//------------------------------//
// ⅠⅩ - Fate 
// Story: The Tale of the Hippogriff 
// by OleGrayMane 
//------------------------------//

A breeze carried the unmistakable fragrance to where Warrik stood, and although faint, he managed to pick it out. The goldenchains were in bloom. From his vantage on the balcony, he surveyed the entirety of the walled park from which the sweet scent came. Lush trees and flowers filled it, all in full bloom, celebrating spring’s fullness.
Of all the beauty therein, he was drawn to the goldenchains in particular, for the trees lined all the pathways, and although but a hint of yellow was visible from above, below it would be spectacular. He conjured visions of those pendulous golden flowers hanging from the branches, dangling above the paved walks, forming a fanciful, living cave, a scene he remembered well from childhood. Abiding memories awoke within him.
Mother often chose the park for their meetings, and she never failed to arrange a to do so when the goldenchains were in bloom. It was perhaps no more than three or four times a year that he and his brother would be summoned to her, yet those encounters remained with him, detailed, filled with unfaded memories of her face and voice. On occasion he remarked upon the strangeness of this, for he could no longer summon other remembrances from those days, but none of Mother’s visits were absent.
Those most vivid, almost haunting, were when the goldenchains ephemeral beauty graced the space above them. What was the earliest he could recall? So young he must have been, certainly less than five summers, for his brother was young too. By mid-morning, the call came, and there was much commotion as preparations began. There was a balcony, not this one, but another, where he could not exactly say, and from there they departed. He and Ahren arrived first, accompanied by Lodema and the guards. Those vanished after landing, yet even at that young age, Warrik saw through the deception, knowing they remained hidden on high boughs or that they watched from the walls.
Lodema kept the brothers close, one on each side of her, sitting proper with heads high and backs rigid, until Mother made her appearance. She too was accompanied by guards, tall and strong, restless, forever scanning with expressionless eyes. First and always, Mother made a cursory inquiry about their studies, how well they ate and behaved. Then Mother would dismiss Lodema and her apprehensive guards, perpetuating the semblance of privacy.
Resting beneath a tree, she would call to them. Ahren needed little prompting and was always first by her side. It seemed, Warrik recalled, he required coaxing, especially when very young. Always he envied the few years his brother spent with her and their father. Ahren was at ease around her, something Warrik never achieved, regardless of his age.
Frequently there would be a book which Mother brought to read aloud, a tale of great heroes sent on quests or clever knaves outwitting greedy monsters. Wholly dim those monsters seemed, and those predictable tales left him bored. More often than not, he guessed the endings early on. Warrik chortled, remembering Ahren’s look, quite rapt, as he listened, nestled at her side. With her, his brother’s moodiness never showed. Afterwards a discussion would be held to discover the story’s moral or she would probe to see what insight they might have gained.
And when their allotted time had elapsed, guards descended from hidden perches almost as one. Lodema too returned, taking charge of them, and in a moment, Mother was gone, quicker than she had appeared.
With a shake of his head, Warrik swept aside such memories, irritated by his own indulgence in frivolous nostalgia. Someone approached, skimming above the trees in the park, flying towards where he stood. He knew the visitor and his business, and so he left behind the garden scene and the past.
A long table dominated the room adjacent to the balcony, and to there he hurried and occupied himself. Stretched across this table was a map, extremely detailed, with the peaks and valleys of the northern mountains charted and labeled. This he knew well, yet he studied it with a serious look. A breeze stirred, cool and fleeting, and a corner of the map folded over. Warrik smoothed it out and resumed his wait. It was brief, for Captain Murron landed upon the balcony and joined him.
“Sire.”
Without turning, Warrik grimly stated, “You wouldn’t be returning so late if you bore good news.”
“No. I would not.”
Warrik reached over and lifted a quill. For the span of a breath he waited, his focus on the map. “And?”
“Ethne of Kirwan, Darrow of Tolan, dead.” Murron paused. “Varden of Dwyer missing.”
“Where?” He dipped the quill.
“South of Raven’s Tor.”
Upon the map went a mark, joining five others. In a clean and careful script, Warrik placed notations beneath it. Murron interrupted him.
