The Day of the Northern Sun
From SCross
The Day of the Northern Sun
Preface:
Daivat Woundclan was a famous name for three generations of airship travel; a notorious airship pirate often found where least expected, and whose luck for many years would remain preternatural; and when finally caught, a decade of privateering for the Empire bought him clemency for his past crimes and a quiet retirement. While the fantastic claims made within these diary entries cannot be wholly corroborated, particularly given the source (a known air pirate, womanizer, and a claimant of the power of prophecy), there is compelling evidence elsewhere.
Imperial records and northern records both record a serious attack on the Tglinkgit village; that much is known historical fact.
House Whitehand records do corroborate that a Faruza Woundclan existed in this time and place, and served as the Seigneur. Given the power and scope of the position, in particular to security, it is no surprise that very few details of the man were ever written down. The extensive diaries of Gabreielle Whitehand do not ever mention him, which was particularly intruiging given how closely Faruza Woundclan would have served to her, and how meticulously complete her journaling was. This researcher suggests that this omission is more significant than any inclusion would have been.
House St. Cloud records do last show Chelsie St. Cloud as having left for the northern chapter of the house, after which she is lost from history. Elements of Daivat Woundclan's diaries speak of a temple far in the south, and there was a reported disturbance in Gaia's song, the first recorded shriek of joy the planet has ever made, according to Mage Guild records.
Mage Guild records do record a student by the name of Rosabella DiVincenzi, a red mage who rose to minor prominence for a discovery, years later, that would ultimately lead to Mist tainting the land.
It was dutifully recorded in many textbooks of lore about the Day of the Northern Sun. Theories abounded for years; that the Elemental Ruins had once again become active, a year after their first recorded eruption in a century. That during the time between Great Pacts, that it was a spiritual message throughout the entire world. The Church would call it a miracle, one of many they regularly claim. Some in the Mage Guild would claim a second, great Holy had passed. Others claimed that Gaia had finally had enough of the infection that tainted her lifestream and face.
What is undeniable of the Day of the Northern Sun is this: The Shades were finally, entirely, wiped out, a finale to the Night of Tears, the last coup de grace of the terrible taint. Still to this day, those with the touch of Shadow are born, but they are without purpose; created only by the planet as a precaution, should ever the Shades return. All Father willing, they will not.
Another fantastic claim made in this book, is that the Church order, The Path Undivided, originated in the north. A curious claim, given the murky and secular past of the Order, and the secrecy under which they continue to operate under to this day. It is notable, however, that this is the first recorded document to include reference to the Path Undivided, lending it particular credibility.
The excerpts of this diary have been arranged and edited to present a cohesive narrative, for ease of understanding. Unedited transcripts will be made available upon request.
By the College of Cardinals will, and for their eyes only, I present the following excerpts.
Scholar Kagane, under the supervision of Wern
---
I want to write about the day their threads ended.
It's a hard thing to write about, even now, fourty years later. My father would tell me of what it was like to be born, a slave to Gaia, to know from the moment of conception that you existed only to kill, to hate, to be her anger incarnate.
I never had the cruelty or heart to tell him, I was conceived knowing something worse; the very heartbeat he would die, and mother too.
The problem with great events is that most are inevitable; you can see them coming from twenty or thirty years away, and all the threads converge into a great big tangle, and you know in the heart of that tangle there rests... something. But knowing there's something there, and knowing how it will all play out, is something else entirely. I saw what threads went in. And I saw which ones didn't come out.
I'm going to say hard things about my mother and my father. I'm going to say these hard things because this is what they would have genuinely wanted, because they never shirked from their folly and sins.
My mother was born for the purpose of apocalypse, and she always accepted that her purpose was to one day die. That her death could and would bring so much more death with her. She accepted this, passively, always with a smile and a shrug, as if her life meant very little. And I know that to her perspective, it did. But it was hard to be her son, and I imagine it was hard to be her husband. How do you share a heart not just with one person, but with every living thing on Gaia? How do you feel loved like a husband should, like a son should, by a woman who communed with Gaia so deeply you wouldn't see her for weeks. Or to a mother who would tell you so often, a single life means so little? Or that she loved the whole world as much as you. Not less. You were no more loved by her than a stranger would be.
