My City of Ruins (20/7) - Zola
Jul 25, 2022 21:56:51 GMT
Velania Kalugina, stephena, and 3 more like this
Post by Zola Rhomdaen on Jul 25, 2022 21:56:51 GMT
(Continued from Two Scenes in Daring Heights.)
I.
17th night of Flamerule
Zola sits down cross-legged on the floor of her room. Before her, Pollux lies gleaming in the dim candlelight. Its radiant starlight glitters on the wine goblet stood behind it — sooty but still a brilliant silver underneath.
She extends a hand, weaving the shimmering light together with the wisps of smoke and shadow issuing from between her fingers as she speaks the words of the spell — spirit shroud. Unbeknownst to herself, her eyes grow dull — her irises covered in a film of grey — as she stares into nothingness, casting her mind thousands of miles away to other planes, other places, some of which might not even have been real.
Behind her, echoes of creatures rise up from the floor, drawing on her own power to grant her protection. Three women, barely silhouettes and outlines of shadow, stand beside her and at her back, laying their hands on her shoulders. Their whispers gather in the back of her mind, repeating their mantra.
Before her, a pair of red, glinting eyes blink into existence. His face is next, as well as his long white hair. He is whole again, unhurt, nothing like the body she left behind in the acrid dust of Phlegethos, but he is muted. Dull. His vibrant self is quieted and sombre. He is not here, she knows that. He can’t be. Not his soul. She isn’t sure he ever had one to begin with. The man before her is an echo, a memory, of a spirit, brought back through her magic and their love.
A single tear spills from her cloudy eyes and runs down her cheek. He raises a translucent hand to her cheek and wipes it away. She feels nothing against her skin, but she imagines what it would be like.
He doesn’t attempt to speak — she knows he wouldn’t be able to — but he leans forward and presses a kiss to her lips. It’s nothing but necrotic shadows and air, nothing like when he was alive. Nothing like that time in Phlegethos, before. Nothing would ever be like that. But it holds a promise:
She gave him what he most wanted from death, and should she call upon spirits to protect her, he would come. That, at least, he could give.
And then the minute is up, and he fades. The only things left are the tears on her cheeks and the slowly-fading whisper of the sisters in the back of her mind.
“Feel no shame, Zola. There is none to be had for love.”
II.
19th day of Flamerule
By the time Zola arrives at Stone Gate with Cor’Vandor in tow, a party of four has already gathered. Velania, Kavel, Pipper, and Marto, carrying a picnic basket in his hands.
“Hey guys, sorry I’m late. I almost forgot that it’s supposed to be today,” she confesses with an apologetic grin. Marto stares exasperatedly into the distance. “Thank you, all of you, for coming. I’m glad you’re here.”
She looks over at Kavel and Pipper — the two of them had been involved with the Heralds of Blade and Ash in different ways, but neither of them were present when she, Marto, and Velania went into the Sunset Spines to see the oracle. (Although Pipper seems happy to simply accompany her friends on a mountain trek.) She begins explaining to them in simple terms who Themis and Unending Ones are, what they believe in, and what role they played in the last wave of the Unending Word.
“You need to know that Themis was the one who gave me Castor”—Zola pats the sheathed longsword on her left hip—“and she gave Pollux”—pats the sword on her right hip—“to Ophanim.”
“Ah, I see. They are like arms dealers, then?” says Kavel.
“Arms dealers usually don’t give a shit who they sell to,” says a familiar voice from behind them. “Not this lot. They ain’t the same.”
All five of them turn around, and Zola is unsurprised to see Je’Sathriel — or The Jackal, as he used to go by — hovering on large, bird-like wings. He has swapped out the plate armour for a sleek black tunic, the greatsword that used to be on his back is gone entirely, and there is a metallic sheen to the feathers of his wings now that glints in the sunlight. He floats forward towards Zola, looking her dead in the eye.
“So what, you’re gonna be a zealot now?” he asks.
She frowns. “What? No, I—”
“There’s no answer she can give you that will satisfy you. I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told Darkfire: he’s gone, and there’s no reason why. So stop lookin’ for one and stop tryin’ to bring him back.”
Her breath seizes in her throat. “I’m not trying to bring him back,” she whispers aloud.
“Oh sure, you’re not goin’ around revivifyin’ or tryin’ to cast raise dead, but you’re not lettin’ him go either. You’re going on a crusade.”
“I’m just going there to make sure the Unending Word is truly ended,” she says slowly. The defensiveness in her voice is painfully apparent, even to herself. “If Themis gives me her word that she’s not gonna try to restart the cycle, then I’ll be satisfied. That’s it.”
“Oh? What, big celestial sign in the sky weren’t ‘nuff for you? Me, comin’ down from the heavens, tellin’ you it’s over ain’t enough for you?”
Zola shakes her head. “No. I’m sorry. It’s not. But…even if it is, aren’t you wondering what they’re doing now?”
“Nope. Ain’t my jurisdiction anymore. If you needed to know that, don’t you think someone up there”—Je’Sathriel nods his head skyward—“woulda told you? Or send me down here to tell you?”
“I’m not that important.”
“Funny,” he deadpans. “I almost laughed at that.”
“I’m not trying to be funny!”
The angel heaves out a sigh. “What is it with you lot?” he wonders aloud, glancing around the group. “Every single person in the Dawnlands is either ‘oh, I’m just a nobody, I’m not significant’ or tryin’ to be a god. And there’s no fuckin’ in-between.”
Zola pinches the bridge of her nose and inhales deeply. As usual, every conversation with this man is an uphill struggle. “We’ve missed you, Jackal,” she says drily.
“No you didn’t.”
“You’ve spoken to Sorrel? Where is she now?”
“No idea. I ain’t her fuckin’ keeper.”
“Is she alright?”
“No. And neither are you.”
“Je’Sathriel, what about High Diviner Rholor? Is he coming back?” Velania asks, filling the silence that followed, which Zola is thankful for.
“Certainly hope so, ‘cause if he ain’t, then he’s been lyin’ to me and I’ve been buildin’ him a new body for nothing. He’s takin’ his time choosin’ the right hair colour, the right facial musculature…”
“What about An’Ahkrim? Do you know where he is?” Zola says.
Je’Sathriel stares at her for a good, long while. “Tell you what,” he says eventually, “if you come back from the mountains without blood on your hands, I’ll tell you.”
The paladin purses her lips.
“Is the oracle protected by Selûne or Shar, or both, or neither?” she asks.
There is another long, pregnant pause before he answers: “Neither.”
She nods, eyes gazing off into the distance. Considering. “It’s good seeing you again, Jackal, but we need to get going. We’ll talk when I return.”
She blinks, and just like that, he is gone. As though he was never there to begin with.
III.
19th day of Flamerule
Marto had the clever idea that The Twins can act as an anchor to the Unending Ones’ encampment for the purposes of the teleport spell. And it worked — a mage at Portal Plaza teleported them to the exact location in the heart of the Sunset Spines.
