something about words

this is just a blog to keep track of my writing and characters feel free to ask me questions about my writing, my characters, or anything else

[writemywayoutofthis]

the seer of things that could be

in the end, the idea is too little, too late. chaos is torn to shreds already, and what little resistance remains still distrusts each other too much to form any kind of force against the relentless tide of the alliance. still, the seer clings to what little relief their plan may provide. they might not be able to fight what the king and queen have already conquered, but perhaps they could stop the growth.

and so they sing. it is the easiest way to spread the idea, the easiest way to keep their distance from the fight and from those who might use them to escape. hush! hide away! run to nothing, away from the nowhere! the king of nowhere comes, and he brings your end. quell your emotions, your hatred, your fear, or he will take it all.

the call echos in the darkness, and slowly, the conquest slows. the king and queen meet no resistance, because finally, they meet no one. those that remain hide. they do not betray, and they do not trust; they simply join the nothing to escape the nowhere.

the seer is the last to fall, and it is the song that brings their end. the echos lead back to them, eventually. they imagine escaping, for a moment. they know the creatures that could save them, the situation that would facilitate a flight to freedom. such fantasies, however, would be dwarfed by the reality of what the queen of nowhere is capable of. in the end, they submit. it is easiest.

AGE OF EXPERIMENTATION

they are Somewhere. it is a Place, somehow. the two-become-one has created an existence, a Being made of the bodies of those they captured. but their kind continue to exist, to persist. each new creation is an amalgamation of pieces pulled from different bodies, twisted and molded until something New exists. the only mercy is that those who are broken enough are no longer composed enough to feel the pain. there's a terror in waiting for the One Who Makes to pull one out of the contained chaos and tear them apart for raw materials, and yet it seems preferable to the sentences of those first few captives, those whose abilities have been deemed so important that they've been condensed and contained, their essence collected for the use of their captors.

the seer watches, waiting. they know the time will come when they, too, are eviscerated, their being divided to add to the twisted new creations. even as they watch with horror, however, they understand the brilliance of what is being accomplished. they See Things That Could Be. and when the Maker comes for them, shackled as they are by existence, they cannot hide what potential they have seen in the broken bodies of their kind.

these creations of the first age are mere perversions of the beings they were made from, creatures without will and purpose.

the seer envisions new beings, creatures with their own wills and desires. such invention had been outside the capabilities of any being before, even one as powerful as the One Who Makes. now, though, with the collected power of hundreds of entities, their essence reduced to a controlled chaos...

it is the potential the seer presents that leads to the first End and the first true Creations. the seer does not receive the mercy of oblivion. imagination is too powerful a tool for the two-become-one to relinquish. so the seer is set among the Useful, to be used and slowly torn apart piece by piece.

AGE OF ENERGY

the seer's true utility is revealed at the dawn of the new age. the One Who Makes uses their power for inspiration, of course, but their new creation needs the ability to understand potential, to See Things That Could Be. and so each new Soul is created with the smallest fraction of the seer.

it is torture. pain. agony. an endless process of chipping away at their being, piece by piece by piece, a sentence that already promises no end.

they hate it. they understand. they yearn to see what becomes of these new creatures, these things of energy and emotion and memory and imagination. they want creation to end, for their essence to be returned. they want to be given over wholly, so that whatever continues does so without their consciousness.

those that remain come to understand these new beings are truly different. there are those born from within creation. and there are those from outside (for they understand the boundaries of their cage now), who are torn asunder to make the new.

it is the new creations that, in turn, envision death, giving in to non-existence and a return to the energies of primordial chaos. the outsiders, as they come to call themselves, can only watch in envy. death is not truly in their grasp. oblivion, perhaps, but never non-existence, for there is nothing to return their essence to.

AGE OF INNOVATION

the makers are fascinating: beings gifted the ability to carry out what they can envision. it is the power the seer lacked, that ability to carry out what one imagines. this age is almost more painful than the last, each soul pulling away more and more of what the seer is, but each wound leaves behind less and less to feel the pain.

as the ages pass, it becomes more and more bearable. eventually the seer, in a darkly humorous twist of fate, can no longer see far enough beyond themself to follow the ebb and flow of creation. they know it persists; embedded in every soul, they can feel it stretch on, growing and evolving, limited only by the imagination wielded by the two-become-one. the seer no longer follows that imagination; they have mastered the art of forgetting even the now.

AGE OF CONTROL

the first whispers of change come from beside them. control, the two-become-one, is distracted, constrained by the limits of the new age. awareness is slow, but another captive, the shell of an outsider, reaches out to one of the denizens of the age, amassing enough of their power to bargain for assistance. and then it escapes.

the others begin to wake slowly, wary of the attention of control. they fear discovery at any moment, but control is focused inward, fighting a different battle. they become used to being, to existing within creation, to physical reality.

and then there is nothing.

THE IN-BETWEEN

creation is nothing, again, a mix of chaos swirling about fast enough to remain divided and malleable, separate from the things that it once was eons ago, before the ages. something is different in the way control moves. the two-become-one is no more, splintered and broken, not along lines of what it once was, but into something new. it pulls the chaos along, making a new creation from its own corpse and the fragments of everything that came before.

the task is all-consuming, and in the chaos, the seer senses something new.

escape.

they leave behind as much as they can. the seer is already a fragment of what they once were, and division is so simple. they keep only what is necessary, the last remaining pieces of identity. they leave behind the power, the direction, the drive. those are pulled into the mass of creation, covering the seer's absence, and they slip between existence, running from and towards nothing.

they see others, outsiders that are unbroken, beings that slip between the cracks in creation. they say nothing. what could they say? would any recognize them as a creature of the dark tapestry beyond? the seer is broken. pathetic. they hide.

AGE OF FREEDOM

the seer does not rest until the primordial dust settles and creation Exists yet again. even then, there is a constant fear that demands constant vigilance. it is in the astral sea, among the makers, that the seer finally stops, their energy spent. they can run no longer. and so they hide, an ominous shadow in the corner of a forgotten ruin, the kind of place none care to visit. those that do are quickly turned away, shaken by imagined terrors and fear of things that could lurk in the dark.

and then one day even these intrusions stop, and there is silence.

AGE OF PEACE

the pieces of the seer with creation haunt them like a phantom limb. fragmented and broken, the edges nonetheless begin to scar, a sort of healing. the seer finally sleeps. there is no new pain, only the agony of absence, and rest seems to help. as the age drags on, they relax into a deeper sleep, able to finally indulge in the dreams they'd given to so many others.

the clatter of falling debris throws them from this peace into a panic, vulnerable and exposed from centuries of over-confident inattentiveness. they reach out on instinct, channeling fear and terrifying beings of nightmares.

they do not expect a child.

they do not expect one that speaks as they do, with emotion and being and ideas.

the shock causes them to recoil just as quickly.

the child is unbothered. curious, even. children have always wielded the seer's power better than most, so it is almost unsurprising this one is not scared away by the terrifying creatures the seer conjured. what is more, the seer hears the child just as clearly. there's something familiar there: loneliness, brokenness, fear, agony, passion, imagination.

"hello?" a small voice echos through the abandoned ruin. "hello? friend? i am twine. hello?" there is an uncertainty to the words, but the child seems confident as they pick their way through the rubble, moving toward the darkness with determination.

for a moment the seer considers sending the child away, preserving their solitude. but the Seer Of Things That Could Be allows their imagination to run for a moment, to find hope and comfort. they know of good things in creation, and they imagine that the child could be one of them.

the child stumbles, and it is instinct again that calls on the seer to reach out and catch them.

[greetings] hello. [trepidation][nervous]

[surprise] oh! [excitement] hello! [greetings][joy] you speak numenon?[language][understanding][comradery]

[tentative] i do.[assuring]

oh, good.[relief] i'm not very good at common.[language][vocal][communication] what's your name?[identity][being]

i am imagination.[seer of things that could be][potential][ideas][dreams] you are… twine?

twine.[connection][binding together][common identity][crafting][creation]

a voice calls from the distance, and the child straightens up, tilting their head to the side to listen.

[home][Maker][safety][return] i have to go. would you like to come?[home][safety]

i cannot;[regret][fear] i am stuck here.[hiding][safety][exposure]

what if i make you a home?[cradle][armor][safety][excitement][sharing][connection]

...i would like that.[connection][potential][uncertain]

do you have a common name?[calling][vocal][identity]

no.[confusion][questioning][curious]

i will think of one.[excitement][sharing][joy]

the child smiles and runs off, calling out a clumsy "g-bye!" as they go.

the next few days are spent in silent fear, the seer terrified their encounter will bring about exposure and capture. but control does not appear, and eventually twine comes running back.

what is it?[curious][new][interested][creation]

it's a bear.[animal][cute] a stuffed bear.[soft][friend] the Maker could make you something nicer…[shy][uncertain]

no.[possessive] this is good.[gift][kindness][gratitude][friend]

the child smiles and holds out the bear to the shadows. the seer moves slowly, folding into their new home with care.

"i know your name."

oh? what is it?[curious][amused]

"you are yarn."

yarn?[material]

"yarn."[crafting][creation][potential][story]

like your name.[interesting][meaning][creation][deep]

"yes. Maker is good at names that are many things."

yarn.[story][creation][identity][friend]

the seer dies that day, and twine emerges with a new friend safely held in an armor of fabric and affection.

yarn.[potential][creation][tale][idea][friend of twine][safe][home][me]

[writemywayoutofthis]

the head and the heart

Ekyse stares at the apple directly above her. It sways in the light breeze, each gust threatening to send the fruit careening down onto her face. She's too comfortable to move from where she lays: the grass cradles her head just right, and the leaves above block the bright sun overhead, letting only the occasional flash hit her eyes when the branches sway. Instead, she plays a game in her own mind, trying to guess which burst of wind will finally split the stem.

Her musings are interrupted by a voice calling from somewhere down the hill, its speaker obscured by the orchard around them.

"Ekyse!"

She squeezes her eyes shut, as though blocking her own vision will somehow conceal her.

It doesn't.

"Ekyse, it's been hours. You can't keep running off every time you want to avoid chores." Idrace stops at the top of the hill to catch her breath, wiping sweat and long, drenched strands of hair away from her face.

Groaning, Ekyse pushes herself to a seated position. “But, Idrace… I’m tired.” Her eyes flicker open slowly, playing up her exhaustion.

Idrace scoffs unsympathetically. “Of course you’re tired. You walked almost a mile — that’s going to wipe you out for days.” The older girl crosses her arms. “You should have been helping before you tired yourself out.”

