind is strangely absent even in this seaside town, and the moon rests low but bright on the northwestern horizon. The chill of midwinter nips at your cheeks, reaching even into the furthest, warmest corner of the stables.

It is a beautiful day, and yet you are not quite present.

You have tried for some time to reconnect with reality. There’s little to do other than bide your time, and during your seemingly neverending wait, you have attempted to find your footing again. You cannot. The more you try, the more you are drawn towards the great abyss on the other side of the dam. The more you are drawn to it, the more you think that the dam might have to break—that maybe it is inevitable. The more you think of it as inevitable, the more you find that you don’t mind the idea much. It calls to you. It would be so easy to give in. Today, you feel it pulling you towards it more than ever before, and you know that it is your final calling. Every string tugging on your heart leads there. You still do not know what the abyss holds. It scares you. Still, you must find out.

You weave your hands into your horse’s mane. It’s warm, and it feels like home. If only for a moment, the world feels a little lighter on your shoulders. The walls of the dam surround you, so close now that you needn’t even reach out a hand to feel the cold, hard stone pressing against you, and it is easy to lean towards the abyss. It is easy to lean a little bit further, and then another little bit, and another, until you feel like you can almost see beyond the dam. Nothing happens. The stone presses against every inch of your skin. You breathe a sigh of relief and lean further forward.

Deep in your soul, something cracks.

Hold on, my friend.

Everything is quiet. Neither dark nor light. Neither warm nor cold. Neither real nor unreal. You wonder if this truly was the end of you. If this is what ceasing to be feels like. Perfectly still and peaceful. An eternity in nothingness. Yes—that is it: you have become nothing. You are nothing, and you exist nowhere.

And then, you burst open.

Everything is you. You are the mountains and the valleys. The shining, singing ice of the frozen rivers and the water still flowing deep below. Every horse whose hooves ever thundered over Jorvik’s soft, green grass. Every star in the sky, the sun and moon, and the storm on the horizon. Every root deep in the dirt and rock of the island. You know why you never stopped longing. You know why the ache in your heart never ceased, even when it wasn’t clear what was calling to you. You know at long last why you came to Jorvik. It is you coursing through the roots and it is your magic surging through the island, for it was you who created it long, long ago, back when you and your horse were truly one and the same. You gave yourself up, then, and it gave Jorvik life. You are still giving it life with every breath you take, and now, it breathes life into you in return.

You open your eyes and peer into the abyss. It is full of you—or, rather, it is you. Deep within, there is a vision. Its very essence sets it apart from the world, and suddenly, the idea of your visions disconnecting you from reality feels strange. Foreign, almost. You hardly understand how it could ever happen when the difference between them is this plain, and yet you understand more than ever that they are both real: the distinction between them isn’t that of truth and falsehood, but that between the present moment and a memory. You reach out to the vision, wind it around your fingers until the string tightens, and tug it closer.

(Rain pelts your skin. Something dark is growing; it isn’t too close, nor is it all too far away. Off the coast, evil hangs heavy over the ocean. Your opponents grow stronger and stronger by the day, only waiting for the right moment to strike. They won’t wait for much longer. It is almost time.)

The vision passes, and everything is real. Your small, fragile, human body lies collapsed over your horse’s warm shape, and your breathing is deeper and slower than you ever thought possible. Your fingers are still woven into your horse’s mane. It is still warm. Still feels like coming home. The hay beneath you is warm and dry against your legs, and a few straws prick through the fabric of your trousers, poking and stinging your skin. Someone gallops by outside the stables, snow flurrying around the horse’s thundering hooves. The snow glitters with the pale, blue-purplish colour of the sky for a moment, and when it falls and settles, it joins the rest of the island’s snow in glowing, almost shining, in the gentle light. Stillness lies all over the island, but it feels closer to restlessness than to peace; almost like Jorvik is holding its breath.

