#caeruleus aether

[caeruleusaether]

It’s one of the highest peaks in Anwfynn and overlooks a sloping valley. It’s awe inspiring during the day. At night, it’s breathtaking. It’s one of his favourite places in the realm. The lands almost look ethereal in the light of the three moons, glow worms drifting in and out of the tall grasses. The plants don’t glow the same way they do in Elphyne, but they hold the warm light of the sun. As night settles over the land, lanterns and string lights begin to glow.

“You’ll miss it.” Dáire points heavenward, eyes focused on the night sky.

Aurana follows his gaze and waits for something to happen. As the sky darkens further, she gasps. Faint starlines creating intricate patterns slowly appear. Circles and swirls touching straight lines, like a star map. She watches them, enraptured by the sight. “Your Empyreal Vault looks like this every night?”

Dáire makes an affirmative sound. “You have a river of stars in yours, we have this.”

“We’re not here to catch stars?” she teases. It hasn’t been long since Dáire was released from the healing halls, but he was given strict rules: no fighting, no smithing; rest and walking for short periods of time are allowed. So, coming all the way here, while technically allowed, is pushing it. It’s at least not the highest peak in Anwfynn.

“If I pull something or tear any stitching out, I’ll never hear the end of it,” he says with a roll of his eyes. That gets him a small chuckle. They sit on Aurana’s wool chlamys as they watch starlines create and trace patterns. “But I wanted to show you this and something else.”

Aurana frowns. What could possibly outdo starlines? Then she hears it: a faint crackling sound. She looks over to Dáire to read his expression.

“Keep watching.”

She turns back, and green shimmering, dancing lights slowly fill the sky, drowning out the starlines. The longer she watches, the more colours appear: red and purple, even blue. She’s never seen anything like it in all her existence. Not even when she traveled to Acone. “Do they reach the land?” she whispers.

“Only if you whistle at them,” he tells her. “But if you do, the lights will come down and snatch you away.”

“If we climb to a higher place, could we touch them?”

She hears the smile in his voice as he says, “No, not that I know of. But some people see them as omens of doom.” He tells her every story he remembers about the dancing lights. From the arrival of gods to portents of doom; to ancestors visiting for a short while to the veil between the planes thinning to allow a crossing between them. Aurana listens while watching the lights crackle and dance in the ever-deepening sky.

“This might be better than waiting for stars to fall in our laps,” she says when he finishes. Aurana glances to him. “But you shouldn’t be pushing yourself so hard.”

“The cleric cleared me,” he says defensively, unconsciously reaching for his wound. It doesn’t hurt as much now. There’s a twinge if he moves a little too much, and it bleeds if he pushes his body too far, but it’s mostly healed. Nothing the Light of his god can’t handle.

She turns to him, fingers hovering over his hand but not quite touching. “Dáire, your lungs were rattling. And there was so much blood.”

He hesitates before taking her hand in his. He keeps his gaze lowered as he quietly says, “I know. I know where I was stabbed. I know what that means. If you-“ He stops abruptly, decides on a different path. “I’m getting better by the day.”

She squeezes his hand tight. Aurana starts and stops several times before saying in a tight voice, “I know, but for a moment I thought you were truly gone. That I’d never see you again.” She waits for Dáire to look up at her. “I don’t like the idea of an afterlife without you.”

He deflects with humour. “I’m rather relieved to still be here.”

Aurana breathes out through her nose, not quite a huff, and leans against him while still holding his hand, resting her head on his shoulder. “I am, too.”

Dáire tilts his head toward hers, his cheek touching the top of her head. The sprawling ancient woods and rolling hills spread out before them, and they watch the ephemeral curtain of lights dance against the ever-deepening sky.

[caeruleusaether]

He drifts in the ebb and flow of soothing darkness. When he surfaces, it’s for brief moments to blinding Light and pain. It’s a relief when darkness pulls him back under. But each time he breaches, he’s awake a little bit longer. His father’s face swims into view often, and sometimes clerics. Aurana is there at times. Healing or holding his hand. His father talks, but Dáire can never remember about what.

So, when he finally wakes for more than a few moments, he’s greeted by an onslaught of pain and body aches that he hasn’t experienced since falling out of a tree as a child. Which means he’s now fully awake and returning to blissful sleep is an impossibility.

