Roar of the Earth

The night Mono is born, the twin constellations are the first to rise. Despite their lapse towards the edge of the sky, they remain the brightest until dawn. Everybody notices.

The villagers interpret the rare event as one more reason to rejoice. All along the path to the chief's hut, they chant a blessing, acclaiming their light as a herald of prosperity and peace. Their voices only quiet down when a tall figure divides the crowd in two.

Their eyes are full of hope. Emon says nothing.

He walks by, dragged towards the hut by a timeless duty nobody else knows the measure of. The potential encounter which awaits him inside is one he has lived through dozens of times before. He is used to it – but no amount of repetition, even in the space of so many years, could ever prepare him for what may be.

Such is the burden of knowledge. For every sliver of relief, a looming risk in the future.

He enters the room, calm as usual. He finds it crowded with people and excitement. As expected, every face that occupies his field of vision is luminous and happy.

He doesn't let them become a distraction. He knows what to look for.

Yet, as soon as the baby meets his eyes, he is shaken by an emotion way beyond his control.

This is it, his terrified senses whisper. The burden has finally fallen on someone. Her limbs may look delicate, but her spirit screams otherwise – from the roots of her hair to her toes, she oozes eagerness to travel her path in life.

Unfortunately for her, the gods have already traced one.

He turns his head discreetly, aided by the collected demeanor he built his existence around. He lowers his gaze to the left. Right there, clinging to his father's leg, her three-year-old brother watches her first movements in absolute fascination.

He is destined to be a brawny one, if his build is anything to go by. He is also the liveliest little rascal the village has seen in a while. Despite that, when Emon lays a tentative hand on his head, he doesn't even notice.

In the atmosphere of that space, so full of joy, only he can read the language of the future. Nothing of what he has seen is good.

Mono studies her surroundings with wide, eager eyes. The young boy stares back.

Unheard by the others, Emon sighs.

"Yes! That's what he said."

"A bear?"

Emon returns home to find a dying fireplace. The wooden idols he worships are cut by deep shadows.

They are but faded reminder of the gods. Nothing like the majestic times of stone and metal must have been, he presumes. It makes him pensive.

He kneels by them, and prays for the rest of the night.

"If Lord Emon says he has the face of a bear, it must be true," the little girl insists, with unbreakable faith. "Valus is like bears, after all. He is a hermit god, of the gentle kind. The most peaceful birds nest on the top of his head. But he is also the embodiment of all nature! And all the plants and the animals, the mountains and the shores, and the waters and the food that keep us alive. It makes sense for him to be so strong, doesn't it?"

Her brother keeps hitting a tree trunk with his treasured wooden stick. His true training of hunter and warrior starts today, on his eighth birthday. He wants to be as ready as he can.

"I guess so… whatever you say, Mono. I believe you."

"You don't have to believe me just because I say it," she laughs. "You have to because it's true! Not a single thing in nature is left behind by the gods. Even you… you remind me of Valus now. He has a giant club, taller than four trees at least, and he fights, too!"

Wander's eyes widen in amazement.

"He does?"

When she enters the Courtyard for the first time, Mono is four. Throughout the half of her life she spends in there, the impression of that moment never leaves her memory.

She admires the neat cut of the stone blocks without a single word. The carvings intrigue her in a way she cannot fully understand. The person who calls back her attention is, to her eyes, exceedingly severe.

If she were older, she would realize he is observant. Not nearly severe, in fact, as he is worried. Not that she could know any better.

"Welcome, children," Emon greets. "This is the Courtyard, the space we devote to meditation and worship of the gods. Before you ask – yes, you are here for a reason."

"Wander, what is that piece of cloth around your head?"

In a fit of intense curiosity, she tries to get a closer look. He picks her up before she can pull it away.

"It cannot be touched, Mono! Mother said she was told to sew one, and that I must wear it all my life. It is a good luck charm."

"Really?"

She calms down a little, but insists on playing with his fringe.

"It is so strange... how one thread is white and the other black. It must mean something."

It never takes her long to fall asleep in his lap. But this time, right before she can start napping, she chuckles all of a sudden.

"I hope the birds do not see you from are always attracted by such pretty objects. And sometimes, if things are bright enough for her to see, their goddess flies down to catch you with her claws. Avion is so strong, they say, she can lift you in the air for hours."

"Come on, Mono. Even if Lord Emon said it, it's just too much to believe."

"Who knows," she says, dreamily. "It would be nice to see the land from up there."

Emon points to a younger woman, sat next to the tall pedestal in the middle of the square. Her white sacerdotal robes glimmer in the afternoon light. She nods to him, her calm almost otherworldly, and turns to face the artifact which rests on the stone block.

Father always told her the Ancient Sword has not been wielded in centuries. Indeed, the blade and the edge have a gleam which does not belong to the world Mono knows. The rays they reflect shimmer in the air and mingle with the green of leaves, creating endless games of light.

It is the most beautiful thing she has seen in her short life.

