There had been a question sprouting within Luna since childhood. For years, she had neglected it, trying to deny its existence, but somehow time and a lack of sunlight had only caused it to take root in the deepest parts of her, in every crack of her armour. After seeing so many impossible questions answered in Garlemald, she could not deny it any longer.
There was only one way to remove the roots from her heart.
Luna knew little about her birth mother, but there were a few things she did have: a Forest-name, a close resemblance to the woman in question, and the direction she’d been headed when she left.
And more recently, one more thing.
Ymir Arda had last been seen by the Arda storyteller headed due southeast—the direction of Kugane and the isles. In Kugane, Emile had picked up a colourfully-woven Vieran blanket.
She’d only received a glance, but she would have recognized Arda embroidery anywhere. It was not necessarily something that had belonged to her mother, but it meant that other Veena, possibly from tribes surrounding the Arda, had been down the same path. It had been the most logical way down the mountain for Luna, so perhaps it had been the same for Ymir.
Kugane yielded few results, but eventually she found news that there may have been a Viera woman with a striking resemblance passing through nearly thirty years prior. Nobody seemed to remember much about her, except perhaps that she’d been easy on the eyes. The eyes, they said. Like molten gold. They could melt through anything.
The streets became a blur of faces as Luna flowed from one place to another. One merchant thought she remembered seeing a Viera woman matching Ymir’s description speaking to a fisherman at the docks, who was now retired in a village along the coast, who didn’t remember what the Viera woman was doing in Kugane or where she was going, but remembered that she had been staying at the inn for a time. In stilted bursts and on a path with many dead ends, Luna traced the footsteps of her mother, piecing together a patchwork understanding of what the woman had been up to upon leaving their village.
Normally, this was work that she would enjoy; talking with so many people, collecting pieces of their past. This time, there was only one story she was interested in assembling, and all she had were fragments. It felt like chasing a reflection in the water—every time she felt she might be getting closer to something with substance, the pool rippled, scattering the image.
Finally, after chasing loose threads for weeks, she grabbed hold of one that went taut. Thavnair, said a middle-aged woman. She’d been a deckhand once, many years ago, but she remembered the Viera woman who strode aboard the ship bound for Thavnair—a small merchant vessel, carting silks and spices, that would arrive eventually in Radz-at-Han. The last the woman remembered seeing Ymir, she was heading away from the docks and toward the city.
Luna arrived by aetheryte the next day.
Her search began anew in Thavnair—idly she wondered if perhaps she should send a missive back to The Sirensong, or to the front lines in Garlemald, in case Emile had interest in joining her. His father was Thavnairan, after all, and maybe they would both find what they were looking for. It was easy to be swept up in the search, however, and easier still to convince herself that he would have no interest in joining her.
It was almost two months into her journey that she arrived in Palaka’s Stand in search of a healer named Rajan.
Rajan’s hut was modest, but colourful, much like most of the dwellings in this part of the world. A gentle wisp of smoke curled and unfurled from a hole in the straw roof, coiling and beckoning to Luna. It was a humid afternoon leading into evening, and the croak of rainforest insects swelled amidst the dense brush; in the damp heat, Luna’s dark waves had spiralled into frizzy curls and been tamed into a messy braid that hung down her back. She’d abandoned her warmer clothing back in Radz-at-Han, trading it for something more suitable to the climate, though she still felt like she was melting in the oppressive heat. A handful of villagers watched her cautiously as she made her inquiries and finally arrived at Rajan’s.
She rapped her knuckles, scratched and bruised from travel through the underbrush, against the thin door. “Yes?” A reedy voice called from within, the voice of an old man.
“Sorry to bother you,” Luna called, keeping her tone light and unthreatening. “I’m a stranger to these parts. I’ve some questions for you about a Viera woman named Ymir, if you know of her.”
Her keen ears caught the sound of rustling from inside the house, and then footsteps shuffling along the ground until the door creaked open. A short Hyuran man peered up at her. He blinked blearily past a wide set of round spectacles. Upon the sight of her, his eyes widened and his brown, wrinkled face wrinkled even further in surprise and an emotion she couldn’t quite place.
