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It starts, as all things do, with a question: “what have Ryne and Gaia been so busy with?” Meteion asks, nestled in a pile of cushions on the floor of Beq Lugg’s apartment. She’s been here all morning, and at this rate, she’ll be here all afternoon, too.
“Oh, the annual festival,” Beq Lugg says, combing their gentle claws through Meteion’s hair. Though it hasn’t gotten any longer (or shorter, for that matter), it’s still ever unruly. “Every year in the Crystarium, the Oracles host a festival to celebrate the end of the Light. You do know of the Flood of Light and the sin eaters, yes?”
“Of course,” Meteion chirps dutifully. “The Flood of Light consumed much of the landmass of the First, only stopped by the legendary first Oracle of Light. But it wasn’t until very recently that the Warrior of Light completely eliminated the threat of Lightwardens here, bringing an end to an era of fear.”
Beq Lugg hums. “Correct on all counts but one, dear,” they say. Their touch is practiced, as though they have done this before for a girl this small. Meteion feels a bittersweet joy with every stroke of their claws through her hair, remembrance of a friend lost and celebration of memories made. “I am given to believe that the address on your Source is Warrior of Light, but we will forever remember our hero as the Warrior of Darkness here on the First.”
“Oops! Warrior of Darkness,” Meteion amends sheepishly. “So Ryne and Gaia made this festival to celebrate the Warrior of Darkness’s victory over the Lightwardens?”
“That, and a bit more.” Beq Lugg pats her hair down, satisfied with their work. “But that’s no fun if I told you all of it myself, would it? And besides, I’m sure you could ask the Oracles yourself.”
There’s a knock at the door—the familiar rat-tat-tat of Gaia’s sharp knuckles. Meteion springs to her feet to greet the incoming visitors, throwing her arms around their necks. “Gaia! Ryne!” she cries, and beams happy happy happy in her words and thoughts.
“Did you miss us?” Gaia laughs, as Meteion presents her cheek for a kiss from Ryne. “Thank you for entertaining Meteion for the morning, Beq Lugg.”
“The pleasure was all mine, girls,” Beq Lugg assures her. “Take care with your preparations for the festival, and don’t hesitate to come visit if you need to simply relax!”
They leave behind a box of nice pastries from the morning market for Beq Lugg, and make their merry way back to Ryne and Gaia’s apartment for lunch. “Beq Lugg fixed my hair!” Meteion says excitedly, practically bouncing on her talons as she guides Ryne’s hand to her head.
“Yes, I see that! It’s neat now.” Ryne pats her head affectionately. “But I think Mimi looks good however her hair is.”
“We have a bunch of hair accessories back home,” Gaia says. “We could try putting some of those in your hair.”
“Can we?”
And so Meteion forgets to ask about the festival, for the rest of the afternoon, as her girls become ladies-in-waiting to the honourable lady Meteion. When Ryne and Gaia go to sleep, curled up together and clearly exhausted, Meteion sits at the window in the living room, quietly taking clips and beads out of her hair, and decides she’s going to figure out the whole story herself.
Meteion likes the fae. They are a long-lived bunch, collectively, and they don’t seem to adhere to the laws of aether or dynamis. The Fuath gentlemen that come to collect the Oracles and their companion bow deeply to Meteion when she approaches their pumpkin-coach, and she giggles and curtseys to them, privately pleased with the attention.
She’s also terrified of many of them, in a very deep corner of her mind. Ever since the incident with the waffle iron, she’s been a little bit wary of Il Mheg and its many secrets. Beq Lugg is kind and plies Meteion with emotions of sweets where they cannot ply her with the sweets themselves; Titania is another matter altogether, and they’ve invited Ryne and Gaia, and by extension Meteion too, to their castle directly.
This time, Ryne remembers to bring tinctures, meticulously boiled down from stinging nettles and ginger and pineapple, for Gaia to take before she starts sneezing. Gaia drinks one unflinchingly in the pumpkin-coach. “Wicked white,” Ryne mutters, “does your throat not burn?”
