The Iravel Project

Original Fantasy Universe, Iravel.

By Raive Salvaro

There's 8 of them. They don't really lord over the world as you'd expect and that's because of a very crucial and significant reason: once upon a time they were regular old people.

Imagine you're going about your business. You are living your boring little life. You go to work, you do your job, hang out with friends, pet your animals if you have them. Life is fine. And then suddenly life is not fine. It's so not fine you beg the spirits above to make things fine again. You'll never complain about your boring job making shoes ever again. You beg, you beg and you beg some more. The thing is, you know the spirits above are actually there. The council elders are constantly chatting with them. There's a whole group of magic users that channel spirit powers or something to protect your village.

And yet they don't answer. It's like knocking on a door for hours and no one's home. All the while you are STILL SUFFERING. It feels eternal, like you'll never escape.

One day when it's become so unbearable... The spirits finally come and are like hey. You've become so wise through all the awful things that have happened to you, here's some power because all that suffering has made you worthy of being a vadya.

And that's how the 8 were chosen.

Jastfaer doesn't have answer to why it is wrong. Something deep beneath the skin simply tells him that it is. The whispers of the yaidaseyii in his dreams. When it's nothing but darkness and there's a single light far away that he can't reach. Sometimes he imagines speaking to his brother about it only to brush the thought away. Solnaer wouldn't understand. He would lift his chin, scoff, dismiss him. There are things he can go to Solnaer about, things that soften Solnaer's harsh angles and peel away the barbed wire. This isn't one of them, and yet.

And yet... something tells him Solnaer is the only one he should go to.

He told Ornan about it once while they were in the flower field just outside. It was bright and sunny and perfect. A beautiful day to talk about the ever creeping nightmares beyond their bubble. He formed the words with his hands and said, Do you ever have nightmares?

Ornan was picking red flowers of all sorts: kodu with its yellow stems, lopsi with its heart-shaped petals, vame with its sun streaked leaves. All different sizes and shades. Later, they would bundle an assortment into a bouquet or several. They would appear all over the Dome, enchanted little bursts of color.

"Yes. Doesn't everyone?" Ornan said, regarding Jastfaer with a faint frown. "I've heard even Valden awake in the middle of the night. I think it's when he prays at the Altar of Ahnandas the most."

Yeah. Jastfaer signed, still uncertain. But... ever feel like they mean more? Something else?

Ornan straightened their shoulders, really looking at Jastfaer. The frown turned concerned, trying to read whatever it was Jastfaer couldn't say.

"That's a Chal question, Jast," they said after a moment. "Maybe we don't want to bring it to her, though. Maybe we want to keep it with us."

Jastfaer nodded, face twisting at the thought of trying to navigate the Seer's cryptic responses.

"What do you mean, then, my friend?"

Does it feel like we should be dead?

We, instead of I, like Jastfaer had so wanted to say. Ornan had looked at him with such a depth of concern, he told them forget it. Never mind. Don't think too hard. It's a weird day.

So he doesn't go to Ornan this time, even though he knows their door would be open. It's just that this is so childish. So unlike their status. He is vadya, they are vadya, what did they need to fear after all? What did it matter if the ground sang to him and he felt if he dug deep enough it would feel like home? They had to all feel it. Even if Ornan looked at him strangely, they had to know.

This couldn't just be his burden to bear.

It's better that the Dome is quiet as he stands before the Altar of Ahnandas. It resides in the deepest part of the Dome, overlooking a massive basin of enchanted water. Jastfaer once asked if there was a bottom.

Now, he wonders, what would happen if he let himself fall in. Would he sink in an endless abyss like a rock until his lungs shriveled without air? Would he simply float on its surface, rejected by magic and the yaidaseyii?

It almost makes him laugh. It almost makes him scream. Where does a god turn when they have questions? The yaidaseyii will whisper but they don't respond.

Jastfaer sets his hands upon the altar. There is an empty metal bowl on its center. He stares into it. A cold sweat breaks out across his skin as if he hasn't come here a thousand times before. He's given broken branches with tiny little blue flowers, a blood stained cloth of a fallen worshipper, a tooth of a maimed beast. He's never given of himself and in the bowl he can see it. Just take a blade to his hand, to his arm, to his throat. He pulls back and away, looking up instead at the magic ice sculpture he'd made when the Dome was first constructed.

She's a beautiful figure, a creature of the light, made so perfectly that the suns sparkle through it. It should give him peace. Instead it fills him with more dread, a sinister cold that spread throughout his body. The bowl goes flying with a loud clang.

"Jast?" a voice calls.

Solnaer descends to the bottom of the staircase, bending to retrieve the bowl. He considers it for a moment, and then lifts his gaze upon Jastfaer. Glass catches in Jastfaer's throat. His older brother looks as he always does: perfect, no hair out of place. In contrast, Jastfaer knows he must look as sick as he feels. Pale, sweating, like a common Praxonite and not one of their gods.

"Are you alright?" Solnaer's voice is unusually quiet, like he's concerned. Already shame and embarrassment pool in Jastfaer's gut. It's coming, any moment, the reprimand for showing weakness.