His father sits in a chair beside the bed, hands clasped almost as if in prayer but most likely dozing. Aurana is curled up in an armchair someone dragged into the small room with a blanket over her, dark circles under her eyes. As he watches the steady rise and fall of her chest does it hit him that he isn’t dead. Well, more dead than he already is.

He remembers fighting Einion and being stabbed. The angle was right, and it was just under his ribs. If his heart wasn’t pierced, it should’ve been easy enough to reach in and pull his heart out. But he killed Einion. That leaves Aurana as his rescuer.

Ashwynn inhales through his nose and opens his bleary eyes as Dáire shifts in bed. “How are you feeling?” he asks quietly, searching his son’s face for any injury or ailment they missed.

Dáire takes a deep breath, feeling his chest ache. “Like I ran from Distead to Gellass.” A legendary feat from ancient times, one that no one has been able to repeat.

Ashwynn chuckles. “Considering the state you were in, that’s an improvement.”

Dáire glances over to Aurana. “Did she…?”

Ashwynn is already nodding. “When she brought you in, she said that Einion was dead and you were on the verge of your second death.” He glances between Dáire and Aurana as his son frowns. “What happened?”

“Einion was the blade,” Dáire murmurs, turning his attention back to his father. He elaborates when his father gives him a confused look. “It was a runeblade but not Sgleinio. There was a- a prototype. I never made one before. It was a dagger, and when I was… imbuing it, my will and the soul’s were too strong and the blade shattered. Einion was the soul attached to the dagger.”  He breathes out through his nose and looks down at the blanket covering him, picking at a slub in the weaving. “The souls stay attached if you don’t use a nullification rune. Einion was probably trapped for centuries before he freed himself.

“He did something to Aurana and she was unconscious. Einion and I fought.” He shrugs with a shake of his head. “I was sure I was meeting my second death.” There’s a pause and then Dáire asks, “Was she hurt?”

“No,” Ashwynn assures him. “But there was some panic when she came back to the hall carrying you over her shoulders and both of you covered in blood. She healed you just enough to get you here.”

Dáire winces apologetically. “I suppose things are settled now.” He doesn’t want to address his tynghedau directly. No sense in calling attention to himself when Fate is involved.

Ashwynn thinks it over, looking up in thought. The first tynged was met long ago, and his second didn’t mention death directly, just that Dáire would be struck down. That part was certainly met. “I agree,” he says carefully.

They lapse into silence, letting it gather around them and settle before Dáire murmurs, “There’s something else. Sgleinio. She’s still out there. Now that I know how destroy the vessels I can stop her.”

Ashwynn stills, taking a long, hard look at his son. He’s never referred to the blade as her before, and he wonders if there’s more to forging runeblades than his son lets on. He wants to point out the obvious: Dáire is dead. He can’t stop the blade from the afterlife. Unless he decides to reincarnate. But there’s one thing that’s always bothered him, so he asks the same question when he first found his son in Anwfynn. “What do you remember?”

Dáire opens his mouth to reply, then closes it. He casts about, looking for  anything that might spark a memory. “Sgleinio was made as part of a sword and dagger set. I went to get the dagger. Roan was…” He gestures helplessly. “He was losing his fight against the sword. I know it.”

He says it with so much certainty that there’s no doubt in Ashwynn’s mind. He’s assured of his own convictions about what happened, but the longer he looks at Dáire a pit forms in his stomach, a feeling so intense it threatens to drown him. “You want to go back,” Ashwynn says after a moment of studying him.

Dáire’s eyes flicker to Aurana briefly before returning to his father’s steady gaze. He echoes her words. “Sgleinio is my responsibility.”

Ashwynn breathes out a quiet sigh. Even in death, they’re not free of the blade. “I’ll-“

“No!” Dáire says it far more forcefully than he intends. A quick glance to Aurana shows that she stirs but doesn’t wake. He lowers his voice and says, “I made Sgleinio. I’ll be the one to destroy her.”

“There’s no guarantee that you’ll remember in your next life,” his father reminds him. “Past memories have been known to drive people to madness. You’ll need to at least take a sip of the River of Unmindfulness.”

“And I made those runeblades,” Dáire says with intense quiet, determination in his eyes. “For all I know, trapping those souls in the blades is what’s driving them mad. I know how to turn them inert now. If we both go, we may never remember and keep making the same mistakes. That’s why I need you here. Direct me. Help me remember.”