My father was a murderer. A madman. By Imperial standards, he would have been considered disloyal to his wife, but by northern standards, they things he did were perfectly acceptable, and sometimes expected. He had a habit of loving the impossible; first a noblewoman, then mother, and then Aunt Rosa. He was honest, though; as brutally honest about himself as anyone else. I'd seen him take mercy on someone. Not often, but sometimes, he'd relent, when he was tearing into you. But never about himself. He'd never relent there, and it was hard to love a man so aware of his own faults, but so unwilling to change them. It was hard to love a father who had to admit, that as much as he loved you, he hated you, and would always hate you.
A father who, like my mother, had dedicated his entire life to ending the world on his terms, and no-one else's.
My mother was the Cetra. Born of Gaia for the purpose of calling Holy on the world. My father was as a WEAPON unborn; invested by Gaia to be a voice of her rage, hatred, and anger. How these two came to find each other, and love each other, would fill books. I know they met before mother was "finished", as she called it. When she was nearly as mindless as father once was. I know they became lovers then, that they went south, and that Gaia held mother and me in her womb, and in finishing her, changed me too. I remember the threads starting then, even in the womb; I remember, faintly and cloudily, the upset I felt in how young I would be when they would die.
I still remember, to this day, watching the threads of my father reach for another woman to be my mother, and how I screamed at him then. I was... two, maybe three. I had no way to tell them I already knew I'd be with Aunt Rosa later. Just that I wanted what little time I had to be with father and mother, before they left forever. I still wake up from that nightmare, once in a while; watching my father nearly give away what little time we had to someone else. Aunt Rosa refuses to talk about that day, and I don't bring it up. Some memories should stay buried.
I wish I could bury the memory of the day my mother died, at the hands of my father.
---
The young boy came awake at the first scream; bolting upright, twin tails wrapping around himself protectively, and he bolted from his bedroll to shake his mother awake. "Momma! Momma!" he whined, the five year old's hand on her shoulder shaking her. Chelsie's serene eyes snapped open, paused, and then there was a moment of long sadness between the two as their eyes met. A few heartbeats where both saw, and refused to speak, of what fates they saw.
Outside, a thin trail of smoke at the entrance to the Tglinkgit village was rising, and a strange "whup, whupwhupwhuphhwhup, whup-whup-WHUP-whupwhupwhupphh" sound started to rise. Arrows, volleys of them, raining down on the village. Chelsie grabbed her youngest daughter, Jocaya, and rested a hand on the swell of her abdomen, eyes tightening in worry.
The screams outside continued; and through the tent-flap, the young boy glimpsed six mounted men, on barded chocobos as black as tar, lancing down the guards at the gate. The Tglinkgit bulls bellowing in pain as they died, the hunters bursting from their tents, spears in hand, disorganized, caught off guard. Chelsie grabbed the boy and ran; pushing open the tent-flap, Jocaya wailing in quiet protest as the motion awoke her; the young boy bravely drawing his small hunting knife. It had killed before, in his father's hands. It could kill in his, he hoped.
The village was on fire; torches thrown, and then spells, and in the distance outside the village, three things, more absence of light than any shape, could be heard shrieking a gleeful cry. Something in that scream was wrong, as though whatever emotion it was expressing, was one that couldn't be understood by anything on Gaia. Just understood amongst those shadowy things, and their mortal puppets that wielded the blades for them.
They watched Tglinkgit die as they ran; a woman pulled from her tent, and stabbed in the throat. Two children caught by a broad-axe, cleaving them sickeningly, without a chance to scream, their blood and the ruins of their parkas spilling red beads on the snow below. Hunters, trying to fight back with hunting spears and bows only ever intended for game, not for armored riders. The Gaimen were throwing up earthen barriers where they could; the earth bucking and heaving at their will, trying, too slow, too late, to save who they could. It wasn't long before the spells raining in from outside ripped them apart. Feralis were fighting; one took the form of a Behemoth, and this held their attention for a few minutes, taking twelve with her before she died. Shaman's spirits fought only briefly; the next shriek of those shadowy things beyond the walls sent even them fleeing.
