Toren Daen
I had always known Wren was a bit of a showboat. One simply didn't master the summoning of stone golems with such precision as he did without some extravagant goal in mind: and over the course of our jaunt undercover in Epheotus, where we went from prisoners, to undercover vigilantes, to well-above-cover after I freed the Hearth, and then finally returned to Dicathen and Alacrya on a tide of destruction, I'd only had such ideas reinforced.
So it was as the golems swept into the banquet hall carrying trays laden with food, aromas seeping through the air like flowers in bloom. A roast fowl of some kind drifted by here; a whole sal-skrivener there, or a collage of vegetables that had been arranged in a way that made the entire plate look like some sort of austere painting slid before the awestruck guests—each of them at circular tables, like ink blots scattered across paper. But the golems weren't alone.
Lances Varay, Mica, Olfred, and Aya set about creating ornaments and structures across the vast banquet hall. Pillars of ice for certain airborne guests—sylphs preferred the loftiness, after all—and dugouts of stone for the deep-dwelling titans. Olfred in particular seemed to be taking what cues he could after Wren's direction, and from the way his mana and insight continued to advance, I knew he was the closest Lance to Integration.
Members of the New Hearth were also set to distribute silverware, flitting about with warm embers beneath their wings. Diella breezed through, a picture of vibrant, smoldering coal and responsibility, an amusing contrast to the flighty Roa, who was still talking with Merial Eralith a ways away, discussing something hushed under their breaths. Soleil, for all his reserved and conservative nature, was far from conservative in the portions he insisted on delivering before each and every guest. He spoke with solemn certainty, one of the old and wise delivering wisdom to young chicks. "Eat now, friends. Drink, dance, converse! A folly it would be today if you did not have your fill. For if not on this day, what other day?"
A smile stretched across my face as I raised an arm slightly higher, then held it, adjusting the angle of my palm. In turn, the notes of the music slanted sideways, letting all the emotion in the air roll with them. Lusul kept his tones in a rhythmic, ordered fashion, something that was far more his style. He could manage the undertone of the piece, keeping each step moving forward.
We stood to the side of the hall on a raised dais, music rolling through the crowd, eighth notes pecking at a hundred ears with their beaks, before drifting to the next person they needed to appease.
With a gesture to Ulysseiah, picture of Leviathan grace, she brought in the haunting, ethereal beauty with strums of her lute, a ship coasting atop the stave-waves Lusul provided her. She surmounted every crest, dove low into every death, and every moment she resurfaced was with a dash of fresh ocean spray cast through their chords.
In all, it added another dash of the ethereal to the entire banquet hall, dancing between the palette of emotions and weaving them deeper. The awe and wonder of the guests was doubly enriched by the flurry of asuran magics and showcases of grandiosity. Happiness compounded on itself, over and over and over.
"Keep it up, friends," I said, a smile splitting my face as I did all I could to guide them through this sea of emotions. It wasn't a storm, as it had been when I'd first brought my emotion-laced music to the masses, but sometimes sailing a calm sea was more daunting than a choppy one. The endlessness of the open sea could be blinding. "Almost through!"
There was sweat on Lusul's dark brow, and I knew he was struggling to keep himself in tune. Though a human mage, he had a better sense for projecting intent than Ulysseiah, though hers was more blunt and powerful. So as we'd collaborated on this piece for the coming celebration, we'd needed a way that all could work in harmony, despite our discordant notes.
And I was glad to say we'd succeeded.
In the distance, my brother sat at the head table, laughing uproariously at something Virion had said. He slapped his knees with such force I was afraid that it might travel through the stones and shatter the very foundations of the conjured castle beneath us, but he'd learned to control his strength. Then the great warrior paused, seeming to consider something more deeply, looking about the occupants of the foremost table with a wondering eye. He blinked a few times, his volcano-lake eyes making him seem more owl than a phoenix, and asked a question to follow up on whatever joke Virion had told.
The former king of Elenoir choked on the food he was eating, going red in the face and slamming his fist against his chest. Alduin Eralith did his damndest to try and help his father not choke to death on his granddaughter's wedding day, slamming a mana-imbibed fist into the old man's back. Eleanor Leywin blinked wide, innocent eyes, and turned to ask something of Alice, whose cheeks were red as well. Reynolds patted his daughter on the head, smirking sideways at his son. Seris' eyes glimmered with amusement from where she sat beside the young dragon. Sylvie Indrath's brows leaned together like two wooden slats, conveying an expression of utmost contemplation. She seemed quite interested in the answer to whatever Chul had asked, turning to Tessia Eralith-Leywin, princess of Elenoir.
And the elven bride in resplendent white threw back her head and laughed with exuberance, then held up her hand, displaying five fingers.