“The bodies—” He stoped and waited until Warrik gave him his complete attention. “The bodies, what remained, were left as a message.”
Warrik grunted and finished his annotations. Soon the cleaned quill lay in its rest, and he contemplated the map and the marks upon it, accursed symbols of wasted time and effort.
“The hour has arrived for us to bring this matter to an end,” Warrik stated. Exhaling slowly, he sought to supplant the frustration he felt with a measure of good cheer. “I tell you, my good Captain, never before have I been so eager to face them.”
“Admirable, yet one must mind the difference between courage and presumption. From one who knows well, the Arimaspi are skilled and formidable. In the days when your father led us against them, we grew to respect the Arimaspi for what they were. We’re not off to shoo rats from the granary. Already lives have been lost.”
“And for naught,” said Warrik. “The Council continues to bedevil me, the houses grow anxious, and we know little more than we did two moons ago. Our path remains murky.”
Murron walked and stood at his side. He unbuckled the worn baldric to which his sword was attached. “You continue to doubt her ability then?”
“Celia? She may point to the moon and still we will go west.”
Murron’s sword now lay upon the table, and he went to rest against the wall. “You deny her magic?”
“Immaterial, Captain, immaterial. No, the fruition of her magic is the unity of the houses, whatever their motivations may be.”
“Lodema says she sees, that she will point the way.”
“Ah!” Warrik scoffed. “Now if there is something I deny, it’s the Lady’s story. You recall her state when found wandering the valley, babbling nonsense, do you not? To this day I remain certain she sought to take her life after Ahren was lost. Consumed some poisonous plant, a mushroom perhaps. Does it not provide a satisfactory explanation for her blindness?”
“So you’ve said on many occasion, and there may be truth in your assessment, yet Celia possessed your mother’s pendant. Without it, Lodema’s tale might be little more than remarkable coincidences.”
“Yes, of course. Yet, even had she not, Celia would prove useful,” Warrik said. “She sparks the imagination of the houses, and whether her arrival awoke the desire for glory or gold, now all listen and follow. They listen, Murron, after all these years. Why, even the oldest and deafest on the Council manage to hear my words these days.”
Irrepressible elation poured out from Warrik, and he tapped the table decisively, proclaiming, “Now, without a doubt, all my problems will be solved.”
“In what manner—solved?”
“Well…” He hesitated for Murron’s glare left him ill at ease. “You see, I have reckoned it thus. Should Ahren live, and we find him, he returns to rule as ordained. Gladly I’ll cede the tortures of the Council to him! Then I might resume my proper role. But should he not, I become king proper, and the houses, enriched by spoils from the Arimaspi, will be forever beholden to me.”
“This, of course, presupposes victory.”
“Captain, are you saying we are not prepared?”
“Aye, we are prepared,” said Murron. “Best as we may ever be. But, Sire, you foresee a single outcome, and prepared or not, it may be one fortune refuses to grant.”
A short and indignant huff was Warrik’s reply.
“Should our campaign drag on, where would you stand with the Council? With the houses? What if we suffer defeats? What if the Arimaspi number more than we suppose and again advance to the walls?”
“But these are—” his reply began, but Murron spoke over him.
“These are possible. Remember too, alway there is the possibility of death. In war, none are immune, even you.”
That look the Captain’s face bore, Warrik recognized it well: Head lifted, twisted right an imperceptible amount, only enough so the receiver was pinned by the scrutiny of his solitary eye. This glare came from his old instructor, and it was a look with which Warrik had much experience. Its use indicated he had run afoul, and as a consequence, he sputtered.
“Well, should I… Then likewise my problems are ended, are they not?”
The Captain looked upward and away, pausing to exhale before saying, “I recall an argument… Your father… his advisors. T’was the second summer of the war, and progress was slow. Long they quarreled over tactics designed to hold the regained lands, debating losses the houses and Council might accept, enumerating lives like so many bushels of wheat.” He paused, nodding, and then looked at Warrik. “And your father reminded them they played not with pieces upon a board, but lives, lives of families, perhaps even their own.”