Chelsie's tears streamed bright as she stopped running long enough to reach down for a second, squalling infant, wounded by the graze of an arrow, bleeding out into the snow. She whispered a prayer over the child, gentle brushes of her fingertips making the air shimmer. The spell would protect the little one long enough, she hoped. She scooped it up into her other arm, and started to run once more.
It was two steps later when the young boy behind her watched two arrows blossom in her back; one in her left shoulder, the other deep into her right hip, and she fell to the snow with a scream. The rest of the arrows pattered down around the village, another blind volley by the archers outside.
"Momma! Momma, get up, please get up, give me the babies, run!" the boy said, quickly sheathing his knife so bravely drawn heartbeats ago. Now he was a young boy watching his mother bleed, and he was frightened, and crying. "Please, momma, give me the babies, and run, run!"
Chelsie hiccoughed, but her hands settled over the infants, refusing to rise until she'd whispered the healing magics she knew, for both her own daughter, and this villager's child. The green and white glow from her hands settled over the children, and their cries went from those of pain to those of simple fear and distress. "Okay. Okay Daivat. Now we can run. Here, take them both. Go." She shakily rose, and started hobbling forwards again. A half mile. That's all she needed, a half mile. The distance between the village and the mountains, where the People had creches enough she could hide and stay hidden. Survival was irrelevant. She knew the scream of those shadowy things. Her life meant less than ever, and more than ever, now.
The cry of her son behind her as the arrow pierced his leg, couldn't stop her feet now. Nothing could.
Her blood trickled out in drops, staining the snow, as dying, she ran. Not for her life. She ran for everyone else's, everywhere, tears blurring her eyes. Forgive me, Daivat. Forgive me, everyone.
---
The smell of smoke made them drop their hunting gear behind them; the two hunters a blur on the horizon as they ran, sped by magic, over the intervening miles. The sight of the village burning, and the warriors attacking, confronted them. No northern warriors, these hordes, still raining arrows down on the village, swords flashing, guns firing. They flew no pennants, no flags, no state or country or noble markings. Mercenaries. From the Southlands.
Rosabella's eye widened, but no words would come, nothing but a low, fierce snarl. Faruza ran with her, blurring across the snows, the winds rising in his wake as his hands found his blades.
Something within them gave; and they screamed in unison, reaching inward, embracing Gaia's voice, the hatred of the planet. Ice ripped from his back; splattering blood and scraps of flesh on the ground, as his body changed, as he gave in to Gaia. Rosabella's back did the same; steel bursting from her, barbed chains writhing like living things, vicious and sharp. Their blood stained the snow, but uncaring, they charged.
They fell into the masses of mercenaries like forces of nature; a great wind sweeping in from the north, slashing through armor and flesh alike, as though a hurricane had appeared in their midst carrying razors of ice. Faruza's scream echoed into the heavens, in a voice like the winter wind throug the ribs of a dead man. Mercenary's blood froze around him as blades flashed in his hands, as men died with fear in their eyes. The Viera, a writhing mass of fury and razor-barbed chains, danced alongside him. Every step, a limb rended, a throat torn, wheat before the scythe of her chains.
They would count their wounds later, silently, the many gashes and scratches they would take as they waded through the mercenaries swords and arrows. But in the blind fury and bloodlust of the moment, there was no pain.
Just anger, and who was dead, and who was yet still alive.
Arrows flew, and were carried off-course by the unnatural winds. Chocobos charged, and were tangled and slain, their riders ripped apart by the chains writhing from the Viera's back like a living, angry thing.
Warriors rallied in the village, what few survived; Ronso leapt from the walls with their spears, and breathed fire and spat poison. Alexandria Bluefox, a practical giantess amongst the northern People, waded in, fists swinging. And where her fists met men, they exploded as if hit by cannon-shot, her screams joining theirs in beastly unison, singing out to her kind.
When the three of them met again in the middle of the slaughter, they were unrecognizable; what they were, what they had become, had long ago left behind that with the Tglinkgit knew as ordinary people. They were buying the lives of the Tglinkgit, they knew, at the cost of their own. They'd never again be accepted within the walls; three monstrous horrors, fighting in ways only monsters did.
This was the choice they had made.
And so they fought.
