#runaway writes

finally finished the thing oh my god. the longest fic i've ever written wow

anyway hi

if you want to read an alef | resh -centric fic about a possible interpretation of the events that once led to the end of the sky kingdom, this might be a fic for you :D

alef | resh is the protagonist and the main pov, but the elders are given a lot of attention as well — just like the kingdom as a whole, with the regular people playing an important role. the fic deals with such things as societal issues, politics, religion, and mental health among other things

Goldless, Golden

When bitten, bite back.

This is what Alef does when the neighbours’ child grabs Alef’s arm and sinks their yellowish teeth into the flesh there, when tiny droplets of blood form where the enamel meets the dark skin, when the child calls them names and uses words that Alef’s Mother would shush them for.

Alef bites back.

Their Mother says, patching up the scratches and bruises that Alef gained in the fist fight that followed, that one must always call an adult instead of continuing the useless cycle of hurt. But the iron-y taste of blood still dances on the tip of Alef’s tongue, still reminds them of the pain that the kid’s uneven teeth brought to their arm, still makes their heart race and their fists clench and their eyes water.

Alef promises their parent to always call an adult in the future but thinks of thin lines of dark-red running down their opponent’s limb.

* * *

When bitten, bite back. Always.

This is what Alef learns in the Cave, where children snitch, and tell on you, and steal your things, so that they can claim they have at least something to their name, where children cry at night and fight from dawn till dusk, where adults hide their faces and border on useless, and where trust only exists to be betrayed when it needs to be.

Their knuckles hurt, and their mouth is filled with blood, and from their lips fall dozens and dozens of lies; the kids growl at them, frown at them, shed tears; eventually, the snitching and the telling on them and the stealing of their things stop.

One of them goes too early for Alef to get a chance at biting back; this leaves a sinking feeling in their stomach which haunts them night and day, lies heavy in their chest as the Elder of Isle promises to Alef they will never be bitten again.

* * *

When bitten, bite back. Twice, preferably.

This is what comes in handy when Samekh come to visit the Isle Temple and look down on the Prince, when Teth scoffs and tells them to talk to Daleth instead, when Ayin averts their gaze, when Tsadi taps their finger on the table, the clock on the wall going tick-tock while the Prince continues aging without growing.

Alef never attacks first. It leads to nothing, really — and even if it did, the result would be all but significant. These are the Elders, after all: they have been bitten enough in their lives.

What they have not, however, been is bitten twice. Once, as revenge. The second time, as a warning.

Alef’s voice is cold, and their words are firm, and their eyes insistent, and their hand sending ripples across the lives of many; for every strike, there is a counter-strike and a message to accompany it. Do not mess with me, the message says.

One day, in Forest, where they arrive to take a look at what is to change everything, they see an emaciated wolf tearing apart the soft, delicate body of a hare, blood staining the predator’s fur and a rage-filled glint shining in its eyes. Alef wishes, then, they had been born a wolf.

* * *

Bite first.

Sink your fangs into plump lips, chew on them, tear on them, make them bleed, swallow the whimper, swallow the surprised Alef?, swallow the negation, swallow the lie; tell them, show them, teach them, make them understand, make them fear you, make them cede control, make them admit; put them in their place. Before they have the chance to bite you, always bite first.

This is what Alef does, on the last night of being Alef.

Elder blood is sweet like expensive Prairie liqueur, and it has a golden tinge to it instead of the usual burgundy; it is inebriating, and Alef drinks, drinks, drinks, until they are drunk on what the two Stars would have never given them if the Prince had not dared bite first.

Alef pulls away, far enough to look in the Elder’s eye, close enough to feel the ragged breath on their own lips, to see the flushed cheeks, to admire the dilated pupil, to watch a single drop of gold roll down the Elder’s chin. A perfect distance to whisper, a warning, a threat, a confession, I win.

* * *

Bite first, bite back, bite until you bleed out and die; forget the order and remember the cycle, forget the beginning and forgo the end.

This is what Resh does, yelling and being yelled at, fighting and being fought, saying no a thousand times and being met with a deluge of the same syllable; Resh wins and loses and is defeated and triumphant; Resh’s tongue and lips and clothes are smeared with gold, and their opponents’ cheeks are covered in dark-red. They do not stop biting. Samekh do not stop, either.

Out of the two things fair, only war allows winners.

* * *

When bitten, bite back.

This is what the King expects them to do. Wants them to do. Could beg them to do. Because Resh is biting and chewing and tearing, a wolf sinking its fangs into the frail body of its prey, because Resh will kill them, because Resh is killing them, because Resh can taste golden liqueur in their mouth, and this taste is what the word rapture was created to denote.