You turn your head, feeling something damp where your cheek lay just a moment ago; when you raise a hand to your face, you catch a falling tear on your knuckle. Your horse lifts its head slowly, and in the kind, dark eye facing you, you see the same recognition that you know your horse sees in both of yours.

Though you are nowhere near any primeval root or tree that you know of, the blood running through your veins is buzzing with their warmth. In this moment, you feel untouchable. The midwinter chill nips at your damp cheeks, and yet you do not freeze. Danger and darkness loom closer overhead than ever before, and yet you are not afraid, for you know what is to come.

Jorvik called to you for a reason. Now, you must only listen and follow, and finish what you once started.

[jorvikpov]

It is a beautiful day. The sun is soon to return; the pale, cloudless sky is brighter than yesterday, just as it was brighter yesterday than the day before. The trees stand almost unmoving, for the wind is strangely absent even in this seaside town, and the moon rests low but bright on the northwestern horizon. The chill of midwinter nips at your cheeks, reaching even into the furthest, warmest corner of the stables.

It is a beautiful day, and yet you are not quite present.

You have tried for some time to reconnect with reality. There’s little to do other than bide your time, and during your seemingly neverending wait, you have attempted to find your footing again. You cannot. The more you try, the more you are drawn towards the great abyss on the other side of the dam. The more you are drawn to it, the more you think that the dam might have to break—that maybe it is inevitable. The more you think of it as inevitable, the more you find that you don’t mind the idea much. It calls to you. It would be so easy to give in. Today, you feel it pulling you towards it more than ever before, and you know that it is your final calling. Every string tugging on your heart leads there. You still do not know what the abyss holds. It scares you. Still, you must find out.

You weave your hands into your horse’s mane. It’s warm, and it feels like home. If only for a moment, the world feels a little lighter on your shoulders. The walls of the dam surround you, so close now that you needn’t even reach out a hand to feel the cold, hard stone pressing against you, and it is easy to lean towards the abyss. It is easy to lean a little bit further, and then another little bit, and another, until you feel like you can almost see beyond the dam. Nothing happens. The stone presses against every inch of your skin. You breathe a sigh of relief and lean further forward.

Deep in your soul, something cracks.

Hold on, my friend.

Everything is quiet. Neither dark nor light. Neither warm nor cold. Neither real nor unreal. You wonder if this truly was the end of you. If this is what ceasing to be feels like. Perfectly still and peaceful. An eternity in nothingness. Yes—that is it: you have become nothing. You are nothing, and you exist nowhere.

And then, you burst open.

Everything is you. You are the mountains and the valleys. The shining, singing ice of the frozen rivers and the water still flowing deep below. Every horse whose hooves ever thundered over Jorvik’s soft, green grass. Every star in the sky, the sun and moon, and the storm on the horizon. Every root deep in the dirt and rock of the island. You know why you never stopped longing. You know why the ache in your heart never ceased, even when it wasn’t clear what was calling to you. You know at long last why you came to Jorvik. It is you coursing through the roots and it is your magic surging through the island, for it was you who created it long, long ago, back when you and your horse were truly one and the same. You gave yourself up, then, and it gave Jorvik life. You are still giving it life with every breath you take, and now, it breathes life into you in return.

You open your eyes and peer into the abyss. It is full of you—or, rather, it is you. Deep within, there is a vision. Its very essence sets it apart from the world, and suddenly, the idea of your visions disconnecting you from reality feels strange. Foreign, almost. You hardly understand how it could ever happen when the difference between them is this plain, and yet you understand more than ever that they are both real: the distinction between them isn’t that of truth and falsehood, but that between the present moment and a memory. You reach out to the vision, wind it around your fingers until the string tightens, and tug it closer.

(Rain pelts your skin. Something dark is growing; it isn’t too close, nor is it all too far away. Off the coast, evil hangs heavy over the ocean. Your opponents grow stronger and stronger by the day, only waiting for the right moment to strike. They won’t wait for much longer. It is almost time.)

