Thunder rumbled deeply overhead as glass rattled from the lighted chandeliers that very gently swayed, now giving way to forgotten particles of dust that sat up high within the rafters over the library halls and showered down nearly unseen to the naked eye here and there. As goes to show, that even the most thorough of custodians could never be immaculate in their work. There was always a nook or cranny somewhere, someplace; that even the most capable of hands and minds might not be able to reach entirely or even as often given the patterns of the day and how the sun sat, the clouds came, and so on and so forth as with weather and all such things.
Saedre felt a familiar tickle upon her nose and immediately reached into her pocket for her handkerchief, sneezing quite promptly into it just in the nick of time before getting it all over the book she was casually leafing through at the end of one of the aisles. No matter how courteous she was in keeping the sneeze contained and as quietly as possible, in a library where solitude was key, she still felt the gaze of some onlookers who were annoyed by the natural disruption to their studies and day to day, as if the inclement weather outside wasn’t causing enough of a ruckus as it was. Perhaps there was a time where she may have given the same look to another under the amassing pressures of approaching deadlines to midterms and final exams, and so, she could only let the discomfort roll off of her shoulders.
Before she could put the book away she had suddenly grown bored with, one of the library custodians approached with a well-polished cart and patiently waited for the elezen woman to set the book onto it instead of returning it back to the shelf. Understanding the process a million times over and the intent that the book would need to be properly cleaned anyway as a precaution before it could be returned to the shelf, Saedre surrendered the book with a gentle smile and a nod before she looked to the opposite end of the hall.
How long would it be before the storm would pass? She really didn’t have much of a reason to be here at the primary library as it was, but if she had spent another moment at her family home in silence, pondering on the worries of her family and the archonship she had wanted so badly for herself before, surely she would have driven herself mad. In truth, and only to herself had she come to terms and accepted, that even if archonship would be out of the cards for her after everything - well, then there would just have to be other possibilities now, wouldn’t there?
Fiorenze turned sharply, her eyes wide and ears pinned back. That hadn’t been what she expected to hear from around the thick bramble of bushes she’d been foraging for saxifrage in.
She didn’t recognize the girl, armored in spellweave with leaves clinging to her loose brunette braid and dirt smudged on her cheek. But maybe she did — the soft swell of her cheeks, porcelain skin and bright eyes were the same as what she saw in the mirror every day.
Her mouth went dry.
“It’s you, isn’t it?”
Fiorenze wasn’t sure what to do but stare and listen to her heart thunder in her ears.
The girl — woman, she was a woman grown — ran up and hugged her, making the hazy edges that her shards of reality had taken on as soon as she’d spoken come crashing together, “I saw Aunt Pyra out here days ago and hid because— well— I was right. You’re here.”
It took a moment, but Fiorenze hugged the unnamed daughter back. Acrid ozone, the same scent that lingered all around Eon’s Fringe, clung to her. “Am I not in your timeline?” She knew the answer already; there was too much joy, too much hope, in the younger woman’s tone.
“Am I not in yours?” Her time-lost child pulled back and looked at her, blue eyes bright and brimming with soft tears. She had a spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks — like Pyraelia did. This close, Fiorenze could see Halandir’s influence, too. Less than her own family’s, but still there.
Fio shook her head and reached up to rub at a smudge of dirt on the girl’s cheek away, “I have no children here. What’s your name?”
“Sylmae! And there’s Finn, too, but he’s not here. He doesn’t like to fight, which Father prefers. I think he’s his favorite, I look too much like you— it doesn’t matter, I found you,” she hugged Fio again, tightly.
The knife twisted as Fiorenze smiled; Sylmae had been her mother-in-law’s name. She’d had the children Halandir had always wanted — did he love her there, until she died? Did he love her still? “He’s not remarried has he? Your father, I mean.”
