When Lyra opened her eyes, she was in the forest.

She didn't bother wondering how she'd come to be there or calling out into the dimness for her mother and father. There was no chance either of them would hear her, and the one who'd called her forth would not bring harm to her. Her hand trembled at her side until she forced her nerves to settle, and took step after step through the silent woods. Eyes followed her from a distance but she knew none would stand in her path; they could not see her with how deep their tears ran. 

Dewy branches dripped with sorrow overhead, misting over her skin with a sickening warmth as she waded through grass tall enough to straddle her waist. As she walked, the mourners surrounding her ceased their cries and a solemn song arose within the wood. The song carried the wind's whispers, the grass' yearning, and what the trees bore heard. Lyra tried to make sense of all the sounds swirling about her but they'd muddled into one; a plea for which she could not fulfill.

"Child…"

Silence swept the sounds from Lyra's head, leaving behind a refreshing coolness and the deep resounding bellow of a languid call. She jerked her head up and swallowed the cry scraping up the back of her throat. Lying in a clearing speckled with heather, snowdrops, and hyacinths was a grand sculptured being sitting with the assistance of two ancient willows which allowed him to settle upon their bed like a throne. The being's features were crafted from stone, so dark that its lurid surface shone iridescently from the lanternflies drifting languidly around its head like tiny stars.

Spirits were hard at work weaving coral bells and dianthus into garlands to drape around the being's head like a crown. They pressed kisses to the cracks running down from the being's moss-clouded eyes, and darted away to weep in the brush while the bell flowers tolled in their passing. Lyra curled her hand against her breast and stepped forward into the warm, soupy air within the clearing. The thickness of it made it difficult to breathe but she drew in a breath despite her lung's protests, and knelt down in the grass. 

Her hands pressed flat to the ground as she lowered her head and pressed it firmly to the dirt. After a second passed, Lyra parted her lips and said, "This one is humbled to stand in your presence, Guardian Aethelu."

"You needn't give obeisance to this one, Mweziyah…"

Lyra dug her nails into the dirt, scratching thin rows in the soil as she vehemently shook her head. "You must not say such things," she pleaded, gritting her teeth as her father's words came to mind. Was this too a wish of Aethelu's that she must respect? She could feel herself coming apart at the seams in Aethelu's mere presence; their divinity had not yet faded nor had their voice lost its power but still—

"Look upon me, child."

Lyra swallowed a sob, pushing back the tears springing forth behind her eyes. The dampness clinging to her eyelashes made them difficult to part but she willed herself to do so. Blinking away the blurriness, she stared up at the being seated before her and fixed her eyes upon their lips set in a solemn line. Cracks and fissures cut deep within the crevices of his arms where stone and debris crumbled away from Lyra's sight. Lichen and ivy acted as poultice and wrapped around the wounds like bandages, flowering with camellia and gardenias.

Breath left Lyra's lips in a strangled sigh. She hadn't recognized it before but Aethelu did appear older than he once was in her childhood. Lyra could feel the enormity of aether welled up within the reservoir deep within his being, but it was no longer circling as it had been. Now, it leaked from every shallow break and drifted up into the sky in a faint blue glow. The world around Aethelu mourned but its colors were vibrant, absolutely pristine compared to the guardian's dour countenance. 

"You see me for what I have become. Cast aside the guise of your heart."

Lyra shook her head in disbelief, climbing to her feet in her desperation. Her heart wept at the idea of thinking so little of Aethelu. Not when she remembered climbing atop of his shoulders as a little girl and peering over the glistening treetops, amused and amazed by how far her woodland home stretched unto the horizon. She approached then, breathless and biting her lip to contain the whimpering sobs of the child who'd once laughed so gleefully. When she stood before Aethelu and looked up unto him, the giant roots serving as rests for his arms were the only thing within her reach. 

She hesitated, then laid her hand upon them with gentle strokes as she released a quiet breath. The roots were strong and thrummed with strength drawn from the land and sky. They would not cease to hold up Aethelu for as long as the guardian had need of them, but so too would they wither once he did not. 

Another loss, another parting.

Lyra wondered how long she would need endure this pain, and if it too would dissipate once Aethelu was one with the world again. She dared not turn her eyes up to the guardian again, knowing her expression would give away her grief. A deep hum thrummed through the trees, rustling them above as they stood and waited to hear what Aethelu would say. 

"You must take unto this pain, and turn it to strength."

Lyra shook her head, brushing her fingers over the telling age of rings within the roots. "How can I possibly do this when it is strength I need to keep standing?" She asked, but neither the trees nor the guardian answered her. Frustration pulled taut at her skin and scalded the back of her throat as she threw her head up, suppressing the flinch from the old gaze from the guardian. "Can you not see what your death will bring? How could you resign yourself to this?"

Aethelu's eyes did not move, but Lyra felt as if he was not looking at her truly. "It shall bring life—"

Lyra clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "No!" She shouted, and her voice rung out against the hushed silence, shattering and recollecting it all at once as she stated, "It will only bring change—"

"Change is inevitable."