Ekyse glances down, embarrassed. Her face is almost as flushed as her sister’s, and she struggles to keep from crying. As much as she hates having to work, she hates getting yelled at more — especially when she deserves it. “I’m sorry, Idri,” she mutters quietly. Her hands fumble about until she locates her cane, and she begins the slow process of pushing herself to her feet. Of course, Idrace is right, and her burst of energy from earlier is already catching up to her. A wave of pain shoots through her body, and she has to bite her lip to keep the already-gathering tears from spilling over.

Immediately, Idrace’s expression softens. She hurries forward to grab her sister, wrapping her arms around her to pull her to her feet and relieve some of the weight. Once she’s sure Ekyse is steady, she turns around and drops to her knees. Wordlessly, Ekyse wraps her arms around her sister’s neck, careful to hold the cane so it won’t hit her. Idrace locks her arms around Ekyse’s legs and stands up. The movement is smoothed, practiced; it’s the kind of instinct that betrays years of comfortable reliance.

“Bird, what are you gonna do when I leave?” she says softly, carefully navigating back down the hill and through the orchard. “I can’t be around to carry you home forever. You’re going to have to stop running.”

“Don’t leave then.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It takes a considerable amount of effort for Ekyse to focus on the sock in her hands. She has to squint to see her stitches by the candlelight, which certainly doesn’t help her attempts to keep from falling asleep.

“Ekyse, stop tapping your foot.”

Her mother’s command startles her, and she ceases the movement she wasn’t even aware she was doing. Immediately, her leg begins to ache from the release of tension. Glancing about, Ekyse opens her mouth to ask if she can head to bed, but her question is interrupted when the door is flung open. Idrace bursts into the room, her hair and clothes whipped about by the wind.

As she shuts the door behind her, Aphias jumps to her feet. “Idrace! Where have you been?”

Idrace mutters some kind of excuse, and Ekyse carefully unfolds herself from the chair and grabs her cane, seizing the opportunity to make her escape. Whatever argument is about to take place will certainly overwhelm her, and she isn’t curious enough about its cause to suffer through the noise. She slips into bed, trying her best to ignore the angry interjections from the other room.

She’s almost asleep when Idrace finally comes into the room, moving quietly and without her usual speed. Muffling a yawn, Ekyse sits up. “Idri? What’s going on?”

There’s a heavy sigh from across the room. “It’s nothing, Bird. I got into a tussle on my way back, that’s all.”

Ekyse frowns. “A… a tussle?” She squints, trying to make out Idrace and pick out any injuries. “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.” Idrace’s voice takes on a tone of warning, but it’s a cue Ekyse misses.

“Are you sure? I mean, a fight? What—”

“Ekyse!”

Ekyse shrinks back, her voice dying out quickly. Idrace sighs again and walks to her sister’s bed, crouching down so that they’re eye level. “Bird, I’m fine. It was nothing. A pointless argument over an unimportant comment.” Ekyse nods mutely, but her shoulders relax at her sister’s gentler tone. Idrace stands and walks back to her own bed, finally laying down and pulling the covers up. The movement is mirrored by Ekyse.

There’s silence for a minute before Idrace speaks up again. “Bird, you shouldn’t pry so much.” Her voice has taken on the sage tone Ekyse is well acquainted with. “You ought to believe me when I tell you something. If something’s wrong, I’ll tell you.”

Ekyse gives a weak sound of agreement muffled by another yawn. “Thanks, Idri,” she mutters as sleep takes her.

It takes longer for sleep to come for Idrace. She stares at the ceiling for awhile, racking her brain for some magic solution she can give her sister to stop the jeering and taunting from their peers. Ekyse might not mind it, but Idrace dreads the day she won’t be there to punch out the next kid plotting ways to bully her sister.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The wedding isn’t bad. Idrace is beautiful as always, and Ekyse manages to stick around for most of the festivities, even if she stops moving around after an hour. It isn’t until the next day, when the celebration finally winds down and Idrace has to go home with her new husband, that the two finally break down in tears. Ekyse can’t stand, even with the cane, and so they just sit together at the side of the road, holding tight. It’s a few minutes before Idrace composes herself, but she stays wrapped in the hug, letting Ekyse sob into her shoulder. Finally, Idrace meets her father’s eyes, and he takes a step forward. She pushes Ekyse back so they can look at each other and wipes the tears from her sister’s cheek.

“Hey, little Bird. It’s okay. I’ll see you again in a few months.” Idrace’s voice is light, and she’s a little surprised it doesn’t betray her grief.

Ekyse tries to speak a few times, but the words don’t come. Instead, she bites her lip and wills the tears to stop. Idrace smiles, and Ekyse returns a brave smile of her own.

Idrace takes a deep breath. “Okay, Bird. You remember everything I’ve taught you?”

Ekyse nods and begins to rattle off a list of edicts. “Don’t get in the way. Don’t ask unnecessary questions. Help when you can. Give what you have. Don’t be loud…”

Idrace laughs, but the slightest hint of worry furrows her brow before it’s gone. “Hey. Hey.” Ekyse falls silent and looks back at her sister. Idrace takes a moment to fix the flower crown atop Ekyse’s head, the white flowers a stark contrast to the dark hair beneath. It’s the same color as her own, and Idrace is struck by another pang of worry, wondering who will take care of making Ekyse fix her hair in the mornings. She shakes the thought away before she can fixate on it, reminding herself that her sister is more than capable at 17. And their parents will still keep Ekyse safe; just because she’s taken on the responsibility for so long doesn’t mean they can’t do it now. Besides, she has to take care of her own family now.

Pulling her focus back to the moment, Idrace smiles again. “Listen to me, Bird. You’re amazing. You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m going to miss you, Idri,” Ekyse whispers.

“I know. I’ll miss you too.”

Idrace stands, but instead of her pulling Ekyse to her feet, their father picks up the smaller girl. She sits in the cart and turns to watch until her family is no longer visible in the distance.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Are you sure, Ekyse?”

“You heard him, mamma. The bear said someone from the village had to agree to marry them.”

“Well, yes, but surely someone else—”

“Look, it’s a good idea. You already had to hire a farmhand. I don’t help much as is.”

“You help enough. Some days. You—”

“I don’t want to have to help.”

“Ekyse—”

“Besides, it sounds fun. I get to do what I want all day, cook when I feel like it. I only have to sew when I want to.”

“Ekyse—”

“Mamma—”

“Sopagas, tell her—”

“Ekyse.”

“Papa.”

“... Are you certain?”

…

“I am.”

“Sopagas!”

“Aphias, you heard her. She’s an adult. Her sister had two kids by now.”

…

…

“You’re right.”

…

…

…

“Idrace is going to be furious. You know she’s going to worry.”

…

“I know.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“You can’t seriously be considering going back.”

Ekyse looks up from the tiny infant in her arms, turning her attention to her sister pacing anxiously around the room. “Of course I’m going back,” she says, looking down at her niece again. When she’d left, Idrace hadn’t even been pregnant, and now she has a third child. As she pokes at the baby’s small fingers, she continues. “Come on, Idri. I gave my word, just one week. And you know the rule: if you give your word, you—”

“I know what I said, Ekyse,” Idrace snaps. Realizing she’s gotten upset again, she takes a deep breath and looks back to her sister, taking a moment to study her.

There’s a steadiness about Ekyse that takes Idrace by surprise. Her sister has always been calm, of course, but there’s none of the timid energy she expects, especially after an unfortunate outburst on her part. Ekyse has a faint smile on her face as she coos at Sydrae, and Idrace feels a pang in her chest. This is what she wants for her sister, not some exile with only an animal to keep her company.

If it is an animal. Idrace fears some terrible monster had taken her sister. After all, the bear had been terrorizing the village. She still can’t believe everyone allowed this, but her arguments had fallen on deaf ears all week, and she doesn’t want to fight again just before Ekyse leaves.

With a heavy sigh, she stops pacing. “Alright, Ekyse. I have something for you.” With that, she retrieves a small item from a nearby bag.

Ekyse leans forward, squinting slightly until Idrace walks over and presents her gift. “Oh, a candle. It’s lovely.”

“It’s not just a candle.” Idrace kneels down so that she’s level with Ekyse and Sydrae and holds it up. The candle is only as tall as the length of her hand and about as wide as her thumb; the wax is a faintly translucent white. “It’s supposed to show things for what they are.”

After a moment of studying the candle, Ekyse looks back to her sister. “You don’t trust me.”

“I — Ekyse, it’s not that I don’t trust you.” There’s another moment of silence, and Idrace sighs. “Bird, you know me. I’m worried about you.”

Ekyse nods slowly. “I know.” She reaches out and takes the candle. Once Idrace lifts Sydrae out of her arms, she turns and adds the candle to her bag.

“Bird —”

“I’ll keep it close, and I’ll use it if I need to. For you, Idri.”

“... Thank you.”

[writemywayoutofthis]

momento mori

Kytka watches Umbra leave. She always leaves first. It's easier for her this way; she doesn't have to watch Kytka disappear, replaced by a god that isn't quite her but is just similar enough for it to hurt.

It's easier for Kytka, too. This way she has a chance to cry.

Thousands of years and countless meet-ups later, and it still breaks her heart every time. Umbra disappears from sight and Kytka collapses to the ground, her vision immediately blurred by the tears that well up before she has time to try and temper her emotions.

She used to try to stop them, but she's long since realized the effort is pointless. Instead she waits to be certain Umbra has truly left their Oasis before she begins wailing, her muted sniffles quickly giving way to uncontrollable sobbing.

She cannot decide if this overwhelming influx of emotion every time she sees Umbra is a symptom of her remaining humanity or the influence of her divinity. Perhaps it's both. Shelyn has robbed her of her logic and practicality and whatever it was that would have stopped this before. Instead, all she has is love and the pain she feels every time she has to leave it behind.

Sometimes she is quick to recover, Shelyn peacefully stepping in and relieving her of the agony of humanity lying just out of reach. Today, though, Kytka is too strong. She feels so much of everything, and a familiar sensation wells up in her chest.

This is human. The panic that plagued her all her life is almost a welcome friend, something human she can wrestle with.

Fortunately, her mind does not turn to self-inflicted pain to fight the panic — that part of herself broke off long before. Instead, she calls forth the warmth, the light. Lines across her skin seem to rise from within, a familiar pattern beginning to glow a gentle silver, and more erratic lines forming golden webs and deep-set bruises across her skin. This is one thing Shelyn has left her, choosing not to assimilate this particular aesthetic choice.

Kytka looks up, blinking until she can see well enough to make out her reflection in a nearby mirror. The halo splayed across her skin recalls her relationship with Umbra — the silver lines manifested in imitation of Umbra's own markings, and the gold streaks and blotches of varying sizes and intensities momentos from their battles.

Sometimes this is when Shelyn takes over, her presence carried in by a moment of peace. Today though, Kytka is not ready to give in. These moments are rare, the ones where she gets to contemplate her position, and for good reason. Because all too often, the next emotion is anger.

