Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This is such a lovely journal. There’s a white rose engraved in its auburn toned, hard leather cover. You haven’t seen it yet, but you will. The first of many, I think. Minister Arton thought it would be a worthwhile practice. A means of communicating my experiences in more detail and therefore more effectively. I say it’s worth a try. I’d do anything to bring this experience closer to your heart.

I’m transported back now. Back in time to when I first left on this journey four weeks ago. So much has happened since then, I already feel entirely new like when I first awoke.

It starts here.

It starts with home.

The jungle is thick and wild; tangled like a sticky web dripping with dew, but it’s not at all stifling. It’s life unabated stretching above, below, and within like the beating of my heart. It beats like a drum and sings and dances all around with the birds. It hums like insect chatter. The wildlife speaks to me. It watches, it flutters about on glossy wings and hops from toadstool to root. The cabalistic mists of morning, the animal songs that happen in shifts of symphony from one hour to the next, the feeling of wet dirt and moss under my feet. Untamed. Unfettered.

Home.

I thought I would feel alone once I left the Grove— once I left you and my brothers and sisters— but this welcome kinship I feel in nature coupled with my excitement far outweighs my fear.

I walk during the day with the walking stick Kahedins carved from your boughs. I use it to clear my path and guide my way, like my heart.

I rest in lean-to beds at night or up in the branches themselves. Nestled safe under leaves and sleeping boughs with the chorus of nightsong to lull me into the tinkling of dreams.

In the mornings, I drink crisp clear waters from the bamboo shoots and the broad leaves laden with dew overhead. I climb up to where the fruits are ripest and take my fill. I’ve stuffed my pack with greener fruits left to ripen in case the terrain changes.

And it does. Gradually, but surely, it does.

It takes almost a week of travel, but soon, the canopy thins out overhead. Soon the humid heat I had grown accustomed to fades out into something dryer, cooler. I am moving up and up. And I am met at once by the clearing and just ahead, a mountain.

It’s cold enough now that I need to adorn myself with more coverings. I am grateful that Malomedies insisted I have extra layers for the journey or I might not have made it past the jungles of home.

As I climb, the terrain becomes rocky and uneven underfoot. Jagged stones are jutting up into my heels and toes. I miss the soft moss and twigs, the gently arched roots.

I find refuge under boulders when the wind is too biting to bear. When the moon arcs a crescent bow overhead. When hungry, when thirsty, I break open one of the coconuts I saved, eat their white flesh, drink their sweet water, and then use the husk as receptacles for the little snow I find. I build a fire and melt down the snow for drinking water. I am grateful for the gifts that home still bears even when it feels so far away.

Soon, the staff guides me through to the path of least resistance. There is a pass through these mountains. I can see it just around the bend.

I am surrounded on either side by sheer rock faces stretching up and up for a mile, perhaps farther than my eyes can see. I nearly stumble as I look up upon them and the dark sky with its milky patches of starlight spread wide like a belt across its center.

We’re so small, mother. So infinitesimally small.

I decide to walk through the night. It’s too cold to stay here long. I have to keep moving.

Eventually, the stars fade. The sky begins to brighten from nightshades into azure light.

I crest the pass just as the sun slips up from the other side of the world.

I sit down on a nearby rock to rest my feet and watch the rest of the sunrise. It’s so much clearer up here without the canopy of trees to hide it. The air is crisp and clear. No mists up this high. It’s just me, the calling marmots, the eagle soaring overhead, and the sun, and I don’t feel alone.

As I descend the slopes, the rocks give way to mountain meadows and a crystal clear stream. I walk through the wildflowers with their honeybees and colorful butterflies flitting about from bloom to bloom. This seems a good place to stop and rest. I lay down in the soft grassy bed and close my eyes for a spell, soaking in the morning sun.

When I come to again, the sun is at its peak in the cerulean sky.

It’s time to keep moving.

As I descend the mountain, I see a gathering of trees below and a land of green stretching out far towards the horizon. It’s different from the jungles of home. The canopy of trees are sparse and dotted over a wide open green.

When I finally reach the bottom of the last hill, I am greeted at once by the cover of drooping willows. The ground is spongy and wet between my toes. And as I venture further into this swamp, I encounter a planked road over the 6 inch deep murky waters. I gladly step up onto the wooden walkway and continue on my way, allowing the light from my staff to guide me onwards.

As I round a group of low hanging willows, I spot them.

Risen.

Zhaitan’s minions. Just as I remember them from my Dream of Dreams.

They don’t appear to have noticed me from this distance as they scuffle through the muck and slime. I can see from here the way their rotten flesh clings, sunken and saggy to their skeletal frames. I can even imagine their bulging white, bloodshot eyes ever seeking for their quarry. Ever seeking to create more and more for Zhaitan’s shambling army.

I swallow and step lightly over the planks so as not to alert them to my presence.

After a few hours of tense silence, I notice light in the clearing up ahead. Just around the bend, I see the planked road gives way to grass. I step a bit lighter and faster once I catch sight of my exit from this swampy place. I step out into the opening and take my first deep breath of air since I left the mountain slopes.

I am relieved to have left the Risen and the endless swamp behind. It is not my most favorite place on this journey so far.

Eventually, the sun descends and dips below the horizon after making the sky blush brightly in red and orange hues. The stars begin freckling above and I know it’s time to rest.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, so I find a tree and lean up against its trunk, and like this, I fall asleep.

🙞 ☀ 🙜

Oh, Pale Mother, you won’t believe who I encountered first upon waking: Centaurs! Just like Ventari himself.

They seem fearful at first with their weapons at the ready, but even as they gallop forth, ready to strike, they slide to a stop upon closer inspection of me.

They are curious now. Their expressions hold that of awe as they search me.

They call themselves the Modniir, then they offer for me to meet their chief. I happily accept the opportunity to learn more on your behalf and perhaps, learn more about Ventari himself if they know of him.

They lead me a great distance to their camp. The land has been cleared all around this base. Nothing but stumps remain. It’s just dirt and the death of green. It’s deeply entrenched with siege weapons of some sort lining its large walls constructed by peeled trunks. I can’t decide at a glance if these are meant to keep out what they fear or perhaps to cage in their own.

Once inside this massive enclosure, I am led up past several more walls. There’s a narrow passageway through the rocks that gives way to a large cavern. Inside are tents pitched and painted in red and white. There are intricate red flags on posts. There are young foals with their mothers. They are being trained to fight with spears.

The Centaurs within stop and look upon me in shock and awe. A few bow their heads as I walk by. I can only tilt my own in curiosity.

They lead me right up to the largest tent of all and their chief who has a regal and authoritative air about him. Ulgoth the Mighty he calls himself. He too looks upon me with reverence and awe, leaving me feeling unsure and quite strange in his presence. He asks me if I am a manifestation of their nature spirit, to which I have no answer. All I can tell him for certain is that I am a child of the Pale Tree; you. That I am a peaceful traveler on behalf of my brothers and sisters.

He seems particularly interested in you, mother. I answer as much as I can, but he seems rather baffled. He doesn’t understand how we can be “children of the Pale Tree” if we weren’t born, but awakened.

It’s funny to me how something that seems so intrinsic to one can be beyond the scope of another. I wonder if this is something I’ll be encountering much of on my journey.  

Ulgoth outlines for me the state of affairs amongst his people. The Modniir are but one tribe of many, the other two largest tribes being the Harathi and the Tamini. Unfortunately, as he goes on to say, this Centaur alliance is engaged in a full-scale war with the humans here, ostensibly to reclaim territory stolen by humans in 300 AE when Kryta was first settled.

I ask if he’d ever consider peace with the humans but he seems to bristle at this. As he explained, any Centaurs who try to talk peace are immediately exiled from the tribes. They don’t tolerate dissention from their goal.

As the others provide me with food and I share and divide my fruits with them in turn, I inquire about any other tribes who aren’t involved in the war against humans. With clear disdain, Ulgoth tells me of the Maguuma tribe who live in avoidance of the war in a place called the Silverwastes. Perhaps one of us could go to learn more from these Centaurs, mother. Perhaps we could gain valuable insight from them. Especially if they’re anything like Ventari himself.

After this is said and done, I inquire about their culture. Apparently, the males are the ones typically on the frontlines of battle, hunting and protecting the borders, while the females linger back to protect the civilians and deal with day to day operations in their camps. Family isn’t as important to them as this war that consumes them so utterly. This saddens me, and yet, I can see why they would be so sad, so angry. I sympathize with their struggle.

Their spirituality in particular resonates with me. They have a deep reverence for their nature spirit. In ancient times, their prides would gather round massive ancestor trees, where they believed the spirits of their forebears watched over them. The fruit of these trees was seen as divine, possibly as a way to pass down spiritual wisdom from one generation to the next. I inquire of these trees, wondering if they are anything like my own, but they seem to sadden then. Humans had cut and burned them down to their roots during their invasion, to weaken the Centaurs and divide them.

My heart breaks for these people. The way their sadness and loss has driven them to such warring hate.

In any case, now it seems the tribes focus on the proud, wild, and free aspects of their spirituality far more than the growing and nurturing aspects, but I can still see striking similarities between us and them.

As we continue our conversation, it becomes clear to me that these Centaurs operate as an army more than a government of people. The Modniir are top tier, followed by the Harathi, then the Tamini. Any tribes who resist the Modniir are seen as the enemy to their goals of reclaiming their homelands from the human “invaders”. As such, they are either enslaved or wiped out.

I ask why this is. I ask why they can’t simply allow the other Centaurs to live in peace as they desire.

Ulgoth bristles once more. He tells me not to ask such things as doing so would be questioning his will. I let it go, not wanting to antagonize my host.

Once I learn everything I can from their chief, I decide it is time to move on. I thank them profusely for their kindness and hospitality. Ulgoth thanks me for continuing to watch over his people. I am not sure how to respond to this as I am still unsure of my place as one with their “nature spirit”, but either way, I set off with some supplies gifted to me by the Centaur.

Once again, as I walk out the front gate of their establishment, I let my staff guide my path through the rolling hills and grassy plains of the terrain. I walk for some time, simply admiring the land for all its similarities and differences from home. It’s still warm and humid here, but the trees are more sparse. All seems to give way to these hills and the ever present tall grass swaying in the breeze.

I come upon a road of flattened stones and dirt. I feel I am meant to walk it, so I do.

As I walk through a valley with trees on either side, I am suddenly ambushed. Humans! Armed humans leaping out from the brush on either side of the road. I am more surprised than I am afraid, but rather than in awe as the Centaurs had greeted me, these humans meet me with fear in their eyes.

They search me for weapons and, much to my dismay, they take my staff. I don’t argue as they have directed many weapons upon me. I know they are frightened and I don’t want to give them any more reason to fret.