Ashwynn shifts his gaze away, jaw clenching and unclenching. “This is a big gamble you’re making. I may not be able to reach you.” He doesn’t mention how Dáire’s never had much of a connection to the spiritual, that even with his use of the Light other aspects elude him.

“You found me in Anwfynn, in a realm so vast that it defies explanation and challenges everything we’ve ever known. You’ll find a way to reach me.”

There’s a look in Dáire’s eye, a certainty of conviction that he’s seen before. He knows his son will pursue Sgleinio with or without his help. They’ll discuss this later, and at greater length. Ashwynn sighs and pats Dáire’s knee gently, then pushes himself to his feet. “Get some rest.” Just as he opens the door, he turns back. “And don’t forget to let Aurana know you’re alright. Klytolékles wants his silversmith back.”

[caeruleusaether]

“Any luck?”

Dáire looks up to see Aurana peering down at the text he’s deciphering.  Her hair is only half up, the rest trailing over her shoulders. She’s wearing a pale green chiton with wildflowers embroidered on it and a dark green himation pinned at her right shoulder. He somehow feels underdressed in his long light wool outer tunic and chausses and leather shoes. He feels odd, almost out of place, out of armour. He wonders if she feels the same. The bruises on her arms and wrists make him wince. Those are most likely his fault. “Not yet,” he tells her. Darion keeps his eyes on her wrists. “I can heal those.”

Aurana is already shaking her head. “No need.”

“Please.” It’s not quite a beg, but there’s a pleading lilt to his voice that makes Aurana reconsider. She takes a seat next to him at the table and pushes the sleeves of her chiton up, offering him her arms. He notices for the first time faint angular lines on her upper arms. They look old, with the scars on her left arm disappearing further up. He wants to ask about them, but closes his eyes and focuses on calling upon the Light of his god. Her skin is warm under his hands, and he tries to be gentle as he heals. He’s only ever used the Light in the middle of a battlefield or in a field hospital, but he can feel bruising ease. He chases after the other injuries he feels, older ones that didn’t quite heal right-

“No.” Aurana firmly lifts one of his hands away, Dáire’s eyes flying open at the contact. “I want to keep those.” There’s sorrow in her eyes that he doesn’t quite understand, but stops at her request.

He clears his throat and sits back, reluctantly pulling his hands away. “Not much of what we’ve found talks about how to destroy a runeblade, or at least turn it inert.”

“We?”

“Einion.” Dáire jerks his head in the direction of the other Ci Annwn is in amidst the winding corridors of the sunken library. “When I realized that it’s likely one of the runeblades that are part of my tynged, he was the first to help. He knows a bit about them.”

“Really?” Aurana glances in the direction Einion is in. Raised by druids and knows about runeblades. Curious. “I thought they were rare.”

“Your world knows about them,” Dáire reminds her. She makes a sign of concession before he asks, “How do the Illyrii make rune blades?”

“Similar process as yours,” Aurana says with a shrug. “Although, the souls used were from volunteers. Soldiers, mercenaries, paladins. People who wanted to serve even in death.”

“…souls weren’t pulled?”

“No,” she says with certainty.

“Did any of the blades ever break?”

Aurana thinks for a moment, recalling what she can. There were always volunteers, but in all the chaos she’s not sure if any of them broke. “I don’t know, but there’s a common belief that the soul is released once the vessel is broken, allowing it to rejoin the cycle of the universe.”

A sense of unease settles in Dáire’s chest. He always thought of souls in the abstract when he was alive. They just exist, the lives lived forgotten. The reality of Anwfynn is vastly different, as is the whole of the afterlife. When he made the runeblade, where was he pulling the souls from? Anwfynn? The Blessed Isles? The Asphodel Fields? Kur? The Cedar Forest? The Abyssal Plane?

Dáire stares down at the texts on the table in front of him, horrified. Pulling a soul from its plane of existence and forcing it into a rune vessel, shaped into a weapon. Pulling them from their rest. He was torturing those souls. Of course they fought back. “I never should’ve made those blades,” he whispers in horror.

“Dáire?”

He looks up at the sound of his name and sees Aurana sway in her chair before starting to slump forward. He catches her before she tilts too far forward and eases her onto the table. No injuries and no sign that she’s on the verge of a second death. If it’s a magical ailment, he has no way of telling. He barely has time to assess the situation when Einion emerges from one of the nearby aisles.