"Cara is not allowed to speak in the Courtyard. If you follow in her role one day, you won't either."

Mono knows who the lady is. She is the one who sits by the old tree in the evenings. The whole village surrounds her in a circle, night after night, so she can tell the most wonderful stories.

Her throat closes in anticipation.

"Fourteen years from now, one of you will become the next myth-weaver," Emon explains. "In this holy place, under the sacred watch of our gods, you will be educated. As far as knowledge is concerned, you are meant to take a distinguished path."

Before he can add anything else – way before the other children can begin to think – Mono is dreaming of countless distinct tales. The images in her head chase one another, bringing together sights and landscapes she cannot recognize.

Her mind roams among them freely. Nobody ever described them to her, but it doesn't matter. It is almost like she knows them already – as if she had some connection, past or future, to this wondrous scenery she is not sure even exists.

"Your training will be tough. That does not mean it won't be fair and rewarding. In the end, if you are truly determined, those of you who can follow will be chosen."

While Mono does not fully understand, she has no need to.

To her, this sounds like the perfect way to live.

"Today, Lord Emon told us of the ancient days," she chirps, so enthusiastic that Wander must sign her to lower her voice. "Far away from here, he said there are villages so big their houses never decay. They have been empty for a long, long time, but they remained after the people. The huts are square blocks with windows, built in stone, high enough to touch the sky. They are so tall, the people needed things called stairs to go up and down. And in the streets, which are the size of many, many horses, a guardian spirit still walks, wielding a blade to keep the strangers away. Argus dwells wherever there are ruins to keep, and lives on as long as they do."

By the time Mono is ten, none of her peers can keep up with her.

When she focuses on anything divine, her memory has the flexibility and swiftness of the reeds by the riverside. When she opens her mouth to speak, the world falls silent. The way she sways between concepts and hypotheses, giving interpretations not a soul has dreamt of before, is plain incredible.

And to think she could be a child like any other, Emon muses. Keeping an eye of her when she is outside the training grounds helps him believe it. If he were to do otherwise, he most likely wouldn't.

He has watched her life unravel in the flow of the years. In due time, she wove cloth and cooked, in the safety of her home; she learnt to collect the right herbs, then taught her brother to preserve his food. In return, he showed her how to fight, and helped her cut off the skin from hunted preys. To this day, whenever he sees them ride their young mare together, a fierce sting of melancholy cuts right through his heart.

Come to think of it, she spends all the time she can in Wander's company. It does not seem to affect either in negative.

Even so, he is afraid.

Everything looks wonderful the way it is. As of now, Emon can no longer tell good from bad omens.

"I did it wrong, I know," he grumbles. "How is it so important?"

Although she shakes her head, she cannot hide her smile.

"Wander, that is not good," Mono says, stretching the syllables to mock him. "Ilus is right. If you don't call to him properly, how can Gaius guide your hands in battle? He is easily out of patience, when anyone disturbs his sleep in vain. Were you to do so, his sword would crush your speed in no time. But speak your prayers well, and he will make your aim ever true."

In the end, the vigil of Mono's initiation inevitably comes. To Emon, the worst thing he has to bear through is the proud look on Agar's face.

He awaits the rites for his talented daughter with a fervor he has never shown since Wander's admittance to the village hunters. He expects both of them to have a long, successful life. Everyone else does.

How could anyone possibly blame him for that?

In their extraordinary qualities, Agar's children unite all the good their village can offer. The future of the tribe has never looked brighter.

He can only pray for destiny not to spoil it.

"I am good at riding tricks," says Wander, boastful. "I am the only one who can stand on the saddle without falling. Although I have to scrape the dead lizards off Agro's hooves afterwards."

He sticks out his tongue in exaggerated disgust, making his little sister fall over with laughter.

"It's not funny, Mono! It's really gross!"

"It is," she snickers. "But careful with the lizards, brother! Each time you step on one, the others call to their queen. You may forget about it, but Kuromori doesn't. She follows you from beneath the ground, faster than your shadow. And sooner or later, when she has the chance, her leg will rise to make your horse stumble…"

"I am going to die tomorrow, Agro."

Mono curries her coat rhythmically, in the faint hope to calm herself down.

Wander never says no when his sister asks to take care of her instead. He knows it helps her mood, whenever she is too sad to be consoled by anything else.

For some reason, it is not working. Even Agro's wide eyes, full of goodness and love as they always are, barely put a dent in her suffering.

The awareness of that only increases her fear.

"I wish I could brush it off as a bad dream," she moans, already close to tears. "Normally, I can. But last night was different. I saw the creature that lives inside my soul. I… I cannot just forget like I did the other times."

Agro snorts, agitated by her sadness. She is more sensitive than any creature Mono knows. Her muzzle moves closer to her hand.

"It was a tall beast. With horns. It showed me how the ritual will go. The end I could not see, because it was masked in screams and dying fires. After that, I saw myself on a bed of stone. The scenery was beautiful… but all along, as I approached my body, I knew I was not breathing. I was dead. Two days, the beast told me. And then, one second later, I was sitting. My open eyes shone. I was all dark and fuzzy, like a shadow. Darker than you."