“It does,” Gaia says, and hides a cough in her elbow. “Oh, hang on, we’re ascending.”
Flying in a coach is different than simply flying. Meteion simply wills the wind to carry her, and it does. This coach, of course, does not behave according to the laws of this universe, and ricket-rackets itself through the air. The door pops open with a comical sproing! that really ought to be accompanied by sparks and springs. “Lady Ryne,” the Fuath coachman says, helping Ryne out with a delicate hand. “Lady Gaia. Miss Meteion.”
Okay, so she’s not on the level of lady yet, but then again, Meteion hasn’t saved this world the way Ryne and Gaia had. The castle is even more beautiful at this range, lit up in broad sunlight and the fire of rainbow glass on white stone. “Presenting the Oracles of Light and Darkness, and their companion, Miss Meteion,” the coachman announces, and throws open the doors.
Inside is a grand ballroom, flanked by staircases that lead to everywhere and nowhere. This castle is a million colours of glee and laughter and mischief, stippled onto honey-sweet green in so many layers Meteion can feel the ridges of the impasto. Titania blooms on their dance floor, violently orange and pink. “Welcome, our dearest saplings,” they cry, heralded by angel’s trumpets and devil’s trumpets alike. “It has been too long since we last received you in our castle.”
“That it has, your majesty.” Ryne and Gaia both bow respectfully; Meteion follows suit. “You remember our companion, Meteion, entrusted to our care by the Warrior of Darkness.”
“Ah, the smallest sapling! Yes, you will come with us.” Titania claps their hands, delighted. For a brief moment, Meteion gets the feeling she’s about to be eaten by the largest pixie she’s ever met. “Bring the Oracles their dresses for their fittings! We will see that their [bluebird] is dressed in the lightest silks ourself.”
With that, a gem on Titania’s crown… blinks. It shatters into light, and a familiar pixie the size of any other spins into existence. “Feo Ul!” Meteion gasps. Suddenly, a lot of colours and emotions are starting to make sense: the familiarity of their affection, the lilt of their accent, their particular brand of curiosity. A thin thread reaches between them and the Source, its other end tied to the Warrior of Light. “Oh, you’re Titania!”
“That we are,” say the pixie and the king in unison. Ryne and Gaia share a giggle, and allow themselves to be led off by a small flock of pixies. “You, dearest sapling, have never been fitted before! Come with us.”
In the cup of a tulip, Meteion stands on a bed of pom-pom pollen with her arms held out as Feo Ul flits about her, measuring her every proportion. “The Oracles have asked the pixies to design their outfits for their festival,” they explain, arms encircling her thin wrist. “And since you’ll be attending, we can’t have you not dressed in faerie silk, too!”
“That’s so cool,” Meteion says. “Did they do this for the last festival, too?”
“Eh, nothing so fancy! Last year was only their first time trying it out, dear!” Feo Ul bops her in the nose, and continues with their measuring. “Ah, only a year ago, my sweetest sapling brought back the night, and I ascended the throne. ‘Twas not so long after that Gaia appeared.”
Meteion frowns. “What do you mean, appeared?”
“I mean exactly that and nothing else! She appeared while Ryne was out there, mussing things up in the Empty!” Feo Ul huffs. “Great deal of it, too. She took a few of the Scions with her—including Urianger, the snooty old coot, and Thancred.”
Those are familiar names. Meteion closes her eyes, and remembers the glint of Thancred’s gunblade before he was reduced to dust on the wind, remembers Urianger stepping into the Ea’s hurricane, remembers each Scion in turn as she killed them. They had meant something to Ryne, hadn’t they? Perhaps to Gaia too.
“Hey! Cut it out!” Feo Ul flies so close to her face that her eyes nearly cross trying to focus on them. “Sad thoughts are not permitted in my castle, in my kingdom! You will make merry in my home, or I will simply—” they stamp their tiny feet in midair. “I will not allow it! No, tell me, what bone do you have to pick with Urianger and Thancred? They may be my [sapling’s] dear friends, but I am not above kicking them where it hurts the most!”
“No! Nothing of the sort!” Meteion assures them. “What happened in the Empty?”
