Year 351 after the War of the Gods, Summer

Merun, Capital of the Empire

Giræsea woke into a world that took cruel pleasure in spinning in front of her eyes and if she held them open for too long - in a vain attempt to see clearly - it made her feel sick. So she surrendered and fell back onto her pillow. “Fuck…” She closed her eyes and lay still. Should the day wait a little while longer for her. She listened. And only found her own breathing. Älyan was gone. Giræsea rolled over and looked at the empty pillow. Where to might she have gone? She traced the rough fabric with her fingers. Hopefully she didn't let herself get caught doing something stupid. The thought warmed her heart and made her smile. Of course she would do something stupid and Giræsea was already looking forward to the story. Tell me about it later, she thought.

The world still twirled around itself, its dress shadow and light and wood and stone and the sheet next to her and the wax of the candle. Giræsea closed her eyes again and sunk into the cosy warmth of the uncomfortable bed. Happy despite everything. And despite everything she was pleased how the previous day had gone. Sure, it had been close, but that was one less Kurr mercenary. And if they were even a tiny bit lucky, they would gone from here in less than a five-day and again harder to find. Gods, she would not miss this city. She did not understand how so many people were drawn to Merun. It was the largest city on this continent and she could find nothing good with that. Densely packed houses everywhere, built upwards and downwards and outwards as far as the walls would allow, before they began to overgrow on each other. Thousands of thousands of humans and dwarves and felines and everyone running after their lives in an endless torrent. Endless day– night banished by ever-burning lanterns and torches, and yet there were entire quarters of this city whose inhabitants never saw the light of day. That’s where those in Merun ended up who were not privileged to the sun or sought to hide in the shadows. She belonged to the latter. And yet she had been found. Oh well, that was of no import anymore. Soon she would be gone.

She sat up wearily and brushed her hair out of her face. She didn't know how Älyan managed to be up this early and then vanish without a trace. She too had been celebrating with her the night before. They finally knew their next destination; they had reason enough to. And the opportunity. A bottle of mysterious contents and an uncomfortable bed, it had been enough for them. It was more than the road ever afforded them. She tasted her lips for any lingering savour of the previous night and was disappointed.

Again she brushed a strand of hair, which just didn’t want to stay in place, from her face. Then she sighed and looked for the end of her braid. She found the leather strip and undid the knot. Thorgest had made such an effort, but the braid was starting to dissolve. And in the peace and quiet of her room she helped it along its way. Beads made of metal and wood passed through her fingers and she laid them out on the bed. Next followed the yellow ribbon that had been woven into her hair. Still weary fingers opened her braid, strand by strand, knot by kont. Up to her head and across her temples. It was a simple moment of quiet and peace, a moment that had nothing to do with her search, her running away. A moment without the crowds in the streets or markets, without the noise and - she told herself - without having to worry that someone would try to drive a knife between her ribs.

She brushed her hair to her left side, stood up then went over to the wash basin. She was glad she could afford at least some amenities, even after months on the road had depleted their means. She thought of the home she would probably never again see, as she was washing her face. Did she miss the Sea of Sands? How the sand glistened in the setting sun when a breeze carried it away? Sitting around a fire together and listening to and telling stories? Her family? Did she regret leaving? Having left them in the dark? Perhaps – Confronting that question was hard. But it was better that way; Thorgest was right: “What would you have told them? You did what you thought right and in that you will help them.” O, how she hoped he was right. Five winters had passed since she last returned to the Sætteni to then leave them forever. Her dreams had shown her the way. Away from home into a far-off lands. No destination; hardly more than a direction. And they had given her a terrible premonition. And now the Ironwoods were overrun, nobody knew how the steppe was faring and there were first sightings in the Sea of Sands. She didn't know what her role in this play was supposed to be.

She saw her face in that small, milk-cloudy mirror. A tired expression rested on sharp features of ash-grey skin. Pointed ears sticking out underneath black hair. Down her lower lip there ran a black line, tapering to a point just above her chest. It and the markings on her cheeks were a reminder of her home– tattooed after she had made her decision to leave it. As black rays of a sun they framed her narrow eyes. She was a Sætteni and she would wear it. Two pairs of tusks protruded left and right from the corners of her mouth, her pride, a sign of Varnith’s favour. Giræsea didn’t much care for the gods, but she would take their blessing if it was offered. The jewellery on the bridge of her nose on the other hand, she had earned. Two pairs of stout thorns made of metal jutted from her skin just below her eyes. The first she had received after she had undergone her Mandara. Of twentythree she had been the only one to survive. A tragedy still spoken of in her tribe from time to time until her departure and probably still today. It was usual for at least half of those who underwent this trial to make it. They had all placed their lives in the hands of the Sea of Sands - the hands of the gods - and trusted in their righteous judgement. For days she had wandered through the desert on her own, only the thought of how proud her tribe would be on her return within her. Until it finally dwindled. But she had proven that she was worthy. Had wrested her life from the Sea of Sand piece by piece, had learned to survive. And she had learned the value of a strong community. Ten freezing nights she had spent on the sand, alone and without knowing where she was. On the eleventh day she had stumbled into the circle of tents and collapsed in front of the members of her tribe. She had hardly eaten since she had taken off her blindfold out there. Insects, spiders, mice, roots, whatever she had found. It all she had eaten raw. Her parents had shown her what she had to do to survive. But she had ached for the simple meal that followed a successful hunt. When the party returned, dragging a carcass behind them that would feed the tribe for a week. She had yearned for milk. A simple cup of milk. She would have even foregone spices and honey. Her only mercy during that time had been her finding water on the second day. The gods had thus shown her their favour and she had survived where others had died.