She buries her face against one of the mare's flanks.

"I am going to be all alone," she sobs. "I am so scared. Will you stay with me, Agro? If something takes me far away, will you come and find me?"

Mono feels Agro nuzzle her sleeve, and her head struggling to rest on her shoulder. Warm, soothing. It eventually helps her stop crying.

"Of course you won't," she says in the end, petting her with infinite tenderness. "There would be no way. Where I must go, nobody can follow."

Wander is back home after half an hour. He ignores the hut, and rushes towards the woods. Mono is the only one who notices.

As soon as her mother is not looking, she catches up with him fast. He does not need to give many explanations.

"She cannot be mounted today," he says, shuddering. "She is very ill. Mono, I am scared."

So, that's how it is, Mono thinks. She sits in his lap. Is not surprising that the thought is enough to leave him in tears.

"Don't worry, brother," she says, hugging his neck. "She is so good, she is going to be fine. Phaedra will take care of her. The mother to all mares and stallions loves her offspring above everything else. Horses talk to her always, in sleep and wake, in good and bad health, when they give birth. She won't leave our Agro behind."

"Are you ready, Mono?"

She kneels in front of Emon, clad in the vibrant white dress which marks her entrance in the sacred ranks. A moment of hesitation hangs between the two.

The feeling, she thinks as she studies his mask, is that of multiple questions left unspoken. There is more to the challenges she is facing than the ocean of words in her mind. And somehow, for some transcendental reason she can't name, they are both aware of it.

She nods, but remains silent.

"Good. You may follow me."

He turns around. Neither of them moves a step. She has no idea why, and yet – the fog in his eyes, whatever the cause, is strangely meaningful.

"Is there anything else I should know?"

When Emon faces her again, he does so with a look of timeless grief. He certainly won't give the cause away like that.

In any case, there is no harm in trying.

"My child, the rite of your initiation is a door to another stage of life. After that, your existence must be a cloudless sky, free from uncertainty and terror. If you have any unsolved doubts before we leave, now is the time to voice them."

And she does. Not immediately, though – and not it all. She conceals the pictures in her mind; the nightmares which have plagued her since she can remember stay a secret, deeply sunk in her chest. If there is a meaning to it all, if he knows about it, her best bet is going for the least suspicious question.

"Why did you choose me?"

Many different shades move in his gaze. He must be taking the easier path, just like she did.

"I thought you knew," he says, gently. "You overcame the trials earlier than your companions. To be honest, Mono, I have never seen anyone with your… potential."

She raises her eyes, to fix them directly into his.

"This is not what I am talking about, Lord Emon. I know my father was ordered to assign me to this role. When I was an ignorant child, how could you have guessed?"

He pauses to bite his tongue in anguish, but makes sure she does not notice.

"After tonight, I promise to let you know."

He lowers himself to her level, so he can lay both hands on her shoulders. To see her alive, knowing what may be, is terrorizing. He does not want to see her cold and still, her face devoid of any color.

Really, anything but this.

"Do not forget, my child," he tells her, making his words sound as heartfelt as they can be. "Luck and longevity is all I wish for you. May the gods be at your side, now and forever."

Mono prays for it too, with her mind and her heart. Something inside her shifts.

Reassured, she gets up, and lets the old tales flow within her consciousness.

"Look, Mono! What do you think they are doing?"

They stop by the lakeside, hand in hand. A few boats are nestled against one another, waiting for the kneeling sailors at their side to steer them.

"They honor Pelagia, ruler of all waters," she explains. "According to some, there was a time in which the earth was too crowded, and life was nearly gone from all rivers and oceans. When the messengers of her people finally swam to her, at the far end of the world, there was but one school of fish left for humans to catch. She rose in fury from her nest of moss, letting her giant tusks resonate with thunder. Every surviving boat in every village was sunken by her feet. To this day, fishermen pray for her mercy – they promise her and Hydrus, the origin of sea life, never to enrage them again."

"The first of my myths," Mono begins, "will be that of the Ancient Homeland."

A vast audience sits around her, leaving her to walk in the space of a perfect circle. The sight makes her rejoice – she can hold their souls in her hands, at her heart's content, with just a small motion of her lips.

It is perfect, a part of her declares. Like this, she can deliver her message.

She meets Wander's radiant smile, right in the front row. Not so long ago, he was the first one to listen to the same tale. With his presence, she feels full and alive to the point she may take flight.

Her breath flows out effortlessly.

"According to our history, the Ancient Homeland is the name of the place we are from. The storytellers of our people trade its memory as that of a rich, prosperous land, which our ancestors left after a sudden catastrophe. The myths no longer report its whereabouts. But there is more to it, when it comes to our present. We can imagine."

The cadence of her own voice wraps her like a comforting music. She never notices the group of men who stand on their feet, suddenly alerted by the words she is speaking.

