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The Captain was woken by the sound of an angel singing.
It was not the soft lull of the Lord of the Night’s thoughts, intertwined with his own as his soul drifted through the Ley Lines. Rather, it was a piercing song that on the surface sounded beautiful, but the tones were so brilliant, so soaring that it pierced straight through the hearts of any who heard it, the screech of a siren that could not be tuned out no matter how many walls were between them.
It was the sound of the Third Fatui Harbinger, and it was what shook the Lord of the Night and broke his bond with the Night Kingdom.
The memories were fuzzy, tainted by the song that pulsed in his eardrums as he stumbled off the throne he had remained on for–how long, weeks, months?–and could faintly hear in the distance as he descended the ruins and peaks of Ochkanatlan.
Something was wrong. Columbina, in whatever effort she used to draw her power, had greatly disturbed Natlan’s Ley Lines, and he could sense the disturbance in his veins as he rushed his way past the cliffs and ocean, his legs stiff and stumbling and his muscles tight and cold. His sword, once something he swung and practiced with until his immortal joints were wearing to the bone and struggling to regenerate, felt foreign in his hand after the deep peace of sleep had taken his sense of time.
The Gnosis.
His scrambling thoughts finally put together what was happening.
Mavuika.
The joints of his knees finally began to swivel properly. Like an animal emerging from its den, like someone who needed to learn to walk again, his body shook off the cobwebs and dust from the new age.
He reached the Stadium of the Sacred Flame as the sunset hung crimson, beyond the golden rays that shot through bloodied clouds, a rare day when Natlan’s skies were covered. People stood at the entrance frozen, refusing to encroach beyond the border of the entrance. Many were too focused on what was happening inside, but those who noticed him were jolted out of their states and screamed.
“Thrain! Thrain!”
“Is it a ghost?”
“Is the Harbinger summoning him for help?”
Fatui soldiers stood closer to the arena, having arrived for assistance but useless against the power of two godlike beings. They were like shivering children, only able to watch as the outcome of the battle within was decided, and their fear was not quelled by the sudden emergence of the First.
“Lord Capitano!” one yelled, falling to a knee instantly. “Y-you’ve returned!”
“My…comrade here seems to have disturbed the Ley Lines with her presence,” the Captain said. “What–”
He was cut off by an explosion. Part of the wall above him crumbled down, and a collection of stalls were set on fire in the process. He could see streaks of flame cutting across the exposed sky, matching the fading twilight, as well as the glow of a power beyond the Elements. The singing cried out again, as loud as when he first heard it travel through the Night Kingdom, and many of the people around him fell to the ground with their hands pressed to their ears.
A woman with light eyes and hair ran into the Stadium entrance, a small pillow pressed against her head. By some miracle, she seemed to tune out the Damselette’s cries as though they were mere birdsong upon seeing the Captain. “What are you doing here?” Her words were laced with anger. Perhaps she assumed he had come to the Fatui’s aid. Capitano had little time to respond, as she tried pressing further into the battle.
He reached out an arm to stop her. “I’ll go in.”
Citlali tried to push away his gauntleted hand. “No! She’s already dealing with enough?”
The Captain frowned, peering down at the priestess. “I never said I was here to fight Mavuika.”
At this, Citlali faltered, allowing him to press further. The light was blinding, so blinding even the shadows were whitened. A figure hovered in the center of the arena. She would usually present as a gentle girl, but through the haze now the Captain could see a set of six wings, unfurling with thousands of eyes that glowed with a red hue, not unlike the way the Shade of Death presented herself as. Her lace mask was discarded, revealing the eyes on her face that were nothing but pinpoints of blinding light.
A flame cut through, dark against the intensity of the Damselette’s power. While the Captain ranked above Columbina for physical strength, her sheer ability to stun anyone within miles of her when that mask was dropped could weaken any enemy. Mavuika’s flaming sword cut through the rays, which the Damselette dodged before spreading her wings further, blocking out the sunset with eyes, watching eyes, judging eyes.
“Your cheating of death has come to an end, Archon,” a voice whispered, although her lips did not move.