Arthur Eralith-Leywin, quadra elemental mage, dragon tamer, reincarnated king of another world and Reforger of Fate, proceeded to take after his former name and empty of all color. Not quite so quadra-elemental then. He said something quickly, a bit unsure. The man hesitantly held up two fingers, insisting. In response, Tessia smiled the sweetest smile I had ever seen from her and answered with an additional five fingers.
I chuckled, wondering how Arthur would play this gambit. Any more insistence, and he might get another five added on.
Then I caught sight of another familiar man at the edge of the ballroom, a shock of silver hair and teal eyes.
"Excuse me," I said, peering back at my compatriots in music, sensing the call of duty. "I've got to talk to someone. You'll manage without me, I'm sure?"
Lusul paused, looking towards where I'd been clearly angled to go. "Of course, Spellsong," he said, ever-respectful. "But… What of your part? When will you be back?"
Ulysseiah's eyes were grave as she stared mournfully at the great King of Dicathen. "He'll be back in the future. He will. Of now, though… I see death in the future indeed. We must play a song of mourning, Lusul."
I snorted as I walked past the seer, just barely catching the twist of her lips. Perhaps the most impressive thing that the deep-sea woman had gained in our travels was a sense of humor, even if most didn't quite get it.
"Just need to speak with a friend," I sighed, waving them adieu for a moment before floating over to the distant tables.
"Toren," Lusul called after me, making me pause in midair. "Please, I would be…" He shuffled on the stand. "Anasia's here. We'd like to, well…"
I turned back, then offered the young man a smile as I sensed his sincerity, trepidation, and rebounding uncertainty. His emotions burned as any artist's, which was what made him among all the others master intent-laced music. But right now, he was having a bit of trouble voicing what he needed to say.
I often forgot how young we both truly were.
"I'll be back, Lusul," I said warmly, giving him a loose salute: a reminder of our real military days, not even a year past. "Hold down the fort while I'm gone."
"None shall hold it better than we," Ulysseiah interjected, looking at me serenely. "You go and save the world."
She actually waved her hand, shooing me, all while masterfully playing her lute with the other. I realized then that my taking a step away was what she wanted—no, what she needed. Who wouldn't wish to test their musical mettle to the limits, finding their own direction? I narrowed my eyes, suppressing a smirk, then flew towards the head table.
It took me some time to reach the edge of the banquet hall. Between the many asura that sought to greet me, offer questions or congratulations, or my thoughts on the future, it seemed as if it would take an age to reach my destination. But with patience, I gradually wove through the great crowd, buoyed by their kindness and happiness, a leaf atop a gentle stream.
I found Sevren at the edge of the dance hall, swirling a glass of some mana-imbibed beverage. His arm whirred slightly, and there was a contemplative look on his face. He didn't acknowledge my presence, just kept watching the comings and goings. He made me think of a fly fisherman on the banks of something mighty, yet magnificent, appreciating all that flowed by.
He was happy then, watching them all flow. Before I had ever set to seek peace in this world, Sevren Denoir had been seeking, trying all he could to undermine the Vritra. And now it was here, a blooming flower that he had helped cultivate.
"Ever since I learned to sense intent," I mused contemplatively, "I've needed to wade through all the bits of contrast and emotion that come my way. It's been an… interesting experience. But it's also told me a great deal about what people tend to feel. And also what they tend not to."
Sevren grunted. "I wouldn't want that power, truth be told. It'd get in the way of so much."
"I don't quite agree with you, my friend," I said, the peace and serenity in my soul dipping a little lower, the sweet embracing the bitter. "Your preparations are done, then?"
"They are. We'll be leaving tonight, when the festivities are all over."
I exhaled through my nose, a bittersweet smile catching on my lips.
"You, Nico, Cecilia, and… Melzri?" I queried, adding the last bit in the way I knew irked my friend the most.
It didn't land like it usually did. Many compared Sevren to a wolf: savage and untamed. Right now, though, he was too content with what he saw—and what he was going to be—to rise to my playful jibes.
"Yeah. We're just about ready to go," he said wistfully, peering at a table in the far distance. There sat Caera Denoir, leaning close to Cylrit, the latter talking cordially with Corbett Denoir. Lenora and Lauden, too, were discussing something about politics, the picture of a happy family. Even Melzri, whom I'd always characterized as a little insane and dangerous, was listening with rapt and utterly serious intent to Lenora's words.
It seemed that the once-Scythe was taking her somewhat-mother-in-law's lessons quite seriously. It made for a heartwarming sight.
"Nico and Cecilia are a ways away from all the music and sounds. He's reading to her right now, but they'll be ready when I am. I've got the portal tech ready to go."
