Two Scenes in Daring Heights: A Reunion & A Visit
Jul 17, 2022 18:12:26 GMT
Velania Kalugina, stephena, and 2 more like this
Post by Zola Rhomdaen on Jul 17, 2022 18:12:26 GMT
A collaboration with Marto Copperkettle and Velania Kalugina.
A Reunion
Night.
Marto is making his way to the Four Fair Winds through the still-deserted streets of Castleside when he hears clip-clopping sounds on the cobblestone. A familiar voice calmly calls out his name.
“Marto Copperkettle.”
He turns around to see the silhouette of a crystal-crowned paladin riding atop a majestic stag, shrouded completely in shadow, standing behind him against the distant, dim lights of the streetlamps.
“Zola Oussviir.” The barest of smiles touches his lips. “It’s good to see you. Hello Cor’Vandor,” the knight adds, addressing the silver hart.
The two stay looking at one another, a warm summer breeze tickling the hair from Marto’s scarred brow, whilst it lightly tugs at the moon-white cape draped from Zola’s shoulders.
“Care for a night cap?” he asks her, gesturing in the direction he had been walking in.
Cor’Vandor takes a couple steps forward. Now he can see her face a little more clearly, her bright amber eyes most of all, fixed on him. In the darkness he can barely make out the genuine, warm smile on her face.
“I’d love that,” she replies. The hart walks a bit further until he is beside Marto, and Zola offers a hand to him.
She is dressed in a full suit of armour with Castor and Pollux on either side of her hips, sheathed in plain leather sheaths — oddly simple items to hold a pair of legendary holy swords.
By contrast Marto does not wear his armour. Instead he carries it in a case of fey design meant for warriors of the Summerlands to easily transport their equipment when they wish to not don it. Zola eyes the case curiously, not having seen it on him before. Guiding Light and his other adamantine axe have their places affixed on the side of the case, the former shimmering slightly as if a thin veil rests over the sunlight that is ready to shine forth should Marto call for it. The only piece of his equipment he does wear is his shield across his back. Otherwise he is wearing simple cotton breeches, a sleeveless tunic, and a slightly thicker button up shirt around his waist.
He rises up on his tip toes as he reaches for Zola’s hand before jumping up to help her pull him onto the hart’s back, behind her. She notices he’s a bit stiff, but it’s not clear if it’s because he’s tired and just needs a chance to relax, or if there is another reason.
“How are you?” he asks carefully. Marto has placed one hand on her waste but he holds on only lightly, just enough to steady himself.
“I’m better these days. We just came back from a trip to Galavir, on Dwirhian’s invitation. It was a much-needed break for everyone. And what about yourself? I heard from Fog that you’ve been fixing roofs in New Hillborrow. How long have you been back? Did you get my note?”
She pauses when she realises she’s barraged him with a bunch of questions at once, and glances back to shoot him an apologetic grin. “Sorry, that was a lot.”
There’s a low chuckle. “S’alright,” he reassures her. Marto thinks for a moment, enjoying being in Zola’s presence again as he arranges his thoughts.
“I’ve been back for a while, actually, was here in fact when the githyanki attacked. I saw first hand the destruction done.” He looks to the right and sees the emptiness left behind by the roofs that were burned to ash that end at the fiore popolare. “I can only imagine what it must’ve been like for those at the Fort.
“As for a note…” He thinks for a moment, something tickling at the back of his mind. “Oh, right!” He takes the hand from Zola’s waist, rummaging around in another bag on his side. There’s a clinking of glass and then suddenly there is a jar of something in front of Zola. “Sorry it’s not wrapped.”
She takes the jar of honey in her hand. “What’s this?”
“It is a creamy honey. It’s from my Pa’s apiary.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to! But thank you, Marto.” She grins. “Yeah, I had to cancel my birthday party because… well, Silvia…” Her grin falters.
“I heard. How… How is Sorrel doing?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her at all. I spoke to Velania, and Kavel too… They’re coping but it’s been rough. Oh, Velania’s been wanting to speak to you, actually.”
Cor’Vandor stops. They have arrived in front of the Four Fair Winds Tavern; there appears to be no one around the once-bustling establishment except for themselves. Zola hops off and helps Marto dismount.
“Thanks,” he says, accepting her help. He stretches a little bit and takes a small step towards the door, away from Zola. “I see. I can only imagine what Velania is also going through.” Marto shakes his head. “I feel like what happened to us, to you and me, pales in comparison. But then we cannot compare our pain to another’s. One does not invalidate the other, right?”
The smile is quick, there and gone as he turns towards the door to head inside.
“Yes. We’ve all been through Hell and back — literally. The least we can do is support each other.”
As the two of them sit down in a booth and have their drinks delivered to them, Zola says, all quiet and sombre, almost like a confession: “I, um, I went back there last week.”
The delicate glass full of Summer Strawberry Wine he was about to drink from freezes halfway up to his lips.
“Wh-what do you mean you went back?” Marto asks.
Zola’s left hand plays idly with the jar of creamy honey, spinning it slowly around on the tavern table. She swallows.