The Captain raised walls of ice, right before Columbina’s attacks could come showering down. He rushed at Mavuika, shoving her away and pushing her against a wall to avoid the collateral damage as the fragments of rime showered to the arena’s floor, melting upon contact from the Pyro Archon’s power.
Mavuika slumped against his shoulder. “Thrain!”
“She’s here for the Gnosis?” he asked.
There was no time to respond. Columbina had broken through. Her voice multiplied, reverberating through the floor, his bones, the foundation of the stadium itself. Wheels of light formed at her sides, which were sent spinning down at the Harbinger and the Archon.
They dodged to the side before another part of the wall was cleaved in two. Each took to attacking Columbina from different sides. After hundreds of years of carrying tortured souls, the Captain was quickly able to tune out her song, but he wondered how Mavuika was carrying on for so long.
She had dark circles, he had noticed back when he caught her. Her muscles, which had felt firm and warm the last time he held her, were spongy and loose. How long had they been fighting? Had she been worn down by previous encounters already?
A wheel was cast down at him. The Captain was quick to block it with ice once more, his long unused powers struggling to keep up even with the Damselette’s objective gap in strength. He finally had an opening to dodge the collateral damage, tumbling into another corner of the stadium just as more bricks crumbled. He was surrounded by rubble, grasping at it to free himself. The sound of Mavuika and Columbina’s struggle was muted.
“Your war in Natlan is over. Spare yourself the suffering and surrender the Gnosis.”
“I might have considered if you used more honorable tactics than this!” Mavuika spat. The bricks heated from an attack she threw nearby.
The Captain managed to break himself free. The air was even warmer, to the point even his Cryo-preserved body felt it was about to melt under his armor. Columbina had fallen from the air to the Pyro Archon’s throne, two of her wings torn and smoking. Mavuika knelt in the Stadium below, her greatsword at her side, scarred but still in one piece. The Captain rushed to her side, forming ice blocks around the Damselette to slow her recovery further.
Mavuika fell into his arms with a grunt, and he helped her to a laying position on the ground, her head and shoulders cradled in his arms. The flames in her hair were doused, with her skin covered in sweat and streaks of her own blood.
“You came back, you bastard,” Mavuika said. “I would say perfect timing, but…”
“Let’s get a healer first,” the Captain said. “I will talk over with the Harbingers. There should be a different way to settle this.”
Mavuika’s lips were turning red, even as she tried to smile. She was bleeding from the inside. “She’s not like you. She came when I was already weak.”
“Stop talking.”
“Thrain…there’s something I need to tell you…”
“Later. Later.”
The Captain tried to lift Mavuika. No sooner had he braced himself on one knee before the stadium lit up in white again. A momentary pulse that brought all to deafening silence. Mavuika spasmed, almost falling from his grip. Her eyes were closed, but another burst through the skin of her forehead, opening wide with a magenta gaze. Then another. And another. A row down her face as the Damselette’s poison took root.
Columbina was standing again, her restraints broken and her wings repaired. Her expression had turned from serene and peaceful to completely emotionless and flat. Mavuika clutched at her newly forming wounds, the curse that was rapidly engulfing her body, tumbling from Thrain’s arms and falling to the Stadium floor again as she writhed in pain in a way he never had seen her before, never thought he would.
“Columbina!” he yelled. “Stop this immediately!”
The Seelie ignored his pleas, hovering down from the throne and approaching Mavuika. She was not attacking anymore. She knew the battle was already finished. The Captain readied his sword, preparing to strike again. He had a chance to stop her, she was already weakened by Mavuika’s previous attacks, and then the Fatui could make some sort of compromise and Columbina would remove the curse–
He froze. Not of his own volition. Red spikes burst from the ground, trapping his legs and his torso in place. With each he tried to break, more formed, a closing wall as the Damselette grew nearer and nearer to Mavuika’s now-still body.
The Knave. Of course they would not send a single Harbinger after the Pyro Gnosis, not with how the last encounter went.
His last sight before his vision was encased in the red of the Crimson Moon was Columbina bending down, striking a hand straight through Mavuika’s heart. All the flames in the Stadium went dark as the Pyro Archon fell silent.