“You asking a nature spirit for help surprised me.” Einion stays well out of range as Dáire slowly rises from his seat. “I had to change my plan.”

Plan? For what? What does Aurana have to do with anything? She’s the only other person he knows that made a blade of equal or greater value that the Tylwyth Teg would consider- “I was supposed to talk to Lord Lutin.” Einion inclines his head. “You didn’t gamble away your sword.” Dáire keeps pace with Einion, blindly feeling for anything that he can use without being obvious about it. Swords and other weapons are banned in the library. All he has is his dagger, and he’ll need to get close to use it.

“No, I didn’t,” Einion admits. “You were supposed to be trapped by the Tylwyth Teg. And instead she offered Lord Lutin something far more tantalizing: a star touched blade made by her own hand. But you know what’s even more frustrating?”

Dáire wants to keep him talking as he places himself between Einion and Aurana. “What is?”

“You won’t suffer like I did. Be trapped in a vessel with no way to free yourself for centuries. Existing in torment for an unknown Age. Forgotten. Discarded.”

“Discarded? I’ve never-“

“Yes, you did!” Einion snarls, pointing his dagger at Dáire accusatorily. “You pulled me from my rest! Shoved me into that blade! And when the vessel shattered you swept me aside without releasing me!”

It hits him all at once. “You’re the blade,” Dáire breathes. He barely has time to react as Einion lunges for him, barely grabbing one of the tomes on the table to deflect the dagger. They crash into the table, papers and textbooks scattering and spilling to the floor. Aurana doesn’t react, still under the influence of whatever Einion did.

“I was trapped for an eternity, unable to move or free myself.” Einion bares his teeth as Dáire scrambles away and pulls his own dagger free. “I did, eventually. But by then you were dead.”

Dáire puts distance between them and Aurana. Even as he watches Einion for his next move, he can’t help but ask, “Why weren’t you released when the dagger shattered?” There must’ve been something he missed. Some part of the ritual or rune he skipped.

“Because it was still a vessel. You never used the nullification rune. Pieces of my soul were still attached.” Einion lunges forward, Dáire barely catching the dagger with his own. They struggle to gain the upper hand until Dáire grabs Einion’s tunic. He yanks him forward and headbutts him.

They stagger for a moment, Einion dazed as Dáire realizes he didn’t land the blow quite right. He recovers just enough to tighten his grip on Einion’s tunic and shove him as hard as he can into a nearby bookcase. The case shudders from the force of the impact, books shivering as others fall to the floor.

The pain of being shoved into one of the towering bookcase brings Einion clarity. He kicks Dáire away with a snarl and charges after the staggering man. “You were supposed to be chained! A pet of the Tylwyth Teg so you know how it feels to be trapped!”

Dáire darts away, running to a lectern with Einion close on his heels. He tips it over as Einion nears, hoping to slow him down as Dáire tries to figure a way out of this. He wants to tell Einion that he didn’t know, that he regrets making the rune blades. But it’s too late for that. His tynged caught up to him. Dáire moves to an open aisle as Einion moves around the lectern. He knows Einion is intent on taking him down, but what will he do to Aurana afterward?

He knows what he’s going to do and takes a stand. Dáire makes the first move as soon as Einion is in striking distance, closing quickly. They strike at each other in a flurry of cuts, none of them quite hitting their mark. It’s bloody and frenetic, too many wounds to count. And as suddenly as it began the fight stops.

Dáire exhales in surprise just as his own dagger finds its mark in Einion’s chest. Just left of the sternum, between the third and fourth rib. Einion’s blade is under his ribs, angling toward his heart.

“I’m sorry.” The apology doesn’t mean anything now. They’re just words, but it feels right to say them aloud.

Einion stares at him and utters, “Words mean nothing.” He collapses where he stands, bleeding out.

Dáire sits down hard on the floor, careful not to bother the blade. Breathing hurts, and as much as he wants to take the dagger out, he refrains. It wouldn’t matter. His limbs feel too heavy, and he’s going to bleed out anyway. Of all the things he wants in his final moments, he wants a little more time with Aurana.

