2023-10-25 A Glimpse Of The Past - Henri

To call them huge is to understate their size by enough orders of magnitude so as to be impolite. The Primordial Behemoths are planetary. All-encompassing. Galactic, in size and ambition. They float forward, their size deceiving those assembled to watch into thinking that it is a lazy process when, for each second that passes, continent could pass beneath their feet.

Four they number, one for each of the primary elemental planes.

Ragnis, the Behemoth of Fire, who's flames lick out hungrily from within a blackened shell of magma.

Neptulus, the Behemoth of Water, who's form floats and changes and dances threateningly at their foes.

Imperos, the Behemoth of Air, lightning crackling in and around them.

Granius, the Behemoth of Earth, the largest of them all, with a body made of mountains.

Each of them, as they emerge from their nebula in the deepest, darkest reaches of space, staring down the archwyrms. For what the archwyrms lack in size, they make up for in number. There is a reason why a group of dragons is called a thunder. All nine, with wings outstretched and fangs bared, approach the Behemoths and come to a stop.

The Behemoths converse, in a language that sounds like Primordial. If it is, it is far older than any dialect ever heard. Or maybe it is a language all their own, one that generations of elementals will learn from and borrow from in the ages to come.

It matters not, for their conversation is short; as the last word is spoken, Ragnis charges a bout of flame between their two hands before releasing it towards the archwyrms.

Funny, how one choice can change the course of history. Maybe there was room for parley. Maybe, this could have been avoided. The archwyrms dodge the blast easily. And with a roar from Stellarum, the Star Mother, the Wyrm Queen, the archwyrms descend.

Kestrasz and Vulcanax are the first to strike, falling upon Granius with an earth shattering roar. The Tungsten Dragon breathes a beam of brilliant radiant light, melting the Behemoth's flesh and allowing for the Obsidian Dragon to blast through it in a cannonball of fire and smoke to emerge once more on the other side.

Meldrosa, Thalistrasza, and Eroshria all focus on Imperos. The Jade Dragon breathes streams of green fire on jade leaf wings. The Pearl Dragon and her four drakes, each of the five of them glittering with their white scales and white features, descend as a squadron unleashing incandescent white fire. The Sunstone Dragon, not to be out done, breathes as though she had plucked apart a nearby star to carry it between her teeth.

Azharul and Kessarax, shadow and magic, turn on Ragnis. The Morion Dragon summons darkness and clouds of grey mist that spread like blots of ink across the body of the Behemoth of Fire. Just as it seems as though it will cover the entire Primordial, his wings pull back in a violent motion, ripping the shadows away. The Opal Dragon curls into a ball, calling the Weave to her in javelin-like shards that, with a explosion of force as she unfurls, stab into her foe.

Throdrazz is different. The smallest of the archwyrms, they are also the quickest. On four wings, they easily avoid any stray bolts of elemental energy that come their way, and with a shine of their garnet third eye, they allow their brethren to do the same.

The Behemoths are large. But the bigger they are, the slower they are to move. With the archwyrms' Great Seer at their side, they begin to fall.

Stellarum, their Wyrm Queen, their Night Mother, leaves the last of the Behemoths for herself. The stars are her hoard, and she calls upon their light, glowing until all of space is suffused in blinding white light. When it has passed, the impact is clear: Neptulus, now with a pillar of blinding starlight cutting them from shoulder to hip.

As the first falls, so too do the others. The Behemoth of Earth, shattered. The Behemoth of Air, reduced to a small cloud. The Behemoth of Fire, ripped asunder.

And so the victors gather. Their words are too quiet to hear, their intent all too clear: what to do with their foes, now that the war is over.

Stellarum looks at her kin, and they all nod in assent.

The nine of them, acting in sync, take a breath in, puffing out their chests. A mote of light, glowing with the pale energy of their souls, floats out from each of them, joining in the middle. And where they touch, a door appears.

The door is silver and marble and massive, its two panels joined in the middle with a pair of doorknobs that jut out into the heavens above.

And so it was called, and so it is answered.

The doors swing open, out and up, and three figures emerge.

The Matriarch, her shadowy figure floating gently into view.

The Caretaker, their wings batting softly against the void of space.

And lastly, The Architect, First and Oldest of the Infinite.

One needs only one look at them to know that these are the first, the oldest, the most powerful. The sense of absolute authority, over the Staircase and its doors, creeps off of them in waves of energy.

The Three and the Nine discuss, and debate, and talk. Eventually, an agreement is reached. Nine more motes of light float out, and the Three bow. With the agreement sealed, the terms are enacted. Great chains of silver and marble fly out from the door, wrapping themselves around what remains of the Behemoths. They find purchase, and hold tight, and pull them through the door and into the Beyond.

The Three and the Nine share one final bow, and the door closes, and they all depart.

A single, solitary mountain peak rises in front of a vast forest in the Summer Court, and it is being watched. Three of the Nine: Stellarum, Meldrosa, and Throdrazz, each sitting and watching and waiting.

They do not need to wait long, though.

From the heavens falls a meteor. Or, from the sky falls a small moon. Or, from the Family of the Primordials Incarnate, falls a mountain. The First Mountain, that is, who falls as a ball of fire, as a twisting ball of burning earth that falls and falls at a breakneck speed until striking that same peak in the Summer Court.

The explosion is enormous, the ripple of destruction seen before it is felt, before it is heard.