Only, it appears I already have.

I am put in binds which I accept without a struggle and led down the road by these soldiers.

I try to engage them by asking questions out of curiosity, mostly. I have never seen humans in person, after all. I also try to ask them what I’ve done to make them fear me so. They continue to ignore me. I eventually quiet seeing that my questions will bear no fruit.

The road leads us up to a fork and just dead center of this fork in the road is a large structure the likes of which I’ve never seen.

It’s made up of tightly stacked, neatly chiseled rocks with some sort of mortar between each one. All of these stones make up the walls of this massive construction. I look up and up to the highest tower. There are white and gold flags fluttering like the winged emblem they bear in the breeze above.

I continue inspecting with awe as the soldiers call to others on the wall above us.

The oaken, iron-wrought gates before us creak and groan open and the soldiers lead me through.

The doors slam shut heavily behind us ensuring no one else can enter, or perhaps that I cannot leave. I haven’t decided which is more true.

I’m led to an open door on the far end of the courtyard. Other soldiers stop what they’re doing and look upon me in shock and fear. Again, I am struck by this. I understand that I am the first of my kind to be seen by any human, but I mean no harm. Can they not sense this? But it seems I’m unable to sense into them as I could with my brothers and sisters. This was the case for the Centaur as well. I fight back the feeling of loneliness in the wake of this knowledge.

I’m pushed through the doorway into the room and stopped before a table. There’s a man in white gold armor standing behind the table, and when he looks up from the map under his fingers, his blue eyes widen.

“What is this?” he asks.

“We don’t know, sir, but it was fraternizing with the Modniir.” says the soldier beside me.

“I’m a ‘he’, actually.” I correct him. “My name is Mianach. I am Sylvari and of the first of my kind. How do you do?”

The man behind the table fumbles a moment, clearly trying to process the meaning of my words.

Finally, he speaks again.

“Why were you conferring with the Modniir?” he asks.

“They told me that you are at war with them.” I say. “I understand why you would be anxious about me having been their guest, but I can assure you that I am but a simple traveler seeking to learn more on behalf of my mother and my siblings. I mean no harm by my exploration, nor do I choose sides. I am a neutral party in all this. May I please have my staff back? It is very important to me.”

“You didn’t find any weapons on his person?” the man asks the soldiers.

“No,” says the one beside me, “Other than the walking staff, he wasn’t armed and he didn’t struggle.”

“Release him.” the man says.

The soldiers beside me hesitate.

The man’s eyes narrow authoritatively.

“I said, release him.” he repeats.

The soldiers undo my binds and I stretch my wrists, shaking them out.

“Leave us.” the man behind the table says.

The soldiers bring their clenched fists up to their chests— a salute? — and then exit by the way we came in.

“You’re in Barnaby’s Watch. I’m Captain Martin of Kessex Hills.” the man says.

“A pleasure to meet you Captain Martin.” I say. “May I please have my staff back?”

“How about this,” Captain Martin says, “I’ll give it back to you if you answer my questions.”

I consider this a moment.

“I can see I don’t have a choice in the matter.” I say. “But I am also more than happy to answer your questions. And perhaps you can answer a few of my own.”

Captain Martin gestures to the wooden chair on my side of the table.

“Take a seat.” he says.

I gladly do so and he sits down in his much larger chair behind him.

“First, I must apologize on behalf of my Seraph.” Captain Martin says solemnly. “I hope they didn’t treat you roughly.”

“It’s no trouble.” I say with the wave of my hand. “I don’t fault the bee for its sting. I startled them, after all. The fault is my own.”

Captain Martin’s dark brows raise over his blue eyes. He seems startled as well by my words. I don’t understand why, but before I can ask, he speaks again.

“You spoke with Ulgoth, the Modniir chief.” he starts. “What did he tell you exactly? Did he speak of their plans?”

“He told me of his people. He told me of your war. But not of any plans.” I say. “He believes I am the manifestation of their nature spirit. I am not sure if I am. Perhaps you would know. Am I the manifestation of a nature god?”

Captain looks even more confused that he did previous.

“Perhaps...an avatar of Melandru. I—”

“Melandru?” I ask, and I can’t help my budding curiosity now unfurling like fern.

“Yes, one of the gods, Melandru— you said...you're the first of your kind?” he asks, unsure. “Explain that to me.”

And I do. I do my best to explain as simply as possible the manner of my awakening. The Pale Tree, you. The other eleven. The Dream of Dreams. Ventari’s tablet.

“By the six…” Captain Martin mutters once I’m finished.

I tilt my head at him.

“The six?” I ask curiously.

He fumbles a moment before pinching his brow between his fingers.

“So you’ve only been….”awake” since Zephyr 2nd then? Gods, you’re a child. How—...”

“We awoke fully formed.” I try again. “The Dream of Dreams prepared us with all the knowledge we needed to start our lives. I’m seeking out more now to return with; to inform the Pale Mother.”

“This is….” Captain Martin sinks back into his chair. “This is beyond my scope. Above my paygrade...This is a mission of diplomacy. I must take you to the Ministry.”

“Will this Ministry answer my questions?” I ask. “I have many.”

Captain Martin sighs.

“Well, you’re clearly harmless.” he says finally. “I’ll have your staff returned to you as well as your belongings.”

“Thank you.” I say. “Are all humans as kind as you?”

Captain Martin’s eyes widen a touch. Then, strangely enough, he laughs.

“I’m hardly a saint.” he says with a smile. “You’ll meet much kinder than me. And also, much fouler.”

I ponder on this a moment, then I nod.

“Let’s hope the goodness of others far outweighs the darkness that often comes hand in hand.”

Captain Martin continues to smile, but he shakes his head.

“Wiser than your few days in this waking world have let on.” he says. “I’ll take you to your holding for the night. We’ll set out for Divinity’s Reach tomorrow.”

He leads me into what he calls “the barracks”. There are rows and rows of strange looking “beds” sitting on wooden frames jutting out into the open room.

Once he sets me up in one of the empty beds, I sit down upon it, testing it under my weight, my hand. It’s firm, but soft beneath the press of my fingertips. I ask him what the bed is made of. He tells me it’s cotton cloth with feather down for stuffing. I ask him how many birds had to die for my sleeping arrangements. He only laughs and bids me goodnight.

I remove my outer layers and put them in my pack. It’s warm enough that I can wear my basic coverings. As I curl up onto the strange feather filled “mattress”, it occurs to me how foreign it all is now. How very far I am from everything I knew before.

Still, sleeping here is far more comfortable than the rocks I slept upon in the mountains, and soon, I am lulled to sleep by the cricketsong outside the port window.

🙞 ☀ 🙜

I rouse at first light the following day. As I do, I realize quite suddenly that I’m being watched.

I turn over and notice many eyes of many soldiers fixed upon me from their own beds. Some are simply standing at the foot of my bed, looking upon me with curiosity.

“Hello.” I say.

“Hello.” the man in front of me replies. He has auburn hair that’s long and wavy around his browned skin. His eyes are strikingly green. Verdant green like clovers.

“Your hair looks soft.” I say.

He blinks a few times. A few of the soldiers behind him chortle as though I’ve said something funny.

“And your ‘hair’ is made of wood.” he says. “An honest to gods stump sprouting from your goddamn head.”

I sit up fully and scoot in closer towards him. He takes a hesitant step back as I do.

“What’s the matter, Rodney?” says one soldier. “Are you scared of the walking talking tree man?”

“No!” he shoots back.

“Go on then.” says another.

He clenches and unclenches his hands at his sides before stepping back in closer towards me.

I smile at him as he does.

“Do you mind if I touch your hair?” I ask. “I’ve seen human hair in my Dream of Dreams, but I’ve never touched it. I want to know what it feels like so I can tell the Pale Tree.”

“Why would your ‘Pale Tree’ want to know what my hair feels like?” Rodney asks with the cock of his brow.

“Oh, go on, Rodney.” says the same soldier from before. “Let the tree man touch your head. It’ll be funny.”

Rodney sighs heavily. He steps in closer and sits down on the bed beside me, then tilts his head towards me.

I happily accept this invitation and run my fingers through his hair the color of autumn leaves.

It’s strange. It’s as soft as I imagined it looked, but it’s smooth as well. I can feel each individual fiber run over the grooves of my flesh and tangle between my fingers as I run them through.

“Wow….” I exclaim. “Is this how all human hair feels?”

Rodney clears his throat and sits up.

“Uh, not— always, erm….”

“My hair’s softer.” says one of the Seraph.

She steps forward and kneels down before me.

“Check out these locks.” she smiles.

Again, I happily accept the invitation and delve my fingers through her dark curly head.

The fibers of her hair are thicker and more tightly woven, like a million tendrils twisting and coiling up the trunk of a tree towards the light.

“So?” she asks. “Whose hair is softer, tree man?”

I ponder this for a long moment. The soldiers wait in silent anticipation.

“Rodney’s hair is smoother, finely threaded.” I finally say. “Yours, however, is fluffier, like a cloud in the sky, and therefore softer.”

“HA!” she cries. “Mine is the best hair.”

Once she had, the others move in closer and seem to start asking me questions all at once. I find myself explaining how I first awoke again and again, trying new ways to approach the concept of my ‘birth’ for them. They are particularly baffled by my relationship to my siblings and to you, my Pale Mother. This spirals off into ever more obscure questions and soon, they are asking me questions I don’t yet have the answers to.

“What’s your downstairs situation?” asks the woman with the soft hair.

“Downstairs…?” I ask, unsure.

“Yeah, what are you packing?” she glances down then up again in a long arc.

“I don’t...understand.” I try again.

“Oh come on, Esme. Don’t make the tree man uncomfortable.”

“It’s a valid question and I want an answer!” she says gruffly.

“Why do you wanna know so bad, Es? Are you hoping the tree man is packing for you?”

The other soldiers laugh uproariously, and though I’m still confused, I can’t help but smile along with them.

“Alright, alright, break it up.”

The soldiers part like a wave as Captain Martin makes his way towards me.

“Goodmorning, Captain Martin.” I say.

“I hope my Seraph haven’t been giving you too much trouble.” he murmurs.

“Oh, no. No trouble at all.” I reply with a nod. “We were just discussing what I’m packing downstairs.”

The Seraph around the Captain all stifle laughter. Several cough and choke.

Captain Martin sighs.

“It’s time to leave.” he says.