Others of the Wound Clan leapt in, and died; cut down by the retreating warriors, clustered around to protect those shadowy things from the three horrors that had torn their numbers apart. Answering arrows finally came from the hunters of the Tglinkgit; a scattered few, enough to down a few more of the southern ilk, before the mercenary army regrouped and withdrew. Harried for miles by the three, but driven back each time by the strange, otherworldly magic of the shadowed ones.
"Shades." swore the Beast that was Rosabella, and it was a swear tinged with hatred enough to burn the world.
"Come, poco lepri." came my father's voice. "Let's find our families."
They raced back to the village, unchallenged for the time being by the guards at the gates. They found Rosabella's tent first.
I sat there in the snow, next to her tent. It's where they found me crying, the arrow jutting from my calf, Jocaya in one hand. The father of the other infant had come and taken his child, leaving me with both hands around Jocaya, as I rocked and cried.
Beside me, Tuku, Rosabella's husband, lay in the snow outside the tent. Unmoving. Three arrows in him; one, through his long-suffering, crippled leg. A second through his right ear, pinning it to the earth. The third had pierced his back, and through his heart. Underneath him something squirmed and cried, a thin wail.
I will never forget the shriek that came from Aunt Rosabella in that moment. I will never forget. It was the sound of a woman watching her world die.
---
When the Vieran familes came later, to bury their dead, they turned Tuku over. The arrow that had pierced his heart had pierced through his thin frame, and into their son. He had died under his father, their lives buying Alba's. I did not see how he died, but I know: Covering over his son and daughter from the arrows that rained down. He didn't die quickly; the arrow through his ear had kept him pinned, probably minutes.
I think, in the years to come, I would cry almost as much for he, as I would for my own parents. Tuku was brave; to live and love Rosabella, not least of all. I know he died without moving; his first thought to his last, in that terrible day, protecting the lives of his children.
Sometimes, I cried because he did what my own parents wouldn't do, couldn't do: Fight and die for me, that day.
---
I was put in the sledge with Jocaya and Alba; Rosabella slapping the traces on her shoulders, her manner and voice gone as cold as my fathers. "Go, lobo negro." she said to him. "I will get the children to poco fratello and safety. Find Chelsie."
His own voice was hard, a brittle knife, cutting through his own fear and grief, his concern, his worry. He couldn't afford those now. Neither of them could. "Run as the wind, poco lepri."
She pulled, and she ran, ran the way my father had once told me of; an unending sprint, that eats the muscles and ruins the bones, that makes the blood froth in your lungs as you run and run and run the winter miles. To this day, she still coughs blood sometimes, and mutters about that run.
We crossed in eight hours what should have taken three days. The sledge bouncing on the snow, the infants in the furs sick and distressed, crying when they had the energy to. I held them, and I watched, not what my eyes could see, but what my heart could. The threads of my mother, dying.
---
Chelsie shakily lifted her head. She could hear them outside, whispering to themselves, in those voices and tones that weren't of Gaia. They had come without their mortal pawns, unwilling to risk sharing the prize they would have today. They had tracked her here, after all. Fear crawled into her belly and heart. Her eyelids were so heavy. Everything hurt, and the blood trail spoke for itself of her mortality now. The cold stone of the cave was no comfort; she daren't light a fire and draw more attention to her position, and now it was too late.
Their shapes were unnatural, shifting from moment to moment, like heat shimmer in the air, never solid, never even really liquid. They swallowed light, absorbed it, somewhere in there. The sunlight weakened them, but their prey was weaker yet. They were whispering in anticipation. They were going to kill her. They were going to call Holy, and remake the world in their image. An Unholy, for the Shades, a world remade as theirs, at the cost of everything else. She choked down a sob, and steeled herself. Just as her husband had taught her; make the choice, accept the consequences. You can do anything you choose to. Just choose it.
She chose.
Outside, the sunlight darkened, and with a chitter, the three figures cautiously stepped into the silhouette of the cave entrance. There came soft, cruel laughter, mixed with excitement, a hunger for something. A world to call their own again. ~There you are...~ whispered one.
Her eyes were so heavy. Sweat stung them, and blood was in her mouth. The wounds were mortal, and she would never see her husband, her children, or even a sunrise again.
