Raquel's fingers moved slowly through her daughter's silver hair, guiding the wooden comb with the practiced care of habit and devotion. Each stroke was measured—a silent confession of devotion, spoken not in words but in touch, from mother to child. Sunlight slipped in through the window, catching in the pale strands and scattering flickers of light across the plain wooden floor. On the sill, jasmine bloomed in silence, its fragrance mingling with the warmth of the waning afternoon.
Outside, the hum of festival preparations filled the air—laughter, music, clattering pans—but inside these walls, there was only stillness. Only the two of them.
The comb passed near Rigel's ears, and the girl flinched. Not much. Just enough. Raquel caught the flicker in her face—a shadow in the mirror, gone as quickly as it came. Her daughter's features were... different. Human standards of beauty entirely unsuited to describe her. An elongated face, sharp cheekbones, large brown eyes beneath thick lashes. Striking, some would say. Strange, said others. People stared. Whispered. Children did worse, their cruelty fresh in the bruises of yesterday.
"What is it, mi amor?" Raquel asked gently, brushing a hand against her cheek. The girl leaned into the touch but didn't answer right away.
"It's nothing, mamá," she said, too softly.
But Raquel knew better. Some things children carried in silence, as if admitting pain would only give it roots.
Words wouldn't help. They never had. Not for this.
So she let it go. Changed course.
"Tabitha and Baruch," she said. "They're wonderful, aren't they?"
That did it. Light came back into Rigel's eyes. "Yes! I love them so much," she said quickly. "I miss them."
Raquel smiled. "So do I."
"They've been gone for two years. Leaf must be six already. Do you think he's changed?"
"Oh, I'd be surprised if he hasn't," Raquel said. "When they left, he barely reached your ribs, and you were already nearing your first blood. Wouldn't shock me if he's taller than you now. Maybe with huge horns even."
She feigned a shudder. "Spare me the thought. I don't think I can handle another forest giant around."
That made Rigel laugh, a quiet sound but real. The weight in the room lifted a little.
"Why does that matter so much to you, mamá?" she asked, smiling.
"Because," Raquel said with mock gravity, "not everyone gets to watch forest giants grow up. It would be a shame to miss it."
Her eyes lingered on Rigel's reflection. The face was still young, but there were changes now—a grace beginning to settle in, the first traces of a woman showing through the girl.
"They too will be amazed at how much you've grown these last two years," she said softly, pride shimmering in her voice.
Rigel dropped her gaze, cheeks coloring, but pride shimmered behind her bashful smile. "Do you think they'll come back soon?"
"They stopped the war before it began," Raquel said with a smile that tried to sound certain. "So there's no reason they shouldn't be on their way back already."
"I'll scold them if they take any longer," Rigel said with mock sternness.
Raquel smirked. "Being rude is not your thing. Leave that to me"
The moment softened into quiet again. Then Rigel spoke, voice unsure.
"Mamá…"
"Yes?"
"Back then—before the Celestials like Aelithra or Diurnix descended—were wars really that common?"
Raquel didn't answer at once. She looked at her daughter, at the girl who could ask such a question with innocence still intact, and silently thanked those who made that possible.
To have someone who had seen the world. Someone who remembered the past. Someone who could read, and write, and teach. That was a luxury in a village long forgotten by the world. And Raquel had known that luxury.
Her thoughts drifted to a familiar voice—measured, patient, always a touch too serious. Tabitha's voice.
She cleared her throat with exaggerated poise, mimicking the druidess's solemn tone.
"Rigel, mi vida," she said, letting the word roll with care, "you might not believe it, but there was a time when the world was pure chaos—almost as wild as tonight's festival, just with fewer lanterns and a great deal more blood."
Rigel leaned forward, eyes wide, clearly entertained.
"Un verdadero desastre, mi amor," Raquel continued, mimicking a scholarly tone. "Barbarians took what they wanted, drunk on power and louder than a tavern full of drunkards. The Sigrians guarded their lands like Señora Alba guards her roses—thorns and curses both."
Raquel's voice swelled with mock gravity, though the twinkle in her eyes betrayed her amusement.
Rigel let out a small laugh, nodding as if approving her mother's playful dramatics.
"And the Ardag?" Raquel went on. "They roamed like geese let loose in a marketplace—noisy, proud, forever spoiling for a fight. The horned giants—Druids—kept to their forests, sulking like old Luis when someone dared borrow his tools. The Marshfolk? Silent as morning fog. Blink, and they were gone. The Sandkin even more so—whispers in the wind, minds like riddles."
Rigel's mouth parted slightly, her imagination racing ahead of the tale.
"And just when it seemed the world would tear itself apart," Raquel declared, lifting a hand with theatrical flair, "the Celestials descended from the heavens—like a maestro raising his baton before the first note."
She waved her hand awkwardly, as if conducting an invisible orchestra.
"Slowly. Gently. They brought order—not with chains or fire, but with song. They taught mortals to listen instead of shouting over one another. To build instead of break."
She paused then, glancing sideways at Rigel. The girl was trying to suppress a mocking grin, but her bright eyes betrayed her anticipation.
"They chose a few among the forest giants—the ones whose hearts were softest. Not because they were strong—though they were—but because they knew how to care. Peace wasn't something they enforced. It was something they lived."