“Here now. I am not so ignorant to suppose—”
“No, Sire, you are not.” The volume and rate with which Murron spoke left little doubt as to his impatience. “It is said one is revealed by actions and words. You and I have always been forthright with one another, have we not? So, when I hear these words of yours, I become puzzled. Do we make war to find your brother, our king, or for your gain?”
“No, but—”
“War,” Murron continued unabated. “War may be used for preservation, for justice—therein is honor. You speak self-servingly, and it fills me with dismay. Perhaps I misconstrue, for should this be your true intent, it would sadden me. It would sadden your father.”
“My father!” Warrik slammed the table. “My father! I hear this far too much from you and Lodema. The pair of you worship him as if he were… were a demigod, born of the mountains themselves.”
“Not a god—”
“Then what?”
Murron rose.
Acute regret took hold of Warrik as he watched the Captain struggle, his chest heaving as he took deep breaths, his head trembling. Murron cast an iron stare, seemingly focused as much in as out, and with such a pained look, Warrik feared for him. This proved unwarranted, for soon his head was lowered, his breaths again regular, and not a hint of a tremble. When again his eyes fell upon Warrik, the Captain’s countenance exhibited neither ire nor enmity. Neither held it peace or joy. It was relieved yet weary, the look of a traveller, who at the end of their wanderings, anticipates the solace of a long left hearth.
“No, he was no god, yet more than one to me. Your father, he was my sun, and I his moon.”
Warrik’s thoughts tumbled away, leaves swept aside by the wind, blown into an uncontrollable, roiling confusion. The commotion swept him along, then ebbed and disappeared, leaving him abandoned in the primeval of the mind, that dismal wilderness where reason’s sway is unknown. There, out from the shadows, creatures crept, brutes of his own creation. And they preyed upon him, howling laments of fear and doubt. Dread seized him. The beasts’s torment continued, much as in nightmares past, until their howls became as one, a question, and he was compelled to give it voice.
“Did he not love my mother?”
“Yes,” replied Muron, soft and subdued. “He loved her passionately. Was it not she who received the pendant?” A thought struck the Captain and he appeared amused. “Shall I save you embarrassment by answering what I suppose is your next question? Yes, she knew. I knew of her and she of me. He held no secrets from either of us, and we held no jealousy.”
Warrik closed his eyes and covered them. Unsteady, he leaned upon the table for support. “Forgive me, my friend.”
There was no reply.
“I… Why was I not told?”
At first, Murron answered with a gentle laugh, breathy, benign and understanding. “You were a child, Warrik, and later, when she was gone, would knowing have changed anything? With me? With you?”
With his face hidden, he shook his head.
“What the three of us had, it was ours, no one else’s.”
“Yes. But…” began Warrik, still hiding his eyes. “When Ahren and I were young… We talked about mother. Her and father; her and us. I—I harbored doubts, about how she felt about us, as if there was something, something else.” Eyes now uncovered, he looked to Murron. Calm awaited him there, and Warrik felt unburdened and spoke freely.
“Ahren, he was old enough to remember them together. How wonderful it was, perfect, he said. But I could not bring myself to believe. Were his memories true or something he imagined to comfort himself? I could not decide which. It seemed impossible, for she was so distant, we saw her so seldom, I just…” Warrik sighed. “Always her feelings remained suspect, given the way she abandoned us to you and Lodema—”
“Abandoned?” Murron said without restraint. “Not abandoned, but entrusted, boy! She entrusted us with the most precious things in her life, and you malign her for it?” He turned away for a moment and then back. “Forgive me, sire, but sometimes I see no change in you from the youth delivered to me two decades ago.” He loosed an indignant huff before continuing, his anger yet unassuaged. “The injured party wasn’t you, but her. Robbed she was, robbed of her motherhood by the Arimaspi, the Council, and—”
Murron halted, his body aquiver as the storm upon his battle scarred face grew, but the building fury vanished, acrimony replacing it.
“And me,” he said with unsparing clarity. “And me.”