🙞 ☀ 🙜

We take the main road through Kessex Hills. We walk all day, only stopping for a brief respite and a daily lunch of “rations”. Their food is curious, mother. They consume the flesh of animals, and this is my first encounter with cooked vegetables. It’s all quite savory. The flesh of the “chicken” has a shredded consistency while the flesh of the “cow” is tougher and more chewy. I don’t much care for the idea that a living thing must die for my food, but I don’t question the gift of it. Best of all is the fresh bread! It’s fluffy like a clover with a warm, comforting flavor. There are crunchy seeds within the flesh of it. I ask for seconds and thirds and Captain Martin laughs.

I happily accept this new experience and ask about the preparation of these foods. The soldiers that accompany us don’t seem to know all the details as these are “pre-packaged” by cooks and shipped out in “Tins”. We heat them over the fire at night and I admire the delectable scents that waft up under my nose. It enhances my experience. I’ve come to look forward to these warm dinners in the evenings.

As we walk, I continue to ask questions. At first, the Seraph and Captain Martin seem unsure of how to answer, but they appear to be doing their best on my behalf.

I ask about their families and the structure of their family units. Several of the older humans tell me of their husbands and wives and offspring.

Apparently, they like to do what’s called “marrying” their significant other. From what I can gather, this officiates their bond and is quite the celebration of love. I am in awe of this concept and ask if I can see the “marriage”. They laugh and say they’ll invite me if ever they marry again or renew their vows of commitment.

During one particular conversation regarding the growth cycle of their offspring, I pursue quite adamantly about the origin of the child and where the lifecycle starts.

They seem hesitant or bashful about sharing this knowledge with me, but I am quite insistent. I must know how humans are born and where it all begins.

Finally, Esme indulges me. She tells me about the “birds and the bees”, as she calls it.

This is truly strange, mother. I was aware of the concept of sex and intimacy at least in part, but the actual physiology of this mating is quite unique.

As she explained, when they have reached the peak of their pleasure, the man “ejaculates” his seed into the woman. Her womb is like fertile ground, and when the seed is planted in her womb, that’s where the life cycle begins.

The unborn child develops for 9 months within her, growing and being nourished by her blood, until finally, the child is pushed out and “given birth to”.

Although it is strange in many ways, I also see the similarities between humans and Sylvari. We develop in the womb of your branches and ripen like fruit, nourished by your lifeblood and prepared for life in the Dream of Dreams. Then, when we are ready for the picking, we emerge. We are “born”.

The biggest difference I feel here is the concept of the child. They are not born fully developed. They have a growth period where they are taught by their parents and other fully matured humans. They learn from experience rather than from the Dream. And their bodies grow and go through many changes along the way.

I am anxious to meet a child for the first time. I want to see these unique stages of growth in humans in person. I am told they are very inquisitive and energetic. I tell them I share these traits with their children, and they laugh.

Along the way, we stop at several Seraph forts to resupply. In each new location, I am greeted by a gaggle of shocked and fearful faces, but once I am properly introduced and deemed to be “harmless”, that fear gives way to an insatiable curiosity.

I’m glad I was gifted with and share this trait with humans. It’s welcome kinship between us. I don’t feel so entirely foreign amongst them.

They ask to touch my skin, the sprouting layers of wood that make up my “hair”. They ask me if I am magical in nature. They ask if I am a child of Melandru.

I ask them to explain to me who Melandru is and they go on to describe to me their six Gods.

They don’t know when and where these Gods originated from, but they tell me that these Gods are omnipotent. That they possess all the magic one can imagine. That they rival even the Elder Dragons in their power. I am in awe at the concept. Such power would be unimaginable. I can see why these beings are so revered.

Some of the soldiers tell me they are blessed by one of the six Gods upon their birth. They have shrines and temples for these Gods in Divinity’s Reach. I am looking forward to visiting them. Perhaps these “priests” of theirs will have more information for me.

But the soldiers at least name the six for me:

Balthazar, the god of war, courage, and fire.

Dwayna, goddess of healing, air, warmth, and life.

Melandru, goddess of nature, earth, and growth.

Lyssa, twin goddesses — Lyss and Ilya — of beauty, water and illusion.

Grenth, god of darkness, death, and ice.

Kormir, goddess of order, spirit, and truth.

Some of the soldiers still hold to the notion that we Sylvari are the physical manifestations of their goddess, Melandru. I am unable to answer them with certainty. I tell them I am also believed to be the avatar of the Centaur’s nature spirit. They scoff at the notion, and I don’t know why.

I ask if I can meet the six gods. The soldiers laugh saying that the gods fled the mortal plane long ago. I ask where they fled to and why. The soldiers don’t know. I will have to look into this and learn more. I am curious about their origin, their rise and fall, and their history.

Esme pays special close attention to me over the course of the two weeks it takes to reach Divinity’s Reach. She starts behaving differently around me, and I don’t understand it. She giggles more at my statements. She leans in closer than the others do. She reaches out with soft gestures and gentle touches here and there. She has a strange twinkle in her eye when she looks upon me.

I point out this marked difference in behavior and how it’s so different from the way the other Seraph approach me. She blushes and stammers, finally admitting that she might be developing “feelings” for me. When I ask her to explain further, she compares these feelings to romantic affection. I glow deeply as I realize what this means. However, I don’t feel the same level of attraction towards her. I am fond of Esme and happy for her friendship, but I don’t share in these feelings that she harbors. I explain this to her, and she seems sad. I apologize profusely and she tells me it’s fine. I’m not sure if it is judging by her forlorn tone, but I don’t push her on the subject.

Oh, mother. As we approach Divinity’s Reach, I cannot accurately put to words the grandiosity and scale of the city. It’s walls are stories high and made of countless bricks of white stones. The gate itself is almost as tall as the wall and swung wide in welcome. I stop and stare in awe before Captain Martin urges me forward.

And once inside, I am floored by the diversity and complexity of life I find there. There are so many humans. I can’t even begin to count them out amongst the crowds shuffling by. They come in all shapes and sizes and colors. They wear a multitude of different coverings; some bear shiny, plated armor, some are sheathed in layered leathers, some are flowing in fine and colorful cloth. The din of voices and calls and cries reminds me of the jungles of home. The place is teeming with life, though it’s built up of stone.

As we make our way through the crowd and up the street, the humans part like a wave. As they notice me, I am greeted once more by the familiar faces of fear and shock. Some stare unabashedly upon me. Some divert their eyes and shuffle past quickly in avoidance. But I am so used to these reactions after so many times that it doesn’t bother me. I am too curious now to be bothered.

Children, mother! There are children here! They are so small with their puffy cheeks and wide, round eyes. They scurry about in play like rabbits bouncing and chasing round a tree. Some have wooden swords. Some carry strange little effigies made from cloth and stuffing. I am invigorated by their energy. I want so badly to join them, to ask questions about their experiences, to experience their joy with them, but Captain Martin urges me onward once again.

I am startled once more, this time upon the sight of an elder human. Her face has lines carved into it like the rings of a tree and it sags a bit oddly. She’s bent over her cane as though her many years were a weight upon her back.

I can’t help myself.

I step away from the Seraph and approach her. She gasps upon noticing me, but I still pursue. I ask her how old she is. She tells me she is 78 years old. My eyes widen in awe. I ask her why she’s wrinkled. But before I can get an answer, Captain Martin takes me by the arm and leads me away.

We climb a ramp and soon, the crowd thins. There are no stands or signs like in the markets from which we came. There is a massive stone structure rising up before us. It is trimmed in gold and alabaster. There are pillars lining the way and finely dressed soldiers in gold and white standing on either side of the road leading past them.

As we step past the pillars and archway above, I am met at once by green.

This green is so different from the green outside the walls of Divinity’s Reach. So different from the green jungles of home.

Instead of wild, abundant overgrowth, these flowered bushes and trees are trimmed into elaborate and tidy shapes. There are beds of shredded bark where brilliantly colored flowers spring forth in bundles. There is no tangle of weed here. Only short lawn with little wildflowers, and these oddly shaped trees and brush. It’s so tame. It’s so neatly manicured.

Finally, my entourage stops. Captain Martin asks me to wait here while he goes inside to prepare the Ministry for my arrival. I nod and he leaves us.

It takes some time. I begin to shift uncomfortably in silence. There is so much to see still. I can hardly stand it. I hate sitting still, so I begin to pace. I try to take in more of my environment.

I am relieved when Captain Martin returns.

“They are ready for you.” he says, “Which means it’s time for us to leave you.”

First I am excited, and then I am forlorn when I realize what he means.

“Will I see you again?” I ask.

Captain Martin smiles.

“I hope so, Mianach.” he replies. “You know where to find me whenever you so choose.”

The other Seraph take my hand one by one and shake it, bidding me farewell. I am unfamiliar with this gesture, but I accept it happily. I can tell it’s one of kindness and good will.

But when it comes to Esme, there’s a brief pause in which she looks me in the eye. There are tears brimming in hers and I don’t know why.

But a second later, she takes me by my shoulders and pulls me towards her. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me in tightly against her. It is warm. It makes my heart flutter. It is pleasant and familial.

When she releases me and steps back, I blink at her.

“What was that?” I ask.

“A hug.” she replies. She reaches up and wipes her eyes.

“I enjoyed it.” I say. “Is this what friends do?”

She smiles fondly upon me.

“Yes.” she says. “It is.”

The Seraph all wave at me and say goodbye a final time and soon, one of those fancily dressed guards approaches me from the direction of the palace.

“Follow me, sir.” she says. “The Ministry is waiting.”

I comply. I follow closely behind her.

We walk through a shiny marble hallway embossed in gold and lined with pedestals with little statues of heads upon them. There are also glass cases with various artifacts inside. I resist the urge to stop and look at each one as the guard leads me along.

We approach a set of stained wood doors with brilliant depictions carved into their surface. I don’t get to look long before the guards on either side pull them open so we can pass through.

I enter a large, circular room with ascending benches lined all around its center. There are humans in brilliant, dark robes edged in gold trim sitting on these benches. There’s another human standing at a podium with a quill in hand and parchment under his finger tips.

All of these humans watch me intensely as I step into the center of the circular room and come to a stop there.

The guard who led me here does that same salute I saw the Seraph do before, then she turns on heel and walks back the way she came. The doors snap shut heavily behind her.

I am met by silence.  

Some of the humans are whispering to one another. The rest are watching me with widened eyes.

One with more brilliant robes than the rest stands up and I turn to face him.

“What are you?” he asks, and his booming voice echoes off the marble walls and floor.

“I’m Sylvari.” I reply and am interested in how my own voice carries through the room. I come again. “I am among the first of my kind. I am exploring Tyria on my Mother’s behalf and on behalf of my brothers and sisters. How do you do.”

Another human stands up as well.

“What does it mean? That you awoke?”