“Gods,” he murmured. “You look just like her. Please, come in.”
She found herself seated at a little table while he poured her a chai—warm, somehow, despite the heat. He tried to explain to her that Palaka’s Stand grew quite chilly as night approached, although she had spent several days travelling through the dense jungle and personally didn’t think that many of the people who lived here had ever experienced the cold.
“I didn’t think I would ever meet any of her family,” Rajan was saying. Luna refocused her attention from the cup of tea in front of her to the tiny old man. She did not think he had ever been very tall, but was certainly the sort of person who had shrunk with old age; not much taller than five fulms, and so thin that his creased skin nearly looked like he might have inherited it secondhand from someone much larger. He wore comfortable-looking orange-and-cream robes, and he was completely bald. “I assume, at least, based on the resemblance. What’s your relationship to Ymir?”
“I’m her daughter,” Luna responded automatically. It felt strange to admit, after all these years.
“Truly?” His brows rose in surprise; Luna could feel him sizing her up, re-analyzing his previous picture of her. “She never mentioned she had a daughter. I could have sworn—” He cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. “My apologies. I don’t mean to be rude. She looked very young, is all.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine.” Luna took a sip of tea to distract herself.
“I would have thought you were sisters,” He said. “She told me a little of the village she left, hadn’t mentioned leaving family behind. Were you very young when she…?” The doctor trailed off, not certain how to continue. If she’s mentioned Arda village, surely the circumstances of Ymir’s leaving were not lost on him, let alone his awareness of how young Luna must have been when her mother left the Arda.
“We were estranged,” Luna said. It stung how smoothly it rolled off her tongue, sweet as honey. Not a lie, necessarily, but not a whole truth. “But I’m flattered. The Viera can live hundreds of years more than even the oldest Elezen, so chances are we’re both quite a bit older than we seem.” She forced a smile and hoped it seemed sweet.
“Ah,” he said. “That makes sense.”
“Did she tell you a lot? What led her here?” Do you know where she went? Do you know why she left? Do you know why she left me? Luna managed to restrain herself, barely. The exhaustion of travel made it easier to tamp down her mounting excitement, but she still wanted to ask a million questions. Where did she go after? Is she still here?
The old man clasped his hands in front of him and he frowned very faintly. “She told me a little of what led her to me. If there is anything you would like to know, I am happy to share it. I was— not sure that I would ever have the chance to meet anyone who called her family, so I suppose I must first say… My condolences.”
Something within Luna went cold. A silence stretched between them, and it went for far too long. It took Luna a while to realize that she, too, had her hands clasped, and she was clenching them until they were white-knuckled, her blunt nails digging into her flesh so hard that they had broken skin. “…Sorry?” She managed.
“She passed away nearly thirty years ago, shortly after she reached our village,” he said. “She was quite ill, by the time she arrived—something she caught as she was travelling, I think. I tended to her for her last months, though I fear that she was delirious much of that time.”
The words had become little more than a buzz in Luna’s ears, a distant hum. Her eyes were locked on the old healer, but she was not seeing him. Every one of her senses had fuzzed and blurred and suddenly she was hit by the familiar feeling of free-falling in a blizzard. The ice kept cutting into her but she couldn’t feel a thing, too cold, completely numb. Surely there would be an impact eventually, but until then, all she could feel was the blissful nothing. She could sense she was nodding along as he spoke, a dull, polite little smile on her face, but her eyes had glazed over and she was simply on autopilot.
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Rajan was saying. “But I will tell you whatever I can of her. Here. This was hers. You should be the one to have it.” He reached down over to where he’d set an engraved wooden box, and handed a bundle of fabric over.
Luna took it mechanically. It was pale blue, and though she barely looked at it, she knew the weight of Arda-made textiles. She did not have to see it to know that she was holding an Arda scarf worn by their best huntresses.
