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The Answer. [OoC Welcome] - Printable Version

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The Answer. [OoC Welcome] - Qaeli - 11-10-2013

[ This is a piece I've been working on for about a week, originally intended to be a (relatively) short explanation of an in-character hiatus. What follows is something that turned into much more. For those who manage to soldier through the length, I appreciate it. 

Thank you also to my girlfriend for helping me in the editing process. 


Also, I know that there are words that run together that shouldn't. I've fussed with it several times, only to find new words mashed together that weren't before after correcting the ones I found. No idea what's causing such a formatting issue. ]


Death littered the valley. Laden with seemingly bottomless drifts and ringed by crystals with the murk of blood and rust, the Boulder Downs was already an ominous sight. With fresh smatterings of blood and the slumped bodies of felled giants, dravans and more, it was a pall to the foolish and curious a like, thoroughly avoided by all.


Yet she could not be deterred.


Inquiries of Whitebrim’s indigenous had born fruit (with some warranted pressing), firsthand accounting of not only visual contact, but dealings with the serpent Orastos.Traitor. Craven. Nary a night passed without a candle lit (or at least a prayer lifted) for hope of his delivery into her hands. Two years she had lost, remanded to the tender hospices of the Syndicate, relegated to spread her thighs for the first and spill her blood (and that of others) for amusement and profit for another; motivation enough to hunt any man.  However, the truest catalyst for this foolishundertaking laid not with the man, but what—or who—accompanied him.


Spectre.


Buried.


Gone.


Sister.


Five years had gone by since Pieta had passed from this world, her last breath guttering out with a feeble cough as the pox claimed her.  She had kissed her cheek, tastedthe salt of the tears that had waited for the beloved girl’s passing. She had seen her into the earth, banners and trumpets regaling in mourning before they turned to spew inspiration to the march for Carteneau. Pieta, the consummate soldier, elder sister to the ever-whimsical, foolish waif of a pirate Qaeli, had returned to the earth she loved so dearly.


Yet it was her face—Qaeli’s face, for love of their great likeness, separated only by three years—that accompanied that of Orastos on Thaliak’s Yawn departing Costa del Sol; the imprinted crystal had screamed the haunting truth. Robed in blacks—fresh and sombre of face—stood Pieta.


The sight and the telling screamed of a trap, some foul snare laid with purpose to draw the dead girl’s younger sister out. But when it came to Pieta, no trap, no calamity, no suffering could dissuade her. In her short years, she had neither loved or been loved by any other than her sister. Even in death, it was an heartoath she could not ignore.


Death littered the valley.


“Are ye certain o’ this, lass?” asked Gharen Wolfsong, purging his sword and spear of giants’ blood with a patch of ease that sprouted from amidst the carnage. Despite appearances of trepidation in his asking, his pace did not slack; a wolf knew no fear, after all. Mere paces ahead, Qaeli led the way to blackheart cavern that waited at the pity of the valley, treating her bloodied longsword to the same; and like the stalwart Highlander behind her she kept the blade drawn. Though the cavern seemed large enough for five Hyur shoulder-to-shoulder, the tribute corridors would likely prove narrow if the tales breathed truth; her bow would render no aid here, nor Gharen’s spear.


"Nae certain o'anyf'in'... but she's m'blood. I 'ave t'try," she answered as she stepped over the mangled upper half of one that had gottentoo close to some giant’s grip.


It was black as pitch, threatening to strangle the few spots of mounted torchlight that dappled the distant recesses. A bluster from theoutside world screamed like a murder of crows, whipping their cloaks about in a frenzy. Despite the perpetuity of winter and the lack of fires, it was warm inside.


The chocobo that had been ‘gifted’ by the young crusader Qaeli had known in her growing years shied away, a lamentous ‘kweh’ sounding the balk at the idea of entry.


Gharen relieved the disheartened avian of their meager burdens: simple travel packs lashed together. Whilst he saw to stashing their effects, Qaeli gave the chocobo’s beak a ginger pat and rub.


“Off wiv ye. An’ try nae t’get et, aye?” With a last ‘kweh’,the creature dipped its plumed head, whirled about and set off at a gallop back for its master.


The remaining pair made way into the cave single-file with Qaeli leading, torch in hand. They had walked for nearly a bell down the strangely warm, yet lifeless winding of the corridor before they came upon a fork in the path.


“Bloody… which w—“ Gharen began to ask before she plunged into the left option, scarcely losing a step.