Shakily, she raised a hand, as if to ward them away, like a frightened woman. The Shades laughed and slowly crept forward, like tigers on a deer too crippled, too tired to run anymore. The hand was in front of her face, and it drew their eyes.
Which was the point.
The upraised hand hid her smile. And her body hid the other hand behind her back, fingers curling, forming the cygils in the air she needed.
They never even had time to pray.
Light, light like sunlight in the desert at summer, light like a hammer, like a scythe, flooded the cave. Her eyes were closed, but she felt that light, felt it pull through Gaia, felt it pull through her, and leave her hand. She felt, rather than heard, the sudden, startled scream of the Shades before her, and felt, rather than saw, how the light ate through them, their dying shrieks making her ears bleed and the rocks shake. Light flooded the cave, and died, and took with it the three that had chased her here.
Her mouth formed silent words: Faruza, please...
Shadowy curtains fell across her consciousness. Finally, she could rest.
---
"SION!" came her scream, as she lunged past the warders at the cave entrance. The warders practically leapt out of the way as he materialized from one of the cave entrances, the princess Bellatrix on her heels.
Sion's eyes swept over Rosabella; the frightened, tear-streaked boy in the sledge, the infants in his arms. He counted only one set of viera ears among them, and his eyes half-closed in sorrow.
They stepped towards their teacher then; Bellatrix and Sion both, embracing her but a moment, flashes of grief too wide of a gulf to express, their hands pulling the traces from her shoulders. They would waste no breath with questions; the sight of her, there, now, in this condition, spoke of everything they had ever feared.
"Keep them safe for me, poco fratello." she whispered to Sion, and he nodded. Bellatrix whirled to wards her people, bellowing orders, wasting not a heartbeat.
"Espers! Wardens! To arms! Seal the entrance to the cave, and light the ward-fires. Shades, and their allies, are upon us. Something terrible is coming. Women, children, anyone who can't fight. To the center of the caves. Pull the sentries back from the forest; it will fight for us if it can. Go!"
Rosabella spared not a word, and none expected her too. She quaffed something from a vial, straightened, and ran back the way she came, faster, stronger now, without the weight of the sledge behind her.
---
She awoke to his arms around her, and the sounds of his soft sobbing, the stroke of familiar tails across her cheeks. Her serene eyes slowly opened, hazily, and she looked into those cruel, vicious eyes, above her, and smiled.
"You have to." she whispered.
She felt him tense, to those words, and he fiercely shook his head, gritting his teeth. "No."
"You have to." she repeated. "I'm dying. It hurts, beloved. It hurts. You know how. It's ready, and it's time."
There was a silence, for a few seconds, as his heart broke.
And then he drew the blade from his belt, the canine's tears falling softly on her breast. He tried to say something, to say everything, but her gentle smile silenced him. Apologies. Farewells. Regrets. Grief. Understanding. She had always told him understanding didn't matter, only action. And she was right, then and now.
A tail-tip lightly wiped the trickle of blood away from her dying lips, and he said the only words that mattered, as he watched her throat slackly fall back, exposing it to him.
"I love you."
Her eyes closed, and she smiled, smiled the way she did when they made love, the way she did after he'd kissed her, or pulled her close. "... love you too."
He closed his eyes, and then forced himself to open them, to watch, to know what he had done. The blade was quick, and sure; the thin sliver of adamant parted skin under the jaw, and sunk the whole foot of metal to the hilt. She stiffened for an instant, and then relaxed, a quiet sigh leaving her lips.
A part of him wanted then to hunch over her and cry, or to plunge the blade into his own brain. But something warm was in his other hand, something that had not been there, heartbeats ago. Where his hand had met hers, something smooth and white rested, like a crystal egg.
The seed of Holy.
You know how, her voice echoed in his memory. It's ready, and it's time.
He stood, leaving the cooling corpse of his wife behind him, he ran.
This was his mourning; the frost streaking his cheeks, the pounding of the earth below his feet, the ache in his tortured lungs, the screams from his throat with every step. North. North. North! Three days of running, without rest, without end, three rises and falls of the sun and moon. Every step, every breath, every scream, his mourning.
