happiness is a butterfly, we should catch it while dancing
T
he world keeps on spinning, repeating itself over and over until something changes, which it doesn’t, it never does, because no one ever truly changes because they can’t.
Kensa once told her that Hyaline was more of a home to her than the land to which she was born. Elena, at the time, had not understood. Windskeep, Paraiso, her family’s lands they would always be home. But as she stands here now, in Terrastella, she understands the feeling and the reasoning. She swallows back the tears that threaten to rise up her throat, the reminder of all that she has tried to accomplish. She doubts that a day will go by when she does not see the vision of Marisol, bloodied and broken at her Hospital doorsteps. She doubts she will ever be the same again. She tries not to look too far ahead. For Dusk, for Elliana, for herself, and all the things that go along with it. She cant look that far ahead, too many things can change, too many things have already changed.
She frowns. Pointedly. Doesn’t bother trying to hide it. But it is neither anger nor confusion that furrows her brow. It is concentration instead. She bites her tongue and tries to determine why she’d thought herself fit to do this in the first place. Why she thought she would be able the impossible chasms that are Marisol’s footprints. The frown dissolves around the edges of a grimace. There is nothing queenly about her. Elena’s crown is strewn through her hair as Dusk wildflowers instead of made of gold and planted upon her head. There is nothing grand or great that stands out.
The sun is stretching slowly towards the horizon, casting a warm, reddish glow onto the golden mare that stands quietly near the edges of the lapping waves, and she is ignited in the dying light. Her blue gaze, distant and unfocused, stares out at the expanse of gold-tinged water that ripples before her before she walks in from the balcony.
It was time.
“Azrael,” she breathes when she sees him. She seeks out his stability in this moment, the only kind of stability she could find in the steadiness of his eyes. She so quickly unravels and so quickly feels the edges of her threads fray and he doesn’t. He is the calm in the storm.E lena is terrified and she cannot begin to figure out how to express such a fear. It is him and him alone that stops herself from fluttering and coming undone and she clings to it. She presses his calm into her chest until she can breathe a little easier. Shaken, she presses her forehead into the width of his neck and breathes in deeply, trying to stabilize and not focus on all the fears that materialize around her.
Her breath is shaky but the longer that she stays there, pressed against him, she can feel her pulse start to stabilize.
Maybe this fear, this uncertainty, maybe it will make her a bad queen.
Maybe she should have thought of this before.
It takes all she has to leave his side, but she makes her way to the front of the castle and she hands herself over to the incessant pounding of her heart, her pulse thrumming in her throat. Her smile grows softly, curling the edges of her lips, and she laughs, the sound low and easy and kind and she steps into the dying light of the day and into the Court, her Court. “Dusk,” she says to them all, blue eyes scanning over the crowd. “I have always considered myself first and foremost a healer and a friend, two things I wish to remain to all of you,” she says, standing taller, a sunset breeze catches her blonde hair just as stars twinkle above. “But I now come before you as your Queen, your sovereign.” The words feel foreign in her mouth. “I have served as your medic, as your Champion of Community, and now I wish to serve you in the highest regard as your leader.”
“In return, from all of you, I ask only for peace and harmony across the land, our land, and that all beings who call Dusk home, hold only good intentions in their hearts.” She catches herself as she speaks. She sounds like Valerio, and there is a swell of pride in her chest as she thinks of her godfather and the guardian he had been. “A time of change has come to Novus, let us stand tall and strong together,” she encourages. She turns her gaze to Marisol, catching her steel gaze. She wants to cry, then, more than any time else, because she no longer wants to shed a tear only for herself, but for her commander. Marisol would always have such a place carved in Elena’s heart. “Blessed be the fight, we are Terrastellans, and let us hold that to be true above all else.”
Nothing every really changes, and yet is is changing every day; maybe not in ways any mortal can notice, but it is unavoidable. The sun hangs longer in the sky; the night is short as a pindrop; the stars shift an inch to the left.
Atlas knows this better than most. He sleeps in a new place every night; he has gone to bed in the desert and woken up somewhere completely anew. He watched the pictures in the heavens rise, fall, and change. And even here, on Novus, where time runs deeper than the strange magic of the land-- in many ways, time is the strange magic of the land-- all things must change. For time is the raindrop that feeds the stream, that feeds the river, that pours over the fall, where it tousles the sea to frothing foam; and change, growth, a remarkable instability is but a leaf on the surface of the water, dragged to and fro, thrust and pulled through the uncontrollable grip of time.
He had thought his homeland-- not truly his homeland, but the place he landed, waterlogged and weary-- safe from the shifting tides which threatened to grasp and churn Novus to temporal butter. A new Sovereign in Solterra, in Denocte, in Delumine; and Marisol, here, with feathered angel wings to guide them. But he was a fool and it was the same here as it was everywhere, and that meant everything had to change.