I paused there, thinking of all I'd been through in this world. I'd met so many people, forged so many bonds, and seen so many flourish… What was best for a person, so very often, was not what you wanted to be. Both Sevren and I knew that I'd wanted him to stay here and work with us to rebuild this world, but through the trials and tribulations we'd both experienced, we knew that was not who he was.
We were wanderers, the two of us. World-hoppers, experience-seekers, delvers into the unknown. We both knew that we'd set off to distant worlds, seeking distant sights and sounds one day. It was one of the things that had drawn us together in the first place, and now it would push us apart.
I chewed on my thoughts for a time, rolling them about in my head as I searched for a little bit of insight. Not far off from how we'd traveled through the Relictombs, ascending towards something just out of reach. "You should go to them," I said, looking at the distant family fondly. "They have a chair there for you."
"I know, but I knew you'd only flutter over here if I stayed apart. It's the sort of thing you do, Toren. It's the sort of thing you'll always do," he said with a contented laugh.
"You were the first to approach me in that bar as Nerves, though," I pointed out genially.
"And now I'm going off to another world with Nico," Sevren acknowledged, swirling his glass. "Djinn above, I really can't be rid of you, can I?"
Something twisted a little inside me, curling up on itself. A childish desire to just hold onto my friend and not let him go. For all the goodbyes I'd had, for all that I'd needed to let go… Saying adieu should have been easier. I had let go of an entire other world, and moved forward with all it had meant for me. Some part of me felt that it should not hurt so much now to say farewell to my friend.
But emotions didn't really work that way, did they?
"Doesn't matter what world you go to. I'm a stain you just can't get out of your clothes," I said with restrained emotion, patting him on his metal shoulder. "We'll miss you."
Sevren's lowered his head, looking at the ground. "Before I met you, I didn't really know where I was going, or what I was doing," he said with a shrug. "Just a vague idea. 'Learn about aether.' Somehow that was supposed to connect to 'topple the Sovereigns.' But that was a very, very long gap."
"But you crossed it. It was a long gap, but far from impossible."
"Yeah." He was silent for a few moments, watching his family. He seemed surprised by his own earnesty, his emotions a little more tumultuous now. That was my fault as much as it was his, my emotions seeping into the air. "I'll miss you too, Spellsong. I'll miss being surprised by you. I might even miss being pushed out of windows by you. If I ever find another pompous deity in need of eradication, I know who to call."
As if Sevren would wait for me before trying to put a bullet in a god.
I let out a breath, pulling myself back under control. "Naereni inspired me a bit, actually," I mused, catching on that thought. "With the Reforging of Fate and Agrona's death, it feels like we've won. But there's more at stake now than there has ever been."
I stared at a distant balcony, another longing twisting my heart. A cut that had never really closed yawned wider for a moment, the distant chirping of night birds and the setting of the sun piercing deep inside. Memories sang to me in a sweet tune only I could hear. "There are many universes out there. Many that I've never seen. Many that I never will see. But all of them are now beholden to a Fate that can be kind: but also one that can be cruel."
"And it's up to the New Hearth to spread the word, then. A few plucky do-gooders trudging through the sewer much at hand?" Sevren's face twisted with an expression approaching disgust. "Please tell me you aren't going to make them all go around with bird masks, calling yourselves the Chicken Coop. You know damn well that's what Naereni would do."
I shuddered, imagining Soleil, in his solemn no-nonsense tone, descending upon a group of people in another world, a chicken mask on his face. "Be not afraid. The Chicken Coop has come to spread the word."
"If there's any virtue in me," I said honestly, "know that I'm better at naming things than our dear friend the Rat."
Masks, though, I thought, catching on that. If we're to have a uniform… Then maybe something stylish would be nice. I never got to be a part of the Menagerie, but their idea wasn't half-bad.
If the New Hearth were to be a force for good across the broadening multiverse, then we'd need something to be known by. A symbol that could draw everybody in. I could be that symbol sometimes, when I was there to offer who I was to a cause. But in the face of the grand universe, even I was small.
"Then we all have things to be, in the end. And I'll be here for the picture," Sevren said, stepping closer and offering me a hand. "I designed the tech for it, after all."
I took it, shaking it, affirmed by the solidity of our friendship. Damn the distance between worlds. Some things lasted beyond lifetimes.
I shot a glance at Melzri, who sensed my attention. Her eyebrows furrowed awkwardly, and she looked away, intent misting with uncertainty. I knew she blamed me for much of what had transpired between her and her 'daughter,' Mawar, and the young Retainer's declaration that she needed to be somewhere else, and be someone else.
"Will you be here for the dance, too?"
He paused awkwardly, then looked back at his beau. Suddenly, he recognized the grip of my hand not as a friendly shake, but a shackle to his coming duty. "I don't dance," he said stiffly. "I don't think I need to—"
My eyes sharpened as I sensed a critical vulnerability. "Hey, Sevren?"