---
The voices of the few who remained, rose to his ears, as he strode up the mountainside. The malboro was cooling in his wake, and before that, the behemoth, their blood staining his hands, the venom of the green one in his throat. He could have healed himself. Could have saved himself.
But how do you save yourself when it means living after the saving?
Two of his kind, maybe the last two of his kind, fell into step with him along the way; their winds joining his, twin tails for each of them lashing the air, sweeping the best of Gaia's monsters from their path, from the skies above, from the earth below. Their song rolled in the sky, in their throats, and in their hearts; three creatures of Gaia, fulfilling the call of their blood, the battle song of the Wound Clan sung by the north winds.
Covered in dirt and mud, aching and spitting blood
Cursing, you stir to rise and groan.
Muffled in yet-to-come mutters a battle drum
Lobos don't usually walk alone.
Think on the battle-cost; this time the wolf has lost
Beaten and broken and blind.
Better beware, my lord; better prepare, my lord;
I was the least of my kind.
Prying my daggers cold out of my fingers' hold,
Pause to take stock, reflect, and rue.
Look on the damage done, here by a single one;
What do you think a full pack will do?
Think on the battle-cost; this time the wolf has lost
Beaten and broken and blind.
Better beware, my lord; better prepare, my lord;
I was the least of my kind.
Careless I came by chance, joining in battle's dance
Slain in a fight I could not win.
Far-off a wolf pack hears; heads turn, with pricking ears.
Thought you, my lord, that I had no kin?
Think on the battle-cost; this time the wolf has lost
Beaten and broken and blind.
Better beware, my lord; better prepare, my lord;
I was the least of my kind.
He did not join in their song, but he was not expected to; it was a song for the dead, and he was already one of them, in all but flesh.
Their song climbed the great wall of the crater. They stopped there, at the crest of it, gazing down at the hidden green jewel of life within, and turned their backs. It wasn't for them to see. Only my father moved forward; only he was allowed.
When the one winged angel appeared beside him, his gaze didn't bother to turn. "I banished you once. I banish you again. This is a place for the living. The dead are not welcome. Begone, one winged angel. Begone I say. Begone!"
It faded into the background, its parting words, arrogant, yet beseeching: "We could have been gods, together."
But there was no hesitation in his step; there was no pause. He walked to the center, to the deepest spring he could find, and he dropped the seed of Holy into the pool there before a great tree. His thoughts, his wish, sending a ripple through that pool that no mere pebble would:
Never again. Let them never rise again. Burn them all.
He turned his back, and walked out to die.
---
The men had been paid, and they had their orders. The magicite bounty had been promised them, every single one they took was theirs, to claim, to sell to the Empire or the highest bidder. The trees were the first to welcome them; silent sentinels, motionless in the winter snows, until the first wave of them were amidst the trees.
And then the forest moved.
Branches whipped and tore; roots rose and frozen, cut and struck like steel. Men screamed in terror as they hacked at frozen wood, harder than any bone, as their first wave was cut down alive. Their mages countered; and it was the trees turn to scream, as great fires enveloped them, as they thrashed and burned like a thing alive, before finally burning down to cinders.
The second wave met the wardens; hails of arrows, of magics stranger, stronger, than anything their battlemages could muster. The dawn was hours away, and they fought under the starlight, under the northern lights, and by the light of their torches. Men screaming as they died; men on both sides. They were greedy men, these mercenaries, but greed inspired their skill, and they were good at what they did, and few died without meaning, without cutting down a defender.
The third wave met the espers themselves; the princess, in her full battle armor, and her bodyguards, Sion and Dimitri, fought with the same dismaying ferocity they had learned a short time ago from the Tglinkgit. Men were torn, cleaved, ruined by blades. The princess took a hundred wounds, a thousand; laughing them off, shedding steel arrows the way an otter sheds water, shaking them free and springing forward again, and again.
Not a single man broached the entrance of the cave that day, and not a single man managed to flee before the blade of the poco fratello, or his allies, cut them down. Men died by magic, by blades, by enchanted song, and come the spring, the trees would grow strong on the ground soaked with the blood of their enemies.