"In that forgotten place, time has stopped flowing since it was abandoned. Nothing but near-divine creatures live in there. They are the key to the old condition… the eternal twilight between life and death… and for those who seek to bring Him back, the key is… the key… the Ancient Sword."

The last thing she sees is Wander's expression. It is puzzled, confused, distorted with fear.

This is not the version he has heard, a fading side of her mind informs her. This is something you never heard yourself.

She barely has time to hear Emon cry in alarm. The world between her and his face turns into confusion.

But maybe you have always known.

She passes out.

"Once, in an age and location long forgotten, there was a great change in the balance of nature," Mono narrates, collecting the fruit Wander throws from the tree. "Its origin may be unknown to us, but the effects were so tremendous that their echo hasn't yet left our memory."

"I demand an explanation," the head of the village spouts, torn between anger and worry. "There must be something about my daughter. Something you never told me. Isn't it true?"

Emon measures the floor of his home in long, uneasy steps. The embers in his fireplace remind him of a lonely night – the starting point of everything, so many seasons ago.

"You had better make yourself comfortable, Agar. It will be a long talk."

Against the thunderstorm of his emotions, Agar decides obeying his shaman is better. He sits under the watch of the last wooden idol.

Ironical choice, Emon thinks with a heavy heart.

"Agar, tell me all you can about the Forbidden Lands."

"I know the same as everyone else," he replies, both confused and impatient. "They are the closed-off realm all corruption springs from, deep in the southern continent that was lost to the wilderness. Some say it is the resting place where the souls of the deceased go dwell. I know no more, but at this point, I am confident you do."

For the sake of sincerity, Emon takes off his mask. He cannot afford to look like a coward tonight.

"I do," he confirms. "They are also the lost place our tribe came from."

"Terrible calamity shook the foundations of the world for a very long time. It is rumoured that those deserted lands, overcrowded and afflicted with deprivation, were emptied by cycles of tremors and roars. Not a single day went by without the splendor of their buildings being eaten away. With Cenobia's fury unleashed, many died under the collapsing stone. The fierce empress of earthquakes hit their certainties until they crumbled to dust. Whenever she surfaces again, tearing our homes apart, she reminds us to steer clear of pride and arrogance."

"The Forbidden Lands... are the Ancient Homeland?"

Every accent of shock and betrayal is a dagger through Emon's heart.

"Is it truly… how… how can you keep such a secret from us all?"

"The shamans are sworn to silence for countless valid reasons, Agar," he asserts, struggling to remain tranquil. "If you calm down and listen, I will disclose what I can. After all, this is not a…"

He swallows.

"An ordinary situation."

He goes to sit on the other side, right next to the first idol of the Sixteen. Always the god closest to him, the one he calls to in the worst times of need.

The deep breath he takes gives him the courage to talk.

"The dawn of our history wasn't just a beginning," Emon confesses. "Far from it, to tell the truth. It was the rebirth that followed a long night of confusion and darkness. Such were the final times our ancestors spent there – until their rebellion, they knew nothing but uncertainty.

"In that distant age, when the dells and the barrens of the Forbidden Lands flourished with human presence, there was no distinct cycle to mark the seasons of life. If the very act of living was a fragile gift, death was neither finite nor certain. Entire generations have heard the same tales before us, over and over… tales of how easily those who had passed away could return from their slumber, more than once in a lifetime.

"The dwellers of that land would often die without a reason, leaving their loved ones to wonder if and when they'd return. Some men and women, on the other hand, would survive entire eons. Their bodies and voices would grow fragile and dry, like lifeless branches of trees – every day, they would beg for their end to finally come along. Such was the existence they were forced to lead… bent under Dormin, their overlord, eternally tied to their mercy and their wrath."

"Dormin?"

Agar's bewilderment is building up like a sea storm.

"The foul master of eternal sleep?"

"What those people went through, we can barely imagine. For months they marched away, emptying their lost homeland in ever thinning crowds. The lands outside were fierce and inhospitable. If the nutritious fruit of the trees placated their hunger one day, wild beasts tried to feast on them on the other."

Mono focuses on the slow pace of a nearby turtle. Her eyes are distant.

"You see, invoking Basaran couldn't be enough. The spirit of the earth is such, both lavish and insidious. In aid and in battle, her hidden power is equally unrivaled."

"Dormin are more than you know," Emon reveals to his widening eyes. "When they are whole, Dormin are the force that makes us breathe. They are also what, in due time, makes us cease to do so. They are the harbinger spirit of darkness and light, and act as the head of both realms. Dual is their nature, as is our fate – the fusion of life and death. This is what Dormin are… as long as the balance stays intact.

"In the ancient times, there was no unity or balance. Not a soul knows what broke it. We aren't even sure there was one to begin with. What is certain, if the legends we are taught are true, is that Dormin were split in half back then. The dark side had a physical form, which influenced all creatures and things within his reach. This wretched demon, the horror of death and despair incarnate, roamed the realms of mortals freely… thus the eternal twilight that oppressed our kind."

