#finala writing

~~~~

“She wants the doll to try dreaming?” Cylion scoffs, barely trying to hide his disdain. Little Friend glares at him from its perch atop Archie’s palm, painted eyes narrowed in defiance.

“No, not exactly,” the clown ventures, free hand scratching at his neck. “S’more like… Sendin’ him back to hers.”

I wish, Cylion thinks, fighting off the scowl that tugs at his lips.

“He comes from Nymira’s head, s’what Finala was sayin’. So he should be able to drop back in, dream logic n’ all that, yeah?”

“We don’t need him for that.”

“Right, cause you were just rarin’ to get in there yourself.”

Cylion bristles. They both know why he hasn’t visited her yet. Even beyond the risk of Persep intercepting somehow––what the defunct prophet touted as his main concern––it’s obvious what he’s really afraid of.

That Nymira wouldn’t have him.

Archie raises an eyebrow, lifting Little Friend as if in question.

Cylion sighs bitterly. 

“Fine.”

~~~~

“Someone’s cooperative today,” Persep’s voice infiltrates Nymira’s thoughts with an audible grin, condescending and smug. The godling frowns in response, retreating further into herself as she tries to grasp at something fleeting.

She knows what he’s thinking. He believes that death, temporary as it was, has shaken her.

It has, to some extent. It would do so to anyone, she imagines. But Persep believes it has broken her. That she has lost the will to fight.

She facilitated that assumption herself, actually, ghosting about the hive in a near-catatonic state and shrinking away whenever he approached. Nymira has played the part he cast her in, and she has done so diligently.

She doesn’t want him growing wise until it’s too late.

Until he gets exactly what he wished for.

~~~~

“Cylion,” the witch greets him, smiling as she swipes a hair from her face.

He nods in response, gaze flashing briefly to her own pupil-less eye. It looks natural on her.

“I’m glad you’re here. I think you’ll be a great help.”

He nods again as he sits, face tight.

Finala takes her seat opposite him, gently setting her fingertips on the table. Nymira’s doll emerges from the greying locks that cover her shoulders, traipsing down her arm to stand at attention between the two trolls.

He keeps his back to Cylion, tiny head angled back to gaze up at the woman with something he imagines must be hope or reverence. 

She guides Little Friend to lay down with a slow and delicate touch, and it glances warily at Cylion before allowing its face to take on the facsimile of sleep. Neither of them have forgotten how he chose to handle the thing when it was in his possession.

“Just try your best,” Finala instructs, fingers tracing a star-spattered sigil into the air. “Guide him to her.”

~~~~

Even Persep’s footsteps have become more confident, more arrogant. Nymira hears his passing through the haze of half-sleep, each tap roaring through her aching skull like thunder. She accomplished today something she had previously thought impossible.

A stale dream, something come and gone, found its way into her hands, plumbed from the depths of her mind and pulled into being with a process far longer than her usual. The artifact itself was nothing mystical, a pen much like those Marrie had gifted her just before her world caved in. 

But she had dreamed it four nights ago. 

Persep had been thrilled.

After testing thoroughly that the pen bore no special properties, he allowed her to keep it, a decision perhaps helped by the cautious way she held it, as if questioning whether this too could be used to end her if he so willed it.

Nymira knows she must fulfill her role to get her way. She learned that from a very young age. 

She doesn’t bother wishing that she had conjured something more conducive to escape. It’s enough that it reminds her of Marrie. Of home.

Holding the pen to her cheek, she allows herself to drift, down, down, down through a twinkling sea of stars that widens and envelops her in a shifting, yawning light. She squints in the brightness of it, raising a hand to block her eyes and finding the motion completely ineffectual. Even when she closes them, she can see only a blinding, radiant white behind her lids.

With nothing else to do, she allows it to wash over her, gazing into the flare until at last shapes begin to form within it.

She sees herself in shaky silhouette, tail fanned open at her back. The light pours from it like a window, and Nymira tentatively unfurls her own. As it opens behind her, that incandescent light begins to fade, melting slowly into a soft, pulsing glow that blankets her like a veil.

