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The brilliant flare of Eden feels eons apart from the Isle of Dawn’s shores.
It is a simple truth, but a bitter one nonetheless. There is beauty in being a place of beginnings, Daleth tells themself, despite the erosion of their stone mask. Despite the quiet murmurs of departing souls growing further away, and despite that untouchable, ever-looming peak.
To think their kingdom’s prosperity would bring such profound sorrow.
Each time the ocean fog rolls in, Daleth sees the ghost of curious eyes amidst dawn. Young and ambitious, almost profound in their childlike nature. The pair of eyes blinks inquisitively, and the Dawn Elder gazes back. A shiver from the sea breeze—
—and they’re gone, just like that.
Daleth doesn’t dare sleep unless necessary, but their dreams seem to catch up with them in the waking hours regardless. Yesterday, visions of the now-departed prophets gathered in celebration of their new ruler, boats and mantas alike dotting the sky’s tapestry. Days of festivities, adept hands carrying and weaving light, divine shades of orange, white, and gold bathing the masses.
Today, emptiness, and a child in the mist. And yet, Daleth cannot bring themself to look away until the vision departs on its own. They suppose that has always been their weakness.
Long gone are the days where Lamed would spend hours in Isle’s temple to discuss magical teachings and the kingdom’s history. Teth and Tsadi no longer linger in the doorway, poised in that way where they wish to say more but bite their tongues. Daleth is lucky if they hear anything of Samekh at all; Ayin, always a generous neighbor, shares what they hear of their fellow Elders, but there’s always a touch of something that leaks into their expression when it comes to the twins. Pity, perhaps. For Samekh or Daleth, one cannot quite tell. Daleth is not sure they want to think about being the object of pity of the gentlest Elder.
Of course. Daleth thinks the Elders have made it rather clear whose allegiance takes priority, and thus, the injury is laid bare. Sore, wound, ache, crack. No matter which name, the pain always lingers. Wind stirs the seas all the same, chilling Daleth to the core with its whispers of storm. A promise of destruction brought about by none other than the prince they once took under their noble wing.
Still, the days pass with little care for such sentiments. Newcomers arrive on the Isle’s shores periodically, albeit more sparsely than in the past. They always speak with a barely-contained anticipation for realms ahead, singing words of praise for the Elders and the kingdom. Daleth has heard it all one too many times. A wish for a quiet, relaxed life among the rippling Prairie grasslands. Words of contemplation among scholars and magic-wielders of the Vault’s vast halls. Hopes for prosperity amongst the Valley’s bustling roads.
And indeed, they treat the Isle with no small amount of wonder. Daleth has stood at the temple doors and gazed far below at the rising boats, newcomers’ faces morphed in quiet awe as dawn breaks over the clouds, streams of birds beckoning them onward. Reverence spills from their mouths as they seek blessings, recounting the telltale swathes of flame-colored tents and emerald grasses with excitement. A new beginning. A new life.
Daleth cannot even bring themself to loathe such sentiments. Not after this many centuries of living. There is only the quiet voice in their soul, wondering if the newcomers will ever know that this realm was once greener, warmer, softer, that the sand once did not pull so far inland.
Perhaps the birds will be the only life left in this place one day. The Isle Elder has always shepherded people and light creatures alike over the centuries, first and foremost. They do not dare to crowd the grass with anything more than travelers’ tents and simple stone structures. Above all, the temple’s bell will continue to ring, and the birds will heed its call.
No, Daleth does not yearn for the looming spires of Eden nor the gilded gates of Valley. At the very least, they know Alef will respect this request in the end, if nothing else. Daleth has spent far too many days searching the prince—or rather, king’s face for even a sliver of sentimentality. And too many times, the king has risen from their seat, discomfort and frustration radiating from their posture, quietly asking Daleth to leave.
“Is this the sort of king you wish to be, Alef?”
Alef’s eyes are carefully blank. “I am the king the people need. And I am certainly not someone who will be forgotten.”
Daleth suppresses a flinch.
“I promised this kingdom a life in the stars. We are not simple creatures like the jellyfish dwelling in our caves or the mantas in our skies. We have built these beautiful temples that touch the clouds, not I alone. We are a people, and I will do what is necessary to keep my word. And you, Daleth… I fear you have not done the same.”
And cold stone slams shut in Daleth’s face.
They breathe.
Standing at the foot of their temple, the beating of white wings and echoing birdsong bring Daleth back to the present. There has always been a different promise sealed within Daleth’s heart, a promise only spoken in whispers to creatures, stars, and waves, to the Light herself. One predating the King’s arrival.
A bird lands on Daleth’s staff, and just for a moment, it burns brighter than the sun.