"What they left behind, we have no idea to this day. Still, its power on them had to be unspeakable, if it rivaled the hardships which accompanied their journey. It is said that nearly the entirety of the survivors fell to the great desert at the Boundaries. All along, Dirge slithered by them like a cloud, coming to claim those who were too tired to proceed. Her back is the dunes and the shadow, as well as the rays of the merciless sun. She is in the hot air and in the rare water; she is the comfort of drinking and dying. In her realm, the sand snake is everything."

"In spite of their resignation and servitude, the toll of Dormin's reign grew heavier on their souls each day. All areas of our homeland perpetually swung between desertion and overpopulation. Families were torn by joy and despair every other day. Under these condition, nothing flourished. Nobody was happy. They prayed to our gods for mercy, but in vain. Thus, when the last drop of their patience dried down, they sought a rebellion.

"The magic of our ancestors was stronger than ours. Possibly because of Dormin's presence itself. With the joined forces of every tribe and city, their shamans split his physical form, so that both sides of their nature could be banished to the divine dimension alone. Darkness and light in harmony… they obtained an uninterrupted life, in exchange for certain, eternal death. Such was their choice – and, by extension, our present condition.

"They chased the halved Dormin to its original plane, making the spirit of life whole again. How they accomplished this is a secret so holy, just one bloodline of shamans is allowed to pass it on. And that bloodline… is the original branch of descendants who fled the Forbidden Lands. The tribe in whose custody the Ancient Sword still is."

Not to flee Agar's gaze, Emon must collect all of his strength. He sustains it all along, watching it fall into even deeper surprise.

"Ours."

"What saved them is the same whisper which gives you away to our father, whenever you hide something from him."

"Hey! I don't, Mono! Not that much, at least."

She chuckles.

"I know. You do, sometimes. Well, Barba is a fickle force. He is as good at concealing as he is devoured by curiosity. He knows our buried thoughts and places as the back of his vast hand. In times of need, when his desperate children call for help, he lifts his beard like a woven curtain, revealing the greatest wonders. That is, it seems, how our ancestors found the sheltered woods we live in. They settled here for generations, up until the two of us."

"This still does not explain what happened to Mono," Agar finally snaps, closer and closer to losing his calm. "What good does it do me, knowing the place we hail from is a forgotten wasteland? Aren't we far from it today? All this... it taught me nothing about her state of mind."

"Not yet, but it will," Emon replies, unrelenting. "Do you think it is by mere chance that myth-weavers are chosen?"

They carry one basket each, heavy with the fruits of their labor, on the darkening way home.

"Say, Mono, do you believe all this? Don't you think Lord Emon makes things up sometimes?"

She laughs.

"Would he? Well, I don't know. Do you know any better? Whatever the case…even if some of it weren't true, I would love to think of it as such anyway. After all, I have nothing else."

For reasons she can't fathom, Mono lowers her eyes.

"If this is the story I was told, then I believe it. "

"I couldn't tell," Agar says, dubiously. "You are the shaman, and I trust your orders."

"Oh, Agar, I expected more initiative from a chief like you. Surely we wouldn't train her without a reason."

"Am I entitled to know?"

"In light of recent events, it is probably best if you listen to me."

Emon's eyes move to the idols, seeking a new source of resolve.

"You see, Agar, the Ancient Sword is not the only treasure our fathers entrusted us with. The knowledge they left behind is even more valuable. It is thanks to them, after all these centuries, that we can read the omens. And... without the ability to foresee the future, we would be no more than lost children who wander in the darkness. Thus the first of their teachings, the first law we bequeath on our successors, is the sequence of omens which anticipates the most fearsome of prophecies.

"Over time, the legends masked the truth with flowery metaphors. The Forbidden Lands are not what you think; the place where the dead can be resurrected is not exactly such. The shamans, and the shamans only, are told a different story than the rest of you.

"Though what our ancient fathers and mothers accomplished was almost godly, their power was naturally limited. You can think of magic as thought made action – necessarily, it shares the essence of its creators. It is impossible for mortal magic to avoid at least one weakness in its core. What happened with Dormin was no different. We are the last ones to preserve that secret.

"The ritual our people concluded has a terrible flaw. It is forever reversible. To bring back Dormin, and not to raise the dead, is the true Forbidden Spell. You can see, now, how the consequences of doing so would be almost the same. While our bloodline alone remembers how to activate it, all shamans of the world must learn to watch out for a precise series of signs, in precise times and locations. If some cursed influxes happen to join together, the ones who are born under that star may carry, deep inside them, the potential to revive him."

"You do not mean…?"

It was not easy to imagine such a conversation could get harder. The hardest part is yet to come, and knowing pains Emon beyond words.

"Dormin's nature is linked to whatever comes in pairs, Agar. The opposite and the complementary fall under their power. When the twin constellations are brightest, they are said to tread on the very border between us and the divine. Thus, when mothers give birth in their light, we watch over the newborns…"

"Mono!"