“Thank you,” Luna heard herself say, her mouth moving like a puppet moved by a ventriloquist. She never mentioned she had a daughter. She passed away nearly thirty years ago. If she encased herself in ice, she could not feel the sting. She could not feel the sharp dagger of futility lancing between her ribs and bleeding her out. She could not feel anything. She could not feel anything.
And that was wonderful.
Luna felt herself smile, but it was lifeless, all spun sugar and saccharine syrup. “I figured this might be the end to that tale,” she said. “I would love to hear what she did tell you before she died. Is she buried somewhere in Thavnair?”
* * *
Luna stood beside an old, unmarked grave. There was no tree planted to mark where Ymir was buried, just grass and leaves and insects crawling through the dirt.
She wished she could say she felt something as she stood and stared at the patch of ground long grown over. She wished she could say she felt anything at all.
* * *
By the time the world stopped spinning around her, time had passed. How much time, she could not say. She was in Othard again. The trees were bare of leaves with the approach of winter, and she wasn’t dead yet. Unfortunately. She stirred back into consciousness to find that in her fugue stage she had sought refuge in an abandoned cottage beaten badly by the elements. The outer shell of the building had seen better days, partially collapsed in one of its corners; rubble and tile and snow collected beneath the hole in the roof.
Luna had known this place, once. It had been a place of safety. An old man and an old woman used to live here; a Garlean ex-conscript and his conjurer wife, a healer who retreated to the wilds to be closer to the woods she loved so much.
They had been the first to show Luna kindness after she left her village: a half-wild young girl of sixteen who spoke no word of Common and stumbled upon them bleeding from a Garlean lancer’s attack. They had nursed her back to health and cared for her, taught her the language, helped her find a new name. Maybe they had loved her. Maybe.
But the old man passed away and the old woman grew sick with grief. Luna’s love could not save either of them, and the old woman had moved to a nearby village with the rest of her family. There was no space for Luna there, and her children made certain she knew she was not welcome.
In the cold and empty cottage, Luna curled into herself and squeezed her eyes shut.
Her mother had never even mentioned her.
She said she was happy, Rajan had said. To see some of the world before she died.
Her parting words were to ask that she not be given a traditional burial. Do not plant a tree on my grave, she’d requested. Let the flowers grow wild wherever you lay me to rest. Do not ask me to stand sentry over future generations when I die.
Luna wanted to scream. She would never be able to ask the woman why she hadn’t taken her infant daughter with her, and it no longer mattered. Unwanted from birth. Unwanted by her own people. Unwanted by those she’d tried to give her love to along the way. How many times would she be left behind?
But it was never really about her, was it? Time and time again, she made excuses for the people who were supposed to love her but left her bruised instead. For Ymir, who left her in infancy instead of being a gods-damned mother to her. For her tribespeople, who were so willing to shove her aside and ignore her when she begged for them to do nothing more than care about her. For those who would call her stupid and uncultured and unskilled, for those who would say she’s not enough because she could not be everything all at once.
It was so easy for her to blame herself, but it was never really about her. Had it truly been so simple all along?
Before she could think about it too hard, Luna was moving again. This time, though, she had purpose. This time, she knew exactly where she was going.
* * *
Firelight flickered golden between the trees. Luna knew exactly where the Arda would be at this time of year; like clockwork, they travelled between locations throughout the year, following the paths forged by their ancestors from millennia past. She waited at a distance while she watched for their evening guard rotation and was unsurprised to find that the rotation had not changed in the fifteen-odd years she’d been gone. Unfortunately for them, Luna had discovered the gaps in their evening watch years ago.
In those days, she had been a child who asked too many questions and eagerly challenged an authority that would punish her severely for stepping out of line - not with beatings or harsh words, but with silence.
The worst punishment meted out by the Arda was for the whole tribe to pretend you weren’t even there. You need the community, the punishment was supposed to teach. Enough time on your own and you would learn to reflect on what you’d done wrong and recognize how much you needed those around you. It had only taught Luna how to survive on her own.