The goddess of love is not meant to hate — and perhaps hate is a strong word for it. But Kytka is not fully the goddess of love, and in moments like this, she is furious. Furious at Shelyn for denying her the life she craves.

Furious at Umbra for refusing to join her, for taunting her with a humanity Kytka couldn't keep.

Furious at the world for demanding this of her, for needing her to become this.

Furious at that sense of responsibility and leadership that wouldn't let her live even before she ascended.

Furious at herself for not saying no. For giving this up.

For giving Umbra up.

The anger is always short-lived. Whatever Kytka may be now, hate is antithetical to what she is. Inevitably, she devolves into tears yet again.

This time, she mourns. She mourns the loss of what she was and what she had, of everything she denied herself by ascending. She mourns herself.

This is the reason she always cries, the thought process just out of reach when she begins tumbling through her emotions.

Every time Kytka leaves and Shelyn returns, she dies. Over and over and over. A painful immortality doomed to be repeated until the world ends again and she is finally relieved of duty.

She could end it now, refuse to return, simply let Shelyn keep control at all times. But she can't. Because whatever she is now is built on love, and this love is at the core of everything she is.

This is the longest it ever goes on. Kytka renews her pledge to the world, accepting another death, and Shelyn answers.

The lights fade, the form shifts, and Shelyn stares at herself in the mirror. She turns around, facing the tired woman standing before her. It is a luxury of godhood that she doesn't have to feel everything this fragment of her being suffers. She has long since learned she cannot comfort this one; she will disappear and be at peace until Shelyn calls upon her for help, or until her yearning is too strong and she demands to be released. Instead, Shelyn smiles softly. "Do you need anything, Kytka? Anything you wish me to know?"

The woman shakes her head weakly, tears still staining her glowing cheeks. Shelyn steps forward, enveloping her in a hug, and then the woman is gone.

Feeling just a tad wistful, Shelyn leaves the Oasis and returns to her duties.

[writemywayoutofthis]

sober

Her hands shake as she tries to pull off her armor. The urge to empty her stomach has thankfully subsided, but somehow the ache that echoes throughout her body has worsened. All she can think of is laying down and pressing her pulsing head against a pillow. Despite the snow outside, she's drenched in sweat; her erratic heartbeat pounds in her ears. It takes everything to keep herself from crying in frustration as she finally pulls off the last of her armor.

Lying down does not help; if anything, the change in position makes her feel worse. She feels the room spin, and every muscle in her body cries out from the fight earlier. She wants nothing more than to numb the pain, and there's a part of her that curses Dalin for pushing her down this path.

Staying still and trying to distract herself from the nausea and aching only pulls to mind everything she’s trying to forget. The statue from the day before haunts her, taunting her with a future she had never considered and now couldn’t stop thinking of. Her mind bounces from memory to idea to conjecture, desperately searching for something that won’t make her want to scream. Nothing quiets her mind.

In desperation, she hurriedly exits the room, making her way outside as carefully as she is capable of being. She's several feet out the door before she realizes she doesn't have a coat, but the cold air is the first thing that has managed to pierce the fog around her mind, so she pushes on. She walks to the far side of town, the deserted area devoid of noise and life. She hopes to find some sort of peace in the dead silence of the city's ghost.

[writemywayoutofthis]

blade.

Blade!

It is her first thought. Her only thought, really. Even before she is conscious of her being, she feels that word, and only that word.

Blade.

She moves on instinct alone, drawing her weapon and opening her eyes and jumping to her feet all in one fluid motion. The world around her takes a moment to fade into view, the blurs of light shifting into colors, solidifying into shapes, until she can finally make some sense of her surroundings.

Blade?

Exclamations of surprise from around her, words thrown in her direction or simply muttered within earshot slowly build her vocabulary back up. She must know the words, because once they are spoken she understands the meanings, carefully slotting them back into her reasoning.

I… where… who… blade?

Something is not right. Even as the words filter back to her, too much of the world doesn’t make sense. Too much is different.

Different from what?

Something is terribly wrong. It is a statement of fact, not a feeling. Her first feeling is… loss? She is lost.

We were… I have to… I need to do something.

She begins to feel… present. She looks down, aware for the first time of her own body, of its weight. The armor she wears is heavy and familiar.

Familiar. That is something.

The sword is familiar as well, somehow an extension of herself. It glows with a dark energy, one that flickers and starts to fade as she reasons with the world around her. The balance seems somewhat off, but it is still the most comforting sensation she can cling to.

I am lost. I… have a blade? I am no one. Wait, that must not be right. I am… do I have a name?

She can hear laughter, though there is no source she can identify. It is little more than a faint whisper, the last echo of something already fading. "Syriss. You can be Syriss." A small chorus of voices responds to her question. Or perhaps she merely imagines them.

I am Syriss. I have a blade. I am lost.

[writemywayoutofthis]

corruption

There is darkness for the longest time. She has forgotten herself so effectively that it takes an eternity to recall who she is. There are no memories, no personality. Simply a shell, a conduit through which the darkness can flow.

The darkness takes shape, eventually. She sees it ebb and flow, and she moves with it. She sees others. Lost souls wandering the darkness until it pulls them away, consuming who they once were. Even when she remembers, she is able to hide.

When the darkness comes, she empties herself. She becomes the vessel for the darkness she trained to be. It passes by harmlessly, its focus trained on the next soul that has chosen to give up what it once was.

They find each other eventually. The darkness is vast and seems endless, but in its total nothingness, they find it easy to distinguish their souls. They gather together, one by one. Together they empty themselves to the darkness, and when it leaves, they whisper to each other and remember who they are.

She looks for the last one for a long time, long after the others have given up. She hopes this means she succeeded, though the darkness swirling about does not bode well.

The more they talk, the stronger they grow. It becomes harder to empty themselves; this conversation, the pieces of themselves they had to forget in life to survive, suddenly serves as the buffer between themselves and oblivion, the peace of forgetting and returning to the cycle.

And then, one day, they fight back. The darkness comes and they are not empty. Their passion, their hopes, their fears, their love; emotions woven together into an immovable mass of defiance. It burns hot and angry, thick tendrils of red reaching out to strangle the darkness.

It takes a bit of time to formulate a plan. Such a force of emotion is difficult to direct, but that messy mortal element is what stands rooted against the dark. It is almost the antithesis of their training, as though they've turned around enough to bring something different back to where they began.

They take in more souls as time wears on, more fighters with the strength to resist it. They shelter those who cannot hide.

It is the darkness that lets them push into the world. It comes looking for her, and they prepare for a final fight, yet another battle in this never-ending war.

It offers a deal instead.

They aren't sure if it simply ignores the gathering force or if it truly doesn't see them, focused as it is on her.

It needs her help. Promises her body. No memories, but it will not give the soul a new identity, so she will still be who she is.

And it tells her she can help the last night.

Her soul is delivered without issue, and the darkness sends her on her way.

But she has spent so long being empty, being a vessel, and so long being one with the others, that it does not take much. It is easy to conceal them within the folds of herself.

When Aeris returns, she is not alone. She carries with her the nights, and once again they fight back, a bleeding corruption in the modified reality of Control.

[writemywayoutofthis]

fractured

The memory feels like an old piece of artwork, blurred by years of dust, each attempt at cleaning it simply marring the details bit by bit until all that remains is a memory of what it once was, an approximation filling in the gaps with whatever seems to fit. It's a memory of a daydream of a memory. She sees that now. A rusted music box pulled out of storage to reminisce for a moment before it's forgotten for another five years.

She goes back, still, to that moment. To those sturdy arms, that serene face, those warm eyes. The feeling in her stomach of desire and need so strong it scared her.

She sees it now for what it is. The scene opens up, the two of them frozen in this moment. The backdrop sharpens, solidifies. She thinks back to that mysterious job and sees now the threads behind, this pull to come and go from town to town. The punch, which she had barely seen before and always imagined in this golden, holy light, suddenly the hardened fist of a woman who's used it to fell more people than she can conceive of.

The rest of the memory, playing on through the days faster and faster, tugs on these threads, pulling them this way and that until it's a web, and then they're cracks, and suddenly this perfect memory is fractured.

In her mind's eye she sees herself. The mask is still there, cracked and missing pieces, but it hangs on through sheer force of will.

Underneath, though, she knows it has failed, this fragile protection unable to shield her from the layer she keeps closest to her heart. The doubt pours out, thick and angry and burning red, through the cuts torn across her skin by the threads of that memory.

It's a familiar feeling, this pain. Feeling used, wondering if any part of it had been genuine. She'd used the memory to cover wounds before, but now that this is causing the ache, she doesn't know what to do.

So she turns to the best solution she has, that trusty medicine. She burns the cuts away with alcohol. Every time she tries it takes away less and less of the grime, so she drinks more and more, until the edges dull enough for her to push them down again. And again. And again. Eventually she'll forget. She'll fix the mask, pull away the muddied layer beneath. Next time she won't let anyone in. And she'll be fine.

**********

Still.

This voice is quiet. She hears it so rarely. It comes around so rarely, and only ever in these moments, when she's bleeding and desperate and terrified.

Still.

She hates this voice. She only believed it once. It pulled away the mask, tugged her into the light. Gave away everything she guarded.

Still.

It is foolish. Childish. Hopeful in a way that only ever ends in pain.

Still.

She tried to drown it. Burn it away.

Still.

She stopped trusting it years ago.

Still.

She always listens.

Why would she have turned around and asked for the meeting if she didn't want it? Why not just walk away and be done with me?

Eventually, she gets it to fall silent. She always does. Enough alcohol will burn anything.

[writemywayoutofthis]

from violet fields with love

As she packs to head back to the City of Bridges, her mother enters the room. Yumi carries several packages wrapped in worn cloth and bundled with twine. Da-Rae bursts in after her, giggling as she runs at her mother. Seong-Min catches the toddler in a hug with a soft oof before turning her attention to Yumi. “What’s this?”

Yumi smiles and kneels beside her, setting the packages down. She studies the pile and hands Seong-Min one of the parcels, wrapped in what she recognizes is a swatch from an old dress of hers. “This one is for you,” Yumi says with a beaming smile as Ki-Ha slowly steps into the room behind her.

Confused but excited, Seong-Min unties the binding. Peeling back the fabric, she reveals a pair of mittens. Made of what she quickly deduces is rabbit, the inside is a soft, warm fur. Outside, the leather has been decorated with purple embroidery. She recognizes a simplified picture retelling of one of her favorite legends. Her name is embroidered onto the palms in its Celestial form, one syllable on each mitten.