The vision passes, and everything is real. Your small, fragile, human body lies collapsed over your horse’s warm shape, and your breathing is deeper and slower than you ever thought possible. Your fingers are still woven into your horse’s mane. It is still warm. Still feels like coming home. The hay beneath you is warm and dry against your legs, and a few straws prick through the fabric of your trousers, poking and stinging your skin. Someone gallops by outside the stables, snow flurrying around the horse’s thundering hooves. The snow glitters with the pale, blue-purplish colour of the sky for a moment, and when it falls and settles, it joins the rest of the island’s snow in glowing, almost shining, in the gentle light. Stillness lies all over the island, but it feels closer to restlessness than to peace; almost like Jorvik is holding its breath.

You turn your head, feeling something damp where your cheek lay just a moment ago; when you raise a hand to your face, you catch a falling tear on your knuckle. Your horse lifts its head slowly, and in the kind, dark eye facing you, you see the same recognition that you know your horse sees in both of yours.

Though you are nowhere near any primeval root or tree that you know of, the blood running through your veins is buzzing with their warmth. In this moment, you feel untouchable. The midwinter chill nips at your damp cheeks, and yet you do not freeze. Danger and darkness loom closer overhead than ever before, and yet you are not afraid, for you know what is to come.

Jorvik called to you for a reason. Now, you must only listen and follow, and finish what you once started.

[jorvikpov]

It is a beautiful day. The sun is soon to return; the pale, cloudless sky is brighter than yesterday, just as it was brighter yesterday than the day before. The trees stand almost unmoving, for the wind is strangely absent even in this seaside town, and the moon rests low but bright on the northwestern horizon. The chill of midwinter nips at your cheeks, reaching even into the furthest, warmest corner of the stables.

It is a beautiful day, and yet you are not quite present.

You have tried for some time to reconnect with reality. There’s little to do other than bide your time, and during your seemingly neverending wait, you have attempted to find your footing again. You cannot. The more you try, the more you are drawn towards the great abyss on the other side of the dam. The more you are drawn to it, the more you think that the dam might have to break—that maybe it is inevitable. The more you think of it as inevitable, the more you find that you don’t mind the idea much. It calls to you. It would be so easy to give in. Today, you feel it pulling you towards it more than ever before, and you know that it is your final calling. Every string tugging on your heart leads there. You still do not know what the abyss holds. It scares you. Still, you must find out.

You weave your hands into your horse’s mane. It’s warm, and it feels like home. If only for a moment, the world feels a little lighter on your shoulders. The walls of the dam surround you, so close now that you needn’t even reach out a hand to feel the cold, hard stone pressing against you, and it is easy to lean towards the abyss. It is easy to lean a little bit further, and then another little bit, and another, until you feel like you can almost see beyond the dam. Nothing happens. The stone presses against every inch of your skin. You breathe a sigh of relief and lean further forward.

Deep in your soul, something cracks.

Hold on, my friend.

Everything is quiet. Neither dark nor light. Neither warm nor cold. Neither real nor unreal. You wonder if this truly was the end of you. If this is what ceasing to be feels like. Perfectly still and peaceful. An eternity in nothingness. Yes—that is it: you have become nothing. You are nothing, and you exist nowhere.

And then, you burst open.

Everything is you. You are the mountains and the valleys. The shining, singing ice of the frozen rivers and the water still flowing deep below. Every horse whose hooves ever thundered over Jorvik’s soft, green grass. Every star in the sky, the sun and moon, and the storm on the horizon. Every root deep in the dirt and rock of the island. You know why you never stopped longing. You know why the ache in your heart never ceased, even when it wasn’t clear what was calling to you. You know at long last why you came to Jorvik. It is you coursing through the roots and it is your magic surging through the island, for it was you who created it long, long ago, back when you and your horse were truly one and the same. You gave yourself up, then, and it gave Jorvik life. You are still giving it life with every breath you take, and now, it breathes life into you in return.

