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The day Mythal died, Elvhenan itself bled.
That is what was written, how many scholars interpret it.
It was Mythal, in the shape that she herself had fashioned to be of the Gods, that crashed and destroyed so much of the temple that had once been her heart. The place where those who sought wisdom and judgement walked the trails. The place where they were chosen to visit upon her. It had been Mythal’s own form, transformed into the large deep green scaled dragon, that had crashed onto the white stone in the middle of the heart of their empire.
Panic, loss, and grief rattled in the beast’s chest as loud as the wind itself. Pushing past the roots and heavy branches that kept pulling her down. Down towards the blood that had betrayed, that would further pull her down once more to her doom. Eyes as light as one of the moons of their beautiful land stared down at the six figures that fought to keep her grounded. Her mouth opens and the earth shakes: it ripples as bright flames erupt from her mouth. The marble floor erupts in flames, the stone turning blackened. Screams are heard but Mythal cannot hear them over the loud war drums in her brain.
The roots loosen their grip, the binds that keep her mind clouded dim for but a second and she takes it. She takes flight, through those same broken windows, into the darkening sky.
Elgar'nan golden form blocks the sky.
It blocks the sun, taking it all to shine the scales, it circles his horned head like a crown. His dragon form all, but consumes the sky above as he dives into her. The weight pushes her back down, through the stones that held her temple, through the heavy doors and trial rooms, through the judgement room and into the throne that had been hers. Was hers.
She is a figure cut from marble, with the top of her head and eyes torn to shreds, broken into a thousand pieces into eventual dust. Dissipated into oblivion, Mythal’s form holds against the bloodied stairs, the shape of her hands paints the floor in patterns as she climbs over the rubble. From her the universe bleeds, the same stream that had once welcomed her into the world now sipped into the white of her armour, the white stone, the broken throne.
The Highest of Judges, now fully blind, stares down at the circling seven vultures.
From her once the night shone the brightest, the stars burning all the brighter when they knew that she looked upon them. They had made a home in her body, in her hair, in her eyes; and now they too were taken by the river that carries her. Breathing, still, Mythal grunts as she continues her climb, a trail of bright red following around her. Above them the sky pulled into the temple, the darkest of nights fell like a funnel above them, the clouds turning on themselves into sharpened edges.
A storm had welcomed her into this world.
Sobbing, Mythal folds onto herself. The pain demanded her to stop and yet she persisted. Shaking hands into stone, pulling herself up. Sobbing, tears stream down her face, leaving paths behind over bloody skin, with each tear another path was done and more of her came undone. It had been from a stream and its clay that she had fashioned herself from. She had watched it for years, watched how the stones rolled and turned to eventual beautiful little pearl, colourful things. She had seen the shapes it made once pressure was applied onto the clay at its shores. The water had been so clear as to reflect the sky when she came to look upon herself. Looking for a shape that never reflected back.
They surround her, but it is only Elgar'nan who climbs the stairs.
From her it is not water that pours from, not life which she has readily given to them, to all of them. It is not the warmth embrace of the All Mother that keeps her arms open to her side. From her only red pours, it pours like a hungry, roaring, angry ocean. It sinks into the stone and it sings. It sings so loudly it eclipses the falling rain, therolling thunder; the sobs.
In his hands is a familiar blade and the sob that is ripped from her chest ripples across the temple. It tears stones from columns, it raises roots from deep underground. Outside the closed doors, there is a chorus of voices attempted to open it, and yet no one could have made their way into the Room of Judgement.
Her children stood outside, some lie dead in the room where they had unfortunately thought themselves safe. Other still watched from afar. All of them could feel it, the rattling in their ribcage, the pain. The roaring anger, the taste of copper in their mouths.
Elgar'nan stood above her, swathed in red like the day that he had found her in the storm. He had been waiting for her then. The thin blade in his hand sings the same song of her spilt blood. Her mouth twists as his shape becomes one of bright, singular light.
She finally reaches what is left of her throne, resting her body against its base.
The others bore witness. A trial required such.
She could not see them but their presence shone brightly in her being. They had been her blood, her protegees, she had nursed their talents into becoming who they were. Without her they would be nothing. She had given them everything they could have asked, toiled through years of misery and sacrifice so that they should be happy and provide for their Empire, for their hunger. She had given these hungry children all they could have wished for and they had taken their fill, their fill until she was nothing more than bones.
How ironic, it should be, that they should fight amongst each other with her holding them together to prevent further bloodshed… And now, even in this, that it should be her who brings them together.
Mythal saw nothing, felt nothing but this cold anger that made her body shake, the cold that had nothing to do with the rain. For the first time, she stood in complete darkness. The world roared around her and yet before her she saw nothing - no ruin, no beauty, this fate was worse than death. All darkness, until his hand touched her.
Before her, she could see them. The two of them. Her with no eyes and him all eyes filled with the abyss itself, pulling her in.
His hands hold the side of her face with his free hand. The Judge looks up to him with no eyes. His fingers touch the blood on her lips, the crackling of her face.
“I will be your doom.“
Her voice eclipses all. The darkness that pulled her, the cold that embraced her like an old friend. And all he can do is smile. Smile with jagged teeth and eyes that hold recognition and love for the weak voice that promises him all that he has only asked of her. These words had the shape of the love he had once known. He brushes the back of his fingers over the deep crimson that falls over her cheeks. In the darkness he moves the red painting the marble completely in the shade.
He kisses her one last time.
One final goodbye to the shadow of the woman he had once loved.
Mythal roars and the earth shakes, trembling and tearing stone from stone, murals asunder, the ceiling collapsing around them. The wind soars, pulling every single cloud asunder, shredding the very air around them and making the six ungrateful children buckle under their weight. The rain screams, amplifying her voice and carrying it past the city, past the mountains. Her screams tear out the light of the sky.
The blade finds its sheathe and the screams are silenced mid-ripple.
The clouds return slowly, the sky is ironed thin, pushed into shape by a forceful hand, shades of light orange piercing through dark clouds. It rains for ten days, ten years, ten centuries. There are areas of the world that collapse under its weight. Others dry into deserts, tearing communities asunder.
The stars do not return for many millennia and Mythal’s last words are woven into the thread of Elvhenan’s fate.