Valiant: Tales From The Drift

[Tails #25: Eschatology]

Log Date: 10/10/12764

Data Sources: Jazel Jaskolka

-Who will serve-

The question went aboard through The Old City. Across that ancient patchwork of a world destroyed ten thousand times over, each iteration stitched together at the edges in a quilt of ruins. And we, the souls of Aurescura, turned unto the voice, for we knew it, and yet did not recognize it. It was the voice of one of the nine who always sealed the divine beast at the end of every cycle. It was the voice of the one who at long last broke the cycle when it could not be maintained; who took upon herself every living thing made by Aurescura, both large and small; good and evil; demon, angel, and mortal all. It was the voice of the one that cast the impossible spell, took us into herself, and fled the world which was our coffin.

It was the voice of the Witchling.

It was not a spoken voice, but the voice of god. A voice which was neither soft nor loud, but absolute; a voice which created reality merely by speaking. It was a voice devoid of mortality, a voice which carried the authority of our entire world, for it represented the will of every creature in Aurescura, mortal and immortal both. It was the voice of the one we knew as Maugrimm, but it was no longer Maugrimm.

For in taking upon herself every soul in Aurescura, she was no longer an individual, but the culmination of the will of an entire world. She was, and would forever be unto us, the Witchling.

-Who will serve-

The question came again, but was not the same as the first time. The very asking of the question carried with it a change in the fabric of reality, and the change was that we knew the state of the mortal plane. The war between gods was over; the Shyl-tari were cast down, and driven out. The ancient pact that the Witchling had made with the Dreamcatcher was fulfilled; the debt was paid, and now, as thanks for the Witchling’s role in pushing back the profane light of the Shyl-tari, the Gathering had promised us a world, a new Aurescura. A world of our own, free from the cursed cycle, that we might live our final lives and rest when our time was done, never to be reincarnated again.

This was the end the Witchling had promised us. Freedom from a prison of eternal, relentless life; freedom from the unending cycle that was our sentence. Freedom to choose whether we would continue or cease. She had promised us a choice that Aurescura had taken from us. And now, that promise would be fulfilled.

-Who will serve-

Again the question, and as before, different than the previous time. For its very asking came with the knowledge that this marked the start of a new order. Now began the long era of stewardship, when a few would watch over the many, and help shape a society in which Aurescura’s creations could live a final, felicitous reincarnation, before going unto their eternal rest. It would require sacrifice from a few, who, rather than seeking their last life, their happy ending, would watch over a reborn Aurescuran society, and guide it as best they could. These few would be those which served, their final reward long delayed so that others may come to their final release more quickly.

This was the sacrifice, the service, the duty, that the Witchling laid before us. And we all knew that it was without reward, for we felt it in the question which was asked. There would be no throne for those who served; no glory or adulation, no recognition or worship. Those that served would serve in silence, sentinels to a lonely guard and a nigh-endless task. They would labor endlessly within the grey shadows of our collective conscience, until every Aurescuran had lived their final reincarnation, and went unto the endless rest.

This was the question the Witchling asked us: who among us would sacrifice, as she had, so that others may eventually find their joy.

And for a time we were silent.

But then the great among Old Ones stepped forth, and vowed serve until the Duty was done. And after them, the Exiles; and still after, the great among mortals. Even knowing the cost, even knowing the price, they did so for love of their fellow creatures. To make right the injustice that Aurescura had condemned all of her children to.

And I, I?

I did not volunteer.

And each time I return to The Old City, I feel my shame.

Event Log: Jazel Jaskolka

Goldenbirch Cathedral: Parking Lot

10:58am SGT

“Little witch! We are here now!”

I jerk my head up at being shaken awake from my dream, taking a deep breath and rubbing my eyes. Cold air is seeping into the car from the open door, where Kayenta’s standing outside amid the snow and road salt. Even in the frigid weather, she’s resisted footwear, and has only conceded to wearing sandals to keep her feet from getting frostbitten on the wet ground.

“Sorry, I tend to fall asleep on long drives.” I yawn, shuffling over the seat to the door, and getting out along with the others. I’m wearing one of my traditional witch mantles over my jacket; on visits to houses of worship owned by the Aurescuran Church, witches make a point of always showing in our formal attire, as a way of showing respect to our old enemies. The days of war between the Church and the Covens ended when the Witchling broke the unending cycle; nowadays we live and let live. Mostly. The fringe factions on each side still butt heads from time to time.

“Well slap me silly and call me a futurist.” Milor says, tilting back the brim of his hat as he stares up at the towering cathedral before us. It almost resembles a fort or a castle, with great towers and ramparts, all of it built out of some sort of marble or granite. There’s a stark contrast to the surrounding glass-and-steel towers and corporate buildings that make up Goldenbirch’s city center. “That is one hell of a cathedral. Don’t think I’ve seen anything that impressive outside of Valcalion.”

“This is incredible! It’s like the architecture of medieval times, but larger! Do you see the crenellation on the ramparts? Fantastic! It’s like someone just reached into the past, picked up a castle, and dropped it in the modern era!” Ozzy rambles as he holds up his phone, taking pictures. “Oh my goodness, are those stained-glass windows in the classical style? That’s almost a lost art; you never see those in cathedrals nowadays! I mean, generally speaking, you usually don’t see cathedrals period, but that’s besides the point. Are those statues of angels up on the ramparts? I wonder, do they do tours of the roof so we can get a closer look?”

“Someone’s excited.” Mom says as she locks the car, Dandy and Lysanne joining us. “I’ve never seen someone this eager to see the Cathedral before.”

“He’s a necromancer, so afterlife stuff gets him excited.” Lysanne explains, zipping up her jacket. “Personally, I like Redleaf more, but I can see why people would want to tour the Goldenbirch Cathedral.”

“We’ll be making a pilgrimmage to Redleaf later on in the month, so there’s no need to worry about that.” Mom says as she finishes adjusting her witch’s hat, starting to lead our group across the parking lot towards the cathedral. “Jazel and I must meet with the Redleaf matriarch, so the rest of you can sightsee while we’re taking care of that.”

“Wait, we have to meet with the Redleaf matriarch?” I say, still fumbling to get my witch hat on as I hurry after her. “What for?”

“She would like to see you. It is rare that a witchling leaves their coven and goes abroad.” Mom answers. “You’re not in any trouble. She just wants to check in.”

“If you say so.” I say, still uneasy.

“Who is this Redleaf matriarch?” Kayenta asks, noticing my unease.

“One of the coven leaders. Each of the witch covens has a matriarch which leads them.” Lysanne explains. “The Redleaf matriarch is a big deal because she’s the leader of the coven that lives in the area that the Witchling came from, right?”

Mom smiles over her shoulder. “Very good. I’m surprised you remembered that, Lysanne. But yes, the Redleaf matriarch lives in the region that has many spiritual sites for both the witches and the Aurescuran Church. As such, she has a lot of influence in both communities, as she has a heavy hand in determining access rights to those sites.”