Feo Ul huffs, but continues: “Ryne had this little idea, see, that since she came into the powers of the Oracle of Light, she could—fix it! Aye, and she found the first sin eater, and she was going to—” they flip in midair. “Pilot it across the Empty! And then Gaia showed up.”
This, of course, answers nothing, but Feo Ul beams as though it does. “And now look at them! Most disgustingly sweet couple in Norvrandt, they are. Ugh.” They flit about Meteion, nodding appraisingly with their hands on their hips. “Now, what colour do you want to be dressed in, my sweet flower?”
“All of them,” Meteion answers earnestly, and Feo Ul laughs in delight and obliges.
Gaia is an enigma to most—Meteion most of all. No one quite knows who she is, and Gaia herself both refuses to elaborate and refuses to learn more herself.
Here is a list of things Meteion knows about her: she likes coffee biscuits, even if she thinks they’re too sweet without coffee. Her favourite shade of lipstick is #17 from a particular Eulmorean cosmetier, though she keeps #14, a brilliant ruby red, on hand too. Most of the clothes in her trunk are black or grey, but she owns one summer dress in indigo blue. She gives fantastic hugs. Her jewelry box has plenty of cute hair clips, but it also has all sorts of dangly bracelets and things, which she lets Meteion wear. The only person who she’ll always smile for, without fail, is Ryne.
“That’s not right,” Captain Lyna snorts. She’s overseeing a group of people putting up decorations for the festival, and Meteion is “job-shadowing” her, as Ryne put it. “Perhaps it is how they are now, but not always.”
“Not always?” Meteion gives a little gasp, hands flying automatically to her mouth. “But they love each other!”
“Not always,” Captain Lyna repeats. “Hands off the banister, Meteion. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Guilty as charged. Meteion takes her hands off the banister so the volunteers below can put up their next flower wreath. Captain Lyna is scary, too, but in a kind sort of way that means she’s doing it to protect everyone from things that are worse. “Gaia was prickly when she first came here,” she recounts. “And, if the Scions’ accounts are to be believed, at first she didn’t want to make friends with Ryne, or with anyone.”
Part of Meteion opens her mouth to argue. Part of her knows, deep inside, that Captain Lyna is right: Gaia carries a lot of fear with her, after all. It flares up and lashes out, sometimes, when she talks to people. She wields it as her sword and shield, which Meteion is given to believe isn’t always appropriate in polite company—whatever that means. “But she’s friends with Ryne now! However did that happen?”
Captain Lyna smiles a little. Despite how prim and proper she looks on the outside, there’s a fuzzy warmth at the edges of her emotions, like she’s fond of the story she’s recounting. “I cannot speak for any reconciliation they may have had. But I know this: when they finally became friends, the first thing they did was share a coffee biscuit.”
Another piece of the puzzle, put together at last. There are always coffee biscuits in their household, and the emotion that Ryne and Gaia share when they split one is unlike any other. A little bit of anxiety, a little bit of fear, but above all: incandescent joy, dancing on sunrays. Meteion never needs a digestive system or tastebuds; she knows now that a coffee biscuit tastes of first love, that beautiful baby bird taking its first flight from its nest.
“The second thing they did together was plan this festival,” Captain Lyna says, still in that same fond tone. “Though they returned to the Empty before the festival could actually occur, and when they returned, Gaia had lost the vast majority of her memories of us.”
“Oh no…”
“The enemy they faced in the Empty, I am told, was an Ascian.” Her emotions trip dark; she purses her lips. “A man named Mitron, who had known Gaia in a past life. He had tried to change her back to the woman he remembered.”
“Oh no,” Meteion repeats, mouth dry. She remembers, briefly, the students from Akademia Anyder running about Elpis: it must be intended as a present—one meant for Loghrif. Mitron is hopelessly enamoured, as we all well know! Hermes had known her, in that life. They were friends, under the masks of white and red.