With her chin lifted in mock dignity, Raquel gave a theatrical sniff—then immediately broke character, giggling at herself and slumping slightly, nudging her daughter with a wink.
Rigel squinted at her. "Mamá... were you trying to sound like Tabitha?"
Raquel smirked, dropping the act. "Was it convincing?"
Rigel shook her head. "Not even a little. You sounded like Señor Carmino after two cups of mead and a headache."
"Hmph," Raquel huffed playfully, though a spark of pride still flickered in her eye. "Can't blame a girl for trying."
Then her smile faded. The lightness drained from her tone, like a candle snuffed between fingers. Her mind had drifted—to the same memories she once received from Baruch, who had walked the world for more than a century.
They weren't tales with happy endings. They were lessons soaked in grief. And Baruch's voice, steady and low, had carried all the sorrow of the lives lost along the way.
"Rigel…"
Raquel's voice had dropped without her noticing—so much so that her daughter looked up, sensing the change.
"What is it, Mama?"
"Not everyone wanted peace," Raquel said. "Not then. Not now. Some were too proud. Some simply cruel." Her words came cold and deliberate, like frost edging its way across glass.
"One of them—one of our own—was born not far from here. He turned his back on all the Celestials offered. No gift moved him. No wisdom touched him. Not even the descent of Lady Aelithra changed his heart. And his sons followed him. They sowed ruin like seeds—long after others had begun to heal."
Rigel frowned. "And who stopped them?"
Raquel inhaled slowly.
"The people. Those whose hearts were healed by Aelithra's teachings. They stood together and said enough. They didn't wait for saviors. They became them. It was us—our kind—who protected the forest giants and probably the world… from ourselves."
Rigel didn't speak.
Raquel's voice softened again, her eyes distant but filled with quiet respect. "That's why the Celestials matter. They didn't just stop the wars. They showed us how to become better, how to care for each other. That's their gift."
"Tabitha is the most caring person I know," Rigel said, her voice warm. "Of course Lord Diurnix chose her."
Raquel smiled crookedly. "Yes, well… he did. Though, to be fair, she was nothing like she is now when I was younger."
A lopsided smile tugged at her lips, and memories surfaced—of the two horned giants' once cold, fearsome gazes and the harsh lessons they'd meted out for every bit of mischief.
"You're right, though," she added after a pause. "For as long as I can remember, Tabitha and Baruch have done everything they could to protect us. Just as the Celestial Lords asked them to."
Rigel nodded slowly. "The Celestials are wonderful. Lord Diurnix is wonderful."
Raquel pulled her daughter into a sudden embrace, arms tight around the girl's narrow shoulders.
"But I'm still better, no?" she whispered with mock arrogance.
"Mamá…" Rigel sighed, rolling her eyes with theatrical weariness. "You can't compare yourself to a Celestial. That's blasphemy."
Raquel tilted her head, feigning confusion, brows high. "Hmm?"
Rigel gave in with a crooked smile, the protest draining from her face. "Yes, mamá. You're the best."
"There we are." Raquel kissed her on the cheek, loud and proud. "That's my girl."
She resumed combing, the wooden teeth gliding now with ease. For a time, the only sounds were the creak of the stool and the faint murmur of voices outside — distant laughter, hammer strikes, the rustle of preparations for the night's festival.
Then Raquel paused, eyes glinting. "And another thing, muy importante—if you come back with knots again, don't expect me to untangle them every time. ¿Comprendes?"
"Okay…" Rigel said, drawing out the word in a way that meant anything but obedience.
Then, without prompting, she began to sing — quiet at first, but gaining strength with each line:
"When the world cries, in pain and fear,
Celestials listen, drawing near;
Their mighty hands dry every tear,
In their embrace, we find our cheer."
Her voice was light, but clear — a melody carried not just in sound but in spirit. It filled the small room, wrapping around the walls like morning sun slipping through cracks in stone. It didn't matter that her pitch wavered. There was honesty in it, the kind only children and fools could sing without shame.
Raquel smiled to herself, not interrupting.
'She really can't stand the silence, eh?' Raquel mused silently.
Her eyes wandered to the small altar near the hearth — their altar. She and Rigel had built it together from scavenged wood and clay smoothed with careful fingers. It wasn't ornate. But it didn't need to be. The candles burned low, their flames small but steady, casting warm halos over every token and charm laid at the base.
Marigold petals, scattered like embers, lay curled around smooth stones, carved trinkets, and faded cloth. The scent of incense still lingered in the air, a thick, bittersweet perfume of earth and ash and time.
Raquel's features softened as she looked. A hundred memories stirred behind her eyes, unspoken but not forgotten. A clay whistle. A lock of hair tied with black ribbon. The worn corner of a letter, folded so many times it nearly fell apart. These weren't offerings. They were anchors.
The altar wasn't for the dead. It was for the living—to remember they had once been loved.
Raquel lowered her head slightly, murmuring a silent prayer. Not for intervention. Just thanks.
Then her gaze drifted to the window. A flower sat in a narrow vase on the sill — a young bloom she'd placed there just that morning. But now, as she watched, something strange stirred in its petals. The stalk swayed though no wind blew, and color surged through the veins like fire through glass. The bud unfurled with sudden vigor, bursting open into full bloom in a heartbeat.
Raquel's breath caught.
A sign.
There could be no mistake.
"They're back," Raquel whispered, already rising from her seat. "Tabitha's back!"