Cold seeped into Lyra's bones as she remembered her father's heavy gaze, the blue pallor to her mother's skin, and her brother's cold touch. 

"And it can be harmful, miserable…"

"As necessary things seldom are."

The finality within Aethelu's voice did not seem like the idle dismissal Lyra thought it ought to be. She heard the question within it, the hope and the reassurance, but she could not answer it in kind. Her eyes closed as she sank down against the root, letting it curl against her back and hold her when her knees refused to. The wood draped across her legs, lighter than the most comfortable blankets in her home, and flowers pillowed her head in full bloom. Sweetness tinged the air, and Lyra gritted her teeth to keep from inhaling the splendor. 

"Why do you fight what you always knew to be, child?"

Hesitation stiffened her, sept deep within her bones and called to the reaches of her spirit in kind. No answer came forth and Aethelu asked nothing more, letting her linger there beneath the boughs within the dappled moonlight and the still forest until sleep took her once more. 

Unbridled warmth blanketed Lyra's face as the last vestiges of slumber gradually lifted from her consciousness like a veil. Aethelu's presence gradually waned and with it the tether between her body and mind strengthened once more. She cracked open her eyes and winced at the onslaught of light. Her eyelashes stuck together during the first few instances of her blinking; tears gathered upon them trickled down her cheeks only to fall into the hollow beneath her chin. Dried tracks left by their predecessors chafed under her eyes and she squinted against the early morning's brightness, shifting her arm from beneath the heavy quilts to rub them away.

It was childish of her to think, but the morning's audaciousness to shine so brightly as if aught was amiss in the world rankled her spirits. A suffocating warmth pressed upon her chest as the golden beams slipped across her chest and legs. Nearly, did it match the pressure within her heart and how it threatened to drown her from within. Lyra clicked her tongue disapprovingly at the sun's earnest attempts to coax her into rising, turning onto her side with the enthusiasm of a roasted bird on a spit. Her intention of stealing a few seconds of sleep were soundly snatched away when a light snore startled her.

Her eyes flew open, and she blinked widely at the young boy tucked into the bedsheets beside her. She could barely make out his face beneath the nest of dark curls splayed across the silken pillow. But the gentle curve of his face, still rounded from childhood, and the pucker of rosebud lips parted for barely audible breaths told her enough. Against her wishes, the hollowness in her heart began to fill with a familiar warmth.

"Damiano," Lyra whispered, stroking the boy's cheek tenderly with the tips of her fingers. His buttoned nose scrunched at the touch though he stirred no further. 

She listened to the steady pull and push of his breathing while combing his curls back with the curve of her fingertips. When her finger brushed against the thin skin at his temple, a bolt of energy rushed up the length of her arm. Lyra jerked her hand away as if burned and stared at the tips of her fingers with a slight scowl. 

"Mmrgh… Lyra?"

Her hand lowered to the bedspread as her eyes softened upon seeing Damiano's waking face. He rolled onto his back and stared up at her with bleary eyes, mouth stretched wide in a yawn. 

"Good morning," she greeted with a kiss to the curls flattened against his temple during his sleep. He grumbled a return and batted her away lightly in his attempt to shield his eyes from the sun. "Pray tell, what brought you to lie with me? I thought you were old enough to sleep in a bed of your own."

Damiano peeked from beneath his arm at that, lips pouted and eyes narrowed. "I am old enough," he complained, lips poised to speak another word though no sound came forth. He sucked in a harsh breath and flopped onto his side, giving his back to her in a silent huff. 

Lyra tipped her head, then pushed herself up further. The blankets slid down to pool in her lap and uncovered much of Damiano's smaller frame as well. Still, he did not turn to her and she dared not push him further to do so. Instead, she swung her legs to the floor on the other side of the bed and rose with her arms stretched above her head. Weariness from the night aside, it felt as though her limbs needed a moment to reacquaint themselves with her spirit. 

A suitable length of time for a young boy to find a way around his pride.

"… Lyra," Damiano murmured, a question tucked into the roll of her name. She hummed to let him know she was listening and remained facing the window overlooking their yard. "Does it always feel like that?"

In spite of the sunlight enveloping her, Lyra had never felt colder. She dared not to turn around, fearful that her face would betray her and inspire greater fear in her brother. But she could feel his eyes on her now, watching her movements to seek comfort and stability against his unease. Instead, she'd only lightened her voice in a curious lilt and asked, "Does what?"

Damiano huffed, and Lyra smiled to herself bitterly. "The leys," he mumbled. "When you connect with them, does it always feel bad?"

As his words passed through her ears, laced with the poison of confusion and hurt, Lyra's resolve faltered. She turned on her heel and knelt upon the bed with outstretched arms poised to wrap around her brother. Damiano pressed his forehead to her chest and fisted his hands in the back of her gown, holding tight as though she would disappear if he relented. Her fingers nestled in his dark curls, combing and parting gently. 

"It does not." She confessed, hesitant to continue. "… The leys entrenched with the forest's suffering. It will take time, aeons, until it is relieved. But it is no fault of your own, Damiano. The spirits have not rejected you."