Quickly Warrik turned, taking swift steps towards the balcony, stopping just short of the rail. From there, he looked out, over the city’s high walls, into the mountains. Although snow no longer obscured those distant peaks, and the sun lit their façades of ragged stones, he saw nothing. With his back to Murron, he spoke in a sonorous yet hushed voice. “Please. Have you not borne that weight long enough?”
“No,” came the strident response. “I can never put it aside.”
“It was his choice, his sacrifice. He—”
“No! It was me—only me. I slew him as sure as the sword that pierced his side. In a moment of arrogance, of frenzied blood lust, I… I killed my king, your father—the one I loved.”
Warrik bowed his head, raising it only when Murron resumed.
“And your mother… when I had healed well enough, she came to me, sat beside my bed. I suppose she thought to soothe, but to me, the words she uttered were agony. My heedless act took her husband, and she forgave me. She forgave me, and… In the end, as with him, I killed her too.”
“Please! These accusations have no merit” cried Warrik, yet an inexplicable shudder went through him. “Treachery’s never been proved.”
“Proof? As sure as the sun rises they killed her. I need no proof. Explain it away. Do. The fever afflicted one in fifty that year. Few died; all aged or young. Was it coincidence she was amongst them? No, not at all. They extracted payment for debts that were mine.”
Warrik strode to the table, where he looked at the map as he spoke, dread to lay eyes on the Captain.
“This is madness. Sheer madness,” he muttered. “You punish yourself over the imaginary. You’ve debts to no one. Why, it we who owe you! You’ve served Waldren—the entire city—admirably and honorably.”
Murron nodded languidly, intoning “Honorably,” drawing the word out, mocking it. “Yes, honorably. You see, while you were still a babe, Warrik, few remained trustworthy, for in those unsettled times, power and gold corrupted effortlessly. In those times, I chanced upon a plot, abhorrent, heinous, so I gathered a few who served you father, those I knew would never waver, and brought them into my confidence. We agreed to conceal this conspiracy from our princess, for we’d not sully her with the measures we resolved to take.”
Warrik glared at the Captain.
“So it was, on a moonless night, the five of us set out and put the matter to an end. We took the lives of sleepers, Warrik. We—I killed them in their beds.”
Warrik stared, chilled, remaining silent.
“I make no excuses, but know this. Had we not, the same fate awaited you and your brother.” He glanced away, talons gripping the side of his face. “Murder. Such is the honor I’ve brought upon your house and myself. For that, and the woes I’ve brought your family, to all of us, surely I am lost. I know when it is my time to stand in the Hall of Truths, I’ll be found wanting. My heart is not a feather, but a stone.”
Foreboding rendered both mute, and for some time they remained that way, neither sure of what next should be said.
Then uninvited visitors arrived. Several sparrows broke the quietude by alighting on the balcony’s rail. Quite clamorous, they hopped to and fro, chattering at each other, quite adamant in their quarrel. Soon the triviality which gave them pause was resolved, and they moved on.
“You did…” Warrik began, hastily discarding his initial thought, and thus rendered wordless, he instead contemplated the map spread before him. His eyes traced the labyrinth of valleys leading westward. Since the melting snows swelled the rivers, one by one those black marks accumulated in those valleys, marring his beautiful map, spoiling his pristine plans. Those accusatory blots, six now, the appearance of each bringing greater consternation. The names beside those marks he read, giving each due consideration. So young they were, he mused, but a few summers older than when he had been put under the Captain’s care.
Then, with great solemnity Warrik chose to reread their names. Each from different houses, from different stations, yet in that moment, he felt a kinship with them. Although at first perplexed, a common thread was found, and in that way, they lead him to the words he sought. He cleared his throat.
“Thank you,” he said, “for the service rendered to us—to my brother, my mother and father. And I—” The last of his words remained elusive, and it took an unsteady breath to summon them to the forefront. Still hesitant, he faced the Captain.
“And I thank you, for being the only father I’ve known.”
Warrik returned to his map and there he remained, locked in a forced and unblinking stare. The words upon the map, the names of peaks and valleys and rivers and of those lost, bold and clear moments ago, were blurred, incomprehensible to him. The contrariness of his sight remained with him for some time, while the oppressive stillness of the room brought forth fragility, a feeling he found unpleasant, like an illness. With time and some difficulty, he dispatched these irksome feelings, and upon regaining control of his faculties, he knew confidence once more.