But Samekh do not bite. They take a bow, picture-perfect, elegant, beautiful, as delicate as hares in the mouth of a wolf, and turn on their heels. Resh closes their jaws — and yet, the prey escapes.

* * *

They dream of gold on their lips and burgundy streaming down their arm; when they wake up, nobody bites them, and there is nobody left to bite.

Flowers Don't Bloom

And when blood stops trickling down the cold stone walls and watering the desiccated land, flowers don’t bloom. They just don’t. You have Light delivered in the largest quantities possible and scholars invited to study the soil; flowers don’t bloom. They just don’t.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary, you’re told. It’s just Darkness, good old Darkness — oh, you know it so well! She’s your older sibling, this Darkness; you have seen thousands of times Light leave people’s eyes forever, glassy emptiness staring at the starless sky. You have seen thousands of times crops and animals fall down before they had the chance to fulfill their role. You have seen thousands of times creatures drop into the sea, giving up so close to the end of their journey because it’s your realm reeking of death that they needed to cross. You have believed yourself cursed to be the Elder of the realm that always dies.

Yet, it has always survived. Newborns would yell almost loud enough to coax the resting from their graves, and crops and animals would straighten their backs proudly, and creatures would soar high up, so high up that from down below, you could no longer see them. Flowers would bloom again.

They don’t. They just don’t.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” the Stubborn One says from across the table, their hand reaching out to touch yours. You move it away.

“What can I do to help?” the Weak One asks from where they are standing on your right, tentative fingers on your shoulder. You wince.

“Neither do mine,” the Misguided One confesses, eyes on the sea, not daring to meet your gaze. They are afraid of you, you know. You ignore their confession.

Scholars sigh and shrug, and tradespeople wipe the sweat off their foreheads, and flowers don’t bloom. A ship goes missing. Monsters ravage the cities. In the villages, people fall down with glassy eyes. Oh, how you hate the glassy eyes!

Flowers don’t bloom.

“They will,” the Stupid promise, and you raise both of your fists. You only lower them again because the Stupid are children. Still. Despite the numbers. Children. They never change.

They don’t. They just don’t.

“Time will show,” the Unwise One points out, not meeting your gaze. You look away, too, ashamed of having let blood water your flowers for so many years. How are they supposed to bloom now, if all they know is Darkness, disease, and death?

They don’t.

The Light-taker says nothing as they stand with their back turned towards you. They probably don’t even remember what flowers are.

They just don’t.

They don’t bloom, they don’t bloom, they don’t bloom. They only wilt, only wilt, only shrink like the elderly, thin stems bending and dry leaves crumbling, only die, only die, only die.

“I can’t forgive you,” the Stubborn One whispers.

“We don’t have enough Light,” the Weak One admits.

“Forget about flowers: our whales are dead!” the Misguided One yells.

The Stupid don’t look.

“It is too late,” the Unwise One concludes.

The Light-taker leaves. The world breaks. Darkness comes. People fall.

* * *

Children bring the flame.

They dance and sing, run and fly, ask and answer; they set free what was never meant to be caged, give what was never meant to be taken, they are docile and strong and correct and smart and wise and Light-bringers. You know they carry life, and you touch life, for the first time in forever, and you drink it all in, in the hope that maybe, just maybe—

But flowers don’t bloom.

A Fall from

A disgrace, you are. Two disgraces, if it makes you feel better.

(It doesn’t.)

Dramatic, dishonest, rude, arrogant, haughty, pretentious, cynical, egocentric, selfish, manipulative, cruel, terrible, terrible, terrible, terrible — oh, open a thesaurus, for Light’s sake!

(Terrible, terrible, terrible, terrible.)

A disgrace. Two of them. Or, perhaps, one disgrace split in two. You wonder which sounds better; in the silence of the empty hall, the high ceilings crumbling, the plastering on the walls peeling off, the golden statues tarnished and distorted by time, the difference in wording makes no difference at all.

Leave the words to the poets and the lawyers.

(Would the counsel for the defence find a convincing argument in your favour? You don’t think so. But then again, you think little nowadays. Thinking is linked too closely to remembering.)

A disgrace.

A disgrace with a mask, of course — the elegance, the confidence, the skill, the style, the wit, the knowledge, the elusiveness — but a disgrace nonetheless. The tricks of light and the sleight of hand don’t suffice to wash the blood off the gloves you insist on wearing.