He looked at me, sensing the death of all hope, a pleading in his eyes. "Toren, please. Please don't. Whatever you're about to do. The last time you looked at me like that, you pushed me out a fifty-story window!"
"It built character. And you said you'd miss it."
"I would have died if I had hit the ground! It was all hyperbole!"
I ignored my friend, casting my voice with sound magic. "Hey, Melzri?"
The Scythe went rigid, her attention snapping towards me. She looked about ready to bare her teeth in a snarl, like an animal that had sensed a threat. She really was quite similar to my friend.
"Sevren here says he's not going to dance with you. Thought you should know!"
"Merciful fucking Vritra, Toren, I am going to skin you al—"
"He said what?!" Melzri demanded, at our side in a fraction of an instant, air displacing around her. "What the fuck did you say, Sevren?"
Sevren glared at me as Melzri grabbed his collar, about to shake him as if he were a small puppy. "I said I don't dance! Not that I wouldn't dance with you!"
"Those are the same thing," she muttered, glaring at him with eyes of soulfire.
"No, they're not," he insisted, letting out an aggravated breath. "Look, can you even dance?"
She sniffed dismally, her eyes dipping with disdain. "Of course, I can. You think I don't know something so simple?"
This time, Sevren's eyes flashed, and he batted her hand away, sensing something. He didn't need intent or heartfire sense to know his Scythe was lying. "Bullshit. All you've ever cared about was flitting about Taegrin Caelum. When would you ever learn to dance?"
I shoved my hands in my pockets, whistling as I strode away from the firecrackers I'd just set off, feeling quite proud of myself. But the emotions that I'd suppressed began creeping back, that sense of sorrow and distance. There was an old wound in my soul that I knew could never quite close.
Can we ever learn to truly say goodbye? I wondered with a bittersweet smile, staring at the distant balcony, the wind calling to me. It rustled my hair, brushed against my cheek. I knew it as a loving touch; just another rustle in my hair from fingers which could not be.
"Toren," a familiar voice cut through the static of my inner thoughts, bringing me back to the present. "Am I intruding?"
I turned, my good mood slipping back onto my shoulders like a homespun sweater, smiling at my protege. Lusul stood with Anasia, an arm around her, holding her tight as they approached. Her hands had always trembled when I'd seen them, but now, as she held a bundle in her arms, they were steady as could be.
"Ah, Lusul, you're not intruding," I said, smiling at him. Then, looking to his wife, I bowed gently. "And Anasia. It's been quite some time since we've spoken."
The woman smiled shyly, gently rocking the bundle in her arms. "Indeed, Spellsong. Not since the days after the Breaking of Burim." She tilted her head, looking to her beau with love even more pure than what I'd witnessed on the docks between them so long ago. "Things have changed since then."
My eyes drifted to the swaddle of warmth in her arms, something inside me settling low. Ulysseiah's music didn't need to drop down an octave; it didn't need to hint at moonlit nights and gentle shores. The babbling sounds echoing from Anasia's arms were a music all on their own for that.
"It's been quite some time since the Central Academy Orchestra, and then the war," I agreed with a smile. Lusul had been one of the first people I'd met in this other-world who was like me. A man of heart and music, and no little sense of recklessness.
It took a bit of daring to fall in love with the "enemy," as he had, seeing past the false pretense of differences and subjugation.
Then, in a more sincere tone, "I'm sorry I didn't get to see you all. I try to be everywhere at once, but for all my power, that's still outside of it. "
Lusul walked forward, clapping me on the arm, his pinkish eyes watering slightly, before steeling sharp. "You needn't apologize, my friend," he said honestly. "You've been everywhere you could, doing all you could. And when you spoke with me…" He shook his head, his dark curls swaying. I knew what played in his mind: a symphony of another time, the first time he had ever projected intent into the world. "Vritra's horns. I'll get soppy if this continues."
"We're at a wedding, Lusul," I echoed in turn, bumping my companion in the shoulder. "Emotion is impossible to escape, here. We're all going to get a little weepy." My eyes drifted to the child in Anasia's arms, their hands outstretched, grasping for something to hold as all babies did.
I reached out a gentle hand, then felt the little girl's hand squeeze round my finger. I knew immediately that she had a musician's hands: hands with a need to pluck at strings corded through her very soul. My intent dipped low, something in my heart slipping by the control I kept in place for everyone's sake.
She had her father's eyes: startling pink little dots that roamed over my face with the intensity only a child could have. Somehow so focused, as if they knew the truth of the universe right then and there, but also so unsure, skipping like a stone to the next bit of bright light. Her little heartbeat had grown so much since I'd last heard it: now a resounding drumbeat. It bobbed and swayed with the music around us, but she didn't look away from me, letting out a little, questioning cry.