You open your eyes and peer into the abyss. It is full of you—or, rather, it is you. Deep within, there is a vision. Its very essence sets it apart from the world, and suddenly, the idea of your visions disconnecting you from reality feels strange. Foreign, almost. You hardly understand how it could ever happen when the difference between them is this plain, and yet you understand more than ever that they are both real: the distinction between them isn’t that of truth and falsehood, but that between the present moment and a memory. You reach out to the vision, wind it around your fingers until the string tightens, and tug it closer.

(Rain pelts your skin. Something dark is growing; it isn’t too close, nor is it all too far away. Off the coast, evil hangs heavy over the ocean. Your opponents grow stronger and stronger by the day, only waiting for the right moment to strike. They won’t wait for much longer. It is almost time.)

The vision passes, and everything is real. Your small, fragile, human body lies collapsed over your horse’s warm shape, and your breathing is deeper and slower than you ever thought possible. Your fingers are still woven into your horse’s mane. It is still warm. Still feels like coming home. The hay beneath you is warm and dry against your legs, and a few straws prick through the fabric of your trousers, poking and stinging your skin. Someone gallops by outside the stables, snow flurrying around the horse’s thundering hooves. The snow glitters with the pale, blue-purplish colour of the sky for a moment, and when it falls and settles, it joins the rest of the island’s snow in glowing, almost shining, in the gentle light. Stillness lies all over the island, but it feels closer to restlessness than to peace; almost like Jorvik is holding its breath.

You turn your head, feeling something damp where your cheek lay just a moment ago; when you raise a hand to your face, you catch a falling tear on your knuckle. Your horse lifts its head slowly, and in the kind, dark eye facing you, you see the same recognition that you know your horse sees in both of yours.

Though you are nowhere near any primeval root or tree that you know of, the blood running through your veins is buzzing with their warmth. In this moment, you feel untouchable. The midwinter chill nips at your damp cheeks, and yet you do not freeze. Danger and darkness loom closer overhead than ever before, and yet you are not afraid, for you know what is to come.

Jorvik called to you for a reason. Now, you must only listen and follow, and finish what you once started.

[jorvikpov]

It is a beautiful day. The sun is soon to return; the pale, cloudless sky is brighter than yesterday, just as it was brighter yesterday than the day before. The trees stand almost unmoving, for the wind is strangely absent even in this seaside town, and the moon rests low but bright on the northwestern horizon. The chill of midwinter nips at your cheeks, reaching even into the furthest, warmest corner of the stables.

It is a beautiful day, and yet you are not quite present.

You have tried for some time to reconnect with reality. There’s little to do other than bide your time, and during your seemingly neverending wait, you have attempted to find your footing again. You cannot. The more you try, the more you are drawn towards the great abyss on the other side of the dam. The more you are drawn to it, the more you think that the dam might have to break—that maybe it is inevitable. The more you think of it as inevitable, the more you find that you don’t mind the idea much. It calls to you. It would be so easy to give in. Today, you feel it pulling you towards it more than ever before, and you know that it is your final calling. Every string tugging on your heart leads there. You still do not know what the abyss holds. It scares you. Still, you must find out.

You weave your hands into your horse’s mane. It’s warm, and it feels like home. If only for a moment, the world feels a little lighter on your shoulders. The walls of the dam surround you, so close now that you needn’t even reach out a hand to feel the cold, hard stone pressing against you, and it is easy to lean towards the abyss. It is easy to lean a little bit further, and then another little bit, and another, until you feel like you can almost see beyond the dam. Nothing happens. The stone presses against every inch of your skin. You breathe a sigh of relief and lean further forward.

Deep in your soul, something cracks.

Hold on, my friend.