Captain Lyna, of course, does not know this bit of lost history. Elpis is silent now, after all. But Meteion’s unease reaches her nevertheless, and she puts a hand on Meteion’s shoulder. “Asides the memory loss, Gaia remains unchanged. And you can rest assured that her love for Ryne has only grown since.” She sweeps an arm out. “You can see it in this city, in the love they have for it. That is why they started this festival, no?”
And Meteion does. It’s why she’s so drawn to this world, after all. Its people lived through the brightest days and the darkest nights, and they had so much love it overflowed. They share and share and share, and Meteion sups on it unabashedly, hoping that she, too, can share her own in turn.
Eulmore tastes like revelry. It is a sprawling, massive city of many colours, its highest towers splashed in vivid magentas and golds. On the ground below, a series of sensible houses are much less sun-bleached—much newer, and fortified against the coming tides, but still decorated with no small number of rainbow baubles giving their rocky walls some life.
And yet it tastes bittersweet. Meteion looks upon this fantastical wonderland of a city, rising upon Kholusia’s rocky shore, and hidden just behind the revelry and the celebration she feels someone’s pain. Someone lived here and was not happy. Many people lived here and were not happy—the new houses are built on the backs and bones of unhappier times, and though they may house life now, this was not always a good place to be.
“Lady Chai,” Ryne gasps, as a Mystel woman in a long robe runs out of one such house to greet her. Familiar, says her emotions: perhaps family-of-family, since Ryne and Gaia seem to consider so many people among their own. “It’s so good to see you! How is Master Chai? How has your new place been?”
“Oh, my dear Chai has been working himself into the ground, as always.” This Lady Chai, on the other hand, radiates warmth, like when Arkil’s mother mops his face up after he and the other children make a mess of themselves playing in the mud. “Has Gaia gone to collect him from his office?”
“She has, Lady Chai.”
“Good, good, we can all sit down for tea at the new dining table!”
It’s only then that Lady Chai notices Meteion, folded away as she is in Ryne’s shadow. “Oh, you’ve brought a friend, have you?” She smiles kindly: confusion, some semblance of formality, welcome. “Hello there, sweetheart. Welcome to Eulmore!”
“Thank you,” Meteion says politely. She sketches a little curtsey. Lady Chai laughs, delighted. “Greetings and salutations! My name is Meteion.”
“She’s living with Gaia and I,” Ryne explains. “Had a bit of a rough time before the Warrior of Darkness brought her here. Meteion, would you like me to explain, or do you want to?”
“I’m an entelechy!” Meteion says, beaming. At Lady Chai’s confused smile, she gives the ten-second elaboration that they’ve concocted in lieu of not having to explain dynamis. “I am in tune with the emotions of those around me. I wish only to hear your words, share your feelings, and know your thoughts.” She flutters a little, pleased with the fluidity of her words. Not a single stumble! “Pleased to make your acquaintance!”
“What a sweet girl!” Lady Chai cooes. “Any friend of Ryne and Gaia is more than welcome under our roof. Please, come in, we have tea!”
It takes a bit more explaining for Lady Chai to not pour her a cup, and then some more explaining for Master Chai, once he arrives. A funny fellow, he is: nervous, tired, and yet so full of love that he swells with joy whenever he gazes upon his wife. Lady Chai’s warmth grows ever closer and warmer as she and her husband slot their fingers together. They’re blinding together, the way Ryne and Gaia’s emotions sing a beautiful duet in perfect harmony. Meteion basks under this sun, a welcome change from the underlying cloud cover that lives in Eulmore's bones.
"Are the artisans not ready yet?" Ryne frets. "If there's anything at all we can do to help—"
"No, sweetheart, I'm afraid not." Lady Chai sighs. "It's no one's fault, none at all. There was a storm last week, just off the coast, and the last shipment we needed was caught in transit for days afterwards. 'Twas all a right mess." She brightens. "We are learning, though. The city council has decided that its next project is to open a proper port."
"Aye, if it all goes according to plan, we'll be able to facilitate communications with the Ondo much more easily, and with the rest of the fishing hamlets across Kholusia too," says Master Chai. He's incredibly passionate about it, too, and his emotions are all aflutter. "Plus, it'll create no shortage of temporary job opportunities, and quite a selection of permanent ones. That is all banking on the promise of it going according to plan, of course, but—I have faith."