“I went back to Phlegethos. J-just for a bit.”
“Why?”
Marto tried to set his glass down gently but it still made a slight thunk on the table.
“At first it was a job for something unrelated. I was at the fort, helping out here and there, and then… Well, long story short, this incubus who’s living in the fort asked us to kill his adoptive father. He happened to live in Phlegethos, though in a different part from where we were.
“After the job was done… I asked the incubus to take me to the banks of the Azellah.”
Marto is still like a statue. Only his chest rising and falling in quick, short breaths make him seem alive. He waits, not sure where Zola is going with this. Not sure if he wants to know but unable to move or to speak. Unable to do anything but feel the dark cage around his heart constrict and the echoes of someone’s laughter call to him from his memories.
Zola has been unable to look Marto in the eye this whole time, her gaze wandering from her drink to the jar of honey to the other guests in the tavern.
“There was nothing left. Except for the table, the chairs, his wine goblet… but… that’s it,” she whispers. “Nothing.”
He is held, suspended, looking at her, still waiting for an answer.
She takes a deep breath and finally looks at him. “I had to go. I can’t explain it, but I needed to see it one last time. Or else I’d be left forever wondering.”
Marto blinks a couple times before looking away. “I hope you found an answer then,” he says in a low voice. He pauses, lifts his glass of wine up, and drains half of it in one gulp.
As the drink hits him a little harder than he thought it would, the halfling asks, “How are your Moms? How are things in the Witching Court?”
“My mothers are fine, thank you for asking. The Court’s fine. Well, there’s this necromancer running around doing… things… But she hasn’t shown up again, so…” She shrugs.
She pauses and lets a quiet hang between for a bit, taking the time to drink her mug of beer. After a while, she looks at Marto again with sadness in her eyes.
“Iorveth died that same day, Marto. In Hell. Not in the banks of the Azellah, in the battle before that. Avakeel’s father killed him. His body disintegrated and there was nothing we could do…” She lets out a heavy sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There’s just been… so much lately.”
Yet another blow, another loss, another change that happened whilst he was away, avoiding people. His head sinks into his hand as Marto stares into the middle distance, softly shaking his head.
“I’ve barely been back a month and I already wonder if I should have come back at all. How do we keep losing people, Zola? What is it we aren’t doing?”
“I wish I could tell you, Marto. As an elf, I’ve lived long enough to have known many deaths, but… never this many in such a short span of time.”
Zola tips the mug of beer into her mouth, and when it is empty, she puts it down gently on the table.
“I’m glad you’re back, though,” she says with a small smile.
The words have to sink in for a minute before he can register them. Marto has heard them from others before now but for some reason, when she says them, it hits him differently. Slowly, his gaze focuses, trialling up the waves of Zola’s soft white hair, past her lips and up to her warm amber eyes.
“I still feel him sometimes. When it rains. When I think of-… when I think of the River and what happened.” His right hand drifts over and holds the side of his ribs, the phantom pains already starting. “I still taste ashes in my mouth from our kisses and I sometimes don’t know how to be me anymore.”
Zola’s smile fades into a worried expression the second Adhyël is brought up. “How do you mean?” she asks quietly.
“I-I… don’t know.” Marto looks away, instantly regretting having said anything. “Forget it,” he says, pushing the glass away. “I shouldn’t’ve mentioned-… I’m sorry Zola.”
“Marto, it’s alright. If there’s anyone in the world you can talk about this to, it’s…” She sighs again. And swallows again. “I haven’t stopped thinking of Ophanim. At all. Not a day goes by without me thinking about him. Sometimes, the only thing keeping me afloat is knowing that this was what he wanted. That… in his final moments, I made him happy. I… I understand that probably wasn’t the case with Adhyël, though.”
Marto rubs his side as he sits up again. Then he takes a quick sip of his wine, trying to wash the ashy taste from his mouth and nearly downs the rest of his glass.
“I want to move on. I want to live my life and not have to feel him whenever I talk about what happened. I thought killing him would be the end. But it’s not. I’m not free. You’re not free. We aren’t done and I had hoped-”
His fist clenched and he had to bury his head in his hand as hot, angry tears sprang to his eyes.
Marto feels the weight of the cushioned seat he is sitting on sink a little as something settles down next to him. A hand touches his shoulder and he flinches, his whole body tensing up. But when Marto sees it is Zola he relaxes, but only slightly.
“I don’t want to be done,” he hears Zola’s voice speak next to him. “I don’t want to be free. I don’t want to be separated from him, ever. Huh. It feels strange to finally admit that to myself. But I guess this is my life now. There’s no point in denying it, or trying to run from it, or raging against it. It’s beyond my control. Someone once said that grief is a wound. It will heal, eventually, but the scar it leaves will stay with you forever.”
The pained expression on his face tells a thousand tales, but none of them birth any words. He should have known Zola wouldn’t want to be rid of anything, yet hearing it confirmed from her own lips only served to shrink the dark cage around his heart.