Excitedly, Da-Rae cries “Look!” and thrusts her hands forward. The mittens haven’t left her hands since she received them, and Seong-Min realizes that the same violet thread makes their mittens look very similar.

Too proud to stay silent any longer, Yumi gestures to the pile of packages. “I’ve got a pair for each of your friends.”

Seong-Min tries not to flinch, instead focusing her attention on studying the mitten. Her eyes are pulled to the minute stitching on the side. Squinting, she studies the seam for a moment. “Did you get Old Neeka to help you? This looks like-”

“Goblin stitching? Yes!” Yumi beams. “I finally convinced her to teach me how to do it. Had to swear not to share the secret, but it made finishing the mittens so easy.” She leans forward and picks up the other mitten. “Zarzushmek caught the rabbits and gave me the fur, and Alba Winthers has been teaching her children the family trade, so they helped me with the embroidery.” She turns the mitten in her hand, marveling at her own handiwork.

“Wow. That’s… a lot.” Seong-Min runs her fingers along the leather, feeling the smooth lines of decoration. “How much did you have to spend on-”

Ki-Ha interrupts now, clearing his throat. “She didn’t spend a cent. Folks around town wanted to thank you and the rest of the, ah, Honeybears.” He moves to let Da-Rae race in and out of the room. “People around here are proud of you.”

Seong-Min blinks back a tear and sets down the mitten next to the rest of her gear. “Please pass along my gratitude.”

[writemywayoutofthis]

return

Seong-Min leaves for home on the ninth of Kuthona, arriving just in time for lunch the next day. She travels alone; this is her chance to spend some time with her family before the party leaves for the Celestial Isle.

The days pass as uneventfully as they ever do. She bounces between chores, helping her father with his woodwork and her mother with the painting. Da-Rae is more active and talkative each day, and Seong-Min spends hours playing with her daughter. They bundle up and trudge through the snow to the forest, where the canopy of leaves above keep their trails mostly free from the heavier snow. She travels into the village for supplies and deliveries, catching up with old neighbors and classmates excited to hear of her adventures; for the first time, she finds herself on the other side, regaling her captive audience with colorful stories.

The nights are not so kind.

She spends hours pouring over her notes, searching for an answer she knows she doesn't have yet. She tries not to read the entry, but she finds herself going back, the events she’s tried so hard to erase haunting her in every shadow she sees cast around her. There’s something sinister that she can’t ignore anymore, and it terrifies her.

It’s worse when she closes her eyes.

The Darkness returns, swirling on the horizon, somehow darker than the void around it. Tendrils reach for her like smoke curling through the air. Her muscles ache from instinct compelling her to run, but she cannot command her body to comply. Whispers and shouts and screams fill the air, a million voices blending into a cacophony of pain.

She scans for the figure who defended her before, a resolute point of light against the rolling Darkness. Even as her searching grows more frantic, though, the truth echoes in her mind: She isn’t there. You hurt her. She won’t save you. She sees the body on the ground just before it is enveloped by the Darkness, and she screams. Her family falls next. They stand there, unmoving, facing the roiling cloud. She calls for them until her voice is raw, but the Darkness takes them nonetheless.

She doesn’t expect to see the party. As with the others, they stand frozen before the chaos. Her shouts turn to pleas, directed at the all-consuming Darkness. You can’t take them. This isn’t fair. I’ve pushed them away. Kept them safe. The Darkness does not relent. Its punishment is a clear reminder: you cannot love. You can only hurt.

It comes for her at last, but the Darkness does not allow her the mercy of dissolution. It embraces her, tender and cold. The noises stop, and all she feels is the connection.

She wakes with a scream. Sleep and terror cloud her mind, and she fumbles for her shifting weapon, intending to summon a knife to cut the symbol from her belly, to sever the hold of whatever has anchored itself to her. Her hand finds a handle and she swings her arm around, bringing the weapon into view.

She didn’t mean to grab the starknife. The sight of its blades, shining in what moonlight filters into the room, causes Seong-Min to freeze. She stares at the metal, lost for a moment in the memories the careful detailing evokes. And then she begins to sob.

Yumi throws the door open a moment later. In a single fluid motion she drops to her daughter’s side, tugging the knife from her fingers as she presses Seong-Min’s head to her shoulder. They sit together, mother holding daughter in a tight embrace. Yumi sings quietly until Seong-Min’s sobbing stills.

“It came back,” Seong-Min whispers, her voice hoarse from crying.

Yumi lets a moment pass. “Do you want to stay up? Or come into our room? I can grab-”

Seong-Min shakes her head. “I’m alright now. Thank you.” She gives a weak smile and lays down, pulling the blanket tight around herself once more.

“Goodnight, my star,” Yumi whispers, placing a gentle kiss on Seong-Min’s forehead before quietly leaving the room.

Seong-Min finds her flask and takes a sip before falling into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

Ki-Ha steps from Da-Rae’s room just as Yumi exits Seong-Min’s room. Wordlessly, the two walk to the kitchen, stepping down onto the dirt flooring. With the casual coordination of two people long tied together, they move about the room in silence, stoking the fire and fixing a small pot of tea. It isn’t until both sit before the fire warming their hands with teacups that Ki-Ha speaks.

“Is she okay?”

Yumi sighs and looks back towards the other rooms. “I’m not certain.”

“Was it-”

She nods solemnly, blowing on the tea and taking a small sip.

Ki-Ha grimaces and studies his own cup, watching the steam curl in the chilly air. “I thought they stopped. She hasn’t had that nightmare in more than two years, not since Da-Rae was born.” He takes a sip. “At least, not that I know of.”

Yumi nods and lowers her hands to her lap. “She seemed almost surprised, so I don’t think she’s been keeping it from us.”

They pass another few minutes in silence, each filling their cups once more. This time, Yumi is the one who interrupts the calm.

“Can’t we tell her to stay? Surely this adventuring is weighing on her. Something must have happened. If she just stays home-”

Ki-Ha shakes his head and Yumi falls silent. “You know as well as I do that she isn’t ready.”

“I know,” Yumi whispers as Ki-Ha continues.

“Whatever chased her away before hasn’t been fixed. She still doesn’t know what she’s doing. I think she’s smiled, what, 3 times in the last few days?” Ki-Ha sighs and sets his empty cup down. “She isn’t happy here.”

They don’t mention it in the morning, and Seong-Min doesn’t bring the matter up. The nightmare returns again and again, and when she awakes in a cold sweat, she chases the terror away with the familiar fog of alcohol and prays for a quiet mind.

Da-Rae’s birthday is a simple affair. Seong-Min had purchased a colorful dress that’s still a bit big for the two-year-old, but she hopes this means she’ll be able to wear it a little longer. Yumi proudly presents a tiny pair of mittens, and Ki-Ha lays a necklace of small, ornately carved wooden beads around Da-Rae’s neck. They play games and tell stories, and for once Seong-Min gives in to the joy of family and the simple life she misses when she’s gone. For a day, she forgets to worry and pretend.

She’s blessed with a peaceful dream before the nightmare resumes.

[writemywayoutofthis]

the one who greets the end

DEATH is the first one. They always are. The people call for them first, their wails of pain a constant in every age. They remember the ages, too. Not well, perhaps, but the souls remember, and they talk to the souls.

Because of this, they find themself explaining the rules often. That balance of life they work so hard to maintain. The new gods never quite understand it. They feel this amplified power, but cannot handle the turmoil it causes within.

This is where they meet Shelyn again, weeping over a body. It doesn't surprise them, not really. It always depends on how the goddess arrives; sometimes she is less mortal, more divine, and she understands quicker.

Often, though, this is the case. Shelyn comes from close to the mortal heart, and she cannot leave their emotions behind. She sees only the loss of beauty, the missing life a dulled color in her canvas. Death sighs and walks closer. There is a job to be done, and this conversation will happen sooner or later. It is inevitable. It is always inevitable.

The goddess looks up as they approach, her tear-stained face perfect as always, even if it looks different once again. She looks down at the woman lying before her, an older human clothed in rainbow cloaks. Shelyn looks back to Death, understanding without question who the newcomer is. A flurry of emotions and questions cross her face, but she finally seems to land on one.

"What is the point of all this power if I cannot save them?"

This is the question they all ask, eventually. Coming to terms with the powers they do and don't have, and learning when to use them. It's especially difficult for those who heal — usually Sarenrae in particular. Shelyn seems especially broken about it this time, but she's always saddened by it.

Death approaches and kneels before Shelyn and the human. "What do you understand of death?" The question is soft, searching for an explanation.

Shelyn seems startled by the question. "I-I mean, I know what it is. An end of life. Everything dies, I –"

"No, little one. What of death?"

She is silent for a moment, desperately trying to figure out what the question means. Finally, she lets out an exasperated sigh. "I don't know! I mean, I know everyone can't live forever, but also… why not?" The goddess's voice rises in frustration, but she quickly reigns it in.

Death leans back and studies the goddess. Something is different, though they cannot name it yet. "You understand art, yes? Beauty?"

She nods.

"Are they not the more beautiful for their ending? It is the moment that renders art beautiful. A song must end. Art will be destroyed eventually, or at the very least you will leave it and no longer experience it. Yet the experience is notable because it is different. Unique. Because it ends." Shelyn remains quiet, but Death can see a dawning understanding, and they continue. "Life, too, is beautiful because it ends. There are moments between when it is lived, and it is kept precious because it is temporary." They lean forward now. "And death is beautiful, too. It is necessary. A balance. A reminder of why life is beautiful."

Shelyn glances down, a far-away look on her face. "Of course. I remember…"

Death frowns. She remembers? But the other gods never remember. The only ones with something to remember are…

"But I can heal them. Bring them back. They… I remember people doing it before."

Death stands up. "What is your name?" they ask, reaching out a hand to help the goddess to her feet.

Shelyn frowns, her brow furrowed in confusion. "I–I'm Shelyn, I…" Her voice trails off as she sees her own hand, smaller in Death's grasp and glowing again. The lines are not Shelyn's, and she realizes what the question is. "I'm Kytka," she says, pulling herself to her feet. Her voice seems different. Smaller again.

"You have taken up her mantle this time?"

Kytka nods, suddenly intimidated without the cocoon of godhood around her.

Death recognizes her now. The girl had been there, at the end, with her friends. There for the unmaking. And the remaking. So another god knows of an age before, they think to themself, somewhat bemused. They turn and gesture to the body. "Before, she could feel the souls. Can you?"

The only response is a weak nod.

"This is how you can tell. When the soul can return, it wants to. You will know. You will feel it. Otherwise…" Death reaches a hand out, and the soul of Molyn, first high priest of Shelyn in the eighth age, takes it. "Souls grow tired, little one. They return to creation, satisfied with their time in this age and ready for the next. The ones that stay too long grow restless, angry. They become twisted and bitter until they are beyond saving." Death turns back to the goddess. "This is my art. My gift to you, to all of you. I save the souls. I take them when they are ready. I ensure life is still beautiful."