“No, never,” Sylmae’s voice was muffled from where she’d pressed her face into the crook of Fio’s neck, “He tried but apparently all the courting was exhausting and—”
How interesting.
Fiorenze carefully, kindly, put some distance between herself and Sylmae, keeping the fae child at arms distance. It was hard not to smile fondly, and it was harder not to want to keep her. But what if she could go there?
“If I find the right portal, can—” Sylmae looked up at her, hopeful, before she broke off into a bright, disappointed laugh, “That’s… It doesn’t work like that, does it? I’m being ridiculous.”
What did she have here, really? Pyraelia and Keranna, but they’d both be fine without her. They’d understand. Xylaes… they hadn’t talked in over a month, and every time she’d wanted to recently it felt like she’d be intruding. He had his son, the mercenary group, and she’d never measure up to Callia. Arandori and Tinnaire had other friends. They’d all be fine without her, wouldn’t they?
Her brow furrowed a bit before she shook her head and smiled, “Walk with me? I… maybe it does. My sister has a friend here from another timeline — they’re trying to find a way to keep her here forever. Maybe I can offer a trade? Or… I don’t know. I’m not going to promise you anything.”
“I get it. It’s nice to think about the possibility though. What if I stayed here? Like Aunt Pyra’s friend? I’m not— well— home isn’t—” Sylmae sighed, obviously a little flustered. Overwhelmed, like Pyraelia got sometimes.
“Maybe. We can ask. That’s the least we can do. The Bronzes are—”
“Pretentious assholes? Oh. Sorry. Language,” her daughter had the grace to look a little sheepish, but not sorry.
Fiorenze smiled wryly, heart aching, “No need to censor yourself on my account, darling. There’s a lot for us to catch up on. We can take the longer path back.”
@daily-writing-challenge / @kharrisdawndancer & @xylaes small mentions.
Khaeris wrinkled her nose and turned over in the bed. It was deep night. Fans of enchanted leaves stirred the warm air through the otherwise still. Stars seemed to twinkle around her, falling through the dark. She slept on.
…sssSSZZZzzzz…
Her ear flicked and her earring caught the first light of dawn to throw a sparkle against the wall. Khaeris pulled the sheet over herself and twisted away from the noise.
…sSSSSZZZZZzzz…
The elven woman blinked owlishly. Daybreak. It was about that time. She covered her yawn with a fist before stretching her arms up over her head. Today there was nothing on her schedule except see where the day took her. She reached over to turn off the alarm and realized there was no alarm. No white noise coming from her comm to help her sleep (Thank you, Pollux).
She rubbed at her eyes, feeling the grit of sleep tug. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed she felt the rug give oddly under her feet. It had been thick and plush the night before, but when she looked down it was full of sand.
Shimmering, glittering, temporal sand.
…SSSSSSSSZZZZZZZZZZ…
She could feel it everywhere now. A light dusting of the stuff throughout the room with the heaviest focus on the bed. On her.
S’era gazed upon the sword with the sun setting in the horizon behind it in silence. It was another day for rest, another day to gather herself. Yet S’era’s heart could not be tamed. Fury still coursed through her veins. Hatred gripped her heart like an accursed hand. Her tribe rejoiced in the complete annihilation of the shelled men, the Garleans, but there was no joy for her. Thanalan’s thirst for blood had been quenched, but not hers. Her beloved S’tage was still dead, the ones responsible for that have passed beyond the veil as well– she made sure of that. Yet her heart still yearned for revenge, her soul still ached for justice. With the shelled men all dead or gone, could she ever truly know peace? For years she’s devoted her life to their destruction, and despite drenching the land in their vile blood, she found no peace from her torment.
Perhaps she was broken. Perhaps Azeyma Herself was punishing her for going against the decree of her tribe’s former matron. She was not of the warrior caste yet she bore their scars and spilled blood in their name all the same. Would the Goddess really rebuke her for such acts? She never had a more loyal servant, truly?