“No.” The word comes out almost too softly for Zola to hear. “No,” Marto repeats again, a little louder. “I refuse to let this hold me back. I will not look back and long for what is gone — for what I killed — wishing for something different.”
Pity, regret, passion, unease, so many emotions are painted across his face as he looks at her. He moves away on the cushioned bench and her hand slips from his shoulder.
“You may still love your devil Zola but I can’t. I won’t. I was ready to give my soul to Adhyël to save you, to save everyone. That was before I knew, before I understood. Adhyël never loved me. Can you truly say that Ophanim really knew you? Understood who you are? Or was he too wrapped up in his vision of beauty and death and you just happened to fit the mould?”
His voice has stayed low, but there is hardly anyone else in the wood panelled lounge so there isn’t any worry of someone eavesdropping.
The expression on Zola’s face becomes one of hurt. She lets his words sink into her, slowly, painfully, before asking, “Do you, Marto?”
Marto takes a breath, holds it and slowly exhales.
“I’m not like you Zola. I’m not… strong, like you. You have managed to make this into something. I… I’m still trying to find where the pieces of me fit together. If they even can.”
Zola moves back into her seat across from him and listens to the quiet of the tavern. Even though Marto is sitting just across the table from her, he feels like a million miles away, unable to be reached.
“I wish I had some wise words to impart on you, to make you feel alright, but I don’t,” she says, sounding resigned. “However, I will say one thing: you’re not weak, Marto. Not at all. I won’t have you speaking about yourself like that.”
“Then maybe we both don’t know each other as well as we thought.”
The silence between them rings with his words, the distance echoing and vast.
Marto reaches into his pocket, places two gold on the table, grabs his armour case and stands. He takes a step, pauses, then half turns back.
“It was good to see you. I’m glad you’re doing well. Goodnight, Zola.”
With that, the halfling knight begins to walk away.
“Wait, Marto.”
When he looks back at Zola, her demeanour has shifted. She’s sitting up a little straighter; the sorrow in her expression is gone, replaced by a strange sort of calm determination.
“Tomorrow I’ll be going to the Sunset Spines, to find the Unending Ones again. We need to make sure that they’re not doing anything to restart the Unending Word. I think you should come, but don’t feel pressured to.”
He frowns. “Do you really think they would do that? Start it again?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m going there for — to make sure.”
The halfling looks at her a moment longer before saying, “I’ll think about it.”
Zola nods, picks up the jar of honey, and stands up. “Good night, Marto. Thanks again for the gift.”
She walks out the doors of the now-silent tavern, continuing on to where she meant to go before this stop. But Marto doesn’t watch her go, already heading towards his rooms where, Yondalla willing, he will be able to get a good night’s sleep.
A Visit
Midnight.
A sacred hush hangs within the Temple of Selûne tonight. The nave is silent, but for the ministrations of a single servant of the Moonmaiden. Velania has been in an absent-minded state. Upon finishing refilling the main censer, she turns to the centre of the temple space and is startled into a stop. She hadn’t heard her enter through the double doors (which, she notices, are now slightly ajar) but there Zola is — sitting on one of the inner pews of the circular chamber and staring blankly at the altar, unmoving and silent.
Velania frowns at Zola with a puzzled expression, taking in the armour on her body, The Twins laid across her lap, and this mysterious appearance at the temple. She takes a step forward, then stops, hesitantly. “…Sister?”
Zola turns towards her with a start. “Velania,” she says, hastily scooping the swords into her arms and standing up. “Sorry. I came to see you but I kinda…lost myself there for a minute. Is this a bad time?”
“No, of course not. Nothing that can’t wait.” Velania walks briskly over to Zola to hug her. She leans back and surveys her friend. “You… Is something wrong? What’s going on, Zola?”
“I’m alright. I’ve just been…doing some thinking, is all.” The drow smiles weakly at Velania.
She sits back down on the pew, placing The Twins next to her. “I kept debating with myself whether or not I should ask you, since you’re on holiday and all, but in the end, I thought I should at least give you the choice. I’m going to the Spines tomorrow to check on the Unending Ones. Make sure they’re not doing anything untoward. Will you come with me, Velania? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“Yes,” Velania replies without thinking twice. Her voice echoes above in the high dome of the temple. Then the sound of her answer seems to surprise both her and Zola. A thousand responses pass through Velania’s eyes: bewilderment, fury, fear, weariness, love, enmity, solidarity, grief… Her expression falls to one of sadness. She sits down beside Zola on the pew. “I will go with you anywhere you ask, Zola. But please, talk me through what this is all about: why now?”
Zola sighs, her shoulders slumping a little. Her gaze turns to the repeating effigies of the phases of the moon on the wall, though her eyes seem distant.
“I went back to the Azellah last week.”
Velania’s jaw drops. “You did what…?” She starts a reply with some force behind it, but stops herself. It is not without a considerable effort of self-restraint.
“I saw what was left of our battle, Velania: nothing. I found Ophanim’s wine goblet but that’s about it. It’s… It’s almost like it never happened at all.”