So, he declared himself well again, as he should be. Momentous work lay ahead, and he could not, would not, be distracted, by anything.
“What of the winds?” he asked.
“They are… east. Out of the east,” replied Murron.
The eastern wind. Had not Lodema prattled that the east wind bore only ill? Warrik scoffed at his silly thought. Inauspicious tidings? No, only foolish old hens and the feeble minded relied upon omens and charms and other nonsense. He required no supernatural agency for the task ahead, only his wits, his resolve, nothing else. Let the winds blow, they were naught but air.
And so his decision was made. He affirmed it with a vehement nod.
“Go and prepare,” Warrik instructed. “We depart in four days.”


—❦—


In the clear morning sky, the army of the griffon city hovered with the wind at their backs. Mild though it be, the wind set aflutter the long velvet ribbons, deep indigos, brilliant crimsons, and emerald greens, which decorating their armaments. Some carried swords, polished and sharpened in anticipation of their use. Keen eyed archers gathered in groups, brimming quivers by their sides. The remainder and majority bore javelins and spears: Amongst them was Celia.
The shields of these warriors came in a multitude of shape and sizes with painted markings upon them designating the house of the owners birth. Yet, from such diversity came unity, as it does amongst those who share a common cause, and what once divided had been laid aside for the valorous quest. On this day the griffon warriors were as members of a single house, their camaraderie ever growing. In addition to their noble cause, a mundane force unified them. These young and eager warriors were growing frustrated.
Progress had been slow, for Warrik had the host advance with extreme caution, periodically halting to send parties up a valley or off to examine a side stream or to scout over a rill. The farther westward they moved, the more the desolate landscape exacerbated everyone’s restlessness. After a few hours of clumsy progress on this morning, they had again stopped, this time above a shallow and rocky river, a rather dismal place.
Here the valley was filled with grey stone, rugged and unworn, and barren save for a sparse scattering of trees along its bottom and even fewer clinging to its vee-shaped sides. The formation hovered below the level of the peaks, concealing them therein, so only the valley was visible, providing no distractions while they awaited the return of a party sent ahead to reconnoiter.
From her position in the ranks, Celia could see her uncle flying back and forth in front of the formation, distant, as he awaited news of what lay ahead. His tail slashed like a whip. All could sense his mood. All knew why.
The griffons under Rana’s command said the border of the western frontier lay not too distant. Few had been this far out, and all were uncertain of exactly what marked the boundary. Perhaps, they told each other, they would reach it before nightfall, given luck and no additional delays. Perhaps. In addition, none were sure what would happen once this imaginary line was crossed. The Arimaspi may wait for them there, or not. Nevertheless, the griffons were fond of speculation and quite desirous of engaging with the unknown foe.
None of these feelings Celia shared.
Prince Warrik, from his impatient and unceasing movement, appeared to be of the same mind as the other griffons. Of course, in the half year Celia had known him, restive seem his natural state, and while this aspect of her uncle remained a constant, much in him had changed.
He looked every bit his new role of warrior prince. As he turned at the end of each tense flight, there was a bright flash off the golden casque he wore, for it was polished as if it were a mirror. Red-dyed pinions adorned it, long and stiff, which showing no movement as he winged to and fro. At his side he wore an enormous sword, one requiring both talons to wield, which at the moment was stored safe in a scabbard overgrown in a golden filagree of vines. This, he said, was his most prized possession.
When first the Captain drilled him in its use, Celia thought the weapon too large to be mastered by anyone, let alone Warrik. He seemed neither strong nor agile enough. Months of practice proved her wrong, for now he employed the weighty sword with a fearful deftness. When withdrawn from its sheath, it uttered a chilly hiss which Celia likened to the winds of winter. Despite this, she found him and his sword grimly fascinating and would watch him at practice, the blade flashing as it was put to use against invisible enemies.