Hedonists. Sophists. Liars. Traitors. Abusers. Silver-tongued, cold-blooded murderers... Two compound adjectives next to each other, huh? A clever attention-grabbing trick. Oh, three compound adjectives — you’ve outdone yourselves! What are you going to use this rhetorical device for, hm? Who are you going to use it on?

* * *

The stars in the Sky don’t look at you. Your constellation appears perfectly completed without your presence; the faraway nebulae are a gorgeous backdrop for a play you’ll never get to afford. Tethered to the ground by a chain of your own making, you know you were foolish for ever desiring to reach the heavens.

“You ruined my Alef,” Daleth accuses you, and oh, how hurtful! How inconsiderate of your feelings! Ow!

A dead child is sleeping, capeless, curled up next to the Isle Elder. For someone in whose power it is to summon whoever they want up here, the kid is terribly irresponsible.

The starry water on the ground is boringly tepid — you’d rather freeze to death. Well, not to death. But still.

“Alef wasn’t yours,” you retort. Oh-oh! It looks like all your thoughts got jumbled up! You were supposed to keep this in your heads and say out loud that Daleth’s words were hurtful! You messed this up! A disgrace, truly.

The Isle Elder frowns at you. They’re blind. They weren’t before, but they are now — yet, the way they stare at your faces makes you think, though it’s quite silly, that Daleth can see right through you.

Which they can’t, of course. What a silly thought.

“You mocked a traumatised child and then spoilt them, gave them the wrong ideas... You did ruin them, Samekh. And you still refuse to see.”

You avert your gazes; it’s not like Daleth will notice anyway. But what a stupid, outrageously stupid idea — you ruining your Alef!

“All we did was give them a challenge or two, make sure they didn’t stagnate doing the same thing over and over again until they died, a recluse in that Temple of yours!”

Daleth closes their eyes, and this makes no difference because Daleth is blind, fully blind, completely blind; the two of you are no longer special.

(Couldn’t Daleth have lost their vision a little earlier?)

“Stop implying what you’re implying,” Daleth responds sternly. “Both of the things you’re implying, actually. You know neither was true.”

“And it was them that gave us the wrong ideas!” You continue unprompted. Oh, this is one more thing that should’ve stayed in your thoughts. Have you got rusty? Are you rusty? Oh, this is ridiculous, and embarrassing, and terrible, terrible, terrible, terrible; you should be better than this. “They weren’t much younger than us. All we gave them was understanding, understanding that you never showed!”

“I said stop implying that!”

But Daleth gives up, they always do. They stand up and take their staff in their hands, and they poke the star-covered ground with the tip, sending across the water ripples that die out too soon, and the stars above sing like bells, and Daleth gives up on you and walks away.

You return to the hall with the crumbling ceilings and the tarnished gold.

Children run up and down the corridor and come up to you and ask you to tell them stories, but your heads hurt, and you feel drained of the imagination power required to embellish the truth and to make yourselves more sympathetic than you could ever be.

You tell the kids nothing. They probably know that you’re a disgrace anyway.

* * *

“We tried to stop them,” you say the next time you and Daleth stand face to face in Orbit. Your voices come out frail; you’re weary, worn-out, exhausted.

Sick and tired of it all.

Daleth only smiles. They would smile like that when you wondered out loud if your missing arms would grow eventually. When you asked why mortals die. When you exclaimed that carrots are the worst thing imaginable and shouldn’t have been invented. When you told them Valley was too different from Isle for one to apply the same standards to both realms. When you assured them you knew where to stop. When you lied about Alef being sick though in reality the Prince was only avoiding the unpleasant conversation that was going to happen sooner or later.

The conversation never happened.

Daleth only smiles, and you used to hate that smile. This time, you’re only mildly annoyed.

“It was too late,” the Isle Elder says softly, quietly. You expected anger in their voice, an accusatory tone, spiky and sour, permeated with resentment.

But Daleth’s remark is soft and quiet and nothing more. You almost wish they would yell at you. But you shouldn’t be surprised: you know that no matter what you do, Daleth always gives up on you. 

“We still tried.” An excuse. A lame one, at that.

Daleth sighs. From high up in the centre of the night sky, your constellation looks down on you.

“Trying is not a triumph, Samekh. It’s the bare minimum.”

So much for your dreams of perfection.

And just like they always do, Daleth gives up on you. Walks away. Walks away like they did when you said you found Isle boring. Like they did when you complained about your mortal friends growing up and leaving you behind. Like they did when you asked them why people die. Like they did when you decided to pursue a dangerous hobby despite having bodies unfit even for living. Like they did when you said you wished you were whole. Like they did when you accused them of looking at you and seeing a version of you that didn’t exist. Like they did when you asked not to interfere. Like they did when you mumbled to them that you were sorry.