“My race was not birthed like you humans are birthed.” I explain. “We grew in pods attached to the boughs of the Pale Tree. We emerged fully formed, fully grown. Our Dream of Dreams during our development prepared us with all the knowledge we needed to start our lives. I am here to learn and experience more on behalf of my siblings and Mother. I have many questions.”

The humans face each other and exclaim once I am finished. They discuss quietly amongst themselves a moment and I fidget in anticipation. I am so curious that I can no longer contain myself.

“You are the Ministry. Are you the leaders of the human race? How did you come by this title?” I ask rapid fire.

The one with brilliant robes goes on to explain that each minister is an elected representative of and holds jurisdiction over a particular area of human territory. Responsibilities such as bylaws, resettlement of refugees from the centaur war, and local taxes for a given region all fall to that area's minister. The ministry can conduct referendums if a quorum is reached. He goes on to explain that the ministry convenes here in the Chamber of Ministers and is headed by the Legate Minister. He introduces himself as Legate Minister Caudecus and says that he’s responsible for the Ministry Guard which protects them.

As all of this is happening, I notice the human at one of the podiums is writing furiously with his quill and parchment. I ask what he’s doing. Legate Minister Caudecus explains that he’s a “Scribe” who transcribes each meeting into written form for later reference.

He then asks me about my race’s system of government.

I tell him that we don’t have one. That we simply follow the tenants of Ventari’s Tablet and confer with our Pale Mother, you.

He asks me how many we are.

I tell him that I’m one of twelve.

They exclaim to one another once more at this revelation.

They ask where I come from.

I describe the Grove, the Pale Tree, and the jungles around our home.

They ask who protects us.

I am unsure of what he means. I’m not sure what we need protection from, so I ask.

“Can’t any of you fight? Surely, you need defense!”

“There is no cause for it.” I reply, unsure. “We have no enemies, no war. We simply are.”

“How old are you?” one of them asks.

“We’re now two months old.”

They’re silent for a long moment.

Another exclaims: “You are mere children…”

“Are all of you...plant based?” asks another.

“Yes.” I say. “And each of us is unique, just as you humans are diverse.”

“Are you the leader to the other Sylvari?” asks Legate Minister Caudecus.

“No.” I reply. “We have no leader. We are all equals. I am but a representative of my race and a simple traveler seeking ever more to bring back to my Pale Mother.”

There’s another protracted silence. I fidget anxiously, waiting.

“You’re clearly sentient.” says one of the ministers. “And you’re more intelligent and better spoken than the beast races of Tyria. We’ll need to pursue negotiations and relations between our peoples.”

I nod emphatically.

“I agree.” I say. “We’d like very much to be your friends.”

“Yes, we should be allies with the Sylvari.” says one of the Ministers, looking to Legate Minister Caudecus.  “We need to shape them while they’re still young as a people.”

The other Ministers seem to nod their agreement with a chorus of yeses and “hear hear”.

“Does anyone object to this?” Legate Minister Caudecus asks.

There’s another long silence.

“Then it is decided.” he says, looking to me now. “Return to your people and discuss this with them. We await your answer to this allyship.”

He picks up a stick with a bulb on its end and slams it a few times against his podium. The sound of it claps loudly and reverberates off the walls. Almost immediately, the ministers rise and spread out.

I am approached by a number of them. They look upon me curiously, inspecting. One asks to touch my skin and head. I happily let them. He asks if I would be willing to submit myself to a “medical examination”. I’m not sure what this is, but I agree to it, saying that if it will help them to better understand me, that I will do so.

They introduce themselves by name. Minister Arton appears to be older than the rest. He asks me how I’ll be delivering my findings to you, the Pale Mother. I tell him that I was planning to do so by spoken word.

He shakes his head.

“Can you write?”

I ponder on this a moment, then nod.

“Yes, I believe that my Dream of Dreams prepared me for this.”

“Then you should report your findings in written form.” he suggests. “You can be more detailed and precise in recollection. And it will give your people a foundation in writing. You can begin chronicling your history as a race, here and now at its inception.”

This seems reasonable to me, so I agree to it.

“Do you need a blank journal and fountain pen?” he asks.

“Yes.” I say.

“Allow me to provide them to you.” He says.

I thank him.

He calls to a person in simpler clothing. He whispers in her ear. She nods and scurries off again.

The Ministers invite me to dine with them. I happily agree to this.

They lead me down the hall and to the left towards another room. This one is large and long. There’s a mahogany table with a cloth draped across it stretching the center of the room.

We all sit down in seats around this table and the Ministers ask me what I’d like to eat.

I tell them that I’d like to try whatever they can provide to me that would help me to experience more of their culture.

They call over a person they refer to as “Chef” and each Minister states a dish to her. She nods and leaves the room.

While we wait for this Chef to prepare the food for us, I begin to ask my questions.

I ask about their history.

I am in awe when they tell me that they were the dominant race in Tyria for hundreds and hundreds of years. Their race spanned three continents with an extensive trade network and significant population. They occupied every corner of Tyria. However, from these great heights humanity started to falter and for the past 250 years they have been in decline. Now, human refugees from all over Tyria have gathered here in Kryta, their last stronghold.

I ask what happened to make them fall from such heights.

They tell me about the fall of Ascalon. They tell me of their war with a ferocious and fearsome race called the “Charr” that’s been going on for hundreds of years. They tell me that a great leader called King Adelbern unleashed his revenge upon the Charr in the form of a great and terrible magic called the “Foefire”. It turned the bulk of his people into ghosts who now forever haunt and attack the Charr in their once human controlled land.

This breaks my heart, mother. What a horrible and powerful weapon unleashed in hate upon another. War is such a terrible, merciless thing. I hope we never have to become a part of one. Such loss, such horror.

They tell me how they lost contact with the racist and cantankerous humans of Cantha long, long ago.

They tell me of a far away place called Elona where a great famine swept across the land when a “Lich” king called Palawa Joko damned their rivers, the lifeblood of their people. As they were weakened and in approximately 1135 AE, Palawa Joko took control of Elona completely. His stronghold in the Crystal Desert made, and continues to make it near impossible to access Elona via land while the Elder Dragon, Zhaitan makes it impossible to cross to it by sea.

Not only are these humans fighting the Charr from their stronghold in Ebonhawke, but they’re also fighting the Centaurs here in Kryta. There seems to be a war wherever these people are. It’s no wonder they are so few in number by comparison to their domination in ancient times.

They tell me we are currently in their “capital”.

They go on to tell me that In 1219 AE, “the great wave” which accompanied the awakening of Zhaitan smashed through the then Krytan capital, the largest human settlement in Tyria at the time, and all of the coastal areas. The place called Lion's Arch was completely destroyed and abandoned as the capital. When Lion's Arch was born again it was founded by pirates. It became a free city and was no longer under humanity's sole guidance.

Kryta, united under Queen Salma in 1088 AE, became the last stable, reasonable human nation and refugees fled to it from all of the troubled corners of the three continents. The new capital here—  Divinity's Reach— became the center of the human universe and their last hope to recover their feet even as they continue to struggle against centaurs and bandits. They tell me that the remaining humans of Kryta are fierce and would die before letting anything harm Divinity's Reach, their last true stronghold in Tyria.

I ask them where their King or Queen is now.

They tell me that he died and that they are waiting for his heir to grow older before she takes the throne. In the meantime, the Ministry acts on her behalf and continues to keep Kryta governed seamlessly.

They are still curious about the fact that Sylvari have no enemies and therefore, no protection. They wonder if this frightens us. I tell them “no”. We are unafraid.

I ask them what sort of protection the humans have against their “enemies”.

Their government is supported by its sanctioned armed forces: the Seraph, the Shining Blade, and the Ministry Guard.

Of course, I’ve met the Seraph already. They tell me that the Seraph function in Kryta as both a policing body as well as a national defense force, led by captains who command units and are assigned to provinces and territories throughout Kryta.

I ask about Captain Martin. They say that he is one of those Captains and that he leads the Seraph in Kessex Hills. I am in awe. I had no idea I was traveling with someone so important to humans.

I ask about the Shining Blade. They explain that it is a small but elite force commanded by the Master Exemplar who answers only to the monarch whose main purpose is to protect the reigning monarch of Kryta through arms, surveillance, and subterfuge. They have little else to tell me about this force as they don’t seem to know much more about it. It’s very secretive.

Finally, they describe the Ministry Guard. It supports and protects the interests of the members of the Ministry, and are commanded by Legate Minister Caudecus.

As they finish telling me this, the Chef and a number of other humans return. They are carrying a plethora of dishes which they set down on the table before us.

I look from dish to dish with interest. I’ve never seen food that looks quite like this. It’s lovely and colorful in its display. Some of it is fresh and cold. Some of it is rising in delectably scented steam.

They set an empty plate down in front of me along with several forks, spoons, and knives. They do the same for each member of the Ministry.

Mother, I cannot begin to describe to you the complexity and depth of flavors in each dish. Some of it is bready and warm, comforting. Some of it is tangy and burns my tongue, but isn’t unpleasant. It has a nice heat to it. Some of it is sweet and fluffy with creamy spreads and berries on top. I love the “salad” most of all. It’s crisp, refreshing, with a beautiful array of chopped vegetables I’ve never tried before. It’s seasoned with a lovely, oily dressing that’s both savory and sweet. The freshness of it reminds me of the food we eat at home.

Once full, I thank them profusely for the experience and the conversation. They tell me that they’d be happy to answer any other questions I have, and I am grateful.  

It’s at this time that the simply dressed human from before returns. She has a package wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. She hands it to Minister Arton who then passes it along to me. He urges me to open it.

Inside of this package is the journal with the white rose in its cover.

And so, we come full circle.

Here I am, writing in it. Telling you about all that I’ve learned and gained on this journey. Here I am, reading my findings to you now.

I learned that some people can’t seem to find a middle ground or even resolve their differences through peaceful negotiations. Some don’t want to try. I learned that sometimes, loss drives people to a burning hate. I learned that differences between us lead to a fear of the unknown, which then can lead to violence, but that this can be bridged with patience and kindness. I learned about friendship and the familiarity of it, the warmth of it.

I learned that I still have so very much to learn.

I am overwhelmed by everything I’ve experienced thus far. I am still processing it, digesting it, letting it soak into the fabric of my mind, into the fibers of my heart.

Most of all, I am overwhelmed by a love for it all. There is so much to love, after all.

And I want nothing more than to convey this love to you, Mother.

I hope that I have. I hope you are proud. I’ve done my utmost to let Ventari’s teachings guide me through this new world. In this way, I still carry you and my love for you everywhere I go. I carry it in my words. I carry it in my actions. I carry it to each new face I’m greeted with.

I’m grateful to be home now. I’ve missed you terribly.  

