Astus

Astus sat among the dying and the dead.

A decade of never-ending battles had culminated in this final stand, but the war was lost. All that was, and all that had been, came down to this moment—and she had been found wanting.

That’s nothing new, she thought as she looked out over the scorched earth and fallen soldiers. The last of her followers had fought bravely, but they were no match for the well-armored armies of Easalan. I am sorry I could not protect you all. I’m sorry I could not save you.

The smell of burning cinders and roasting human flesh carried on the breeze. Ash came drifting down like snow as the embers on the ground still burned. It would remain like this for days even if it rained; smoldering and burning until all that was left were shadows on the ground.

Such was the way when you fought against the Sun Goddess and her Incarnate. Such was the way when you fought against the fires of Vaendael.

The day was nearing its end, with the sun setting the sky ablaze as it fell behind the peaks of the Crown. Night would give some reprieve from the sun, but the heat would remain.

Gripping the dirt beneath her for some sense of grounding, she wished she could scream. She wished there was something within her that could feel anything but empty pity for this dead and broken land—but there wasn’t. Such feelings had been lost to her a long, long time ago.

There was nothing left but emptiness, pain, and a twinge of sorrow.

I am Astus, god of the forest. Long may I run through the wood, she prayed. Spirit of wind, soul of water, my body is one with the land.

The Stag Mothers always told her to pray.

“Pray,” they implored, “and you shall have the power to make yourself a god.”

Those words once lent Astus a glorious dream that drove her to ruin those who crossed her and smite those who tried to hold her down.

There were stories told of Astus and how she’d rallied the armies of the borderlands and united them under her flag. The Stag Mothers had painted her as one born amongst them to lead their people that they might never again be oppressed by the Easarians.

It was a pretty piece of fiction that twisted her mind.

“You are not just Astus Incarnate, you are Astus reborn,” the Stag Mothers whispered in her ears as she drank their wine, enjoyed their feasts, and relished in their praise. “You are a god!”

By the time they gained control of her body, they already owned her soul. Astus razed castles and annihilated mighty armies in the name of the god she was told she was—the one she wanted to be—but that dream was gone.

What could a god of wood do against the goddess of fire, after all? Had she any wisdom, she would have seen this was the obvious and inevitable outcome.

Though she had thrown away her original identity and donned the name of “Astus,” she was never an actual god—only a lonely little girl who bore one's name. Kept by the ones who had made her whatever she did become, she was only ever fit to be food for a greater being.

And those who pushed her to this fate? Engulfed by their own senseless ambition, acting as a wind which fanned the flames while using her as their shield, they’d finally met their demise in an act of defiance of the very thing they’d created.

If only that had been the end.

How many battles had she fought, now? How many horrors had she witnessed?

Her friends. Her family. Her home—all had turned to dust, leaving only her behind to mourn that which was left without remains as the fire consumed everything in its path.

At least, perhaps, Osyn and Meryn are free, Astus thought as she tried to find the sky through the fog of war.

While her parents fought for her and their castle burned, all she could do in return was help her younger siblings and their families escape the Sun Goddess’s wrath. She had no way of knowing if they’d truly escaped, but she clung to the hope they’d live on and find happiness despite the calamity she’d brought with her.

In the end, this had all been her fault.

All I wanted was to come home, she sniffed. She wanted to cry, but there were no tears left for her to shed. Even if she had, they would’ve evaporated in the heat of the battlefield before they could fall. All I wanted was to be a daughter and a sister again. I just wanted to simply be “Migyn” again and forget Astus ever existed!

It had been a childish, naive desire. After escaping the Stag Mothers, she’d taken what loyal followers she could—good people—and returned to her ancestral home hoping for peace.

Her family had welcomed her with open arms and had forgiven her for everything—but she should have known Vaendael would never forget Astus.

As always, the price of her naivety was the deaths of those she’d cared for.

Let this land take me, just as it’s taken them, Astus wished. As it’s taken everything else.

Pulling out fragile threads of mana from within her bones, seeds flickered into existence, born from her mana. They blossomed in a moment of care—but they were as weak as she. They struggled to live, her magic sputtering as she squeezed out as much as she could to give her enough time for the casting.

“Bloom,” she begged with a whisper.

Please… one last time. Let this be enough.

Her mana veins had grown too thin—the flow, too weak. Pushing too hard would threaten her life, but what was that worth not? Astus pushed and tugged until the magic took, the roots growing deep as vines spread from where she sat. The corpses around her turned to fertilizer as the battlefield turned into a garden of vibrant blue flowers.

As their petals opened, the smell of the battlefield was replaced with the intoxicating scent of Azure Brightblooms.

Closing her eyes, Astus inhaled the scent. Her fingers went numb as its anesthetic properties settled in her lungs and spread through her body. Even if the flowers would soon wilt away, they would offer temporary relief.

For many, it would be enough. Enough to sleep. Enough to die in peace.

“And so falls Astus, God of the Wood,” came a terrible voice.

It was familiar, yet not; a voice she’d only heard through the cries of battle or the haze of the incense the Stag Mothers had used to keep her docile and under their influence when she’d started to resist them.

Astus’s eyes flicked up to see Vaendael approach her, long, red hair tied back in a thin ponytail and blue eyes blazing as he arrogantly strode through the hell he’d created.