The five of them stand in the same narrow ravine where they were ambushed by two fiends. Marto begins looking around and pointing out the way to the encampment as he remembers it when a crossbow bolt strikes him in the right shoulder. He cries out in pain and the adventurers whip around towards where the shot came from. But there’s no one in sight. They are surrounded by two walls of steep cliffs with nowhere to take cover.
From high up one cliff, behind an outcropping of rock on the edge, a male voice bellows out: “Go home!”
Faintly, they hear the tell-tale mechanical sounds of a crossbow being reloaded. Zola raises both her palms. “There’s no need for that! We just want to talk!” she shouts.
“‘Just wanna talk’ is exactly what people say when they want a fight. The cycle’s over, isn’t it. There’s nothing for you here. Just fuck off!”
“Do you remember us?”
“Yes! And I can see you’ve got both of them swords now, so go home!”
“Look. We just want to talk to Themis to make sure that it’s really over for you. That’s all.”
“And what if it isn’t?”
The mere, taunting suggestion sparks a flame within her. She grits her teeth.
“You know what,” she growls.
“Zola, please—” Marto says.
A flash of black whips out from behind the rocks and another bolt zips through the air, finding its mark on Zola’s chestplate, right over left breast, and tearing through the splint. She can feel the tip of the bolt buried in her flesh. Had it gone a few more inches further in, it would have pierced her heart.
The crossbowman has ducked back behind his cover, but he speaks again. “You’ve got good armour. That shot should’ve killed you.”
As she rips the bolt out of her chest and throws it into the dust, fire roaring in her veins, images flash behind her eyes. Visions of a black and red Hell and screams of fury; Ophanim, Zah’Ranin, the fire elemental, and Agragathis falling to her shining blades — maimed, stabbed, decapitated, executed; blood dripping from Castor and Pollux, black in the moonlight.
Finally, a question pops into her mind: why shouldn’t they meet the same fate as the devils they enabled?
Her right hand begins moving towards Castor’s hilt…
…when Velania slips her hauberk over her head and drops it onto the ground in front of her. Zola turns to look at her, surprised enough to hold back her blood-frenzy.
“We come in peace,” Velania declares, and takes a step backwards, away from the chain mail.
There is a grunt from behind the rock. “You look like the cleric type. Your type usually comes in peace,” the crossbowman says. “But the shiny, angry one who’s too good for a horse… That type usually rides at the head of a crusade.”
“Listen, I brought some food with me,” says Marto, holding up the basket with one hand and pressing his other hand against the wound in his side. “We could share it with you, if you want.”
A pause. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard that one before,” he says. “Alright, fine. Maybe I’ll take you to her…if you put your weapons down and back away a hundred feet. Promise I’ll give ‘em back to you once we’re done.”
The halfling nods and unslings both his shield and Guiding Light from his back. Kavel begins to unload a variety of melee weapons. Pipper even takes off her prosthetic arm. But Zola doesn’t budge.
Velania looks at her pleadingly, practically begging with her eyes. “Zola, please…”
“Zola, if you’re serious about wanting to talk, you’d do as he says,” Marto hisses.
There are few things she loathes more than being separated from Castor and Pollux for a long — or unknown — period of time. Every fibre of her being rebels against it. And she can’t be sure if he is telling the truth about returning them to her afterwards. If he isn’t, then there will be Hell — and more — to pay.
Nevertheless, Zola unbuckles the belt holding both swords around her waist and lets it drop to the ground. Velania and Marto seem a little less tense as the five of them collectively back a hundred feet or so away from their pile of weapons. Cor’Vandor follows, the watchful gaze he keeps on his rider unmoving.
The crossbowman finally emerges from behind the rocks — a figure garbed in a hooded black cloak that ought to be too hot for the desert, his face concealed behind a mask of steel. He climbs down the cliff face cautiously, then approaches the weapons laid on the earth. One by one, he puts them into what appears to be a bag of holding. The Twins are the last ones he picks up. He partially unsheathes both swords and remarks, “I see you’ve been taking good care of them.”
“Put them back, please,” Zola says, her voice deadly calm.
He slides them back into their leather sheaths and slowly inserts them into the bag of holding. “Alright. Chill. Damn.”
The man turns around to walk in the direction of the encampment and the adventurers follow from a distance. They pass quietly through a sea of empty tents, shredded bedrolls, discarded pots and pans, and snuffed-out campfires. Despite the haunted look of the scene, there are no signs of a battle having occurred here — simply abandoned. Indeed, though Zola remembers having seen more people the last time she was here, there is not a soul to be seen here except for the masked man and themselves.
Themis’s tent, sitting high above the others, looks largely the same as before. A large tent made of hide, a cooking fire decorated with animal bones, a wooden table with a bloody sickle and a bowl of black liquid on it, and an unlit brazier next to it. There is a spearwoman guarding the tent, her questioning gaze bouncing between them and the crossbowman.
“Thought might as well ask her,” he says with a shrug.
She nods, and slips into the tent. Several moments later, she emerges together with Themis leaning against her. The oracle is a purple-skinned tiefling woman with long black hair, milky white eyes, and arcano-religious symbols painted in white on her face — and to Zola’s surprise, she now appears thin, frail, and sickly, like a strong wind could knock her down.
The spearwoman helps Themis to sit down on an animal fur rug laid down next to the tent and takes up a position several steps behind her. Zola begins approaching, but she levels her spear at her. “That’s far enough. You can speak from there.”
The paladin stops, but her gaze does not move from Themis nor does it lessen in intensity. What the Unending Ones believe in is repugnant. They played both sides of the conflict for the sake of perpetuating the cycle and yet dare to make the claim of neutrality, and furthermore, pretend that they are above reproach by anyone from either side. It is this egregiousness that made Zola’s hackles rise when Themis and her last spoke. However, seeing Themis in this state — of both physical and spiritual deficiency — it’s hard not to feel a twinge of pity for her.
Some small, twisted part within herself — who speaks in a low, languid voice and a blasé tone — laments about how this poor little thing would not make for an exciting fight.
“What happened to you?” she murmurs.
“The same as you,” replies Themis. “What happens to one when the very purpose of one’s life is no more?”
Zola glances at the spearwoman and the masked man. “Is this everyone who is left?”
“Of the Unending Ones? No. The mercenaries have abandoned us and there are not many of us, but we exist elsewhere. In Kantas, in Faerûn, scattered between the seas… However, here, they are all that remains, yes.”
“It’s over, isn’t it? So why haven’t you gone home and sought a new purpose?”
“Why haven’t you?”
“I have done that.”
“No, you have not. You’re here now, aren’t you? Crooked girl?”
Zola inhales sharply. “I’m not crooked anymore.”
“Perhaps not. But your heart is broken. It is as if your rib cage has been torn open. It is plain to see.” Themis’s blank gaze moves towards Marto. “So is yours. But you’re still ashamed of what happened.” Then to Velania. “And that one as well, the sister. Though…in her case, it has nothing to do with this.”
