I will not discredit the cowardice of those who toy with the dead and their tendency to hide away in darkness. Necromancy of the sun, however, is more depraved than I can express here. Its practitioners steal – from the very source – the light of life itself, a gift in which Elyn bathes the world, and corrupt it to the loathsome end of stuffing a corpse with crude animation.
-Excerpt from the journal of Mellina Tirivalo, University of Oakenhaven
image [https://storage.googleapis.com/rocky-production/story_images/big_6f8329a1e86dc85f56834b3e659b93da.png]
Light from the high sun draped over the chateau garden, glistening on droplets atop petals and leaves. Rain clouds had come and gone, leaving behind a cool crispness that carried sweet scents in the breeze. All servants of the Bisset household had gathered across rows of benches arranged for the occasion, facing an unattended stone podium. Pierrau himself was not in attendance, having rushed to the city for urgent work demands as usual.
In the front row sat the two Fenvari maids, whispering and giggling. The bells that decorated their hair – black, instead of their usual silver – chimed with a haunting, resonant tone as they bantered. A woman watched them from the back row, wearing her distaste for their behavior in plain sight on her face.
“You’ll deepen those frown lines if you keep that face up,” said the chipper, round-faced woman beside her – the head cook and longest-standing member of the kitchen staff. She nudged her with her elbow. “Where’s your son?”
“I don’t know,” said the second woman. “He said he didn’t wish to come. He’s getting to that age – rebellious, for the pure sake of being so.”
“Quite a time to exercise it. He ought to be here paying his respects, seeing as the man practically raised him!”
“What, and I was here doing a jig and twiddling my thumbs?” the mother chuckled. “We’ve all got our own ways of grieving. Just this once, I would like to choose leniency with him.”
The older woman regarded her with a stern glare. “If respect and etiquette never spited our emotions, Elliere, we’d have no need for them. A servant-child is best not instilled with too great a sense of individuality. Try as our Union might to pantomime preserving our personal autonomy, their customers have the final say in our duties and selves.”
“He is my son, first and foremost.” Elliere kept a cold, firm stare as she spoke. “A child is a child. Servant or not.”
“Very well,” said the older woman, tempering her tongue in spite of her own objections. Not one to engage in hypocrisy, she soured her lips and faced forward.
Elliere followed suit. Her gaze fell upon a yellow runner atop the podium, tracing the flourish around a white sun embroidered on it. Standing tall behind the structure was the fountain woman holding her jug, her stone face depicting naught but her diligence toward an unchanging, unending duty to cycle water. Elliere focused in on a rust brown streak which had soaked into the porous rock, running down from the statue’s right eye to her chin.
The screeching hinges of the gate ripped Elliere from her trance and raised the hairs on the back of her neck. All conversations came to an abrupt end as a tall male figure appeared, slender and elflike. Clad in a bright white robe, he concealed half his face under a cloth mask and left the rest obscured in the shadow of his hood. The gold embroidered trim on each seam and edge of his clothing shimmered with his every gracile movement as he strode down the aisle between the benches.
Pointed gold shoes poked out from beneath his robe as the presumed elf stepped up behind the podium. He spoke not a word while preparing himself to give his sermon. With a white-gloved hand, he reached into his pocket and produced a polished white crystal. Setting it aside unceremoniously, he cleared his throat and turned his palms to the sky.
“Friends of Gilles DeHorten, I welcome you to this celebration of memory,” he said. His smooth, effeminate tone instilled a sense of calm, but a liminal sharpness followed close behind and cut through it. “Elyn brings us light and life – gifts whose value we hold beyond measure. What we often deny, however, is that death is a gift as well. Without it, the world-weary do not rest, memories fade behind tiresome days, and nothing begins anew. See how the human cherishes each passing day, while the elf takes a century for granted; see how the gift of life is diminished when we fail to realize death.”
The white crystal taunted Elliere. It was not an unusual sight in Elynian rituals; oftentimes clergy would employ them to absorb the sun’s energy and deliver a calming aura to those in mourning. This one did the opposite. Though inert, it filled her with misdoubt and agitated her nerves. No one else appeared afflicted, however – surely, she thought, she was just stricken with grief. Running a thumb over her knuckles, she soothed herself as the priest continued.
