Tell me something nice
Like flowers and blue skies
She watched Edana burn, watched it fall into disarray as the darkness spilled out over the wall, creeping into the safety of the main region, bringing destruction in its wake. She had fled with it hot on her tail, had pleaded with higher powers, with Cosmos and Halla, to let Pyrrha be safe. It was déjà vu, panting and screaming until her throat was raw and bloodied, wielding Ruinam against the dark tide. All she had wanted was to see Pyrrha to safety, to see the Southern people of Edana to safety, to do what she could not in Nordlys' final moments. But fate had different plans for her.
In an instant was returned to the wretched familiarity of an open, empty expanse, filled only by the twinkle of starlight. Her arrival was met with nothing but deafening silence, not with the tormented cries of her gods nor the cries of her slaughtered people as it had been before. She couldn't decide which was worse. She had wept for eons within these confines, listened to the hollow sobs that rattled her ribs; she watched the twinkling starlit tears slip from her cheeks and into the endless black, wished them luck as they joined the billions of others she had shed. And returned to her purgatory, the tears began to flow once more, her cheeks stained with her sorrows, skin crawling with glistening stardust— she had thrashed and screamed, had hissed and snarled like a cornered animal as the void had swallowed her up, taking her away from the chaos of the death of a world.
She had tried to bargain, to plead, begging to be returned to Edana, to burn with it, it's ruin hauntingly similar to that of Nordlys. Was she truly so cursed, that she had to witness the demise of two homes? To witness the deaths of thousands, millions, mortal and god alike — oh the things she had seen! How marred and heavy her conscious was, dripping with the golden ichor of her gods. Why had she been chosen to survive and endure such hardship and heartache, why had fate cruelly selected her to torment in this starlit hell? These questions had rolled from her tongue, from quivering lips broken sentences were spilled, but there was never an answer.
She cannot tell how long she was there, adrift in nothing, waiting for something — she only knew that her tears had run dry and that no matter how much time passed, the sharp pain in her chest would not dissipate. She was tired and weary, weighed down by her survivor's guilt, by the idea that she may not escape a second time. She held Ruinam in her grasp, the only thing to keep her company, the cold bronze tip resting against her skin, the pressure delightful to her tarnished mind. But she never went farther than that, for she valued her life too much, valued the chance that she would be freed someday. And she had convinced herself Ruinam didn't want to pierce her flesh either, loyal to its wielder. What a horrible fate immortality is, condemned to witness the deaths of your people and gods, to outlive them all, to exist in nothingness. Never to age nor rot, left only with memories of worlds now ruined.
Was she the last of her people? The Final Daughter, the Last Matraan, sentenced to eternal solitude. She knew it so, fate cruelly crushing her hopes of finding survivors, of rebuilding her tribe on foreign soil. For the survivors of Nordlys' ruin had been scattered, few and far between, sent to lands beyond her reach, likely to die horrible deaths in unfamiliar lands. She thought of Pyrrha, whose fate was unknown, proud and beautiful and fiery as the desert sun. She tried not to think of the antlered warrior's untimely death, of life wrenched from her grasp by shrouded shadows and hellfire, ashes burning up with Edana. And she thought of the beauty of the North, draped in fine furs and worn leather, a daughter of stars and snowy peaks. She thought of Cosmos and Halla, whose existences ceased to be millennia ago, and yet her prayers were still for them, hoping by some miracle her gods and escaped their horrible undoing.
There is a moment in time where her prayers are answered, either by pure coincidence or a purposeful act by a benevolent deity — before her, a tear in her void, a rip in the starlit backdrop she has been suspended in for eons. It sizzles against the black skin of her purgatory, ripped open by invisible hands, a toothy maw agape before her. It opens to reveal a prairie, golden and green fields and rolling hills, gloriously familiar to her desperate mind. Frantic limbs kick and thrash at the sight, a slate muzzle reaching out, straining to touch the tear in reality. Something nudges her forward, through the rip in the fabric of space, and she is tumbling out, free at last.
Her first thought is to reach for Ruinam, to arm herself with the bronze headed spear, to find comfort and safety in the familiar wooden shaft. But as her mind reaches, she comes up empty handed, grasping at air and grass and dirt instead. And somehow, this feels so much worse than being alone in that endless void, than watching her gods unravel before her very eyes — she is alone in unfamiliar territory, with nothing but tooth and hoof to defend herself and tears she didn't know she was crying. Hunched over like a pathetic babe, she weeps crystalline tears that fall like dew drops into foreign grass.
This is not the Nord Prairie, this is not her home.
She doesn't even feel at home in her body, unable to stand as her knees buckle, as her stomach growls and her skin blisters beneath the sun. She doesn't feel whole, doesn't feel right, something is missing that she can't quite place. She would wretch if she could, mouth agape in some silent scream as amber eyes wander the beautiful field she's been placed in. The sun is hot against her back, having been comfortable with the chill of her starry prison. Her forehead brushes against warm dirt and rests there, laid down in defeat. "Item non, commodo non iterum," her words are nothing more than a hoarse whisper in her native tongue, a plea made to her gods and the gods of this realm, to the sun and the dirt beneath her, to the tears she sheds that lack the stars of her past.