(A disgrace.)

Children run up and down the corridor and come up to you, but they never speak. You’re grateful, you suppose. You really don’t want to talk. Not today. Not ever.

The tarnished gold of these halls, you can no longer stand.

* * *

“We did care about Alef, you know,” you whisper to Daleth months later, when the stars above your heads and beneath your feet stare directly at you, watching your every move. You feel sick. Sick, sick, sick; you have grown to despise limelight.

The Isle Elder looks your way, and you wonder what they see in the darkness before their eyes.

“I know you did.”

Nonsense.

“But you said—”

“I meant what I said. I do, however, recognise that the fake smiles, the obnoxious laughter, and the heartbreak on your faces looked too genuine at times. I, ah, I sometimes wished they didn’t. But they did.”

Sick, sick, sick.

“I don’t forgive you. But things are, for better or for worse, always complicated with this sort of thing, and I… W-well, it would be hypocritical of me to say I don’t understand—” Their voice breaks and dies out.

You’re the ones to walk away this time.

Children run up and down the corridor, and you yell at them. You yell at them so loudly that the echo of your outcry reverberates through the Temple and hides in the corners, creeping in the dark and haunting you as you sit on the windowsill and look around, the only two people left in these quiet, empty halls.

Children come back, eventually. You’re not sure how long passes.

You wish they would give up on you, too.

* * *

“I didn’t give up on you. I wouldn’t. Not ever,” Daleth says. You don’t believe them.

The constellation above your heads is one unknown to you, a jumbled mess of broken stars and unfinished, lopsided shapes. Eden, if you had to guess. Mocking you. Taunting you. Asking you to save them from a person you made. Well, helped make. It doesn’t matter.

“You did,” you insist.

The Isle Elder closes their eyes and grimaces. They look… pained. Broken beyond repair, just like the Eden constellation, by things you did. Well, helped do. It doesn’t matter.

“I… I may have. With the whole Darkstone thing—”

“Many times before.”

Your voices are cold, and so are your hearts. Frozen. Ice-cold. Defensive.

A disgrace.

Daleth opens their eyes.

“Come here.”

You don’t move.

“Samekh, come here.”

You stand up and take a step forward, then sit down next to Daleth. You only obey because the situation is stupid enough already. No other reason. Not because you… It doesn’t matter.

“List the times you believe I gave up on you.”

You don’t respond.

“Samekh.”

“It doesn’t—”

“It does.”

It doesn’t. It really, really doesn’t. This isn’t going to change anything. Daleth already hates your guts for, quote, the whole Darkstone thing. For ruining their Alef. For being a disgrace in general. There is really no point in giving them another reason to judge you behind your backs and to roll their eyes and whatever else they do.

“It—”

“Samekh.” Daleth’s voice is stern, but it almost sounds like a plea. You raise your eyes towards the constellation and the gaping hole in its chest. “I have… I’ve had enough relationship-ending misunderstandings.” Their voice trembles. You know Daleth is thinking about them again.

You can’t quite blame them.

“Fine,” you say, not quite honestly, but that’ll do. The sooner you’re done with this whole thing, the better, you suppose.

Daleth waits patiently for you to speak up. Seated this close to you, they seem… smaller than you remember them being. But then again, it’s been a while since you last found yourselves in such close proximity to each other.

“We know you hate us,” you begin. “For Darkstone. For the Alef thing. For… For having been… wrong. For having disagreed with you, on so many things, back when— It doesn’t matter…” Daleth says nothing. Only frowns a little. “For not being what your idea of an Elder is like.”

This phrase alone seems to affect the Elder more than anything you’ve ever said or done.

“I don’t hate you for that. I never—”

“But you do.” You chuckle quietly. “You hate it that we…” Oh Light, this is terrible, terrible, terrible, terrible. “That we, uh, never got over mortals being… mortals.” You clear your throats. “You hated us, back when we were little, for not understanding. For… For being upset. Loud. Whatever.” It’s your turn to close your eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore, at least.”

A sigh. You look at Daleth. Daleth lowers their head.

“See? This— This is exactly what we’re talking about!” You find yourselves on your feet. “We just— We tell you anything, literally anything, and you just, you just refuse to listen! All you do is look away and stand up and leave! No matter what we say, all you ever do is judge!”

Your eyes sting. You haven’t cried in centuries.

Not going to start now.

“Samekh—”

“What?”