Everything is quiet. Neither dark nor light. Neither warm nor cold. Neither real nor unreal. You wonder if this truly was the end of you. If this is what ceasing to be feels like. Perfectly still and peaceful. An eternity in nothingness. Yes—that is it: you have become nothing. You are nothing, and you exist nowhere.

And then, you burst open.

Everything is you. You are the mountains and the valleys. The shining, singing ice of the frozen rivers and the water still flowing deep below. Every horse whose hooves ever thundered over Jorvik’s soft, green grass. Every star in the sky, the sun and moon, and the storm on the horizon. Every root deep in the dirt and rock of the island. You know why you never stopped longing. You know why the ache in your heart never ceased, even when it wasn’t clear what was calling to you. You know at long last why you came to Jorvik. It is you coursing through the roots and it is your magic surging through the island, for it was you who created it long, long ago, back when you and your horse were truly one and the same. You gave yourself up, then, and it gave Jorvik life. You are still giving it life with every breath you take, and now, it breathes life into you in return.

You open your eyes and peer into the abyss. It is full of you—or, rather, it is you. Deep within, there is a vision. Its very essence sets it apart from the world, and suddenly, the idea of your visions disconnecting you from reality feels strange. Foreign, almost. You hardly understand how it could ever happen when the difference between them is this plain, and yet you understand more than ever that they are both real: the distinction between them isn’t that of truth and falsehood, but that between the present moment and a memory. You reach out to the vision, wind it around your fingers until the string tightens, and tug it closer.

(Rain pelts your skin. Something dark is growing; it isn’t too close, nor is it all too far away. Off the coast, evil hangs heavy over the ocean. Your opponents grow stronger and stronger by the day, only waiting for the right moment to strike. They won’t wait for much longer. It is almost time.)

The vision passes, and everything is real. Your small, fragile, human body lies collapsed over your horse’s warm shape, and your breathing is deeper and slower than you ever thought possible. Your fingers are still woven into your horse’s mane. It is still warm. Still feels like coming home. The hay beneath you is warm and dry against your legs, and a few straws prick through the fabric of your trousers, poking and stinging your skin. Someone gallops by outside the stables, snow flurrying around the horse’s thundering hooves. The snow glitters with the pale, blue-purplish colour of the sky for a moment, and when it falls and settles, it joins the rest of the island’s snow in glowing, almost shining, in the gentle light. Stillness lies all over the island, but it feels closer to restlessness than to peace; almost like Jorvik is holding its breath.

You turn your head, feeling something damp where your cheek lay just a moment ago; when you raise a hand to your face, you catch a falling tear on your knuckle. Your horse lifts its head slowly, and in the kind, dark eye facing you, you see the same recognition that you know your horse sees in both of yours.

Though you are nowhere near any primeval root or tree that you know of, the blood running through your veins is buzzing with their warmth. In this moment, you feel untouchable. The midwinter chill nips at your damp cheeks, and yet you do not freeze. Danger and darkness loom closer overhead than ever before, and yet you are not afraid, for you know what is to come.

Jorvik called to you for a reason. Now, you must only listen and follow, and finish what you once started.

[jorvikpov]

jorvikpov posting schedule will be a bit weird so figured I’d make a post :) this week’s post on Thursday, next week both Tuesday and Thursday, and then week after that Tuesday. 22:30 CET as always.

if nothing very unexpected happens, which I damn well hope it doesn’t

[jorvikpov]

At long last, your seemingly endless search has come to an end. Yet, it is far from a triumphant victory; bittersweet at best. The answers you have found only bring on more questions. More problems to be solved. Where they bring hope, they also bring despair, and where they bring solace, they also bring dread. There is something that could be done, after all—that could bring an end to things for good—but it seems so frighteningly impossible that you feel even further from a solution than before. If this is your only chance, and it would certainly seem that way judging by the hundreds if not thousands of books you have combed through, you are barely left with any chance at all.