Azrael could not know how alike their stories were – for he too had known the grief of losing his home and sense of identity. On that fateful day, when fire had rained from the heavens, he had known that stubbornness would be the downfall of the proud. In dreams, he could see them still in his mind’s eye, haughtily throwing their faces to the stars in defiance of the gods, unbelieving even as the world around them burned. He could hear their cries – could smell the acrid scent of fire as it licked across their skin. While time had begun to heal his own guilt, it could not erase the dreams. Nothing would, not even the promise in Caligo’s stars – a promise that she would not lead them to destruction again.
It didn’t lessen the sting that the temple keepers had foretold this destruction. Instead, it only cemented his bitterness at the entire ordeal – for too many of the People were lost that day. Brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers. Perhaps even his own, though Azrael would never know. He knew only the caravan now – those who had turned from the burning cinders of their once home and traveled to Caligo’s promised land. For weeks, they had marched across the mountains until finding their way to Denocte and scattering to the winds. Now, little was left of the People except for memories, bittersweet and raw.
On days like this, the memories are more raw – for it had been a year since Azrael had come to this place. It had been another day where the leaves were gold and red, where the breeze had tossed them playfully across the ground – a day which had almost suggested that nothing had happened at all. In that day, Azrael had swallowed the reality of just how expendable they all were – mere pawns in a god’s game. He was more grateful than ever for Caligo’s guidance, praying fervently to her stars for direction and wisdom… and since that day, she had not led him astray.
Still, a part of him would always wonder – what if they had listened then?
He walks through the tall grasses, blinking in the sunlight as his stardust glow hovers dimly against him. In the night, the star-shed is a spectacle to be seen – but in Solis’ day, he wears only an iridescence hue – one which might be missed if you didn’t look from a precise angle. Wind tossed in his curls and a sheathed staff drummed softly against his side, more ornamental than truly a weapon in nature. His turquoise eyes are clouded with thought, his lips set in a grim line of contemplation, his stride long and purposeful. At first glance, it would seem the stallion a creature on a mission… but this could not be further from the truth.
Instead, Azrael walks to clear his mind – to shake away his ghosts even as he finds the girl in the grass, fighting her own.
He can almost feel the anguish she projects, his own eyes clouded with care as he approaches, standing over her with an imposing shadow which battled his cyan glow. “Why do you grieve?” There is concern in the magician’s voice, gentle and low. He does not judge, for she wears a look he understands too well. In the darkness, he had lay many nights, cursing the very stars that led him to this place, begging Caligo for the mercy which had never been given to his home. Too many times, he’d demanded to know why, searching for answers which would never come. And while Azrael hadn’t given up hope entirely, with time he had come to accept the fate of the People, however raw.
Denocte had offered him a sanctuary from his own grief, with its starstrewn skies and infinite sky. Perhaps it would be a comfort, if nothing else, for the girl who grieves a lifetime reduced to ash.
Tell me something nice
Like flowers and blue skies
If it had been a different world, a different lifetime, she may have scowled at the approaching stranger, perhaps a warning glare and a warding wave of Ruinam. But that is a lifetime long passed, eons of starlit tears have since passed, her vigilance at the sight of men abandoned long ago. Her trust in them is still wary; she is still very much hindered by her childhood spent surrounded by powerful women who taught her of the resilience of the Matraan. They would tell her that men were beasts, savage and foul with their boisterous displays of masculinity. And Sayyida had taken that to heart, had learned to never put trust into men the same way she did her fellow sisters — but that was lifetimes ago, and worlds away.
As her head raises, amber eyes meets the soft turquoise gaze directed her, dwarfed by the glowing giant. She almost recoils at the sight of someone else, grasping for a spear that isn't there on instinct alone, having been surrounded solely by her stars for too long. His looming shadow is interrupted by the soft glow emitted from his body, bathing her in blue as she lays vulnerable before him. There is silence between, weighted by her sorrow, by her mourning of old gods and dead friends.
His words are abrupt to her ears, which had grown so used to the sound of her own heart, to the sound of her painful howls and broken cries. Under normal circumstances, perhaps she would have refused to answer, would have turned away without a second glance. But there is something comforting in his dappled body, in the faint starry glow of his skin, reminiscent of the lights of the Hinterlands that she'd only ever heard stories about. She can remember the painted leaves plastered to stone, dancing across its surface as the elders told their tales of the northern lights, detailing the spectacular colours and how the sky had been alive with light and colour.
