10 | Bladewielder
By the time he returns to the monastery, sunlight warms his back. Grateful the birds have fled, he is mostly unhindered by the returning hike. Everything hurts worse than it did yesterday, but he can wallow in his misery later. Nothing seems to have been destroyed in the dilapidated buildings. Even the door to his home sits as it was. Shoving his way through it, he finds Klia where he left her, though it’s likely been hours, sitting on the edge of his bed, arms wrapped around her knees, face buried in them. Her head snaps up at the sound of him, eyes wide, searching for her brother.
Eli is going to have to get on top of this before she breaks down into tears for the remainder of the day.
Setting his sickle aside, he crouches against the bed with some difficulty. “Girl, I need you to help me, this is very important, do you hear? There are many monsters in the woods. One took your brother when he ran into them. It did not hurt him, but we must chase them down and find them. But I cannot keep you and your brother safe if I do not understand what’s going on, do you see?”
He knows it is blunt and likely too direct for a child who may be younger than ten years. But he needs her to understand and doesn’t have time for waffling about. Every minute he is not chasing that monster down, the further it gets from them. Because it did not hurt Thistle immediately doesn’t mean it won’t get there with time.
To his relief, Klia nods, eyes still wide and glimmering with unshed tears. She’s stronger than he gave her credit for.
“Do you know why your father sent you here?”
Her eyes flicker away, a frown dimpling between her eyebrows. With her hand, she makes a gesture of uncertainty. A thought occurs to Eli he’d considered earlier and not followed up under the weight of Thistle's hatred.
Working extra on making his voice kind so she doesn’t mistake his question for unhappiness, he asks, “Can you speak?”
Again, her eyes cast down, lips pressing together, and that is enough of an answer for now.
“Come,” he says, taking her hand gentler than he did with Thistle's aggression and leading her to the dying hearth. He will have to buy paper at the village at the bottom of the monastery, to make this easier, but this will do for now.
Digging another scrap of charcoal from the hearth, he hands it to her. “Can you write?”
She nods, taking it.
“Write anywhere on the stone. Do you know why your father sent you here?”
Carefully, she traces out, He was upset.
A child’s view of the situation, certainly. Likely, she doesn’t know the reason behind it. “Were you two in danger?”
She nods.
“Was your father in danger?”
Another uncertain look, and she points to the first message once more.
Eli tries a different angle. “Is your father still in the city when he sent you here?”
She frowns, cocking her head.
Perhaps they grew up in a different place, though Eli doubts Abner would’ve left the heart of his creation. “You grew up in Monsetyra?”
Her expression clears a bit. She nods.
“Is your father still there? In Monsetyra?”
She scratches out, No city.
Eli frowns. “No city?”
City is dead.
Eli blinks. Their home is gone. The thought comes to him unbidden. It, of course, has been years—decades, perhaps—since he stepped foot in Monsetyra, and has always known that if he returned it would not be the same. Not since the experiments Abner and the others of the court performed.
Still, he closes his eyes for a moment, mourning a little more acutely the place he and Lyra and Abner spent many years full of memories.
It is all so much worse than he feared—this spreading mutation of the magic. He was holding out hope these monsters chasing the children were the most of it. He supposes he can no longer delude himself. Monsetyra was the glimmering capital of this queendom, full of the royal court and the highest warriors in the land in the palace walls alone, let alone the merchants and traders and everyday folk of great wealth in the lower rungs of the city.
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They had such a flourishing society, wealthy and hardworking, and they destroyed it all with greed. Eli cannot even be angry with his son, not when there are so many others like him. He was not the first but he dragged Eli into it whether he wished himself part of it or not.
Dragged his mother into it.
It is not enough of an answer.
“What do you mean by dead? All the people have left? Or it was destroyed?”
No one is there. All the buildings are falling down. Klia looks up at him with serious eyes.
“Is that where you were right before you were sent here?”
She nods.
“What were you doing there if the city is dead?”
Carefully, she draws something on a clear section of stone. A flower? Eli doesn’t recognize its shape, in particular, perhaps a lily. Many of the mutated plants and monsters seem to have taken the colors and shapes and characteristics of lilies. He knows not why, and doesn’t suppose he’ll receive the answer from this little girl.
When Klia doesn’t elaborate on the crude drawing, Eli asks, “What about a flower?”
She just points to it once more. Likely, she doesn’t know much more than that or expects Eli to understand but won’t be able to explain. Logically, he knows this but struggles not to grow frustrated. He will circle back to it if he can. Still, he is worried if he doesn’t answer questions quickly, she will realize fully that her brother is gone and dissolve into tears on him. He needs answers before this.
