The gray clouds in the sky appeared dense and heavy. They drained the sun’s warmth and filtered its light to a few silvery rays which basked the entirety of the land into a pale vista. The swaying strands of grass lost their verdant green and seemed coated in a layer of ash. The flowers clutched in the elf’s hands, once a bright and vibrant azure, were reduced to a dolor gray-blue. Even the trim on his robe, a glimmering gold, became a dusty yellow.
Mirus stood before his mother’s grave. A decade ago, a well-placed bribe accepted his mother in a cemetery usually reserved for human merchants and minor nobles. The elven alternatives often ran in disrepair and hosted a variety of criminals. He sought something better for his mother. Consequently, her name, etched in granite, appeared as clean as the day he lowered her coffin into the ground. He made a mental note to give his personal thanks to the groundskeeper.
He ran his long elven fingers across the name. He felt its rough texture antagonize his fingertips. He permitted her memory to permeate through him. Willing to sacrifice everything for him, his intervention only damned them both. The glass jar hung heavy in his robe.
Taking the glowing vessel from his pocket, he inspected it as he had done in the Ravenspire Castle. Sealed with a metal latch wrapped around the glass, abyssal runes ran across the lid and upper lip. The circular geometric pattern they formed represented the nature of the soul. As circles never terminate at a designated end, but swirl forever in their single line, the soul alone moves from one realm to another, caught in an endless parade through eternity. A perpetual source of energy, he harbored little doubt as to the daegon’s predilection to their collection.
He spent the last few months studying the jar. He discovered the runes hid an enchantment which locked the soul within its walls, but after meticulous research, he found no reason to believe that opening the latch would jeopardize his mother’s soul. On the contrary, the simple movement of unlatching the lid would allow her to move from this realm to the next. A decade of forbidden magic, an impossible journey into terra abyssa, and a loss from which he’s yet to heal led to a single flick of his fingers.
He placed the glass vessel atop the headstone. Its gentle glow cast the name of his mother in a dance of light and shadow. His fingers drummed across the granite. He always thought of what he might say in this moment, but now that the opportunity arose, his words failed him. He paused for a moment and cast his eyes downwards.
He remained silent for a long time.
“I understand,” he finally spoke. “I never thought I would understand your decision, but I do now.”
Another pause punctuated the silence of the cemetery.
“I’m sorry,” he resumed. “In the last moments of your life, you saw me gamble mine. We both knew I would never win. You saw me lose everything you sacrificed. I’m sorry.”
He wanted to say more. In the last few months, he practiced monologues, attempting to capture his feelings into words. In a few shameful moments, he even thought himself eloquent, but as he stood under the gray sky looking over the mother of his grave, those few short words seemed to summarize everything he could possibly say. He took a deep breath and released a sigh as he felt a weight on his chest.
With nothing left to say, he carefully wrapped his hands around the jar and poised his thumb beneath the latch. While doubt still pressed on the back of his mind, he couldn’t keep his mother’s soul on his desk for the rest of eternity. He suspected Intekon might lay one final trap, but his exhaustive research proved otherwise. He needed to trust and believe both himself and his mother were ready to move forward. Every day he felt uncertain, he delayed her passage through the next life.
As he pressed his thumb, he felt tears well into eyes. With a sudden pop, the glass vessel opened. Although he knew otherwise, he hoped her spirit would arise to reassure his decision. Instead, a swirl of blue vapor sprinkled with a few cheerful glimmers emanated from the jar. A soft light beamed from its essence, casting the court mage into a halo of illumination. He felt a warmth in the air as the amorphous cloud almost appeared to pause and hang in the air, almost as if to stare longingly at the elf who freed her, before it rose into the gray skies. He felt her ascension deep within his heart. A few minutes passed before the last remnants of the wisps dissipated.
Mirus was, at last, alone.
He stood at his mother’s grave a little longer. He sought any sort of affirmation or assurance, but none ever came. For ten years, he believed he needed permission to release his grief. He sought a sign or an omen that could relieve him of the regret. In reality, though, nobody save himself could release him from his grief. He swallowed hard. After a decade of obsession, he lifted his feet and walked away from the grave.
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The gray clouds began to mist. The air itself became a damp cloth of pallid gloom. The water seeped into his robe. He felt the moist weight bare down into his shoulders and run across his arms. An accompanying chill dug deep into his breast. He wanted to leave and take the carriage back to his study, but he couldn’t deprive himself of his final duty.