“You don’t say? What kind of sites are we talking about?” Ozzy asks, still taking pictures on his phone as we get closer to the cathedral. “I’d love to see some of the areas that Aurescurans use for communing with the dead or The Old City, or well, I suppose they’re kinda the same in that regard—”

“Sites that outsiders do not have access to.” Mom interrupts swiftly before Ozzy can ramble too far. “Jazel and I will be the only ones visiting certain areas. But there are plenty of other places in Redleaf for the rest of the group to visit and enjoy.”

“Ah, okay, right right, of course.” Ozzy backtracks quickly. “Perfectly understandable. Out of curiosity, you wouldn’t happen to have a list of the sites that are open to the public, do you?”

“We can worry about fishin’ those up later, Ozzy.” Milor says. “For now, let’s focus on the here and now. Big ol’ place like this, I’m sure they’ve got plenty to explore. I assume we’re doing a guided tour today?”

“We are.” Mom says as we start down the main walkway leading up the cathedral, lined on each side with trees that probably look good in the summer but are currently leafless scarecrows. “I believe they start a tour group every hour, or something along those lines…”

“Every half hour.” Dandy says. “I just checked their website. There are more in-depth tours available, but those are by reservation only.”

Mom glances at Dandy, then smiles at Lysanne. “Well, isn’t she handy.”

Lysanne slips an arm around Dandy with a smile. “She is. Very handy.”

“So what is this big castle thing for? You said it was a church?” Kayenta says, staring up at the cathedral’s steep walls and towers. “So people pray to the gods here?”

“Not exactly.” Mom explains. “Our people don’t worship in the way that the Anayans or Christlings or Ranters do. Most religions have a benevolent relationship with their deity; they worship their god or their creator, and pray to them for guidance or direction. But Aurescura, the goddess which created us, also tried to destroy us. So we do not pray to her, and we do not worship her. We worship the Witchling instead.”

“Oh! Oh! Jazel told me about this a long time ago!” Kayenta exclaims, her eyes lighting up. “He said that your people tried to rise up to join the goddess in the heavens, and that she didn’t like that!”

“Yes, that is true. I am surprised that he told you our myths.” Mom says as we near the front doors of the cathedral. “What else did he tell you?”

Kayenta shrugs. “Well, just that, actually. I made him go to sleep after that because he was injured and needed rest.”

“Well, this tour will tell you everything that he didn’t.” Mom says as we step through the doors into the cathedral’s main foyer. The interior is well-lit, with carpeted floors that contrast the harsh stone of the exterior; there’s a reception desk within, and people roaming around. Since this is a weekday, it looks like most of them are visitors or tourists; services are held on the weekend, so there are no congregants present. There are a few priests and priestesses though, identifiable by their white-and-grey attire, tucked shirts and dresses, and their well-coiffed hair. It looks like they’re handling hosting and tour group duties, and one of them turns to us as we filter into the foyer.

“Hello. Are you here for services or a tour?” she asks.

“A tour. We have offworlders that need to learn the history of Aurescura.” Mom says, motioning to Kaya, Milor, and Ozzy. “The Cycle, why the Witchling’s important, and all that.”

The priestess breaks into a smile, holding a hand out to one of the halls that branches off from the foyer. “Certainly. If it’s a history lesson, then we can start in the Hall of the Cycle. If you’ll follow me, we can start right away.”

“You know, I hear the Aurescuran Cathedral Choir does an amazing rendition of the Witchling’s Hymn.” Ozzy says, trundling along behind the priestess as we follow her to the indicated hallway. “Do they do performances during the weekday?”

“They do. One at noon, and one at eventide.” the priestess answers. “After touring the Hall of the Cycle, I can show you to the chapel.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to see in the Cathedral after the Hall of the Cycle and the choir, Dandy?” Lysanne asks as we tread down the hallway, occasionally passing through the colored shadows of a stained-glass window.

“If the roof is open, I would like to tour that. I believe Ozzy wanted to see the statues on the roof’s edge, and I would like to get a better sense of the building’s architecture.” Dandy says.

“Certainly. We don’t have many groups going up to the roof in the winter with how cold it gets, but I can escort you up there after the choir performance.” the priestess says. “The statues you see on the roof of the cathedral are recreations of the Exiles, the angels that defied Aurescura and remained on the mortal plane when she sealed the heavens. As to the architecture of the cathedral itself, many parts are modeled after the Weir of the Witchling. It is not an exact cognate, since the Weir was a fortress and a dam all in one, built atop a waterfall, but many of the design elements are present in the cathedral’s architecture. At least in terms of how it was imagined by the ancient texts which depict the Weir.”

“Well, I must say this is a mighty flexible tour, all things considered.” Milor says, taking a toothpick out of his duster and sticking it between his lips to chew on. “Most tour groups I’ve been on follow a fixed route. This customizable approach is quite the innovation.”

“The tour route is usually fixed.” the priestess says, smiling over her shoulder. For a single second, she flickers — and instead of a woman in a modest grey dress, it is instead a girl in a black skirt. A bloodred kerchief is knotted beneath the collar of her shirt, and a flock of crows swarms around her head, hiding everything from her nose up. “But for a witch and a witchling, we will make an exception.”

And then it flickers back again, and the priestess is back in place, leading the way down the hall.

I come up short, taking a sharp breath. The hairs on the back of my neck are prickling up, a chill sweeping down my spine, but the others don’t stop or indicate that they saw what I saw. At least that’s what I assume, until I hear Kayenta beside me. “Little witch? Did you see that?”

I glance at her. She’s glaring down the hall, her august eyes locked on the priestess’s back. Even though her hands are tucked in her hoodie pockets, I can see the tensed set of her shoulders. “You saw that too?” I murmur to her.

“Only barely. I felt a ripple, and saw something not of this world.” she replies.

Milor, perhaps hearing us, turns around, and seeing us at a stop, reaches up and pulls his toothpick out of his mouth. “You two comin’, or did someone glue your feet to the floor?”

“You did not see that?” Kayenta asks. She’s definitely more bold about it than I would be.

The others pause in the hall to look at us. “See what?” Lysanne asks, looking around.

“They did not see it.” Kayenta mutters to me.

“Let’s just… keep going and stay close to each other.” I say, then speak a little louder for the others. “Nothing. We just thought we saw something in the hall.” Starting forward again, I offer my hand out for Kayenta, and she takes it, staying shoulder to shoulder with me as we catch up with the group.

“For those of you who are offworlders, tell me: how much do you know about the history of Aurescura, and how our world came to be?” the priestess asks as she takes a right, stepping into an open doorway. Our group follows her in, finding ourselves in a toweringly large room, columns supporting the high ceilings on either side of a reflecting pool that runs down the center of the room. The walls and ceiling are covered in a single vast, continuous painting that reaches all the way to the end of the room, where an altar lies, with a carved recreation of the Witchling against the wall behind it.