The point where Agar throws all caution to the wind comes in a heartbeat. He already treads around the hut in circles, clutching his hair as if it were his last chance of salvation.

Emon's tongue weighs like stone. Its movements feels sluggish, almost meaningless. He still has to go on.

"When she came into being, I wished I was wrong," he says, weakly. "I wasn't. Mono's affinity for magic flared up as soon as she first opened her eyes. Her role of myth-weaver was marked in the very moment I was sure, beyond any further room for doubt, that she was burdened with a heavy curse."

"No!"

Agar always was an exceptionally strong warrior. In a single sweeping gesture, he brings the shaman's old bones to stand on his feet, completely uncaring of respect and roles.

Emon does not blame him. Neither of them can do much else, after all.

"My daughter, cursed," he growls. "She is cursed… but… why, then? Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you do anything? There must be a remedy. I don't care how or where, there must be one. Mustn't it?"

With a pained but steady gaze, Emon frees his mantle from Agar's grasp.

"Listen to me. That is what I said, Agar. If the gods' will accompanies us, some curses can be lifted. And all words, even those we speak daily, are the first power of man to shape the world as we know it."

His index finger touches one of the idols reverently.

"Myth-weavers do not merely exist to entertain their villages in the evenings. Their task is nearly as sacred as ours. If we shamans preserve our due, if we keep the river of knowledge flowing, they forward the other side, for everyone else's sake. They maintain the parts and the versions of history all mortals besides shamans are entitled to know. And those who are wounded by ill-fate, if devoted to this task, can be so strongly reshaped by their beliefs that their curse has a chance to fade."

Emon must stare at the ground. The violent reality of his failure is finally starting to sink in.

"This is the problem with Mono. The secrets she spoke during her initiation… she did not learn from my mouth, nor could she hear from anyone else. A higher consciousness bestowed that knowledge onto her. And if it happened… it means her curse is stronger than I could ever predict."

"How could this be? …How?"

"Because," Emon finally confesses, "she is not the only one to bear that burden."

"Not the only one? What do you mean?"

"The day she was born, I noticed how Wander was looking at her. They are so close now, aren't they? I tried to revert the influence, I really did. However, their power outdid mine. Ilus tells me Wander has a strength way beyond human average, and a fierce reluctance to obey all kinds of rules he finds oppressive. It has an enormous symbolic meaning… especially with a sister like Mono.

"I wish I didn't have to tell you this, Agar. But there is no alternative. The curse resonates between them. If either is fated to bring Dormin back, undoing the fabric of life as we know it, the other must necessarily follow. Now that the curse is finally among us… they both bear its burden. If my efforts were not enough, if she is not free yet… for a destiny this evil, I have no remedy at all. I just cannot rid her of it while she is alive."

The man he turns around to face is the shell of a living being. His entire world lies in pieces at his feet, destroyed in the space of an hour.

The future Emon has feared for nineteen years is now reality.

"What do we do?"

"We must make a choice."

Agar approaches him again, but without any impetus. The will to live has been drained out of his soul.

"You can't think what I am thinking," he pleads. "My daughter… my son… must they be sacrificed?"

Emon clenches his teeth.

"You know the price we would have to pay for their lives," he answers, completely wrecked. "You and the elders will have to decide."

Agar no longer fights to hold back his tears.

"I'd rather die in their stead."

"Agar. You know it would be useless."

Emon walks towards him, carefully. Under the spot he lays his fingers on, he finds a beating heart. It feels like a miracle.

"There is something else. It is a huge risk," the shaman adds. "A risk we are both willing to take, for sure. There is a chance to save at least one of them. When a curse is bound to two people, its signs only begin existing once the true source comes to life. And before her… there were no distortions."

"She was born after him," Agar breathes.

"That is the way it goes, my friend. You either end the origin… or end both."

"Why are you in a bad mood today, big brother?"

For all the times he is sad without showing it, he rarely ever looks this gloomy. She knows something graver than usual must have happened.

"One of Father's heifers broke her leg," he replies. "She will be put down before tomorrow. She was so sweet and healthy. I don't want her to be sacrificed."

He always loved animals more than people. Mono often wonders why.

"Do not feel sorry for her, Wander," she says sweetly. "She goes where all animals who live with men are eventually reunited. Quadratus, the meek bull, is on their side, and descends among us to take them home."

Your sister is not coming back.

The words still echo within Wander's lacerated soul. Nothing can tone them down – not the pain of where he bit his arms, not the desperate wails of his mother.

Your sister is not coming back.

And by all means, he does not know how to live without her presence. A foreign power screams it from each corner of his mind; the moment she is gone, something eternal will crash to the ground. They are tied by a singular sort of equilibrium – a simple, innate harmony, which shapes every second of their lives.

He does not know half of the truth. But that it is there, he is absolutely certain.

"I must talk to her," he shouts. "I am leaving."