“Oh, Zola,” Velania says very softly, and reaches one arm over the shoulders of her friend. She sits in thought for some time, before gathering her thoughts. “I’m sorry. I should have seen how worried you were about Themis after we talked about her. This has been eating away at you for a while, hasn’t it?” Velania’s face seems paler. “I guess this means we have to be prepared for anything, doesn’t it.”
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure what to expect when we get there.” Zola turns fully to face Velania, a sudden look of determination set into her features. “But I need to make sure that our wave was the last ever.”
“Yes. We do.” Velania’s sigh turns into a rueful chuckle. “All you can do is keep on doing the work,” she mutters to herself.
Zola’s hand finds Velania’s and squeezes it. “I’m so grateful you’ll be coming with me,” she murmurs.
Velania squeezes Zola’s hand back, then turns to frown at her. “Why do I already know this isn't just a sisterly excursion? We came across considerable trouble before. And you don’t need me to tell you Themis is probably expecting us. Have you asked… the others?”
“I’ve put out word in the taverns, and… I’ve asked Marto. I saw him just before I got here. He’s looking well — better than before he left — but he’s still…” She pauses to find the words. “…still struggling with some things. We talked for a bit. Didn’t exactly go well. I didn’t say the right things. But he said he’ll consider it.”
“Hm,” Velania replies. She interlaces her fingers and presses them to her mouth unconsciously. “Well, I’m glad to hear he’s doing better… It might do him good… to be involved too, d’you think?”
“Maybe. He’s… He’s angry at himself for not being able to move on yet. Maybe this will help put things to rest for him. Maybe it won’t. I don’t know. Guess there’s only one way to find out.” Zola shoots her friend a wry smile.
“Well.” Velania sighs heavily. “I suppose it’s good you saw him, then. Perhaps this is the kind of catharsis that would do him good. Taking space is obviously healthy, but sometimes people find it hard to come back from that. Maybe his curiosity is how you do it. I have to admit, I’m still very much in that place myself. But I cannot deny I’m curious too. And there’s a lingering anxiety about the Unending Word, isn’t there?”
Zola looks down at her lap. “The peace we’ve achieved feels so… fragile, doesn’t it? An’Ahkrim is probably getting drunk on nectar as we speak”—a small, amused smile twitches to life on her lips as she says that, tickled by the mental image—“but how does that guarantee that it won’t happen again? Kháos said that the pause between the waves used to be a few hundred years. I might very well live to see the next ones if we don't bury this now.”
Velania snorts at the joke. Then her face darkens. “I find it hard to believe in eternal guarantees of anything right now. I… I don’t think I need to explain why. But I think it will be a long, long time before I trust this is behind us.”
Zola nods in response, and Velania glances at her. “I have to admit,” she continues, “I’m still trying to poke over these coals too. However I know of it, I feel something within my heart… I think I’m still not done with it either. So I can’t blame you for being in the same place as me on this. I’m trying to find out what became of An’Ahkrim. We joke about him being a prisoner to Je’Sathriel’s good company, but he remained in a vulnerable place, as far as I’m concerned. A traitor to his people, an enemy to ours… yet just as instrumental in saving us as anyone.”
Velania sighs and looks up to the altar, deep in thought.
“It’s utterly selfish of me to say this,” Zola says, “but I’m glad you’re here with me.”
Velania smiles tenderly at Zola. “We seem to find it hard to avoid trouble, don’t we?”
A giggle bubbles out from Zola’s lips. A comfortingly familiar sound from her. “Like an old boyfriend we can’t seem to let go of.”
“We’re terrible, aren’t we? We both know we should be leaving all this behind. What possible good is going to come of chasing down a failed prophet who lives in the desert, surviving off scorpions and cactus fruits?” The aasimar smirks to herself. “I should have been out on a walk tonight, so you couldn’t find me to ask me. Yet here we are.”
“She… hasn’t exactly been inaccurate, though,” Zola points out, her smile faltering into seriousness again. “But her prophecy was in some ways self-fulfilled. Wasn’t it?”
Velania tilts her head in slow agreement. “She succeeded in the sense that she foresaw a number of things, but she failed in that her doctrine has been sundered. I’ve never really trusted the divination magics, prophecies, scrying for that reason. People often see what they want to, believe what they need to, and commit terrible acts because they choose to.” Her voice becomes stronger and more determined as she intones words that are not her own. “A harder path to find, to be guided by the heart, but ne’er a truer path was trod.”
She half-grins at Zola. “You have no idea how much I want to just forget all of this and walk away from our troubles. The thing is, once you poke the beast, you have no choice but to tackle it.” She frowns grimly. “We do need to ensure Themis considers it over… one way or another. This isn’t going to leave us alone otherwise.”
Zola stares at the altar again, and nods in silence. She rises to her feet. “It’s late. I shouldn’t keep you from your bed any longer.”
Velania nods, her face tired but determined. “I’ll find you in the morning.” She steps in to embrace Zola. “It may not sound like it, but I’m glad you came.”
Zola embraces her back. “Thank you, sister,” she says in Elvish.