When he broke through his restraints, the Damselette was gone, and there was no sign of Arlecchino. Mavuika was on the ground, blood slowly pooling from her many injuries, including a gaping wound in her chest. Normally, the Gnosis went into its own sub-space that did not directly involve piercing through a god’s flesh to retrieve, but she must have resisted enough for Columbina to need to strike directly through her ribs.
Citlali rushed past him, the first to reach Mavuika. They knelt next to her body as the crowds of onlookers slowly approached through the remaining standing gate of the stadium.
“The Ode of Resurrection,” the Captain said, “you can still use it, correct? Her Sacred Name still functions?”
Citlali placed a hand over Mavuika’s chest. Blood stained her fingertips. “Her soul…the Damselette did something. It’s gone. She should be in the Night Kingdom now, but she’s…trapped.” She retracted her arm, keeping her hand mid-air as though she was worried to stain anything. “She won’t return. The cycle of the Archons has ended here.” Her voice was reduced to a grating sob. “Why didn’t you come faster? Why didn’t anyone come faster? Where are the other Heroes?”
The crowd drew nearer. The Captain could hear a few singing the Ode. The Sacred Flame above the throne did not respond, only dimming as the night crept on. He reached a hand at Mavuika’s face, at those open, blank crimson eyes, the suns around her pupils fading as her divine authority was violently stripped.
How he wanted to place a kiss on that face one last time, but he could not, not with so many people around them, not with the shaman right by.
He removed his glove and gauntlets, not caring if anyone saw his blotched and hardened skin at this moment, shutting those empty eyes as gently as he could. What Columbina had inflicted, however, could not be shut, staring at the grieving mockingly. At least his mask could hide the silent tears that would not stop streaming, the bitter pain he had once thought he was free from, knowing he was among those departed and not left to worry if he would ever see them at peace once more.
Citlali wiped her face, at this point either not caring or not noticing if she left streaks on her skin. “Time to build a pyre, again…”
~
The Captain slammed a hand down on the table. “Did you not think of any other method first?”
The Knave, sitting at the other end and completely unfazed by his abnormal outburst, sneered. “We did. Our first option was to send you, one of our strongest, and look how that turned out. I didn’t want to be involved, but perhaps if you had fulfilled your mission things would have ended differently.”
“I had my own goals to prioritize, as does everyone here. Her Majesty knows that.”
Arlecchino tapped long, red nails on the grainy wooden surface. “Yes, and her goal is to retrieve the Gnoses. If you weren’t capable, you should have known another one would be sent. Ideally someone less moralizing and self-righteous.”
“I have no intention of flaunting my morals,” the Captain snapped. “It’s a basic code, which the Pyro Archon herself respected.”
“You’re one of us,” Arlecchino replied, with an infuriating lack of emotion thrown back his way. “You know how much both of us had to tolerate from the Doctor, or even the Mayor. Drop that high and mighty persona already, it’s unfitting for anyone in this room.”
The Captain sat in the chair placed for him by one of the soldiers. Columbina was nowhere to be found, having already returned to Snezhnaya according to his informants. The funeral for the Pyro Archon would be later that day, and he knew it would be in bad taste for him to attend, regardless of his previous reputation which he had learned from the statues featuring his own image carved on their sides.
Undeserved.
The scene from two days before played over and over in his mind, stealing his sleep like the souls in his heart did before.
“She said she was ‘already weakened’,” the Captain said.
Arlecchino’s eyes narrowed. He knew he should not stare too intently, but he did, whether she knew or not. The X-pupils were almost slits. “That was based on…special information we recently gained. I’d rather someone else break it to you.”
The Captain felt his heart skip a beat. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll learn. After my own involvement with this, I know it would not be appropriate for me to relay other sensitive topics.” Arlecchino stood, stopping next to the Captain before she reached the door to the dark blue tent. “I did not want to be involved in this mission. I know that brings you no comfort, and I will not ask for any forgiveness, now or in the future. But you know as well as I do that we have duties to carry out, and before your ‘death’ you were willing to do just the same.”
“Not like this,” the Captain muttered.
“No. Not like this.” A solemn look crossed the Knave’s face. He almost wanted to wring whatever she was hiding from her throat. “But as for her ‘state’...you were a part of that.”