No longer would they remain invisible, and soon she would witness that sword and others used against flesh. Of this she was certain. And soon the time would come when she would put to use the spear she held. Her stomach tightened.
How otherworldly, thought Celia, for no story of adventure told by Mother was as fantastical as the spectacle in which she now played a role. Unimaginable and very frightening. Regardless, Celia remained steadfast, though, for no longer did she feel alone. The Captain reassured them all, telling them they need only follow commands, place trust in their training and their comrades, and all would be well. She believed him, for of all these strange griffons, he was the one she most trusted.
From off in the distance came the Captain himself, returning with the three others who ventured ahead some time ago. Warrik went out to meet Captain Murron. The two parleyed for a while, while the others returned to their spots in the formation without delay. With considerable apprehensiveness, Celia watched the two speak as they moved closer to the front of the ranks, stopping once to debate some point. It was long before reaching the front lines when Warrik halted, inspecting his army from a distance, and left the Captain to continue. When close enough, Murron called out while pointing towards Rana.
What exactly he said, Celia did not hear, for her heart beat too loudly. But she needn’t hear to know. She’d been waiting.
Rana was next to her before she realized it, and when Celia heard her voice, she was a bit startled.
“Time,” was all Rana said.
Without a word, Celia turned over both spear and shield to Willa, who accompanied their commander. Then she removed her helmet and gave it to Rana. No longer encumbered, she steeled herself to fly out and join the Captain, out there, in front of everyone else, alone and exposed. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached for her spear.
A perplexed Willa said, “Eh?”
“I need—something.”
“Sure.”
With a tight grip upon the spear, Celia threaded her way through the ranks of griffons and out towards Captain Murron. With a respectable distance remaining between them, he began moving away, not fast, but undoubtably hinting she should make haste. She did and not long after caught up, and they flew side by side.
“For a very long time,” Murron began gruffly, “I’ve known the Lady Lodema. She’s served our adopted house well, even when times were at their worst. Over time, and even when others doubted, I’ve placed my faith in her. Know now, she places her faith in you.”
No reply came to Celia’s mind, and she was uncertain if he expected one.
“You too must have faith, faith in yourself,” he added, and made a sound as if he found something amusing. “Don’t let him faze you. You just take the time you need. We’ve waited many a year, so another day t’is but a trifle.” Veering left, he let her continue onward alone.
Celia slowed, desiring to turn around and see the Captain again and ask him to accompany her, but good sense prevailed. There was more than the Captain behind her, and her anxiety needed no additional provocations. She flew on and halted more than speaking distance from Prince Warrik. She waited.
He came forward, imposing in his grand attire, with his left talon resting on the handle of his great sword.
“Well, my dear niece,” he began in a jaunty voice, “here we all are on this beautiful day, and before it is spent, we shall leave our lands and enter those of the Arimaspi. Once done, the consequence is war. Understood?”
She acknowledged with a shortened and hasty nod.
He nodded back, slow and thoughtful.
“Accordingly, it is time for you to, as the good Lady might say, fulfill your destiny. I’ll not be so affected as she, yet I will ask for your guidance. Celia, are you prepared to direct us to the whereabouts of your father?”
“Yes,” she stated. “I am.”
“Then—I bid you proceed.” And he departed, moving aside and towards the rear until out of Celia’s sight.
Celia hovered, just thinking. Ahead of her were the mountains and the western frontier, beneath her the talkative river, and behind an audience of griffons ready to bear witness to the testing of her mettle. This long awaited moment had arrived. A breeze blew at Celia’s back.
When closer, Lodema had said with conviction, seeing would be easier than ever. Celia doubted, for how could Lodema know, yet she hoped it true. And now, under the scrutiny of so many, she found herself wishing she was instead with the old griffon in her dark and quiet cell. Neither of the two were to be had here and now, except within, and that being so, she began.
Three measured breaths Celia drew, and clutching the spear at both ends, she raised it above her head. She closed her eyes and listened. Beating wings behind her, their soft feathers cutting through the air. The stream murmured below as it ambled to the south and east. All about a breeze maneuvered through the valley and its stones, brushing the branches and leaves of its trees. Near or distant, Celia heard all. Poised within the twilight of her mind, she quelled the sounds one by one till none remained. In the quiet dark she waited.