She gives the altar a curtsy before turning to walk up the aisle to exit the temple. The paladin shuts the doors quietly behind her and walks into the night.
(Continued in My City of Ruins.)
A Reunion
Night.
Marto is making his way to the Four Fair Winds through the still-deserted streets of Castleside when he hears clip-clopping sounds on the cobblestone. A familiar voice calmly calls out his name.
“Marto Copperkettle.”
He turns around to see the silhouette of a crystal-crowned paladin riding atop a majestic stag, shrouded completely in shadow, standing behind him against the distant, dim lights of the streetlamps.
“Zola Oussviir.” The barest of smiles touches his lips. “It’s good to see you. Hello Cor’Vandor,” the knight adds, addressing the silver hart.
The two stay looking at one another, a warm summer breeze tickling the hair from Marto’s scarred brow, whilst it lightly tugs at the moon-white cape draped from Zola’s shoulders.
“Care for a night cap?” he asks her, gesturing in the direction he had been walking in.
Cor’Vandor takes a couple steps forward. Now he can see her face a little more clearly, her bright amber eyes most of all, fixed on him. In the darkness he can barely make out the genuine, warm smile on her face.
“I’d love that,” she replies. The hart walks a bit further until he is beside Marto, and Zola offers a hand to him.
She is dressed in a full suit of armour with Castor and Pollux on either side of her hips, sheathed in plain leather sheaths — oddly simple items to hold a pair of legendary holy swords.
By contrast Marto does not wear his armour. Instead he carries it in a case of fey design meant for warriors of the Summerlands to easily transport their equipment when they wish to not don it. Zola eyes the case curiously, not having seen it on him before. Guiding Light and his other adamantine axe have their places affixed on the side of the case, the former shimmering slightly as if a thin veil rests over the sunlight that is ready to shine forth should Marto call for it. The only piece of his equipment he does wear is his shield across his back. Otherwise he is wearing simple cotton breeches, a sleeveless tunic, and a slightly thicker button up shirt around his waist.
He rises up on his tip toes as he reaches for Zola’s hand before jumping up to help her pull him onto the hart’s back, behind her. She notices he’s a bit stiff, but it’s not clear if it’s because he’s tired and just needs a chance to relax, or if there is another reason.
“How are you?” he asks carefully. Marto has placed one hand on her waste but he holds on only lightly, just enough to steady himself.
“I’m better these days. We just came back from a trip to Galavir, on Dwirhian’s invitation. It was a much-needed break for everyone. And what about yourself? I heard from Fog that you’ve been fixing roofs in New Hillborrow. How long have you been back? Did you get my note?”
She pauses when she realises she’s barraged him with a bunch of questions at once, and glances back to shoot him an apologetic grin. “Sorry, that was a lot.”
There’s a low chuckle. “S’alright,” he reassures her. Marto thinks for a moment, enjoying being in Zola’s presence again as he arranges his thoughts.
“I’ve been back for a while, actually, was here in fact when the githyanki attacked. I saw first hand the destruction done.” He looks to the right and sees the emptiness left behind by the roofs that were burned to ash that end at the fiore popolare. “I can only imagine what it must’ve been like for those at the Fort.
“As for a note…” He thinks for a moment, something tickling at the back of his mind. “Oh, right!” He takes the hand from Zola’s waist, rummaging around in another bag on his side. There’s a clinking of glass and then suddenly there is a jar of something in front of Zola. “Sorry it’s not wrapped.”
She takes the jar of honey in her hand. “What’s this?”
“It is a creamy honey. It’s from my Pa’s apiary.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to! But thank you, Marto.” She grins. “Yeah, I had to cancel my birthday party because… well, Silvia…” Her grin falters.
“I heard. How… How is Sorrel doing?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her at all. I spoke to Velania, and Kavel too… They’re coping but it’s been rough. Oh, Velania’s been wanting to speak to you, actually.”
Cor’Vandor stops. They have arrived in front of the Four Fair Winds Tavern; there appears to be no one around the once-bustling establishment except for themselves. Zola hops off and helps Marto dismount.
“Thanks,” he says, accepting her help. He stretches a little bit and takes a small step towards the door, away from Zola. “I see. I can only imagine what Velania is also going through.” Marto shakes his head. “I feel like what happened to us, to you and me, pales in comparison. But then we cannot compare our pain to another’s. One does not invalidate the other, right?”
The smile is quick, there and gone as he turns towards the door to head inside.
“Yes. We’ve all been through Hell and back — literally. The least we can do is support each other.”
As the two of them sit down in a booth and have their drinks delivered to them, Zola says, all quiet and sombre, almost like a confession: “I, um, I went back there last week.”
The delicate glass full of Summer Strawberry Wine he was about to drink from freezes halfway up to his lips.
“Wh-what do you mean you went back?” Marto asks.
Zola’s left hand plays idly with the jar of creamy honey, spinning it slowly around on the tavern table. She swallows.
“I went back to Phlegethos. J-just for a bit.”
“Why?”
Marto tried to set his glass down gently but it still made a slight thunk on the table.