[caeruleusaether]

not to be a downer, but I just found out one of my oldest friends died

so I'll probably do what I tend to do and write to process it all. I feel like I should apologize for writing so much about grief [“Thousand Decisions”, “Shooting Stars” come to mind], but I can’t keep it all inside. There’s too much, and it needs to go somewhere. I appreciate your patience

[caeruleusaether]

Why won’t this work? Are the cold iron ingots inferior? Is he using the wrong runes? Are some of them in the wrong place? Maybe he’s botching something in the making of the blade. He yanks at whatever is on his wrist, the irritation of the unknown object finally gone. Maybe now he can focus. Figure out what he’s doing wrong.

He has to get it right. Failure is not an option.

                        The hound is humming you a lie.

The air rushes past his ears and stings his face. His clothes feel pressed against him and being torn away from behind. He struggles to open his eyes, and when he finally peels them open all he can see is the deep blue of the sky.

A shrill whistle pierces the air and he casts about for the source. He hears it again, this time above and to his right. Wings beat against the air, and then he sees Aurana on his griffin angling toward him. Her arms are out, as if to catch him. She can’t seriously-

Aurana adjusts her intercept angle, and as soon as she’s ready the griffin surges forward. She wraps her arms around him and pulls him toward her, his weight hitting her in the chest before settling across the saddle. She keeps a firm grip on him as they slowly descend, Dáire holding onto the edge of the saddle and her leg to keep from falling. They land in a grove of silver trees, Dáire slipping from the saddle to the silver-green grass unceremoniously. “How?”

“Raeder agreed to teach me to ride a griffin only if I agreed to learn how to catch other riders and how to properly reseat myself if I fell off and needed to be caught.” Aurana dismounts and collapses on the ground next to him.

“No, I mean- Wait, really?”

She shrugs, half embarrassed. “I like griffins.”

Dáire has more questions, but the only pressing one on his mind is how they left the city. “Okay, but how did we-“

“Escape Elu’an?” When Dáire nods, she continues. “After we were pulled into a nightmare, you pulled the amulet off. It was enough for me to find a way out. By then, Elu’an spit out you. The city doesn’t seem to want you as a Dreamer. I found you by sheer luck.”

Or is it his tynged? He lets the thought linger where it is, unspoken and at the back of his mind. He wonders how much that’s happened is because of his Fate or because of his own actions. Is it karmic debt? He made those damn blades and now they’re set to be his undoing.

He looks to Aurana, eyes closed and letting the sun warm her skin after being pulled into his dark thoughts. She’s been a grounding presence in this mess he’s made for himself. He feels guilty for dragging her into all of this, but he doubts he would’ve made it this far without her.

Feeling eyes on her, Aurana looks over to Dáire. Relief settles over her seeing him whole, despite the shadows lingering about him. She knows the decision to make the rune blades wasn’t an easy one, guilt and regret weighing heavily on him. She lifts her eyebrows in silent question.

Dáire shakes his head before saying, “I don’t think I would’ve made it out without you.”

Aurana considers that for a moment, looking at the Dreaming City and its ever-changing landscape. “Maybe.” She looks back to Dáire, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You certainly wouldn’t have survived that fall.”

He pushes himself to his feet with a grunt, brushing dirt and grass from his clothes. “See? Death by dream.” Dáire offers Aurana his hand, who takes it and pulls herself to her feet. “And if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to be properly seated in the saddle this time.”

Aurana laughs, and his heart does something strange. She gives him a mischievous grin and says, “No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

[caeruleusaether]

Every attempt shatters at the exact same point in the forging process: bending the soul to his will and placing said soul in the dagger. He’s doing everything right. Well, everything he understands from the translated texts. Water for transforming the blade to a vessel for the soul and inscribing the runes. Cold iron for the blade itself. Runes and their placement on the dagger for binding a soul to its new vessel. So why isn’t it working?

He sweeps the pieces into the box. He doesn’t know what else to do with them. They can’t be used to recast into a new dagger and he doesn’t know what happens to the soul in an event like this. Does he destroy the soul? Is the soul damaged when the blade shatters? Is it only damaged? Or is it freed when the vessel brakes? A problem for a later time.

Dáire clears his workstation and begins again.

~*~

He keeps getting the feeling that he’s forgetting something. Something important. He wipes his hand and wrist on his leather apron to rid himself of whatever is stuck to his skin, but it’s still there. Probably a hair or some such.

Dáire carefully inscribes the runes on the blade of the dagger, using water to help etch them in. He double checks his work, an icy white emanating from the runes. It’s now a vessel ready for a soul.