She and her subordinates, a couple of the older children from the House of the Hearth, departed before he had any chance to snap and demand answers. He sat, staring at the single candle lit on the center of the table. It was still burning. How could it still flicker and burn with life like that? The flame was hot under his touch, as he reached over to let it lick and sweep against the metallic ends at his fingertips.
“You are truly not bothered by my…appearance?”
“Thrain, this is the third time we’ve done this. You’re no model for a surfboard poster, I’ll grant you that, but I’d rather you over any of those.”
“Hmph. I hope I did not stumble my way to a woman with…strange tastes.”
“Oh, quiet. You know what I meant.”
It was not near as warm as she was.
His musings and memories of humid nights were broken by another agent entering the tent, holding a scroll to him. It was addressed from the Masters of the Night-Wind, although this message was not sent from his usual point of contact. Rather than Ororon’s careful yet simplistic penmanship, it was covered in swirls that attempted to show some skill, but in reality made the letter much harder to read.
The Captain stood. “I must depart. I apologize in advance if I miss the Knave’s leave.”
“Where are you going?” the agent asked, bowing his head.
“The funeral.” The Captain rolled up the scroll, tucking it into his cloak. “I know I said I would not go near, but it appears the shaman requests my appearance.”
“My lord, would you like someone to accompany you? Like you said, they may hold some hostility toward you now.”
“No need. It seems I must face these consequences, whatever they may be, by myself.”
~
The Captain took a side path to the funeral, which was held in the canyons below the Stadium, near the territory of the Masters of the Night-Wind. Even so, he was sure he felt the glares from the people below, if any did see him. Or maybe it was the remnants of Mavuika’s soul calling out to him as the pyre was stacked with wood from the land of each of the six Tribes.
Why didn’t you awaken sooner?
He was a few minutes early for his meeting with Citlali. He tried to see if she was in the crowd, although he struggled to find her. Even for a funeral, Natlan was bursting with color. Marigolds lined the path as the Heroes of Natlan carried out a stretcher on their shoulders.
Mavuika looked so at peace, so undisturbed. Perhaps it was the distance he viewed her from, but the wounds Columbina had inflicted on her seemed carefully hidden by her dark red locks of hair. She wore a plain outfit, reminiscent of the clothing from the Scions of the Canopy, which he remembered she was from.
“Mavuika is a name from the People of the Springs, is it not?”
“Yes, but my parents were from different tribes. They chose the Scions as our home.”
“If you could settle in any of your tribes again, which would you pick?”
“Now? If I had to, I suppose I would still say Huitzlan, but I like being in the middle of all of them. I can be a part of each of their cultures, each of their languages and history, all coming together. What about yourself?”
“I couldn’t claim a land where I don’t belong.”
“You’re not. I’m just asking if you would join us.”
“...Wherever you are. That’s where I would wish to be.”
Even with the careful decorations, the literal road of flowers to guide their Archon to the next cycle, there was not a single joyful face at this celebration of life. Perhaps they, too, knew the time of the Pyro Archon was over. Each of the six Heroes placed the stretcher at the top of the pyre, and each placed a flower in Mavuika’s hands. The craftswoman from the Children of Echoes was first, her fingers lingering as she placed a Saurian Claw Succulent. The boy from the Scions of the Canopy was next, with his little ‘dragon’ companion at his side, silent for once as they placed a dried stalk of Quenepa Berries. The often-bubbly girl from the People of the Springs placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture he returned to her as she placed a Sprayfeather Gill in the growing bouquet.
A woman in a patterned shawl and dark hat followed with a Brilliant Chrysanthemum, in the exact shade as the Archon’s flames. Ororon, his expression even more solemn and pensive than usual, left a Glowing Hornshroom next, before doing a short ritual with his smoke over the body. A short girl, who had to leave the carrying of the stretcher to a horned friend, was last, leaving a Skysplit Gembloom as the last of the offerings. She stretched out her hand in a fist toward Mavuika, holding it for a few seconds, before climbing down with the help of the others.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”
The Captain was briefly startled by Citlali’s appearance. Normally, he should have noticed, but perhaps she was too quiet or he was too distracted. “I would not avoid what seems to be a very important discussion.”