"You've come a long way," Gaia muses. "You and Eulmore, I mean."
The Chais exchange a fond glance. "I sure hope we have," Master Chai says. "What would we be, if not always growing?"
Ryne insists on touching base with the artisans, though, and so they finish their tea and depart from the Chais' residence to visit the towering structure at the heart of the city. The insides are more colourful than the outside, untouched by sunlight. The people wear an eclectic mix of sensible work clothes and frilly rainbow silks. Nearly all of them greet Ryne and Gaia politely as they pass.
"It's gotten better," Gaia says out of the blue, as they ascend a staircase. Ryne hums noncommittally. "Much better. We've lived in the Crystarium for so long now, I'd almost forgotten how much Eulmore's changed."
"Did you live here?" Meteion asks, reaching for Gaia's hand. Even when she takes it, it hangs slack; too many thoughts, then. She feels like a maelstrom.
"We both did, Mimi," Ryne answers, putting a hand on Meteion's head. "Here, how about this: you go explore the city, and tell us what you find? We're going to be busy with the artisans, so you'll have to be our eyes and ears today."
"Alright," Meteion exclaims. Ryne smiles, but there's no heart to it. Meteion wonders if she can tell the difference.
The rest of Eulmore is as bedazzling as the entrance. There's an aetheryte on the top floor sitting in a pool with rose petals strewn about. People laugh and chatter and barter at the shops in every direction. A bar not unlike the Wandering Stairs serves cold water and hearty meals to a group of fishermen, freshly returned from the sea.
Meteion takes it all in. This is a happy place, and for the most part it has remained happy since its conception. Children run about, begging stories from an Ondo gentleman who's only just arrived with his Hume companion. It's a sight she sees almost daily in the Crystarium, and it gets no less thrilling each time to join them.
So why, then, did Ryne and Gaia leave this place? There are more colours to the walls than Meteion's feathers can produce. Elpis flowers would bloom gold and pink year round at the base of the aetheryte. Though Lady Chai speaks of storms, the sea would weather out the worst of the climate, leaving the city mild in all seasons.
She stops. There is a staircase that leads down, down, down, and with every step Meteion feels growing dread. No one stops her as she descends—there are others here in all manner of clothing, after all—but none feel the anguish that tears at her soul.
There is a cell in the far back. It is suffused with emotion; someone must have lived here for a long, long time. Meteion pushes open the door with only the lightest touch, and drowns in solitude. Someone lived here. Someone was lonely, for a very long time.
And if that doesn’t tug at Meteion’s heartstrings. She sinks to her knees in front of the wall, and closes her eyes. This exact spot housed joy, small as it was, a single point of solace in an otherwise bleary life. She tastes her sisters’ despair all over again, only this time, it pours itself from the teary eyes of a single person. A girl, with glowing blue eyes—Venat’s eyes, from a time when Venat was still the kind woman Meteion remembers and not the goddess that gave everything to shield Etheirys.
Alone, says the aftershocks of this room, where a girl lived alone and was forced to keep her solitude. Alone. Alone.
“Sorry, good sirs, might I just look this way? The Oracles have lost track of their companion, you see, and I—Meteion!”
Even Master Chai’s worried voice doesn’t shake her out of her sorrow. She is alone in this world, after all—fragmented as everyone else is, no one is quite an entelechy. Not anymore. Hermes is dead, and with it, his dream is dead, too.
She is a star, dying alone in a cold sky.
“Meteion, Ryne and Gaia have been looking for you,” Master Chai says, and then stops. “Eh, whatever is the matter? Your feathers are turning grey. Is—is everything alright? Has someone upset you?”
“Someone was upset,” Meteion corrects him. She can feel the tears streaming down her face, now, the pitter of dynamis on cold stone floor. “Master Chai, there was a girl who lived here, and she was alone. I can feel her pain, imprinted in these walls. Please—is she alright? Was she rescued?”