The summoning circle pulses with the same white light, then flares to life as he begins the ritual. Is he doing the right thing? Do they need something like this to win? Are things so dire that they need ancient magics? It’s not forbidden, but the creation of these weapons fell out of use.

He feels a pull and focuses on it. A soul. Not so strong that it will take him over, but not too weak that it will render the blade inert. He pulls, patient and persistent. Time passes unheeded until he has the soul in the circle and he begins to place it in the blade. They begin to fight for control, sweat beading his brow with the effort. He can’t lose. He can’t. Too much is depending on his success. They’ll die if he fails.

Dáire hears metal crack. He can fix a cracked blade. He can still do this. But he hears more and his stomach drops. The blade shatters, and Dáire lets out a slow, controlled breath. It’s not the end of the world. He has enough cold iron to make more blades. He picks up the pieces and places them in the scrap box.

[caeruleusaether]

He can’t see, but he holds fast to whatever is in his hand. It’s important that he doesn’t let go. He just needs to find light. A flicker pulls his attention, and he realizes that it’s fire from the red-orange hue. Any light is better than this darkness.

As he approaches, Dáire finds himself in a makeshift forge. He’s working on what he hopes will be a rune blade. Something small to begin with. If it works, he can make the sword. Something General Roan can use.

Don’t let go.

It’s imperfect. The blade was fine until he tried to add the soul and inscribe the runes. His will and that of the soul’s struggle for dominance and the blade snaps.

Don’t let go.

He sweeps the shards aside. He can’t reuse them. Not with the shattered pieces of a soul in it. A pang of guilt makes him wince. He’ll have to figure out what to do with them later. He needs to make this blade.

Don’t let go.

He starts over with fresh iron and a clean work space. If this doesn’t work, he’s not sure what to do. Making the rune blade will be risky. It could explode, be inert and thus a regular sword, or—

No, he needs to focus. This is possible. He just needs the right soul, the right runes, and the right metal.

Don’t let go.

The dagger is a success. It didn’t fight him too much, which means the blade isn’t that strong. That’s fine. He made it and it works. The runes glow faintly in the icy white of rune working. Now he can make the sword.

Do not let go.

The sword reminds him of moonlight, of the sun reflected off the sea, of being blinded by the first rays of sunlight. Sgleinio is a fitting name. This will win them the war, and every life it consumes will eat at him.

What was it she said? No one makes it out of war with their hands clean?

“Aurana.”

The name startles him enough that he’s suddenly aware that he’s griping her wrist so tight that she’ll have bruises. He pulls her toward him and checks to make sure she’s alright. The circles under her eyes look like deep bruises and she’s paler than he remembers. Every movement she labors with, as if her limbs are too heavy to move. Like she’s fighting off sleep. Otherwise, she’s unhurt.

She smiles weakly up at him. “I couldn’t leave him like that.”

He wants to tell her that he knows, that she’s put herself at risk for a doomed soul, that if the city consumes her, he might just let Elu’an take him, too. But the words are stuck in his throat.

“I’m dead weight,” she continues.

“No,” he tells her firmly, the thought of Aurana letting go loosening his tongue. “You’re not dead weight. Travelers and Dreamers leave Elu’an all the time.”

“Dáire, I can feel the city pulling at me. It’ll take us both if you don’t let go.” She looks exhausted, like she’s been marching all night and ready to collapse.

Aoife warned them that Aurana was more susceptible to Elu’an. The longer they stay, the more it will wear her down. But he could probably withstand Elu’an’s call a little longer than her. There’s no helping it then.

Dáire yanks his own amulet off, pulling Aurana toward him. She resists, leaning away, but she’s too weak and stumbles toward him. He takes a step forward, not entirely sure how he’s going to make sure she wears it and not take it off.

“You can’t,” she protests weakly. “Aoife said-“

“That I’m practically deaf to Elu’an.” They struggle for a moment, Aurana trying to pull away as Dáire not so much tries to pull her toward him but keep her from breaking his grip. A part of him loathes trying to force her to do something against her will, even if it will keep her safe from Elu’an. He stops leaning away from her and lets himself be jerked in her direction, catching his balance before they crash into each other.

“If you won’t take it, then at least share it with me.” He waits for her to respond, but he can tell that his proposal doesn’t quite make sense to her. “Like the rope you used when you first took me to the Dreaming Lands.” It clicks then, and he wraps the amulet around their wrists.