The path wound a steadily downward curve, steadily diminishing from broad path to restrictive wynd. Soon they were forced into a sidle, which proved troublesome for the well-armoured male, less so for the slender woman clad in leathers, who slid through the constricting path with ease.


“Should nae ‘ad tha’ second bowl o’porridge,” the girl chided upon hearing the oppressed grunts of her companion. Another grunt rose in answer. She smiled.


After several yalms the path curved to the left, emptying into a harrowing cavaedium, to which there appeared no end to depth, latitude or height. Even with the generous lumination provided by torch, the scorch-pocked walls stretched into darkness, andthe narrow avenue they now stood upon was rimmed by sudden drops. 


“Keep ye feet,” she whispered into a prolonged echo. 


The path ahead—a series of wooden bridges linking plateaued pillars that reached up from the endless abyss—continued straightway, yawning into untold distance; and though crude, the ash-wrought links to each plateau were sturdy. The harsh scrawling upon each stone landing suggested the likelihood of kobold engineers, echoed by Gharen’s quiet musings.


Just as she set foot on the sixth landing, the first wisp manifested. Meager and of a quaint blue flicker, the diminutive spirit bobbed a few yalms ahead, matching the Hyurs’ pace perfectly. One bridge, two bridges, three they crossed before the next spirit materialized.


Then another.


And another.


Soon the greater magnitude of the chamber was alight in an otherworldly conflagration. Legion voices began to whisper all at once, combining into a maddening susurrus that echoed off stone and mind.


Still they pressed onward at Qaeli’s behest, brooking no cause for stops despite never having been witness to such a congregation of the disembodied. At first the muddled collective yielded nothing intelligible, seeming to speak myriad tongues, until the dreary onslaught coalesced into a singular utterance.


“Qaeli.”


She stopped.


Her flesh prickled with a sudden chill, her breath showing in misty puffs.


“…ye heard tha’, righ’?” she said with an incomplete turn of cheek back to Gharen, whose sword had given way to spear.


“Aye.” Their steel flashed with mercurial blue against the bloom of such ambiance, though each wielder sensed the futility of such brandishings.


“Wha’ can I dae fer ye..?” she asked impotently, doing her best to keep aware without herself raising awares.


After a cumbersome silence, the mass crowd of voices slurred into response, “…Qaeli,” though this time, the union of tunes congealed into the likes of a woman’s voice; one she knew exceedingly well. The fibres at the nape of her neck stood to end, and something within the pit of her stomach roiled. 


Her sister was here; or at least, nearby. 


“Bonny trick,” she muttered before she started forward again. The ethereal swarm moved apace once more, seeming to move the world around them.


“Sweetling,” they said in a ghostly guise of Pieta’s affection, that singular word constricting like brambles around her heart.


“…fuck you,” she whispered, her breath shaken and chilled,her sword-arm tensing.


It was Gharen that lowered his weapon first, silently studying the otherworldly court they had found themselves amongst. 


“Lass,” he said, a leather-bound palm finding her shoulder,“Maybe they nae mean tae torment, but help.”


Doubt lingered like a sodden fog over the young woman. Yet she breathed out a concession, sheathing the longsword before she spread both arms out. The torch swept through the nearest of the wisps, which but dispersed and rekindled upon her gloved hand; flame though it appeared, it was cold she felt seep through the leather.


“Ifn’ ye know where she be,” she started, lashes drifting over her lit blue eyes, wherein she saw the face of the woman that had been the sole bearer of her trust, keeper of her faith, “Show me.”


Her eyes opened to find the choir of spirits silenced and gone, leaving them to the solitary comfort of the torch she held.


“Oh, aye, Gharen.Verra ‘elpful,” she seethed with chilly bitterness before starting forward again.  Then in the distance, some degrees to the right, a sole wisp emerged once more. 


Qaeli and Gharen shared a glance before their pace quickened. Soon they discovered that the singular path branched into many, suddenly spreading into a web of haphazardly-arranged bridges. This time she took a moment to study what laid before her, noting that some of the connections were either rotted through or damaged to questionable degrees. After plotting out her course she began again, carving as clear a path toward that beckoning light as she dared. Only one choice turned to hazard, with rope and timber snapping and cracking beneath the Highlander’s weight. The man had the reflexes of a coeurl, however, and quickly sprung clear of his danger. 