“‘Important’,” Citlali repeated, still with some bile in her voice. “Yeah, you could call it that.” Her face softened as the people gathered in a giant circle around the pyre. The Captain felt something being put in his hands.
Two flowers–Withering Purpurblooms, to be precise. He had seen many during his treks to and from Ochkanatlan. One was fresh and full of the bright yellow color from its stem, while the second was slightly wilted, a deeper bluish color creeping through the petals.
“You can put these when they’re done,” Citlali said. “I’m sure she would like that.”
The Captain glanced between her and the flowers, and back at the funeral. The six chiefs were each lighting a torch. “Did she…tell…”
“I figured it out myself first, but she told me later.” Citlali sighed, her spine bending as the weight of her life finally showed its true burden. “That’s…why I called you here.”
“I never meant to cause any scandal.”
Citlali was quiet, her light eyes staring ahead. The torches rose high into the night sky, as the people all sung a hymn similar to the Ode, although with a solemn and grieving touch not present in the original call to battle. Thrain almost wanted to run down and stop, grab Mavuika from the tower she was placed on before her very bones were consumed by the flames she could once produce with ease. Tear her away from the feathers and flowers and glowing gemstones that surrounded her, all unable to replicate her light.
The flames crept over the edges of the pyre, encroaching in on her and slowly burning away the flowers. The singing became louder, deep and resonating, almost calling out for the Captain to join in, yet his chest seemed to cave in with the weight of his heart like a stone every time he opened his mouth. The smoke rose into the air as fire engulfed the body, and he could not tell whether the light from Mavuika’s hair was from the flames consuming it, or her glowing one last time. The chiefs repeatedly tossed in flowers and fine-smelling woods at calculated intervals, chanting and changing the smell of the smoke as it traveled across the valley, although the Captain was still reminded of the charcoal odor when rows of houses were burnt to the ground during the Cataclysm. Many still had people within who were well beyond saving.
It was selfish, but he wished to take her soul before it finally departed, just to carry her one last time. He barely noticed his hand drifting to his chest, as his mind tried to piece together words that flowed like a story from his own homeland. Perhaps one day he may write a rímur in her honor.
The throne stands alone now,
Moans and cries still grow more,
My love, my sun, lost still,
Listening and listless,
Now, the Night is nigh with,
Naught but what we fought for.
I should be satisfied,
So why have I sought you?
He could not tear his eyes away as the hour passed on. Neither could the people, not even the little girl with pika ears who sobbed in the embrace of the Heroes.
When the flames had climbed to heights where the Pyro Archon’s form was entirely covered, when the light flickered off cliffs like a second sun, Ororon turned away from the crowd. His eyes met Citlali’s, possibly the only person to find them, and they both raised their hands.
“Come on,” Citlali said. “We’ve got plenty of time before the cremation is over.”
~
Citlali’s home was an absolute wreck, technically unfitting for a high shaman but not surprising to anyone who had come to know her. Unwashed mugs littered tables and ends of furniture beside stacks upon stacks of those Inazuman “light novels”. At one meeting, Dottore requested the Captain do a dramatic reading of the most ridiculous one he could find—Capitano made it only about one page through before slamming it shut and tossing it as hard as he could at the head of his fellow Harbinger. Thank the gods his mask was on at the time, although he was not sure if the red hot blush he felt trying to break through his chilled skin was even visible without it.
“Helmet. Off.” Citlali said, pointing to his head as she emptied two chairs.
“Are you sure?”
Citlali took the first chair, motioning for the Captain to sit across from her. Ororon walked into a back room, out of sight of the two. “I need to see your face. Don’t worry about shocking me, Mavu…she told me about it in great detail already.”
Capitano was hesitant to ask what other “details” Mavuika had shared, but opted to keep his mouth shut as he reached to his temples and released the seal on his mask, dissipating the illusion that kept his face in permanent shade. He let it rest on a table as Citlali stood, gingerly reaching at his face before turning his head with surprising roughness, inspecting every angle with a wide eyed but firm expression.