“Themis, I’m sorry for what has happened to you. Truly, I am,” Velania says sincerely. “We’re just here to make sure that you consider the cycle complete. Some of us are…scared of what you would do if you don’t.”
“Scared? Of me? Sister Velania, you will one day have the power to call upon Selûne herself to beseech her aid in whatever you desire. And you are frightened of what I would do? A harsher woman would call you a hypocrite.” She looks back at Zola again. “So, what do you really want from me? What have you truly come here to ask?”
The drow woman freezes where she stands. She should’ve known Themis could sense the underlying purpose of her coming here. She tries to steady her breathing.
“Did he take Pollux from you, or did you give it to him?”
Did he come to you already seeking self-annihilation, or did you put the idea in his head?
“Does it matter?” Themis asks.
“Yes.” They’ve had this exchange before.
“Why? Will having this answer paint him in a better light in your eyes, or worse?”
Zola hesitates. “I…I used to think I could help him change. Or I hoped to. But now, I think I don’t want to change anything about him.” A wistful smile tugs at the edge of her lips but doesn’t quite manage to form. “Good or bad, I accept it.”
“I see. You’re seeking to learn more about him to make up for the time you could’ve spent together. I could point you to his works, the people he killed, the contracts he designed…”
“I would be grateful if you could do that. But for now, an answer to my question is enough for me.”
There is a long, dead pause, a silence filled only by the howling desert wind, before Themis answers. “When do the scales tip from coercion to consent? Where is the line drawn to separate a willing action from an unwilling one? Did I take the sword out of the box and give it to him, of my own accord? Yes. Would he have done unspeakable things to my body had I refused to? Yes. Did he need to say it? No. Did I give the sword to him feeling that I was fulfilling my duty to the Unending Word? Yes.” She strains herself to sit up straighter — not without considerable effort — and stare right through Zola. “You fell in love with a devil, Zola — why are you looking for answers in black and white when everything is grey?”
Zola is silent. She has no good answer to that.
“And to honour the sacred balance, as I have been raised to do,” the oracle continues, “I gave the other Twin to the only person I knew could kill him. You and Je’Sathriel are cut from the same hideous cloth. Zealots dealing out judgement from the perch of a presumed moral high ground.”
Zola bristles. Despite the frailty of her body, the fire is still burning behind that lofty white gaze, kindled by spite alone. But she will not grace that vitriol with a response. Glancing over at the masked man, she says curtly, “We’re done here.”
“We’re not done,” Themis cut in.
She turns back to her with an angry look. “What now? What more do you want?”
“What more do I want? You are the one who sought me. The indirect accusation of hypocrisy I levelled at Velania earlier, I should level directly at you. I am done speaking with you.”
Themis looks to the rest of the group and for each of them, poses deeply personal questions and observations. Zola only half-listens from that point onwards, keeping entirely quiet. She has been forced to reflect upon the fact that The Jackal was right. She was looking for a reason and someone to blame for Ophanim’s death. But there was none — no one to blame except him and herself.
And she has no idea what to do with that.
Velania’s voice sounds almost faint to her. “What is next for you, Themis?”
“I will walk out into the desert,” replies the oracle. “I will walk until whatever higher power that has granted me the sight gives me a new purpose, or until my legs give out under me.” Then she turns her gaze to Zola for the final time. “To answer your question. No, I will not attempt to restart the Unending Word. It is sacrilege, and goes against everything I have been taught. However, there is one last thing I must leave with you.”
She weakly pushes herself up to her feet and limps over towards the unlit brazier. She strikes at a flint for what feels like an eternity, neither Unending One present offering to help — it seems like something Themis must do herself — but eventually, a spark catches alight and a fire crackles to life in the brazier. She puts her right hand above it, low enough for the flames to lick her palm and long enough for blisters to form on her skin.
Finally, she gasps in a sharp breath of air and her head tilts back, and she speaks, her voice sounding as if a legion is speaking at the same time, echoing with ancient power.
Themis’s voice fades, and she collapses to the ground. The spearwoman comes to collect her in her arms and carry her back to be gently laid down on the rug. The adventurers are silent, unsure of what to say.
“Thank you, Themis,” Velania says finally. Themis gives her the weakest of nods.
The masked man returns their weapons to them, and sooner rather than later they are on their way out. Though The Twins are back where they belong on her person, Zola feels little relief. The journey home is mostly spent in quiet, save for hushed conversations between Kavel and Pipper.
But Zola looks over her shoulder at Velania and senses the unspoken words on her lips. She slows Cor’Vandor down so they can walk together.
“So, Zola, are you more certain now about the Unending Word being truly over?” the cleric asks.
“Hmm. Yes, a little bit, I think. What about yourself?”
“No.”
“Really? Not even a little?”
“As I’ve said before, I don’t trust divinations and prophecies. One only sees what they wish to see.”
Zola nods absently. After a few beats, she confesses, “You know, I did come here with blood on my mind.”
“I know.”
Looking on the road ahead, she lets out a long, quiet sigh. “I give the gift of a beautiful death, Velania. Whilst I wouldn’t say that Themis didn’t deserve that… Wasting away in the desert, without peace, without purpose… I think that’s a fitting end for her.”
Velania’s face falls. “Zola, no… You shouldn’t succumb to this…anger and hatred…”
“It isn’t anger or hate. It’s just…how it is.”
Velania may not believe her, but she speaks truly. Nothing more than an emotionless observation.
IV.
23rd day of Flamerule
When they arrive back in Daring Heights, Je’Sathriel is sitting on the eastern wall in a manner that reminds Zola very much of Kháos, waiting for them to pass through the gate. He is wearing the same black tunic but his wings are nowhere to be seen this time.
“How did it go?” he calls out to them.
“Bloodless,” answers Zola. “Just as you requested.”
“Hm. You know I didn’t request that for the oracle’s sake, right? I don’t give two fucks about her. She’s a dick anyway. You know I requested that for you?”
“I know, Jackal.”
“Do you really know?”
Zola didn’t grow up with a father figure in her life, and an odd warm sensation washes over her as she realises, belatedly, that this must be what it feels like to have someone show a kind of fatherly concern towards her. How strange that it would come from — of all people — a vaguely angel-shaped arsehole, whom she is certain would be profoundly irritated if she dared to voice this observation out loud.
Still, she isn’t complaining. It feels nice to be cared for.
“Yes,” she assures him with a little smile.
“Good. Right, so — what’d she say?”
“She said a lot of stuff. There was a new prophecy, for one—”
“What.”
“Oh, um, err…” Zola stammers. “It goes something like this.”
She recites Themis’s final prophecy to Je’Sathriel — who stares at her wide-eyed during the entire time — though not without a lot of pauses, umms and ahhs. “I didn’t miss anything, right guys? I’d have a much easier time remembering it if it was in song form…”
“Right, I’ll just make sure any prophecy comin’ from our side comes in the iambic fuckin’ pentameter, won’t I?” he says.
She beams at him. “That’d be really helpful. Thanks!”
The angel groans. “Please hold.”