When they reached the awaiting remnant, the light it cast gave proof to another steeply-inclined corridor just beyond it. From its depths arose a scent exceedingly sweet, enough to force Qaeli’s nose to wrinkle and win a grimace from her companion.


“Oi… Azeyma pass a blustah down there or summin’?” she sneered before starting down the tunnel. For a breath, she paused to glance back for the wisp that showed the way, but it had vanished altogether, and with it the chill that had spread so sudden and complete.


The descent was as long as the trek to the first fork they had encountered, though here there were signs of life, albeit recently expired; vermin and reptiles, even a particularly albino scalekin with blind eyes and a razor maw among them. They all appeared to have simply lain down to sleep, but their absolute stillness conveyed the truth. Their flesh gave off a waft of steam, yet there were no signs of deliquescence. 


“Since when did a corpse smell o’ roses?” Gharen asked as hepassed by the albino. 


“Since when did dead girls start travelin’ wiv quislings?” None of this held contract with what made sense.


“There’s ligh’ ahead,” she cautioned before dipping the crown of the torch into a puddle of mossy water. It occurred to her that she had begun to hear the trickle of water somewhere in the distance.

The darkness did not last long, for the light she spoke of grew brighter by the yalm. The path turned right, and opened into another large cavern.  Here the sound of waters was prevalent, its presence resulting in stalactites and stalagmites that heavily populated the space.

Toward the centre of the chamber, a hot spring sat, drinking in what appeared curiously liken to lunar light; yet to be so far below, such seemed implausible. 


To the right and out of view, voices could be heard, hushed though they were. Qaeli drew her bow forward, quietly nocking a black-lacquered arrow of serrated tip while Gharen held his spear low. With a nod they took a hunched run, steps soft as down as they claimed a better vantage in the shadows, behind a deposit of stalagmites. 


They didn’t dare to breathe.


Slow and careful, they rose from their hunched postures to peer through the valleys between the spikes that shielded them, though what Qaeli saw sent another chill straight to the bone, threatening to choke a gasp from her suddenly crowded lungs. 


Atop a roughly hewn climb of steps, bathed in torchlight, stood Orastos, fair of hair and face and ever so lean, another towering man she knew not, and a third. 


Twelve save me. Pieta.


Her cloak puddled at her feet, Pieta was dressed in dusky leathers that covered all but her arms; those arms, once so strong in betrayal of her slim build, now sleeved in strange tattoos. Her cheeks and brow were given to the same.


They stood around a dais that seated a tome, weathered and cracked by time and disuse. The air around it was curious, not unlike the scintillation that wavered above stone and steel when burdened heavily by the sun. 


The two men were locked in discussion while Pieta stood quiet, her right hand resting atop the pommel of her axe—another revenant of the past—the blade as keen and polished as they day it had been put to rest with its wielder. The flat of the steel sported a beveled ring, which housed a swan in flight—the sigil of their legacy.


This was all wrong. So wrong. How could she be standing there, as proud and able as she had been before the sickness took her to bed? Why was she standing with Orastos, her lover in life and betrayer in death? 


How?


Why?


When? 


Qaeli’s teeth ground together as her disbelief swelled. Gharen must have seen it, for his hand found her arm with an iron grip. It was enough. With a glance above, she nodded to her companion.


A single tear scorched a path down the younger sister’s cheek, and almost as if she heard or smelled it, Pieta turned her eyes in their direction.


They had been like that when they were together, an artifact commonly associated with twinborn, yet so relevant to them despite their distance in years.  Qaeli had felt it earlier in their descent.


The two men did not miss the sudden shift in interest, turning attentions in the same heading.


“Have we company at last?” the betrayer asked, the vestige of a smile creeping to fruition.


The mountain of a man, hooded and dressed in furs, drew a savage-looking kris, laying his palm over the tome before him; the wavering air seemed to wind about his hand in response. 


Though they were yet shrouded, Qaeli herself to be exposed. 


“How’d ye dae i’, Ors? Five years she’s gone. An’ there she stands. Or somef’in’ in ‘er skin.”


Orastos smiled that crooked smile of his, the one Pieta had loved so much. “Do you not agree that love transcends death?” he asked as he reached aside to lay his hand upon Pieta’s cheek in a lover’s caress. She did not shy away, though she did not bend to the touch, either. No, those green eyes remained fixed upon the sister that lurked in the shade.


The other man began to mutter something, a chant perhaps.