In the library’s basement, the hardwood floor has become worn and eroded with time. In one particularly decrepit corner, a root pokes through the half-rotten planks. It is hard to say if the floor has shifted around it over time or if it was always there, and it seems strange to find such a thing this far underground; regardless, it seems to belong. You sit there often. Touching the root feels familiar, almost like coming home. It buzzes with a warmth that you could never quite put words to before. You understand it better now. Running through the very foundation of Jorvik is a sprawling network of ancient, living roots. If the legends reaccounted in the great, dusty tome you found in the library’s furthest corner are to be trusted, Aideen herself courses through them. She may have given herself up all those countless years ago, but she never truly disappeared; she is still and always here, keeping the island alive just as she gave it life in the beginning. Someday, it is said, Jorvik will call to her for help, and she will once again be awakened.

The scholar noting down the legends seemed doubtful of their legitimacy at best and downright mocking at worst, but the Moon Rider brushed it off—this book is all you have, after all, and what reason would a learned scholar, a woman of science, have to believe in ancient Druidic legends? It feels like a thin, weak thread to hold on to, but it is all you have. The Moon Rider reminds you with care every so often that she saw the book in a vision, and that both of your powers, at their core, come from Aideen. In a way, the goddess herself guided you to this book. Surely, then, it must hold some truth.

The Moon Rider asks you, on occasion, if you have had any visions as of late. These days, your answer is always no. Her ever-present frown always deepens, as if she had expected a different reply this time around, and then she shakes it off and returns to her research. You try not to think much of her concern, or the fact that you haven’t had a vision in weeks, now. You hope desperately that it is a sign that things are okay. Perhaps your opponents have been halted in their quest to grow stronger. Perhaps there is no hurry. Perhaps you have plenty of time to figure out the next step of your mission. Even so, you feel like you are teetering just at the edge of something—a great abyss, or a cliff you cannot see beyond—and, yet, like the edge is just out of reach. It’s as though the walls you’ve built around yourself are closing in on you and the clouds overhead becoming denser with every passing moment, keeping you from seeing beyond the fall. These days, you only need to reach out the smallest bit to feel cold, hard stone.

You have completely stopped spending your nights in the library. With the mission you came here on completed and any further research seemingly hopeless, there is no more reason for you to stay there, especially when the stables bring you far more peace and quiet. Still, you almost never find rest. You dream of surges of power so great that you wake with a thundering heart and a looming fear that you will be destroyed by something within yourself. You dream of the dam bursting, of everything you have so carefully built up and repaired coming down in less than a moment never to come back, of the freedom that follows, then wake in a cold sweat, every inch of your body trembling with fear of what that would do to you. You dream of something so ancient it is unknowable and so terrifying it is unthinkable, but somehow, in the dream, carries a strange sense of familiarity so strong that you feel like you have known it and thought it all your life. You wake gasping for air and yet feeling, for a moment, like you are breathing deeper than you ever have before. At times, you wonder if these dreams are visions, but you brush the thought off as soon as it comes to you. They cannot be. They must not come to fruition. You have not had a vision in weeks. The dreams are nothing only just that: dreams.

Sometimes, just after waking while your dream has yet to leave you, you feel like the walls of the dam are beginning to tremble—to weaken with time—and wonder for a moment if learning the unknowable is inevitable. The moment you fully awaken, the thought once again feels irrational at best, and yet, it will strike you again the next time you wake from a strange dream. So the cycle repeats itself over and over each and every night until the rooster crows in the morning and you leave once again for the library. It is far from a pleasant cycle, and yet, you hope to stay in it for as long as you can. All you know to do with the future is dread it. You have no wish to find out what is to come.

[jorvikpov]

At long last, your seemingly endless search has come to an end. Yet, it is far from a triumphant victory; bittersweet at best. The answers you have found only bring on more questions. More problems to be solved. Where they bring hope, they also bring despair, and where they bring solace, they also bring dread. There is something that could be done, after all—that could bring an end to things for good—but it seems so frighteningly impossible that you feel even further from a solution than before. If this is your only chance, and it would certainly seem that way judging by the hundreds if not thousands of books you have combed through, you are barely left with any chance at all.