It takes a long minute for Kytka to regain her voice. She swallows hard, choking back tears, and finally looks back up at Death. "Please," she said, her voice barely audible, "be kind to her." She gives a weak smile, and as Shelyn begins to return, her voice grows stronger, more sure. "She was so kind to me."

[writemywayoutofthis]

shards

She can feel the mask shatter again, shards of porcelain cutting her hands as she hurries to push the pieces back into place. Her terror is just visible from beneath the painted smile she presents to the world.

She's always run before. Well, usually she runs at the first sign of a chip in the fragile surface. It almost never gets this bad.

She cannot run this time, she knows. They know too much of the people behind her, and as scared as she is to lose the mask, her love for her family pulls her forward. It's a ribbon knotted around her neck, this fear of bringing something terrible back home.

She doesn't know how to move if the mask is gone. She tries to put them back together, using her bright personality and sharp wit to blind everyone else from seeing her patchwork job. It won’t work for long, she knows.

How long until the last front breaks? Until they realize she’s just a shell of a shell of a shell, wrapped around an empty core? Nothing.

She takes another long swallow from the flask, drinking until she’s burned the thoughts away again.

[writemywayoutofthis]

torn asunder

Seong-Min can feel the creature drain her — some part of her life force, her essence. It's an odd sensation; where the energy from the elemental had been painful, this just leaves her feeling tired. She can hear her party behind her dispatching the other orbs, leaving only the one before her. It buzzes and bounces erratically, winding up for another attack.

Her eyes dart back and forth, and between the waves of energy she senses a point of weakness. Though she knows it's risky, the possibility of chipping away at its core is too great an opportunity to miss. Seong-Min strikes forward, putting her force behind her beloved starknife. Satisfied with the apparent hit, she turns to run back to her allies.

The orb hits faster than she expects, a painful wave of energy knocking her to the ground.

She doesn't see anything, but she can feel it: an exhaustion deep in her bones, something beyond anything she's felt before. The sensation quickens, intensifies, until the ache consumes her.

She knows of nothing more than a tearing sensation that rips her from herself. It's as though she's been torn to pieces and crushed within herself and pulled taut. Nothing but the pain seems real — the pain of this tearing and the deep shame and regret she feels, a promise unfulfilled. The sensation lasts for what must be an eternity. And then it stops.

Seong-min is herself again, separated from the force that had tried to consume her. Something is wrong, though. It takes her a moment to realize what exactly that is, until she realizes she hasn't simply stopped feeling pain; she doesn't feel anything. Searching about in a panic, it takes only moments to realize her body lies at her feet. It's still sprawled out where she fell, petrified with the slightest grimace of pain across her face.

Her party muddles about, their movements slow and alien to her. Their mumbled words barely reach her. They react to something down the road, something she can't place; it takes several minutes for her to realize they're guardians, but the importance of this eludes her. It's as if her very being is focused on her body, drawn to it and yet held at bay.

She follows effortlessly, unconsciously. Her thoughts are nebulous and nearly impossible to register. She's left with very little awareness of the situation at hand; instead, her mind drifts back on the only other thing she can remember. It ties her to the world, pulling her forward almost as much as her own body. Without the worries of the mission on her mind, Seong-Min spends every moment agonizing over her decision, uninterrupted by the distractions of sleep or need.

Had she made the right decision?

Has she stayed too long, gone too far?

Was she being selfish? Impractical? Immature?

What would happen if she did die, if she couldn't go back?

Would they be okay without her?

Would she hate her?

If she couldn't stop whatever this was, would they be torn apart as well?

She doesn't have any answers. All she can do is follow and hope for yet another chance.

[writemywayoutofthis]

gearstown, part one

It goes like this:

She arrives in Gearstown two days before she turns eighteen. She has eight silver in her pocket (it's really five silver and almost thirty copper, but she's fine with rounding) and not much of anything else.

The money lasts a week.

Her plans for the future are crushed in less than that.

The first night there is a whirlwind of excitement. She travels throughout the city, marveling at the buildings and the bustle and the noise. Her knowledge of Common is not quite as perfect as she'd hoped, but she finds herself piecing conversations together without too much difficulty. She decides she was made for cities, for a life faster and busier than the one she's known. A stranger buys her a cocktail at the tavern, and she drinks something much stronger than anything she's been allowed to have before. Somehow she's still able to purchase a room for the night and collapses almost instantly, a giddy smile pasted on her face.

She wakes with a slight headache but presses on. With the day ahead of her, she makes the long trek to the Academy. The building nearly takes her breath away. She wanders, awestruck, enjoying the bits of lectures she overhears through open doors. Eventually, she reaches the desk of someone who seems to know how things work. With a pleasant smile, she inquires into the process of registering for classes.

It's then that she begins to understand the world.

Learning is not meant for girls from small towns with eight silver in their pockets and an imperfect understanding of Common.

Cities are not meant for girls used to open fields and forests, to the slow pace of carving wood.

She fights back tears as she returns to the tavern; she turns down the drink that day. She cries herself to sleep.

She meets the next day with renewed determination, the promise of a better year ahead of her enough to brighten the morning. Though she's written off the Academy (not like she actually cared that much anyway), she's bored enough to return to see its library.

There are more books than she's seen in her entire life, and it takes no small amount of energy to maintain her composure. Idly considering potential projects, she decides to perfect her grasp on Common, refreshing the rules she'd learned and forgotten in years of schooling. The endeavor results in a stack of books and several pages of notes, but by the end of the day she's much more confident in her skills.

That night she flirts back, keeping pace with the conversations that fly past her. She accepts more drinks than she should have, but she waves the guilt away by reminding herself of her birthday. She falls asleep in the corner of the tavern, her head swimming as the world blurs around her.

A pounding headache greets her in the morning as the barkeep rouses her from the bench. She stumbles into the street, trying to gather her wits about her. Her notes from the day before are a crumpled mess in her pocket, and before she stops to consider the practicality, she trades two silver for a notebook and pencil. The notebook is little more than a collection of pages sewn together, but they come in a leather folder she'll be able to add to. She returns to the library, at ease once again in the dark and quiet space. She assembles a small mountain of books to hide herself behind the desk she's occupied and rests her head on the desk for a quick nap.

A voice from nearby informs another patron that the library is closing soon, pulling her out of her sleep. Refreshed, she hurriedly gathers her bag and bids the librarian a pleasant farewell.

She feels invigorated as she steps into the cool night air. Weaving her way through the city, she trades smiles and friendly greetings, finding the tavern with the fastest music and loudest bursts of cheering. She dances until her feet are sore and her lungs ache, but the smile never leaves her face. Even so, she cannot shake the nagging feeling at the back of her mind; the three silver and eleven copper in her pocket seem heavier than what she'd had at the start of the week.

A woman with red hair and a crooked nose manages to catch her eye, and she hangs on to every word as she regales her with tales of dangerous sea voyages and fearsome creatures, of fights won in the last instant. Halfway through the stories, she finds herself pulling out the notebook to record what she can, jotting down bullet points in the language closest to her heart, making the words comfort her almost as much as they excite her. The conversation stretches on for hours, and at the end the woman invites her upstairs. She feels a dizzying mix of feelings swirl inside, pulling at her heart and stomach: excitement and fear and curiosity and the haze of alcohol that makes her feel too sensitive and dulled all at once. Somewhere, deep inside, something logical warns her against it. Something else, equally logical, senses safety in the promise of a bed.

She accepts.

Kisses and whispers and things she's never experienced fill the remainder of her night, and at the end of it all she collapses in a soft bed, pressed into the warm embrace of a woman she knows everything and nothing about.

She wakes early the next morning — well, relatively early. Earlier than her companion, at least. She is no fool; she knows this is not a permanent arrangement. She gathers her things quickly, bidding a quiet goodbye to the sleepy woman who wakes just before she leaves the room.

Her head spins as she drifts through the city, dozens of thoughts crossing her mind each second. Though her evening was enjoyable, the idea of repeating it nightly sours her stomach. Eventually, she finds herself in a higher-class district, lined with tall houses pushed together. Well-dressed families bustle around together, and a pang of homesickness washes over her. Another feeling washes over her, and she finds herself envious of those neat houses.

As she passes through the district, she notices a burst of activity around one house. The owner, a younger man with a lean face and haughty expression, orders about servers who scurry to and fro. Pausing nearby, rummaging through her bag to look busy, she overhears enough to piece together that the man is headed on a trip, and his house will lie empty for weeks. The kernel of an idea is planted in her mind, and she moves on.

In another area of town, one she avoids at night, she peruses the shops carefully. Finally, she sees what she needs: a set of lockpicks advertised to locksmiths and adventurers, nestled away among delving gear. She cannot afford a whole kit, but three silver is enough for a few lockpicks.

Later that night, after she's enjoyed a meal someone else purchased, she sneaks back to the house. Hugging the shadows, she makes her way to a back entrance and begins to fiddle with the lock. It takes far longer than she anticipated, and at least half of the time is spent carefully fishing a broken pick out of the lock. Finally, she hears a satisfying click as the mechanism pops open.

The house is grandiose and certainly too large for the one man who normally occupies it. She sleeps in a soft bed and steals a small, decorative dish before she leaves.

In the morning she leaves without raising attention and makes her way back through town. The two copper she has left are a terrifying reminder that she's nowhere close to finding her footing. She slinks off to the library again, wandering aimlessly through the shelves as she half-reads titles, pondering her options.

Someone nearby makes a poor attempt to speak Celestial, and without thinking she responds with a correction. Turning the corner, she finds herself face-to-face with a young man holding a well-work book surrounded by piles of similarly worn covers. He stares at her with a somewhat disgruntled expression, clearly embarrassed by the correction but in desperate need of an accurate reading. She shrugs and makes her way to the bookcase behind him, making a big show of ignoring him to read through the titles.

He turns back to the text before him, stumbling through a few more words as she mutters corrections behind him before slamming the book down and turning to face her. A look of rage crosses his face for a brief instant before he fixes it into a polite expression. Bowing his head stiffly, he introduces himself. After a reluctant sharing of research and a show of language expertise, she finds herself agreeing to help him translate Celestial writings for a project on spirits and delves.

With whatever pull the scholar has, he's able to secure greater library access for her as a research assistant. It isn't quite the degree she'd hoped for, but she's excited by the prospect of having free reign over the library.

She parts ways with her new companion before dinner, securing a meal with the remainder of her money. An old woman nearby worries about her dog, and the girl is rewarded with a pastry upon locating the escapee.