“Definitely you,” she muttered. “Especially the eyes. I can see even with all the damage. Khaenri’ahns…definitely something.” She released her hold. The Captain nearly wanted to rub his face to relieve the soreness from her grip.
“Could you explain what this is about?” he asked. His hair flicked at his cheeks, a strange sensation after pushing it back for the jaw guards for so long.
Citlali sat again, sighing. “Yes. Sorry for all that, I just had to…confirm for myself.” She paused, before looking directly into his eyes again. “I didn’t want to spook you if there was the slightest chance I was wrong, even if Mavuika was insistent you…” She gulped. Took a swig from one of the near emptied mugs. “Ororon, you can come out now.”
Ororon opened the door to the room.
Not just Ororon.
Thrain begged, prayed that what was in the boy’s arms was not what he thought it was. The bundle of blue and purple woven blankets, held so carefully that it betrayed that what he carried was no mere item. The slight motion and fuss as Ororon twisted to close the door only confirmed the shock that left him more winded than any of the Damselette’s attacks could.
“Shaman,” Thrain said slowly. “How long was I gone for?”
Citlali smiled wryly. “I think you can guess.”
Ororon placed the blankets in her arms, revealing the infant inside, disturbed from its rest. Citlali hushed, saying a gentle prayer for its dreams in Natlanese as the fussing slowed to soft coos.
“Thrain,” Citlali said, the first time he heard her speak his true name, “this…is your daughter. Half-Natlanese, half-Khaenri’ahn. She was born just a week ago.”
The puzzle that was shattered like a glass jar was beginning to melt and reform in his mind.
“The Harbingers…” Thrain whispered. “Gods and Shades, they knew?”
Citlali nodded. “Not sure if they were aware you were behind it, but it was no secret, not after someone—“ She cleared her throat again, glancing at Ororon, who rushed from the house. “—asked her in public if she ‘ate a fragment of a soul’. Oh yes, there were rumors abound, but none of them quite hit the mark. Some people even had the idea that this was some divine blessing after beating the Abyss.’” She glanced down, hushing once more and repeating a line from her prayer. “Of course, everyone is going to know once they see her eyes.”
She lifted the tiny, tiny girl, presenting her forward. Thrain removed his gauntlets and gloves in a mechanical motion, unable to force his eyes away from the sleepy head of black hair, the skin that had a touch of her mother’s bronze. His nails were broken and unkempt, and he was so careful as he took the blankets he worried he may overcompensate and let her slip.
The sight of the soft, perfect skin contrasted against his deformed arms was enough to make him weep on its own. He gingerly stroked her face with a knuckle, awed by how massive his hands were just in comparison to her head. “How…can this be mine?”
She opened her eyes. Blue, a very light blue that might change over time, but the pupils were unmistakable. Shaped like four-pointed stars, not found anywhere except in a ruined nation and those descended from it.
“I’m…terrified for her future,” he whispered. “Even children of mixed descent from us can still face the aftereffects of the Heavenly Principle's wrath.”
“I’ve been watching her carefully, and I haven’t noticed any weird signs,” Citlali said, “but we’ll have to wait until she’s older.”
The feeling gnawing at Thrain’s chest turned into a violent stabbing and twisting as his daughter grasped at his finger, holding with a surprising strength that even he struggled to pull back from. He could not tell what emotion he felt, not from a lack of but because every single one at once was at its full power. After the bliss and rest of the Night Kingdom, the feeling alone was enough to make his head spin.
“She takes after her parents in more than one way,” Citlali said, noticing the girl’s tiny grip with a laugh. “I’ve thought about calling Xilonen for help to pry away things from her.”
“Does she have a name?”
Citlali rested her chin on her palms. “Mavuika was weird about that. She kept going back and forth between names from your respective nations, even trying double-names. I’m pretty certain she filled a whole notebook before I told her to find something that actually functioned instead of just sounding impressive.”
Thrain almost, almost laughed. “I am sure Mavuika had good intentions, but you saved her from a lifetime of horrible jokes.”