One day of temporary ostracism as punishment would turn into two, into three, and Luna would camp on the outskirts of the village alone, listening to the other women laugh from within the warmth, and she would absorb their stories and songs at a distance. It was the only way she could feel like she was a part of something. Sometimes, she would tell those stories to herself to keep herself company.
At night, when most everyone had gone to bed, she would sneak in to spirit away any leftovers on their fire, or stones that still burned hot, or blankets that had not been tucked away within the tents.
They had never tried very hard to mend their ways, as she was little more than a nuisance, and likely had left some of their things for her as a small kindness. But, her acts of attempted thievery meant that she knew the trees where the huntresses waited, knew where they laid their traps, and knew the perimeter they guarded.
Chieftain Yrsa slept in a tent far away from the others. She knew it was not secure, but she couldn’t stand it when she woke screaming and someone would come to check on her. They still heard, of course, but the Arda had long since grown accustomed to their Chieftain’s nightmares and no longer mentioned it. They knew what happened when they tried.
Luna skirted the camp on silent feet in search of the tent; she couldn’t find traditional clothing and wasn’t sure she’d want it if she’d been able, but the soft fur-lined buckskin boots were the closest thing she could get without stealing straight from the Arda, and allowed her to move swiftly and quietly. The snow was thick here but it did not slow her down, and she moved with the swift, dark grace of a person well-practiced in navigating the terrain. Yrsa’s tent was in view, shadowed and imposing, and Luna had timed her arrival to avoid any huntress who would be watching.
Silently, she slipped inside the tent.
The cruel point of a bone-tipped spear greeted her as her eyes adjusted to the dark. Luna had known she wouldn’t be able to sneak up on Yrsa. The woman’s ears could hear a mouse breathe a continent away, and she was a light sleeper with a paranoid streak a league wide.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Luna said quickly. It had been some time since she’d spoken in the Viera language; it felt clumsy on her tongue, rippling off like the murmur of a summer brook. “I’m here to talk.”
Yrsa held the spear steady, her eyes sharp as steel in the dim light. For a moment, Luna thought the other woman was going to run her through, and couldn’t bring herself to feel anything other than relief. Then Yrsa lowered the spear.
She looked exactly as she had when Luna had left, hair so platinum-pale it was nearly white, pulled into a braid that coiled over her shoulder, tall and lean like a wolf and with a dangerous poise. Her beautiful face was sharp and haughty with the expression of someone who knows just how fearsome she can be, and her mien was marred on the left with bad scarring that contorted her mouth into something like a grimace. Her tufted ears tilted back with clear wariness, though any lower and it would read more as hostility.
“Eyrún,” Yrsa said stiffly. Her voice was biting rain and her pale eyes were lightning. Just hearing that voice again made Luna cold, but she also ached with an old desire to be accepted by the older woman. “You know that the punishment for returning from exile is death.”
Something shattered within Luna. All this time, and that was all she could say? Not a single apology? Not a shred of remorse?
“That’s it?” Luna asked, dumbfounded. “After everything you did to me, that’s all you have to say?”
Yrsa’s expression pulled into a cautious frown and she said nothing. That was what she was best at, after all. Saying nothing. She would only open her mouth when she knew she had something to say that could cut deeper than her silence ever could. “Of course,” Luna said. “Of course. I don’t know what else I expected.”
There was no remorse to be found here. Luna could crack open her ribcage and spill the ugly contents all over the floor of Yrsa’s tent, and all the Chieftain would do is make a face at the mess. Luna could retch out every awful feeling she’d bottled up since childhood and Yrsa wouldn’t care. She never did. Luna laughed, feeling light and giddy. She wished Yrsa would drive her spear through her middle.
“You,” she gasped, laughing again. “You made my life a living hell. You let me believe I was unlovable.” What was it Yrsa had said, the night before Luna left?
You should leave. Don’t you see? You're a curse to everyone you touch. Your mother couldn't stand the sight of you and you're not wanted here; you're not wanted anywhere.
It would take a miracle for anyone to love you.