And when I leave to continue my journeys once more, I carry you with me. I will always do so, no matter what next I find.

Chapter Text

I’m so grateful that Captain Martin taught me how to navigate using a map and compass, and yet, in spite of this guidance and training, I am perfectly and utterly lost.

Perhaps the map was upside down this entire time. I try turning it once, I try turning it twice, and I only end up more confused than I was before. It has been a week  since I left the mountain pass behind, and I am nowhere near Divinity’s Reach. In fact, I don’t recognize this place at all. 

It appears I circumvented the Modniir base of operations entirely this time around and I haven’t encountered any of the Seraph forts I remember from the last journey to Divinity’s Reach. 

Thoroughly lost and befuddled, I travel down a cobbled road and let my walking stick guide me from here, foregoing the map and compass entirely. Clearly, I am not meant to be in Divinity’s Reach. Not yet, anyways. 

As the day wears on, I notice there’s a roiling of dark clouds approaching from the west. Massive thunderheads are gathering, rising high like the mountains separating me from home. There’s a crackling in the humid air. I feel it on my skin like static. I hear a distant rumble, and soon, the clouds are upon me and the rain begins to fall. 

The dirt between the cobblestones turns to mud underfoot. Puddles begin to form and I do my best to step around them. Soon, the leaves of my clothes are saturated and I am soaked down to my skin. However, I am less concerned with my own condition and more worried about the condition of my belongings. Captain Martin assured me that this pack was designed for “rough terrain” and “wear and tear”. I’m also assuming— and hoping— that it’s waterproof, but still, I worry. My precious journal is tucked away somewhere inside, and I know what happens when water bleeds into ink. All the words blur together, blend into the fibers of the parchment, and are lost forever.

Thankfully, I spot a town just ahead. I walk quicker as soon as I see the wood buildings peeking out from behind the cover of trees. It comes into the clear as I come around the bend. 

When I step off of the main road and into the town, I don’t notice any humans in the streets. They must have already cleared out and gone inside their homes to avoid the deluge. I see warm yellow light emanating from the windows of the buildings, indicating that there are people inside. But their doors are closed tight. I don’t dare approach a locked door.  I don’t want to impose myself upon any of these humans. I know how fearful they can be of the unknown, and I know by now that I am the unknown.

As I meander down the winding street, looking for some kind of shelter, another sound rises above the din of rain on stones and the rumbling thunder. Voices. Singing. 

I follow the sound and this leads me to a building much larger than the rest. It’s three stories tall and looks as though it has been built upon many times over; the new over the old without any care for the previous constructions or whether the new constructions will flow seamlessly one feature into the next. It’s charming, I think. 

Finally. An open door. A warm, inviting light pours out from the doorway, beckoning me inside towards the singing voices. 

I duck under the overhanging roof and the water cascading from it and use the mat outside the door to wipe the excess mud off my feet before stepping inside. 

I am struck at once by the rich, mingling scents of smoke and spice. I notice a large fire roaring towards the back of the room. There are long tables lined up in rows extending from here to there. Some humans are sitting at those tables, nursing themselves on mugs of some sort of drink, I don’t know what. Some are puffing on cob pipes; the origin of the richly scented smoke. But most of the humans are gathered around one table in particular. 

They’re slamming their mugs down on the table’s surface in beat to the jaunty and raucous tune they’re belting out. There’s a human in the middle of it all with some sort of stringed instrument, pushing and pulling a stick over the fiber threads aggressively, causing musical notes to reverberate off into the warm air. The instrument itself is like a voice all its own. I’ve never heard such a sound before. 

I take off my pack and set it down on top of the nearest table and plop down into the bench before it. I unfasten the buttons and straps holding it closed and retrieve my journal and fountain pen. Both are safe and unaffected by the rain. I heave a sigh of relief.

I return my focus to the singing humans. Amidst the chaos and disjointed, slurring words, I pick out sentences. I pick out lyrics to the song. I listen intently, trying to glean more. It’s something about Kormir. I know this name. She’s one of the six human Gods. The Goddess of Truth and Spirit. 

As I continue to listen on, I realize that this song is about her origin. It’s about her birth into godhood. 

It’s hard to pick out the words, but I am fascinated now. I must know more. How is a goddess made? Where does her power come from? What was she before she became one of these omnipotent beings? 

Desperate to know more and too curious for my own good, I scoot out from behind the table and move in closer towards the group of singers. I slide into the bench of a table just across from them. 

And just as I go to press my pen to paper— to put their song into words— they stop. One by one, their voices drop out of overarching melody. Eventually, even the instrument stops singing. 

I look up in the wake of this sudden silence only to find all of the eyes turned and fixed upon me. All of these eyes are wide and searching. Their mouths are agape. At this point, I can’t tell whether its in awe, confusion, fear, or perhaps a mingling of all the above

Either way, I’ve been noticed. 

But it doesn’t matter. I’m practically on my toes, lifted up off my seat now as I plead for them to continue. 

“I must know more about Kormir. Please.” I beg, my eyes wide upon them. 

The humans all sway a bit. They look to each other as though seeking answers to the mystery that is me. Instead, one of them laughs. And when she laughs, the rest of them start laughing as well. The one with the instrument begins weaving out the beginning to the tune, and with a deep breath, the humans start the song over from the top. 

Spearmarshal Kormir

Protector of Elona

Defender of Truth

The Lich trembles at her strength!

The people cry out in praise!

Graced by the Gods

Given the gift of gifts

A blessing as yet unknown

Blinded by The Hunger

And still she fights!

She enters the Realm of Torment

Unafraid! Fearless!

Generals fall to her blade

Spearmarshal Kormir and her heroes

Together did they battle through Fear, Anguish, Madness

In a blaze and haze of blades

God of knowledge, god of water

Keeper of secrets
Fallen, disgraced

 Eyes like a sunken abyss; wings like bloodied scythes

Twisted and dark like his heart

At last they stood before the imprisoned god

He who challenged the Five and lost

He who threatened to break the chains

He who sought to bring Nightfall to the world:

The dark god, Abaddon.

And so Kormir and her allies did fight

In titanic battle

Through her power, skill, and bravery

By the blessings of the Five True Gods

Abaddon is brought low

Abaddon, Lord of Everlasting Depths

Did fall!

Magic overflows

The world to be consumed

But Kormir is unafraid

Her gift of gifts from the gods

Grants her the power

To save us once more

A choice that only a mortal could make

She did take upon herself the mantle

The Goddess of Truth

And all its power, all its dominion, and duty

The magic flows towards her

The magic is drawn within

And so she ascends!

She ascends!

No longer a keeper of secrets

Now the Goddess of Truth!

A human made god!

Kormir, the goddess of truth!

And so by mortal hands

A new immortal entered creation!

As they finish up, they cheer rambunctiously and slam their mugs together. Then, one by one, they slide down the bench at my table towards me. Five of them sit across from me. Two tentatively scoot up to my right. One steps up to my left and sits down quietly beside me, entirely confident, unafraid. 

The humans stare on in mingling confusion and awe for a moment. Finally, a man with short, mousy brown hair sitting directly across from me speaks.

“What are you?” he asks. 

“I’m Sylvari.” I reply as I have many times by now. “I am the first of my race awakened into this world. I am here seeking knowledge on behalf of my brothers and sisters and my Pale Mother.”

The humans all look to each other, unsure. 

The one to my left speaks now. 

“What’s the Pale Mother?”

I start from the beginning. I explain how we Syvlari awakened. How we emerged into the world fully formed and cognizant. How we were implanted with knowledge from the Dream of Dreams. I tell them about my brothers and sisters. 

The humans stare in renewed wonder. The expressions crossing each face reminds me of the curiosity in children, in myself. I find welcome kinship in it. I smile kindly and wait. 

The one with mousy brown hair extends a hand across the table and puffs up. 

“I’m Eric.” he says. 

I look down at his hand curiously, then return the gesture. I take his hand firmly and shake it as I was taught by the Ministry. 

“I’m Mianach.” I reply. 

“So there’s only 12 of you Sill-var-ee?” the woman to Eric’s left slurs. 

“Yes.” I reply and nod. 

“What happens if one you dies?” she asks, leaning forward. 

“Yeah!” cries the man to Eric’s right. “You should be bangin’ and cranking out babies while you can.”

“That’s—” I hum, “That’s not how it works for us.”

“Well, surely there will be more like you.” The woman comes again. “It would be an awful shame if you were all alone in this world. I can’t imagine a world without many humans.”

I tilt my head a bit as I ponder this. It’s true, I’ve wondered if and when there will be more of us. I’ve wondered if it will just be me and my brothers and sisters for the rest of our lives. 

“Since you were born fully grown,” Eric begins, “How do you age? When will you die and how?”

“Yeah, would you wither up like a dying corn stalk?” asks the bearded man. 

I shake my head, quite suddenly overwhelmed by how little I know. 

“I’m...not sure.” I admit. “We’ve only been awake for a matter of months now. None of us have experienced sickness or death. We know of death, but not how it will come to us. I don’t know if we’ll age as humans do. The Dream never imparted us with such wisdom.”

“Well can’t you just,” the woman gestures, “Ask your Pale Mom or whatever?”

“I’m not sure if she’d answer such things.” I say. “Or if she even can. She knows much, but not everything.”

The humans all sway a moment, continuing to blink and watch me with interest. 

“I’m Charlotte.” the woman says. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Charlotte.” I reply with a smile. 

“And I’m Karl.” says the man with the beard, slamming his mug down. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“Okay.” I say. “What kind of drink?”

“They’ve got ale, they’ve got beer, they’ve got mead, and uh…” Karl strokes his bushy beard as he strains to recall. “Yeah, they’ve got apple juice too, I think.”

“What’s an apple?” I ask.

“It’s a fruit.” Karl replies. His thick curly brow is pressed over his eyes in concern at my lack of knowing. The apple must be quite common to humans.

“I’ve never had apple before.” I admit. “I’ll have the apple juice, please.”

He waves down the barkeep and orders the juice for me. I watch the young girl as she makes her way over the taps and pulls a lever down over an empty mug. Amber liquid streams out of the nozzle below the lever and once the mug is full, she pushes the lever back up. I tilt my head a bit as the liquid stops flowing from the spigot. 

She brings the mug of apple juice to the table and slides it down towards me. I nearly miss as I go to catch it. 

“These aren’t the best apples.” Eric says. “Those would be in Queensdale.”

“It’s still good though.” says Charlotte as she shoves a strand of her blonde hair off of her ruddy face. 

“Yeah, but it’s not the best.” Eric retorts. 

“So?” she slurs. “It’s his first time having apple juice.”

“Exactly! I’m just helping him set his bar low so he’s not too disappointed.”

