It's been ten day since the Treaty of Aberconwy, and Rhys had yet to leave her bedroom. No one had troubled her in the mansion, not even bothering walking too close to the door. The housemaids have reported the feeling of fear even by looking at the door, in many ways Arthur allowed his sister's behaviour to last too long.
That leads to the blonde man standing right in front of the door, being close to it, awakens the childish fear in Arthur. With a shaky breath in, he knocked on the oak door. Light, small movements could be heard through the door as it slowly opened. On the other side, Rhys had never looked worse, her hair was fallen over her face as the dark circles under Rhys green eyes stood out on the pale skin.
"Rhys, you want to share lunch with me," Arthur muttered. As he looked anywhere but into his sister's eyes.
"No, thank you," Rhys replied with a soft forced smile.
"I think we should spend some time together. When was the last time we saw on another?"
"It was October 1136, the Battle of Crug Mawr."
"Yes," Arthur muttered as he looked at the ground like a scared little school boy.
"You look like you've grown. No longer the ten-year-old, now you are a teen and I almost look like an adult."
"Yeah, it appears so... Rhys are you happy with being under me?"
"As you know Llywelyn Prince of Wales has surrendered, but he also has all Welshman under one name. It costed us our freedom, but I am all Welshman now."
With that, the girl started giggling as if she found it funny. Arthur took a step back in surprise and looked into his sister's eyes the first time since Crug Mawr. The ember green eyes shimmered with sadness that would go unspoken.
Rhys slowly collapses onto her knees, keeping her eyes locked on England's. Giggling turned into manic laughter that echoed the hall.
"OH, Llywelyn," she choked out. "I am one, but at what cause?"
"Rhys I am, I don't know what," Arthur stuttered. He watched in horror as his sister started crying as the laughter died, Rhys brought her arms up to hug herself as she finally broke eye contact and bowed her head to the floor. Letting out a load pitch scream that echoed the mansion, Arthur turned and ran from his sister like he did all those years ago.
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Author Foreword: The following is a piece that I wanted to write after the Sungard ended, as it wrestled with some things that were always at the peripheries of Siildore’s story but never came up in a way that I could meaningfully address without it feeling contrived. I tried and failed a few times to make something I could be proud of, but it never quite came out right. This recent campaign with Hollowlight gave me an opportunity to finally put it to paper and I’m pretty happy with the way it turned out. Shout out to @retributionpriest for the very fun and meaningful writing we did leading up to this - I hope you’re doing well post-TSG.
CW: Suicide in mention, no descriptions.
Siildore,
I apologise but I cannot grant that request. With the war concluded, my purpose here is complete and I have no intentions to linger here longer than I need to. I have appreciated all you have done for me and the guidance you gave, and perhaps we will meet again on the other side.
Live well,
Lirelle Dawnbrook
The letter was neatly folded on it’s creases, placed back in it’s envelope, and tucked away into her current notebook.
“Well? What did she say? Is our merry partnership about to become a merry band?” Gloomweaver’s deadpan grin was audible.
The blue-haired Ebon did not answer as she closed the notebook, turning to face the crackling fire.
Neither of them ever moved when camped like this; there was no need to. No living to appease or comfort with errant movements - a shift of the foot, moving her weight from one side to the other, blinking, breathing, things that living did and comforted them to see in other living things. To be alive was to move; to be dead was to be still.
Why then did Siildore’s thumb worry the second digit of her index finger?
“The fire is running low. I will fetch more wood.”
The blue-haired Ebon rose without a sound, fading into the no-moon night.
Gloomweaver,
You asked me a question, many months ago, when we sat in front of a fire after my oath to Quel’thelas was ended. I had received a letter earlier that day from Lirelle; you wished to know it’s contents, while I wanted to wait until night. We had a long march that day to be clear of the city and I did not wish to have my thoughts clouded with her reply, good or bad. When I did finally read it, I could not process the answer.
She did not stay here with us. She returned to oblivion. She knew what awaited her, what awaits all who break that veil between life and death, and she deemed that worse than the quiet of the grave.
As I said, I could not process her answer. The hunger is real, but it is manageable. We have unnatural, unsettling powers, but they can be turned to positive ends. We are made to destroy the world, but we have the choice to save it instead. You know this as well as I do; we are both students of the Broken Blade.
I have never seen someone reject this change so thoroughly. Others have chosen different paths from us, yes, but they have accepted what they are in some small sense. They have chosen to find an unlife in the circumstances they find themselves in. They did not choose annihilation.
I know it was not made from cowardice. Dawnbrook is one of the bravest I have ever had the honor to fight alongside; her courage to face the challenges to come is not and would not have been in question. She was not insane, nor was she foolhardy. I may not have always agreed with her reasons, but she had them for why she did what she did in life. So I must then confront that which I struggle to understand: That she chose to end her second life for a reason. A reason that I cannot know, for she is no longer around to give it.
I have found myself thinking of this as of late; during my wanderings I have made my way to Dawn’s Reach, a land that remained neutral in the Phoenix War and belongs to Alarinna Dawnwind, sister to one of our previous order. She has been dealing with a problem: a witched bog that lives and breathes through a connection between two mystical trees. To solve the problem, both will have to be destroyed - ending the threat of the bog, the Aldmarsh, while also destroying the source of the Reach’s prosperity. I do not know what effects this will have on the long-term health of the land and its people, but I do know they will need help.
This brings me to the purpose and reason of this letter, long-winded that it is (You always tell me to get to the point, but for once I need to ramble on at length to make my point). I do not know the reason that Lirelle truly had for deciding what she did, but I know that I alone was not enough to prepare her for what she faced. If she had brothers and sisters, a proper teacher and a place to learn and grow, perhaps she might have made a different decision. Perhaps not. What I do know, however, is that the Reach will need time to heal and rebuild, to decide its future and to make that future a reality.
I have spoken to you before about finding a place for others like us; a place less isolated than Acherus or Undercity and closer to those we call allies and friends. This could be that place. There is a bog for those that prefer their privacy, and a cosmopolitan city and miles of farmland for those who wish to reintegrate. The people here will have need of our unique talents and abilities as well - there are few who know the weaknesses of the undead better than the undead themselves. And if some still choose oblivion… at least we will know that we made every effort possible to help them, and that they know we will see them on the other side.
Attached is a map of the Reach and directions. If you agree with my plan, I will see you when you arrive.
