Rekindling the Embers
1
DEC/20
Vashir stepped off of the high stone wall and began to plummet to the ground, exulting as much in the thrill of the fall as he did in the anticipation of the impending hunt. He dove for several seconds, watching as the jagged stones below him grew ever closer. At the last moment, giant black vulture wings manifested from his back and promptly caught the wind, holding him aloft a few scant feet from one wicked, toothy tip of a sun-scarred boulder. With a couple flaps of the giant wings he began to rise, turning away from the City and heading for the plumes of smoke rising from the nearby orchards.
He could sense her displeasure in his head as he flew.
Vashir twisted his body around until he was nearly coasting along on his back and looked up at her: silhouetted perfectly by the bright amber sun overhead, she was a dramatic winged shadow backlit by the bright golden orb.
Sorry, he reached out to her mind. I got a little carried away.
He felt a little sheepish at his immature display, but he also enjoyed the feeling to a small degree as well. Not the feeling of being ashamed, but rather that she could induce any feeling at all in him. Before he had met her, he might as well have been sculpted out of granite: cold, stern, and severe; all harsh angles and sharp points. She had softened his edges from the moment he had met her, and made him vulnerable in the process. Vulnerability in this world was very dangerous, as the soft and weak were routinely ground to dust by the sheer enormity of the harshness around them. But she had also completed him, giving him access to feelings and emotions that he had not even known existed prior to meeting her, and occasional feelings of shame or weakness were a small price to pay for that.
Vashir watched as she tucked her wings behind her and plummeted towards him in a rapid dive, the red curls of her hair dancing wildly in the wind, a toothy grin upon her cherubic face. He had to spin out of the way lest she slam into him, and the metronomic beating of his wings was interrupted long enough that he had to struggle for a moment to remain aloft. When he regained his aerial footing, he looked around for her, finally spotting her purple robes fluttering below him, as she flew scant feet off of the ground, weaving to and fro between the jagged rocks. Vashir grinned and gave chase, a smile upon his face and upon his heart.
They proceeded this way for a time, weaving between the boulders in a game of hunter and prey, before she finally alit and landed gracefully atop a boulder overlooking the Wavirian olive orchards. She looked positively regal standing there as the drunken wind coaxed the curly ringlets of her hair to dance to its primal song, her fluttering robes keeping time. He landed beside her there on the boulder, their pinky fingers very nearly touching as they stood side by side, looking down upon the burning orchards. He dared not show her any affection in public, especially garbed as he was as a Templar. Theirs was a forbidden love; his station and her mixed blood made anything other than a casual dalliance a crime – but the danger of it made it all the more real.
You are getting slow old man, she chided him gently in his head, as she flashed him a brief, mischievous smile. Though she looked nearly half his age, she was in actuality a few years his senior – her youthful appearance and longevity were both a blessing of her mixed-elven blood.
Before he could respond, the sounds of battle below them drew their attention. A contingent of conscript militia had formed a haphazard ring around a small band of half-giant gladiators and rebellious slaves. Though they had the numbers and better weaponry, it was clear to them both that the militia was hopelessly outmatched in this encounter.
Vashir looked into her silver eyes. I guess we had better go get them.
He did not get the response back that he was expecting. But why, why do we need to crush them?
Vashir was slightly taken aback. She had taken this position before – he knew that it grieved her to hunt and kill people she felt were just fighting for their freedom, but her protestations had gotten more pronounced in recent months.
Because that is the way it is. It is the will of the Five, he thought with determined resignation.
But does it have to be, just because they say it is so? The faintest hint of a tear formed in the corner of one of those luminous silver eyes.
The Thir-king wills it. Perhaps one day…. His mental words trailed off. They both held no hope for any magical ‘one day.’ It was hard for her, he knew: with her mixed blood and lower social status, she would never be a true Templar, and would instead be relegated to inflicting the Thir-King’s will upon those she looked upon more as equals than as enemies.