"She's going to be a musician one day," I said quietly, the words as prophetic as any Ulysseiah could have granted. Anasia gently passed her child to me, allowing me to hold the small bundle of joy. I gently rocked her back and forth, enamored by all she felt, sensible even within this room that held mortals and living deities alike. "What's her name?"
"Toreah," Lusul said quietly, hardly audible above the gentle sound of his daughter's heartbeat. "It was… your kindness that allowed us to love each other. We thought it a fitting name."
I swallowed, and abruptly realized that my legs were trembling. I forced my breath to stabilize. I'd fought Agrona Vritra, for the sky's sake. I'd faced off against Kezess Indrath and held my ground. But somehow this child, named after me, sent a shudder through my invulnerable heart that the most powerful of tyrants never could have managed.
"I…" I tried, then realized that my voice would tremble if I tried to say any more.
When I'd died before and soared through the aether on the winds Aurora had left me, I'd learned that language could never contain what we humans were. That was why we brought song into the world.
"She's beautiful," I said, and knew the words to be inadequate.
Toreah laughed, and I knew from her intent that she found my burning eyes the most amusing things in the world. She reached for them as all children reach for stars, thinking she could take them out of the sky and turn them about in her hands. For her, the stars were already right before her palms.
I gently handed Anasia's daughter back to her, my emotions tumbling about in my head. "I'll be back in a moment," I said hastily, recognizing that my control over my intent was faltering. I nodded to the two parents, still so deeply in love, their intent radiating amidst it all.
Lusul only nodded, understanding better than anyone. After all, when I had laid that most potent news at his feet, what had he needed to do with all the emotion that had bubbled up from within?
I staggered away, feeling almost drunk. The intent of everyone and everything seemed alive, like an aurora borealis beneath everything in the world. It was one foot, then the other, then the other, carrying me forward, as it had always been. I let out a weak little laugh as I pushed open the door to the balcony.
The sun was setting, casting her austere glow across the vast plains below. The Grand Mountains stood proud, glad to be bathed in the gentle radiance of the distant star. And high above, a dozen-dozen constellations twinkled, eyes of gods far too distant for mortal men. So distant, indeed, that men had in turn made the future for themselves, bringing the stars to earth.
I leaned against the balcony railing for support, breathing deeply, feeling the air in my lungs, my immortal heartbeat in my chest. An erratic stampede, barely kept in control. I felt the wind then, wrapping around me, a gaze on my shoulder. Always on my shoulder.
The balcony wasn't enough. My knees trembled, then buckled, bringing me to the stones below. I looked up at the stars, searing tears streaming from my eyes.
Can you feel it, Aurora? I thought, gazing into the endlessness of the universe, peering towards a remade Fate. All that happiness in there? There's so much of it there. In Arthur, in Tessia, in Ulysseiah, in Lusul, in Sevren, in Caera, in Cylrit, in Chul, and in Seris. Skies above, in me, too.
When I'd left my hovel in the wake of the Breaking of Burim, I'd thought the world could only be marked by sorrow and despair, that the end result of every attempt was futile misery. It had been overwhelming, a constant storm that drowned me for even daring to listen.
I'd never hoped to learn what it meant to be overwhelmed by such pure joy instead. My body could hold mana stretching to infinity, and with each extension of my shrouds, I could grow larger and larger and larger. But for all the infinite energy I could hold, I was unable to bear the pure joy of a single child.
I sent a blind request into the air, struggling for what I needed. And my violin, reforged by my brother and imbued with all the love and hope he had for us, settled into my hands, grounding me with its burnished wood. And when white-gold wings of sheer mana formed on my back—a set of three in total—I shot into the air, welcomed by the wind.
Higher and higher I went, buoyed by the love below me and all around me. Higher and higher I went, a balloon rising through the air on visions of what may be above the clouds.
Do you remember, Aurora? I thought as the wind ripped past me, the distant stars glimmering. Do you remember that question I asked you at the start, before I died the very first time?
Do you remember our journey together when I was merely a boy, fighting against the Joans who slew my brother? Do you remember the first time I ever played my music again, as I decided to step forward? Do you remember rising through the Relictombs, as I finally became your son?
After a time, I halted in my ascent, a single dot of light in the vast, curving horizon. I felt as I had when I'd let everything go against Agrona, allowing every bit of the Sea of my Soul rebound off my indestructible heart, tearing through the world with its intensity. The ambient mana around me warped, shifted, pulsed in tune with my heartbeat. As an Integrated mage, every bit of spellwork I ever did was interwoven with my intent, an inescapable tangle. Down below, I could not afford to let everything I kept contained burst open, for fear of overwhelming those of weaker cores.