In the library’s basement, the hardwood floor has become worn and eroded with time. In one particularly decrepit corner, a root pokes through the half-rotten planks. It is hard to say if the floor has shifted around it over time or if it was always there, and it seems strange to find such a thing this far underground; regardless, it seems to belong. You sit there often. Touching the root feels familiar, almost like coming home. It buzzes with a warmth that you could never quite put words to before. You understand it better now. Running through the very foundation of Jorvik is a sprawling network of ancient, living roots. If the legends reaccounted in the great, dusty tome you found in the library’s furthest corner are to be trusted, Aideen herself courses through them. She may have given herself up all those countless years ago, but she never truly disappeared; she is still and always here, keeping the island alive just as she gave it life in the beginning. Someday, it is said, Jorvik will call to her for help, and she will once again be awakened.

The scholar noting down the legends seemed doubtful of their legitimacy at best and downright mocking at worst, but the Moon Rider brushed it off—this book is all you have, after all, and what reason would a learned scholar, a woman of science, have to believe in ancient Druidic legends? It feels like a thin, weak thread to hold on to, but it is all you have. The Moon Rider reminds you with care every so often that she saw the book in a vision, and that both of your powers, at their core, come from Aideen. In a way, the goddess herself guided you to this book. Surely, then, it must hold some truth.

The Moon Rider asks you, on occasion, if you have had any visions as of late. These days, your answer is always no. Her ever-present frown always deepens, as if she had expected a different reply this time around, and then she shakes it off and returns to her research. You try not to think much of her concern, or the fact that you haven’t had a vision in weeks, now. You hope desperately that it is a sign that things are okay. Perhaps your opponents have been halted in their quest to grow stronger. Perhaps there is no hurry. Perhaps you have plenty of time to figure out the next step of your mission. Even so, you feel like you are teetering just at the edge of something—a great abyss, or a cliff you cannot see beyond—and, yet, like the edge is just out of reach. It’s as though the walls you’ve built around yourself are closing in on you and the clouds overhead becoming denser with every passing moment, keeping you from seeing beyond the fall. These days, you only need to reach out the smallest bit to feel cold, hard stone.

You have completely stopped spending your nights in the library. With the mission you came here on completed and any further research seemingly hopeless, there is no more reason for you to stay there, especially when the stables bring you far more peace and quiet. Still, you almost never find rest. You dream of surges of power so great that you wake with a thundering heart and a looming fear that you will be destroyed by something within yourself. You dream of the dam bursting, of everything you have so carefully built up and repaired coming down in less than a moment never to come back, of the freedom that follows, then wake in a cold sweat, every inch of your body trembling with fear of what that would do to you. You dream of something so ancient it is unknowable and so terrifying it is unthinkable, but somehow, in the dream, carries a strange sense of familiarity so strong that you feel like you have known it and thought it all your life. You wake gasping for air and yet feeling, for a moment, like you are breathing deeper than you ever have before. At times, you wonder if these dreams are visions, but you brush the thought off as soon as it comes to you. They cannot be. They must not come to fruition. You have not had a vision in weeks. The dreams are nothing only just that: dreams.

Sometimes, just after waking while your dream has yet to leave you, you feel like the walls of the dam are beginning to tremble—to weaken with time—and wonder for a moment if learning the unknowable is inevitable. The moment you fully awaken, the thought once again feels irrational at best, and yet, it will strike you again the next time you wake from a strange dream. So the cycle repeats itself over and over each and every night until the rooster crows in the morning and you leave once again for the library. It is far from a pleasant cycle, and yet, you hope to stay in it for as long as you can. All you know to do with the future is dread it. You have no wish to find out what is to come.