Death was in the air. It was buried in the words that people spoke, cold in their sighs and underlining their musings. People had died, and it seemed their loss touched almost every citizen of the stone city of Syliras. It was strange the way the death of four miners could reverberate so strongly among a bastion and its denizens. She’d seen the way the city wept for fallen for fallen knights – but it was always plastic, or at least that was how it seemed to Altaira.
Save for those directly related, or who knew the knight themselves, it was less real. Like the treasured light of a shining protector had be lost, and another had to be lit to carry on the name and way. But the death of the miners was personal, they were the ones that walked the street as equals, with sprawling families and friends who nodded them off as they droned to work – fellows within the mines themselves that brought their sorrows home to their own family and friends. They wept and mourned because they were reminded that they were not untouchable, that they too could perish in their lines of work, and that there was no glory in their deaths. No nobility or commemoration. Just death.
Hysteria was in the making, she thought. People were whispering blames and condolences, fears and well-wishes. They sought something – someone – to blame, and words of reimancy had spread like wildfire. The cases of kidnapping and suicide aided little to calm the storm. People were growing uneasy and accusing, making links that held little more evidence to wife’s tales and superstition, acting as though the earth was being torn from right beneath them. Everyone, it seemed to her, was so afraid of death, and of the destruction of the fortress in which they dwelt, that reason and logic carried little weight.
Altaira didn’t understand. She never quite seemed to. The Mistress of Stormhold Salves chalked it up to the woman’s kelvic mind, claiming her perception of things was unlike that of a human. Unbonded, she had as much hope to understand as she did to learn the theorems and calculations scrawled on loose paper about the store – she new numbers, but not arithmetic. Concepts were fine but applications had her bewildered; just as she understood (to a point) the acts of fearing and ushering away the unknown, but it was the lengths that some went to, and explanations were brewed that left her at a loss for words.
If was for these reasons and more that she couldn’t help herself but eavesdrop, Stormhold Salves seemed to be frequented by those that had always had a secret on their lips. Feigning a bored daze, she slid her way along the fullest of the store’s shelves; ears keenly open as she took in the conversation at hand. The older woman of the two was a regular, her tones hushed and secretive, young son attached tightly to her hip. Her dear friend, possible sister, didn’t share the trait, and her words and tones were loud, piercing, and unpleasant.
From the flow of conversation, a single thing could be assured – it was only one woman, the soft spoken regular, who was distraught in grief. A dear cousin had died in the mines, and the woman whose tone and manner of speech had her instantly unlikable seemed to be trying to fan the flames of hatred. Little more could be extracted before her little cover was broken.
Brisk footsteps approached from the back of the room, the heavy closing of the workroom door accentuated by a shatter and hissing on the behalf of the two women. “Dira take you, child!” was the first exclamation made, and the speed at which Altaira rounded the corner was only over looked as her eyes widened at the sight of shattered glass and spilled powder. The mother spoke next, nowhere near as brash or rude as her company. “I am so sorry.” She then pressed her back into the child, before turning and taking him by the hands, bidding him to wait in the cold outside.
“It’s-” Altaira began, words hanging in the air as a look passed Mistress Blackleaf’s expression. “Fine.” She didn’t bother hiding her frown, nor be subtle as she watched the boy run towards the door and stood bolt upright just beyond the nearby window panes. Altaira looked to her least favourite person in the room, and had a sudden welling in her stomach that pressed her to promptly take her leave. “I need some… air,” was her excuse, and her head fell as she stepped over the glass, ensuring to whisper to the Mistress and promise to tidy the spill once all was said and done.
Upon breaking into the cold street, she couldn’t help a quick intake of breath, even through the cloak she wore, the cold still sliced to her bones. She let her gaze softly fall to the form of the small child, and she couldn’t help herself but fall to the his level, hoping that he recognised her enough not to shrink away from her. “It wasn’t my fau-” he began, eyes watery and nose flush from the cold. “It’s ok,” She soothed, sinking further onto her knees, such that it was her who had to look up.
