atlas,
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.