Nobody stops him.

Nothing could keep him far from her, anyway. Beyond his awareness, it is more than just his care for her to drag him there.

"Fire is strong and beautiful, but out of control," Mono says, gazing at the bonfire their father lit in the village square. "Such is its nature. Celosia is the rowdy god who fears his own essence. They say he runs in terror from the very trail he leaves, and that is how wildfires devour the forest so quickly."

"Use your time well," the watchman recommends. "This is your last chance to speak."

"Mono!"

She shushes him. Her hand silently points to the empty spot close to her. He notices she is trembling – the ground she sits on is humid and cold. Although her cheeks are still damp, her eyes look clean.

Instinctively, Wander's gaze searches every inch of their surroundings, struggling to find an escape route of some sort.

Unsurprisingly, he finds none. He rushes to sit by her side.

"You must explain to me. Why, in the name of the gods, did they put you in here? What is happening?"

"Shhh. Don't be loud."

She coughs three times. It is the code they use for danger, whenever their conversations must stay secret.

He holds her hand.

"Dearest brother, I won't live much longer," Mono tells him, with the feeble lament of a dying animal. "Hold me for the last time."

He complies, without a second's hesitation. His grip fills her with strength and comfort. His voice, on the other hand, has never sounded this broken.

"What are you saying?"

"Listen well, Wander. I am about to die," she whispers. "If I die, bad things will happen. This is a fatal mistake. But nothing can stop them, for they do not know better. Their minds cannot be changed… they, too, are misled and controlled. Such is Their will…"

"I will! Whoever wants you dead, I am going to stop them!"

"You can't. You have no idea, brother."

Mono starts crying again, in a slow, quiet rhythm. He dries her tears with his thumb.

For the first time in her life, she he has surrendered.

"I am cursed. Don't you see?"

Wander can feel her sobs running down her spine.

"It cannot be true, Mono! Why don't you see it?"

He sounds desperate. That energy he has –

Mono shivers. It is way too similar to her own.

"I said it from the start," Wander insists. "I always knew they were telling you lies. I feel it in my bones. Emon wants you to suffer. That's the whole truth."

She shakes her head, heartbroken.

"It is the opposite. Your judgment is clouded by my curse… it is me, Wander. I am destruction and death. You talk like that because of me. And this isn't even the worst part. As long as I live, you share my curse, too. It is best for us both if I… if I…"

His arms tighten around her weakened frame. His fury is so familiar.

"Never," he growls. "You can't speak to me this way. I don't want you to leave. I would never be happy again. Please…"

"You have to believe me, Wander. We couldn't find any other way out. There is just one thing you can do, if you really want me to leave the world with a smile."

He leans his cheek against her head, defeated. Her resignation spreads throughout his veins, making him feel colder than he has ever been.

"Whatever you say."

"Make me a promise, Wander. The last effort I ask of you. Calm your spirit, and survive this in peace. Never fight to bring me back… however you may try. For you to do so is our only hope."

Or you could come look for me. In the lost south… where Dormin brings back the dead, for those who so wish.

Wander is not sure where the melodious words comes from. It looks like the sound only echoes in his head. But Mono's eyes are wide open, fixed on his face, and her lips move together with the double voice.

Save me. Save me. Wield the Ancient Sword. Follow Their call… follow the roar of the earth.

"You have been in there longer than you should," the watchman barks. "Thank your father for that. Off you go, now."

I will be waiting, brother. I love you.

"It is true," Mono whispers. "It feels like she is just above us. As if we could touch her."

Wander watches her raise her arm to the sunset. Her fingers, with their slow, silent movements, reach for something visible to no one but her.

"Who is she, Mono?"

She turns to him with a smile. The serenity of her features is almost unearthly.

"She is Phalanx, the great goddess of peace," she explains, pointing to the last sliver of red just above. "Her celestial body is infinite, so she can wrap herself around the world. The myths say that her sight is uneven, and her third eye is fixed into the hearts of people. Her wings shield us from anguish, her voice soothes every conflict; and her flight, in the sand and the woods, is the breath of all things calm."

He follows her advice. He stays away, refusing to listen to the muffled cries which leave her mouth in the last moment. Against the howling of his soul, with all the force of the severed bond he must now live without, Wanders placates himself.

It's fine. I only have to hold on until –

He reaches the Courtyard right after the sacrifice is complete. Ilus stares at him quizzically.

"For her sake, we have to make sure no one does wrong," he lies. "If you must watch over her body, I am going to guard the Ancient Sword tonight."

Until I get there.

As for the rest, he will fulfill it later.

"Mono, I was thinking of something."

"Of what, brother?"

"You told me so much about those who watch over us. It seems, now, that you will spend your whole life looking into their spirit. And yet, in all these years, you never told me anything about the last god."

She rarely refuses to answer, especially when it is him she is talking to. That day, Wander finds out exceptions always exist.