They blink, and just like that, he disappears again.
“That…doesn’t sound good,” says Velania.
“Uh, I don’t know. For me, it’s always hard to tell with The Jackal,” says Zola. “Well, he told us to hold, so I suppose we’ll just have to wait here…?”
“Is he gonna be long?” says Marto, “I need to go talk to a friend—”
Je’Sathriel suddenly reappears in front of them. “Right!” he exclaims. “So I went and checked the divine paperwork, and—”
“‘Divine paperwork’?” Zola repeats incredulously.
“Look, I’m explaining this to you in a way that your mortal minds can understand, alright? And I’m not tryin’ to be condescending or anythin’, that’s just how it is. Now, anyway, what I’ve been told is that this prophecy ain’t meant for you. It’s earmarked for…uh…” He waves his large arms around. “…adventurers. The wider adventuring community.”
To her side, Velania and Marto visibly relax, perhaps relieved that this will not be yet another problem on their plate. Zola, however, is still stuck on one particular point. “So Heaven’s a bureaucracy?” she asks.
“No, it’s not. As I said, I’m explaining this to you in the simplest way possible. I can draw you a picture if you’ve got any crayons on you.”
She can’t help but giggle at the mental image of The Jackal happily scribbling with colourful crayons. “No, but I can definitely get you some next time!”
He rolls his eyes at her. “Anyway.” His gaze lands on Velania in particular. “So. You wanna see An’Ahkrim?”
“Yes,” the aasimar answers quickly.
“Because of his meddlin’ in the cycle, An’Ahkrim is currently in an in-between state. He can’t go back to Hell, but he can’t go to Mount Celestia either. So he’s stuck here in the Material Plane for the time bein’. Meet me in four days. I can take you to him.”
V.
23rd night of Flamerule
Zola pushes the window open and climbs out of it, then hoists herself up to the red-tiled roof of the Three-Headed Dragon. She finds a comfortable spot on the incline and sits down, hugging her knees close to her chest and gazing up at the sky. The city before her is darker than a settlement of this size should be — many of its residents have yet to return — and it makes the waning moon and the glimmering stars seem a little brighter.
It’s a beautiful night. The kind of night that shouldn’t be enjoyed alone.
Taking a deep breath, her hands begin to weave together the air and shadows in front of her and her lips murmur arcane words in an esoteric mix of Elvish and Infernal.
The three sisters form to kneel behind her and touch her shoulders, and to her right, in the periphery of her vision, she sees his dark steel sabatons planted on the tiles.
She half-turns her face in his direction. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not in any danger right now. I just… To be honest, I thought I’d be summoning you in the Sunset Spines. But…I’m glad it didn’t come to that.”
In the absence of noise from the city, she can hear cicadas buzzing in the distance.
“Do you remember when you visited me in that dream? You asked me why I joined the Church of Eilistraee, but I didn’t tell you the whole truth. The truth is, my birth parents were secret faithfuls of Eilistraee. They were mushroom farmers living in a village outside Aeschira until they were murdered by priestesses of Lolth. Them and their entire church. I…I had hoped to honour their memory by becoming a sword dancer. So… I think…if I’d killed Themis and her followers, I’d just end up hating myself.”
She knows he can’t answer her. She knows it’s not really him that’s there. Her breaths grow shuddering and the tears prick at her eyes once more.
“Anyway, I just thought we could spend a little time together tonight.” She gives him a weak, uncertain smile. “Good things do come in pairs.”
She keeps spirit shroud up for as long as she can, re-casting it minute after minute. However, as she goes through the motions of spellcasting, it becomes increasingly apparent to her that each time she casts the spell, the grasp she has on that echo of him slips ever so slightly. He begins to appear a little bit more muted, his features a little bit more blurred — like the memory of a dream slowly fading from her mind whenever she tries to remember it.
After the third casting, her voice breaks. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should— I should let you rest.”
The spectres dissolve into formless wisps as she buries her face in her hands, her body wracked by painful sobs.
Epilogue
25th day of Flamerule
The heavy summer rain caught her by surprise. She needs to run to the shops to get some necessities, but Cor’Vandor is refusing to step out of the overhanging roof of the Dragon. The white-furred hart wrinkles his nose at all the mud and puddles gathering in potholes that still riddle the main road.
“Oh, come on, Cor’Vandor! I’ll magic you clean afterwards!” Zola whines, and kicks his sides lightly. He turns his head sharply away in a defiant response.
“You’re ridiculous. Remind me to pray for a less fussy steed next time.” She hops off his back and dismisses the spell that binds him to this plane of existence, causing the stag to vanish in a bright flash of light.
Zola holds her purse on top of her head, sighs, and sprints into the rain. She uses misty step to get across the largest potholes, but inevitably, the mud stains the hem of her white dress and she shudders every time her bare feet plunge into murky brown puddles, stepping on dubious things and getting on gods-know-what under her toenails. On top of that, it’s still incredibly hot and humid.
Pain in the arse…
Daring Heights still feels so empty. It’s not quite lifeless but there’s hardly any life to speak of. Even there in the central neighbourhood of The Heights, most repairs are only half-done and many buildings remain derelict on account of their owners not having returned yet. And some of them never will. She passes rows and rows of broken windows, exposed brick walls, and collapsed roofs.
There’s something poignant about the rain falling on a city of ruins on a grey summer afternoon.
Wandering from block to block, eyes scanning for an open shop, Zola gets lost in her own thoughts. She doesn’t hear the clip-clopping of hooves on cobblestone until it is right behind her.
A stallion of inky black shadows and glowing crimson eyes canters up next to her, and halts. Its nose and mouth move in the motion of snorting but no sound comes out; small wisps of gloom curl up from its mane, as if reacting to the raindrops falling on it. Zola stops walking. The phantom horse is pulling an elegant black phaeton behind it. Turning around, she sees the driver of the carriage sitting on plush, red leather seats under the canvas hood — a pair of glinting red eyes and long white hair.
“Miss Oussviir,” says Jaezred Vandree. “We seem to keep running into each other.”
The first sounds of thunder rumble overhead. A shiver travels down her body.
“Lord Jaezred,” she greets him back. The arm holding the purse over her head absently falls to her side. The rain immediately soaks her thick hair and face but she barely notices.
“Are you in need of a ride? This downpour shows no sign of stopping soon.”
She blinks and holds her breath before answering: “Yes.”
The former Chosen of Lolth reaches forward to unlatch the door of the carriage and push it open, then offers a gloved hand to her. She takes it. He feels warm and solid — like something she can hold on to.
As they sit shoulder to shoulder in the phaeton, listening to the pitter-patter of rain and the rolling of thunder, Zola thinks she just might want to.
Fin.
Thank you to Lykksie for writing Part I for me and stabbing me in the gut repeatedly.
I.
17th night of Flamerule
Zola sits down cross-legged on the floor of her room. Before her, Pollux lies gleaming in the dim candlelight. Its radiant starlight glitters on the wine goblet stood behind it — sooty but still a brilliant silver underneath.