On the other side of the cemetery, in a lonely corner, a simple grave marker read Syma’s name. When he arrived in Ravenspire a month ago, he personally delivered the news to her parents. Instead of telling them she perished in The Abyss, however, he only explained they went on a field study together and vicious circumstances prevented her return. Mirus would never forget the deep anguish that cut into the countenance of her father nor the cry of grief that erupted from her mother’s throat.
The elf offered his deepest condolences to the couple and apologized. Their sorrow evaporated within a moment as her father flung slurs and abuse towards the court mage. His words burrowed beneath his skin as her father levied the entirety of the blame on him. With Syma as his apprentice, he should have looked after her safety and ensured her success. Mirus only replied with an acknowledgement of the fact as his throat otherwise struggled to say much else. Her father rather clenched his fist in response and struck the elf in the stomach. He accepted the blow and knelt in the dirt in pain.
Regardless, he paid for Syma’s funeral arrangements. Through his connections and more bribes, he secured a spot in the same cemetery. Only her parents and a few other servants from the castle attended. Without a body, they buried an empty casket in a symbolic show of finality. Now he stood over her grave, the dirt still fresh, but slowly melding into the earth. The falling mist sunk his boots into the soil. He wanted to say something, but no words could express the complex emotions scratching underneath his chest. Instead, he placed the gray-blue flowers at her headstone.
He stood for a long time. Even when he felt the presence of somebody else behind him, he refused to turn. His time in terra abyssa left an impression of that realm upon him that permitted him the ability to detect its presence. Without looking, he knew a daegon roughly wrapped in the guise of a human approached him. It walked with the same jagged steps as the daegon his mother summoned and stared at him with the same inhuman eyes.
“Intekon sends his regards,” the otherworldly creature spoke without a trace of sympathy, but still retained a hint of arrogance.
“I’m sure he does,” the court mage replied.
“You should feel honored. Besides being one of the few mortals to ever escape the wrath of an Abyssal Monarch, you managed to steal a soul from Its possession and now you occupy a flicker of recognition in Its mind.”
“You told Cynna to leave.”
The question masquerading as a statement gave the daegon pause, but it answered.
“Not me personally, but, yes, Intekon sent a messenger to relay her instructions to depart the country. You tried to make contact with her?”
“Of course, I did!” Mirus barked with unexpected passion. “Did you expect I wouldn’t use every resource available to save my apprentice? She alone held the key I needed to travel back to The Abyss and now she’s gone.”
“Perhaps another ten years of research will finally allow you back into our realm. That’s only a decade of torture at the hands of my lord. You paid the same respect to your mother.”
“Did you come for any other reason than to mock me?”
“Yes. I’ve come to deliver a warning. Your journey into terra abyssa and consequential confrontation with Intekon left an impression in the realm. As a foreign being who trespassed into our lands and deeply insulted an Abyssal Monarch, every daegon can detect your personal presence.
“It’s almost impossible to describe, but the closest approximation to a human sense is scent. You’ve left an odious odor in our realm and now all daegon knows your stench. If you ever travel into The Abyss again, every creature will know and Intekon will not be so willing to play games this time.”
“And why would you warn me of this? I would think Intekon would want this element of surprise.”
“Because Intekon wanted me to describe the pathetic features of your face once you realized there’s nothing you can do liberate your apprentice’s soul. She will be tortured for as long as eternity stretches, and her soul ripped to shreds. Your failure is complete and total. You alone bear the blame for her damnation.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
Mirus refused to give the underworldly creature the satisfaction of grief. Instead, he held his face in a permanent stony gaze towards the daegon. His eyes, however, betrayed a sense of sadness which it zealously imbibed, eager to please its master in the description of the depths of misery that resounded through his pupils, even if the perpetual scowl and upset brow refused to break down into outright mourning. Even the most minute movements of his retinas portrayed the profound sense of helplessness as the futility of his actions suddenly gripped his soul. The brief breaks in eye contact to cast his gaze downwards revealed the dejection that overwhelmed his senses.
“How disappointing,” the daegon feigned and then disappeared, satisfied in its mission and departed for its home realm.
Mirus turned back to the grave. Like his mother before her, he ran his fingers across the stone, allowing the rough granite to scratch against his skin. The mist transformed to rain and soon the elf felt the water soak completely and thoroughly into his clothes and undergarments. He wore the storm as it fell.
“Perhaps, one day I’ll earn the right to call you my daughter,” he spoke with finality. He turned away to depart from the cemetery, although he would never truly leave her behind.