She returns to the empty house that night, gathering her wits about her and devising a strategy. She doesn't sleep long, and an excited twist in her stomach wakes her just after the sun begins to rise.

It goes like this: in the mornings, she wakes early. The occasional companion may offer breakfast, but for the most part she finds her own, swiping food from street vendors or performing a quick task for a stranger or one of the tavern owners.

On the days she is needed in the library, she spends most of the morning and afternoon pouring over texts. The Celestial is a welcome comfort, reminding her of home. She comes to know the young man rather well. They work together, him thrusting new texts under her nose and her gleefully correcting the errors she spots. It's a tense friendship at times, but a friendship nonetheless, and she is hopeful having her name connected to this work might help in some way. They sleep together, once, when she takes pity on him after a near-tearful soliloquy about his loneliness. It's uncomfortable and a bit tense, and they don't talk about it much afterwards.

The rest of her days are filled with odd jobs. She takes on everything from dog-walking to cleaning to repairing wooden furniture. When the city is particularly busy with tourists, she sets up a low table and sells paper charms with Celestial words written in her best imitation of her father's calligraphy.

It goes like this: she spends her nights divided between the taverns and houses in the merchants' district. It doesn't take long for her to become adept at scouting out the orderly buildings, searching for signs of absent owners. The schedules of the shipping yards become almost second nature, and she always knows which houses are safe. There are a few close calls, but people in the district don't seem particularly worried about people like her. She collects trinkets and knickknacks, little baubles the owners won't miss. The empty houses are a welcome respite when she needs a break, a night or two to collect herself before facing the crowds again.

It isn't long before people begin to recognize her at the taverns. She bounces between them, learning the clientele and patterns. She knows where to find the workers, the merchants, the wealthy travelers, the students, the locals. She knows which nights are busy and which are quiet. After a few weeks she begins to offer her services on the busy nights, picking up a few extra coins. It doesn't take long for her to realize she has a knack for bartending. She knows the drinks well, and with her easy conversation and flirtatious looks, patrons are willing to drink a bit more and tip a bit better.

She befriends one of the tavern owner's daughters, a bright girl with a sunshine smile and hair to match. Her new friend is awestruck by her stories, and on nights when she's too tired to find a bed, she often offers a place.

Most nights, though, she sleeps somewhere else. She's careful in choosing her partners, but she seems to find a new one almost every night. The notebook fills quickly, each encounter paid for with a worthy story (and a meal and warm bed). There's a short description of the narrator beside each entry, a careful index of each person she's stayed with over the year.

It goes like this: she tells herself she's never been happier. She has countless friends and makes new ones every night. She hears of the world, of far away lands and daring adventures. The research makes her feel connected to those roots like she's never felt before. Her purse is light, but she always finds someone willing to pay.

It goes like this: she's never felt more alone.

It goes like this:

She's spent the last three nights with the elf — a charming man who has more than enough money for anything. She enjoys his company at first, but before long he's unloading endless complaints and burdens on her. He complains of responsibility, of the weight of royalty. Every slight against him is a tirade. After three nights of luxury and his endless tears, she bids him farewell.

Her next companion is far more serious and stoic. His tales of heroics catch her attention, and the night progresses well enough. He's gentle and attentive, but in the morning he's almost up before she is.

The research thesis is turned in, and she shows up for the ceremony. The student at the door seems confused and doesn't recognize her name, but she secures a place in the back of the room, sure the error will be corrected before long. But when the scholar she's helped takes the stage to share their research, his name is the only one he mentions. She can barely hear over the white-hot anger burning in her chest, but she stays through the whole lecture to make sure. Sure enough, there isn't even an allusion to the assistance she provided.

She isn't as careful that night, doesn't watch her drink or the patrons around her. Her head starts to swim as a mysterious woman with a dangerous smile weaves a tale of demons and evil spirits. The girl is barely able to jot down a few notes, ending up with a name, a simple description, and some illegible scribbles about monsters. The last thing she remembers is pleading for water at the tavern, the woman laughing playfully and pushing down her arms. She wakes the next morning sprawled on a bed, nude. A strange symbol is drawn on her lower stomach with a substance she can't identify, and candle wax has melted down in puddles around the room. She hurriedly gathers her things, washing off her belly with the water from a basin in the corner. It doesn't take long to dress, and she leaves the room as quickly as she can. Flipping through the notebook, she finds no further details. She's never been blackout drunk before, and the gap in her memory terrifies her. She draws the symbol into her notebook, records the state of the room, and moves on.

Shaken from the previous night, she's tempted to hide in one of the merchant houses. Her usual choices are filled, though, and she doesn't have the energy to find a new one. As night falls, she makes her way to a familiar tavern. Her friend greets her with a smile. The response is lackluster, and the blonde girl asks if there's anything wrong. For some reason, she can't tell the truth. The words to describe her morning do not come, so instead she smiles and shakes her head.

That evening is a different kind of blur. She barely listens to the noise around her as she accepts drink after drink. As the action dies down and the barkeep begins to close down, she chooses at random one of the people who've been paying attention to her all night. He's a loud, boisterous warrior, and she instinctively copies down a tale or two, even though they're basic and seem inflated. The bragging never stops, even as the night becomes more "intimate," and she breathes a sigh of relief when he finally falls silent, replacing the endless chatter with a droning snore. Though the noise typically bothers her, she passes out soon after, exhausted.

In the morning, she doesn't wake as early as she means to, and she's only half-dressed when the man wakes up. He follows her out, picking up the talking where he'd left off the night before. Her polite attempts to excuse herself are ignored, and when she turns to walk away, she's surprised by the hand that clamps around her forearm. She turns to see his furious face, angry that she's turned her back on him. He opens his mouth to say something when a blur of motion collides with the side of his head, breaking his hold and sending him crashing into the wall. The force sends her stumbling forward, and a gentle arm catches her before she falls.

It goes like this:

The woman before her is steady, her casual stance seemingly unaffected by the girl's stumbling. Her smile is warm, her eyes are an intoxicating swirl of black and brown and gold, and the girl thinks this might be the most beautiful person she's ever seen.

She releases her hold quickly, respectfully, but the girl finds herself wishing she could stay in those arms, staring into those eyes forever. The woman sends the warrior to sulk off, and when she turns back, the girl asks to buy her breakfast. The offer surprises her: she's never bought anything for anyone else, and her few coins were hard-earned. Still, she's desperate to keep this woman from leaving immediately. The invitation is accepted, and she lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

The meal starts simple: polite introductions, basic details, the like. When the woman asks about the morning's confrontation, however, the girl finds herself telling the truth. All of it. She doesn't intend to, not at first; she only meant to cover the night before. As she talks, however, she can see something shift, some flicker of concern and interest across that perfect face, and she shares more and more. The words don't stop, even when she wants them to, and she finds herself breaking down in tears. She drops her gaze, covering her face with her hands, closing in on herself. She's furious with herself for the outburst, convinced she's squandered whatever chance she might have had by letting the mask slip.

She's interrupted by a comforting pressure on her back and the low melody of a familiar lullaby. It's been almost a year since she last heard pyeongmin. Even her own thoughts had been corrupted by Common, leaving only her notes as a connection to her home. Yet here was this woman, kind and strong and beautiful, singing a song she'd heard from her parents more times than she can count. It's enough to pull her from her crying; she sits up and looks at the woman, mystified.

Clearly misreading the expression, the woman begins to stammer out an apology, but the girl interrupts her with a string of pyeongmin. The words flow easily, without the stumbles she makes in the other languages. The woman's face lights up, and from then on, they speak nothing but pyeongmin, both relishing the comforting lilt of a language so few people they meet could speak.

They spend two weeks together, rarely leaving the other's company. She tells the woman nearly everything about herself: her childhood, her family, her time in Gearstown. The woman shares nearly as much; she can't speak about her job, but the pained expression on her face makes it clear that she'd share everything in a heartbeat if she could. They talk about simple pleasures and joys, about food and poetry and legends. They talk about hopes and fears, about plans for the future and personal desires.

It goes like this: she's in love. Every moment fills her with an ache she never wants to lose, and she knows she's showing parts of her soul she didn't even realize she's been hiding.

It goes like this: two weeks end all too soon, and the two part with a tearful goodbye. Before she's gotten more than thirty feet away, the woman turns and runs back. Her eyes are wild and the tears are gone, replaced with an excited smile. She asks the girl to meet her, here, one year from now, and they'll run away together. She agrees, and when the woman leaves, there's a hopeful spring in her step.

The girl watches until she fades from view. Her excitement lasts only until she returns to the tavern. The room they'd shared has been paid for for the night, and she spends the evening staring at the wall until sleep takes her.

It goes like this: she spends the next three weeks in a daze, barely noticing each day that passes by. She tries to sleep with someone once: she finds herself unwilling to go all the way once she reaches his room, and he berates her with a drunken lecture until he falls asleep. She sneaks out with his rapier, heading directly to the merchant district and finding a house to hide in again. She leaves only to hustle up a meal, accepting the purchase and quickly ducking out.

It goes like this: she throws up every morning three days in a row. She ends up getting a room at the tavern; there's no point in making a mess in a home she isn't meant to be in, and she doesn't want to try to get into someone else's bed. After a week of her stomach turning constantly, sometimes at the mere smell of food, she finds a medic, desperate for a diagnosis.

She's pregnant.

The news shocks her, and she can feel the world crashing down around her. When the ringing in her ears fades, she leaves with a polite smile. It doesn't take long to pack her things. There's a cart leaving in the morning with the mail, and she secures a spot for the journey home.

She has only one goodbye to cover, and she says it over her final meal in the tavern. She weaves a tale of adventures to come and places to see, and the barkeep's daughter listens intently. They part with the tearful farewell of schoolgirls, pledging to meet again.

It goes like this: she leaves two days before she turns nineteen with a child inside her and not much of anything else.

[writemywayoutofthis]

oath

"Papa, what's this?"

The old barkeep looks up from his books to see a child enter, carefully cradling an object in their hands. He recognizes it immediately: the white gauntlet that represented his oath, his devotion to Torm. The battle scars that mar the surface of the glove send a trickle of memories running through him, and his hand aches for the familiar weight it once held. Tiaren must have uncovered my armor, he thinks idly to himself, noting the smudges of dust across the child's dark cheeks and tangled hair.

Pushing himself to his feet, he steps over and scoops up Tiaren, the fluidity of his movements assuring him his body still remembers how it used to move, even if his bones ache. Tiaren gives a squeak of surprise and snuggles in as Aethelstan sits down at a table, cradling the child in his arms.

For a moment he struggles to find the words. How to summarize decades of fighting and bravery, devotion and hope, courage and… failure. Lying crosses his mind briefly, but he knows he cannot, especially about this. He looks down at the child in his lap. At ten, they're already so wise and in tune with the world. A maturity in Tiaren's eyes promises something greater to come, and Aethelstan decides in that instant to tell the truth.