“Things break all the time,” She wrung her fingers as she saw the boy began to tremble. Was he cold? Upset? Gods, he was probably cold. He was such a fair little thing – too small to be left out in winter. “Here,” She said, taking off her cloak as a glance within frosted panes showed his mother and the hog were still in some bout of conversation, and only Gods knew how long it would take before they concluded their business. “Take this,” she didn’t wait for him to respond, or let him attempt to put on the heavy cloak himself, settling it upon his small shoulders before she’d even finished speaking her words.
“But-” he began, look so distraught and dire the kelvic felt her heart leap in chest. “What if Dira takes you?” His eyes were wide, then, wrought with fear and worry. Altaira pressed her lips and sunk her head, unable to retain the giggle that quickly came. When she looked up at the boy he looked down right offended, “Don’t worry about Goddess Dira,” she said, words a soft lull. “If it is from the cold that I die from then you’re better of blaming Goddess Morwen, or myself more than even her.”
Her sweet smile then slipped to sombre, and she shuffled closer still, taking in the small child’s form for a moment. This wasn’t the same little bundle of life, was it? It wasn’t the same, joyous little boy that frequented the store with his mother – the little one that would dash from shelf to shelf cooing and giggling as he pulled a funny face at either whomever was serving them, or his own mother. “What’s wrong, little man?”
She wasn’t sure if he liked the nickname or not, and stood mute for a moment. “Is it about the miners?” She kept her tone gentle and pitch soft, not allowing her gaze to wander, before the boy broke from his stupor and nodded absently. A light sigh left her, and even she could connect the dots. “You don’t want Goddess Dira to take any more people.” The tot stiffened, then, and she knew she’d hit the mark.
“It’s not fair.” He protested, in that sweet, innocent tone that children often had. A tight look came over Altaira’s expression, and she weighed up her options with a heavy mind. If he was older then she could reason with him, try and get him out of the hole that was a life in fear of death. But she couldn’t, it would be several years at least before the little man before her was old enough to truly develop such thoughts. People died. It didn’t feel fair, nor needed or wanted – but that was the way that things were. To do without death was to do without an end, and all good things came to an end.
“I know it isn’t, little man,” she said, playing with her thoughts and wording as she sought a stance that she could work with. She bit her lip and bowed her head, her experience with children not nearly as much as she’d like to. “But death isn’t all that scary, you know.” She felt her expression falter. Was that the way she was going to go about things? A look to the child proved that she was speaking to no avail, and she sighed before continuing on. She was in dangerous territory - she could do just as much harm as she could good.
“Besides – what is so terrifying about Goddess Dira? I’ve heard she’s quite beautiful,” She asked, giving the boy a playful look, hoping to play on the ‘big kid’ complex she’d seen so many other children embody. He puffed his cheeks and looked to the left, something catching his eye, before his look returned to Altaira. “Jackals.” Oh, he had a point. A good point. She nodded her head at him, expression of mock terror. “Oh, they’re horrifying!” She then took an expression that was particularly malicious, and she ran her finger over his stomach. “Just think about them running and eating you up!” She then tickled him mercilessly, relieving much of the thick and heavy atmosphere.
“Really, though.” She continued, when only a few stray chuckles and tears of joy were on the boy’s mind. “Dira is more of a guide than a killer. She brings you to the next stage of your adventure. When this one ends, there’s another one to begin. Who knows?” She brought back one of her playful little looks, then, once again trying to play on the boy’s fantasies. “You could come back as a hero, or a warrior. A man of hope and pride and riches. Perhaps a pirate on the wild seas, or even a guard in the frozen North.”
She gave him an encouraging smile, before going back and ensuring what she said was clear. “But-” She even went to the point of lifting up a finger and shaking it, partly because the cold had it uncomfortable and partly because she needed to keep him paying attention. “Not until your time has come. You need to finish this adventure before you start your next.” She tilted her head then, next words softer. “But not everyone is so lucky.”
She sighed and tucked her arms in close to herself, the cold beginning to really bite at her. Nothing she was yet to encounter was anything as horrid as what she experiences in Avanthal – but that didn’t mean that she didn’t feel the chilly breeze blow through her. “Sometimes people end their adventures here too soon, and others too late.”