They’ve raised their head. They really are smaller, now. Much smaller. You feel old.

“Samekh, I… I apologise if I made you feel that—”

“If you made us feel! Ha!”

“That I made you feel, all right? I… apologise that I made you feel like your opinions — or feelings — didn’t matter to me. I… I must confess I’ve never been good with children, and, you being two, and twice as loud as usual, and, well, terminally ill, I had no idea how to— I-I suppose, I frequently didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t want to say the wrong thing, so I didn’t say anything at all. I… Oh my Light, this is just Alef all over again…” Their voice breaks. A tear runs down their cheek.

You’d imagine, as young, petulant adolescents, the scene far too often and in far too much detail: Daleth admitting they were wrong, Daleth allowing you to do whatever your hearts desire, Daleth confessing they don’t always know everything. But somehow, having just heard the real thing doesn’t give you the catharsis you expected. All you feel is… hollow. Tired. Reflected, against all odds, in the words of someone you’ve never considered a mirror.

You wish Daleth wouldn’t cry. You never quite figured out what to do with people that are crying. Or rather, you never quite figured out what to do with the reasons why people cry. 

You throw a glance at the Sky, looking for help where there is none. The empty space in the constellation is a reminder of what you did. Or, perhaps, of what you didn’t do. Just like Daleth didn’t.

You try to imagine what you would do if you could move the stars above your head ever so slightly, just so that the gaping hole in the middle could no longer be seen, as if the one supposed to occupy it had never existed. But then again, with the brokenness of the other stars and the shape as a whole, this silly manoeuvre, even if feasible, would be far too obvious. Would only highlight the absence.

You asked the children, once, if they can summon them up here. The answer was that there’s nothing left to summon.

Daleth continues weeping. Glad to know you hate us a little less than we thought, you should probably say, jokingly, to make them stop. But the words taste bitter on your tongues even before they tumble out of your mouths; in the silence of Orbit, the only sounds filling your ears are the bell-like singing of the stars and the Isle Elder’s sobs.

“Prophecy Guide says,” the child begins, the words somewhat distorted by the hair tie clenched between the speaker’s teeth, their small but dexterous hands collecting the long wavy hair in a ponytail, “that we’re not the first ones to be bringing Light. Is that true?”

The question catches Daleth off guard. Or rather, it doesn’t; what catches them off guard, even after a decade, even after a hundred children, is the nonchalance, the ease with which the question is asked. Unburdened by knowledge, the kids don’t lower their voices, don’t look around, don’t shiver, don’t avert their gazes when they raise these queries; much would Daleth give to lift the weight from their own shoulders even for a moment.

They look away. The pink light of the eternal dawn dances on the cracked stone tiles serving as the floor of the Isle Temple; the Elder’s own statue, the only mirror they can now afford, remains cast in shadow. When Daleth glances at their interlocutor, the kid, seated on a patch of grass growing right here in the room, has finished fixing their hair and is examining the Elder of Isle with big, curious eyes.

Daleth crosses their legs, leans against their own crypt, lets out a sigh. “It is true.”

“Cool.” The kid mimics the Elder’s pose, though instead of the crypt, they lean against their backpack filled with candles and toys and food and books and all the things that prove that they are alive. “So, we’re generation number two?”

“I would hardly call them a generation. They were but one.”

In front of them, the child tilts their head, their hair flowing over their shoulder in a way Daleth wishes they couldn’t call familiar. It is silly of them, rather silly, to see echoes and shadows in every face, in every movement, every look. But rumour has it that it was from the remains of the original that She made these children, and in that case, the echoes and the shadows are not merely a product of the Elder’s imagination, but rather real fragments, scattered forever across the world to never form a single whole again. But it’s probably for the better, all things considered.

“But one?” the kid asks. “It must’ve been hard for them.”

“It was. I, ah… It was, perhaps, too hard for them.”

“Do you mean they failed?”

Daleth winces in pain. “I… Yes. They failed.”

The child nods in understanding that they lack. It must be akin to a blessing, not understanding; though then again, one is often unaware of one’s blessings until these cede their place to curses.

“Did you know them?” the child inquires.

Daleth has asked themself the same question, resting in Orbit or observing the eternal dawn, so many times they should’ve run out of tears to shed and of sighs to heave years ago.

“I knew… some things about them.”

“But you’ve met them, yes?”

“I have.”

“Cool,” the child says again. This is a word of the kids, Daleth has noticed; many use it to approve of something rather than to simply refer to the temperature of the air. Most of these many, however, wear their hair in complicated, often spiky or tall, structures and hide their faces behind masks of soldiers and athletes — the pattern renders plausible the connection between the literal meaning and the way children employ the word.

