The chamber was quite. Too quiet. Like feathers of all ravens she gave life to surrounded her and hushed all sound.
Nymre’s limbs shivered like on strings. Her hair, blown out and dry like paper, fell on her face, taking also the sight from her eyes. She slowly, very slowly – like moving in honey – lifted a hand and started to brush them out.
The temple was half crumbled. The veins of roots buried in its walls marked the ruined stone. Natsel’lorl opened for the wind – there was no roof above her, the early morning was awakening among crisp frost.
She barely could stand up. She was like a human enchanted in a doll – remembering how to be a human, still, but unable to put that knowledge to use. Her mind was calm – but in a numb, stupefied way.
Her eyes saw a hand trying to crawl over the cracked stone. With dull shock, she saw it belong to Tiyan. His eyes were half lidded, his moves mechanical. He looked like a broken puppet, blood saliva hanging from his lower lip. But he was alive. She saw Lorian took his soul. How came he was alive?
She slowly stepped over the hand.
Lorian.
When she saw him last time, he was joyfully devouring the gods. The ancestors evaporated like the temple walls, dosclosing the beating flaming veins and under them – heart pumping molten iron. They screamed, so loud, until they disappeared in nothingness.
But where was Lorian?
She almost stumbled on a stone, that had to fall from the ceiling being destroyed. She only didn’t tripped her will was now stronger than her body – and the temple that was putting those stones under her feet.
“Lorian?”
She didn’t see him.
Did he left?
Left without her?
He wouldn’t, would he?
Half of her heart knew he would not. But another, tired and mangled part feared he is not her Lorian anymore.
“Lorian!”
A small gust of wind brought in something dark. A tiny shadow, so thin, that almost invisible. Nymre’s eyes widened, she would do everything now, to not lose that trail. She followed the shadow tendril, elusive like a mist. The day was so calm – like nothing happened. Her heart again started to beat, fast and dissonant, like a music she doesn’t know melody to, but her soul remembers.
But nothing prepared her for what she has found.
Lorian. He was there. He wasn’t surrounded by all powerful night anymore. He wasn’t beaming with shadows so dark that killed even the sun.
Blood trickled down his chin, golden and thick. He was naked and lay spread on the floor, small snow petals were falling on his bare body. Nymre could swear that his skin glistened with faint light, like he swallowed the star.
“Lorian…”
He seemed to not hear her. She fell on her knees and crawled to him. His limbs were bent in unnatural positions, his whole body was cold.
Yet… he opened his eyes. Black as night. A familiar void.
“Nym—re.”
Nymre’s throat clenched.
“Lorian… what… what happened…”
He tried to laugh. A not less familiar sensual laughter filled his throat, until it was caught out with a bloody spit.
“I. I took them all.”
“No.”
“I took them all, Nymre.”
“NO.”
This was not true. He soon stands up. And show in his usual grace, in his darkest of shadows. They will return to Dal’coler. They must.
Lorian coughed. Again with gold. He never coughed! He never—
“Nymre…”
“No!”
“Nymre… listen… ”
“Lorian…” her eyes filled with tears. Not unwanted even. She wanted them to pour.
Perhaps…
“I couldn’t—”
His black eyes were shining, still with this beautiful unnatural light. Nymre felt as her whole being falls apart. It was not real. IT. WAS. NOT. REAL.
“Nymre, I—-”
“Stay with me. Please.”
She would give her immortality to make him just stand up. To allow him for even a day of life. She would slit her wrists, only to feed him her blood, if that was to help him.
She would do everything…
“Please. Stay with me. I–”
His eyes stopped to shine.
An alone, single shadow was carried away by the wind.
And Nymre knew that they both won’t return.
Not anymore.
*
They say when a fairy dies, a tree loses its life too so the new one could be born, holding their soul. Maybe now, a whole burned forest crumbles into dust, somewhere at the end of the world. Maybe now, the wind carries the cinders over the mountains, to fertilize the barren land.
Tiyan crawls over the broken stone. His body just goes, unbothered by anyone. He doesn’t matter. He is no one. Another human, who can die or live. Without half of the soul, he will die either way.
Nymre, half bent, embraces the dead body of her lover. She will be sitting by his side for two days and two nights, even if her court tries to talk to her common sense.
Somewhere in Dal’coler, Leira doesn’t feel a presence in her head, which she started to perceive as her own. Her eyes are dry. Her soul shatters.
And Ain’asel bathes in snow.
The Sacred Forest breathes life in.
And nothing is the same again…