But here, with the distant cosmos all around?
I began to play, drawing it all into harmony. Music flowed from me, intertwining with the mana, the aether, the wind, a pure proclamation of all that had been building within.
Do you remember carrying me through Alacrya as I sought to make a better world, projecting myself through my music? Do you remember holding me as I fought Mardeth, leaving an ember of hope in a land that had long forgotten it? Do you remember when Agrona came and we held each other, fearful of what had been, trusting in what we could be?
The wind rose around me, blowing through my hair, coasting along my wings, whispering in my ear. My arms burned as I played, fighting through the tears to capture everything—every moment, every word that language couldn't hold, but hoping that the sheer notes might just. All I'd known in this world rolled through me, forcing me higher, higher, higher.
Do you remember when we sought the dwarven people, hoping to be a bridge between worlds? Do you remember when we confronted the elven princess, trying to snatch victory from the jaws of the serpent? Do you remember when we spoke with the silver Scythe, giving her that very hope we sought to make real?
It was getting harder to play, now. Harder, as I needed to hold more and more and more with music. How much memory could a single chord convey? How much of the soul could a discordant note heave upon its back, and in turn give to the world?
Do you remember when we met our family for the first time, together? How we tried, how we failed, how we fell? And do you remember how we tried again? Do you remember how we stood up once more—how you helped me stand—and we faced the future?
The music stuttered, then evened out, a breath that had finally exhaled, echoes rippling around me.
"And do you remember how you needed to leave this world behind," I said in a voice torn through, my shoulders finally sagging, all that had been building professed into the grand sky. I looked up towards the distant cosmos, catching a dozen meteors as they skated by. "Do you remember how… You had to go, how you had to stay beyond so that all we wished for could be?"
The wind curled about me, caressing that scar across my heart.
"Can you see the world below us, mother?" I asked, hardly a whisper, a hardwrought smile cresting my face. "Can you see their joy?"
I could. Even as they made a collage of color far below, weaving together to become something more, I could sense every single one. Even the smallest child's happiness burned like a great hearth fire. It was the sort of flame one would gather round to share a cup of cider and sing Auld Lang Syne with every fellow you met.
Yes, I thought, feeling her in the water, in the wind, in the earth far below. Yes, you can feel it, can't you? Isn't it wonderful?
A pair of great, burly arms suddenly wrapped around me, pulling me from my trance. I shouted in surprise as Chul hugged me with a force that could crush mountains, and I knew that if his love could be manifest as his strength, then perhaps even my invulnerable heart would crack.
"Mother sings for us tonight," he declared, his own voice raw with emotion. He laughed anyway, always able to live through the moment. "She sings wondrously, does she not?"
"Always," I replied, returning my brother's embrace, feeling the wind between us. "Always, brother. I wanted her to see what she made possible. I know she's always there, now, but…"
But I miss her still.
Chul squeezed tight one more time, then pushed me away. His mismatched eyes sparkled with all the intensity of his birthrights, and his smile was the kind he'd learned to take in the wake of all we'd known. A softer smile, not harsh and full-bellied in its laughter, but an ember extended.
"I will always miss her," he said solemnly, knowing my thoughts better than nearly any other. "I will never stop missing her, and neither shall you. This is the deepest truth of the heart I have come to know. But such is not all there is to what beats in our chests! I say to you, brother, that she is the wind beneath our wings. And what better wind could there ever be?"
"Indeed," I said, brushing away my tears. Aurora flew through skies grander than any I could know, and brought a little back to us. "What greater wind?"
And for every bit of loss I had experienced—for all that Aurora's need to leave had left its scars—could I have ever known my brother without that sacrifice? Could I have watched him grow, helped him stand, and been pushed forward by him in turn, if we had not both loved the one who we'd lost so deeply?
I didn't know. But I knew that here and now, it was the love we shared for our mother that had first brought us together. That terrible grief had bound us as tightly together as any bond of blood or soul could hope to manage.
Fate could be kind now, yes. But I wondered then if it would always be so strange.
"I'm glad you're my brother, Chul," I said earnestly, staring up at the sky. "Thank you."
The rowdy phoenix answered me with a slap on the shoulder and a full-bodied laugh. "Aye, brother, aye! No other would I wish to call my rival, friend, and brother."
We stayed there for a short time, inspecting the skies, searching for a constellation we knew. One of wings and talons brushing a distant world, where all could know what it was to be brought from the nest. And among the stars, I thought I saw her, still staring down.
Another rose to join us, though, a the minutes slopped by.
I let out a contented sigh, then turned to greet the rising moon. Seris had an expression on her face that told me she was both disappointed in something, yet fond of the result regardless. She didn't need the gaze of the setting sun to make her beautiful, yet the world seemed to bend a little before her anyway to make up for some perceived loss, coating her in contrast and making her single remaining white horn glow in the waning light.