“But I did not know them as well as some other people,” Daleth says, something bitter brewing in their chest, and they regret these words immediately. Yet, they continue, “I mean, none of us truly knew them because of how secretive they were, but if you want some insights into what kind of person they really were, you ought to ask Samekh. Birds of a feather, even though Samekh changed their minds at the last minute…”

They trail off. Too much, they have said too much; it was irresponsible of them. They’re supposed to guide the kids, to be a good role model — not to be petty and childish in front of them!

“You didn’t like them then?” in a small voice.

Daleth inhales sharply. “It’s not that I didn’t like them — I… I disapproved of their actions. Of their views. Of their values.”

“So, you did like them?”

It’s in the children’s nature to split all they see or hear into black and white. The habit is helpful when one is young and still learning about the world, noticing patterns and sorting everything accordingly; the only problem is, black and white thinking must be outgrown gradually as one is exposed to more complexities, and kids born to repeat the cycle of imbibing Light and giving it all away along with their lives until their flames can’t take it anymore don’t have the privilege of outgrowing anything gradually. Daleth would even go as far as to say these children don’t really have the privilege of growing, either — but the Elder of Isle has already cursed themself and the whole world enough times for allowing this to happen.

No amount of cursing will give these kids their childhood.

“This is not an issue of personal affection,” Daleth responds, stroking their beard to occupy their trembling fingers. “They were meant to bring Light, and it is in the context of their function that they’re meant to be judged.”

The hypocrisy of their own statement brings a bubbling stream of self-directed imprecations to Daleth’s head. Only She knows how often Daleth used to view, back when the Light-bringer was but a child just a little older than the Elder’s current guest, said Light-bringer in the context of their age or interests or safety or anything else that wasn’t their role. Look where this got them.

“But did you like them?”

Daleth sighs, earning immediately a frown from the young face in front of them.

“You’re avoiding the question!” the kid accuses, scoffs, moves their head to their side in a way that is too familiar for the Elder to be able to stand the sight. “And now you’re avoiding me, too!”

“I apologise.” Daleth returns their eyes where they must be. The pain will fade away like background noise eventually. Always does. “This is… somewhat of a complicated topic for me.”

“It’s okay,” the guest hastens to reply, their expression softening, the uncanny resemblance dissipating like fog. “Did you like them though?”

“I did. At first.”

“And then?”

“I could not entertain affection for someone so cruel.”

The kid’s eyes widen. “Cruel? They were cruel?”

Oh, here it goes. They have said more than necessary, have lost control over their tongue and vocal cords yet again. Could the old rumours be true? Are they, indeed, unfit for the role of an Elder, their age and personality and disobedient tongue obstacles, hindrances, incurable blights?

“From a certain point on,” is what Daleth replies to the kid, shaking their head.

The child shuffles forward, big eyes boring into the Isle Elder’s own. “So, you mean they were supposed to bring Light like we are, but they were alone, and they failed, and they turned cruel instead?”

Put like this, the story almost looks like a logical progression: a person entrusted with an insurmountable task buckles under pressure and goes down a path they were never supposed to go but from which nobody discouraged them. Yet, put like this, the story is that of a child failed by the people surrounding them.

Daleth would pay a high price for this to be, instead, the story of a person that had always been rotten, a usurper, a liar, the story of a person rather than that of the world they lived in; Daleth would pay a high price to have no blood on their own hands. Things would be easier, then. They could blame Resh forever — yet, in the reality they inhabit, the Elder can only blame Resh to an extent.

Daleth raises their eyes towards the decaying rafters above their head, bathed in pink sunlight on one side and engulfed in darkness on the other side. Though the Elder’s vision isn’t as sharp as it once was, the contrast is far too obvious; what is not less obvious is that before, the sun would move to a position where it would let the rafters be, focusing instead on the grass and the trees and the endless fields and cramped villages of Isle, abandoning the supporting structures of the Temple roof (which, at that time, could not even be seen from this exact spot; but then again, this exact spot was not there, either) and returning to them a slightly more saturated version of their original colour. Now, split into pink and dark-blue in perpetuity, the rotting wood is but an indicator of this extent, an indicator of cause and effect, a mirror of the two sides of the same person that, as much as Daleth would prefer them to be perfect strangers to each other, were and will forever be connected by the same line that connects the thin sapling with bright-green leaves and the split stump of the lightning-struck tree.

