#7: nonagenarian
Seven decades come and gone, seven lives you’ve lived on this dying star. Refugee. Daughter. Teacher. Sister. Night’s Blessed. Soldier. Carer. More than you thought you’d be when you were twenty by far. But you also thought your life would end that day in your twentieth year.
Time had been kind in some ways. It brought you a baby sister, pudgy faced and perfect, even when she pulled your ears. You treasure her because she never let you be more than Sister, despite you raising her after Mother and Auntie died to the eaters. You taught her to dance so she’d have something to remember them by. She held your hand the whole way to Lakeland as you sought succor and safety. So strange, how much the Crystarium has grown from that first night since then.
You joined the Night’s Blessed together. You gave her the midnight shaded sapphire she wears and their most valuable treasure: your mother’s name. She gave you your aunt’s. You keep the dark smoky topaz she gave you and the name close to your heart as you both walk out of Rak’Tika and into Eulmoran purple.
The war is long, longer still for a Viis. The curse of your longevity is until you draw your last or withdraw your service, you see how fruitless the fight is. No ground is gained -- it is a war of attrition. And the enemy can make new soldiers from anything that draws breath, including you if given the chance. It is a terrifying prospect, one that keeps you awake. You were never sure if Mother turned. You pray she didn’t, that she went to the sunless sea. You pray the little Minfilias do too.
Seven decades come and gone, and now you are strangely back where you started. Was that good? Was it bad? Or were you just growing maudlin in what counted as old age these days. They say the Crystal Exarch is an old man with a youthful countenance, and it earns a laugh from you every time. You remember when the Exarch was new to this land. You remember before the Flood, and you’ve not met another soul who can claim that in decades. Even dear, dear Mjara can’t claim that.
The thought of becoming a sin eater still brings discomfort, but the lack of care for the Blighted is what finally broke your old heart about this world. No one ever asked for the sickness -- and those who did typically had their reasons. Those motives always pivoted on loss. Of a lover. Of family. Of purpose. Or they simply just saw no end to the struggle to draw breath and chose defeat. You won’t judge. You just wash cracking skin, prepare poisons, talk to voiceless. And, when the time comes, fulfill last rites. Ninety turns on this world, seventy of them moonless.
Could you even describe the moon properly anymore? Or stars? You hope the day your sister gazes upon the sunless sea, it meets her expectations. Whenever that may be.