One winter after her return, she had her first vision-dream.

She didn’t want to think about the second pair, the golden thorns. There was too much pain in her pride. She averted her gaze before she could see her mother’s features in her own.

She sighed and stepped back from the wash basin to look around her room. She found the bottle, which had kept them company the night before, on her desk between sheets of parchment – last night’s labour, when she had woken with sweat upon her brow and a racing heart. The bottle was still half full and so Giræsea re-corked it and placed it next to her pack by the still empty closet. The parchment she gathered, sat down on the chair and looked at her drawings one by one. She had been sorry - still was - for waking Älyan when she had sat down on the table with a candle and started her work.

She put the first sheet down on the desk without even thinking about it. She knew what she would see, she had drawn it countless times. Eyes. Hundreds of eyes. Nothing was left of the parchment beneath, everything was covered in it. A mass of soft, densely packed, bulging, never-blinking eyes. They were all staring at her. Giræsea felt them watching her – judging her. In her dream, she had collapsed, had been brought to her knees under their unforgiving gaze and then reduced to a pitiful wretch.

The second drawing, too, she didn’t see for the first time. She was standing between the houses of Arigarðr. She felt the heat of the flames, tasted the smoke. Everywhere in the streets surrounding here lay the dead in the thousands, she knew it. Dwarves, felines, humans, orcs, elves. But she could not see them. Giræsea was surrounded by people shouting her name, who cheered, who celebrated her victory with fists, spears, axes raised to the sky. She had been standing here so many times, had cheered with them, had shouted her triumph into the dawn, thrust her red-soaked sword into the orange sky, a mirror to the tower still standing proud against the sunrise. But every time she stood here, the city’s destruction increased. It felt less and less like a victory and so the desperate aversion of a defeat.

The third drawing she did not want to look at. She wanted to tear it to pieces and burn it. She hadn’t had the heart to finish it, but the dream had seared itself deep into her; she would not forget. With just a few lines everything broke back to the surface. She had held that sword, which she had always held in Arigarðr, blood on its blade and the grip firmly between her fingers. But she had not been able to raise it to the morning sun in her triumph. And when she had looked down, the blade had been buried deep in a body. She had let go of the sword in horror when a weak hand had reached for the steel sticking out of its stomach. Trembling, bent over, no more breath raising and lowering her chest, the figure had been sitting on her knees. Giræsea had recognized her immediately. Of course she had recognized her immediately. She had fallen to her knees and held Älyan's face between her blood-smeared hands. 

She had woken sweat-drenched and with a heart threatening to burst from her chest. She had looked over at Älyan to reassure herself that she was still there, that she was still alive, that her chest was still rising and falling. She had sat there and listened to her heart breathe until the storm and the thunder-roar in her chest had given way to a gentle breeze. She had resisted the urge to touch Älyan, to assure herself she was real; she hadn’t wanted to wake her.

Nightmother, why do you haunt me so?

When she had finally got up to cast her dreams to parchment and lit the candle, she had woken Älyan anyway. A whispered request to apologise and a kiss on her forehead and the elf had soon fallen asleep again.

This was followed by further sketches and scenes that she had not yet seen, but whose content was not unfamiliar to her. It had accompanied her for years. The Ironwoods in their death throes. Metal frames of past giants, withered leaves, earth on which nothing grew. Carcasses. Corpses and not-yet-corpses. Decay without her bright colours.

Only one new scene had joined all the familiar ones. She thought she knew the city, somewhere deep in a coil of her memory. She was sure she had been there before. Somewhere in the Sea of Sand. She would discuss it with Thorgest, he was good at such things. What worried her more was the storm rolling towards the walls, the torrent of brown and yellow and red, of dust and sand, burying everything beneath it, but - shit - which of her dreams didn't worry her?

She put the stack of parchment back onto the desk and sat down on her bed. She didn’t know what to do. For a long while she sat there, trying to sort her thoughts, trying to find meaning in it, find something she could draw action from. And finally she made a decision. She would take one step at a time. She would bring to an end what she had come to Merun for. And once she was done with that, she could worry further. And she made a second decision: She would never go to Arigarðr. She would have to explain to Älyan and Thorgest, but she would come up with something. And with that decision in her heart she took the parchment, lit the candle which had offered its light for her work just the night before, and burnt it. She never again wanted to see what black coal had wrought on bright ground.