Vashir’s countenance softened for a moment as he felt her pain wash over him, and then hardened again just as quickly. They had a job to do, and there was no other choice in the matter. She met his gaze and read his stern expression, and a mask of stoic resolution settled itself over her face, and any hint of mercy skillfully hid itself behind her new steely, cold veneer.
The Thir-King wills it, she responded with resigned focus, but the words were laced with venom, and her hatred of their Master hung heavily in the air as she turned her back to him. With a beat of her wings she lifted gracefully from the boulder and began her descent, as a blade of pure, crackling Psionic energy manifested in her hand. Vashir followed a scant moment behind her, and together they were drawn into the fray like flame to kindling…
Mar’iya awoke slowly, the wispy tendrils of the dream still clinging to him like a spider’s web. Lyra. He had forgotten her for so long, and remembering her was at once both a comfort and a torture. He relished seeing her face when he closed his eyes; hearing her voice as she playfully chided him in his dreams; watching her as she danced upon the clouds with her resplendent red wings. But the pain of her absence upon awaking was almost unbearable. Not knowing her fate gnawed at him as well. Did she yet live? And if so, had she flown off to join the resistance as she had so often dreamt of doing, or had her rebellious spirit been ground down by the sheer will of the Thir-King? He knew that he needed to know, but also that he feared the answer he might receive when he went looking.
He vividly remembered the very day that his dream had resurrected: The Blood Games Uprising. The gladiators from the pits had risen up in the days before the Games and had slain a number of lesser nobles and countless slaves who stood in their way. Their ranks were soon bolstered by scores of elves from the Agora and hundreds of the field slaves who tended to the orchards on the outskirts of Balic. Rather than fleeing into the relative safety of the barren wastes, this ragtag force had instead put many of the verdant olive fields to the torch, and made their stand amidst the ashes in a final bid for freedom. It was a futile gesture, but it was also strangely poetic. Mar’iya had often wondered in his quieter moments what would lead some to throw their lives away for such an empty hope. In this harsh world, hope was often bedfellow to despair, and possessing any was almost certainly pointless folly.
As the memory of the dream wafted lazily away like smoke from a dying flame, Mar’iya laid there upon the ground and stared up at the starry sky. The brightest ten stars spanned out in a near perfect arc across the sky; the so-called “Eyes of the Dragon Queen” twinkled down at them with celestial malice. He had stared at those stars countless times over his life and he knew their cosmic dance across the heavens well. But this time it was different: two of the stars did not burn as brightly as they had in the past. Nuatuhl’s Gaze had grown weak, the twin stars low on the horizon were barely visible at all against the black backdrop of the night sky. The other eight stars in the Constellation seemed to burn even brighter however, as if fueled by rage at the fate that had befallen their sister.
We hurt Her, Mar’iya mused with a sense of wonder and dread. It seemed impossible that the Dark Goddess could be injured at all and doubly so that he and his companions were the ones to do it. After the destruction of the Yavapai, he had felt that all hope – there was that word again – was lost. But now…now, they had restored water and life to a small section of this barren waste. They had freed the spirit of an ancient power and had damaged the Dark Goddess Herself in the process. And, though he could not know how he knew, Mar’iya was also aware that there was another change in the world, one subtle yet profound: the Dark Goddess was not alone. Yes, there was another in the heavenly pantheon now – a dim spark of power, faint and weak but growing stronger with each new sunrise: a Light to challenge the Darkness.
Mar’iya watched as the first hints of dawn slowly began to form on the horizon, as the sun readied itself for its cosmic war over the primacy of night. As the encroaching morning light began its battle for the conquest of the heavens, Mar’iya felt something stirring in his chest: a tiny seed of Hope that had lain dormant and neglected within him for so long now reacted to the warming rays of the approaching dawn. And this time, rather than let it wither and wilt, he dared to allow this fragile seed to take root within him. As the light of the dawn crested the horizon with a magnificent show of force, beating back the darkness with prismatic fury, his thoughts drifted back to her. And as the sun began its cosmic victory march across the sky, Mar’iya finally allowed himself to hold on to the sliver of hope that he would once again stare into those luminous silver eyes.
Hope. Foolish Hope.