Nethron had intentionally avoided the frenzy that followed the declaration by the mortal king and Omonrel’s cadre. There was nothing that he wished to add to the matter. In truth, he simply wished that the episode would pass both the mortal and angelic worlds by without any further thought. He had other objects for his own attentions.
Floating in his sanctum amidst his aura nexuses, he felt each pulse from each of the auras as they coursed through their various realms. He continually tried to follow them as they meandered into the Progenitor’s realm, but there his ability to see or feel or even sense them completely evaporated. Time and again he would try alternative approaches, but none made more progress than any other. All such efforts were utterly futile. I think the Progenitor is attempting to tell me something in all of that. It is time to let this quest be abandoned.
His other consuming obsession was the captivating force of the Silver Aura, his own creation. His spirit followed along the Silver Aura’s tendrils, feeling its connection to the mortal world as a series of ill-defined flickers. For each mortal, their flame of life seemed to dance through the other auras and skip through the Silver Aura, but at no point could Nethron grasp it. The same held for death. At the moment of a mortal’s death, he could feel the auras flowing through that mortal disperse. Their souls then whisked through realms the Aura Keeper could not even sense, but they momentarily crossed through the Silver Aura. They left upon it an imprint distinctive enough for Nethron to be convinced that mortality could be reversed with sufficient effort.
While he pondered what he observed, his vision flashed with images both familiar and novel. Again he saw the haunting visions of the Methrangian Emperor’s demise in blood and fire. He saw Forynda descending in a brilliant flash of white light toward the mortal world, Cyrona screaming at Omonrel and Parlon, a battlefield between two rivers with some tens of thousands lying dead or dying, and then something else. Or rather nothing else. Total blackness. It was an abyssal void with not a single trace of life or light. True oblivion.
He twisted and writhed trying to escape it, but the darkness persisted.
“Nethron,” a booming voice called out. “Nethron.”
At once he returned to the comfortable surroundings of his sanctum with Elaous floating underneath him.
“Oh, Elaous. I had not noticed that you entered,” the Aura Keeper said with stilted cheer. “Have you resolved all of your problems already? Is that why you have the time to come visit me?”
Elaous glared back blankly. He need not have said anything, but he began to speak in any case.
“There has been no progress,” the Guardian lamented. “Forynda demands retribution. Vorlan urges understanding. I only want order restored.”
“Retribution… understanding… No, I think that I cannot be of much use to any of you,” Nethron turned his head back toward his shards that represented the auras. “I have tried to remove myself entirely from these intractable matters.”
“That is precisely why Forynda and Vorlan have asked for you,” Elaous responded immediately.
Nethron’s detached amusement instantly collapsed. For Forynda and Vorlan to agree on something of this nature meant misery would soon be the Aura Keeper’s.
“And why does this honor fall on me?” Nethron asked sarcastically while floating from one of his shards to the others, but avoiding Elaous. “Surely there are others.”
“You were the only one who did not commit themselves in the vote,” Elaous said curtly. “That makes you unique.”
Nethron chuckled out of a sense of irony. His indecision had been a naked attempt to avoid the conflict altogether.
“Unique,” he mumbled aloud. Such a compliment was amusing to him given Forynda’s ordinary disdain for the Aura Keeper. “And what precisely is it that you believe that I can effectuate here?”
“Forynda and Vorlan both want you to reason with Omonrel, Parlon, and Jagreth. Determine whether a compromise can be had. Forynda is prepared to be accommodating,” Elaous said.
“Accommodating? Just how far would she be prepared to go?” Nethron asked mischievously.
Elaous shook his head.
“All of this is contingent on what they offer in return,” Elaous instructed the Aura Keeper. “Do not allow this to become a protracted engagement. The credibility of Forynda’s word is at stake.”
“Am I being asked or ordered? This is beginning to sound as though I have no choice in the matter,” Nethron said playfully.
The Guardian of Ceuna, however, did not reflect the slightest twitch of amusement.
“Our present predicament could not be more serious, Nethron. Try to understand that,” he scolded. “For the sake of all, you must accept.”
Nethron bowed graciously at Elaous, his eyes flashing to a warm crimson color.
“Well, since you are asking, I will accept. I would not do this simply to settle a quarrel between Forynda and Vorlan,” the Aura Keeper laughed. “That would set a dangerous precedent, after all.”
“Hm,” Elaous grunted in affirmation.
“Will you tell them that part, or should I?”
“I will do so.”
Rather than departing immediately, the Guardian’s gaze turned upward at the glowing argent shard representing the Silver Aura. Nethron wondered how long Elaous could avoid commenting on it as it lingered above the Aura Keeper.
“I sense that you have not yet taken my advice,” Elaous said mournfully. “We have already had one crisis. Do not contribute to another.”
“Once I understand what it is that I have discovered, I will speak to Forynda about it,” Nethron assured him. “I see no reason to trouble her with yet another item that will further burden her while she is already distempered.”
Elaous’s gaze then turned to Nethron himself. The Guardian’s stare was fearsome to behold, which was part of the reason he had been selected for the role in the first place. His very presence was often sufficient to settle most disputes. Forynda’s word may have been law, but Elaous was what gave those words force.