Fine, he signs, as if his hands don't tremble in front of him. He's fine. No one is meant to see him like this.

Carefully, Solnaer steps forward. He places the bowl back upon the altar. Jastfaer doesn't move. He remains barely a few steps away as Solnaer reaches out and curls his fingers around Jastfaer's shoulders.

"Enado, what has you so troubled lately?" There, despite the gentleness of his actions, Solnaer's eyes narrowed. Like he was calculating, waiting for Jastfaer's misstep.

Nothing, Jastfaer says, the thought passing between them without the aid of his shaking hands. He wants Ornan. He wishes he had looked for them instead of trapping himself in the bowels of the Dome for Solnaer to find him. The wrongness permeates even more when Solnaer comes in times like these. Instead of safety, he feels the need to escape his skin. He cannot unzip himself, he cannot break out of the confines of his mind.

Everything, Jastfaer admits as Solnaer's stare bores him down.

"Tell me."

It's almost like his brother is really there again. Steady, steadfast, warm and approachable. The person he was before their lives had combusted. Somewhere back there likes the answer. It's in the dirt. Jastfaer just needs to dig to find it.

Why does it feel like I should be dead, Solnaer?

There's no way for Solnaer to hide the way his entire body stiffens. Fear, grief, and something else flood his face for a second, a second Jastfaer catches. His grip on Jastfaer's shoulders tighten. His expression shutters, blocked and those eyes narrow further.

"You shouldn't speak like that." Solnaer shakes his head and drops his hands. "Don't be so foolish. What kind of a question even is that?"

Don't know. I don't know. Something's wrong. With me.

Solnaer scoffs, locking away his kindness. Here it is, the damnation that Jastfaer had been waiting for. Here it is, the reprimand for being inadequate. Around them, the water dims, darkens. The light that was so bright moments before, recedes into the shadows.

"You've let those prayers get to your head, Jastfaer."

No. Jastfaer denies. He shakes his head. He feels a weight pressing on him. The whispers reach out to him and the tightness in his chest seizes. His breath feels short and sharp, but he hears it. Not words, not anything clear. A feeling so strong he can't breathe. What are you hiding from me?

It's like his dream. The altar has become so dark, the lights feel dim above them. The staircase leading to the upper floors is the only brightness. Solnaer is cast in shadow. Jastfaer can't see his expression, but there's something in the air that tells him he's right. He's right.

"Get some rest, Jastfaer," Solnaer says, perturbed, backing away. His voice sounds thick.

The darkness recedes. The water brightens. The sculpture glistens with rainbow fractals. Jastfaer's legs give out and hides his face in his hands, crumpled under the altar.

His heart beat repeats, I'm Alive.

His hands grip hard at his hair.

Jastfaer of the Long Winter. Jastfaer the Watcher of the Forgotten. He would listen, wouldn't he? The only one who would reach out to find her in the backrooms and caress her face with his kind hands. Tell her that she has been heard, and no longer must she scream into the darkness.

Being an enthys in the world is devastating. All this power and bound by the rules. All this power and still they look upon you in disgust and horror, as if your very existence has invited something they would rather have buried. To be half is even worse. She cannot help being what she is, cast out of her own world to be forced into one that wants her even less.

When he touches her hand, she breathes a sigh of relief. A prayer answered.

Just a moment of your time Jastfaer, I fear the world is ending, she says and Jastfaer gives her an inquisitive look.

You can see the threads of time, my vadya, you can pluck the strings. We are on the brink of collapse. I am on the brink of collapse. She squeezes his hands. He never once looks away, does not mock her words. He does not brush her off or laugh. Instead, he breaks one hand away to gently brush a lock of dark hair from her face.

Yes, the thought bounces around her head and it is not her own. Always ending. We are always ending, on the brink. Could pluck the strings. Would bring us to the end. Yes. What do you want to do before we end?

She has never been asked that before: what does she want? It is always what they want. Be quiet. Remain unseen. Hide away until your needed, not because you are wanted. And not because you want.

Home. She says. Because this isn't one, and the one she had was long tore from her fingers. All because she was not enough of one or the other. To be an enthys. To be an ildrat. Never enough of one or the other. Not enough to be accepted.

Yes... Remember, always have one here. He presses her hand to his chest. Just whisper. Will always hear you.

It's not enough, she says, gripping his ice cold fingers with her clawed ones. What if the world ends and you're not here?

Don't be silly, Alane.

Aliteira, The Knowledge art by Lauren

Deep in the seas there live the varg, a mysterious race who rarely visit the ocean's surface. Varg who decide to do so are unusually curious. While a peek at the surface won't cause much of a stir, Varg who leave, are transformed permanently. They cannot return to the sea.

Aliteira's insatiable curiosity drove her to leave. She had learned all she could among her people, but she wanted to know more. There was a world beyond the oceans she wished to travel, and so she undertook the painful transformation that would banish her from the oceans.

In her new life, she once again did as she always had. She learned, she became skilled and travelled. She devoured every inch of the world, testing the limits of her abilities and Praxon. One day, she came upon a tear in the fabric of the universe-- one she had been warned about time and time again. The inba.