She extends a hand, weaving the shimmering light together with the wisps of smoke and shadow issuing from between her fingers as she speaks the words of the spell — spirit shroud. Unbeknownst to herself, her eyes grow dull — her irises covered in a film of grey — as she stares into nothingness, casting her mind thousands of miles away to other planes, other places, some of which might not even have been real.
Behind her, echoes of creatures rise up from the floor, drawing on her own power to grant her protection. Three women, barely silhouettes and outlines of shadow, stand beside her and at her back, laying their hands on her shoulders. Their whispers gather in the back of her mind, repeating their mantra.
Before her, a pair of red, glinting eyes blink into existence. His face is next, as well as his long white hair. He is whole again, unhurt, nothing like the body she left behind in the acrid dust of Phlegethos, but he is muted. Dull. His vibrant self is quieted and sombre. He is not here, she knows that. He can’t be. Not his soul. She isn’t sure he ever had one to begin with. The man before her is an echo, a memory, of a spirit, brought back through her magic and their love.
A single tear spills from her cloudy eyes and runs down her cheek. He raises a translucent hand to her cheek and wipes it away. She feels nothing against her skin, but she imagines what it would be like.
He doesn’t attempt to speak — she knows he wouldn’t be able to — but he leans forward and presses a kiss to her lips. It’s nothing but necrotic shadows and air, nothing like when he was alive. Nothing like that time in Phlegethos, before. Nothing would ever be like that. But it holds a promise:
She gave him what he most wanted from death, and should she call upon spirits to protect her, he would come. That, at least, he could give.
And then the minute is up, and he fades. The only things left are the tears on her cheeks and the slowly-fading whisper of the sisters in the back of her mind.
“Feel no shame, Zola. There is none to be had for love.”
II.
19th day of Flamerule
By the time Zola arrives at Stone Gate with Cor’Vandor in tow, a party of four has already gathered. Velania, Kavel, Pipper, and Marto, carrying a picnic basket in his hands.
“Hey guys, sorry I’m late. I almost forgot that it’s supposed to be today,” she confesses with an apologetic grin. Marto stares exasperatedly into the distance. “Thank you, all of you, for coming. I’m glad you’re here.”
She looks over at Kavel and Pipper — the two of them had been involved with the Heralds of Blade and Ash in different ways, but neither of them were present when she, Marto, and Velania went into the Sunset Spines to see the oracle. (Although Pipper seems happy to simply accompany her friends on a mountain trek.) She begins explaining to them in simple terms who Themis and Unending Ones are, what they believe in, and what role they played in the last wave of the Unending Word.
“You need to know that Themis was the one who gave me Castor”—Zola pats the sheathed longsword on her left hip—“and she gave Pollux”—pats the sword on her right hip—“to Ophanim.”
“Ah, I see. They are like arms dealers, then?” says Kavel.
“Arms dealers usually don’t give a shit who they sell to,” says a familiar voice from behind them. “Not this lot. They ain’t the same.”
All five of them turn around, and Zola is unsurprised to see Je’Sathriel — or The Jackal, as he used to go by — hovering on large, bird-like wings. He has swapped out the plate armour for a sleek black tunic, the greatsword that used to be on his back is gone entirely, and there is a metallic sheen to the feathers of his wings now that glints in the sunlight. He floats forward towards Zola, looking her dead in the eye.
“So what, you’re gonna be a zealot now?” he asks.
She frowns. “What? No, I—”
“There’s no answer she can give you that will satisfy you. I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told Darkfire: he’s gone, and there’s no reason why. So stop lookin’ for one and stop tryin’ to bring him back.”
Her breath seizes in her throat. “I’m not trying to bring him back,” she whispers aloud.
“Oh sure, you’re not goin’ around revivifyin’ or tryin’ to cast raise dead, but you’re not lettin’ him go either. You’re going on a crusade.”
“I’m just going there to make sure the Unending Word is truly ended,” she says slowly. The defensiveness in her voice is painfully apparent, even to herself. “If Themis gives me her word that she’s not gonna try to restart the cycle, then I’ll be satisfied. That’s it.”
“Oh? What, big celestial sign in the sky weren’t ‘nuff for you? Me, comin’ down from the heavens, tellin’ you it’s over ain’t enough for you?”
Zola shakes her head. “No. I’m sorry. It’s not. But…even if it is, aren’t you wondering what they’re doing now?”
“Nope. Ain’t my jurisdiction anymore. If you needed to know that, don’t you think someone up there”—Je’Sathriel nods his head skyward—“woulda told you? Or send me down here to tell you?”
“I’m not that important.”
“Funny,” he deadpans. “I almost laughed at that.”
“I’m not trying to be funny!”
The angel heaves out a sigh. “What is it with you lot?” he wonders aloud, glancing around the group. “Every single person in the Dawnlands is either ‘oh, I’m just a nobody, I’m not significant’ or tryin’ to be a god. And there’s no fuckin’ in-between.”
Zola pinches the bridge of her nose and inhales deeply. As usual, every conversation with this man is an uphill struggle. “We’ve missed you, Jackal,” she says drily.
“No you didn’t.”
“You’ve spoken to Sorrel? Where is she now?”
“No idea. I ain’t her fuckin’ keeper.”
“Is she alright?”
“No. And neither are you.”
“Je’Sathriel, what about High Diviner Rholor? Is he coming back?” Velania asks, filling the silence that followed, which Zola is thankful for.
“Certainly hope so, ‘cause if he ain’t, then he’s been lyin’ to me and I’ve been buildin’ him a new body for nothing. He’s takin’ his time choosin’ the right hair colour, the right facial musculature…”
“What about An’Ahkrim? Do you know where he is?” Zola says.
Je’Sathriel stares at her for a good, long while. “Tell you what,” he says eventually, “if you come back from the mountains without blood on your hands, I’ll tell you.”
The paladin purses her lips.
“Is the oracle protected by Selûne or Shar, or both, or neither?” she asks.
There is another long, pregnant pause before he answers: “Neither.”
She nods, eyes gazing off into the distance. Considering. “It’s good seeing you again, Jackal, but we need to get going. We’ll talk when I return.”
She blinks, and just like that, he is gone. As though he was never there to begin with.
III.
19th day of Flamerule
Marto had the clever idea that The Twins can act as an anchor to the Unending Ones’ encampment for the purposes of the teleport spell. And it worked — a mage at Portal Plaza teleported them to the exact location in the heart of the Sunset Spines.
The five of them stand in the same narrow ravine where they were ambushed by two fiends. Marto begins looking around and pointing out the way to the encampment as he remembers it when a crossbow bolt strikes him in the right shoulder. He cries out in pain and the adventurers whip around towards where the shot came from. But there’s no one in sight. They are surrounded by two walls of steep cliffs with nowhere to take cover.
From high up one cliff, behind an outcropping of rock on the edge, a male voice bellows out: “Go home!”
Faintly, they hear the tell-tale mechanical sounds of a crossbow being reloaded. Zola raises both her palms. “There’s no need for that! We just want to talk!” she shouts.