“When the flame of a mortal life is snuffed out by Lusmir’s algid breath, and his shepherd’s cane guides the soul to their plane of rest or punishment, who is the one that passes him the candle?” the priest asked, allowing a moment of pondering among the crowd before he clasped his hands atop the podium. “It is none other than Elyn, who cultivated it, and whom he loves woefully from his remote domain. Weep not for this loss, for she already weeps enough to drown the world; she is a mother, above all – the mother of every soul.”
Though his lecture enthralled everyone present, inciting whispers of awe and relief, Elliere still couldn’t shake the sensation of something amiss. Words meant to comfort and condole instead troubled and galled. A devotee to the goddess of life exuded the dread of death and spoke of it fondly. As he reached with his right hand and pressed a finger to the tip of the crystal, he hummed the rhythm of an incantation. This one was not familiar.
“I invite you all to feel her warmth," the priest continued, taking a pause in his concentration, "As you close your eyes and find Gilles in the safest corner of your mind. Speak to him there as you once would. Remember him for what he was.”
The priest resumed his humming, more intense this time. The crystal filled with white light, from bottom to tip as a chalice would fill with wine. Elliere did not close her eyes, although everyone else did.
For the first time in years since her expulsion from the University, she found herself attuned to a strange, potent energy. It permeated everything, emanating from the faceless priest, pouring into the white crystal, and passing through the bodies of all who attended. Like a clawed hand inside her chest, it gripped, squeezed, demanded attention. In spite of it, in fear of it, her mind begged and cried for her to escape, to spring out of her seat and run.
Stolen story; please report.
She leaned in close to the older woman beside her.
“Agathe, we need to go,” she whispered. The old woman’s face, serene and tensionless, did not give the slightest inkling of a response as Elliere grabbed her wrist. Pulling her arm and trying to shake her from her trance, Elliere spoke with greater force, but kept herself hushed. She glanced at the priest, who had also closed his eyes, and hoped not to be caught. “Please, we need to get everyone away from here. Don’t make me do this alone.”
Her plea fell on deaf ears. Still, she persisted. She stood, holding her grip on Agathe’s wrist, and tried to pull her upright, but the old woman was lost in her reverie. Shaking her head in disbelief, Elliere drew in a trembling breath and cried out to the audience.
“Get out of here, everyone! Please, if you can hear me! He’s—”
“Child of Elyn,” the priest said, chin upturned and eyes shut tightly, “How your grief must burden you so, that it transcends the might of her loving embrace. That you would interrupt the very ritual which calls upon it – how troubled indeed you must find yourself in this moment.”
“How troubled indeed,” Elliere said. She brought a hand to her mouth. The words had slipped out beyond her wit. The calm washed over her, too, quelling the suspicion that raged within. Perhaps, she thought, she should have listened to her thoughts earlier, insisting her grief was to blame for her unrest. Yielding to reason, she returned to her seat.
“Now all of you have borne witness firsthand to the strength of her healing!” said the priest. “Keep this moment in your memory and draw upon it when you find that your grief demands consolation. Let us continue now with a prayer.”
Again he turned his palms to the sky and recited a standard Elynian prayer. The crowd droned along with him. Elliere nestled further into the corner of comfort and normalcy she’d found, no longer resisting the strange energy, the goddess’ embrace. She let it cradle her rather than smother her.
The ceremony went on for a time, from preaching to reminiscence and prayer. The audience maintained its docility for the duration, muttering only words of prayer or affirmation when given the opportunity. At the conclusion of the sermon, one ritual remained yet uncompleted.
“Now that the mother of souls has mourned with us, it is time we send her essence back to her domain.” The priest lifted the crystal and cupped it in both palms. He held it out, raising it above eye level and giving his final thanks. “Gratiri, Elyn.”
The light began to drain from the crystal, seeping out through the bottom. A black haze formed over the top and funneled into the vacant space. It soon overflowed and radiated towards the crowd, just as the light had done earlier, but this time Elliere felt a pull, a forceful tug, now accompanying the squeezing grip which never truly went away. Weakening her, as if siphoning her soul from her heart. She caught whiffs of tainted magic thickening the air as the priest became enveloped in shadow.
A sickening gurgle tore her focus away, draining her face to pallor. To her right, she glanced over and found Agathe limp and heavy on the bench, mouth hanging open, gasping. A tendril of black haze pierced her chest, flowing back in the direction of the crystal. The old woman’s eyes, glazed over and pleading, left Elliere motionless, her heart skipping a beat. She regretted not running when she first sensed the grasp of menace.