By degrees, a sky appeared to her, the brightness of its day lost, dwindled to semidarkness. The valley and mountains became visible, taking on the lusterless forms they assumed on moonlit nights. This shadow landscape was new, for on Celia’s prior journeys, all remained veiled in black. Before long, the drawing power to which she had grown accustomed beckoned, and she flew.
Gathering momentum, she dashed over the northern mountains, hurtling through the gray silence towards a destination unseen, yet well known. Onward she flew over the colorless terrain, elated and confident, for this was a dream no more.
In due time, a wide rubble-filled valley emerged from the racing shadows, and above that location, Celia’s journey halted. In the lull, she safeguarded the route taken to memory as best she could. Then, an interruption, the vague beckoning now pulled her downward, and into the very earth itself she descended, pitch black enveloping her.
This nullity she perceived as a world both dank and foul, an abyss where metal rang upon stone, and hunger and labor knew no end. Through this loathsome place Celia continued undeterred, for her journey’s end was before her: Ahead were the stars.
Those bold and bright stars, the ones she had come to know as hateful and spiteful, burned as strong as ever. Commingled were the faltering ones, those flickering lights succumbing to dark despair. All these she bypassed, for she saw the star which never wavered. Celia rushed to it and basked in its golden radiance, enraptured.
Her grip on the spear lessened, and the end upon which the fearsome spearhead of bronze was affixed slipped from her talons without effort. Eyes shut and with her mind focused upon that faraway, resolute light, Celia let the weapon find its own direction, its gleaming point cutting a graceful arc through the air. It settled, pointing west by north.
Celia said, “There.”


—❦—


Although midday neared, little light found its way into Meadow’s hut, for its door was shut tight and its lone window covered. Meadow herself lay on the dirt floor beside the table in the same spot she had fallen asleep last night, unable to stumble to her pallet in the dark. From twilight to early morn, scenes from within the orb engrossed her until she was exhausted. This she did every night.
Now she began to rise, much earlier than usual, for outside there was a commotion, a jarring cry, over and over. Half awake, she lurched up and wobbled, dizziness requiring her to seek support from the table. The raspy call of a bird, for she now determined the sound’s source, continued, loud and insistent. Clamping her ears to the side of her head aided little.
Upon rising Meadow’s first thought, however, was not the din, but water, for her lips were dry and her throat parched. Straightaway she went to the window and pulled aside the sun-rotted cloth keeping the light at bay. A harried search through cluttered bowls and jars yielded no water, not a drop. She headed for the door, cursing her luck as well as the bird. Outside, she located the offender sitting on her roof, not far from the peak.
The squawking jackdaw bobbed up and down, spreading its wings with each protestation, its shiny black eyes fixed on her. She shouted, attempting to drive it away. It refused to hush or depart as she commanded. So great was Meadow’s frustration, she located a stone and was about to cast it when she stilled her hoof. The stone landed with a thud.
Meadow looked down. Her mind turned leaden, as gray and shapeless as the stone laying in the dirt. Quite slowly, she blinked. A strange sensation crept over her, as if somepony watched, and so, with a swift pivot, she looked behind her. Nopony was there, nopony on the path, or by the hedgerow, or in her garden.
Although spring was almost over, her garden remained unplanted, its rich soil, once so carefully prepared, was now a bounty for weeds of every kind. It did not matter, she thought, for nothing mattered. Yet an ache remained in her heart.
On the roof the ranting bird continued, relentless. Then Meadow remembered: A jackdaw’s presence on your roof foretold rain. A feeble smile twisted on her dry lips, for, perhaps, her luck had turned. With a tired inelegance she let herself down and waited for the predicted rain.
A gentle spring rain would provide much relief, washing clean her dirty coat and her matted mane. The thought of how good that would feel, eased her weary mind. And then, after the rain, she could drink from a puddle and save the trip across the fields in the midday heat. These days the stream seemed as far off as the mountains.