“Pieta,” Qaeli said after forcing down the impulse to scream. “D’ye know who I am? D’ye know where ye are?” 


The answer came almost instantly, “Of course I remember you.I am where I am meant to be, sweetling.” Pieta’s grip took to her axe, and she brought it a readied pose before her.


The words were damning, a knife to the bowels. “Fer th’loveye bore me wiv tha’ name, ask ye’self… D’ye e’en know ‘ow ye be ‘ere?! Ye be pointin’ tha’ axe a’ ye own sistah!” She jolted to her feet, whirling to train that arrow between the eyes of the man next to the geist of her sister. 


Orastos gave the answer, gesturing to the man behind him.“Good Fulcrest saw to the deed,” he began, taking a step forward and down; Qaeli’s arrow followed appropriately. “Quite astonishing, isn’t it? Ripped straight from the heavens themselves.”


“Fer wha’ purpose?”


“I missed her.”


“Fuck you.”


“I fear she would disapprove.”


“Answer th’question.”


“The reason would offer you no comfort or closure, sadly.  But know that her purpose is an important one.”


“An’ the ink?”


“We needed a conduit, yes? Something to mediate between this world and what lies beyond. Spirits are fickle things, after all.” He glanced back to Pieta, his smile gaining by the moment. “You surprise me, Qaeli. Are you not happy to see your sister?”


“Dae she look ‘appy t’see me?” she responded, the cord creaking as she tightened the draw on the bow.


Orastos sighed with an amused edge of defeat, “I fear our sweet Pieta doesn’t appear happy for much these days. I confess it would warm the heart to hear her laugh again.”


Qaeli spit to the side, “I would ‘ear me sistah laugh ‘gain,as well, but eithah in memory or th’halls o’whate’er gods will ‘ave us. Nae this… jape. This hollow impersonation.”


“I assure you, she is as genuine as you could hope. Truly, I wish the two—“ 


A sharp whistle pierced the air as the arrow was loosed from its taut hold, soaring true for the target she had set the moment it was raised. However, metal  chimed against metal as the steel swan of Pieta’s axe intercepted the killshot, sending the weighted arrow clattering down the steps.


As the blade moved away, Orastos’ smile remained. Delicately he brushed a few of Pieta’s silver fringe from her face. “I’ve always loved that about her. As strong as she is beautiful. But, one should digress, for it seems the hour of tongues is past,” he lamented, metal keening in a different tone as two hooked blades sprung from each of his sleeves.


“Jes’ one more question, afore I part ye heart from ye ches’.” 


“I am sure your sister would insist that I grant you thatmuch at least.”


“’ave ye met me friend Gharen?”


Like a bolt of black lightning, the Highlander crashed down from the darkness above, driving his spear down for Orastos’ head. At the last, both he and the woman beside him sprung away, though one of the hooking barbs of the spear caught the former at the shoulder, tearing a jagged strip down his collar in his escape. Another arrow screamed through the air, heading for the traitor’s throat, but where the tip should have pierced his neck, his hand took the impact.


Gharen gave a ‘tsk’ before vaulting from his precarious station, taking his stance beside Qaeli—whose blade was now drawn—at the foot of the steps.


Orastos breathed doggedly, that smile wiped clean from his face as he stared at the barbed tri-point arrowhead that had punched through his hand. Brazenly (and perhaps foolishly), he ripped the arrow from his hand with an agonised scream. 


At the crest of the steps, Fulcrest continued to blather in a foreign tongue, the otherworldly haze about the snaking up his arm like ghostly, boneless fingers.


Pieta, initially seeming perplexed by the blows Orastos took, leapt from her vantage, employing an impossible celerity that brought her down upon Qaeli with a crash, though both she and Gharen danced away in time to avoid collision. She was on her little sister immediately, however, the heaving strokes from the axe hammering her into a defensive system of parrying and dodging.

Gharen looked on briefly, torn between the impulse to protect the young woman he had come to known as friend and equal, and honour the pact set between them: When this moment came, if it came, he would leave the sisters to sort out their own business. Honour won the moment, and he turned his spear upon the two men, specifically Fulcrest. Though he had no inkling of what was being done, he reckoned it devoid of benefit. 


However, that instant of reticence proved too long, for Fulcrest let out a baritone, almost draconic roar before the hand that laid entrenched in the aetherial curiosity suddenly snapped up to seize the pained Orastos by the throat. Like one caught in a fierce electrical current, the wounded man froze, pupils wide and mouth gaping as the spines of inexplicable matter slithered into it. 