“Is something wrong?” the child asks in a worried tone, jumping to their feet, shuffling in place as the Isle Elder’s vision grows blurrier and blurrier until their guest is but a couple of colourful stains. “Should I not have said that? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Wiping their face with the back of their hand, “No, it is quite all right. I-I am the one who should be apologising, dear.” No matter how hard they try to recollect themself, a treacherous sob escapes Daleth’s throat. “I suppose I have grown sentimental in my old age…”

The kid says nothing, sits back down. The sunlight on the rafters remains in its place; be it a few seconds, minutes, or hours, the time passes without leaving any mark whatsoever on the world, because the mark has already been left and can’t be erased — not ever.

“I think,” the child says after a long pause, “I think I’ll ask someone else.”

And they disappear in a flutter of wings into the skies painted the perfect mirror of a sunset; the place that awaits them is, without a doubt, the perfect mirror of the eternal dawn.

Disappear Faster

“Sorry, buddy, not this time.” Their finger gently pushes the toy across the counter, an apologetic smile slightly raising the corners of their thin lips. “The kiddos do love your trinkets, but, you know… Have to feed them, don’t I?”

The kettle whistles softly behind their back, the quiet sound almost teasing, almost mocking. Somebody clears their throat nearby — a person with a coin in their pouch, no doubt, or at least something worth more than a badly painted piece of wood. The noise brings the child to the reality awaiting them outside the shade cast by the tent and the aroma of a freshly brewed drink, the reality that is the insufferably hot sun and the bustling of the market, adults rushing somewhere, children lurking in the corners, eyes fixed on pockets and wallets.

The child sighs, the mere idea of having to walk back in these conditions making them want to lie down and never move again, and reaches for the crabby. Carefully putting it into the bag, they leave their eyes locked on the shopkeeper’s face — those hollow cheeks, sand-coloured eyes, and a never-fading wrinkle on their forehead they know by heart — for any sign hinting at change of heart. They find nothing.

The day has come, it seems.

The Ember lingers there for a moment, inhaling the herbal scent one last time before bowing at the person and jumping down begrudgingly from the small box they have been using as a step to reach the counter. A queue seems to have formed while the child was not looking — but all the latter does is grab their sack and hurry away. There is no point in remaining here any longer.

The sun outside is as scorching and the air as full of dust as they anticipated. They grunt as they adjust the strap of the bag on their shoulder, already chafed from the weight. A couple of elderly people sit on the bench to their left, reminiscing about times when summers were less hot and life less difficult; the young Ember passes them by before merging with a stream of people rushing towards the eastern part of the Last City.

The shopkeeper is not a bad person, they have to remind themself as they clench their fists while manoeuvring through the crowd, inevitably bumping into a person or two, some ignoring them, others muttering something the noise of the sellers and buyers alike makes sure will never reach their ears. The shopkeeper is not a bad person, they repeat to themself as they reach a pipe and place their bag on it to take a breather.

The shopkeeper is not a bad person. They have accepted five toys so far — and considering they have only two children, for whom five playthings are more than enough, and their creator’s work is far from anything better than mediocre (not once has anyone traded anything for those when the child tried to arrange a semblance of a shop of their own: an old faded blanket in the middle of a busy street), they are actually extremely kind.

It really is a shame that kindness is not something one can feed oneself with.

Picking the sack up again — they still have a long way ahead of them — the child climbs onto the lower pipe, takes a few steps to the right where the tubes bend in a way that makes it easier to reach the upper one, and throws their bag up, joining it themself a few seconds later.

A salty breeze blows here; it carries the gentle sound of waves lapping the rocky shore. The Ember peeks over the wall blocking the view and throws a quick glance at the blue water. The beach looks nice. But it is not a place one is supposed to go — they are not even sure there is a road that leads there.

The pipe, having absorbed the heat of the sun, burns their feet, and they set off, wasting no more time. The walk should not take too long: they have learned the distance can be easily made shorter by avoiding the busy streets, which look a bit funny from up here: a pattern of mismatched tents teeming with people. The child wonders, in the back of their mind, whether other settlements are like this, too.

Birds chirp happily in the middle of the path, blocking the Ember’s way. It is lovely to know that someone is able to enjoy the scorching sun, but the child cannot share their pleasure; if anything, even the wind does not prevent sweat from trickling down their face. The creatures should budge — there is no time for their games.

“Shoo!” the child cries, stomping their feet. Alarmed by the sound, the birds scatter in a whoosh of feathers.