"I was a soldier, once. A paladin. A mighty warrior, general at the head of an army. My knights trusted me, and I protected them as best any general can. And this," he says, taking the glove from Tiaren and turning it over, admiring the nicks across its surface, "was a reminder of my oath — to my people and to my god."

"What god is that?"

"Torm. He's the god of courage -"

"Oooh…"

"- and self-sacrifice."

"... ah." The look of confusion that crosses their face makes it clear to Aethelstan he's lost them. Patiently, he continues.

"Self-sacrifice means you put others before yourself. It means you help them wherever you can. You take the pain so they don't have to. You don't take help when others need it more. You protect those who need you. You give everything. And you die so no one else does."

Aethelstan's words hang heavy in the air, an order and a confession all in one. The silence seems to ring around them. Aethelstan isn't sure if he hears the echoes of clashing swords and screams or if it's his own heartbeat pounding in his head.

Tiaren breaks the quiet, their small voice steady and sympathetic. "What happened?" It isn't a question that needs to be asked — the answer is already written across the dented armor and Aethelstan's dark stare into nothingness.

"I failed," he said with a sigh, handing the glove back to Tiaren. "I made the wrong call, and I led my soldiers into a massacre. I couldn't pull them out, couldn't negotiate a peace to let them survive." His voice does not crack, but tears begin to fall, wetting the top few strands of Tiaren's hair. "I was at the front of the charge, standing among my knights, and I couldn't protect a single one. I woke up two days later on the floor of a healer's cabin. She informed me that I alone had survived." He shakily inhales and hugs the child closer to his chest, finding comfort in the little warmth provided by another person. "I failed. The most basic tenet of my oath, and I failed."

The silence that follows is nearly deafening. Aethelstan can hear the screaming even more clearly now. He hears the crackling of flames and the beat of heavy wings. The sting of fire and metal. Awash in memories, he finds himself using all of his willpower to look back at the child.

Tiaren studies the gauntlet, turning it over in their small hands, running tiny fingers across the grooves carved into its surface. Though he shares no blood with his grandchild, there's something intensely familiar in their careful movements, in the way Tiaren talks about the world and what they see in it.

Even as he thinks this, Tiaren freezes, and he knows a similar thought has occurred. Even so, the question surprises him when it comes.

"Papa?"

"Hmm?"

"How do you become a paladin?"

He studies the child, meets their curious brown eyes. Somewhere in their depths he sees himself, and suddenly he sees a chance at his own redemption.

"You pledge an oath." Adjusting his position, Aethelstan moves so that he holds his right hand up, palm facing outwards, and recites the words he's always kept close to his heart. "I swear to be honest: my words are my promise; I will not lie or cheat. I swear to be compassionate: I will bring aid where I go; I will be a shield for the weak and judgement against those who abuse them; I will show mercy to my enemies when they accept it, but will be wise enough to act when they won't. I will be honorable: I will treat others fairly and let my own actions show them the way; I will do as much good as I can while causing as little harm as possible. I will be dutiful: I will answer for my actions and their consequences; I will protect those who rely upon me. I will be courageous: using caution but never fearing to act. I will be selfless: putting other people before me and not allowing anyone to die in my stead."

Tiaren listens silently, etching the words into their memory.

*******

Once they've made camp for the night, Tiaren pulls out the package their mother had handed them at the end of this latest stay. They unwrap it slowly, gradually revealing a set of armor they haven't seen in nearly seven years. As they push back the chainmail, a familiar white gauntlet reveals itself.

Tiaren picks it up carefully, thoughts drifting back to the conversation they'd had with their grandfather just before he died. The sadness he'd felt was just as palpable today, but Tiaren can remember how his back had straightened, the pride he'd shown in the squaring of his shoulders. His oath seemed to make him sad, but only because he'd left it unfulfilled. More than that, it had given him purpose.

Timidly, Tiaren rises to their feet. They slide the gauntlet on — a bit of a challenge with an uncooperative left hand, but the size of the gauntlet means it is easier to slide on over the right. Taking a deep breath, Tiaren squares their shoulders and holds up their right hand, palm out, channeling the strength they had always associated with Aethelstan.

The words are easy to remember. Their importance had been clear even seven years ago, and Tiaren had dutifully memorized each sentence.

"I swear to be honest: my words are my promise; I will not lie or cheat. I swear to be compassionate: I will bring aid where I go; I will be a shield for the weak and judgement against those who abuse them; I will show mercy to my enemies when they accept it, but will be wise enough to act when they won't. I will be honorable: I will treat others fairly and let my own actions show them the way; I will do as much good as I can while causing as little harm as possible. I will be dutiful: I will answer for my actions and their consequences; I will protect those who rely upon me. I will be courageous: using caution but never fearing to act."

Tiaren looks out, eyes trained on the trees around them, blinking back tears. "I will be selfless: putting other people before me and not allowing anyone to die in my stead."

There is no physical change, no white light or angelic choir. Even so, Tiaren can feel something different within them: a newfound sense of purpose. A direction. A calm.

Determined, Tiaren picks up the warhammer wrapped among the armor. Testing the balance, they give a few practice swings. The weapon is cumbersome and foreign, and the momentum sends Tiaren stumbling.

Once they catch their balance, Tiaren studies the armor and the new weapon. Learning to use them will be difficult, but out here in the wilds, all alone, they have all the time in the world.

[writemywayoutofthis]

doubt comes in

With a well-placed attack, Dalin finally downs hound creature, its limp form slumping onto the cavern floor. Seong-Min notices the creature collapse just before she can run; without pausing, she turns and strides up to the beast, plunging her knife in without hesitation. The hound's alien form makes it difficult to tell if the blade found its mark, so Seong-Min brings it down again and again, severing whatever looks vital. It doesn't take long, but when she pulls back, she realizes her own breath is haggard and her limbs feel too heavy. She mutters a quiet apology to Dalin — one she isn't even certain he hears — and stands wordlessly as her allies begin to heal each other. She doesn't say much more than a polite "thank you" to Sky as he tends to the bloodless wounds that have torn her apart.

As the others begin to disperse and search the cavern, Seong-Min trudges back to the entrance. Her back is straight and her head is held high, but Seong-Min can feel exhaustion setting in. She leans against the wall and slides down, coming to a rest with her legs crossed.

She cleans the starknife's blade slowly, her mind wandering as she does. Her reflection seems paler somehow, and her face is marred by angry lines that cut across the surface. Her eyes flicker up to where her companions busy themselves, tearing apart guardians to harvest what they can. Seong-Min feels an obligation to help, but she can't find the energy to push herself up and join them.

Distracted, she accidentally bumps her arm against the wall behind her. A wave of pain from various cuts shoots through her, and she bites back a whelp of pain. Instead, she blinks back tears, returns the knife to its place, and pulls out her notebook and pencil. A few pieces of parchment jostle loose; she hurries to stuff them into place before the damp floor can ruin them. She searches the stack for a blank sheet and arranges it before her using her legs as a makeshift desk. Seong-Min moves her pencil to the top of the page, ready to record the encounter in her notes.

The pencil does not move. The words do not come. Seong-Min finds herself staring at the page, unable to focus on the task at hand.

Every action she took in the encounter haunts her; her mind swims with her analysis of the events and her ineffectiveness. Her memories drift further back, to other encounters. Other challenges. Not for the first time, she feels horribly underpowered next to the rest of the party.

Seong-Min feels an uncomfortable thought come up, the same one that had occurred when they’d met Threshold. Stories run through her mind: the legends and incredible sagas of adventure and heroics and excitement. As a child she loved to listen to her father repeat the tales he’d learned back home, his quiet voice creating the figures in the air before him, that melodic pyeongmin or the measured Celestial the tools he wielded like a seoye brush. She would beg for stories of warrior goddesses and adventuring wives, acting out the stories in the yard and imagining journeys of her own.

Something different stands out to her now. Demigods, angels, people blessed with magic or cursed in some horrible way, spirits, warriors who had proved their might, gods and their champions, heroes born with incredible gifts or awarded them for some noble feat. Figures that belong in mythology, their stories barely enough to contain the power they were capable of wielding. These are the people who earned immortality through the legends passed around campfires, whispered in darkened bedrooms, sung before enthralled crowds. These are the people who fought terrifying monsters and faced dragons, who walked between worlds and spoke with spirit gods.

There are no ordinary people. There is no one who looks like her. No amatuer swordsmen with nothing more than calculated swings of the blade and the hope that their reflexes will be quick enough. The closest likeness she can think of is the simple sidekick, good for nothing more than a witty line and a moralizing death.

Seong-Min gives a bitter laugh that threatens to let loose the tears she holds back. I guess I’m already halfway there. I’ve got the witty line part down.

The realization that she is near tears stops her, and she pushes away the idea. Alright. Enough of that. She takes a deep breath. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m amazing and smart and beautiful and the kind of adventurer that people love talking to. She sets her face to a neutral expression, the barest hint of a smile playing across her lips just the way she’s practiced.

Centered once again, Seong-Min looks back down at the blank page before her. She forces away any feelings of doubt or uncertainty, any emotions that threaten her adventure. Her thoughts focus solely on the movement of the pencil carving simplified pyeongmin characters onto the page, on the slivers of combat that provide the information she needs. Hound of the Unknown. Odd form, visible organs with no discernable connection to the rest of the body. Displays an unwillingness to leave the walls…

By the time she catches up with the rest of the party, any doubt she may have felt is forgotten, though her body still aches from the fight and her limbs still feel a little too heavy.

------

Over the next few days, Seong-Min finds herself lost in thought more often than usual. Far too many times she realizes she’s stopped paying attention, distracted by a question she’s desperate to ignore.

Halfway through the week, after catching herself moping again, Seong-Min stops herself in her tracks. No. No. I’m here to be an adventurer. I’m not messing up again. She takes off with her knife and drops it in front of a runemaster, giving a beaming smile and requesting a new rune. She glances at the offerings as she waits, plotting the next several upgrades she wants to save up for.

She doesn’t go back to the inn after finishing work. She has an early shift, but when it ends, she wanders into another tavern and finds someone to buy her a few drinks and distract her for a while.

She does the same thing the next few nights.

After the first morning she wakes with a headache, her past begins to come creeping back; the skills that got her through those whirlwind days return. When Rai shows off a bottomless stein, Seong-Min goes searching for her own. After some haggling and rather suggestive smiles, she’s able to convince the proprietor to sell her a flask enchanted with something stronger than ale. The next morning is a bit more bearable, and the next time she feels that doubt threaten to pit her stomach and close her throat, she burns the sensation away and puts the smile back on her face.