She waited, resting her eyes, but was unable to shut out that noisy bird. More waiting and no rain came and the damnable bird would not leave. Longer still she waited and still nothing. Meadow glanced skyward.
The pale blue sky held nothing more than an uncertain, filmy haze, containing not a single cloud capable of rain. Meadow clamped shut her eyes, and when reopened, they burned with anger.
Leaping up and twisting about, Meadow condemned the jackdaw it for its lies and incompetence. Unperturbed, the bird assailed her with ever louder protests, its activity reaching a level nearing frantic.
Frustrated, exhausted, and so very thirsty, Meadow admitted defeat, and off she trudged down the path to the stream. The path led her through unsown fields, at which she refused to glance. Accompanying her was the bird, leading as if it knew her destination, racing onward and high, only to return, swooping down to cajole with grating cries.
She arrived at the stream. It had been an arduous journey, for the sun and the screeching bird served only to lengthen it. Meadow stepped into the water and drank. A mouthful at a time the cool water refreshed, and awareness of the world about her returned. It was then she noticed the departure of the jackdaw.
Relieved but wary, Meadow searched for it, thinking the bird must be laying in wait, ready to again assail. But it was decidedly gone, and while the search for the bird was unsuccessful, she did spy something afar, high above the mountains.
A thunderstorm of immense proportions loomed above the imposing peaks, dwarfing them in the way they dwarfed the prairie. Was this the bird’s predicted rain? She laughed and declared the jackdaw a fool. A storm so distant would have no affect on prairie dwellers.
Despite a lighter mood, she remained worn, so after a few more drinks, Meadow made for herself a resting spot, trampling the new-grown grasses into a bed. Laying there she watched the far-flung storm with impassive eyes.
Not only did this storm’s size exceed any seen before, its violence surpassed all others too. Bursts of red and orange continuously illuminated the interior of the roiling gray clouds. Yet the storm remained eerily silent, for distance swallowed that measure of its fury. Huge towers of clouds writhed, wrestling against the unseen, neither advancing or retreating, never growing or shrinking. It hung over the remote mountain range in menacing agony.
Where Meadow lay there was only tranquility, and in gentle increments the sun’s warmth brought her sleep. Her weary eyes shut and her head drifted down. She slumbered.
Removed from her home and the orb, the nature of her sleep differed, and only a serene emptiness graced her rest. For some time Meadow lay unperturbed, until a breeze from the east, chilly as those of spring are inclined to be, awoke her. The midday was long passed, for now the sun was descending from its height, yet a good measure of the still day remained.
Upon awaking and finding herself in a peculiar spot, she became disoriented, uncertain if she dreamed or not. The sky, the grasses, the stream, all were too vivid for a dream, yet she could not recall the circumstances which led her there. Resting under the open sky left her feeling born anew, simple and innocent, freed of the affliction of heavy-heartedness. She remained unburdened for but a moment, for her memories found their way back.
Meadow recalled thirst, and there was a bird, yes, and she came here to drink, and there was a storm. She turned towards the mountains and there it remained, still roiling and flashing as she remembered. More rushed back.
There was her hut in disarray, her garden in shambles, the unplanted fields—and the stream. From where she lay she could see the bullrushes, and she recalled the moment when chance and love refashioned her life and the time when her heart was torn asunder. All this swept over Meadow, a great calamitous flood, and overwhelmed her.
She stood and looked out over the prairie, her eyes seeing nothing. Meadow was lost inside herself, and there she found only woe. Could she find no peace, not even in sleep? No, she could not. Not in the sleep of the living.
Meadow began her walk home.
By now the hazy sky had cleared, and a few well suited clouds advanced across it, borne by the eastern wind. Although the sun shone, rain began to fall, coming down in hearty drops, absorbed in an instant by the greedy soil.
The promised rain soaked Meadow’s coat, but she did not notice. A chilly wind blew, but she was already numb. The rain picked up, and soon her mane was wet throughout and hung flat against her neck. Rivulets of water ran down her face. She could not see. Yet, Meadow did not stop.
Neither rain nor wind nor any affair of the world reached her. Nothing could, for a hollow blackness had swallowed her up, and from it, she saw no escape.