“I will admit, that’s a big fat nothin’ for me.” Milor drawls. “Ozzy, now’s your chance to look impressive.”

“Well, I do know a little bit about the Cycle, but that’s really about it.” Ozzy equivocates. “I know Aurescurans in the old days were stuck in an endless cycle of reincarnation, which has always presented an interesting theological and eschatological questions in general arcanology. It’s the sort of thing that scholars have been debating over for years, especially for those that study the various afterlives of other religions and cultures—”

“Which is to say, you can start at the beginning of the Cycle and go from there.” Lysanne says, interrupting Ozzy’s rambling before it can take off.

The priestess smiles at that, turning to face us and gesturing to the wall behind us. “The beginning of the Cycle starts halfway through the full story of Aurescura. The wall to my right contains the story of the creation of Aurescura; its demons, its mortals, its angels. The wall to my left contains the story of the Cycle, and the wall behind you all bridges those two stories. At the far end of this room is the breaking of the Cycle, which we will come to eventually. But let us begin, first, at the Cycle’s birth. If you would turn and gaze upon it, I will begin.”

We each turn towards the wall behind us, studying the painted wall around the doorway that we came through. Much of it depicts the mortal realm, and the heavens above, with a towering building bridging the two — raised, it looks like, by architects and sorcerers. Mortals are seen climbing the building, while up above, the array of angels in the heavens are at once surprised, horrified, and indignant that mortals have reached the edge of heaven. Some of them are depicted as standing by and watching, while others have weapons in hand and are seen moving to meet the mortals at the gate of heaven. Above it all is the goddess Aurescura, luminous and bright in white and gold silks, pointing down towards to the building as if ordering the legions of heaven to brace the gate and cast down the mortals and their tower alike.

“This is the story of Aurescura; both the people and the goddess.” the priestess begins, her voice echoing in the great hall. “Once upon a time, our people were great. In a golden age, we had come to our apex; masters of science and sorcery alike. And in our hubris…”

The priestess’s words start to feel distant, as if echoing down a long tunnel, the longer I stare at the mural. It feels like the figures on the wall are starting to warp and move at the edges, and one standing at the base of the tower catches my attention — it is girl in a black skirt and shirt, with a cloud of crows wreathing her head.

My fingers tighten around Kayenta’s. “Kaya. Do you see it?” I ask quietly.

“I do.” I can feel her hand clutch more tightly around mine in response. “The wall is moving.”

I don’t reply to that, because it is moving, and in a strange way. Elements of the mural seem to be bending towards us without coming off the wall, and my peripheral vision has just up and disappeared — I know the others are around us, but I can’t see them out of the corners of my eyes. I can’t even see Kayenta, even though I know she’s right next to me. At the base of the tower, the image of the crow lady is moving towards us, getting larger, while the rest of the wall behind her seems to be speeding towards us as if from a distance. She raises a hand to us, outstretched, fingers open, as if an invitation to take hold.

If you would know your heritage, witchling, bear witness to truth uncorrupted by the decay of time.

Even though nothing is moving, the wall rushes up on us, faster and faster. Kayenta yanks me close, wrapping an arm around me as she lifts her other arm towards the oncoming wall, but too late. The arcs of blue lightning starting to crackle around her fingers are snuffed out as the wall slams into us, then around us in a blast of colored smoke that nearly yanks my hat off my head. Squinting my eyes shut, I reach up to grab it and keep it from flying off, while clinging tight to Kayenta with my other arm.

It’s only when the wind starts to slow down that I open my eyes a little, and I see that the smoke is starting to fade away — or rather, settle into place, solidifying into a majestic white hall around us. I don’t recognize where we are, but it doesn’t look like the kind of building created by mortals; the architecture has a certain regal austerity, doing away with frills and unnecessary ornamentation while maintaining an unquestionable authority. The stone from which it’s carved is impossibly immaculate, and there are no light fixtures, switches, or interfaces of any sort — illumination seems to be coming from the stone itself, a soft ambience rather than a harsh one. A slightly brighter light seems to be coming from outside, spilling through slot windows in the walls, but it’s unclear what’s outside.

“I do not know this place.” Kayenta says, looking around. She’s still holding me close, fingers tangled in my witch’s mantle, as if wary that she might lose me if she lets go. 

“I don’t recognize it either.” I say, turning in place a little to get a better view of the hall.

It is the Gathering, the place where the gods convene.

It’s not words as such, nor is it psi communication; it feels almost like a voice, and yet not quite. It’s a ripple in reality, as certain parts of existence itself were being elevated and emphasized to form a coherent communication. We aren’t actually hearing words so much as we suddenly have knowledge of the fact that this place is the Gathering, and it is where the gods convene; and the reason we have that knowledge is because that facet of reality has been amplified so strongly that it is impossible to be ignorant of it. It’s such an unusual method of communication that there’s no easy way to describe it, except that it feels like narration, but without the words.

“You sensed that, little witch?” Kayenta asks. Her august eyes are darting around, and her silver ears are upright and twitching like she’s on high alert.

“I… felt it, yes.” I say. “I don’t know what’s happening. This did not happen last time I came to the Cathedral.”

You wished to show her the story of the Cycle. The history of our people. But you cannot tell her our story if you yourself do not know the truth.

A faint rustle behind us draws our attention, and we both turn our heads to find the crow lady standing right there at our shoulders, less than three inches from us.

“GaAAH!” I shouts, staggering away from her at the same time that Kayenta does. She keeps a hold on me, keeping me tucked close to her, as we back away to the side of the hall opposite the crow lady. My heart’s still hammering like it does after a jump scare in a horror movie, even though all the crow lady did was stand near to us.

“What are you?” Kayenta demands. “You are not mortal. Are you a demon?”

I am one of Maugrimm’s angels.

Kayenta narrows her eyes at the crow lady. “You are no angel. You look sickly and thin, pale and weak. And an angel would not hide their face behind a crown of crows; they are ill omens.” Her gaze roves up and down the crow lady, fixing on the skirt. “And angels do not wear skirts.”

Your lineage does not give you authority to proscribe dress code for the divine, fox.

“Why have you brought us here?” I demand before Kayenta can retort. “We didn’t ask to come here.”

I have not taken you anywhere. You stand in a memory; you are not actually at the Gathering. While the people of Aurescura retain the truth of the Cycle, its details are muddy, and they know the story only as its victims. I offer you another perspective — the parts of the story that our people never knew, or which they have forgotten.

The crow angel lifts an arm to motion down the hall, and both Kayenta and I turn to look. Coming towards us are a pair of individuals — a woman in flowing black silks, and behind her, a tall, grizzled, wolfeared man in majestic red and brown attire. Both of them are striding along at a swift clip, carrying a harried conversation as they do so.

“You are her sibling. She will listen to you; she will not listen to the rest of us because we are not Primordials.” the wolfeared man says, his tone pressed with a muted urgency.