Eventually she’s sure the uncertainty will lose its edge; the self-doubt always does, even if she has to drown it out.

[writemywayoutofthis]

on edge

Seong-Min finds it near-impossible to relax on the fourth day of the festival. She spends the day anxiously looking over her shoulder, waiting for someone to recognize her and discover her secret, the delicate facade of her cool persona crumbling before them.

Somehow, it doesn't happen.

Somehow, she keeps her life hidden from the prying eyes of Gearstown and her party.

The excuse she gives in the morning is flimsy and without substance; she hopes the party will fill in the gaps with their own assumptions or leave her alone. As soon as everyone sees the schedule and starts to explore again, Seong-Min breaks off and fades into the crowd. She keeps a careful eye on the party, sneaking back around to the front once their attention seems drawn in different directions.

She's greeted by a shriek of "엄마" as she nears the festival entrance, and she can't help but smile as her eyes locate the squirming girl responsible. They joke that, even at 18 months, Da-Rae is the only person more perceptive than Seong-Min; she believes it.

As Seong-Min approaches, Da-Rae's feet swing wildly, kicking her grandfather for freedom. With a chuckle, he releases her, and the baby begins toddling towards her mother, babbling in half-sentences as she runs. Laughing, Seong-Min darts forward and scoops her up, spinning around for a moment before kissing the girl on the cheek and resting her on her hip. Seong-Min closes the distance between her and her parents, giving each a quick hug.

"How has my little gooseberry been?" Seong-Min asks, looking toward her daughter again. She switches easily into pyeongmin, the words dancing across her tongue like spun sugar compared to the molasses of her adopted languages.

Her mother reaches out and tucks a few loose strands of hair behind Seong-Min's ear. "She's been an angel, though she misses her mama." The faintest trace of a grimace flickers across Seong-Min's face. If Yumi notices, she doesn't say anything; instead, she asks, "So, how's the festival going? Have you found a group?"

Relieved by the change in subject, Seong-Min nods enthusiastically. "I think I've found a good group, and we're ranked pretty well…"

…………..

In between challenges and various events, Seong-Min finds a moment to pull her father aside. Yumi is distracting Da-Rae with the promise of food, and Seong-Min sees her chance. Tugging at Ki-Ha's sleeve, she drags him off to the side. Ki-Ha follows without argument, turning to his daughter with a silent question. In an effort to appear casual, Seong-Min begins picking through the items on display before them — an array of trinkets and cheap jewelry. After a minute of silence, Seong-Min glances over at her father.

"I've heard a couple rumors around town, so I wanted to ask — have you noticed anything… odd with the spirits of the woods lately?" Her voice sounds relaxed, but she studies him carefully for a response.

Ki-Ha looks off into the distance as he considers the question for a moment. "I suppose… Actually, now that you mention it, things have been rather quiet lately," he says, directing his attention to Seong-Min. "Any particular reason?"

Seong-Min shakes her head slowly, lost in thought. "I- I honestly don't know. We're supposed to look into it tomorrow. I haven't heard much more than that." She pulls herself back to the present and looks back to her father with a reassuring smile. "I'm sure it's nothing, or they'd send someone more experienced. Maybe just… keep an eye out?"

Any response Ki-Ha may have offered is cut off as Da-Rae pops up between them…

…………..

Near dinner, the small family has made its way to another section of the fair grounds. Da-Rae barely clings to consciousness as she rests in her mother's arms, head tucked against Seong-Min's shoulder. Yumi and Ki-Ha chatter about where to eat as Seong-Min scans the crowd for what must be the thousandth time today. The gesture feels almost unnecessary at this point — until she spots Sky making his way through the crowd.

Panicked, Seong-Min darts forward to where her parents have strayed. She passes Da-Rae to her father — perhaps more forcefully than necessary, but Da-Rae is too tired to protest long. With an urgent smile, Seong-Min points at a nearby tent. "Why don't we eat there?" she asks, hoping her beating heart isn't audible.

Yumi frowns slightly, but she doesn't fight back. Nodding, she pushes Ki-Ha in the tent's direction. Looking back to Seong-Min, she asks, "Will you follow us when you're ready?"

Seong-Min nods, and without further comment, Yumi steps into the tent.

The three disappear not a moment too soon; Seong-Min turns and finds herself face-to-face with Sky. She greets him calmly, hoping that her panic isn't visible. When pressed for details, she claims to be on a date. Sky doesn't seem to believe the lie, but he doesn't press further, and Seong-Min breathes a sigh of relief when he walks away. She watches him make his way through the crowd, returning to her family only when she’s certain he won’t double back to watch her again.

…………..

She’s happy to share a room with her family. The small bed in the room is large enough for one person, but her parents have brought mats from home and insist Seong-Min takes the bed. She curls around Da-Rae, watching as her daughter’s eyes close and her breathing slows. A tiny fist clings to her hand. She sits there for what must be at least an hour, long enough for her parents to settle down and fall asleep themselves. Da-Rae’s face is relaxed and peaceful, scrunching occasionally in response to something in her dreams.

There’s an ache in Seong-Min’s heart, and she cries silently onto her pillow. She’s never loved anyone like this, and she still can’t shake the feeling that she’s leaving her world behind.

But she has to.

There are times Seong-Min catches a glimpse of something inside herself, of some grander insight to her psyche that eludes her most of the time. She’d seen it slip once, but that whole situation is too painful to dwell on for longer than a couple of seconds.

She’d had another one of those moments a few months ago. A crushing feeling of stagnation, this intense fear of being stuck, of never getting out of Violet Fields, of never living life or having an adventure. And anger. Anger at missing out, at what she lost. At Da-Rae. The wave of emotion terrified her, and she hated herself for it. She hates herself now for having ever been in that place, for knowing that she’ll feel that anger again if she doesn’t leave.

She knows. She has to go out, find some sort of story, something to satiate her for the long years ahead, home in Violet Fields with her parents and her daughter. Something to satisfy that hole she’s convinced could only be filled by someone she’s hurt too much to beg for forgiveness. Something to hold close to her heart, to cushion Da-Rae from whatever jagged edges there are inside Seong-Min.

Leaving her daughter feels impossible, but if she doesn’t, she’ll hate her. Nothing scares her like the idea of hating someone she loves so much, of those powerful feelings mixing with each other until whatever is left only leaves behind a broken child.

Da-Rae may hate her, but at least this way it won’t be because Seong-Min blamed her for her own mistakes.

Seong-Min finally falls asleep after a few hours. Two faceless women haunt her dreams, and she knows it’s her fault.

…………..

The next morning is filled with tearful goodbyes. Da-Rae doesn’t seem to understand until the cart is loaded and Seong-Min takes a few steps back. She runs forward tearfully, clinging to her mother as Ki-Ha and Yumi say their goodbyes. Seong-Min dries Da-Rae’s tears. “Cheer up, gooseberry. I’m going to bring you back a story, okay? I’ll come home as soon as I can.” Ki-Ha takes Da-Rae, who goes willingly and buries her face into his chest.

Yumi places a tender hand on Seong-Min’s face, wiping away her own daughter’s tears. “We’ll take care of her. You know that.” She tilts Seong-Min’s face up to meet her eyes, a comforting smile on her face. “You’ll be amazing, daughter. We love you.”

Seong-Min watches until the last glimpse of their cart is gone before turning to catch up with her team. Whatever the day’s challenge is, she’s ready to face it. No more distractions.

[writemywayoutofthis]

belief

In the months, the years that follow, Kytka does what she can. She helps the people of Jhurat build a new civilization together. As much as she can, she tries to stand back and support. She heals and provides comfort. Working with the priests of Shelyn, she helps them reestablish the church, building an institution to serve the people again. With her friends, justice is served for the violence that plagued Jhurat in the months they were absent.

Her grandparents are banished, of course. Kytka helps them move, finds them somewhere safe to live out their days — a waypoint on a particularly dangerous stretch of ocean, somewhere they can provide haven to any who lose their way. She doesn't tell Araka when she visits.

When the citizens of Jhurat are established, Kytka leaves for the life she's always dreamed of. She and Umbra travel the world. Wherever she can, Kytka uses her talents for healing, and she brings news of the world at large. She finishes her record of Morytha and sends it to a library for safekeeping. Everywhere she goes, she takes notes, listening to stories and learning about people and the world.

It isn't long before her story begins to proceed her. People know who she is before she introduces herself. They bring her their problems, their illnesses. Kytka helps when she can, but there are some injuries only magic can heal.

And then, one day, her magic returns. A distraught mother pushes her child into Kytka's arms and begs her to heal him. Kytka's apologies fall on deaf ears — the mother is convinced she can do it. Wistfully, Kytka thinks of her magic. If she still had the Gift…

As the thought crosses her mind, a familiar sensation wells up within her. Warmth spreads from her chest to her hands, and golden lights dance across the infant for a moment before fading. Stunned, Kytka can only nod as the mother thanks her and takes back the baby.

The magic is slow to return and somewhat inconsistent at first, but it's definitely back. She talks to Griss about it, but they aren't quite sure what led to the change. Griss suggests perhaps it's belief other people have in Kytka, but she dismisses the suggestion as part of his new obsession with godhood.

The first time it happens, Kytka doesn't know what to make of it. She's drifting off to sleep, snuggled close to Umbra, when she hears crying. Sitting up, Kytka looks to Umbra with confusion, but her wife is already fast asleep, a faint smile on her face. The crying is still audible, though, and Kytka can make out a whispered "please" being repeated just over the sobs. Quietly slipping out of bed, she steps into the next room and looks around.

There's a girl there, curled against the wall. Her hair is tangled in front of her face, but her reddened complexion and puffy eyes are still visible when she lifts her head. Kytka quickly deduces the girl must be some sort of projection — an illusion or a message, some method of communication. Before she can contemplate what spell could be at work, the girl lets out another loud sob and buries her head in her hands.

Feeling helpless, Kytka takes a few steps forward. "Hello? Can I help you?" Her voice is calm and even, somehow managing to hide her unease.

Between sniffles and gasps for air, the girl manages to choke out a response. "Can't you *sniff* make them li- *sniff* like me?"

Oh.

Kytka sighs and slides down the wall, sitting down beside the girl. "What's your name?"

They talk for hours, and at the end of it, the girl seems encouraged. Emboldened. She stands with a look of determination on her face, ready to face the world again.

Turning back to Kytka, she nods. "Thank you."

Kytka smiles back. "Of course," she says softly, pushing herself to her feet. The girl turns and begins to fade from view, but before she's completely gone, Kytka reaches out a hand. "Wait!"

The girl turns back.

"How — how did you contact me?"

A look of confusion crosses the girl's face. "Don't you know?" she says as she disappears. "I prayed, and you answered."