“‘Just wanna talk’ is exactly what people say when they want a fight. The cycle’s over, isn’t it. There’s nothing for you here. Just fuck off!”
“Do you remember us?”
“Yes! And I can see you’ve got both of them swords now, so go home!”
“Look. We just want to talk to Themis to make sure that it’s really over for you. That’s all.”
“And what if it isn’t?”
The mere, taunting suggestion sparks a flame within her. She grits her teeth.
“You know what,” she growls.
“Zola, please—” Marto says.
A flash of black whips out from behind the rocks and another bolt zips through the air, finding its mark on Zola’s chestplate, right over left breast, and tearing through the splint. She can feel the tip of the bolt buried in her flesh. Had it gone a few more inches further in, it would have pierced her heart.
The crossbowman has ducked back behind his cover, but he speaks again. “You’ve got good armour. That shot should’ve killed you.”
As she rips the bolt out of her chest and throws it into the dust, fire roaring in her veins, images flash behind her eyes. Visions of a black and red Hell and screams of fury; Ophanim, Zah’Ranin, the fire elemental, and Agragathis falling to her shining blades — maimed, stabbed, decapitated, executed; blood dripping from Castor and Pollux, black in the moonlight.
Finally, a question pops into her mind: why shouldn’t they meet the same fate as the devils they enabled?
Her right hand begins moving towards Castor’s hilt…
…when Velania slips her hauberk over her head and drops it onto the ground in front of her. Zola turns to look at her, surprised enough to hold back her blood-frenzy.
“We come in peace,” Velania declares, and takes a step backwards, away from the chain mail.
There is a grunt from behind the rock. “You look like the cleric type. Your type usually comes in peace,” the crossbowman says. “But the shiny, angry one who’s too good for a horse… That type usually rides at the head of a crusade.”
“Listen, I brought some food with me,” says Marto, holding up the basket with one hand and pressing his other hand against the wound in his side. “We could share it with you, if you want.”
A pause. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard that one before,” he says. “Alright, fine. Maybe I’ll take you to her…if you put your weapons down and back away a hundred feet. Promise I’ll give ‘em back to you once we’re done.”
The halfling nods and unslings both his shield and Guiding Light from his back. Kavel begins to unload a variety of melee weapons. Pipper even takes off her prosthetic arm. But Zola doesn’t budge.
Velania looks at her pleadingly, practically begging with her eyes. “Zola, please…”
“Zola, if you’re serious about wanting to talk, you’d do as he says,” Marto hisses.
There are few things she loathes more than being separated from Castor and Pollux for a long — or unknown — period of time. Every fibre of her being rebels against it. And she can’t be sure if he is telling the truth about returning them to her afterwards. If he isn’t, then there will be Hell — and more — to pay.
Nevertheless, Zola unbuckles the belt holding both swords around her waist and lets it drop to the ground. Velania and Marto seem a little less tense as the five of them collectively back a hundred feet or so away from their pile of weapons. Cor’Vandor follows, the watchful gaze he keeps on his rider unmoving.
The crossbowman finally emerges from behind the rocks — a figure garbed in a hooded black cloak that ought to be too hot for the desert, his face concealed behind a mask of steel. He climbs down the cliff face cautiously, then approaches the weapons laid on the earth. One by one, he puts them into what appears to be a bag of holding. The Twins are the last ones he picks up. He partially unsheathes both swords and remarks, “I see you’ve been taking good care of them.”
“Put them back, please,” Zola says, her voice deadly calm.
He slides them back into their leather sheaths and slowly inserts them into the bag of holding. “Alright. Chill. Damn.”
The man turns around to walk in the direction of the encampment and the adventurers follow from a distance. They pass quietly through a sea of empty tents, shredded bedrolls, discarded pots and pans, and snuffed-out campfires. Despite the haunted look of the scene, there are no signs of a battle having occurred here — simply abandoned. Indeed, though Zola remembers having seen more people the last time she was here, there is not a soul to be seen here except for the masked man and themselves.
Themis’s tent, sitting high above the others, looks largely the same as before. A large tent made of hide, a cooking fire decorated with animal bones, a wooden table with a bloody sickle and a bowl of black liquid on it, and an unlit brazier next to it. There is a spearwoman guarding the tent, her questioning gaze bouncing between them and the crossbowman.
“Thought might as well ask her,” he says with a shrug.
She nods, and slips into the tent. Several moments later, she emerges together with Themis leaning against her. The oracle is a purple-skinned tiefling woman with long black hair, milky white eyes, and arcano-religious symbols painted in white on her face — and to Zola’s surprise, she now appears thin, frail, and sickly, like a strong wind could knock her down.
The spearwoman helps Themis to sit down on an animal fur rug laid down next to the tent and takes up a position several steps behind her. Zola begins approaching, but she levels her spear at her. “That’s far enough. You can speak from there.”
The paladin stops, but her gaze does not move from Themis nor does it lessen in intensity. What the Unending Ones believe in is repugnant. They played both sides of the conflict for the sake of perpetuating the cycle and yet dare to make the claim of neutrality, and furthermore, pretend that they are above reproach by anyone from either side. It is this egregiousness that made Zola’s hackles rise when Themis and her last spoke. However, seeing Themis in this state — of both physical and spiritual deficiency — it’s hard not to feel a twinge of pity for her.
Some small, twisted part within herself — who speaks in a low, languid voice and a blasé tone — laments about how this poor little thing would not make for an exciting fight.
“What happened to you?” she murmurs.
“The same as you,” replies Themis. “What happens to one when the very purpose of one’s life is no more?”
Zola glances at the spearwoman and the masked man. “Is this everyone who is left?”
“Of the Unending Ones? No. The mercenaries have abandoned us and there are not many of us, but we exist elsewhere. In Kantas, in Faerûn, scattered between the seas… However, here, they are all that remains, yes.”
“It’s over, isn’t it? So why haven’t you gone home and sought a new purpose?”
“Why haven’t you?”
“I have done that.”
“No, you have not. You’re here now, aren’t you? Crooked girl?”
Zola inhales sharply. “I’m not crooked anymore.”
“Perhaps not. But your heart is broken. It is as if your rib cage has been torn open. It is plain to see.” Themis’s blank gaze moves towards Marto. “So is yours. But you’re still ashamed of what happened.” Then to Velania. “And that one as well, the sister. Though…in her case, it has nothing to do with this.”
“Themis, I’m sorry for what has happened to you. Truly, I am,” Velania says sincerely. “We’re just here to make sure that you consider the cycle complete. Some of us are…scared of what you would do if you don’t.”
“Scared? Of me? Sister Velania, you will one day have the power to call upon Selûne herself to beseech her aid in whatever you desire. And you are frightened of what I would do? A harsher woman would call you a hypocrite.” She looks back at Zola again. “So, what do you really want from me? What have you truly come here to ask?”
The drow woman freezes where she stands. She should’ve known Themis could sense the underlying purpose of her coming here. She tries to steady her breathing.