Master Chai stares at her for a second, and then kneels at her side. “Dear girl, she certainly was.” He smiles, offering a kerchief and an outstretched hand. Meteion sniffles and takes both. “A kind man rescued her from Eulmore, and helped her make many friends, even if he couldn’t stay by her side. Now she lives in the Crystarium, and she has her lover who walks in Darkness where she walks in Light.” He squeezes her hand. “And now, she has you.”
“Ryne,” Meteion whispers.
“That’s right,” Master Chai says. “She’s come a long way, and we Eulmorean folks have no small part in the misery of her early years. But she’s grown past all that, and now we’re the ones struggling to catch up!” He laughs, ears flicking. “You live with her, don’t you? Would you say she’s happy now?”
Meteion thinks of Ryne looking for the waffle iron. Ryne, in a new dress, laughing as she twirls in the mirror. Ryne calling her Mimi as easily as breathing, love overflowing in every word. Ryne with her head leaned against Gaia’s shoulder in the morning sun, watching the world wake up around them.
“Yes,” she says, and allows herself to be pulled to her feet and hugged tightly, tears soaked up by Master Chai’s fancy jacket.
(If she gives Ryne an extra big hug later… that’s neither here nor there.)
Despite the oppressive heat by day, Amh Araeng is cool by night. While Ryne and Gaia talk to people in the camp below, Meteion sits on the roof of a building Nabaath Areng and enjoys the wind in her feathers. The desert air is dry, but that bothers her less than the humidity of Rak’tika, or the salt of the Tempest.
Below, they are talking of things that confuse Meteion: trade agreements, more festival things, contracts. Ryne was getting antsy, Gaia was getting frustrated, and the traders they were speaking to were clearly not exactly happy either, and so Meteion excused herself from the premises. Her feathers shimmer a darker blue; she can’t tell if it’s from the darkness of night, or from guilt over having abandoned her friends to their diplomatic struggles.
For now, she basks in the wind. Her sisters were permitted to fly out to worlds unknown; once, she had joined them, making her nest in Ultima Thule for a lonely eternity. Perhaps it is alright to fly by one’s lonesome, but flying in isolation—in solitude—is an age of ice on one’s wings, frost crawling into the tubules like you will never be free. You will never be free. You will never be free. This night is not frost: it is sand, and it is the gentle Light of the Flood of Light, pulsating its steady heartbeat over Nabaath Areng.
“Found yourself a perch?”
Meteion startles. There is a shimmer next to her, which she immediately diagnoses as dynamis collecting. An Echo of the past, where someone had experienced immense emotions. This dynamis coalesces and resolves itself into a man with dark hair and kind eyes, who sits at the edge of the building with his legs dangling over the edge. “The Warrior of Darkness brought you here,” he says simply. There is an aftertaste of loneliness in his words, like he remembers it deeply, but it has long since come to pass. Something in Meteion’s chest whirrs at the thought of a kindred spirit. “What’s your name?”
“Meteion,” she whispers.
“Meteion. I like it. Sounds fancy.” He dips his head to her. “My name’s Ardbert. I’m… an old friend of the Warrior of Darkness, if you will.”
“That makes you my friend!” Meteion immediately chirps, and scoots closer to him. “I might feel a lot of your emotions, though, and you might feel a lot of mine. Is that okay?”
Ardbert chuckles. “More than okay, no worries. You enjoying the wind?”
“Yeah!” Being here next to Ardbert has instilled in her a sense of—peace? Security? She feels like she doesn’t have to worry about the arguing below anymore, though it doesn’t make her any less guilty about having abandoned it. “Ryne and Gaia are talking with the traders.”
“Huh. I never got to know Gaia, but I can tell you a thing or two about Ryne.” Ardbert leans his weight back on his hands, and closes his eyes. “... Did you know Ryne wasn’t always her name?”
“No,” Meteion says, “she’s always been Ryne to me.”
“For the longest time, everyone called her Minfilia. But that was the name of someone else.” He points up at the crest of a tide, the Flood of Light frozen in all its stagnant glory. “The first Minfilia did that. My friends and I made the Flood of Light happen, but stopping it? That was all her, and them.”