As I listen to the two carry on, I tilt the mug up to my lips and take a sip. 

The juice is sweet and tangy. It’s one note and bold on my tongue. 

“Mm.” I hum my approval. “It’s good! It reminds me of the nectar we make back in the Grove.”

“Tell us about the Grove.” says Charlotte. 

“Yeah, what’s this big tree of yours like? You’re on the other side of the Tetrus range, right? It’s all jungle over there I hear.” Eric leans in.

I happily oblige. I explain in great detail. I tell them about you, Pale Mother, in form and spirit. I tell them about how Kahedins is shaping our home. I tell them about the jungles thick around the Grove.  

“Wow.” Charlotte exclaims. “I can scarcely imagine a place like you describe. I’ve only ever known Kessex Hills from the time I was born. The farthest I’ve ever been to is Divinity’s Reach.”

“I’ve been to Divinity’s Reach.” I say, setting my mug down and bouncing a bit. “I couldn’t have imagined how expansive, how full of life and color it was. It was teeming with it, like the jungles of home. I never knew there were so many humans.”

“Yeah, that’s how I remember it too.” she nods. “I was little then, but I remember the big crowds and the street performers.”

“I met the Ministry as well.” I say. 

“Whoah, you actually got an audience with them?” she says, her brown eyes wide. 

“Of course he did.” Eric butts in. “He’s one of the first of his kind! That’s important. An occasion worthy of note, especially from our Ministry.”

“How long have you been traveling?” asks the man to my left. “Surely you must be tired and hungry.”

“I’ve been traveling since I left the Grove.” I say. “Yes, I’m quite hungry. I haven’t eaten all day.”

“The beef stew here is nice.” he says. “It’s hearty and it’ll warm you to the bone. Looks like you need it, friend. You’re soaked. I’ll order it for you.”

Before I can reply, he’s already waving down the barkeep. He sends in the order and soon, a cast iron bowl of delectably scented stew is set before me along with a wooden spoon and a piece of seed bread. 

“It’s good if you dip the bread into the stew.” the man suggests. 

I do so. I tear off a piece of the thick, fluffy bread and dip it into the stew, allowing the brown, richly herbed sauce to soak into it. Then, I bring it to my lips. 

After chewing thoughtfully and swallowing, I face the man to my left. 

“You’re right.” I say. “It’s meaty, savory, I can taste the bite of herbs. It’s comforting somehow. I feel warmer and drier already.”

He smiles and the sun tanned skin around his soft lips wrinkles just so and dimples. I can’t help but smile back. I look into his deep eyes intently. They’re the color of sweet nectar. Of sticky sap. He meets my gaze, unafraid. 

“You have beautiful eyes.” I exclaim softly.

He seems startled by this. His cheeks flush pink and he scratches the back of his neck. 

“Thank you.” he murmurs. 

“What’s your name?” I ask. 

“Rodrick.” he replies. 

“How old are you, Rodrick?” I ask. 

“38 years in two months.” he says.  

“I’m 4 months old now.” I say with a nod. I use the spoon to stir the stew and then I bring up a chunk of carrot with celery. I take a bite and hum as the savory flavors sing delightfully on my tastebuds. 

“Well, you don’t look or act like you’re 4 months old…” Rodrick says. “Although, you seem to possess the curiosity of a child.”

“So I’ve been told.” I say before taking another spoonful of the stew. 

“You remind me of my daughter, Emily, when she was younger.” he continues. “Always asking questions.”

“Do you mind?” I say as I chew. “That I ask questions?”

“Not at all.” he chuckles. 

I smile at him again. I can’t help but look into his soulful, amber eyes once more. I admire the way his strong jaw and cheekbones frame his otherwise gentle features. I am drawn into the way his wavy black hair falls just so over his brow. I resist the urge to tuck the wayward lock behind his ear like I want to. 

Why is my heart fluttering within me like the drone of insect wings? He makes me nervous but serene all at once. This feeling reminds me of what it felt like coming home after being away for so long, and yet he sets me on edge. The feeling isn’t at all uncomfortable. It feels like taking a deep breath before the plunge.

“What’s in that little book of yours?” Rodrick asks, directing his startling eyes to my journal. 

“That’s my research journal.” I answer. “It’s where I write down all that I experience so I can return to the Grove and share my findings with the Pale Tree.”

“Are you gonna write about us?” Rodrick asks, glancing back into my eyes. 

I can feel my cheeks glow and I look down into my stew, smiling. 

“Yes.” I reply. “Of course.”

“Look! He’s glowing like a lightning bug.” Charlotte exclaims. 

The others exclaim as well.

“How are you doing that?” Eric asks. 

“I-I don’t know.” I say. “I just do.”

“You must be magic.” says Karl. He takes another swig from his mug, then wipes the froth from his facial hair. “You must be an avatar of Melandru. No other explanation.”

“I’ve been told this before.” I say. I take another bite of my stew. “The Modniir also told me that I’m an avatar of their nature spirit.”

The others look upon me as though I’ve said something terrible. 

“The Modniir?” Eric asks. He seems...defensive. Set on the edge of a blade. I don’t know why.

“Yes.” I say. “They were the first race I encountered outside of the Grove. They took me to Ulgoth and he told me of their people, their culture, their ways.”

“Did he tell about how him and the rest of his people have been slaughtering us in cold blood for the last 1000 years?” Eric asks and I can feel the antagonism in his voice. 

“He told me of your war.” I say solemnly, meeting Eric’s eyes. “There has been great loss. On both sides. It’s a terrible thing.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t slaughter you in cold blood too.” Eric says, his voice low and venomous. “They hate anything that walks on two legs, the damned beasts.”

“They knew I meant no harm.” I reply gently. “They wanted to learn about me as much as I wanted to learn about them.”

“And do you sympathize with them?” Eric asks pointedly. “Do you support their cause?”

“I sympathize with them as I do you. As I do everyone.” I reply. “But I don’t choose sides. I’m a neutral party in all of this. I am a simple traveler, seeking knowledge and differing perspectives, experiencing ever more to bring back to my fellow Sylvari, to my Mother. Nothing more.”

“You can’t know what you know and not pick a side.” Eric says. His eyes are narrowed piercingly upon me. “You’re deluding yourself otherwise. Your pacifism in the face of such loss offends me.”

“I’m sorry.” I say. “I don’t know what else to say.”

He huffs and shoves himself to a stand. 

“I’ve had enough of this plant man.” he says. 

He swipes his mug off the table top, steps over the bench, and walks away to another table, alone. 

My heart aches for him as he does. He’s hurting and angry and I don’t know why. 

“Don’t mind him.” Rodrick says softly. He reaches over and squeezes my forearm, reassuring me. “He lost his brother to this war. He’s been angry and bitter ever since.”

I nod and stare down into my steaming stew. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose one of my brothers or sisters. I don’t want to linger on this possibility for long. I’m at loss for the moment, so I take another hesitant bite of my meal instead of speaking. 

 After a long moment spent in silence in which the humans around me watch in anticipation, I feel my courage return to me. The curiosity slips back in and replaces the cold. 

I look up at Karl and tilt my head. 

“Did it hurt?” I ask.

Karl looks baffled. 

“What?” he replies. 

“Did it hurt to grow that?” I come again. “The hair on your face?”

The others look to each other, then burst into laughter. Karl laughs heartily himself. I can’t help but smile along with them, though I don’t know why they find my question so funny.

I pursue. 

“Have I asked something strange?” I ask. 

“Yes,” Karl finally says, wiping a tear from his eye, “And no. It didn’t hurt. No more than growing the hair atop my big, thick head.”

We talk awhile longer. As they continue to drink from their mugs, I notice they sway more and their words slur together as they speak. One of the humans rests his head against the table and begins to snore. The other humans laugh at him, but he doesn’t seem to stir from his slumber. What a strange place to fall asleep, I think. 

They begin talking about their significant others. Their husbands and wives. Their children. I listen on intently, gleaning all I can from their stories. 

It seems they pass on their knowledge to their children by implementing guide posts and rules to abide by. When the child disobeys they are punished. 

They bicker about what punishments are most effective. Some put the children in “Time Out”. This is the act of separating the child from all connection and stimuli for a period of time. It apparently gives the child time to think about the mistakes they’ve made.

Older children are “grounded”. This is also a form of removal from connection and stimuli, but typically, the child is sectioned off to their own personal space and not allowed to leave except to take care of basic necessities. 

I exclaim that this reminds me of the concept of “prison” for those who disobey human laws. They laugh and agree, but admit that it’s not quite as intense as this. 

I ask where these rules and lessons come from. They tell me they have always been. That they were passed down from generation to generation. But I pursue. I ask where the concept of their morality comes from. I ask about its origin. 

They tell me they don’t know. 

Charlotte hiccups and giggles. 

“Maybe you’d be better off asking these questions of the Priory. Those book worms are always happy to show off their massive intellects and know-how.”

“The Priory?” I ask. 

The humans at the table go on to describe the Priory as a scholarly order dedicated to protecting knowledge and lore. It’s apparently one of three major orders who are looking for ways to combat the Elder Dragons. They hope that intellect, or some lost piece of knowledge, can save the world from the rise of the dragons. As such, they continue to seek out new lore and new knowledge and do so adamantly, curiously. 

My interest is piqued. An order whose entire creed is that of knowledge seeking speaks to me on a personal level. It coincides with my own Wyld Hunt. I too am seeking knowledge. 

I say that I will gladly seek out this Durmand Priory if they can direct me to it. 

They tell me it's located somewhere in the Shiverpeaks. A place called Lornar’s Pass. They warn me that it is a cold and dangerous place. I tell them that I am unafraid. 

“Can you fight?” Rodrick asks. 

I blink a few times, unsure.

“Do I need to fight?” I ask. 

“You might need to in self-defense.” he says. 

“No,” I admit, “I cannot fight. I hoped to be able to meet any conflict as a neutral party. In peace.”

“That’s an idealistic and noble intent.” Rodrick says. “But some conflicts can’t be resolved through words. Sometimes, they must be resolved through the clashing of blades.”

“That’s unfortunate.” I say. 

“It is.” Rodrick says sadly. “But it’s the truth.”

After a moment, he shifts in his seat to face me directly. 

“Please, let me teach you the art of self-defense.” he says emphatically. “Stay with me for a time, and I’ll pass on what I know.”

“Why?” I ask curiously. 

“Because,” He says, “You are among the first of your kind. And I want you to be safe out there in the wide open world.”

I consider this a moment. I look into his startling eyes once more. He is watching me in earnest, searching my expression for an answer. 

“Okay.” I finally say. “I will let you teach me.”