“This is frivolous, Dalus.” the woman in the black silks replies tersely. “Kaleidoscope helped cast down the Inkling and imprison him; she took our side in the First War; she helped eradicate the Warforged. She has seen the mistakes of our siblings; has helped clean up the messes that resulted from them. She would not repeat their mistakes, having seen the consequences firsthand.”

“Gravity, you know I would not bring this before you if it did not have substance.” Dalus says as he and the woman pass through the section of the hall we’re standing in. “The Dreaming is concerned—”

“The Dreaming?” Gravity hisses, stopping and wheeling on Dalus. “Those riddlemongers switched sides and advocated for forgiving Ink even after all the damage he’s done to this universe!”

“They believe he has suffered enough for his crimes.” Dalus says, keeping a level tone.

“It’s not about the suffering he’s endured! It’s about the responsibility he has for fixing the damage he’s done!” Gravity growls. “He can be forgiven when he has cleaned up the mess he made. The Dreaming has no right to tell us what he should be absolved of, and for that matter, how Kaleidoscope handles her projects is no business of theirs.” Gravity wheels back around, starting to stalk away again. “I don’t know who your contact is within the Dreaming, but tell them that they have no right to be sticking their nose in the business of Primordials, or telling the Gathering how it should handle its members.”

Dalus doesn’t move to follow. “It was Miqo, Gravity.”

Gravity slows, then stops altogether. She does not turn around, but there is a change in the set of her shoulders. “…Miqo? One of the High Dreamkeepers?”

“Yes. She is also the Spirit of Judgement within the Dreaming.” Dalus says. “She did not visit me as a colleague. She visited in her formal capacity as an emissary of the Dreaming.”

It’s clear that Dalus has captured Gravity’s attention by the way her head turns, ever so slightly. “…and she said that the Dreaming was concerned?”

Dalus presses his lips together, as if reluctant to say what he’s about to say. “She said that if the Gathering does not handle it, then the Dreaming will.”

Gravity’s face contorts; a flash of a snarl passes over it as she turns to face Dalus properly. “That’s not concern; that’s a threat, Dalus.”

“It’s an ultimatum that proceeds out of concern, Gravity.” Dalus says. “Do you really want to test them? You know they do not communicate like this unless they intend to follow through. They are giving us a chance to handle this ourselves; if we do not take it, then we are essentially telling them that they can proceed.”

“Fine.” Gravity growls. “I will go check on Kaleidoscope. There will be nothing to handle; my sister would not lose her head over a few ambitious mortals reaching a little higher than they should. Worse comes to worst, a flood or a famine or a plague will put them back in line. Usually kills enough of them to teach the survivors a lesson about defying their creator.”

“Thank you. I will let Miqo know that we are attending to it.”

“You do that.” Gravity says, starting to march off again. “And let them know we don’t appreciate the tone they’re taking. Just because they can eat hypernaturals doesn’t give them power to make unilateral decisions outside the Gathering’s framework.”

Dalus doesn’t reply to that as Gravity heads off, and he eventually turns and heads back the way they originally came. As the two move in opposite directions, the hallway starts to become blurry, like watercolors muddling in the rain. I have a general sense that what we just witnessed was important, but I can’t quite parse how — I don’t recognize any of the names that were bandied about, and I don’t see how any of this ties back to Aurescura’s Cycle.

Would you like to see Aurescura, then? To see our creator?

I turn to see that the crow angel is… well, I wouldn’t say she’s looking at us, because the top half of her head is shrouded in birds that constantly shuffle around and hop between her shoulders and head. We cannot see her eyes, only that her head is turned in our direction, and her mouth is slightly curled in something that approaches amusement. “Well, I… I suppose I do want to see that, but I don’t see how that will explain what we just saw. Or how it’s important to the Cycle.”

“You will return us when you are done, yes?” Kayenta demands.

I can return you now, if you like.

I almost say yes to that. I don’t know what’s happening here, or where the others have gone — I’m assuming and hoping they’re safe and sound in the Cathedral. But the possibility that crow angel might be able to show me things about our history that we’ve forgotten, or that we never knew in the first place — that possibility draws me like a magnet. I might not have cared a couple years ago, but after the experience I had with Grimes, being exposed to my thousands of past iterations — I want to know. I want to know how the Cycle came about, and even if it’s just a rehashing of known history, but from a different perspective, I still want to know why most of us ended up carrying this awful burden.

“No. Don’t take us back yet.” I say before Kayenta can answer. “Show us Aurescura.”

Around us, the muddled colors start to firm up and solidify again, reforming into what looks like a living room. Gravity is here sitting in one of the sofa chairs, and instead of her flowing silks, she’s dressed in black business fare, from the slacks to the shoes to the waistcoat to the tie. In sharp contrast to her monochrome is a woman sitting on the couch in ripped jeans and a yellow hoodie, both stained with paint in a profusion of colors. The painted woman’s short, wild hair is constantly rotating through a spectrum of colors, usually in response to what is being said or discussed.

“Why didn’t you reach out to any of us, Kaleido?” Gravity demands. But unlike the last memory, her tone here is softer. Less defensive, more disappointed. “The rest of us have extensive experience with creating and managing new worlds and races. If you had let us know you were having trouble, we could’ve given you advice. We could’ve come and helped.”

“I wasn’t going to ask for help, Gravity!” Kaleido retorts. “I wanted— I needed to do this on my own. All the rest of you have created your own races and your own worlds, and you all didn’t get help from other hypernaturals.”

“Some of us did get help.” Gravity corrects her gently. “And the ones that didn’t get help were those of us that did it first. We couldn’t get help because nobody had ever created life before us. None of us knew what we were doing, and we made a lot of mistakes because there was no one there to guide us. We had to learn the right and wrong way to do things through trial and error, but once we learned it, we could give other people guidance. So they wouldn’t repeat the mistakes we made.”

“Look, I dunno, it just— it got away from me.” Kaleido sighs, running a hand through her hair. “It was all going fine, they were going through all the phases that societies usually go through, but then they started getting this weird obsession with coming face to face with me, and they started building dimension bridges to try and reach me—”

“Dimension bridges?” Gravity says, her brow furrowing. “They hadn’t even sent people to space yet, how were they building dimension bridges into the heart of a black hole?”

Kaleido looks away, rubbing the back of her neck as her hair flushes through a series of embarrassed yellows and queasy greens.

“Oh, no.” Gravity says softly. “Kaleido, you didn’t… you didn’t give them a boost, did you?”

“Not like a boost boost, it wasn’t like I just dropped a bunch of the universe’s secrets on them.” she mumbles. “But I, like… I may’ve, like, when I created them, I used some traces of my own matter to weave the strands. I got a little carried away.”

“Oh, Ink have mercy… Kaleido, did you create Warforged?”