“Did he take Pollux from you, or did you give it to him?”
Did he come to you already seeking self-annihilation, or did you put the idea in his head?
“Does it matter?” Themis asks.
“Yes.” They’ve had this exchange before.
“Why? Will having this answer paint him in a better light in your eyes, or worse?”
Zola hesitates. “I…I used to think I could help him change. Or I hoped to. But now, I think I don’t want to change anything about him.” A wistful smile tugs at the edge of her lips but doesn’t quite manage to form. “Good or bad, I accept it.”
“I see. You’re seeking to learn more about him to make up for the time you could’ve spent together. I could point you to his works, the people he killed, the contracts he designed…”
“I would be grateful if you could do that. But for now, an answer to my question is enough for me.”
There is a long, dead pause, a silence filled only by the howling desert wind, before Themis answers. “When do the scales tip from coercion to consent? Where is the line drawn to separate a willing action from an unwilling one? Did I take the sword out of the box and give it to him, of my own accord? Yes. Would he have done unspeakable things to my body had I refused to? Yes. Did he need to say it? No. Did I give the sword to him feeling that I was fulfilling my duty to the Unending Word? Yes.” She strains herself to sit up straighter — not without considerable effort — and stare right through Zola. “You fell in love with a devil, Zola — why are you looking for answers in black and white when everything is grey?”
Zola is silent. She has no good answer to that.
“And to honour the sacred balance, as I have been raised to do,” the oracle continues, “I gave the other Twin to the only person I knew could kill him. You and Je’Sathriel are cut from the same hideous cloth. Zealots dealing out judgement from the perch of a presumed moral high ground.”
Zola bristles. Despite the frailty of her body, the fire is still burning behind that lofty white gaze, kindled by spite alone. But she will not grace that vitriol with a response. Glancing over at the masked man, she says curtly, “We’re done here.”
“We’re not done,” Themis cut in.
She turns back to her with an angry look. “What now? What more do you want?”
“What more do I want? You are the one who sought me. The indirect accusation of hypocrisy I levelled at Velania earlier, I should level directly at you. I am done speaking with you.”
Themis looks to the rest of the group and for each of them, poses deeply personal questions and observations. Zola only half-listens from that point onwards, keeping entirely quiet. She has been forced to reflect upon the fact that The Jackal was right. She was looking for a reason and someone to blame for Ophanim’s death. But there was none — no one to blame except him and herself.
And she has no idea what to do with that.
Velania’s voice sounds almost faint to her. “What is next for you, Themis?”
“I will walk out into the desert,” replies the oracle. “I will walk until whatever higher power that has granted me the sight gives me a new purpose, or until my legs give out under me.” Then she turns her gaze to Zola for the final time. “To answer your question. No, I will not attempt to restart the Unending Word. It is sacrilege, and goes against everything I have been taught. However, there is one last thing I must leave with you.”
She weakly pushes herself up to her feet and limps over towards the unlit brazier. She strikes at a flint for what feels like an eternity, neither Unending One present offering to help — it seems like something Themis must do herself — but eventually, a spark catches alight and a fire crackles to life in the brazier. She puts her right hand above it, low enough for the flames to lick her palm and long enough for blisters to form on her skin.
Finally, she gasps in a sharp breath of air and her head tilts back, and she speaks, her voice sounding as if a legion is speaking at the same time, echoing with ancient power.
“I see;
The bonds of the Prime Material
The foundations of reality
The balance of existence
Coming apart.
I see;
Fractal beings of power
Clawing at themselves and at each other
The shards, sharper than any knife
Burrowing under the skin.
Behold the pale riders!
The midnight sentries are coming;
Their watch is far from over.
The call will go out among them,
As unrest forces
The Hand of the Revenant.”
The bonds of the Prime Material
The foundations of reality
The balance of existence
Coming apart.
I see;
Fractal beings of power
Clawing at themselves and at each other
The shards, sharper than any knife
Burrowing under the skin.
Behold the pale riders!
The midnight sentries are coming;
Their watch is far from over.
The call will go out among them,
As unrest forces
The Hand of the Revenant.”
Themis’s voice fades, and she collapses to the ground. The spearwoman comes to collect her in her arms and carry her back to be gently laid down on the rug. The adventurers are silent, unsure of what to say.
“Thank you, Themis,” Velania says finally. Themis gives her the weakest of nods.
The masked man returns their weapons to them, and sooner rather than later they are on their way out. Though The Twins are back where they belong on her person, Zola feels little relief. The journey home is mostly spent in quiet, save for hushed conversations between Kavel and Pipper.
But Zola looks over her shoulder at Velania and senses the unspoken words on her lips. She slows Cor’Vandor down so they can walk together.
“So, Zola, are you more certain now about the Unending Word being truly over?” the cleric asks.
“Hmm. Yes, a little bit, I think. What about yourself?”
“No.”
“Really? Not even a little?”
“As I’ve said before, I don’t trust divinations and prophecies. One only sees what they wish to see.”
Zola nods absently. After a few beats, she confesses, “You know, I did come here with blood on my mind.”
“I know.”
Looking on the road ahead, she lets out a long, quiet sigh. “I give the gift of a beautiful death, Velania. Whilst I wouldn’t say that Themis didn’t deserve that… Wasting away in the desert, without peace, without purpose… I think that’s a fitting end for her.”
Velania’s face falls. “Zola, no… You shouldn’t succumb to this…anger and hatred…”
“It isn’t anger or hate. It’s just…how it is.”
Velania may not believe her, but she speaks truly. Nothing more than an emotionless observation.
IV.
23rd day of Flamerule
When they arrive back in Daring Heights, Je’Sathriel is sitting on the eastern wall in a manner that reminds Zola very much of Kháos, waiting for them to pass through the gate. He is wearing the same black tunic but his wings are nowhere to be seen this time.
“How did it go?” he calls out to them.
“Bloodless,” answers Zola. “Just as you requested.”
“Hm. You know I didn’t request that for the oracle’s sake, right? I don’t give two fucks about her. She’s a dick anyway. You know I requested that for you?”
“I know, Jackal.”
“Do you really know?”
Zola didn’t grow up with a father figure in her life, and an odd warm sensation washes over her as she realises, belatedly, that this must be what it feels like to have someone show a kind of fatherly concern towards her. How strange that it would come from — of all people — a vaguely angel-shaped arsehole, whom she is certain would be profoundly irritated if she dared to voice this observation out loud.
Still, she isn’t complaining. It feels nice to be cared for.
“Yes,” she assures him with a little smile.
“Good. Right, so — what’d she say?”
“She said a lot of stuff. There was a new prophecy, for one—”
“What.”
“Oh, um, err…” Zola stammers. “It goes something like this.”
She recites Themis’s final prophecy to Je’Sathriel — who stares at her wide-eyed during the entire time — though not without a lot of pauses, umms and ahhs. “I didn’t miss anything, right guys? I’d have a much easier time remembering it if it was in song form…”
“Right, I’ll just make sure any prophecy comin’ from our side comes in the iambic fuckin’ pentameter, won’t I?” he says.