His body releases its tension once I’ve accepted his offer. He sighs his relief and smiles. He seems to care immensely for my safety. I am grateful to him for this care, and once again, my heart flutters within me like the dancing of wings. I can’t place the feeling, it’s nerve-wracking, but also warm and comforting like the stew I’ve just consumed. 

“Finish your juice.” Rodrick gestures. “And I’ll take you to my home.”

I bob my head excitedly. I swallow down the sweet juice and set the empty mug down on the table. 

As I go to stand up, the barkeep approaches me and seems to be waiting for something. 

“Can I help you?” I ask. 

“Yes.” she chuckles. “You can pay your tab.”

“My tab…?” I ask. 

“Yes.” she frowns a bit. “That’ll be 30 silver for the meal and juice.”

I search her firm, expectant expression for an answer to this mystery. 

“Silver?” I ask, unsure. 

“Yeah, silver.” she scoffs. “Look. Pay up or I’ll call the guard.”

“Don’t worry, Evelyn.” Rodrick raises his hands to calm her. “I’ll get it.”

Rodrick comes to a stand and retrieves a small leather satchel from his belt. He loosens the cord around it and there’s a strange tinkling sound as his fingers rummage inside. 

He produces a handful of small, metal discs with markings engraved into their surfaces. I watch in interest as he drops this “silver” into the hands of the waiting barkeep. 

“Thank you.” she mutters, then returns to her place behind the counter at the far end. 

“What was that?” I ask, my curiosity returning in full. 

Rodrick smiles as he steps over the bench. 

“That was the act of paying.”

“Paying?” I ask. 

“Yes,” he says, “When one wants a good or service from another, you pay in currency.”

I try to digest this new information. It’s strange and entirely foreign to me. It makes little sense. We have everything we need in the Grove and share between us openly. There is no such thing as “currency” among us. 

“And she would have summoned the guard if I didn’t pay?” I pursue. “Why is this?”

“Because if you don’t pay, that’s stealing. And stealing is a crime.” he explains. 

“I see.” I say, although I still don’t fully understand. I look back into Rodrick’s eyes. “Then I thank you for your act of paying.”

His smile is renewed and warmer than the fire at the other end of the room. 

“Of course, Mianach.” he says. 

I remember the gesture of friendship and thanks I received from Esme back in Divinity’s Reach some time ago. With this in mind, I want to show him my care in a more physical way. 

I move and put my hands on his shoulders, just as Esme did me, and then I pull him towards me and wrap my arms around his strong arms and back. I hold him firmly in the hug to express my familiarity and gratitude. 

He chuckles nervously and pulls away after a moment. 

“Okay, okay.” he says. “That’s enough.”

The others laugh as though I’ve done something funny. I’m not sure what I’ve done this time, but I still bid them a fond farewell. I shake each of their hands while making direct eye contact, just as I was taught before. Then, I retrieve my pack, put my journal and pen inside, strap it to my back, and follow Rodrick out the front door. 

The rain has faded out to a mere sprinkling compared to how heavy it fell before. He leads me down the muddy street a ways, then turns a corner and we approach a simple two story home. It’s creamy white with brown wood paneling. There are small windows on each floor and flowered bushes on either side of the green front door. He retrieves a key from his pocket and twists it into the lock. The door opens a moment later and I step inside. 

I’ve never been inside a human home. It has a strange, but comforting smell. There are pictures hanging from the walls in simple wooden frames. As Rodrick moves to the fire pit and begins stacking logs inside with tinder, I look over the paintings. One depicts a meadow of impressionist flowers with blue mountains behind. 

“What is this place?” I ask curiously, running my fingertips over the texture of dried paint.  

Rodrick glances back at me. 

“Shiverpeaks. In Spring.” he answers. He lights the fire and coaxes it to life by blowing on it. 

I move onto the next painting. This one is larger. There are three humans in it. Even in the low light of the room, I recognize one of these humans as Rodrick. 

“This is you.” I say. I run my fingers over his familiar face in the painting before trailing over the little girl and the other man depicted there. “Who are these other two?”

Rodrick is quiet for a long moment. He seems tense. 

“Have I said something wrong?” I ask in concern. 

“No, no…” he replies. “That’s my husband and daughter.”

I smile and look back upon them with renewed interest. 

“They have lovely faces.” I say. “They seem so happy, and you as well.”

Rodrick is silent. 

I turn back to face him. 

“When will I get to meet them?” I ask. 

Rodrick’s brow is pinched, his gaze is distant. It’s a sad expression, and I don’t like him wearing it. 

“You won’t.” he says, his voice low and soft. “They died 15 years ago.”

My heart clenches tightly within me like a closed bud. I look back to their faces, captured forever in a moment of beautiful happiness and life, now gone. I ache with sadness for Rodrick. I ache at his loss, his pain. 

“I’m sorry…” I manage. I feel the hotness of tears brimming my eyes. 

“It’s okay.” he says. “It was a long time ago.”

Then, after a moment, he speaks again. 

“Let me lead you to your room. You must be tired.”

I only nod, still feeling that hollow sting of melancholy deep in my chest. I want to help him, but I don’t know how. The Dream of Dreams didn’t prepare me for dealing with this sort of loss. It only spoke of loss in whispers. It only told me that it could happen. Not what to do when it did. 

We walk up the stairs and he opens the door at the top. I step inside. It doesn’t appear as though this room has been occupied in a long, long time. There’s a layer of dust over everything; the nightstand, dresser, the small desk and chair in the corner. There are cobwebs draped in bows from the rafters, reflecting the dim cool light from outside the window. The bed against the wall under the window is built up in a simple frame, but the blankets are pink with pretty flowers in a pattern upon it. I notice the clothed effigy of a girl wearing a dress sitting on the nightstand. I remember seeing the children in Divinity’s Reach carrying around similar effigies in play. 

“It’s my daughter’s old room.” Rodrick says. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”

After a moment, I turn around to face Rodrick. I smile sadly. 

“It will be just fine. Thank you.”

We stare into each other’s eyes, each searching for something. Then, Rodrick steps backwards out of the room. 

“Goodnight.” he says. 

“Goodnight.” I reply. 

He closes the door behind him and leaves me alone with my thoughts and silence.

Mother, I hope I should never have to experience loss like this. I wish no one— especially Rodrick—  would have to experience such pain. It is almost too much to bear.

I’ve seen two sides of loss on this day. I’ve seen loss and pain turned to anger and bitterness. I’ve seen loss and pain turned to overwhelming kindness.  

I am weary in the wake of it all. Forlorn. It is time to rest and chase away this biting chill with the peace of sleep. 

🙞 ☀ 🙜 

Pale Mother, the last two weeks have been exhausting. 

Rodrick has been training me relentlessly during the day. We use swords and shields made of hard maple. They aren’t real weapons, but by the tree, do they hurt!

At the beginning of my training, Rodrick outdoes me each and every time we parry and strike. I always end up in the dirt with cuts and bruises. He knocks the breath clean out of me. He’s not “going easy” on me by any means. 

But this is good, I think. I’m learning much more from my mistakes and failures than from my victories. This is a good lesson I tuck away for future use. Perhaps I will be able to absorb it easier when I am not so sore and exhausted. 

However, towards the end of the first week, I feel the fighting is becoming more natural for me. I don’t allow myself to continue being battered. I react in self defense. The sword and shield feel like extensions of me instead of encumbrances. Soon, I am anticipating Rodrick’s attacks. I foresee how he’ll parry my strikes. I move quicker than I did at the start. 

After absorbing so many lessons over the course of the first week, we are soon evenly matched, strike for strike. A little more time passes and soon, I am taking Rodrick down with moves of my own. It comes organically to me, though I don’t know why. It’s strange. Violence is a dark part of my nature that I avoided before now, but this fighting brings it out of me. There’s a sort of thrill to it I can’t explain. I can’t decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing. 

Rodrick tells me I’m “a natural”. This distresses me, and he sees it. He’s come to know me so well these past weeks, Mother. He can pick up on cues I’m not even aware I’m putting out. 

Rodrick assures me that I am fighting for a good cause. He reminds me that I would only ever use these skills in self-defense or in the defense of innocents. I am still confused as to why I need to defend myself at all. I haven’t yet encountered a situation that I couldn’t resolve with diplomacy and benevolence. He looks at me sadly and tells me that I haven’t yet learned enough about the world, but that I will. 

Over breaks between sparring and at meals, he tells me stories about his family. He calls back to them as though they are still with us. This makes me smile, but there’s also a distinct sadness I feel watching his amber eyes come alive as he reminisces. It feels as though he is still lodged firmly with his roots buried deep in the past, not fully present at the surface. 

After a bit of probing, I discover the source of his combative skills. He used to be a Seraph! What’s more, he was the Captain in Kessex Hills before Captain Martin took over for him. He retired shortly after his family died and returned home to the town of his birth. The town we are in now: Windsdale. 

When I ask him to tell me stories about his time as Captain, he hesitates. He tells me that these stories involve the deaths of many Centaurs and many Seraph. He tells me they are not fond stories to recall. I leave it at that. I am not fond of war either. 

On the final day of these two weeks, I have beaten Rodrick down consistently each time we spar. He is confounded by my balance and grace in each fight. He tells me he’s impressed and that he’s taught me all that he can teach me. I’ve “outgrown the teacher” as he puts it. 

With my training complete, he takes me to the bar and we talk over bowls of the same beef stew I had when I first arrived in Windsdale. As I take another spoonful, it strikes me how much has changed over the course of my time spent with Rodrick. I feel entirely comfortable in his presence. I feel safe with him as I do with my brothers and sisters; like I could tell him anything without fear. I feel as though he understands me better than any human I’ve encountered thus far. 

I feel my chest swell within me everytime he meets my gaze with those soulful, amber eyes. 

I can’t help but recall Esme and the way she described her budding feelings for me. I have no way of knowing for sure if these romantic feelings she had are similar to the ones I am feeling now towards Rodrick. Either way, I can’t stop thinking about his reassuring touches, his strong hands pulling me up from the dirt, that dimpled smile, those lips....

My heart is torn between my desire to stay and my desire to go. I want to seek out the Durmand Priory and all the knowledge it must contain. I feel that draw like a moth to a flame. But I’ve grown so fond of Rodrick and this little town, even if some of the humans here still reject me. 

Eventually, I tell Rodrick that it’s time for me to leave. My journey must go on for you, Mother. 

The night before I’m set to head out, we eat our dinner in silence. 

We keep stealing glances at one another across the table. I keep looking up to find his eyes fixed upon me before he quickly looks away once more as though I’ve startled him. 