As the prayer ended, the convulsions began, violent and sporadic. Spittle and foam began to pour from Orastos’ orifices, even his freshly opened hand and shoulder while that same sweet aroma permeated the air. Then as soon as they began, he froze once more as that serpentine blade slipped into his stomach as though it were a sodden burlap bag; instead of blood, however, what appeared to be ash rained down from his opened abdomen, pouring endlessly until the man’s body hung limp and ragged in Fulcrest’s hand. 


The sudden shower upon the stairs caught the attention of the dueling sisters, who appeared quite shocked by what had transpired whilst they fought. 


“Rastos!” cried Pieta, breaking off from her fight in time to witness her one-time lover’s rags flung to the pool at the centre of the chamber, dried and ghostly essence streaming in the wake.

For what came next, none save Fulcrest were prepared.


In the instant the emptied corpse touched the water, a great maw burst from the depths, consuming Orastos and sending a shower of water and algae about the chamber. A deafening roar filled the environs, causing the calcified spikes to tremble, chip and snap free, raining down upon all. 


Qaeli snatched her sister by her collar, wrenching her toward the entrance of the cave with all the haste and strength she bore, whilst Gharen nimbly leapt to the safety of the hollow they had taken refuge behind earlier. Only Fulcrest remained rooted and altogether undisturbed.


As the deluge of stone and water subsided, the full evidence of the cause became clear: slowly climbing from the pool, mutated and grotesque with flesh sloughing from skull and hide alike, was something akin to a wyvern co-populating the frame of a voidsent. Like a hydra it stood upon four hulking legs, with a tail lined of blade and spike, its emaciated torso pulsating with plainly divulged ribs as it breathed rapidly, leeching oxygen from the chamber. Where the wings of a wyvern might have been in place of arms, frames of bone and what appeared to be steel remained, devoid of canvas to fill for flight. Given how sharp and finely honed each tine appeared, however, what it lacked for in flight it made up for bountifully in fight (leastwise in appearance).


The scent of roses no longer filled the senses, but rather that of rotted death, flush with gut-wrenching prevalence of bilious putrefaction. 


Though the creature seemed in its death throes and blind, it stretched at least five yalms, and where there was flesh, it rippled with muscle and scales of onyx. 


Languidly its head moved as if surveying the room, nostrils flaring and compressing with sulfuric puffs as it took in its surroundings. A fresh slop of flesh slid from its jaw, landing with a sizzling plop at Gharen’s feet, motivating theman to backpedal ever so slowly.


“…dinnae f’ink this were wha’ they meant wiv ‘dravanian burial ground’,” Qaeli said.


“Impressive, is it not?” spoke Fulcrest at last as he clapped the tome shut and descended the steps, his tone rich with an accent neither Qaeli or Gharen recognised. “You are witness to the supreme evolution of magicks the infants of Arrzaneth and Padjal could never hope to achieve.” A thick hand gestured upturned toward the yet docile horror. “Rent from the void, amalgamated to a disassociated host, given the spark of life through Umbral affectation,” his gaze then turned to Pieta, a smile transmitting through the thick of his sable beard, “Tempered by runic arcanima, the very same that keeps you bound to this world.”


Qaeli looked from the mage to the beast, then to her sister, plainly confused. Gharen seemed to fare little better.


It was Pieta that seemed to connect the verbose pieces, looking down to her arms. “… This is why I am here… to funnel control for this monstrosity?”


As the truth dawned upon the younger sister, silver fury flashed within her gaze, which turned hard upon the warlock. Before she managed to give voice to the eloquent promises of skull-fucking that roiled on the tip of her tongue, Fulcrest lifted a staying hand. It was then that Gharen and Qaeli realized they could not move, trapped in a paralytic glamour. “You would know why.  The simplicity of the truth is rather embarrassing. To magnify the connection, beast and median must be derived from similar origin. Were one full of life—such as myself—to inscribe the runes upon their person and attempt communion with the void, his livelihood would be sapped within moments.”


“So ye toy with the dead tae save ye’self?” Gharen glowered with indignation, leather creaking as he gripped his bloodied spear tighter, yet still it could not be raised.


“You would have my work go to grass for sake of sparing one forgotten soul the travail of crossing the Umbra to Hydaelyn?”