And still the three watch.

There was nothing they could have done. The affairs of the Primordials are not the affairs of the Archwyrms, not now. They once were, and they will be again. But this is a private matter between kin, and all they can do is bear witness.

After all, actions have consequences. Arcravine knew this, and has paid the price.

They came here often, so often that Henri cannot recall this particular instance. He remembers the river, the crystal clear water rushing past, creating rapids and eddies as it runs over rock and stone. He remembers the picnic blanket, the gingham print of red and white. The basket of fruit and meat and wine. Lounging, waiting for Him to visit once more.

Mister saunters forward, plucking a grape from a nearby vine. He doesn't notice the Guiding Bolt, stopped micrometers from his face by a net of garnet. He doesn't notice the anger, the rage, the commitment of she who threw it, unstuck as she is in time. He simply notices the one he stewards, and sits on the blanket next to him.

Henri notices it all. Not Henri Then - Henri Then has eyes of silver, a mind wholly committed to the Staircase and to its Infinite. Henri Now, with eyes and mind clear, sees himself the only the way he can.

Or maybe Henri Then is Henri Now, and Henri Now is Henri To Be.

Henri Now And Later leans before his former steward.

"I am so glad you are gone."

And for a moment, their eyes meet.

The red dragons of the Gith are flying overhead, and Matches' house is on fire.

He stumbles, choking and gasping for air as the smoke crowds out the air in his lungs. He staggers to the wall outside, crumpling to the ground, and his eyes go black.

He can't/won't/doesn't remember this happening.

He will/has/is running towards himself, begging, screaming, crying for himself to go back in, to save her before it is too late.

It is already too late. It was always too late. It will always be too late.

The voice of Vulcanax whispers from Matches' lips.

"It is okay now. I have you. I will keep you safe."

"I will keep you safe, little Herald."

There's a gap in the crowd that streams in and out of the Castle Gate. And in the center of the gap, staring at Henri with a small grin, is Throdrazz. "Oh look, you're perfectly on time."

"How lucky. Your note didn't mention when we should arrive."

The smile is paired with a bow. "I am Throdrazz, the Garnet Dragon. I am the Great Seer and the Gemstone Prophet." Their bow is held, especially towards Orianna and Matches. "I am honoured to be travelling with the Heralds of my fellow Archwyrms."

They explain our problem. Their piece of the keys needs recovering, and we need to journey to the Plane of Time to find it.

Where in the Plane of Time?

Who's to say. We'll need to travel through it, and try and track it down. Luckily, we have tool to help us. Kessarax's Piece allows its bearer to track the location of the other pieces. If we follow where it points into the past, we may be able to find it. The piece is of Throdrazz, and it will be attracted to the important points in Throdrazz's own life.

"Now, I will be busy, fending off Void Spiders and the like. So, Henri: I trust you can navigate us?"

An hour has passed for those here, crowded by the Castle Gate.

Longer has passed/been taken from our heroes. A crease in Calla's brow, developed over the last year, has disappeared. A few more lines cross Matches' face. And more changes still, for Archie, Orianna, and Henri.

"I-I'll see you at h-home," Orianna manages to blurt out, handing Matches back his mirror. She runs off, and he follows.

"I am deeply sorry. We travelled a little too much. I am timeless, and so it didn't have the same effects on me. But for you, all mortals... I think all of you might have been aged." Throdrazz's head is bowed in guilt, and they speak softly. "I am afraid there is nothing more I can do."

They look to where Orianna has departed with their piece, and incline their head towards Calla. "A warning. My piece allows those who wield it to see the future, or at least possible futures. But I warn you: only use it in the most dire of circumstances. Seeing the future has consequences." She nods, and rushes off after Orianna to inform her lest she try to use it.

Which leaves Archie, and Henri, and Throdrazz.

"So, Throdrazz, does this mean no more flowers?" Henri asks, though his eyes are locked on the receding figure of Orianna, his mind lingering on her tears and heartbreak at the years lost.

"Is the battle done?" Throdrazz turns back Henri, their head cocked to the side in curiosity.

"Well, no. But the others only come by for their Heralds. And I don't believe yours is here."

"My Herald is still hibernating. They have not yet been awoken to their lineage, nor have they been asked if they wish to accept it."

Hmm. A herald of the Great Seer, skilled in the art of divination... "You don't mean Ilthuryn, do you?"

Throdrazz chuckles. "No, Ilthuryn is on a different path."

"Right. Of course. Well, I'm sure they will come to their senses eventually. Anyway. Care for a drink? I have nothing else on today."

"Hmm. Of course you do not. Tell me, Henri, why do you wait?"

The question strikes Henri like a blow. "I don't wait around. I came here, did I not? What do you mean?"

"Well, what are you doing next?"

"I don't know, finishing my Primordial lessons. Working at the Mirror. Visiting with the Family. What more would you have me do? You can't relate to me."

"I know. I'm a dragon, and you're a mortal."

"Not for much longer if I can help it. And maybe the next time you have a dead carcass you need burying it will be me that answers your call. And I may not be so amenable."

"Hmm. And what makes you think you were not one of the three to answer my call before?""

"What? So you're saying I'm the Architect? Or the Caretaker? So I am destined to be the nursemaid to the walkers, or square every step? They exist already."

With this, Throdrazz lets out a laugh, clapping Henri on the shoulder. "You know better than that, Henri. Time is nothing on the Staircase."