Tears burned Luna’s eyes, nettling pinpricks that she refused to allow to spill over onto her cheeks. “But that’s not it, is it? My mother—damn her—my mother was just some poor fool who hated her life and hated the idea of staying here to raise me. Frankly, I don’t care anymore if she wanted the best for me by leaving me here or if she didn’t give a shit, but you—”
Luna stepped forward and the spear came up, but she kept pressing closer until she felt the bite of the sharpened bone pressing against her collarbone. Feverishly, she leaned into it. It was good to feel something, even if that something was the faint sting of her skin breaking and blood welling from the pinprick. “You’re the Chieftain. You’re supposed to treat every child as your own. You were supposed to care about me but you were too gods-damned buried in your grief that you decided you’d rather hold my mother’s bad decisions against me. I was a child,” Luna hissed.
Yrsa had her demons. For so long, Luna had been willing to make excuses for her, too, tell herself that the punishment Yrsa doled out was necessary for the Arda way of life. Instead, she was just a tyrant with the village under her thumb, and she’d used their fear of her as a weapon against a child.
“You don’t know anything about what I went through. What I have to deal with, as the Chieftain of this village. I didn’t ask for this,” Yrsa hissed. Her ears flattened further and she tightened her grip on her lance. Luna leaned into it, daring her to push it deeper.
“And I didn’t ask to be the scapegoat for your failures, but here we are,” she snapped. She could feel her teeth bared in something that might have been a grin but was all sharp edges.
“What do you want, Eyrún? Revenge? Death?”
I want to see you bleed. I want to see myself bleed. I want to tear my mother’s body from the earth and demand answers. I want the love and the life I’ve been denied since birth. I want to feel anything.
For years, Luna had denied herself the simple pleasure of wanting anything, because her wants didn’t matter. If she helped other people achieve their wants, maybe they would love her. Maybe they would see something worthy in her.
“I want…”
What do you want? What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?
to live to die to love to hate to bleed to weep to mourn to laugh
“I want to hear you say you’re sorry,” she said finally. Looking into Yrsa’s frigid electric blue eyes, she knew that the Chieftain was not sorry. “But it’s fine. We don’t always get what we want.” Luna stepped back, easing the pressure of the spear from her collarbone.
She turned to push open the flap of the tent, but paused.
Luna turned. “One more thing. If I ever catch wind that you’re doing to some other child what you did to me, I swear you will wish you put that spear through my throat.”
Yrsa’s eyes narrowed. “Are you challenging me?”
“No,” Luna said. “I’m threatening you.”
Luna knew that Yrsa did not tolerate challenges to her authority. Their eyes met, Luna’s daring Yrsa to make the first move. She had nothing left to lose now; she was in a free-fall and didn’t care where or how hard she landed, didn’t care if Yrsa would get caught in her comet and burn up on impact.
They stood there for a long, agonizing moment, and when Yrsa did not move, Luna pushed the tent flap aside and stepped back out into the cold air. Several hunters waited at a distance, bows drawn, spears at the ready. Most recognized her; flickers of surprise registered on their fierce and lovely faces but they did not let their arrows fly or their lances find their mark. “Let her pass,” came Yrsa’s voice from behind Luna. She did not raise her voice, but spoke with the weighty authority of thunder. “She will not be back again.”
Luna turned her back on the Arda for the second and final time and slipped into the night.
That night, instead of dreaming that she was invisible, just a ghost floating by and making no ripple in the tide of time, she dreamt that she screamed so loudly that she shook free the foundations holding the mountains together. She dreamt that the oceans boiled and the celestial spheres wobbled in orbit. She dreamt that every soul alive heard her and knew she was there, and that when she crash-landed, they would feel the impact crater.
When she woke up, she was still alive. Fancy that. Seemed like she’d continue being alive until she was dead. Where to go from there?
She had no idea, but at least that was familiar. She felt raw and empty, aching and numb all at the same time, but as long as she was still breathing, she could keep moving. Maybe not in search of a home to replace the one she’d never had, maybe not in search of the love she’d never been given. But maybe right now a stiff drink would do.