Vaendael. Sun Goddess. The Goddess Incarnate. Saint Xenris the Undaunted.

However many names he had, he was as much a mortal as she was—yet they had never been equals.

“You’ve won, and yet you are still so angry,” she noted as he loomed over her with a piercing gaze.

“If only you had given up earlier,” he said. “Perhaps then the fires of the Goddess would not burn so hot and these people wouldn’t have had to die.”

“Ha! Don’t make me laugh,” she said. “This had nothing to do with your Goddess. Only your arrogance.”

“And whose arrogance was it that entered our lands with an army?” he countered.

“It wasn’t arrogance. It was desperation,” she told him, exhausted. That last spell had taken nearly everything she had. “But it does not matter now.”

“Yes. No longer may you run from your fate.”

“End it now, Vaendael. End it as you have ended everything else.”
“And if I just left you to rot?”

“Then I’ll end it myself and take you with me,” Astus told him, lifting the palm of her hand and letting the flickering shards of magic glimmer with all that was left inside her.

I could do it, she tried to believe. If I sacrifice everything left in me, I may have just enough left for revenge!

“Tell me: Was it worth it?” Vaendael asked in a quiet voice. “Was it worth the cost of my people and yours for the crown you wanted to bear?”

I never wanted a crown, she thought, her resolve slipping. It might have been a lie. She had wanted a crown—a very long time ago when she thought a crown was all it took to be loved.

But she’d learned very quickly that love was not so cheap. Power made people kneel, but loyalty made people follow. It had taken too long for her to realize that those who knelt to her were only ever loyal to the ones they knew held her leash.

Some at the hands of the Stag Mothers. Most at the hands of Vaendael.

Astus lifted her eyes to glare into his.

“It was worth it to see you suffer,” she answered instead.

What difference would it make now what her wishes and desires were? Even when she was a child, she’d been denied everything she’d ever wanted. She should have known she would never have peace in life, but hindsight had no value in the face of the devil.

She was so very, very tired.

“Had you not taken everything from me, perhaps I would not have made the choices I did,” Astus said, scrounging up what little fight she had left in her. If Osyn and Meryn were still out there, she would buy them as much time as she could. “So I return your question, Vaendael Incarnate: Was it worth it? Was the price of killing my family worth the lives of your men?”

“A few for many.”

“Yet still many died.”

“More the fool, us.”

“More the fool, you,” she sneered. “The price you paid was much higher.”

“Only in terms of numbers.”

“Only because you are victorious.”

“I take no pride in this victory, Astus. Only in knowing that I will be the one to deal the final blow against you.”

“I hope you do so knowing this isn’t your victory,” she told him, pointing feebly to the field around them. “It’s theirs.”

“Theirs was a sacrifice that had to be made,” he said, looking down.

“I hope it was worth it,” she said.

“I as well,” he whispered.

The silence that fell between them was as stifling as the smoke-ridden air.

Then Astus chuckled.

“And so Astus and Vaendael die debating the value of sacrifices we didn’t have to make,” she said. “What honorable gods we are.”

Vaendael gripped his blade, pointing it at her heart. “Then, for the sake of those who sacrificed, Astus: Die.”

Yes, Astus thought to herself as she stared into his eyes. And I shall embrace it, if only to see my family on the other side.

Vaendael’s eyes were a striking blue.

It was said to be the color of the hottest flame, but Astus imagined that that must be what the ocean looked like: peaceful and serene, while hiding the horrors in the depths.

She saw the spark in his eyes, small glints of mana shining in the dying light. She saw the fury and the flames as the mana set her ablaze.

Thanks to the Brightblooms, she felt almost nothing as the flames licked her skin.

Nothing but the peace of knowing death would soon come.

If she could have laughed, she would have.

But as her body burned, she clenched her teeth and, using that last bit of mana and a wish, planted a seed inside her that grew even through Vaendael’s fire.

“Pray,” the Stag Mothers always told her.

She did pray, but not for them. Not for Astus.

She prayed for the dead. She prayed for her family. For Osyn and Meryn and the hope that her death would bring them a future as Astus was forgotten.

But mostly, perhaps selfishly, she prayed for the child she used to be; for little Migyn Astraden, who just wanted to live her life unrestrained and wild and only found herself locked in cage after cage.

Perhaps in death, I shall finally find freedom, Astus—No. In this moment, let me be Migyn again! Migyn wished, and a sense of peace flowed over her.

The thought brought a real, genuine smile to her face as she watched Vaendael grimace, refusing to take his eyes off her. She wondered if her death would bring him happiness, too.

It’s alright, Migyn told herself as she fed the rest of her life force to the seed within her. Let this era of pain and blood end with me.

Her skin turned to bark and her once silvery-iridescent hair turned to branches that reached toward the skies. The fire fought against her transformation, but her magic seemed to prevail.

Migyn gave herself to the magic, letting it feed from her as her flowers fed from the fallen and let her consciousness drift off into the peaceful nothingness of rest, and then she knew no more.

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“I am Astus, god of the forest. Long may I run through the wood. Spirit of wind, soul of water, my body is one with the land.

Crown of bone, blood of origin,

in death, let there be life.”

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