“No! No no no!” Kaleido says hastily, almost in panic. “They’re definitely very mortal! It was very small traces, Gravity; they’re all still mortal. They live and die normal lifespans. I just… when I was producing their souls, I put a little bit, a tiny tiny bit of myself, into the mix. Just to give their souls a bit more kick, a little more potency. I just wanted to give them, like, a leg up, you know? Help speed things up a little. It was very diluted, and it would just further dilute over the following generations.”

Gravity bows her head, resting her forehead against her knuckles as she squeezes her eyes shut. “Kaleido, you are a Primordial. One of the first beings coalesce out of the roiling aether at the start of the universe. A tiny piece of yourself carries incredible potency, even when diluted across thousands of souls, and then further diluted across millions and billions of souls produced by consequent generations. Millions and billions of individuals which may now carry traces of your ambition, your hubris, your flaws, however well-meaning. They are cut from your cloth. It is no surprise they tried to join you in your elysium.”

“I didn’t know.” It sounds helpless, frustrated. “I panicked when they showed up at the gate to my realm. I looked away for a few decades, let the angels handle the prayers for a bit, and then when I looked back again they were suddenly there. I thought if they were going to get up to something, it wouldn’t happen that fast.”

“So you forced them back to their world.” Gravity says, taking her head off her knuckles.

“I told them to go back, but they wouldn’t leave.” Kaleido mumbles. “So I told the angels to send them packing. Dismantled the bridge once we’d forced them back to Aurescura. And then I sealed the entire world, just to be safe. Some of the angels didn’t like that; they went down to Aurescura and ended up trapped with the mortals when I sealed the world. I didn’t think much of it, but then the mortals started trying to crack the seal, and were actually making progress on it, and I realized the exiled angels were giving them guidance on how to chip away at it.”

“So you created a world ravager and decided to just wipe the entire slate clean.”

Kaleido’s hair cycles through a guilty, shameful red-orange. “Yeah.” she says quietly. “I didn’t know what else to do. It was getting out of control, and I… figured I should clean it up before the mess spilled out and others would have to clean it up.”

Gravity lets out a heavy sigh as all of that sinks in. She doesn’t say anything right away; she laces her fingers together, her grey eyes somewhere distant before coming back to the present. “Well, at least you took the initiative and started on the cleanup part. The ravager isn’t going to get loose once it’s done, is it?”

“No. I made sure to reseal the entire world after I put it down there to clean up.”

“Who else knows about this world?”

“Nobody, aside from you. It was a personal project. I wanted to keep it secret until I was ready to show you all.”

Gravity taps her thumbs against each other. “Dalus is aware of the world, but not of the specific nature of the problem. I can tell him it has been handled and you have been disciplined. I will need you to take that system and move it deep into the void between galactic clusters, so that if the seal ever breaks, the ravager is far away from where it can do damage to anything. This will also keep other hypernaturals from stumbling across it and asking questions.” Her grey gaze fixes on Kaleido. “I will keep this quiet, Kaleido, because Primordials are supposed to be examples to younger generations of hypernaturals. Our authority, our ability to enforce the Rules, would take a hit if they found out about this. And if they do find out, you will have to stand to the full consequence of breaking the Rules. I will not carve out an exception for you; that would destroy the weight of the laws that are supposed to govern the gods. You will be prosecuted just as fully as Ink and other Forbannet have been. Do you understand?”

Kaleido nods quickly. “I understand.”

“Good. And if you choose to create another world or a race, you will come to me or one of the other Primordials and let us know, so we can supervise the project and help temper it if needed.” Gravity adds. “I’m glad that you were honest with me about what happened here, and admitted that you panicked and made mistakes, but at the same time, Kaleido… you could’ve come to any of the other Primordials and asked for help. You are our sister; we would’ve been happy to give you tips and pointers, and help out here and there if you needed. I know it might have felt embarrassing — a thirteen-billion-year-old Primordial having to ask someone else for help and advice — but it would’ve been better than creating and then destroying an entire race because you started to lose control of them.”

Kaleido winces. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… this wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. It isn’t the way I planned on things going.”

“I know. You are learning the lesson that Ink learned long ago. The lesson that all of us have learned, again and again.” Gravity says, starting to stand. “Our good intentions do not absolve us of the harm we have done. Lessens it, perhaps, but the harm exists regardless of whether we intended it or not, and it is our responsibility to learn from it, and repair it where we can.” Turning, Gravity moves away from the couches and coffee table. “You should go move that world and its system — Aurescura, you called it? — go move it out into the intergalactic void as soon as possible. As long as it’s in the galaxy, there’s a higher risk that another hypernatural will stumble across it and ask questions. I will return to the Gathering and tell Dalus the matter has been handled.”

“Alright. I’ll start working on that right now.” Kaleido says, standing as the colors in the room start to blur and drip, mixing into each other. As the setting and the people start to lose definition, fading to indistinct splotches, I look around, seeking the crow angel and speaking when I find her.

“That is Aurescura?” Even if it was not stated as such, the implications of the conversation are so obvious that the answer is more or less guaranteed.

Was she what you expected?

I feel like I’m having a hard time breathing. It’s difficult to get my mind around all the emotions I’m feeling right now. Indignation is one of them, hearing two deities talking about sweeping the destruction of an entire world under the rug and hoping other gods wouldn’t notice. But it’s blunted by the confusion of realizing my creator looks like a rainbow-splattered college student, and I almost feel pity for her — her expressions throughout, and the rotating hues of her hair, made it clear that she was truly, obviously out of her depth. She did panic when my ancestors showed up at the gate of heaven, and that she obviously regretted reacting in the way she did. It didn’t excuse the fact that she tried to wipe us all out, but…

“She thought… the beast exterminated us.” I say slowly, still absorbing the conversation I’d just heard. “Did she not realize we survived? Did she not know the cycle she started?”

One of the crows around the angel’s shoulder cocks its head at me, a glossy red eye fixing upon me.

What do you think? Did she truly not realize? Or did she know, deep down, and simply refuse to acknowledge that we survived her attempted omnicide?

Kayenta’s arm tightens around me. “Your gods are selfish.” she says, aimed at the crow angel, but also partly for my benefit.

She may have created us, but she is not our goddess. She forswore that privilege when she sought to erase us from existence, sealed our world, and cast our solar system out into the void, hoping no one would find it. We Aurescurans have no gods; we do not need them.

“Is not the Witchling your goddess now?” Kayenta points out.

Hardly. The Witchling is a gestalt of every soul and living thing on Aurescura. She is the quintessence of our people, our world, distilled down into a single individual that wields the willpower of our collective identity and history in our service. She is not a deity; she is a force of nature. But she was not always so.

“What was she, then?” I ask, unable to help myself. I know I shouldn’t; I know I should be asking to return to the Cathedral, but I can’t. Not after what I’ve seen; not after the answers I’ve gotten. I need more; I need closure. I need the truth of the story of my people.

If you would know the Witchling, then see for yourself what she was.