“At first it was a job for something unrelated. I was at the fort, helping out here and there, and then… Well, long story short, this incubus who’s living in the fort asked us to kill his adoptive father. He happened to live in Phlegethos, though in a different part from where we were.
“After the job was done… I asked the incubus to take me to the banks of the Azellah.”
Marto is still like a statue. Only his chest rising and falling in quick, short breaths make him seem alive. He waits, not sure where Zola is going with this. Not sure if he wants to know but unable to move or to speak. Unable to do anything but feel the dark cage around his heart constrict and the echoes of someone’s laughter call to him from his memories.
Zola has been unable to look Marto in the eye this whole time, her gaze wandering from her drink to the jar of honey to the other guests in the tavern.
“There was nothing left. Except for the table, the chairs, his wine goblet… but… that’s it,” she whispers. “Nothing.”
He is held, suspended, looking at her, still waiting for an answer.
She takes a deep breath and finally looks at him. “I had to go. I can’t explain it, but I needed to see it one last time. Or else I’d be left forever wondering.”
Marto blinks a couple times before looking away. “I hope you found an answer then,” he says in a low voice. He pauses, lifts his glass of wine up, and drains half of it in one gulp.
As the drink hits him a little harder than he thought it would, the halfling asks, “How are your Moms? How are things in the Witching Court?”
“My mothers are fine, thank you for asking. The Court’s fine. Well, there’s this necromancer running around doing… things… But she hasn’t shown up again, so…” She shrugs.
She pauses and lets a quiet hang between for a bit, taking the time to drink her mug of beer. After a while, she looks at Marto again with sadness in her eyes.
“Iorveth died that same day, Marto. In Hell. Not in the banks of the Azellah, in the battle before that. Avakeel’s father killed him. His body disintegrated and there was nothing we could do…” She lets out a heavy sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There’s just been… so much lately.”
Yet another blow, another loss, another change that happened whilst he was away, avoiding people. His head sinks into his hand as Marto stares into the middle distance, softly shaking his head.
“I’ve barely been back a month and I already wonder if I should have come back at all. How do we keep losing people, Zola? What is it we aren’t doing?”
“I wish I could tell you, Marto. As an elf, I’ve lived long enough to have known many deaths, but… never this many in such a short span of time.”
Zola tips the mug of beer into her mouth, and when it is empty, she puts it down gently on the table.
“I’m glad you’re back, though,” she says with a small smile.
The words have to sink in for a minute before he can register them. Marto has heard them from others before now but for some reason, when she says them, it hits him differently. Slowly, his gaze focuses, trialling up the waves of Zola’s soft white hair, past her lips and up to her warm amber eyes.
“I still feel him sometimes. When it rains. When I think of-… when I think of the River and what happened.” His right hand drifts over and holds the side of his ribs, the phantom pains already starting. “I still taste ashes in my mouth from our kisses and I sometimes don’t know how to be me anymore.”
Zola’s smile fades into a worried expression the second Adhyël is brought up. “How do you mean?” she asks quietly.
“I-I… don’t know.” Marto looks away, instantly regretting having said anything. “Forget it,” he says, pushing the glass away. “I shouldn’t’ve mentioned-… I’m sorry Zola.”
“Marto, it’s alright. If there’s anyone in the world you can talk about this to, it’s…” She sighs again. And swallows again. “I haven’t stopped thinking of Ophanim. At all. Not a day goes by without me thinking about him. Sometimes, the only thing keeping me afloat is knowing that this was what he wanted. That… in his final moments, I made him happy. I… I understand that probably wasn’t the case with Adhyël, though.”
Marto rubs his side as he sits up again. Then he takes a quick sip of his wine, trying to wash the ashy taste from his mouth and nearly downs the rest of his glass.
“I want to move on. I want to live my life and not have to feel him whenever I talk about what happened. I thought killing him would be the end. But it’s not. I’m not free. You’re not free. We aren’t done and I had hoped-”
His fist clenched and he had to bury his head in his hand as hot, angry tears sprang to his eyes.
Marto feels the weight of the cushioned seat he is sitting on sink a little as something settles down next to him. A hand touches his shoulder and he flinches, his whole body tensing up. But when Marto sees it is Zola he relaxes, but only slightly.
“I don’t want to be done,” he hears Zola’s voice speak next to him. “I don’t want to be free. I don’t want to be separated from him, ever. Huh. It feels strange to finally admit that to myself. But I guess this is my life now. There’s no point in denying it, or trying to run from it, or raging against it. It’s beyond my control. Someone once said that grief is a wound. It will heal, eventually, but the scar it leaves will stay with you forever.”
The pained expression on his face tells a thousand tales, but none of them birth any words. He should have known Zola wouldn’t want to be rid of anything, yet hearing it confirmed from her own lips only served to shrink the dark cage around his heart.
“No.” The word comes out almost too softly for Zola to hear. “No,” Marto repeats again, a little louder. “I refuse to let this hold me back. I will not look back and long for what is gone — for what I killed — wishing for something different.”
