30.5 Lost Souls

General Summary

Day 469

Haze and I gather everyone up and the group of us set out for Drognar, arriving just before sunset. Liliales is thrilled to experience flight on dragonback.   It is the first time I've been to Drognar in quite a while and the city looks well despite the attacks. There are signs of damage but it is mostly cleaned up and festooned with decorations for the wedding. The streets are full of vendors and peddlers hawking various shiny trinkets and interesting baubles. One in particular approaches to offer 'peace bonds' for our weapons in preparation for the wedding. He tells us that it is a dwarven tradition to accommodate a show of might at a celebration. They would never ask attendees to go without weapons, as a celebration is an opportunity to show off strength and power. But as a gesture of faith and goodwill all weapons are restrained with elaborately braided and tied cords known as 'peace bonds'. He offers gold cords for the groom's side of the wedding and silver for the bride's so naturally all of us take one of each.   It feels good to finally be back in our little townhouse after so long. Alder, Bran, Tira, and Knotrael are relaxing downstairs and I can hear Yneir and Spindle outside talking quietly. Dal, Hella, Nina, Dawn, and Miriam are all up at the castle immersed in preparations. I happily settle down beside Bran and cast a questioning eye out to the courtyard. I never responded to Bran's letter but I'm glad Spindle has come home and I think he and Yneir might find some comfort in one another right now.   Bran considers them both to be lost souls. Yneir isn't completely future blind but where she previously saw either glory or calamity, she now sees all the shades between them. The world is no longer as clear-cut as it once was and it's disorienting for her. Spindle has lost yet another apprentice and is leaning into the idea that perhaps he is just not meant to pass on his craft. Without someone to teach and without feeling like a necessary leader in the elvish community anymore, he feels lost.   The small group of us raise some ideas as to where he might go - Dreamfall, the Valley, Deldrin, even back home though I don't voice that aloud. None of the options feel quite right to me...I'm sure none of them will until I have a chance to actually speak with him.   Lyssa draws me to bed earlier than usual to ward off my exhaustion. I fall asleep quickly and find myself called into the Dreaming by Thalien, finally showing his face after hiding for so long! Hugs in the Dreaming never feel quite the same as in the waking world but it feels good all the same. I finally get to hear what he's been hiding from.   By now it is clear that the weaver he has been trading blows with since his own arrival here was Drakken, a force that now feels unravelled and frayed. Behind that weaver he says there has been a second presence, deep and ancient that draws in other threads, but it has now withdrawn from the forefront. A cold wave comes over me to hear the Master's presence described so clearly, and doubly so when Thalien remarks that the presence felt sort of like me in its depth.   Thalien is also concerned about Bran, as he always is. It felt like Bran ought to have been able to do more than he did during this chaos and that someone else was filling the role I needed him to fill (Yneir). It seemed like our enemy was more aware of him than they should be. I wonder if maybe the Master has a keener awareness of my human Fatespinner than he might of those who are less tied to the human deities.  

Bran needs to grow up a bit; he needs to figure things out more.

  It is vague advice, as Thalien's usually is. He was scared for me over the last few weeks in a way he hasn't been since the betrayal at the peace talks, and even though we recovered from that and our plan to bring me back worked, it's still a scary situation to be in again. There is not much I can say to alleviate the fears - he's justified in holding them, especially as distant unable to intervene as he is. His presence at the outskirts of our fate has been incredibly helpful - I can't imagine that we would have come out of this largely unscathed if it weren't for him. But we all miss his direct hand on things.   In the absence of reassurance we settle for conversation. I tell him all about the new family members, what I love about them and why I worry for them. Seated in our summoned garden he is remarkably quiet and free of veiled advice and comments on these people. I don't know if it is because there is nothing to say, or if he cannot see, or if he is simply luxuriating in the story. I miss him, and when I return to the waking world I feel his loss all the more.  

Day 470

I wake alone around mid-morning having been left to sleep as much as I needed. The day is mine and I intend to use it to hunt down a few people I need to have tough conversations with: Caravel, Puddle, Spindle, and perhaps all of the youngsters if I can find them all.   But first I have a response from Trillium - one that catches me mid-breath such that I don't notice until moments later that I have been struck so still that my wings cease to quiver. I don't remember the things she describes but I can see them so clearly in my mind that it's almost like a nearby tree has sung me a very particular memory belonging to someone else. I can force the memories of our island to hold one more small person for just a moment before it blurs out and becomes clear that I'm constructing the memory myself.   Tears obscure my vision of the letter until I am swimming in a newfound memory of my own - one that Trillium certainly couldn't have sent to me.  