Her silver eyes drifted from me and then to Chul, and she seemed a little more disappointed.
Chul suddenly looked very abashed. He puffed his chest out, for a moment truly embodying the bird he was deep down, and thrust a finger authoritatively in the air. "I swear on my honor, I have not forgotten my valiant task, Lady of the Moon! Your disappointment needn't wear on us so!"
I looked from my lover to my brother, then back, mildly amused. "And what am I missing?"
"I sent your brother up here to fetch you, Toren," she said primly, drifting up to my side, taking her own peek at the stars. "The dance is nearly here, and there is much to do in the intervening minutes. Minutes that slip by us like sand, if we are not careful."
She eyed Chul sharply, seeming to pick him apart into his spare components as she said so. Chul coughed, embarrassed, into his titanic fist. "When given a quest of such import, I do not fail, Lady of the Moon!" he insisted, but his bluster wasn't lost on me.
"I was having a little time to myself before the festivities got going," I said, interceding for my brother. "I sidetracked him quite easily. But what is there left on my agenda down there, if you don't mind me asking, Seris?"
Seris' lips thinned out, though there was a subtle smile there only I knew how to see. She looked at Chul, then rather deliberately looked towards the ground far below. Chul, thankfully, caught the hint. He nodded slowly, forcefully, working through the calculations in his head.
"Ah, yes! I shall leave you two to your lonesome!" he declared, thumping his chest with a force that would make clouds thunder. "I wish you the greatest of luck, my brother! May you escape the sly serpent's schemes, as I have! See that I can flee!"
With that rather direct statement, Chul shot back down towards the ground, the wind in his wake. I stared after him, a brow raised in surprise. The most disorienting part, I realized, was that Chul had meant the last part as a joke. I could feel it in his intent.
Chul, developing a sense of humor?
Seris' fingers brushed against my chin, turning my head back towards her. She had a smile of her own on her lips, one that—as always—made it quite hard to think coherently. "Do you think you can flee?" she queried innocently. "There's still much to do tonight."
I chuckled, sweeping her into a gentle embrace. "Of course not," I replied, rolling my eyes for effect. "I know there are some limits to optimism. But do tell me, my dear Scythe, what you have for me on our agenda."
Seris sighed contentedly in my arms, leaning into the embrace. "Well, the feast can only end once you give a speech for Arthur Eralith-Leywin," she said easily. "You are the best man at the wedding, after all: your words are needed. Afterwards, we will need pictures. Sevren Denoir has brought upgraded camera technology that I hope to employ. We're going to need many of them, and you will need to be present for them all."
"All of them?"
"Without exception, my Spellsong. This wedding has been perfect, but there is always something beyond perfection."
I squinted at her, weighing her words inside my head, giving her my full attention. "I'm not so sure about that, actually."
She laughed lightly, a reward as great as any other, a slight dusting of pink on her cheeks. "Yes, yes," she hummed, turning up her chin in the way she liked. Her eyes flashed. "You make a very convincing argument. Perhaps there are perfections that cannot be surpassed."
"But in the interest of argument," I said knowingly, leaning closer to my Scythe, "what would make tonight even more perfect?"
She stared back at me, brushing a few strands of my hair into place. She licked her lips, and the blush on her face deepened just the slightest bit, her heartfire pulsing along. "There's to be a dance when the banquet is done."
And I'd like to dance with you.
I pressed a short kiss to her lips in answer. "Then I'd better get down there and have my speech," I replied, sweeping her deeper into my embrace, even as we lowered through the sky. "We have an agenda to keep after all."
But as we descended, I stopped in surprise, noting the many mana signatures that were rising to meet me, all burning with that familiar sense of passion that told me they were my family. Soleil, Sundren, Roa, Lithen, Diella, and a dozen others from the New Hearth were burning embers ascending to meet me halfway.
"We heard that there is to be a dance soon!" Roa declared, flying forward, a grin on her face. She swept next to us, rustling my hair in the big-sisterly way she liked to do. "And we have also heard that Aurora never taught you how our flocks truly fly. This can't stand!"
She then pointed at my Scythe, a wicked grin on her face. "And you, Miss Not-Basilisk. We'll see how well you can dance, too. It's going to be a family affair, and that means there's no slithering away for you!"
Chul watched happily from the balcony, his arms crossed in the way he did whenever he was truly proud of a finely forged craft. And as I looked to Seris' own baffled expression—shifting in real time to one of amused joy—I realized that Chul had outwitted her in a way she'd never expected. My brother had found a way to make our night even more… perfect, and entirely outside of her calculations.