“Your brother has some sort of magic, do you know?”
She nods.
“It is bright, like pure light?”
Another nod.
“Do you understand that most people now who were given gifts by the Order don’t have them anymore? I no longer have it, you understand how strange it is your brother has it?”
Another nod.
Cautiously, he asks, “Did the Order gift you things like your brother has?”
She nods, taps the flower again, and points at Eli.
“My dear, I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”
She makes a motion he likewise doesn’t understand. Perhaps she has learned to speak with her hands, Eli knows others have their own silent language, but he has never had a chance or reason to learn. At his confused expression, she huffs an offended sigh and scratches out more words.
We have magic.
Eli grimaces. “No dear, I do not. Is yours like your brothers?”
Again, she points at Eli and nods, pointing at the flower.
“Klia, listen to me. My magic is corrupted, as is nearly every else’s since it changed. All of my skills and talents were stripped to their barest components. I no longer have rankings or anything of those natures. Even when the Order does speak to me, it is in riddles that are mostly unhelpful or unkind. I have no control over it. Thistle seemed to have some control over his, do you understand what I’m saying?”
For a long moment, she blinks at him, and he bites back his frustration enough to allow her to think. Then, she scoots around so her back is to him and pulls the shift off her shoulder. Eli cocks his head, squinting at the strange marking starting at the crest of her shoulder and down her back. It is a more graceful version of the lily she attempted to draw on the floor, with long petals and a stem. It doesn’t appear to be a tattoo or brand, or anything created by man. Eli puts a finger on it and finds it slightly depressed, a bump along her skin as a scar which healed downward rather than puckering up. Somehow, it gives off the faintest light which manages to appear dark as the deepest night.
Slowly, he turns his hand over and stares at the silvery mark along his palm, the single dot he received sometime when everything was falling apart. Barely does he remember how he received it and it has provided nothing of use to him in all these years. He’s tried to figure if it has any use, speaking to it as he spoke to the Order, moving his hand in any way possible, even nicking it with the tip of a knife. Nothing has ever hinted at the fact it may provide him with anything useful.
Something about the single point bears an uncanny similarity to whatever strange thing is on his granddaughter’s shoulder.
“Klia, what is it?” he murmurs.
Pulling her shift back in place, she wiggles back around and grabs the charcoal.
Our magic.
She seems quite convinced, even after Eli’s little speech. He is becoming less and less inclined to argue with her but is still confused as to why she is so certain.
Slowly, he uncurls his fingers and shows her his palm. “Is this what you think I have?”
It’s the first truly happy expression he’s seen on her face. She looks up at him as if she’s proven a point, and Eli can’t help but picture Abner in her place, the stubborn-headed little boy he was. It becomes all of a sudden too difficult to breathe.
“This doesn’t give me access to the Order, does yours?”
Twisting her mouth in a thoughtful frown, she takes his hand in both of hers, inspecting the dot and poking it with her thumb. Her hands are so small and smooth around Eli’s rough, wrinkled ones, the hands of a fighter long past his prime.
Her eyes focus on him, then, carefully, still keeping hold of his hand in one of hers, she reaches up, fingers hovering near his face. Eli half-expects bright white to flood her eyes as they had Thistle's since she seems so insistent they have the same magic.
Dark as ink pools instead, and her finger touches his forehead.
A series of liquid colors drip behind his vision, flashes of memories too quick to make out and too ancient to remember. Vines and petals surround him, growing from his skin, sprouting from the sun, before falling away completely, and he can breathe easily once more.
When it all passes, he finds his eyes squeezed shut, leaning forward where Klia has her two hands pressed to his chest to help keep him upright. Had it been his full weight, she wouldn’t have been able to be of much help. His hand burns, and he unwraps it from the clenched fist he unintentionally held, staring at the small silvery dot now grown into something resembling a flower. A bit like the one growing down Klia’s shoulder but not the same. Abner told him of plants so often—this one, strangely enough, Eli remembers.
A Sythara. Named for an ancient sword with fifteen petals as such. Because I was once a swordsman?
Carefully, he touches his finger to the center of it, wincing at the tender skin, and jumps when no voice appears, but a set of Order measurements, different but familiar.
Elijah Jyce
the Unknown, the Elder
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8/10 Buds | 5/10 Roots | 1/5 Filaments
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Stems
Bladewielder (15)
Letting out a huff of breath, he focuses on Bladewielder, not the Warrior title he once had, but similar enough.
Bladewielder | 15 Petals
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Human blood wields the sting of a blade, his hands are rough, his soul unmade.