So now he stands before a terrace where once he stood before a terrace and offered his knowledge and guidance up to men and gods and was found wanting and unworthy. So now he stands, resolute in himself, sure in his actions, fitful though they may be, and positive of his worth somewhere, somehow; it is time to take his wandering soul and hone it into something proper, something beneficial, and even that must change.
There is a gathering of individuals in the courtyard and each of them are confused and curious; but Dusk, of all the kingdoms, has always been a family, of soft edges and soft blue and soft eyes, but all strong, all strength here. Elena could walk out in a gilded dress and the reaction, the acceptance, the support would be the same if she appeared bedraggled in rags. And behind him, behind them all, the sun is staining the sky orange and in front of them it is blue and in the far distance is the black of night. It is coming, it is coming for them all.
But their new queen is gold and soft and her laughter is sweet on the breeze, something that yearns hearts forwards and opens ribcages like a knife through warm butter. And as she speaks the stars begin to rise, catching on her words and cementing them as promises in the darkening night. She asks of them goodness and, goodness, does she know what she asks of them? To be pure of heart and word and deed is a stronger sword than any metal, swinging one.
The throng tightens together as Elena finishes speaking. The sky comes alight with fireflies and the palace looms, a black shadow in the night, like some sort of shapeless lighthouse, now with a golden light, burning bright at it’s helm.
Times were changing all over Novus. New leadership was taking place in all the courts and for a moment, Rhone wondered what it meant for Novus. Never had there been four new sovereigns all taking the throne days apart. There was chaos and uncertainty and Rhone could feel it deep within his bones. Even the greenery spoke to him. Trees told him tales of unrest while grasses told him of movement of individuals. People didn’t know what to say or do. Confusion run rampant and confusion only led to unrest. He had seen it before.
But as he stands amongst the crowd, he has hope that Terrastella will not fall victim to the uncertainty brewing. He can only hope that they will hold strongly together and find a way to meander the unknown together.
He watches as Elena comes forth, a mare he has not had the opportunity to meet but knew of her by name. He knows the look in her eyes, the fear. He had been there not once, but twice. He knows the uphill battle she is facing and he wishes there were more that he could do for her than simply offer his support.
Rhone looks to his right and he can see Atlas. He offers the stallion a gentle nod, a silent hello. But then, Rhone brings his eyes to his new Sovereign. He listens quietly as she speaks, knowing she speaks true. He still worries for their future, about what will happen in the coming days, but there is a peace about him. He’s not sure where it has come from, perhaps Luvena.
When she finishes, he looks up to her with a soft and supple smile. "You have my unwavering support. And please know, if you have any questions or need advice, you are welcome at my doorstep." Very few know that he was once a king. Perhaps she doesn’t know that he knows the exact place she is in. One day, he might tell her this. One day, he might let others know his secret.
This place was her home, and now, it was his too – but it still felt a foreign and strange place. He longed for his stars, for Caligo’s reassurance on his mind, but when he scried in this place, Azrael saw only a strange and shadowed veil upon the stars. It would pass, he knew… it always did… but confusion weighed heavily on the shed-star even as he looked out to the balcony where Elena paced and gathered her wits about her.
He could tell she was nervous, feeling the energy rolling off of her in waves, but still he does not go to her. For Azrael knows that the burden of a queen is something she must bear alone, or at least something she must reason with in her own psyche. Azrael knows the moment she reaches for him though, and his light meets hers, his embrace warm and affectionate as he wraps her into the curve of his shoulder and caresses her ivory mane with a loving touch. As they stand together in the silence of the sunset, the sound of waves gently washing ashore is the only noise to break through their quiet moment of peace.
“ “I am proud of you,” he whispers at last, his voice low and warm. As she stills and begins to move through the castle toward her people, his chest swells with pride. And though he walks several steps behind, his light reaches toward her, casting a soft glow as a halo behind her, even as she steps onto the castle steps and begins to speak.
Azrael finds his way to the crowd, standing among them instead of beside her, while he nods in a silent vow to Elena that he would uphold the honor and standing of her people. Their people, he corrects… for as much as his heart yearned for Denocte, it is Terrestella which calls him now. It is her. And it was enough.
The stars began to twinkle through the dusky sky, and his face turns skyward, her words falling to a quiet murmur as thoughts and memories play within the astromancer’s mind. As the world grows dark with night, he finds something familiar, some rooting to remind him of home. For as far as he had gone, the stars still found him. Their patterns were still familiar here, their shine still bright. He named them one by one, smiling softly at the reminder that life still held some semblance of the familiar.
Cygnus. Ophiuchus. Sagittarius.
And Azrael knew, all would be right with the world once more.
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