The blurred colors and shapes start to spin around us, blending together as they move faster and faster. They start to become thin, almost attenuated, gaps appearing between the narrowing threads. And through those gaps, there is smoke and fire; a yellow and orange glow against a brick-red backdrop. As the cocoon of washed-out color slowly unravels around us, we find ourselves on a high ridge overlooking a devastated vista — towns set afire, skyscrapers collapsing in a distant city, fields burning and mountains melting. Overhead are the fading remains of a colossal enchantment, vaster than a city — aquamarine tatters of shredded magic drifting down through from the sky, dissolving and fizzling out as they go.

And standing on the ridge, overlooking it all, is a small witch in a black cloak, watching her world burn before her eyes.

There is a hollow clunk as the staff she was holding drops to the ground beside her, bouncing off a stone and rolling into the withered grass. Off in the distance, there is a golden flash, and one of the pillars of blue light that was supporting the broken enchantment overhead is snuffed out. A pyroclastic shockwave rips away from the site of the explosion, slowing down as it rolls across hills and fields, and off in the distance, something that could very well be the size of an entire mountain range moves through the smoke and airborne debris, wings roiling the crackling ash as it moves in the direction of the next pillar of light.

Kayenta’s fingers dig into my cloak, but it doesn’t stop me from moving forward along the ridge to get a better look at the witch standing on it. I pause when her legs fold beneath her, and she collapses to her knees. I'm worried that she might have seen me — but then I realize this is a memory, and we cannot affect anything here. So I move forward a little more as the hot, ashy wind tugs at her hood, eventually pulling it off. Underneath is a trim young woman, her short black hair dancing in the wind; she is unembellished, with only a faint sprinkling of smalltown freckles under her eyes, and a track of blood starting to escape her nose. When she takes a breath in, it is a wheeze, followed by a harsh cough that speckles her pale lips with blood. Her eyes are wide, as if in shock; as if she had just spent all her strength only to be met with failure.

After a long moment of staring, I look to the crow angel, but I can’t bring myself to voice the question pressing on me. Partially because I can’t muster the strength to break the somber, sacred silence of this moment, when all our world perished yet again at the end of the Cycle — but also because I already know the answer. Yes, this was the Witchling before she became the Witchling.

The little witch before me is Maugrimm of Aurescura, vulnerable and mortal and helpless before the end of all things.

A shadow falls over her, and I look back to see that someone is standing on the ridge before her. And it’s jarring, because I know they do not belong here — it’s a Halfie, a species that wasn’t native to Aurescura, and would not have existed on our world during the era of the Cycle. This one is a red panda, dressed in a hoodie and jeans, of all things — painfully casual attire for the apocalypse. Yet it’s clear from the somber look on his face that he respects the gravity of this moment, attire notwithstanding.

Maugrimm, feeling his shadow fall over her, looks up. She rasps another breath in, and speaks on the exhale. “Dreamcatcher.”

The Dreamcatcher stares at her for a long moment more, then turns his brilliant viridian gaze to the burning vista that the ridge overlooks. The smoldering cities, the decimated towns, the slow, sparkling rain of a broken enchantment drifting down over the land. “I warned you that your people could not delay this forever, little witch.” he says softly.

Maugrimm swallows hard, as if her voice was escaping her. “We did… everything, Dreamcatcher. We gave everything we could to renew the Cycle, as we had done countless times before. But the burden is too much. The Church cannot bleach souls fast enough. My people are going mad under the weight of past lives we cannot erase; some of them no longer care about breaking the seal and reclaiming our freedom from Aurescura’s curse. They only want the Cycle to end, by any means possible.” Her head tilts down, staring past his legs to the devastation laid before them. “They could not stop us from renewing the Cycle, but they left us too weak to complete it. Myself and the other sages did everything we could, just as we did at the end of every Cycle past, but it was not enough. And of the things we could have done differently, none of them would’ve changed the outcome.” After a moment, she tilts her head up again to look at him, and this time, her amethyst eyes are brimming with tears. “We did everything right, and still we are rewarded with annihilation, Dreamcatcher. My people only wanted to live. Do we ask too much?”

The Dreamcatcher looks back to her, and there is pity in his eyes when he sees that her grief is starting to set in. “It is possible to do everything right, and still lose, little witch. That is not failure; that is life, and life is not fair.”

“It is beyond cruel.” She coughs again, blood flecking her lips as she wheezes for breath. “And all this because our goddess despised us, her very children, for trying to return to her side.” She looks up at him again, the ashy dust sticking to the tears streaking her face. “We are orphans, Dreamcatcher. Will you not help us?”

He grimaces as there is another flash of golden light in the distance, and another one of the pillars of blue light is snuffed out. “I warned you, little witch. I came to you in the twilight days of your world, and told you this could not continue forever. There was a way out then, but you declined it. Your people could not abandon this world, you said; that it was as much your home as it was your grave.”

Maugrimm’s tears cut clear lines through the soot and blood on her face as she stares up at him, her grieving eyes begging the all the things her dignity will not let her say out loud. “We only wanted to live, Dreamcatcher. Tell me it is not too late.”

The Dreamcatcher is quiet for a long moment. “You would buy hope for your people?”

“If you will let me.”

His lips draw together, pity in the bent of his brow. “You will not be able to keep any for yourself.”

I can see her hesitate at that. She squeezes her eyes shut, as if she was trying to stem the tears. “…will I be the only one that has to shoulder the cost?”

“Yes, little witch.” the Dreamcatcher says softly. “Your people will not have to bear the cost if you pay the price in full.”

“And it will save everyone?”

“Every soul upon Aurescura. The dead and living both; from the Old Ones, to the mortals, to the Exiles. It may even save some of the wildlife and foliage.”

“And what will I have to sacrifice?”

“Everything.”

She opens her eyes again. “It is easy to sacrifice everything when you have nothing.”

“You still have your self, little witch.” he says gently. “That is what you will have to sacrifice.”

It takes a minute before the words really click, and I realize what he’s saying. The price isn’t just a life; it’s her identity, her individuality, her very self. It’s not enough to lose your mortal possessions, your mortal relationships, or even your life. When the Dreamcatcher says that it will cost her everything, he means literally everything, right down to her identity and sense of self. The price of this salvation is sacrificing something that not even death could strip away from you.

And I can see Maugrimm is starting to realize it as well.

“It is beyond cruel.” she whispers again, her eyes welling with tears.

“You do not have to accept if it is too much.” the Dreamcatcher says, and even he seems rueful of the offer he is making.

“No. If I don’t do it, who will?” she says, a small, pale hand wiping at her face.

“Someone will.”

“If everyone tells themself ‘someone will’, then no one will.” She braces her hands on her knees in preparation for standing, even though she looks weak and spent. “And I cannot ask someone else to make a sacrifice I am not willing to make myself.”

The Dreamcatcher doesn’t reply. And it seems that he doesn’t want to, or doesn’t have to, because he agrees with her, even if he won’t say it out loud. And perhaps he doesn’t need to. He’s willing to let her words stand on their own strength, and his silence is not disagreement; it is the respect of concurrence.