"I can't," she says, between melancholy and dread. "We do not talk about Malus. He is the evil that encompasses all things, whether we can perceive them or cannot. His sight reaches every corner of the world, hidden as it may be. There are no human words to contain his power, nor to describe his realm, where hope cannot dwell. No matter what, Wander, flee the thought of him always. Save yourself."

"The Ancient Sword! The Ancient Sword is gone!"

The vigil is torn apart by Wander's shouts. Not before his preparations are complete, of course.

The sentries all rush to the Courtyard. Of the scene in front of them, they only find the surface. They see an aching face, covered in soil by his hands – and his fallen dagger, dirty with his own blood, inflicted him a wound they believe to be much graver.

"What happened? Who attacked you?"

He gets on his feet in the slowest way he is capable of.

"He… he fled into the woods, to the north," he wheezes. "I could not fight back. I failed you… I failed you…"

The sound of his lament sets their emotions on fire. They run away at once, spreading yells of alarm throughout the whole village. His pain and his guilt awaken a tempest.

In fact, the anguish in his words is the one part he is not faking. They are too blind to see the true cause of it.

Wander knows the timing too well. A lifetime of playful strolls has carved the length of the roads in his mind. By now, the guards are certainly yelling for Emon to come.

He cannot help scoffing. The last thing he needs is to be helped by him.

With all the effort he put in raising such a racket, he had better not waste a single instant. Stubbornly ignoring the slight burn of his leg, he sneaks to the open burial chamber in no time.

Nobody is there to guard it, as he expected. Thank the gods, it worked.

Wander is grateful to her shroud. Its solid grey texture conceals her from head to toe. With so little time on his hands, he could never bring himself to look at her – he does what he cannot avoid, and nothing more.

In the home he will soon leave behind, Wander's nerves are close to a legend. The iron grip he has on his emotions has been witnessed, once at the very least, by just about everyone.

Despite all that, he nearly faints when he lifts Mono's corpse.

His sister, his little, ever feather-light sister, is a boneless piece of lead in his arms.

Make me a promise.

In the few final steps of his escape, he gives it all. He carries the corpse to the bush, in near complete darkness. He unearths the sword, collects the supplies – he paces away, crushed by fatigue and grief. But he must make it.

He is glad to find Agro exactly where he left her. He cannot bear it on his own any longer. But he remains careful.

Until he is positive they are riding to the south, he does not start crying.

Who are you?

We are Dormin, the long sleep. We are the end and the rebirth, the turning point of all things created… We hold thee in Our embrace, lost soul.

Who am I?

That is not Ours to say. But if thou hast forgotten, the young mortal hath not… Do you see him?

Wander…

Thou rememberest him… thou shall remember thyself, then… thou are bound in resonance. For thee he called forth the worldly shape of Ours… though We are among you always…

He is fighting you?

He fighteth not Us, but the shells of Our body… the part of Us that is tangible, thy people sealed away ages past, in the image and shape of thy Gods. And from Our essence freed, he shall resurrect thee.

I… know the gods well. I know you, too… I always have.

All souls do. In the realm of Us, you all become one. We are the same.

Is this me talking to myself, then? Are... are you in my head only?

Ah… ahah… lost soul. We are in every place, even beyond the idea thou callst Time… We simply are.

If time means nothing… do I exist, too?

Thou canst see now, lost soul… the one concept that Is, is eternity… We are eternity, and within Us are all things. Even the end…

Then, we will wait together. We will return.

For ever.

The place they washed ashore on returns to life with them.

Nobody else witnesses the first snow, the day it coats the sanctuary in a thin veil of cotton. They feel the cold wind, mixed with dust from the crumbled idols, until fresh gems are reborn to decorate the trees. They watch the months follow one another – and when they do, they do it on their own.

In the end, they do not care. It does not matter that they are alone in the world; they suffice to each other. Even when the vestiges of a fallen glory fill them with a profound, sad longing, they have no need to explain. They just know.

Wander's hair is shoulder-length again. With the passing seasons, he looks more and more like he used to, in the childhood memories she treasures. And if she grows nostalgic, if it burdens her heart to remember how much was taken from them both, she balances that feeling with a smile.

What they have now is more than enough.

It is her turn to hold him in her lap. Every time he rests there, tranquil and carefree, she starts doing what she knows best.

She tells a story.

We are the force that binds all living things together. We are the current that drags each creature to its passing, as well as the glimmer which feeds the growing grass. Be it the lush earth or the shadiest depths of the water, We are there, incapable of fading.

We may be caught in cycles, if strong forces declare so. The difference is, we stay unchanged.

We may take various forms to the eyes of earthly creatures. We are a cloud or a tree; We are a child, We are the voice of a stream. We are a horse. We are a young woman, or a deer, bathed in sunlight. It matters not – We are all of those at once.

Our essence is everlasting. It is love, it is death, it is rebirth.

And We remain.

A scarily long prequel one-shot that plays around with ideas I completely made up. The result of about one month of work. It was hell to write, but I had lots of fun. Revised 05.30.2020