“Once we are fully extricated from the mortal world, this aura will have no purpose. You should abandon it at once,” Elaous declared.
The force of the Guardian’s declaration surprised Nethron.
“There is merit in it beyond whatsoever it could mean for the mortal world,” Nethron explained. “What it fully means, I do not know, but it warrants further study for our own sake as well.”
Shaking his head, Elaous grimly gazed back at Nethron.
“You have a mighty responsibility ahead of you. You need to be a peacemaker. We are all relying on you. I am relying on you,” the Guardian said.
“I will do my utmost,” Nethron said, smiling. “But this may be beyond saving.”
~~~
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Cesord knew his duties as the mayor of his small village of Gulnholn would periodically lead him to have to mediate conflicts. Most of those had heretofore been blessedly mundane affairs. A property dispute or a petty feud were the usual culprits. Adjudicating such matters never proved a strain on his abilities. The tumult resulting from the schism introduced by King Duronaht’s defiance and the angels who joined him proved to be an entirely different experience.
For days, impassioned farmers who had hoped that the angel Tathyk, patron of plants and agriculture, would one day share his bounties with them now protested that they would be denied that easy life. No matter how many times he reminded them that Tathyk was in favor of the separation, they persisted. As a consequence, he decided to summon the entire village. He ordinarily preferred to meet with each aggrieved party individually and establish a compromise in private. An issue as weighty as the angelic presence on Vorlanys, however, needed a different approach.
Before he could attempt to quell the village’s tensions, his own family faced its own divisions on the very same issue. Cesord lamented that he had grown distant from his third son, Ulford, who raised the fat and meat-rich Drifends some twelve miles from the village center. He had always reckoned that there would be time to make himself familiar again with his son. Fate had intervened cruelly against that plan. Rivalries amongst his children, none stronger than between Ulford and Lyfress, deepened the rift. It was a rivalry so deep that Ulford spitefully renounced the High Angel.
His heart weary, Cesord summoned his second daughter and his third son to his dinner table before he was to speak to the village. Without his own house ordered, he dare not show his face to the people. Facing his spurned son, the strongest and tallest of his spawn, was burden enough. Ulford scowled deeply, as he had for some years, nursing a rage that Cesord had never understood. They sat awkwardly across the stout table from one while Lyfress stood in her priestly robes behind her father.
“What’re you planning to say to me, father?” Ulford growled. “Nothing you can possibly say’ll make me change my mind.”
Cesord closed his eyes and prayed silently to the High Angel. Serene Forynda, lend me strength upon strength to endure this trial.
“Our lord is loyal to the Emperor and the Emperor is loyal to the High Angel, as we all must be,” he commanded. “You head your own household. You’re responsible for your own decisions. I can only…”
“You still think you can tell me what to do!” Ulford shot back. “Condescension. Always condescension!”
“That’s not my intention,” Cesord sighed.
“It’s what you’re doing,” Ulford scoffed.
Cesord again closed his eyes and sought what peace Forynda and her faithful servants could lend him. When he opened his eyes again, the world did indeed appear more placid even if his son did not.
“Is there a specific apology you want from me?” Cesord asked. Ulford didn’t respond. “I’ve done my best to understand your view. Without something more, I’m at a loss of what to offer you.”
Ulford’s eyes flashed. Cesord immediately regretted having appeared ignorant of what his son’s grievances were.
“You can’t figure that out after this long? Do I have to feed it to you with a spoon?” his son growled.
Cesord humbly nodded.
“Apparently so,” Cesord conceded simply to pacify his son’s rage. “I’m an old and foolish man and I’ve made more mistakes than I can remember.”
Ulford scowled even more deeply as his eyes scanned to Lyfress. Their father sighed and motioned to draw the attention back to him. With arms folded, Ulford shook his head.
“You’ve never once visited me since I moved out to my farm. I know you’ve visited the others. Don’t deny it,” his son said, his voice almost cracking in indignation.
“I’ve hosted you here,” Cesord responded with incredulity. “Not as often as I should have, but…
“Yah, make me come to your household!”
“My son, is this truly what this is about?” Cesord sighed, almost overwhelmed by the sheer pettiness of it all.
“It’s about what it represents!” Ulford barked. “Anyway, I’ve made up my mind.”
“This village will answer to the Emperor and swear its loyalty to Forynda. Are you prepared to live so firmly out of alignment with your peers?”
Ulford grinned and pointed eastward.
“I’m taking my family to King Duronaht’s lands. I know I’m not the only one. Others will come with me.”
Surprise overwhelmed Cesord. He had expected the ordinary course of an argument with his son, but not such a shattering declaration. However, Lyfress behind him only let out a long breath of palpable disappointment. That may have been too much for Ulford, whose wrath only built.
“And you’re mocking me, Lyffie?” he snarled. “If you had a family, you’d understand.”