And so instead, he proffers a hand, sheathed in soft black fur, at once an offer to help her stand, and to seal their pact.

Maugrimm stares at the hand, then up at him. “If I will pay the price, you will save my people.”

“I will grant you the mechanism to save your people. You must pay the cost that the mechanism requires.”

She is quiet, as if trying to parse the technicalities such a statement requires, then seems to give up and decide it does not matter. “A new world for my people. A fresh start, a second chance, free from Aurescura’s contempt.”

“For that, I will require a favor. One you will have to answer when it is called of you, whether you like it or not. If you will agree to this, I will ensure your people have a new world when you are ready to begin again.”

Her eyes return again to the offered hand. Out in the distance, there is another burst of golden light; another pillar of light is snuffed out, and a world continues burning.

“So that others may have what I cannot.” she says, and I can see her grief hardening into resolve, and then determination, and then duty. “I give everything.”

With that, she reaches up, her small, dirty hand clasping his.

There is a jolt, felt but not seen, as if an earthquake had run through reality. You can feel a wave tear across the planet at the speed of light, and circle back around to this one spot, carrying every soul within it — dead and alive, mortal and immortal. And of the mortal souls, those trapped in the cycle of relentless reincarnation, there are those that have lived tens of thousands of lives over the hundreds of cycles to precede this final, futile Cycle. Tens of thousands of lives to a single soul, multiplied by billions of souls — a number so large it may as well be infinite.

The complete totality of Aurescura’s wretched Cycle, condensed into a single half-mask within the Dreamcatcher’s hands, and placed upon the face of Maugrimm to be borne until the end of time.

She reels from it, hands clutching her head as she fights the instinct to pull it off. In a single second, everything that is Maugrimm is instantly crushed beneath the weight of trillions of lives, collapsed into a tiny speck of ultradense identity the way the cores of stars are crushed into neutrons during a supernova. And when she straightens up again, all that is left is the Witchling — the manifest will of every soul on Aurescura.

“So that others may have what you cannot.” the Dreamcatcher repeats. “Now set your people free.”

The Witchling studies her hands, as if she recognized them, but did not see them as her own. After a moment, she speaks; but it is speaking as the crow angel does, where reality itself warps to convey intent and meaning, without uttering a word. The scale upon which the Witchling speaks is far broader, however; not merely local, but seemingly cosmic in its reach and depth.

No more do we send up this useless appellation. Turning her tawny gaze to the sky, she lifts a reaching hand on high. No more do we die for the sin of our creation.

And high above, the sky shatters under the force of the Witchling’s will. From horizon to horizon, the unseen barrier that contained this world and trapped it in an endless cycle fractures. The vast magical gears and interlocking patterns are riven through and through, grinding to a halt and beginning to collapse into luminous dust, a golden cage finally broken and cast aside—

Krå.

The moment freezes here at this instant, and I feel my heart jump, startled by the sharpness of the ripple traveling through reality. Kayenta’s likewise alarmed by it; I’m yanked around as she turns to face it. There, standing opposite the crow angel, is another monochrome individual in formal black attire — this one a man, his head wreathed in an undulating mass of black cats.

Kattunge. The crow angel laces her hands behind her back; the motion alone conveys a sense of impetuous, faux innocence. You are late to the history lesson.

You profane the memories of the Witchling by sharing them for an idle spectacle. The cat angel — Kattunge, apparently — lifts a hand and waves it, and in that motion the vista around us blurs in broad strokes, as if it was being smeared away. His sentiments feel like they should have anger behind them, but they are void of emotion. These truths are not for mortals to have. They are given to the Order that we may understand the gravity of the Duty, and understand the depth of Aurescura’s atrocities against her children.

The boy is one of Aurescura’s children, is he not? Krå cocks her head to one side, much like a bird, as the flock of crows follows the motion. He is a child of Aurescura, just as we are. He has a right to know. By blood and birth, this is his heritage.

And now it is his burden. Kattunge waves his hand again, and this sweep wipes away much of the blurred vista around us, revealing instead the main chapel of the Cathedral. I don’t know when we left the Hall of the Cycle, but I can see Mom and Lysanne and the rest standing in the aisle between the pews with us, though they seem to have no awareness of the two angels arguing with each other. This knowledge was not meant to be borne by mortals. Its bitterness too often prevents them from coming to their final rest. To know this truth, to bear witness to its atrocity, is our duty, and we are not to outsource that burden to others.

This one ought to know, given his foreordination. Krå’s head slowly returns from its cocked position. He has a right to it.

That was not for you to decide. Kattunge makes a final flicking motion, the last remnants of the memory being wiped away and leaving us truly, fully in the Cathedral, and not the desolation of Aurescura’s final cycle. Make an end of your mischief. I would counsel with you further.

And I would that you had more to offer me than counsel. The swarm of crows turn their beady red eyes to Kayenta and myself. It was in fragments alone, but you now know the truth of the Cycle, witchling. Cherish it — few are the mortals which have the privilege of this sorrow.

And with that, both of them are simply… gone.

No portals, no flashes, no gradual fades, but simply gone. There one moment, and simply not there the next. Around us, I hear the sound starting to trickle back in, as if the world around us had been muted while the angels were present. Kayenta’s silver ears twist and swivel as she looks around, her august eyes darting about like she was trying to confirm that the angels were well and truly gone.

“I do not sense them here anymore.” she murmurs. “I think they have departed.”

“Hey you two, are you going to come sit down?” Lysanne calls from further down the aisle. The others are looking at us; they’ve shuffled into a pew and sat down as a group. “The choir’s about to begin.”

I glance around and realize that we’re a couple of the last standing people in the chapel, and the choir up on the rostrum is preparing for their rendition of the Witchling’s Hymn. And even in a chapel as big as this one, it just feels all so very… small, when compared to standing on that ridge and watching the decimation of your ancestral homeworld. Even the majesty of a cathedral like this could not approach the plaintive anguish of Maugrimm before she made the truly ultimate sacrifice.

Still, I cannot simply stand here, so I turn and make my way over to the pew where the others are, Kayenta following close by. I sit down, and she sits next to me, slipping an arm around me again. After a moment, I lean into her, letting out a long breath as the choir begins their sonorous hymn. I’m still processing everything I saw, and I don’t think I’ll get much else out of this visit to the Cathedral.

But it helps that I was not alone, and I can at least share this burden with someone else.

The Aurescuran Hymnal

Hymn #4: The Witchling’s Hymn

In ages past, we reached on high

To touch the foot of god

We breached the cloudy roof above

To stand where angels trod.

For their pride, our fathers paid

The price with fire rife

Our god struck back; her angels sent

To force us down with sword and knife.

She drove us out from heaven’s gate

And sealed the skies above

We only wished to come back home

And show our mother love.