S’era closed her eyes and listened to the distant celebrations far below. Eventually she would have to join them, lest they go searching for her and discover this grave. A brave face is what she needed– soon– but not now. Now she struggled with her inner demons, and for the first time in her life since taking up the sword she no longer had a clear goal to pursue. The shelled men have been driven from their castrums, their homelands burned, their people scattered. No longer would their children hide in fear of their golems of steel and flame! No longer would their black helmets haunt their dreams! Today should be a day to celebrate, should it not? The great enemy of the Miqo’te has been brought low by Azeyma’s chosen people, never to return and taint the badlands of Thanalan ever again. Surely this should make her happy.
But it didn’t. S’era was cursed to know no peace from this hatred until she was capable of letting it go. IF she was capable of letting it go, that is. For now she would have to find more enemies of her tribe to slaughter… or perhaps this maddening hatred would leave her once she did what she was destined to do– settle down and help bring more children into the world. Her Nunh, S’vahli, was not a terrible ruler by any means… she could provide him with fierce daughters, surely. However the thought of that only seemed to make her angry. Thinking made her angry. Kneeling here made her angry.
Perhaps it was time to return to the others and revel with her family.
August 2023 DWC
Day 3: Ominous / Possibility
CW: Death; some blood
The crystal clear water in the basin ripped as Luminash dropped his fallen son’s – someone else’s fallen son’s, perhaps better to think – necklace, letting it slip through the glassy surface and settle on the bottom.
Scrying had never been his strongest skill, let alone focusing on something behind a veil woven from time’s threads, but he had to try. Theras had excused himself, and had only returned to retrieve his effects before heading to Valdrakken. To clear his head, the young man had said with a strained smile. He’d be back soon enough, he promised. Luminash believed him. At least, that this Theras would return.
A surge of Arcane power sprung from the magister’s palms as he lay them upon the basin’s edge. The glow, bright violet-white, flowed into the water, setting it into motion, swirling with bands of temporal gold. The other Theras was too far gone, but what possibilities lay beyond the expanse of time and space? An infinity, to be certain. In the water, nonetheless, a hazy image began to form.
* * * * * * *
A spray of ichor flew free as the ghoul’s chest collapsed under the force of Theras’ spear. Others around it fell, too, courtesy of other defenders, a mixture of magisters, his father among them, and their apprentices, Farstriders, Blood Knights, and mercenaries. More always came, clambering over their dead. The Scourge force knew no end, and with the Crown of Domination shattered, some began to fear it never would.
“Loose!” A command from behind the front lines, followed by a hail of arrows driving into the heart of the Scourge mass.
The Blood Knights were pulling back towards the Farstrider ranks, a few skirmishers like Theras, lightly armored, swift, and relentless, harassing the Scourge’s flanks to keep them channeled into the archers’ range.
Truly, he was more comfortable on his own here than relying on the Blood Knights’ shields to protect him. A sweep of his bladed spear towards the knees of a few shambling skeletons and their brittle bones split, sending them toppling to the ground blackened with death and drying blood.
“Loose!” Another volley of arrows came, interspersed with flame, frost, and whirling bolts of pure energy. A scan of the battle, and a pang of concern. Amidst the shouts of the elves and the gurgling of the Scourge, sounds of panicked disorder. The left flank, across the Scar from the Theras, was buckling. Did the others not see it?
The younger Dawnwing hefted his spear as he began to stride, and threw the weapon, driving it through another ghoul and into the ground behind it. At a dash now, he pulled the spear from its resting place, sweeping blows clearing a path before him, dry and brittle Scourge crumbling.
“Loose!” Another rain of barbs, now striking in the thick of the Scourge overrunning the left flank, clearing enough of the rotting, shambling bodies for Theras to make out, in their midst, a circle of the Cult of the Damned. The men, wreathed in necromantic magic, drew their broken, fallen chaff back from their second resting places and threw them anew against the Thalassian defenders!