“Oh,” says Meteion, softly. “She was the first Oracle of Light.”
“Yeah, exactly. Gods, I hated her for the longest time.” He laughs, clearly having come to terms with it in the ages since. “What was I to do? Alone, with no one to speak to, and no one who could see me? Just a lonely spirit, wandering this land that had become a stranger to me.”
Meteion tries to take his hand, the way she does when her girls are upset. Her fingers pass right through his. “I appreciate the sentiment,” he says, amused. “I’m a little less solid than I was, unfortunately. Not much of me left that isn’t down in the Lifestream. I don’t have to walk the earth I sullied any longer, ‘less it’s of my own free will.”
“Like now?”
“Like now. Thought you might need company, little birdie.” He smiles. “I know what it’s like to be lonely. If you’re going to be alone up here for a bit, I can spare a few winks to keep you company. Hey, wanna learn about constellations?”
He points to the positions of the stars in the sky, hard as it can be with the Flood of Light beaming down on them, and she tells him about them, what the people who lived there had once called them. That is Ennea; that one, which looks like one, is actually two, not close enough to be binary but close enough all the same to be sisters. “Incredible,” Ardbert comments. “You’ve gone a great many places, my friend.”
“My sisters did,” Meteion admits. “Most of the stars they visited were… dead. But I think… we can learn things from them, too, even after they’re gone. There are jewels left in the ashes, thanks to those who cared enough to leave them behind.”
“Mmhmm. Which star’s your favourite?”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “This one. Etheirys.” She pats the solid stone of the building beneath her. “Sometimes, it is sad, and sometimes, the people hurt each other. But, on the whole… it is full of love. I love it a lot.”
Ardbert laughs out loud—a deep belly laugh, like he’s a much older man than he appears. He reaches a hand out, and though he can’t touch her Meteion swears she feels him pat her unruly head. “That’s a good answer if I’ve ever heard one.” He rises to his feet. “Well, the Oracles are just about done their trade deals, if I’m not mistaken. And I’ve got a home to return to.”
A few other shimmers. He takes the hand of a Dwarven woman, and offers a fist-bump to a tall Galdjent man. Behind them, a heavily-cloaked elf and a Mystel woman with her arms crossed over her chest watch fondly. “Take care,” Ardbert says. The Mystel woman gives her a thumbs up.
Then, in the same shimmer of light that brought them here, they’re gone.
“Meteion? Mimi! Where are you?”
“Up here!” Meteion calls, peering over the edge of the building. Below, Ryne and Gaia are splotches in the red sand. “I’m coming down!”
The wind carries her down to them gently, gently; she lands in Gaia’s embrace with a laugh. “Sorry that took so long, Mimi,” Gaia says, ruffling her hair. “Were you lonely?”
Meteion blinks innocently up at her. “No,” she says, honestly. “A friend came to teach me about constellations.”
Amh Araeng slumbers. Meteion closes her eyes, and lets the wind and the stars wash over her.
In its glory days—
No, try again. Meteion has seen enough “glory days” to know that every day is glorious in its own way, for being able to live it. From the top: in the days of Meteion’s early youth, when it was just her and her sisters and Hermes playing with the ambystomas in the fountains, there were no such things as “festivals”. Amaurot thought them a waste of precious resources, more precious time, and so into the bin with other deeds considered excessive they went. Amaurot was, after all, exceedingly efficient in everything; concepts were to be made with exactly the standard amount of aether, no more and no less, and every process that could be streamlined was thinned from a river to little more than a trickle.
Today, the Crystarium gets to enjoy a little excess. No more do the people have to skimp and save every precious resource. The festival is a celebration of bounty; it is a feast of fortune; it is a work of love. Meteion preens in the mirror, decked in her new dress fresh from Il Mheg. She’s cloaked in chiffon so fine it could be gossamer, silk so smooth it could be wind. Cabochons sparkle like dewdrops around her waist and at her neck.