He gave her an odd look, then. “I don’t think that its ever too late to die,” he announced. “More time with friends.” Altaira gave him a thoughtful nod, refusing to disallow the boy a chance to develop and think things out for himself. “That’s true,” she said finally, look stern and resolute. “But have you ever lost a friend? Not to Dira, but to life?” He frowned, and she felt for a moment that further explanation was necessary. “You mean like…” his little face was drawn in thought. Oh, what a quick little boy he was- small in form but not in mind, and apparently much older than the kelvic had guessed. Though, given she was not even a single year old when she was as his height, her talent in assuming age was decidedly bad.
“Moving away?” He looked his own kind of resolute, and Altaira paid his thoughts with a smile and a brisk nod. “Exactly.” It was a much sweeter example than anything Altaira cold think for herself, and she was glad that there was some semblance of understanding. “You don’t want to live forever, because life can rob you just as much as death might.” She was vastly satisfied by the course of the conversation, not only pleased with the understanding but finally being able to voice her own beliefs on the matter.
It was then that another thought struck her, and she spoke somewhat rushed – the two women in store then approaching the front counter. “Like ghosts.” She gave him a grave look, and he returned it. “They’re scary, right?” He nodded thrice, swallowing hard. “Well, if living forever is good, and eventually going to Dira is such a scary thing – then why aren’t they happy? Why are they always scarring people and trying to deal with ‘unfinished business’ so they be at peace and move on?” Sound reasoning, she thought to herself, proud of her own words and the look that spread across the child’s expression, even more so as he soon began to give a slow nod.
“I guess so…” he conceded, still not quite convinced. “But don’t go throwing yourself at wolves, either,” she giggled, carefully planning the light joke for when the door swung open, and warm air washed over the two. “We’re going,” announced the Queen B, and the little boy slipped out of the cloak and gave Altaira a short hug, before reattaching himself to his mother. She too, gave a sweet smile, before walking in the opposing direction of the other woman – whose face upon noticing such quickly blazed, a myriad of profanity leaving her lips. Altaira’s own little muse at the scene was cut short, the Mistress being the next one to leave the store. “I’ll return in a bell,” she said, tone clipped and rushed, bidding the kelvic little more than nod as she took her leave.
As Altaira returned to the walls of the store, she felt a strangeness to the room; the air was stagnant, an unearthly quietness of a sort. Her steps were slow and measured, and ensured her gaze did not dwell in one place for too long. The Mistress hadn’t mentioned that there was a customer in the store, had she?
She felt a lump in her throat as she crept towards the counter, hand resting on the smooth surface for a moment, before checking the top draw for the key to the cabinet, a relieved breath leaving her as she noted that the Mistress had kept it with her. She heard the faintest snapping sound come from the core of the store, and she stood approached with practiced caution, a single hand falling to her belt loop, where a small danger was kept. She was better at combat in close quarters, but a blade worked its best in her hands when use as a form of intimidation. “Who is there?” she asked, voice ringing out in the odd silence of the store.
A sigh left her as she failed to gain a response, drawing her dagger as she slipped into the work room. Manuscripts and containers were strewn out upon the center work bench, spilled herbs littering the floor and herbal oils playing on her nose. Nothing out the usual, not for when there was something in the midst of being made at least. She turned to check the Mistress’ quarters, before a figure in the center of the greenhouse drew her eye.
Heavily cloaked and standing tall, their back turned away from the glass door, whoever it was struck a nerve to Altaira’s core. She took in a steady breath, her dagger kept close as she pressed on the old latch and heard it unclick. “Excuse me,” she began, taking to even steps towards the figure, before moving a single step to the left, as to clear a way for the stranger to leave. She had just opened her mouth to speak a warning when they turned, gaze focused elsewhere. “Quite beautiful,” was the only response given, the woman’s cool gaze not faltering in the slightest.
Altaira swallowed hard, a frown taking form upon her expression. She seemed reasonable enough, as well as incredibly beautiful. “I’m sorry, but-” she began, the sound of a low growl cutting her words short. Her eyes fell to the ground, and Altaira was quick to drop her blade and bow her head. She kept herself so for a short moment, not rising for several ticks. When she lifted her head she met Dira’s gaze, and by instinct she stood herself tall and at command, several words of superstition then hitting her. Speak and she shall appear, Death always comes in three.