She beams at him. “That’d be really helpful. Thanks!”
The angel groans. “Please hold.”
They blink, and just like that, he disappears again.
“That…doesn’t sound good,” says Velania.
“Uh, I don’t know. For me, it’s always hard to tell with The Jackal,” says Zola. “Well, he told us to hold, so I suppose we’ll just have to wait here…?”
“Is he gonna be long?” says Marto, “I need to go talk to a friend—”
Je’Sathriel suddenly reappears in front of them. “Right!” he exclaims. “So I went and checked the divine paperwork, and—”
“‘Divine paperwork’?” Zola repeats incredulously.
“Look, I’m explaining this to you in a way that your mortal minds can understand, alright? And I’m not tryin’ to be condescending or anythin’, that’s just how it is. Now, anyway, what I’ve been told is that this prophecy ain’t meant for you. It’s earmarked for…uh…” He waves his large arms around. “…adventurers. The wider adventuring community.”
To her side, Velania and Marto visibly relax, perhaps relieved that this will not be yet another problem on their plate. Zola, however, is still stuck on one particular point. “So Heaven’s a bureaucracy?” she asks.
“No, it’s not. As I said, I’m explaining this to you in the simplest way possible. I can draw you a picture if you’ve got any crayons on you.”
She can’t help but giggle at the mental image of The Jackal happily scribbling with colourful crayons. “No, but I can definitely get you some next time!”
He rolls his eyes at her. “Anyway.” His gaze lands on Velania in particular. “So. You wanna see An’Ahkrim?”
“Yes,” the aasimar answers quickly.
“Because of his meddlin’ in the cycle, An’Ahkrim is currently in an in-between state. He can’t go back to Hell, but he can’t go to Mount Celestia either. So he’s stuck here in the Material Plane for the time bein’. Meet me in four days. I can take you to him.”
V.
23rd night of Flamerule
Zola pushes the window open and climbs out of it, then hoists herself up to the red-tiled roof of the Three-Headed Dragon. She finds a comfortable spot on the incline and sits down, hugging her knees close to her chest and gazing up at the sky. The city before her is darker than a settlement of this size should be — many of its residents have yet to return — and it makes the waning moon and the glimmering stars seem a little brighter.
It’s a beautiful night. The kind of night that shouldn’t be enjoyed alone.
Taking a deep breath, her hands begin to weave together the air and shadows in front of her and her lips murmur arcane words in an esoteric mix of Elvish and Infernal.
The three sisters form to kneel behind her and touch her shoulders, and to her right, in the periphery of her vision, she sees his dark steel sabatons planted on the tiles.
She half-turns her face in his direction. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not in any danger right now. I just… To be honest, I thought I’d be summoning you in the Sunset Spines. But…I’m glad it didn’t come to that.”
In the absence of noise from the city, she can hear cicadas buzzing in the distance.
“Do you remember when you visited me in that dream? You asked me why I joined the Church of Eilistraee, but I didn’t tell you the whole truth. The truth is, my birth parents were secret faithfuls of Eilistraee. They were mushroom farmers living in a village outside Aeschira until they were murdered by priestesses of Lolth. Them and their entire church. I…I had hoped to honour their memory by becoming a sword dancer. So… I think…if I’d killed Themis and her followers, I’d just end up hating myself.”
She knows he can’t answer her. She knows it’s not really him that’s there. Her breaths grow shuddering and the tears prick at her eyes once more.
“Anyway, I just thought we could spend a little time together tonight.” She gives him a weak, uncertain smile. “Good things do come in pairs.”
She keeps spirit shroud up for as long as she can, re-casting it minute after minute. However, as she goes through the motions of spellcasting, it becomes increasingly apparent to her that each time she casts the spell, the grasp she has on that echo of him slips ever so slightly. He begins to appear a little bit more muted, his features a little bit more blurred — like the memory of a dream slowly fading from her mind whenever she tries to remember it.
After the third casting, her voice breaks. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should— I should let you rest.”
The spectres dissolve into formless wisps as she buries her face in her hands, her body wracked by painful sobs.
⚔️🌙⚔️
Epilogue
25th day of Flamerule
The heavy summer rain caught her by surprise. She needs to run to the shops to get some necessities, but Cor’Vandor is refusing to step out of the overhanging roof of the Dragon. The white-furred hart wrinkles his nose at all the mud and puddles gathering in potholes that still riddle the main road.
“Oh, come on, Cor’Vandor! I’ll magic you clean afterwards!” Zola whines, and kicks his sides lightly. He turns his head sharply away in a defiant response.
“You’re ridiculous. Remind me to pray for a less fussy steed next time.” She hops off his back and dismisses the spell that binds him to this plane of existence, causing the stag to vanish in a bright flash of light.
Zola holds her purse on top of her head, sighs, and sprints into the rain. She uses misty step to get across the largest potholes, but inevitably, the mud stains the hem of her white dress and she shudders every time her bare feet plunge into murky brown puddles, stepping on dubious things and getting on gods-know-what under her toenails. On top of that, it’s still incredibly hot and humid.
Pain in the arse…
Daring Heights still feels so empty. It’s not quite lifeless but there’s hardly any life to speak of. Even there in the central neighbourhood of The Heights, most repairs are only half-done and many buildings remain derelict on account of their owners not having returned yet. And some of them never will. She passes rows and rows of broken windows, exposed brick walls, and collapsed roofs.
There’s something poignant about the rain falling on a city of ruins on a grey summer afternoon.
Wandering from block to block, eyes scanning for an open shop, Zola gets lost in her own thoughts. She doesn’t hear the clip-clopping of hooves on cobblestone until it is right behind her.
A stallion of inky black shadows and glowing crimson eyes canters up next to her, and halts. Its nose and mouth move in the motion of snorting but no sound comes out; small wisps of gloom curl up from its mane, as if reacting to the raindrops falling on it. Zola stops walking. The phantom horse is pulling an elegant black phaeton behind it. Turning around, she sees the driver of the carriage sitting on plush, red leather seats under the canvas hood — a pair of glinting red eyes and long white hair.
“Miss Oussviir,” says Jaezred Vandree. “We seem to keep running into each other.”
The first sounds of thunder rumble overhead. A shiver travels down her body.
“Lord Jaezred,” she greets him back. The arm holding the purse over her head absently falls to her side. The rain immediately soaks her thick hair and face but she barely notices.
“Are you in need of a ride? This downpour shows no sign of stopping soon.”
She blinks and holds her breath before answering: “Yes.”
The former Chosen of Lolth reaches forward to unlatch the door of the carriage and push it open, then offers a gloved hand to her. She takes it. He feels warm and solid — like something she can hold on to.
As they sit shoulder to shoulder in the phaeton, listening to the pitter-patter of rain and the rolling of thunder, Zola thinks she just might want to.
Fin.
Thank you to Lykksie for writing Part I for me and stabbing me in the gut repeatedly.