Pity, regret, passion, unease, so many emotions are painted across his face as he looks at her. He moves away on the cushioned bench and her hand slips from his shoulder.
“You may still love your devil Zola but I can’t. I won’t. I was ready to give my soul to Adhyël to save you, to save everyone. That was before I knew, before I understood. Adhyël never loved me. Can you truly say that Ophanim really knew you? Understood who you are? Or was he too wrapped up in his vision of beauty and death and you just happened to fit the mould?”
His voice has stayed low, but there is hardly anyone else in the wood panelled lounge so there isn’t any worry of someone eavesdropping.
The expression on Zola’s face becomes one of hurt. She lets his words sink into her, slowly, painfully, before asking, “Do you, Marto?”
Marto takes a breath, holds it and slowly exhales.
“I’m not like you Zola. I’m not… strong, like you. You have managed to make this into something. I… I’m still trying to find where the pieces of me fit together. If they even can.”
Zola moves back into her seat across from him and listens to the quiet of the tavern. Even though Marto is sitting just across the table from her, he feels like a million miles away, unable to be reached.
“I wish I had some wise words to impart on you, to make you feel alright, but I don’t,” she says, sounding resigned. “However, I will say one thing: you’re not weak, Marto. Not at all. I won’t have you speaking about yourself like that.”
“Then maybe we both don’t know each other as well as we thought.”
The silence between them rings with his words, the distance echoing and vast.
Marto reaches into his pocket, places two gold on the table, grabs his armour case and stands. He takes a step, pauses, then half turns back.
“It was good to see you. I’m glad you’re doing well. Goodnight, Zola.”
With that, the halfling knight begins to walk away.
“Wait, Marto.”
When he looks back at Zola, her demeanour has shifted. She’s sitting up a little straighter; the sorrow in her expression is gone, replaced by a strange sort of calm determination.
“Tomorrow I’ll be going to the Sunset Spines, to find the Unending Ones again. We need to make sure that they’re not doing anything to restart the Unending Word. I think you should come, but don’t feel pressured to.”
He frowns. “Do you really think they would do that? Start it again?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m going there for — to make sure.”
The halfling looks at her a moment longer before saying, “I’ll think about it.”
Zola nods, picks up the jar of honey, and stands up. “Good night, Marto. Thanks again for the gift.”
She walks out the doors of the now-silent tavern, continuing on to where she meant to go before this stop. But Marto doesn’t watch her go, already heading towards his rooms where, Yondalla willing, he will be able to get a good night’s sleep.
A Visit
Midnight.
A sacred hush hangs within the Temple of Selûne tonight. The nave is silent, but for the ministrations of a single servant of the Moonmaiden. Velania has been in an absent-minded state. Upon finishing refilling the main censer, she turns to the centre of the temple space and is startled into a stop. She hadn’t heard her enter through the double doors (which, she notices, are now slightly ajar) but there Zola is — sitting on one of the inner pews of the circular chamber and staring blankly at the altar, unmoving and silent.
Velania frowns at Zola with a puzzled expression, taking in the armour on her body, The Twins laid across her lap, and this mysterious appearance at the temple. She takes a step forward, then stops, hesitantly. “…Sister?”
Zola turns towards her with a start. “Velania,” she says, hastily scooping the swords into her arms and standing up. “Sorry. I came to see you but I kinda…lost myself there for a minute. Is this a bad time?”
“No, of course not. Nothing that can’t wait.” Velania walks briskly over to Zola to hug her. She leans back and surveys her friend. “You… Is something wrong? What’s going on, Zola?”
“I’m alright. I’ve just been…doing some thinking, is all.” The drow smiles weakly at Velania.
She sits back down on the pew, placing The Twins next to her. “I kept debating with myself whether or not I should ask you, since you’re on holiday and all, but in the end, I thought I should at least give you the choice. I’m going to the Spines tomorrow to check on the Unending Ones. Make sure they’re not doing anything untoward. Will you come with me, Velania? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“Yes,” Velania replies without thinking twice. Her voice echoes above in the high dome of the temple. Then the sound of her answer seems to surprise both her and Zola. A thousand responses pass through Velania’s eyes: bewilderment, fury, fear, weariness, love, enmity, solidarity, grief… Her expression falls to one of sadness. She sits down beside Zola on the pew. “I will go with you anywhere you ask, Zola. But please, talk me through what this is all about: why now?”
Zola sighs, her shoulders slumping a little. Her gaze turns to the repeating effigies of the phases of the moon on the wall, though her eyes seem distant.
“I went back to the Azellah last week.”
Velania’s jaw drops. “You did what…?” She starts a reply with some force behind it, but stops herself. It is not without a considerable effort of self-restraint.
“I saw what was left of our battle, Velania: nothing. I found Ophanim’s wine goblet but that’s about it. It’s… It’s almost like it never happened at all.”
“Oh, Zola,” Velania says very softly, and reaches one arm over the shoulders of her friend. She sits in thought for some time, before gathering her thoughts. “I’m sorry. I should have seen how worried you were about Themis after we talked about her. This has been eating away at you for a while, hasn’t it?” Velania’s face seems paler. “I guess this means we have to be prepared for anything, doesn’t it.”