“She finally settled on ‘Kara’, after much persuasion from me and Xilonen.” Citlali’s eyes unfocused, drifting to the window behind Thrain. “It’s Khaenri’ahn in root, but has ‘ra’ meaning ‘sun’ in one of our dialects.”
“Kara…” Thrain repeated it over in his head. Mavuika and Kara. They would have fit so well together. “It is a strong one. But don’t make her feel she has to…repeat our deeds, or live up to the names of her past. I almost would ask that you never tell her about me at all.”
“Not gonna happen. Mavuika insisted she know the truth about her heritage as she grows up.”
“Heritage…” Thrain closed his eyes. “She valued that so much. And what if she disturbs the gods of Celestia with her presence, what then? What if she is given any fraction of what I’ve been forced to endure?” The child did not deserve it. The guilt if something, anything more happened because of his actions would possibly be enough to undo his curse and kill him on its own.
Citlali put a hand on his, seemingly unbothered by its uncovered state. “She’s your daughter as well, so you can choose what to tell her–or not, and we’ll do our best not to disrespect either of your wishes.” She tapped Kara’s nose. “See? She’s not bothered by you at all. I knew going no-mask was the better option.”
“It’s cliche…” Thrain mused, “but she’s absolutely perfect.”
“And you’re part of her,” Citlali said, “so I suppose Mavuika had some taste choosing you. Some.”
Thrain lifted the girl closer to his chest, allowing her head to rest against him, although keeping the blanket as a barrier between her and his dusty uniform. “I’m unsure as to what will happen next. I may need to return to the Night Kingdom to keep it from returning to its previous state–I still wonder how Colum–” He clenched his jaw, the scene from the days before replaying, tainting the peace he just started to feel. “–she managed to awaken me, but I’ll do everything I can to help.”
“Natlan will raise her, there’s no doubt about that.” Citlali leaned back in her chair, slumping her shoulders. “Even when Mavuika was alive, she would be surrounded by dozens of aunties and uncles and…grannies, I suppose. So she’s going to be fine. And I’ll keep an eye out for any…adverse effects from her ancestry. I obviously can’t promise we will be able to do anything, but she won’t fight alone, even if you and Mauvika can’t be there.”
Thrain nodded slowly. “I am once again in Natlan’s debt.”
“You’ll still be running the Ley Lines, I think that’s a fair enough repayment.” Citlali stood, heading to the front door. “They’re going to need me back at the pyre. Take your time here, there’s no rush.”
The door closed, leaving Thrain in the dark surrounded by candlelight and Phlogiston wall lamps. The feeling of holding a life that had barely any history while an Archon of five hundred years of waiting and planning was crumbling to ashes outside did not escape him. The utter hatred, at himself and those responsible for said pyre, the grief, of his old life, his comrades, and his flame, and the tiny, tiny spark of joy within finally had a chance to settle and not be held back by sheer shock or a facade of coldness.
“…I am very sorry. In the future, I will not ask for your forgiveness, but I hope you will have the life she and I wished for you.”
He was able to piece together a lullaby from his memory, one he heard frightened and grieving parents sing as their nation fell apart, one he could just barely find in the foggy labyrinths of his childhood centuries ago. His own singing rose above the faint echoes of the mourning song from below, solemn and heavy, a sense of aching calm that was a paradox of its own.
~
Early in the morning, when all were gone and the funeral pyre was left to cool before the ashes were spread across the lands of each of the tribes, a large, dark figure stood at the base of the mound. Fresh marigolds and candles had been set at the base by the grieving, adding more color to the burning fragments.
A funeral dirge was sung in a deep, grieving, weary voice, in two languages spoken by ancient people’s. A final vow was made, forged five centuries ago and reborn and reshaped in a trial by fire, a promise of protection. A promise he would search for her during his rest, no matter how long it took, until they could walk among those marigolds with no more pain, no more weariness, no more war.
Two flowers were left, of slightly different colors. After the figure was long gone, having returned to his throne to command the memories and souls or to the icy lands far north, after the ashes were sent to the four winds, the flowers would always appear fresh at memorials. Always two. Always those colors.
Perhaps someone was secretly returning to plant them. Or maybe, from far below the soil in the depths of Natlan’s heart, someone was sending their roots up.