But mortals cannot share the sky

With those that gave them life

For mortals made of light and dark

Are predisposed to strife.

Fools that they were, our fathers tried

Once more to gain the skies

And we, the children of our god

Were now what she despised.

She repented that she made our kind

And condemned us all to die

She cracked the seal and sent on down

A beast to blot the sky.

But in her image we were made

And so we did defy

The sentence from our mother god

Condemning us to die.

We fought and strove and sealed the beast

With blood and stone and sacrifice

In every field and city and town

A carpet of corpses was the price.

Twixt earth and sky now hangs the moon

Which traps the holy beast

And up above, the heavens sealed

Reject all of our deceased.

Trapped in this world, we live and die

In circles oft-repeating

Our forgetting souls, always born again

In a cycle self-defeating.

One day we shall rise up once more

And crack the heaven’s seal

To stand before our mother god

Our sentence to appeal.

Yet speed the day, for up above

Cracks in the moon appear

The day of judgement we delayed

Is drawing ever near.

Event Log: Jazel Jaskolka

Falcon’s Crossing: The Jaskolka House

10/11/12764 12:39am SGT

I cannot sleep.

The others had noticed how quiet Kayenta and I were after the choir performance. A few questions were asked, and we dodged them as well as we could. Near as we could tell, none of the others had noticed our absence during the time that the angel took us on a detour. As far as the others were concerned, we had been there the whole time, even though neither of us could remember touring the rest of the Hall, or following the priestess to the main chapel.

Kayenta and I remained quiet on the way home, and Mom partially filled the silent drive by conversing with Lysanne and Dandy. Once we were back, though, Mom caught me while I was grabbing a snack from the fridge and asked me if everything was okay. I told her that I was fine, and that seeing the story of the Cycle had affected me more than I thought it would. Which was technically true; I’d never been shown the Cycle the way the angel had shown it to me.

After that, Mom asked me if Kayenta was okay — she’d wandered out to the backyard and had been out there for a while, playing with the snow. Turning it into water, freezing it again, carving little medallions out of it. I told her Kayenta was the same, and she just needed a little bit of time to process what she’d seen. I had never told her about the history of Aurescura, so she didn’t know everything that our people had suffered through before the Cycle was finally broken.

We were likewise quiet through dinner, letting the others do the talking, and Milor and Ozzy had plenty of talking to do. After we finished washing dishes and cleaning up, we all set up for a movie and desert, and after that, Kayenta decided to call it a night. I followed soon after, and I think the others stayed up a little later before calling it as well.

But even though we went to bed, I couldn’t sleep. Not fully. I lay there, awake but trying not to move, so I wouldn’t disturb Kayenta beside me. And even though I did doze off at some point, my dreams were full of my past lives, and I woke again close to midnight. Still trying to reduce the amount of tossing and turning I was doing; Kayenta was a light sleeper, probably a product of being half-wild for the last four centuries. If she wasn’t hibernating, then it was usually pretty easy to rouse her.

So now here I am, staring at the ceiling in the dark, the light of one of the moons straying in the window. No matter what I do, my mind cannot stop going back to what I was shown today. The goddess I thought I knew; the savior I had never realized was once a smalltown witch, just like me. The Dreamcatcher that I had not known was a part of our history.

“Jazel?”

I startle a little at the voice, and turn my head to see Kayenta’s august eyes glowing dimly from where she’s staring at me.

“Hey.” I say, shifting a little beneath the blankets now that I know she’s awake.

“You cannot sleep either?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

She shuffles towards me under the covers, sliding an arm under my neck. I shift and reposition, turning to face her as I rest my head half on her shoulder, half on the pillow. When she kisses my forehead, I close my eyes, feeling safe and loved.

“Your people have so much sorrow.” she says quietly, using her free hand to brush my hair out of my face and stroke my cheek. “I did not know.”

“It’s not your fault.” I mumble, lost in the feeling of her fingers gently roaming my face. “I never told you.”

“Even if you had told me, I would not have understood. Not truly.” she says. “I think that is why the empty angel decided to show us instead. I understand it better than I ever would’ve had it been spoken to me.”

“I always knew.” I say quietly, opening my eyes. “But I had never seen it before. Not like that. Not there, watching as it happened.”

“So much pain and grief.” Kayenta says, her fingers gently tracing over the scars on my cheek. “I am sorry that your people suffered so, and for so long. I understand now why your soul has lived so many lives.”

“I just never knew.” I mumble. “I almost felt sorry for her. For Aurescura, that is. Or Kaleidoscope, since that’s what other gods call her. She didn’t look anything like what I thought she would. Seemed like she was in over her head, bit off more than she could chew, and was too proud to admit she messed up. Waited too long to ask for help. I almost felt sorry for her.”

“But you didn’t?”

I shake my head. “Not after I saw Maugrimm.” I’m quiet for a moment. “Can you imagine that? Being asked to sacrifice everything, even your sense of self, your identity? At least when you die, your soul retains your memories, your personality… she wasn’t even allowed to keep that.”

Kayenta doesn’t respond; I can tell she’s thinking about it. Then she shakes her head vehemently. “No. I do not like the thought of that.” She presses her face against mine, nuzzling as if for comfort. “I like who I am. I would not want to give it up.”

“But if it would save your people…” I say softly, reaching up to comb a lock of black hair away from her face.

She sighs at that, pulling back a little. “For my people… perhaps. Even so, I am not sure I would. Die for them, yes. Because I would still be me when I return to the stormy isles of my ancestors. But give up who I am to save my people? A people who would not recognize what I had become? I am not sure.”

“You are honest, at least.” I say quietly. “I don’t know what I would do.”

“You would not die for your people. Or give up who you are. I would not allow it.” she says, nuzzling me again. “You are mine. Not a sacrifice to be given to the gods.”

I smile at that. “The time of sacrifices is past. I don’t think I’ll be dying anytime soon. So yes, I am yours.”

She kisses the tip of my nose again, purring. “This makes me happy.” As she continues brushing my hair from my eyes, her thumb strokes over my eyebrow, and her august eyes remain fixed on me. “It is strange. After seeing such sorrow, I find my heart is full when I look at you. And I am not sad, but happy.”

It takes me a bit to parse through what she means. “Perhaps it’s because you saw how others suffered, and what they lost. And this makes us thankful for what we have — grateful that we did not have to suffer as they did.”

She mulls this for a moment. “Yes. I think that is what it is. You are wise, little witchling.” She turns a little, resting her forehead against mine and closing her eyes. “I love you so.”

“I love you too, Kaya.” I close my eyes as well, my hand wandering until it finds hers, and I pull it close to press it against my chest so she can feel my heartbeat. I feel so whole in this moment, so complete and full — I am close to someone who knows me, who has seen my heritage and knows me better for it. Someone who wants me and values me and holds me close like I am precious to them. Here, just the two of us, snuggled close under the moonlight on a cold winter night, half asleep and murmuring our love to each other…

I never want this moment to end.