Those have a light burning in their chests, they know. It is visible from the outside — many people look at creatures with envy because of it. The Ember themself has done so, too — if they had fire, maybe, things would have gone better…

They sigh and speed up, eyes on the ground, hands clenching the strap of their bag. There was a time, they used to say, when Light was closer. When its vengeful sibling was kept at bay. When things were easier. But that time ended long ago — now, all they have is the pipes and the figure in dark clothes gazing from the posters on every wall. The child does not like those posters: there is something cold in that person, in their gestures and the pitch-black silhouette.

Well, they also have the night that comes suddenly and the crystal that lights up at that — but people never talk about those. Guards frown at you if you try.

The child crouches and glides down onto a large wooden box, jumping on the ground immediately afterwards. It is a lot less crowded here, and the tents are smaller and mostly empty. Walking along the rows of shelters, the Ember catches a glimpse of a small kid drawing something on the sand with a stick and somebody sleeping on a blanket a few feet away. Carefully going around the two, they take a few more steps forward before arriving at their destination.

The sack lands with a loud thump on the blanket under the canopy, and its only owner drops to their knees nearby. Their shoulder is sore from carrying the things around so long, and their stomach rumbles in discontent. It has been doing so rather often lately — tea and biscuits seem not to satisfy it that much. But today, it will not even get those: the day has come when the kind shopkeeper did not accept the child’s creations as payment. Will they have to give away their blanket? Or, perhaps, the broken shoes that are waiting for the winter in the corner of their humble abode? Must they forgo their bag? The little knife?

Will they have to give away the— no. They will not. That is one thing they will never trade, even for a whole feast. They would rather starve to death.

Which appears to be a likely outcome now.

They suck in a deep breath and clench their fists to prevent their eyes from watering. Crying will not help. It never does. People do not give one food if they see tears — they only look with pity or whisper behind one’s back. And that is useless. The Ember has received enough of both; they want no more.

And yet, these thoughts are not enough to keep tears at bay.

They have not traded a single toy today. Even the kind tea-brewer has refused them, for the first time in a while. Kids have walked past. Adults have not bothered looking down. The shopkeeper has apologised — but apologies are not something you can eat or exchange for food. Perhaps, they should try to go to the Gates and sit down there, hoping that one of the well-dressed scholars will give them a little something. It has worked a couple of times before — and they have seen it work when others did it, too. Maybe, it will be more useful than showing up out there with trinkets nobody even wants to glance at.

The child’s hand reaches for the bag almost automatically, without them ever realising they have moved it until the sack lies in their lap, their fingers rummaging in it. At the very bottom — it knows its place: buried deep inside, the base of everything, the one thing they will have even when they have nothing at all — lies a wooden butterfly, the only thing in the bag that was not made by the Ember themself. No, it was someone far more skilled that managed to create it. The child contributed, too — but the role they played in this is not important. Because it was their hands that carved it. It was their hands that ruffled the child’s hair afterwards. It was their presence that turned rain into sun, darkness into Light, pain into joy. It was them that did all of this — and now, they are no longer here.

The child bites their lip to stop a treacherous sob from leaving their throat, eyes misty no matter how often they attempt to blink the tears away. There is no one to dry them now, no one to offer a hug and to whisper It will be okay, even when everything hints at the opposite. There is no one, only the Ember and their bag filled with things they wish could be called toys but that are nothing of the kind. They were so much better at this! They could bring the most soulless rock or piece of wood to life in a few minutes, deft movements of calloused fingers carving a head, a wing, a tail. The Ember would often watch them, fascinated, as they worked, a concentrated look on their face, a gentle smile tugging at their lips. They could make anything — make and then sell it, and bring home food, or clothes, or sometimes, when they said it was a special day, a little something for the child: a ribbon for their hair or some sweets from faraway lands.

It would be so much easier if they were still here. But they were lost. They were lost and taken away by guards before the Ember could see their face one last time. They were lost and taken away, and the bad tall person with a spear hit the child when they would not stop crying and running after them. They still have a trace of that blow on their cheek — it burns in a way tears do.

It was that day that they learnt of the uselessness of crying, people looking at them strangely while they were sitting alone in the middle of the street. They must have spent a whole day there, just sitting and waiting for nothing to come. Though they do not remember it clearly — it seems like the memory is slipping away.

It is not the only one. Recollections of those gentle, even if covered in tiny scars, hands, or that small smile that appeared almost of its own volition, or all the things that they said were important but that the child did not bother trying to listen to until it was too late — all those are starting to fade as well, just like the paint on the only thing left of them after so much touching and hugging and spilling tears on.

It is almost funny that trying to keep something only makes it disappear faster.