I hardly notice the flavors of the tomato and basil sauce over the bowtie pasta as I chew. My mind is elsewhere…

I know about kisses. I’ve seen kisses between humans before. It makes my heart flutter every time that I do. There’s something deeply intimate about it. It’s a gesture of a deep and mutual love. 

And I keep thinking about Rodrick’s lips. I wonder what they taste like, what they’d feel like pressed against my own. A strange sensation burns through me like a hungry flame every time I do. 

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. 

I set down my fork and look up at Rodrick. 

“I’ve never been kissed.” I say. 

Rodrick pauses, his eyes widen. Slowly, he lets his hand holding the fork rest against the table. 

I can feel my cheeks glowing, but I continue. 

“I’m afraid.” I admit. “But I want it. I want to know what a kiss feels like. And...I want it to be you who gives it to me. I don’t know why.”

Rodrick finally looks up into my eyes. I dare to hold his gaze though I feel more unsure now than I’ve ever felt. 

“I’m….” he tries, then starts again, “I’m not sure if I can do it.”

“Why not?” I ask.

He sighs and shakes his head. 

“Listen to me, Mianach.” he says. “I’ve loved before. I loved him more than I can stand. And when I lost him, the better part of me died. And the rest of my heart fled when my daughter went with him.”

“But I’ve seen the better part of you. I’ve seen the heart of you.” I say. “I’ve seen it every day since first we met.”

He searches me, unsure.

“That part of you may have burned down in the wake of such loss, but it rose again from those ashes and unfurled into something new. Something beautiful.” I continue. “I feel it in your smile. I feel it in your exceeding gentleness, generosity, and kindness... I feel it when we touch.”

He seems to process this for a moment. My words appear to be reaching him, but a moment later, his expression hardens. 

“You’re young.” he says. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

My chest clenches. 

“Forget this feeling.” he says, cold and expressionless. “Forget it now and seek it again from the living. You won’t find it in me. You can’t drink from an empty cup.”

At this, he pushes himself to a stand and steps quickly past me. I hear the front door open and then close, and I am left alone with an aching heart. 

🙞 ☀ 🙜 

This is the first time I’ve laid down to rest only to find that sleep eludes me. My mind is racing. My heart still bleeds. And I cannot stop it. 

I waited. I waited and waited, but Rodrick didn’t return. So with sadness, I cleaned off the plates, washed them in the sink, set them out to dry, and made my way up to his daughter’s old room. 

I don’t want our time together to end on such a sour note. I didn’t mean to freshen up old scars. I didn’t mean to make him recall his old love with such despair. I can tell he’s still living in the past of that old love, dead and gone. He’s living as a ghost. And I’ve clearly caused him pain. The guilt I feel for having done so is almost as overwhelming as my disappointment at his cold rejection. 

As I toss and turn under the blankets, I fight back tears. I can feel them brimming in my eyes, I feel my throat burn and ache. It’s uncomfortable, it’s painful. I don’t like this feeling. I wish it would go away, but I know it won’t with so much left unresolved. The wound is still fresh and raw. I’m not sure how to fix it. 

I am startled at once by a knock on the door. 

I sit up and wipe my eyes. 

The knock comes again, this time, more gently. 

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, come to a stand, and make my way over to the door. I take a deep breath before opening it. 

It’s Rodrick, of course.

His dark waves are tussled atop his head. His chest rises and falls as though he were catching his breath. His eyes are red and puffy like welted flesh. He looks disheveled. He looks worn. My chest bleeds for him once more. 

“I’m sorry.” he finally says. 

I am startled. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why he’s apologizing when I’m the one who should be apologizing. But the words don’t come to me. I simply stammer soundlessly over things I want to say while waiting for him to continue. 

“I want,” He takes a deep breath, “I want your first kiss to be from someone who loves you.”

That same sadness returns and I nod slow like a rock sinking into quicksand.

“I understand.” I say. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Which is why I want to be the one to give it to you.” he says suddenly. 

Before I can respond to this shock, he takes my face in both hands, drawing me towards him. He quickly bridges the space between us. 

He presses his lips to mine. 

At first, I stand stiffened, unsure. But when he opens his mouth to kiss me again, soft and slow like a door swung wide to let me  in, I melt in his hands. My desperation to love and be loved takes me full force like a tidal. I lean in closer and open my own mouth over his. I taste him for the first time as his tongue pushes into my open, gasping mouth. My heart is beating fast like a hummingbird’s wings as it hovers over a daylily. 

His hands migrate down to my chest, then spread across it towards my shoulder. He pulls me in against him. I feel his strength and warmth. I breathe in his earthy, fragrant scent and begin to kiss back in earnest. 

I am powerless in his arms, but unafraid. I crave this. I crave it more and more now that I’ve had a taste. 

My hands are searching his body now, desperate for something to cling to in these turbulent seas of my heart. I feel his strong arms under the fabric of his cotton tunic. I feel the firmness of his chest under my palm. 

Something has just clicked into place for me. Something new about myself has come into the light. I know it, but don’t know how to describe it, Mother. I will look into the words used to describe this attraction I feel. 

And just as that same fire from before begins to blaze hungrily within me, Rodrick releases me. I lean in closer in my haze, still yearning, but he removes his hands from my shoulders and takes a step back. 

“You have to come back.” he says breathlessly. “You must.”

I manage to nod. My head is still reeling. 

“I have to.” I say. “I will.”

“I can’t lose another.” Rodrick says. 

I search him carefully. His eyes are fixed upon me and searching in desperation as though he were afraid I’d disappear if he blinked.

“You won’t lose me.” I say quietly, softly. “But you know what I have to do.”

Rodrick’s honeyed eyes continue to scan me. I can feel him trying to process my words.  

“Yes.” he finally says. “It’s your Wyld Hunt. It’s important, but…”

I tilt my head a bit as he mumbles something under his breath before looking back into my eyes. 

“Just don’t forget about me.” he murmurs. 

“I couldn’t.” I say. “Especially after the wisdom you’ve imparted upon me with all the love in your heart.”  

“So tell me then. What have you learned from an old man?” he smiles gently. 

“To not be afraid of your own power, but also to not let that power consume you. To temper violence into a force for good. To accept the shape of your heart, coiling shadows and all.” I continue. “To stay present in the moment while carrying and cradling your memories within as gently as a wishing weed’s seeds do drift in a warm breeze.”

“Gods…” he breathes. “I love you.”

My heart leaps once like a jackrabbit on springs, catching in my throat before slamming back down into my chest. 

“I’ve ...never been told that before.” I manage. 

“Was it pleasant for you?” Rodrick asks. 

I grip my chest tightly and thump on it with the heel of my palm. I look up into the expectant face of Rodrick.  

“Yes.” I say. “Very.”

Rodrick’s smile is renewed, but it’s gentle too. Knowing. 

“I should let you rest.” he finally says. “You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

He turns towards the stairs but stops when he reaches the top of them. He turns back to face me once more.

“I didn’t think I could ever love again.” he says. “Thank you for proving me wrong.”

With that, he leaves me and descends the stairs. 

I write down all that’s transpired here before I go to crawl back into bed and hopefully— finally— fall asleep.

🙞 ☀ 🙜

I rouse to first light the following morning. As soon as my eyes open, I am thinking about last night’s kiss. My heart rises and soars within me like the growing dawn. 

I crawl out of bed and tuck the blankets in neatly behind me before retrieving my pack and making my way down the stairs. 

The stairs creak like a tree trunk groaning under its own weight as it sways in the breeze. I step down off them and into the dining room. I smell cinnamon and vanilla coming from the kitchen, and just as I go to sit down at the table, Rodrick comes round the corner with two bowls in hand.

I smile at him and then at the bowl he sets before me. It’s one of my favorite breakfasts I’ve had thus far on my journeys: split oats cooked in milk, spices, and topped with sugar glazed apple chunks. 

I consume it eagerly paying close attention to the sweet tartness of the cooked apples. 

Once done, I look up into Rodrick’s waiting eyes. 

“I have something for you.” he says. “Wait here.”

I nod and he walks back towards his own room. He returns after a minute or so. In his hands are a white gold shield with wings embossed on its surface and a sheathed sword with a white gold grip wrapped in fine leather. 

He sets them down on the table before me. 

“I used these when I was still a Seraph.” he says. “But I’m no longer a Seraph.”

My eyes widen as I realize what he’s trying to do. 

“But, these are yours. You need them—”

“I need you to have them.” he says and pushes them closer to me in earnest. “I need you to defend yourself and defend the helpless. Carry it, like my heart. And if ever you have to draw them in a fight, know that I’m with you.”

After a moment, I rest my hand over his own still lingering on the sword’s hilt. I love the feel of his warm skin against mine. I want this connection we now share to be forever, but I can already feel myself being drawn away towards the shimmering unknown. I am torn between two desires. 

“Write me.” he says. “Write to me like you do your Mother.”

I look upon him, a question, and he smiles upon my confusion knowingly. 

He tells me about the mailing system in Tyria; how to properly address letters, where to send them, and how. He then writes down the “post office” address for his mailbox in my journal. 

Once the shield has been strapped to my pack and I’ve hooked the sword around my waist, we leave Rodrick’s home. I look upon its familiar cream and wood construction one last time before following Rodrick up the street. 

It doesn’t take but two minutes for us to arrive at the fork of the main road. There’s a sign staked into the grass on the other side of the road that points up the road towards “Divinity’s Reach” and down the road towards “Gendarran Fields.”

I’ve already decided that I’m going by road to Divinity’s Reach where I’ll take one of the “Asura gates” to Lion’s Arch before making my way over and down towards Lornar’s Pass and hopefully, finally, to the Durmand Priory. 

I take a deep breath and move forward to take a step. 

“Mianach.” Rodrick says behind me. 

As I turn back to face him, he takes me by the wrist, pulls me in close, and presses his lips to mine. It’s a long, deep kiss that robs me of breath. I reciprocate in earnest before Rodrick pulls away. He looks me in the eye, just inches away. 

“Be safe.” he says. “And come back to me.” 

I nod. 

I look upon his gentle, familiar features as long as I dare before finally turning my back on him. I step out onto the road and let my walking staff carved from your boughs guide the way as it always has.

I don’t look back for fear of losing my resolve in Rodrick’s stirring eyes the color of amber stones. 

Now it seems I am tugged equally in three different directions, Mother: towards Rodrick, towards the great unknown, and towards home. 

I know you’ll tell me to follow my heart, but how can I do so if my heart is torn like it is? I feel like three different people shackled to one body. 

I heard one of the Ministers say that “you can’t have your cake and eat it too”. I can’t be homesick for two different places and continue to travel, but here I am, doing just that. And yet...

My Wyld Hunt summons me to discover and explore on your behalf. 

My purpose is calling me. 

My heart be damned.