I had gone through much in this world, and I knew that my life was far from over. Indeed, it was only the beginning. But already I had found so much here. Love, family, brotherhood, and communion? How much more would I know in this life my mother had gifted me, stretching onward to the future?
Thank you, Aurora, I thought, accompanying my flock—the flock that she had helped me find—down to the balcony below. Thank you. Thank you for showing me how much a single note out of place could do.
—-
Author's final (Discordant) note.
The Odyssey is one of the most famous works of literature in the world. It has been translated countless times, across languages that we know and speak in every day—German, Italian, English, French, etcetera—to those that have long since gone extinct. It passed around the world, rising from the old city-states of Archaic Greece, and it kept on passing. When Alexander the Great conquered Persia, he brought the concept of Greekness with him, and in turn, brought the Odyssey to never before seen lands. The Romans got their hands on it after that, and the rest is history. It is one of the first works of fiction mankind has ever put to the pen, and it stays with us still. It's telling to me that this is the sort of story that we immortalize.
We want to see the weather-beaten man beat the odds. We want to see him brave the sea. We want to see him return to Ithaca, do away with the suitors, form a relationship with his son, Telemachus, and enact vengeance on the suitors. We want to see him reunite with Penelope, who has long suffered under the hope that her beloved husband would return.
But above all, we want to see what it is like for a man to reach his home. For three thousand years, humanity has longed for that, and so for three thousand years we have traced the path of the pages of those who have longed for it before us.
The Odyssey offers us perhaps the most classical answer, and it's one I do love. But it's not quite enough for me, and there are many who don't find it satisfying either. In 1938, Greek author Nikos Kazantzakis wrote his own addition to the timeless Homeric classics. The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel was a juggernaut of a book. A sequel to the original epic, Kazantzakis sought to try and capture something that he believed had been missed in the ancient prose of the old Greeks. It's a tale that expands beyond the original (and is three times as long) and tries to capture something of what it means to live and be human. It's an exploration of freedom, direction, willpower, and sometimes just moving forward. I won't spoil it here; it's a book I recommend everyone read if they're at all philosophy and history nerds, as I am. Thankfully, the point I want to make isn't really bound by what's in that book. It's bound by the fact that Kazantzakis wrote with such an initial premise at all.
In his semi-autobiography decades later, Report to Greco, Kazantzakis speaks of a vision he had as he was writing his modern sequel. He and Odysseus—his Odysseus—sat on a bench, considering the world around them. It's a vast, vast world, and though they can only see trees and grass, they both know that beyond it is infinity. Kazantzakis lingers, still considering. But Odysseus stands and then leaves him behind, walking into the distance. Odysseus is free in a way that his own author never can be, embodying that freedom he was crafted to carry.
I am far removed from Kazantzakis in many ways. I am American; he was Greek. He died half a century before I was born, and I hope to live for a lot longer. He's a far greater novelist than I shall ever be, and almost certainly a deeper thinker. But he wrote something that captured the essence of what it means to search for home, and in turn, what it means to be human.
When Toren Daen stood up from the bench we sat on, I hoped to follow his footsteps, impossibly far away as they may be. I want to be as kind as he is, as strong as he is, find joy in the world as he can, and find home as he does.
But I know I can't ever be him. I can't hold souls in my palm. I can't be there for everyone at every time when they need it most, no matter how much I wish it to be so. I can't play music so beautiful it enraptures a crowd. (I'm also quite sure I'll never be able to obliterate moons with a supernova.) But by writing a story like this—as is the case for all stories we cherish—we can trace the footprints of those heroes who wander beyond us. I can't hold souls in the palm of my hand, but I can learn who they are a little better every day. I can't feel the emotions of everyone around me, and thus know precisely how to help those I love, but I can listen to them and comfort them as they need. And I can't play an instrument just yet: but I'm certainly going to try.
I already have a piano on the way, a gift from a family member. It's sorta funny to me that I'm not going to try the violin.
As I think about it more, the more I believe it's a good thing that the heights of Odysseus, and the supernatural heroes like him, are impossible to reach for mortal men. It leaves us with an ever-expanding horizon, with more we can do in this lifetime. With every hero that succeeds against all odds, the footprints on the beach multiply that much more. Maybe the peak can't be reached, but it's the journey that matters most. It's up to us to choose that journey.
Writing Discordant Note has been incredibly meaningful to me, and I hope it has been meaningful to those who've read it. I'm sad that I could not finish it in the best way, writing all the way through to the end. But the steps laid before me were not those of TBATE; I stood up from that bench somewhere along the way. Nonetheless, I hope that those who've read this little passion project of mine found something inside of it, too, no matter how small. Toren's taught me that what I want to do in my future is write, and write meaningfully. I hope that many of you will read what else pops into my head. Until then.
- TMKnight