If he hadn't reminded her of that, if he hadn't approached her or concerned himself with her grief — perhaps she wouldn't have felt the need to say anything, would have kept her moments of mourning to herself, would have held her tongue. But the familiarity of his false sky and the weight of her sorrow pushed her to it. She thought that maybe, just maybe, indulging a stranger with her grief would somehow make her feel better, would remove the painful weight from her chest. Midnight lips part, searching for the right words, for the foreign feeling of Common syllables tumbling from her mouth. The words were jagged, jarring, her throat raw from centuries of screaming, choppy and unfamiliar. "I have seen too much death," she begins, thick accent laced within the syllables of her sentence. "Watched my people die. I could not save them." Her voice cracks, her gaze drops to the grasses beneath her that catch rays of sunlight upon their glossy surface, trying to distract herself from her slow unraveling. It hurt so much more saying it aloud.
"I do not want to be helpless anymore," she finally confesses, but she does not feel any better. She feels like she has admitted to weakness, that she has finally revealed her biggest flaw — she could not save her people or her gods, she could not save Pyrrha or Edana. Many years ago, Sayyida believed herself capable of slaying a god. She wielded Ruinam with that confidence and passion, prepared to run the rivers red if it meant protecting her sisters and Halla. She thought that her spear would pierce the heart of a god, painted by the ichor of Cosmos, thought that somehow she was the one destined to bring his cruel reign to an end. Oh how things have changed, how fate has cruelly beaten down that naive little girl, how quickly she realised this cursed mortal body of hers would never be enough. It was too late now, for the blood was already on her hands, the bodies of her people beneath her and the guilt of their deaths weighed heavy upon her heart.
Had this been Nordlys, she would not have entertained a man for so long, would not have confessed the weakness of mortality to him, would not have batted an eye at him — but this is not Nordlys, and so she feels like she must spill herself out before him, as if that will clear her conscious or lessen her burden. "How does one change the past?" Amber eyes search dark features, almost begging for a response, as if this stranger who so closely resembles Cosmos' sky may offer the answer she so desperately needs. She would give anything to go back, to save her people, to prevent Pyrrha's pain and her own — an ambitious idea, to return to the moment of disaster and face the darkness head on, to spare Nordlys and its inhabitants a horrible fate. Was she brought here to witness the death of a nation once again? Perhaps she was the harbinger of chaos and destruction, the sign of the end, placed here simply to watch darkness swallow up this land too.
Her words draw his mouth into a thin line as he nods slowly, understanding. Gazing at her softly, the aurora stallion sighs, his words a quiet reflection.“Death is cruel… it takes without remorse.” His own memories jumble in his mind – memories of loss and destruction. Memories of those who cried to the night. Survivor’s guilt, just as hers, for not being able to save them. Nothing had pained the star-shed more than having to turn away from those who did not want his help. In his situation at least, those who had perished would have been allowed an escape, if only they were to set aside their pride and reach out for the lifeline. Their pigheadedness was the aspect which incited the bitterness in Azrael. For if only they had humbled themselves, no one would have needlessly died on the mountain that night.
“You cannot blame yourself… and you should not feel helpless. No one can take on the burdens of the world – and trying to do so will always end in disappointment and regret. All we can do is move forward, cherishing the memories and letting go of the bad.” His words are something he too needs to remember, on days when the memories seem too close and the pain too real to bear. But Azrael doesn’t allow either of them to wallow in the self pity for much longer, offering her a ray of encouragement. Perhaps coming from a stranger, without preconceptions, it would mean something more to the mare. “Rise and greet the world, my friend… it waits with a new day.”
As if illustrating his point, Azrael gazes across the vast openness of Sideralis Prairie. The sun here is warm and bright, forgiving as it shines upon them. It caresses the dips of every hill, casting hazy shadows against the treeline as it hangs in a clear azure sky. It is a day which paints the picture of serenity, one which welcomes Sayyida to Denocte, even if she wasn’t ready to embrace this new life.
How does one change the past? she asks, and Azrael offers a reassuring smile. “We cannot change what has already come to pass… all we can do is lift the sails and rechart our course. All we can do is grasp the hope that comes with tomorrow, pray for a chance at happiness with every new beginning.”
He pauses thoughtfully, wondering if she would appreciate his advice or simply add it to a heap of bitterness. Would she be ready to embrace the possibility of change? For a long time, he hadn’t been. Azrael had been lost to the past, marching in the caravan with a numbness that blocked out the world. For days, for weeks, the star-shed had walked without true direction. He’d experienced the world with no sense of feeling, and without a will to care. Time was the only healer in this – time, and reflection on his stars. By allowing himself grace and space to breathe, the healing had begun… but it was a journey, one which needed tending and patience.
“We can start by honoring the memory of those who we have lost. Would you care to share your stories with a stranger?”
In the gentle breeze, under the warmth of the autumn sun, it is easy for him to view her as an old friend – comfortable and honest. Perhaps too, she would find it easier to talk with someone about her grief – for only in her acceptance of the past would she find a path forward. Only in humility would she find her peace.