I watched this battle from the safety of the high ground around the caves, but only half-heartedly. I knew the outcome before the first blade was drawn; and I tried to feel pity for the men who died, for reasons no nobler than the orders they'd been given, the salary they would draw. But every time I tried, I remembered Tuku, face down in the snow over his children, buying a life for his own. And I felt no pity then, not for the mercenaries, and not even for the brave wardens.
I watched, but my heart was not in it. It was with my father, and my Aunt, and the song of the planet below me.
---
She crossed the path of the dying Malboro, skirting around the old thing as it thrashed and wailed still, its dying taking hours. The purple beast at the base, had sent her heart some sort of relief. Both bore the wounds of Faruza's way of fighting; which meant he lived still. Underfoot, Gaia was gathering her strength; and relief washed over her heart, enough to crash over the bulwarks of grief.
She saw him, from nearly a mile away, laying there in the snow, high above. The two figures walked slowly down the path she followed, and she almost paused when they passed her, with nothing more than a nod. A male and a female, the diamond bone-crest in the forehead, the same purple hair, the twin, white, ribbon-like tails, the same markings. Perhaps family, perhaps kin, or perhaps just strangers.
Her body ached everywhere, her lungs burned like fire, but she could feel nothing of it. Her heart was something, something unspeakable, something she would never find the words for. His long hair spilled out along the snow, and his eyes were half-open, gazing out at the pre-dawn sky.
She lifted him, enough to sit herself down, to rest his head in her lap again. He offered no resistance; no assistance. His body as ruined as hers, or worse. Bile stained his lips where the venom had burned him; burns marked his body where the Behemoth's skystones had struck.
She could find no words for a time. Her hand twitched towards her satchel, towards the medicines that were there. He shook his head, faintly, and she let her hand rest against his cheek.
"...So it is, lobo negro, that we must part...?" Her lips trembled, a tear falling from the corner of her eye onto the canine's crest.
He swallowed softly, an eye slowly turning up towards her. "I waited for you." he whispered, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the gentle wind. Overhead, the stars began to stop their dancing for the night; one by one, vanishing into the heavens, to rest, to sleep. His hand, torturously, lifted. Enough to touch his fingers to her palm. "Stay with me. Until the end."
Her fingers curl around his, and her ears fell back as she nodded, once. "In our next life." she said, voice a strained whisper, half-choked by the lump in her throat. "Free of the tragedy. I will wait."
His smile was a tiny thing, all he could manage, and in the silence his tear spoke all that he no longer had the breath to say. His eyes watched hers, his mouth, smiling so sadly, so serenely, just as Chelsie's had. She watched his chin lift, his throat bared, with the last of his strength. "I wanted, mi lepri di alba... to watch the sun rise by your side. One last time."
Rosabella squeezed her eye shut, a strangled sob torn from her breast. Leaning down, she pressed the back of his hand to her cheek, her lips against his. Smiling through her grief. "Ai. Let us watch, mi lobo di nocte..." Her shoulders quivered, and she turned her face toward the east, wrapping her arms around the canine's ruined body as tightly as she could.
His last whisper, the voice of his goddess, his free hand reaching for something, far unseen, before falling still forever. "Ga-... bree-... elle."
As she held him then, the stars went out overhead, one by one. And as the sun broke the horizon in the east, a great fire swept the sky behind her. She never looked up, as the heat melted the snows, as it scorched the back of her ears, as it warmed her back like a stove-fire.
As a second sun rose from behind her, and swept up into the sky, the light from it sweeping every shadow, every Shade. She held him as the sun rose, and she smiled sadly, looking out past the light of a bright, new day.
It was a long walk home.
---
Alexandria handed her another satchel, and she shifted the last one into the old, familiar chest. The fox behind her said nothing, when her hands caressed the lid of it, for a long moment. They both knew that box, just as Sion had, once upon a time. The cruel crucible it had been, the words, painted on the inside of it, gently brushed with her fingertips.
The last thing to go into the box was a coin, laid lovingly atop the furs and books. It had a knife-mark, an X, marked on each side of it. Her lips tried to find the middle ground between a smile and a sob.
The painting on the lid of it, she knew very well. The simple words: YOU ARE ALONE.
And the words of the lesson, burned into her soul so long ago at Faruza's hands, turned her mouth to a real smile as she whispered them to herself.
"One of these things is a lie."