“Goddess Dira,” she said, placing her hands behind her back. “I’m sorr-"
“No matter, I will say a word and you will tell me what first comes to mind, yes?” She said; voice like velvet and stance relaxed. All at once she was commanding but open, she was fierce but kind and intimidating but welcoming. In her character was as much conflict and contrast as the colouration of her jackals.
“Yes.” Altaira kept her voice loud and clear, and bade her heart to calm and breathes deepen.
“Life?”
“Death.” Altaira pressed her lips, wondering the gravity of the situation that she’d somehow befallen. Was it time for her death, or had she done so already? The pressure of the situation slowed and hazed her mind, and she could scarcely recall what had transpired just a bell ago. For a fleeting moment an eerie calm hit her. It was the feeling after she’d fought a taxing fight, the wash that came over her as she crept into bed at the end of a long night, and the peace that came after a bout of laughter. It slipped away in an instant.
“Death?” There was almost a lack of expectation to the words, with no tone or accentuation - the word rung out in the air hollow and heavy.
“Balance.” Altaira kept her head held high, once again forcing herself to keep her breaths steady and hands from the shake that threatened them.
“Ghost?”
“Lost.” That little response gained no notable reaction, but her stomach turned as soon as they left her mouth. She was one who did not delve into the God’s lives and attitudes. She knew Dira for what she governed, not her personal opinion towards a race that did not wish to accept the proper the cycle.
“Undead?”
“Plague.” Altaira felt her expression falter. She didn’t know much about the world, but she knew that the loathe she felt for the kind was largely unsurpassable. The thought of them made her skin crawl and itch, her fists clench behind her back and her jaw lock. She understood a ghost’s fear and unwillingness to let go, but not their lust.
Dira nodded slowly, gaze then travelling about the greenhouse for a moment. Altaira wagered that she was in thought, but she knew not what of. “Now, finish these sentences,” She was looking at her, then. Really looking at her. Altaira felt her chest constrict, and she gave into the fear and worry. ‘1… 2… 3… Exhale,’ As her breath left her, her form relaxed, and she let go as she kept hold of the look she was given. She gave a slow nod to the Goddess, as though she needed to give a sign to show that she was ready.
“Death is-”
“A part of the cycle.” Just as there was death, there was life and rebirth. Without death, there’d be no appreciation for life. No love for the wonders that was to live and love and breath. Without rebirth, there’d be no balance kept.
“Ghosts should be-”
“Guided back to the cycle.”
“Such guiding would entail-”
“Conversation should they be sane, and force if necessary.”
“Your deceased loved ones-”
“Had come to their time.”
“You miss them?”
“Of course.”
“You’d do anything to bring them back?”
“No. They’ve returned to the cycle. Death came when it was meant to.”
“And if they’re deaths were not of natural causes?”
“Then I’d have thought life unfair for some short time,” She paused, then, and tilted her head from left to right. She hadn’t quite considered such, though she failed to see how much had changed. “Before realising that they were lucky that they did not live to see old age take their sight, their hearing, and their children.” Her last word held the most weight, with one of her brother’s own children far shorter lived than even he was, and her mother not likely to have been able to deal with her youngest passing.
Dira folded her arms and gave Altaira an exacting look, before a certain air of finality came to her demeanor. “The undead should be-”
There wasn’t a flinch or falter this time around, no shake or tremble or worry. She was obstinate and final in her own response, “Eradicated.”
“Have you ever killed before?”
“I’ve killed animals. Undead are no different.”
“Oh,” the Goddess cooed, now walking towards Altaira, a hand extended.
Despite her rather belated understanding of the gravity of the situation, the kelvic remained resolute, and offered her hand when the Goddess drew near. “That, I’m sure, you will find to be quite untrue,” a light kiss on her right palm shortly came, and Altiara’s breath left her in a solid rush. The Goddess left her, then. The sound of the store’s bell as Mistress Blackleaf returned was the next thing she could recall.