#commander madnarim

The Pale Tree hesitated, sensing her child’s turmoil, her grief. 

“I understand your grief. I feel it too,” she murmurs, in her ever-gentle way. She still sounds so tired, Madnarim thinks. Mother should not waste her energy comforting her. 

Before she can pull herself together, she is suddenly staring at The Pale Tree’s skirts, where she has knelt before her. Madnarim blinks back tears, her face twisting against the pain in her chest. 

“Mother, I -”

“There is much I would speak to you of, but I must rest again soon. For now, let me give you my blessing.”

Madnarim bows her head, gazing at Caladbolg, and thinks of Trahearne. Remembers his genius, his passion, the anguish of his eyes in his final moments-

“Madnarim, you have saved our people and taken up the burden of my thorn,” Mother continues, pulling her away from the memory, “May you be as a shield to those who still grow, and a shield to those who still grow, and a sword to cast out the darkness and light this world.” 

Here, Madnarim feels warm, fibrous fingers on her chin, lifting her face.

The Pale Tree’s eyes are full of love, and it’s so tender compared to the hell that has been the past months in Maguuma that Madnarim is almost sick with it. How can she have such faith in her, when all she seems to do is lose people?