How many of his countrymen were dying in this field right now because of them? How cowardly that no one was striking at their heart, cutting off the enemy’s reinforcements at their source. Flickers in his mind of Silver Covenant cutting down Sunreavers. How cowardly they had been to run. How cowardly he had been to hide. How–
Theras’ foot caught, at first he thought on a stone, but he saw the truth too late, bony fingers curling around his ankle. A fallen skeleton still scrabbling in the dirt for prey. He kicked, shaking one grasping hand free, only to feel another from behind, new dark magic swirling around inanimate bones. Then another, clawing its way from under a layer of loose soil.
The ranger brought his spear down, piercing the skull of one assailant, but before he could pull back for another blow, he felt a grip on the haft, dragging the weapon to the ground, the rotten fingers of a newly-rising ghoul wrapped around the wood. Panic began to set in with the dull, distant realization that he was alone. The rest were pulling back. He saw, on the high ground where the archers were stationed, his father shoving through the retreating Blood Knights, curses on his lips.
There came the creaking of bones from behind, and before Theras could try again to shake free, he felt the tip of the spear. Then more as the Scourge soldier, rusted and dented armor rattling over long-dead bones, pressed the weapon home, breaking through Theras’ leathers and sliding between his ribs.
As he faltered, knees sinking to the ground, cold, clammy flesh and dry bone clawing him down, he saw his father again, closer. It must have been delirium that gave him this vision, but his father blazed in the Arcane, less an elf and more a raw force, any Scourge soldier coming close nearly evaporating from wild bolts whirling from the magister, their rotted bodies shredded until little remained.
“Theras!” The voice was distant, but familiar. It was his father, but it sounded like…
“My son!” Yes, his father was speaking, but somewhere else was…mother? The realization struck as light faded from his eyes, blood pooling on the ground as Scourge began to tear at his still-living flesh.
This must be…
* * * * * * *
The magister, like the vision in the pool, slumped and fell to his knees, grasping vainly at the edge of the basin and sending it toppling to the floor, water pouring forth, blessedly empty of any bitter, vile sights. His stomach was in knots; he could taste bile in his throat; his head swam, and he felt faint.
As he recovered his senses, the sleeves of his robe clinging to his arms, wet with the spilled scrying water, he recalled that day. It had been among the final pushes by the Scourge before mortals had ventured into the Shadowlands, but that day, Theras had come back. The left flank had collapsed, and the Scourge fell under a counterattack after reinforcements arrived. He had not run off to play the hero. He came home.
But for Luminash’s echo, that other possibility, he hadn’t.
The air was thick with fog as Santana hunted in the black forest. The trees towered overhead, illuminated only by the bright full moon. A chill is in the air as she walks deeper into the interior. She doesn't even feel the cold as her heart picks up in pace at the thrill of the hunt.
These woods were off-limits to outsiders. Only those brought in for her amusement would be there tonight. Low lives who had done things that true gentlemen and women did not speak of. Her prey.
Tonight though, something was different. The forest was too quiet. Santana could barely even hear the sound of the usual insects and animals. At first, she paid little attention to it, but she realized her sense of direction felt off as well. Had she just walked past that tree just a few minutes ago?
She turned suddenly from right to left, spinning in a circle. She felt like somebody was watching her. She shakes her head, her mind feeling foggy. What is going on? Her mind feels thick like syrup. Something was wrong.
She needed to get out of the woods. She moves forward but staggers. She tries to shift into her raven form but finds she can't. She doesn't panic. At least not yet. She wasn't one to freak out so quickly, but she was beginning to feel very uneasy.
She reached up to the amulet at her neck and noticed it was glowing red. It meant something was wrong, very wrong. It was connected to her sister Lizabeth's bracelet, and they only shone when one of them was in danger. She had a feeling this time it was her.