And, as Feo Ul had promised her, the dress shines in every colour of the rainbow. She twirls in the mirror to see the hemline swish around her knees, reflecting new colours in every direction. She feels—good, and pretty! It brings a blush to her face to think about it, and her feathers go gold with joy.
A knock at the door. “May I come in?” Beq Lugg asks from outside. “I’ve got the hair accessories.”
“Yes, yes please!” Meteion giggles, throwing open the door. Beq Lugg’s eyes sparkle, and they laugh with delight as Meteion twirls for them. “How do I look?”
“Prettier than rainbows, more delicate than a pixie’s wing,” they chortle. “Now come sit, come sit! We shall have your hair done to match.”
Their claws are still infinitely gentle as they smooth her hair back, combing it from its normal frenzied nest to a summery river. Not once do they clip her wings, and when the wreath of pale flowers settles onto her head, it is lighter than air. “So,” they hum, “did you learn about the festival?”
Meteion frowns a little. “I learned about Ryne, and about Gaia,” she says, “and I learned about Minfilia and a little bit about Loghrif, and I asked about the Lightwardens too! But I didn’t learn about the festival. I forgot to ask.”
This time, Beq Lugg actually laughs, and pats her shoulder. “Oh, songbird, that is the answer, is it not?”
“Huh?”
“The festival is a celebration of love,” they say. “Norvrandt has survived this far because of it, and not just in its romantic form.” They exhale; there is bittersweet memory in their paws when they put the next pin in Meteion’s hair. “The Lightwardens mocked us for it, oh yes—in their very names, and the people they took from us. But people like the Warrior of Darkness, and the Oracles, they love this land enough that they took back the night for us all.” They tip Meteion’s chin up so she can see herself in the mirror. “Would you not say that the people you’ve met share the same love for each other and the world around us?”
I do, thinks Meteion, looking at that girl in the mirror. Feo Ul has done the impossible, once again: they’ve crowned her in Elpis flowers. A gentle promise of love, from the man who loved this world the way these people do. I think I understand now, Hermes. I am a mosaic of everyone I’ve ever loved, and everyone who’s ever loved me.
There’s a knock at the door—the familiar rat-tat-tat of Gaia’s knuckles. Meteion squeals, and with Beq Lugg’s nod of approval, flies to open the door. “Gaia! Ryne!” she cries.
They look beautiful. They always do—together or separate—but today they are dolled up. Ryne’s hair is combed up, braided and spiralled at the back of her head, and Gaia’s is plaited back with ribbons. They wear their own colours and then each other’s: a black sash around Ryne’s thin waist, a pair of white opera gloves that shimmer on Gaia’s strong hands. Over both of their dresses they wear a blue feather—courtesy of Meteion, the final piece of their mosaics.
“Thank you for doing Meteion’s hair, Beq Lugg,” Ryne says. She’s wearing Gaia’s #14 lipstick today, and the satin finish twinkles when she smiles. “Ready to go, Mimi?”
“Yeah!”
Ryne takes her left hand. Gaia takes her right. Beq Lugg follows closely behind, wearing royal purple robes and humming contentedly to themself. As they pass through the Crystarium, others join them: Captain Lyna, still in her armor but wearing her cape longer and embroidered in gold; the Chais, bearing matching grins wide enough to span the continent; a sparkle that may be Feo Ul. The children, laughing and laughing. This world that Meteion has come to love so much.
“Last year, we were the ones who opened the festival,” Gaia says. “This year… Mimi, would you like to do the honours?”
Meteion gasps. Her wings flap of their own volition, and she squeezes their hands. “May I? May I?”
“Absolutely,” Ryne says. “Well, we’re here. Think about what you want to say!”
Over the side of the banister, under the wreaths, what feels like everyone in Norvrandt stands waiting for her to say something. She looks at this community, and it feels, for the first time since those halcyon days in Elpis, like she’s at home.
“Beloved people of Norvrandt,” she shouts, filled with blinding joy. She’s so full of love she could explode with it. She raises her arms, bringing Ryne and Gaia’s arms with her. They laugh, and Meteion is propelled by their happiness.
“Let the festivities begin!”