“Why her,” Qaeli’s nostrils flared, but she found she could achieve little else, “Thousands o’ripe bodies put t’the earth e’ery day. Why her?”


“Experimentation,” Fulcrest replied, his expression quizzical, “How many possess the arts to not only draw a soul back to its body, but restore flesh dissolved by time; to reconnect nerve, tendon, muscle and bone to such exacting perfection that the subject is as whole as she was in life?


None. I deserve your gratitude.”


“I be full tired o’ pricks like ye’self impressin’ ‘pon me wha’ they f’ink be owed. I’ve ‘ad ‘nough o’ye gnatterin’. Rathah be dead.”


Fulcrest seemed at once disappointed and amused. “A pity, to possess such vigor, and be so prepared to thrust it aside. Very well. I would not deny a grieving sister her parting wish.” With barely a glance to the beast that had been listing obediently for the duration, the monster let out a keening growl that turned into a soul-piercing screech. Its rib cage expanded and contracted rapidly once more as its meatless wings flexed wide. With flesh yet sliding from its ruined body, it came at them.


Death came for every warrior, and for Qaeli and Gharen, who had witnessed and dealt their share, there was little to fear. And yet, the idea of being savaged by this blasphemy, unable to lift arms in even attempt to defend themselves was a disgrace of the highest magnitude.  Nevertheless, they were ready.


Pieta, however, was not. 




She leapt forward, placing herself between her sister and the animated mutation. 


The gesture seemed to delight Fulcrest, though his words were lost amongst the thundering of the undead hybrid’s stampede.

“Pieta, don’t. Please!Run!” Qaeli screamed in futility at the back of her sister’s head, unable to move, unable to assist, unable to do as she pleaded, even.  Fast as her sister seemed to be (much faster than she remembered), the thing she faced was death embodied. Pieta had always known her limits, and this foe was far beyond them. 


Qaeli could but watch as her sister spared her a momentary glance; and for the first time in over five years, she was graced by her smile.


So why did she feel like her heart was about to be ripped from her chest (and not by the slavering void mutant)?


The answer came in the flash of Pieta’s axe plummeting down upon her left arm. Anyone else and the keen blade would have been halted by either bone or fear; it was not so with her, severing the limb just beneath the elbow and sending a jet of black fluid into the air. 


She made no sound.


The thing from the pit, however, suddenly lurched back with what seemed an agonised scream.  Though it sported no fresh wound, its body began to convulse as it began to thrash wildly, a tine from a nonexistent wing snapping free.


Surprise flashed over Fulcrest as the stray javelin nearly reached his chest before it dissolved into a line of ash. 


Effortless as it appeared, it proved distraction enough, as his glamour shattered, freeing Qaeli to pull a collapsed Pieta from the rampaging horror, and Gharen to set upon Fulcrest with all of the fury characteristic to a dragoon of his calibre. 


The chamber shook as the beast flailed, stalactites crashing down upon its rapidly dismantling body as it plummeted into the waters from whence it emerged, sending another mighty rush of tainted waters around it.


Gharen’s spear slammed and deflected from nothingness again and again as Fulcrest backpedaled up the steps, ultimately reaching the dais where the tome remained. Smiling glibly at his assailant, the warlock reached a blind hand for the book, only to find a scorching reception from an angry red wisp. He yelled in pain, snatching his seared hand back in time to find a spear-point through his flank. A grunt bubbled from his throat before a burst of flaming force slammed into Gharen, launching him spear and wielder down the steps.


Yet composed, Fulcrest turned his focus upon the book he coveted, only to find that it was wreathed by a dozen of the irate spirits. 


With a spat curse, an umbral mirror opened behind him, into which he disappeared before it collapsed upon itself in a plume of shadowed smoke.


Meanwhile, in the same hollow that Gharen had taken refuge within before, Qaeli cradled Pieta in her arms, stroking her silverine hair. Her body had already begun to wither, the binding effect of the array etched into her body broken with the severing of her arm. 


Though they burned beneath her lashes, the younger sibling brooked no tears, just as Pieta had commanded in her waning days on that bed so many years ago. 


“Ye damned fool,” she whispered, “’ow did ye e’en know tha’would work?”


Pieta gave a ghost of a smile, her eyes lapsing now and again. “I didn’t. Somehow… seemed preferable to you being eaten, though.”


Qaeli wet her lips before pressing them to her sister’s crown, holding her dwindling form against her as tight as she dared.