She staggered forward a few more steps, and the trees around her swam in her view. It didn't make sense. This was her land, her forest, wasn't it? Yet it was clear tonight something was wrong.
Still, she continued to stagger forward, her head dizzy as she moved. Was the fog growing thicker? Or was her mind just playing tricks on her. The mist was now halfway up her legs and swirling with each step. She staggers and grabs a tree nearby to keep herself upright.
She needs more light. She takes a deep breath and tries to conjure some but, with horror, realizes that she can't cast.
Now she was beginning to panic. Her eyes flickered back and forth, wondering what was going on. What is this? This wasn't possible.
Yet it was happening. She tried to think of the events before coming to the forest but now realized that information was hazy. The last thing she remembered was getting into her carriage to take the jaunt to the woods and then being in the forest. The ride was a complete blank.
Suddenly something hits her in the neck. She reaches up and pulls what seems to be a dart from her skin. Immediately the toxin takes effect, and her eyes start to feel heavy. She slips to the forest floor, falling over onto her back and looking up about the time when a shadow bends over her.
Just as Santana is about to pass out, the person speaks. "How does it feel to be the prey, Lady Ravenwood? Don't worry; I don't plan on killing you. Yet."
Elu turned over and then back over, but the nightmare would not go away no matter how much she turned.
The room had grown cold from her stress, and the glass mirror across the room strained as the dream continued, not waking the poor woman but not letting her honestly sleep.
She walked into a dark forest in her dream, no, her nightmare. The night was so dark she could barely see in front of her. No stars or even a moon in the sky, nothing to light her way. Sounds came at her from what seemed every direction, sounding almost like whispers.
She shivers, but not from the cold. She had a way of regulating her temperature, so she rarely got too hot or cold. No, she shivered because something felt wrong as she walked deeper into the forest.
A twig broke behind her, and Elu gasped, stopping to turn, but she could see nothing. She waits several moments before she continues her journey when she thinks she hears heavy breathing. She picks up the pace, almost into a jog, but without seeing where she is going, she felt like she was getting nowhere.
Dense blackness is interrupted by a cackle of laughter. "Where are you going? You can't run from yourself, and yet you keep trying."
NO, Elu thought to herself. It couldn't be. Yet suddenly, she slammed into something, or perhaps someone. A tiny sliver of light appeared in the clearing, illuminating the two figures, and standing across from Elu was somebody she recognized and yet did not.
Herself, and yet she wasn't.
This woman did not share her blonde hair and blue eyes. Her hair was black as night as were her eyes.
She laughs once more. "Thought I was gone, didn't you? But I am never gone. I am you. The version of yourself that you avoid and attempt to conceal from the world. Yet every decision you make lately, you strengthen me."
Elu shakes her head. "No, you aren't real. You are just some manifestation of my guilt, of my failures." She closes her eyes, willing the mirror image of herself to disappear.
In her bed, Elu whimpers in her sleep, her body shivering slightly, mirroring her dream self. The mirror stresses more, and the drinking glass on the side table shatters. No, she whimpers, no.
In her dream, the woman across from her shakes her head. "I once told you I was coming. You want new beginnings. I am going to give you new beginnings. You may pretend otherwise, but we both know who you really are deep down. The darkness within you is growing. You can feel it. You want to let me out, to be free."
Elu shakes her head and closes her eyes again, trying desperately to wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up. She repeats over and over.
Elu is jolted awake as the dark-haired woman laughs once more. Despite the room's cold, her skin had a light sheen. She breathes heavily, her heart racing inside her chest.
A splintering sound can be heard across the room as the mirror cracks down the middle. As her reflection is cast, she sees herself on one side and the dark-haired woman on the other, laughing at her, a whisper in her mind. "Soon."
For years she had been fighting, but even she could feel herself losing the battle. She was tired, and the darkness felt like it were the solution, not the problem. She hated herself for those feelings, those thoughts. Perhaps the woman was right; she should let her be free.