They sag to the floor, Aurana out of exhaustion and Dáire out of relief. They sit in silence for a long while before Aurana says, “Raeder would’ve shoved it down my cuirass.”

“…I thought about it,” Dáire confesses. “I didn’t feel like getting punched.”

Aurana chuckles as she rubs at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says after a moment. “Raeder and I have been wondering what happened to our friends. I haven’t seen my sister, either. He hasn’t seen his spouse or daughter. We know it isn’t exactly—Time doesn’t really exist here. But finding Arion is a surprise. Maybe, with my amulet, he’ll be able to escape and return to the ebb and flow of the universe.”

Right. Her brother. Makes sense she’d want to save her friend after that. “I was more worried about you being lost in that dream-memory.” Going through her memories has brought up so much sorrow in her heart that it’s written on her face and in every move. A yearning for a time long past and can never return to. A perfect blend for Elu’an to lure her in.

Aurana echoes his words. “I thought about it.”

Dáire half expects resentment to settle in the pit of his stomach, but he feels a strange pang in his heart instead. She’s one of the few friends he’s made and imagining the Afterlife without her seems rather dull. No Dreaming Lands or the In-Between on the edge of the Empyreal and Oceanus; no Blessed Isles or the Asphodel Fields; no shooting stars.

“It’d be really boring without you,” he says quietly, not quite meeting her eyes. The words are true, but he’s not sure if she feels the same. He likes spending time with her, near death experiences aside. Dinner with the Hetairoi is always fun, even if he doubts the validity of debating a subject drunk and then sober. She’s smart and funny. She likes to dance and hums when she’s working on a project. And he’s- He’s convinced he made things awkward until she says something.

“…I think I would’ve been a third wheel running around in those memories with Arion.” Aurana doesn’t particularly want to dredge up memories of how lonely she was during that time. She was never excluded, but Raeder seemed to be the only one that noticed how isolated she was. Especially after making a name for herself. Raeder was the Bright Fire, Nereida the Shining Star, and Aurana? The Wrath of Dawn. Thrust on a pedestal once more, far above the masses.

But that little group of theirs, even as everyone fell in love, was a balm for her heart. Proof that even in the chaos and destruction of war, there were things worth fighting for. She wanted to protect that. Feelings she buried long ago begin to surface from that time, and forces them back down. She doesn’t want to think about it right now, all the loneliness, and what the decisions she made at the time might mean. “This dream we’re in. Where are we?”

Dáire decides not to press what she means by her comment and follows the change in topic. “I set up a workspace to make Sgleinio.” They both rise to their feet with some difficulty and walk to where the younger Dáire is examining the completed rune blades. “I made three. One shattered. The dagger and sword I gave to General Roan.”

“What did you do with the ruined blade?” Aurana starts to reach for one of the pieces, thinks better of it, and lowers her hand. They may not be the real shattered rune blade, but the city isn’t exactly helpless.

“I don’t remember,” he admits. “I should’ve taken more care, especially because souls are involved in the making of these things.” Dáire stares at the blissfully ignorant version of himself, examining Sgleinio for any flaws. “Never should have made the damn things,” he says bitterly. “They nearly consumed the general.”

“Would it be safe to assume that they still have them?”

Dáire pauses to consider. He died before the outcome of the war, finding out later that S’ran won. But the general himself? He hasn’t seen or heard anything. He’s always subscribed to the fact that no news is good news, but in this case he feels uneasy. If General Roan’s will falters for even a moment, Sgleinio will either consume him or use him to consume more souls.

“I think so.” He sounds uncertain, the end of his sentence bearing a slight uptick in his voice. “I think if something happened – the blades being destroyed, the general dying—I’d know. I’d think I would know,” he amends.

But would he? Water is used in the process of forging rune blades, helping in transforming the metal into a vessel for the soul. But there’s no piece of himself in it. Just his will against the soul’s will. His eyes are drawn back to the shattered remains of his first attempt. Why did this forging fail? And what happened to the soul?

Dáire reaches into the box of metal pieces and picks one up.

[caeruleusaether]

Sometimes when I reread my stuff (I’m notating my stories in chronological order for changes when I have access to a computer) and I’m like “holy shit, did I write this? I’m a better writer than I thought”

And then I read something incomprehensible a few paragraphs later in the same story and I’m immediately humbled