The time for regret, however, had passed. Each moment, she grew weaker. She grabbed Agathe’s wrist once more and tried to pull her up, struggling against the old woman’s limp, dead weight while her own arms and legs bogged her down as if chained to heavy bricks. Breath held in fast, veins popping from her temples, teeth gritting nigh on breakage, she tried – until Agathe reached over and placed a hand on top of hers.
“Agathe,” Elliere choked, giving up her struggle and loosening her grip. “Please…”
Shaking her head, the old woman let a tear roll down her agonized face. Her eyes still pleaded, not for help, but for Elliere to save herself. As Agathe slowly closed her eyes, Elliere’s mind raced. But there was no time to grieve as she remembered her son. She knew neither where he was nor whether he was safe.
Chaunce, Elliere thought, swiveling her head and scanning the terrified faces all around before crying out, “Where is he?”
Others had descended into panic as well. Awareness took hold, and they, too, tried to escape. Guttural shouts and blood-curdling screams devoured the peaceful sanctuary of the garden. More were dying by the second.
The Fenvari maids were nowhere in sight, nor did their jingling bells join in the clamor of the rush. Among those filing out of their seats, some of the braver souls charged at the priest with tools as weapons. Those who didn’t collapse before reaching him were stricken down by his hazy aura like birds in a lightning storm.
Elliere found no sign of her son anywhere. Weakness ravaged her body. She had little time left. If nothing else, she needed to make sure he was safe. Once she found an opening in the midst of the chaotic flight surrounding her, she gathered what remained of her energy and rushed down the aisle. Shoving past everyone who slowed her down, she made her way to the gate as fast as she could.
Her hands trembled as she jiggled the latch, trying not to look back and see how many people had fallen. When it finally snapped open, she swung the gate out and beckoned to those behind her.
“Hurry, we’re almost out of his magic’s reach!” she shouted, licking her parched lips between labored breaths. They followed her as she ran out first, finding the edge of the ethereal circle and sprinting towards it.
As Elliere stepped over into safety, a piercing, tearing pain burst through her chest and numbed her body. Time stopped around her. Her ears rang, drowning out all the sounds of terror. Wisps of warm light clouded her vision, inviting her to relax, assuring her that she would soon be somewhere better than here. She collapsed to her hands and knees, then fell to the ground, gasping for her last breath. When she closed her eyes, the gentle tinkling of bells lulled her to rest.
As the sun began to set, a boy, no older than twelve, approached the entrance to the garden. His glossy black hair, in the shape of a mushroom cap, whipped about in the breeze. In one hand he held a piece of parchment, and in the other a wooden toy horse. He stopped short, gazing upon the bodies lying on the ground and sprawled out on the benches. Not one servant of Chateau Bisset survived. It was as he feared. He had come back too late. He had failed to protect the only family he’d ever known.
There was little time to waste. Were the maids to find him alive, he would be killed as well. He hoped to set out and find Jessa, too, reassuring himself that she was alive and well. Nonetheless, the boy knelt beside his mother, wanting nothing more than to spend a few more moments with her. Yet as he said his last goodbyes, no tears nor sadness nor anger came to him. Only emptiness.
After a few minutes passed, the boy entered the garden and found himself, for the very first time, overwhelmed by an air of desecration. His mother was a religious woman, and though she tried to teach him her lessons, he never knew until now, until it ripped away all that he cherished, what she meant when she spoke of such corruption. A sanctuary where he used to play, used to hide from responsibility – forever shadowed by the murk of death. Even the vivid blooms and greenery looked pale and gray in its hold.
The boy approached the podium where the priest once stood and kicked it over. It landed with a quake and a hollow thud against the sodden ground. He approached the fountain, and, gazing upon the statue, he found his sorrow in her hollow eyes and the stain upon her cheek. Just as her water flowed, so too did his grief, his new emotions that were so suddenly thrust upon him.
From the ground beside him, he picked up a rock and hurled it at her with all his might. Her torso broke away from her legs, crashing down into the basin. Her water jug shattered to pieces as it smashed into the lip of the fountain. Water splashed up in a chilling spray as the pieces landed, soaking the boy’s hair and clothes. The stone woman was finally set free from her eternity.
The boy ran, and with everything else he’d left behind, he abandoned every hope of ever returning.