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure what to expect when we get there.” Zola turns fully to face Velania, a sudden look of determination set into her features. “But I need to make sure that our wave was the last ever.”
“Yes. We do.” Velania’s sigh turns into a rueful chuckle. “All you can do is keep on doing the work,” she mutters to herself.
Zola’s hand finds Velania’s and squeezes it. “I’m so grateful you’ll be coming with me,” she murmurs.
Velania squeezes Zola’s hand back, then turns to frown at her. “Why do I already know this isn't just a sisterly excursion? We came across considerable trouble before. And you don’t need me to tell you Themis is probably expecting us. Have you asked… the others?”
“I’ve put out word in the taverns, and… I’ve asked Marto. I saw him just before I got here. He’s looking well — better than before he left — but he’s still…” She pauses to find the words. “…still struggling with some things. We talked for a bit. Didn’t exactly go well. I didn’t say the right things. But he said he’ll consider it.”
“Hm,” Velania replies. She interlaces her fingers and presses them to her mouth unconsciously. “Well, I’m glad to hear he’s doing better… It might do him good… to be involved too, d’you think?”
“Maybe. He’s… He’s angry at himself for not being able to move on yet. Maybe this will help put things to rest for him. Maybe it won’t. I don’t know. Guess there’s only one way to find out.” Zola shoots her friend a wry smile.
“Well.” Velania sighs heavily. “I suppose it’s good you saw him, then. Perhaps this is the kind of catharsis that would do him good. Taking space is obviously healthy, but sometimes people find it hard to come back from that. Maybe his curiosity is how you do it. I have to admit, I’m still very much in that place myself. But I cannot deny I’m curious too. And there’s a lingering anxiety about the Unending Word, isn’t there?”
Zola looks down at her lap. “The peace we’ve achieved feels so… fragile, doesn’t it? An’Ahkrim is probably getting drunk on nectar as we speak”—a small, amused smile twitches to life on her lips as she says that, tickled by the mental image—“but how does that guarantee that it won’t happen again? Kháos said that the pause between the waves used to be a few hundred years. I might very well live to see the next ones if we don't bury this now.”
Velania snorts at the joke. Then her face darkens. “I find it hard to believe in eternal guarantees of anything right now. I… I don’t think I need to explain why. But I think it will be a long, long time before I trust this is behind us.”
Zola nods in response, and Velania glances at her. “I have to admit,” she continues, “I’m still trying to poke over these coals too. However I know of it, I feel something within my heart… I think I’m still not done with it either. So I can’t blame you for being in the same place as me on this. I’m trying to find out what became of An’Ahkrim. We joke about him being a prisoner to Je’Sathriel’s good company, but he remained in a vulnerable place, as far as I’m concerned. A traitor to his people, an enemy to ours… yet just as instrumental in saving us as anyone.”
Velania sighs and looks up to the altar, deep in thought.
“It’s utterly selfish of me to say this,” Zola says, “but I’m glad you’re here with me.”
Velania smiles tenderly at Zola. “We seem to find it hard to avoid trouble, don’t we?”
A giggle bubbles out from Zola’s lips. A comfortingly familiar sound from her. “Like an old boyfriend we can’t seem to let go of.”
“We’re terrible, aren’t we? We both know we should be leaving all this behind. What possible good is going to come of chasing down a failed prophet who lives in the desert, surviving off scorpions and cactus fruits?” The aasimar smirks to herself. “I should have been out on a walk tonight, so you couldn’t find me to ask me. Yet here we are.”
“She… hasn’t exactly been inaccurate, though,” Zola points out, her smile faltering into seriousness again. “But her prophecy was in some ways self-fulfilled. Wasn’t it?”
Velania tilts her head in slow agreement. “She succeeded in the sense that she foresaw a number of things, but she failed in that her doctrine has been sundered. I’ve never really trusted the divination magics, prophecies, scrying for that reason. People often see what they want to, believe what they need to, and commit terrible acts because they choose to.” Her voice becomes stronger and more determined as she intones words that are not her own. “A harder path to find, to be guided by the heart, but ne’er a truer path was trod.”
She half-grins at Zola. “You have no idea how much I want to just forget all of this and walk away from our troubles. The thing is, once you poke the beast, you have no choice but to tackle it.” She frowns grimly. “We do need to ensure Themis considers it over… one way or another. This isn’t going to leave us alone otherwise.”
Zola stares at the altar again, and nods in silence. She rises to her feet. “It’s late. I shouldn’t keep you from your bed any longer.”
Velania nods, her face tired but determined. “I’ll find you in the morning.” She steps in to embrace Zola. “It may not sound like it, but I’m glad you came.”
Zola embraces her back. “Thank you, sister,” she says in Elvish.
She gives the altar a curtsy before turning to walk up the aisle to exit the temple. The paladin shuts the doors quietly behind her and walks into the night.
(Continued in My City of Ruins.)