I'm in a familiar room at Mistress's home. I remember holding her hand for hours of labor after preparing everything - arranging and re-arranging furniture, dimming the window glass to the perfect hue, helping Doraal drape the room in vines and placing temporary fountains to bring cool water near to the bed. She stubbornly refused the tonic Doraal had made for pain, and Doraal winked me when she wasn't looking - of course he had used topical treatments when she was too distracted to notice. I remember our little girl up and handing her to Mistress as Doraal held both of us. Doraal was the one who named her - "Look at our Sprout - she..."

  But the memory cuts off with a searing headache and vision that goes white as my ears fill with the sound of rushing blood and static. I clutch the bed and stumble nearly to my knees with the feeling of magic rushing in to cut things off. I reach for my paper to write back but stop myself...she sets a good example in taking a day to rest and think. Instead I take half an hour to pour energy into a pebble that I send to her. Like the one I sent my mother, it is infused with my magic and presence. I have less time and focus, so it will only work once but in that one instance I hope it will feel like my arms around her.   My mind is nearly blank as I rise and leave the house to search for Caravel. The streets get more and more crowded with minstrels and storytellers weaving yarns about the King and the Saint as I approach the castle, so much that I find it more convenient to slip through shadows until I'm safely at the gate. Caravel and Nina are sparring and I get sweaty hugs from both of them before sending Nina off so I can talk to Caravel alone. It's so nice to hear him describe himself as her teacher and see the the affection they share. It makes me feel almost bad to offer a way out of it.   But first I ask for his report as the commanding officer in Drognar at the time of the attack. He confirms what I've heard: An ancient-looking troll gathering support amongst other trolls before turning to dwarves and leading them against the throne. Caravel tried reasoning with this elder and hoped that his own age would win their respect. Unfortunately he got the respect of a feared enemy general and they all tried their hardest to kill him.   The army itself behaved like a contingent of conscripts. Their leaders encouraged violence in particular directions but with only loose coordination. And as soon as one leader fell another would rise to martyr them and renew the frenzy.   The next report I ask is on Spindle, as the two men have been leaders in Drognar together for quite some time. In this report I find new things that either Bran didn't know or didn't think to tell me. Namely that Spindle went to see Rikka's family in the Armed Nation after she died and was met with anger and blame. Dwarves believe that masters ought to die to protect their students, not the inverse. It is a cultural difference between us yet again, to think that the potential of youth is always worth more than the expertise of experience. I suspect humans feel similarly to dwarves in this, and I know how painful it is to receive the vitriol of a family whose fallen is someone you respected and cared for. Spindle is too young to be broken like this and the conversation raises a new possibility for him.   I think I'd like to ambush him with a sense of purpose. New Whitewater is a good place for people to heal and I promised Debran that I would arrange a meeting between them at some point. I think being around simple folk and someone as eager and lively as Mel would help. And while Charity may have refused the Soul's Respite I offered, I hope Spindle will accept it.   And finally, I can ask Caravel what I've been waiting to ask for weeks. He throws up excuses and obstacles like I thought he would - no one has been able to cross back, surely it's not possible. But it finally seeps into him that being able to go home is something I can genuinely offer and tears well up in his eyes as he accepts. We both want him home with his grandchildren, and I want him home training our hundred heroes as well. It feels strange feeling his tears wet against my ear as we embrace - this old man who I remember duelling me until my sword dropped from my hand and sneaking me sweets when I'd had a hard day. I'm lucky to have had him in my life at all, let alone on this side of the Barrier as I'm trying to do impossible things. Part of me knows that sending him home might mean saying goodbye to him forever. It's an easy sacrifice.   I leave Caravel ensconced in his thoughts about how to pack up his things and set his affairs in order. And I find Puddle sitting alone in a garden, unmoving. I had intended to ask them if they could tell me anything about the seed I've been carefully protecting but the atmosphere is instantly recognizable as a time for quiet, not conversation.   I realign my mind to remember how long I have been alive and how long I will continue to exist, and settle in beside them in silence for long stretching minutes before they greet me and ask how I am. With great pauses in between taking turns speaking, I learn that Puddle is sad. They lost friends in the fight, and friends seemingly betrayed them. They are sad to have fought others and sad that they weren't here soon enough to help or fix it. The slow, great wave of Puddle's emotions flows over me I nod quietly.   I have spent several days hearing and making reports cataloguing our victory and success. In all of this strategy I have had Rosalia at the back of my mind - a short-lived friend who was the first to greet me and offer me kindness. Leaning against Puddle's massive arm I let myself grieve for her in a way that I'm not ready to share with my family yet. My friend raises a large hand and gently pats my head, understanding the quiet sadness we're sharing.