The other figure dissolves into a faint and delicate warmth, shimmering particles floating towards her to collect around her palms. In a motion all at once familiar and alien, Nymira pulls her hands apart and focuses between them, drawing from a well within her that she, too, lies within.

A wave of vertigo rips through her, and she cannot tell whether she is spinning or still. When her vision is once again steady, it lands on a familiar figure cradled in her palms. Little Friend blinks as if waking up, then turns to gaze at his creator.

~~~~

Somewhere far away, Cylion remembers to breathe.

Father Roatus was content to set aside a room for them when she arrived, his trust in Weaver enough to negate any concerns he may have had about her. Finala suspects he did not have many, though. The man seemed a remarkably good judge of character, and she has always liked to think herself good-natured enough.

Settled in a small workroom with the woman, Finala watches her animated companion flit about the table in hopes of earning a smile from his creator. She gives him one freely, and the witch suspects this is a currency she is not reluctant to dispense.

“Lady Dreamcatcher,” Finala begins, twinkling voice pulling the goddess’ attention from her familiar. “May I call you Nymira?”

Nymira nods eagerly, folding her hands in her lap.

“I am told you are divine.” 

“Yes,” she answers slowly, the burden of her role seeming quite heavy on such delicate shoulders. “I am… the bridge between worlds.”

Finala smiles warmly at her, though the edges twinge with sympathy. “Truer than you realize, starlight.”

Nymira hesitates, uneasy to be spoken to in riddles after such a lifetime of deception. The older woman extends her hands across the table, eyes kind enough to smooth her discomfort, and the goddess places her fingers in Finala’s.

“I am a witch, Nymira. There are many places one can draw power from, but I prefer the stars. It is a magic that finds its strength in belief. I draw on constellations, clusters of energy that hold no meaning apart from those we give them. But when enough eyes turn to heaven and see a bear amidst the sky…”

She withdraws one hand to twirl it through the space between them, fingers plucking out some invisible melody. Slowly, a vision begins to manifest, an ethereal, star-studded paw condensing itself into shape around her palm. She flexes her fingers, moving each claw, then tosses her hand as if to wave the thing away and dispels the image she has conjured.

“Belief can be made manifest.”

Large black eyes bore into hers, so full of delicate hope and swirling uncertainty that Finala feels a pang of guilt tug at her heart. This is not an easy truth to share.

“You are not a goddess,” Finala admits, returning her grasp to Nymira’s and giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “But you will be.” 

Once again, she peers into those shiny eyes, this time swarming with both confusion and relief, and the witch reaches for every soothing magic strand she can follow to weave into her words.

“Your… family,” she says, hesitating to use such a word on the duplicitous things that have so distressed such a gentle soul, “could not have believed you a goddess when they found you. You were not hatched one.”

As difficult as it is to speak, it is harder still to hear, Finala reminds herself. She owes it to the child to press on.

“But… They were convincing. They farmed belief. Whatever you began as, you are well on your way to ascension, my little godling. I know it does not erase the deceit. But I hope that, at least, is some solace. You are something more than mortal. Your identity remains.”

Nymira says nothing, staring at the table as she processes the claim. Her companion throws himself upon her hand, a hug as large as he can muster, and looks to Finala with worry.

Finala does not break the silence, waiting patiently for the godling to speak.

When at last she does, her voice is shaky. “I don’t… That can’t be true. What you are describing, your stars, surely our–– their congregation could not have been large enough.”

“I would be inclined to agree, truthfully. But I can see it in you, dear one. Some of us are more inclined towards matters of divinity, I am sure.”

“Then he could have… Father could have sensed this in me, surely? This does not make it… It was not all built on lies.”

“I suppose that could be possible, yes,” Finala concedes. To further dash the poor thing’s hopes would serve only as pointless cruelty. To ensure they are not left room to lie to her again, though, is a matter of safety. “But I do not know that he was ever aware of just how far you evolved. I do not know that he ever expected as much.”

Nymira blinks, struggling to stave off the inky tears now welling in her eyes. “This was not… Destiny, then. This was not my purpose.”

“I expect not.”

Once again, there is a silence, another question forming on the godling’s lips. Her voice comes out impossibly small. “Do I have a purpose?”