“I have… seen things, known them, since I was brought back,”Pieta continued in a voice as hushed as a clandestine lover’s, “I knew what I was. I knew how wrong… wrong it was for me to be here again.” Her remaining hand clutched at the fur that lined Qaeli’s cloak. “I knew you would find me. I just couldn’t…” She coughed, a dribble of that bleak fluid emerging through the rictus of her smile. “I couldn’t say ‘no’. I was weak. My words… my hands were my own, and then they weren’t. I’m s-sorry, Qaeli.”


“Nae… I be sorrae. I doubted who ye were. I dinnae f’ink ye could be real.”


“I’m not,” Pieta said with a hoarse laugh, “Just a spectre.”


By now, Gharen had recovered from the blow he took, though it had left an ugly pock upon his breastplate. 


“Lass,” he said softly while taking a crouch beside the two sisters, “Ye should see this.” He gestured toward the top of the steps, where the ring of furies had bloomed into another cloud of the blue wisps the duo had encountered earlier. By the second more appeared, flooding the taint-scarred room like a flowering shower of mystic fireworks. 


Their voices were joined in harmonious lilt, albeit their tongue was again foreign to ears of the travelers.


“…they were with me,” Pieta said, her paling face now alight with the gentle radiance given by the wisps. “They couldn’t intervene... but I… they told me you were here.”


Qaeli stared in wonder at the dense system of lights before them. “But why?” she found herself asking.


“A gift,” Pieta said, “The book… bring me the book.”


Gharen brought it without hesitation, and it proved a point of focus for the wisps, which followed as though it were their anchor. Carefully he propped it before Pieta, who turned a languid smile up to him. “He looks sadder than you, sister, and he doesn’t even know me.”


The grizzled fighter offered a strained smile, while Qaeli chuckled. “’e’s a good man. Jes’ haunted, like mos’ o’ us.”


Pieta’s green eyes remained fixed to Gharen’s face for several long moments. “May you find peace, ser… Thank you, for helping my f… foolish sister.”


“How could I refuse,” Gharen half-stated, “Family… wha’s more important?”


The sisters looked to each other once more before Pieta turned her eyes to the book. She released Qaeli’s cloak to reach for the book, steadily flipping page after page. “Fulcrest’s magicks… what he did… is in a stage of infancy. There is… more that he can do with the proper knowledge. The median can… can be impervious to abeyance or destruction. Experiment, as he said…”


Her hand stopped upon a page comprised of arcane shapes and texts that meant nothing to Qaeli or Gharen, but Pieta stared at them intently while the song of the wisps filled the silence, until at length she reached for her little sister’s hand. 


When their hands joined, Qaeli’s world suddenly went to white. 


Weightless, she looked about and found nothing. She opened her mouth to cry out, but neither sound or heat of breath passed her lips. There was nothing here.


Except a distant sound. 


A faint whisper, at first, like crystal chimes singing in the wind. Steadily it grew louder, or closer, she could not distinguish the difference. 


A blue light flickered somewhere in the distance, trailing fast like a shooting star. Another streamed beside it, then another, and another. Now a row of untold numbers lit up the whitescape, the singing growing louder with each streamer that appeared. 


The lights fanned out in myriad directions, rapidly forming seemingly errant shapes.


The song was now all around her; voices of children, men,women, beast and alike, a booming chorus that may as well have been the whole of the world.


The lights converged and spread into their vectors, until they erupted in a flash that was somehow more blinding than this space that surrounded her. Her eyes closed to shield herself from the radiance, but like blinking into the sun, it left the briefest imprint upon the backs of her lids: a diamond, or a crystal?


Suddenly Qaeli was back in the blue-lit cave once more, her sister’s cold hand clutched to hers, and Gharen’s confused eyes upon her.


She realised she was sweating with profusion.


“Do you see?” Pieta practically breathed out, smiling with that common tenderness she had wielded with as much aplomb as her axe. 


“I…” Qaeli was crying now, her breathing coming with difficulty. Still, somehow, she smiled in return, nodding. “I see. I see, sistah.”


“That’s good,” she whispered, her eyes turning ponderously to Gharen. “She… was always quick to see what she… what she wanted. Could turn a blindman’s eye to anything she didn’t.”


Qaeli laughed, a musical note fraught with sorrow, joy, and many other distinctions she could maybe never understand.


“She got tae see ‘er sister ‘gain,” Gharen said, bringing the book to a close. 