“I have a family, brother. You’re part of it,” she riposted. Taking advantage of a stunned silence from her brother, she continued. “If you travel to Zarmand, I promise you that all of this will end in pain for you, your wife, and your children. Should Duronaht refuse to lay down his arms, and should the angels with him defy Forynda, the High Angel’s wrath will be furious.”
“And now threats? No no no no no. Everything you’ve both said just makes this easier. Goodbye,” he said, storming out of the room.
Lyfress moved to try to intercept him, but Cesord motioned for his daughter to stay back. It had been a lost cause from the outset. That the loss didn’t hurt more made Cesord wonder if there was some truth in what his son had said. Perhaps he didn’t care enough for it to hurt. That thought alone unnerved him.
“Are my remaining children with me at least?” he asked wearily.
Lyfress didn’t respond initially.
“Yes, father,” she finally answered.
Standing and breathing deeply, he straightened his aching back.
“I pray that there’s a better reception for me in the square,” he murmured.
Unfortunately, it was scarcely any better. While the village remained largely silent as he gave a short address on why the village of Gulnholn must remain loyal to the High Angel, that silence broke into bitter arguments as soon as he was done speaking. His extended family stood by his side, less Ulford’s contingent, to show support for their father. Other longstanding relations, however, caught Cesord off-guard by their vociferous attacks against him.
After a series of recriminations, the local tailor, a man named Todrehlt, stepped forward. He was perhaps the most striking man in town, tall and muscular with exceptional hair. As such, Cesord could not fathom why he would rank among the malcontents. Then again, millennia of wisdom, both from the angels and not, had warned against such men. The mayor felt blind that he hadn’t seen it before, however.
“You’re asking for blind obedience and for us to toss away everything that they’ll give us,” Todrehlt bellowed. “Our lives will all be lesser without them. What you’re offering is obedience for its own sake. Is there anything else?”
Even more cheers broke out as Cesord shifted his jaw, contemplating his response. Lyfress whispered in his ear that she could step forward and advocate on his behalf. Without even looking at his daughter, he motioned for her to stand back. Grumbles roiled through the crowd while they waited for him speak wise counsel as he so often did. However, he found his words wanting.
“Tell me, Todrehlt, have the angels ever intervened on your behalf?” Cesord asked. “I’ve known you since you were a baby and you live in the house next to my own. I never recalled such a thing.”
That elicited a modest chuckle from the gathering, even a polite one from Todrehlt himself.
“Not yet, but I think I can negotiate something out of them,” he boasted to mocking laughter. Cesord saw that this plainly irritated the tailor.
“Angels of Ceuna don’t enter into deals on the basis of your charms,” Cesord scorned the tailor. “What you are hoping for is no different than entrusting your hopes to any charlatan. You think that your hopes, your wishes, above all others will be fulfilled? You’re truly foolish enough to think such a thing?”
That insult was met with stony silence. The mayor suspected that the village didn’t know he was capable of being that direct. Cesord decided to seize the advantage.
“You pray for the random chance that you’ll catch an angel’s eye? Maybe with some of your shiniest ruby robes, perhaps?” he asked with a firm and stern face. The village laughed more freely at Todrehlt’s expense, though some clearly were annoyed by the dismissive treatment from the mayor. Cesord knew that there was no path to pacifying the whole of his people. He hoped to maintain at least those who had open minds.
“You don’t appreciate people with talent. It’s always been a weakness of yours,” the tailor responded, unfazed by the critiques. “Now we’re facing an opportunity to become greater than we’ve ever been, richer than we’ve ever been.”
“The world’s graves are filled with the countless thousands who have died because of others’ strivings for ‘greatness’, my friend,” Cesord scolded the wayward tailor.
“That’s something a jealous old man would say. You don’t understand what greatness even means. I…”
“Oh shove it up your ass, Todrehlt!” Hargyl, the craggy old “village mother” as she was known, hissed from her stump across from Cesord. After a stunned silence, uproarious guffawing brought much of the village low. That finally unnerved the tailor and his blustering demeanor broke into raw rage. “You’ve not earned the right to be that damn full of yourself. Anyone who can’t seam a dress nice and proper doesn’t have ‘talent.’”
Cesord smirked, but tried to suppress his approval of the coarse insult. Todrehlt simply picked up his torch and began walking off, followed by some nearly two dozen of his fellow villagers. Evidently, they, as Ulford had, had made set their minds as impermeable to reason. None, Cesord nor Lyfress nor any other citizen of Gulnholn protested. Once they had cleared, the mayor stepped into the center of the village square to address his people.
“My friends, we doubtlessly are not the only community to suffer such a division. The empire itself is splitting asunder,” he said mournfully. “But those who stand true to the High Angel will not be unrewarded. Ours is the righteous cause, uncorrupted and true. We must swear our lives to Forynda, not only for what we owe her, but for our own futures as a free people!”
“Hear hear!” Hargyl blurted out just as he finished.
That was met with a resounding battery of cheers by the remainder of Gulnholn. Though it felt a hollow victory in some ways, Cesord also sensed the approval of the High Angel to an extent he never had before. When he looked up at the moons in the sky above, he was certain that Forynda and her loyal angels looked upon his deeds with divine approval.