“But not how she wanted,” said Pieta, blinking back up to her weeping sister. “Sweetling,” her hand moved free of their grip in order to touch upon those tears. “You have grown so much, endured even more. Father would be proud.”


Ginger was the touch that cupped Pieta’s hand, which had gone grey as a crone’s. Even so, she pressed repeated kisses to that leathery palm before bringing it to her cheek again. 


“An’ ye be beautiful,” she whispered. All around them, the wisps sounded an echo. 


Beautiful.


The green had begun to fade from Pieta’s eyes, though the light given from the wisps infused them with fresh lustre. 


“It’s time.”


“I know, dearlin’… I know,” Qaeli said, though her insides screamed otherwise.


Don’t go.


Don’t leave me again.


Please, stay.


“Rest… dream o’ tha’ morn’ when we stole Father’s sloop.  Th’gold waters as th’dawn broke th’horizon. Th’winds so cool an’ swift as though sent by Llymlaen ‘erself. I were wearin’ tha’ blue bandana wiv stars ye bought fer me nameday. Remembah?”


Pieta’s eyes had closed, though she whispered ‘I remember’in response.


“From Aleport tae naewhere, we sailed. Found tha’ lil’ island way out in th’drink, gulls o’erhead, lil’ tangs nibblin’ at our toes when we settled on th’tideline. I showed ye wha’ I’d learned wiv th’reed flute on me second voyage. Ye sang along wiv me. Ye always ‘ad such a pret’y voice. I thought th’gulls agreed.” 


She breathed a breath of loving remembrance. When she looked down, she realised Pieta had gone to absolute stillness.


A tremour rippled from sole to crown, culminating in a final rush of salty tears. Silent, she hunched protectively over her sibling, trembling as she wept.


A mournful aria filled the chamber, and Gharen bowed his head, uttering a hopeful prayer for the fallen woman.


“None will disturb ye e’er again,” Qaeli promised her silent sister. “Ye’ll return t’tha’ island, an’ res’ undah Llymlaen’s watch.”


When she had the strength and will to move, she sheathed her sword, gathered up her sister—now a waif’s burden in her arms—and rose to her feet, the lamentation of the wisps continuing all around them. Before she could step forward, one of the small spirits descended, resting petal-soft upon Pieta’s brow. Somehow, beneath that soft glow, her face seemed young again, and at peace.


All at once, the hushed litany went so silence, and the lights began to gutter out one by one, until that singular reminder lingered, and it soon followed. Even with the strange rays of light punching through the ceiling of the chamber, it somehow seemed darker than before.


Looking to Gharen, Qaeli offered a wistful smile. “Time t’go home, Gharen. Nae need t’go chasin’ fer Sioflame’s answers anymore. F’ings will work out. Best they work out wiv ye present. An’ tha’ book.”


“Aye… perhaps,” conceded Gharen, looking about the ruin of the chamber, scowling at the sight of the viscous pool that yet bubbled with the decaying monstrosity it had engulfed.


“Just one thing, lass,” he called after the young woman as she started up the corridor that had conveyed them here; she paused, waiting.


“Wha’ did ye see?”


She smiled her dimpled smile before she turned away once more.


“The answer.”

RE: The Answer. [OoC Welcome] - Lady Whiteraven - 11-10-2013

Loved it, and it really makes me want to solve the rp issue between Qaeli and Skaen . . . namely we haven't had any lol. And meet Gharen too! Well done, it was great!

RE: The Answer. [OoC Welcome] - TheLastCandle - 11-10-2013

This was a great read, forum formatting issues aside. Thanks for sharing, Qaeli. Big Grin

RE: The Answer. [OoC Welcome] - Anzio - 11-11-2013

Excellent piece. I totally cried towards the end Cry

RE: The Answer. [OoC Welcome] - Qaeli - 11-11-2013

Thank you three for your comments. I truly appreciate the feedback.

A'nzil, I'm glad the emotional impact was there. Having a sister I've not seen in a few years myself, I got a bit bleary-eyed writing that final part.

RE: The Answer. [OoC Welcome] - Tobias Nightbringer - 11-22-2013

Beautiful, utterly beautiful. I found myself quickly immersed by the tone and atmosphere that was set. There might be a one technical issue that I'll bring up in PM but nothing so jarring that I could not enjoy how wonderfully this was written. 

Pacing was great, details were enough to present a vivid image to the reader (at least to me). If only I could hold a candle to this kind of fine writing!