A Portent of Tears

The Last Days of the Oblivion War

“…for three more days did I fly upon white feathers over icy winds on my way to Ringarta and for three days did I pass over the devastation. Already, the unnatural rage of the chaos threatened to wipe away all memory of these final days of the war beneath me.
Stretched to the horizon were the broken forms of horrors that had slipped through the Annonil from the Chaos Beyond the Stars. Amongst them, the fallen Chynntai, begat of the Nine and Deathless, lay still – immortal tributes of sacrifice, some still clutching to their weapons of war. The gleaming metal of the Hûndmar’s Touch defying the howl of white winds. Deathless no more.
The skeleton of Sem’Torva’s founding was still burning of Whitefyre when I arrived. Her bosom now a smoldering, charnel pit that was bereft of life. Only frozen forms in haunting repose were found by mine eyes. So much destruction brought upon by a simple – yet misguided – act of love. My words do not bring justice to the devastation. My duties to Ist Ferior now seem a distraction. Late I am, in the hour of need.
The Lady’s gates were already sundered by the time I arrived at Her cold hall. Within, the marble floor of its grand parlor now looked like a white wave of roiled stone, from which the bodies of entrapped Chynntai invaders were left as they had perished – gasping for air from its now still surface, their arms outstretched, hands clawing in a desperation for a freedom they would never find. Such is the horrific power of chaos upon Ael’s Wonder.
Deep below, in the clutch of the cold world, I found them gathered upon the very precipice of Oblivion. Lords Amathor and Thadrion and Lady Nadarys, who represented the Three Peoples of the Ordu, were present from afar. I joined their place, shedding my skin. Only eight of the Chynntai remained – Hulm and Ijone, Nahael and Lumn, Ruhnn and Narr, Yimn and Asca – who laid before her bondmate, dying. About them where the Suns of the Fold, aloft in their glory, their visage both beautiful and terrifying to behold.
Yimn cradled the head of Asca as the other Chynntai wept silently – theirs is not the kind to sob, yet their pain was undeniable. The two said nothing for nothing needed be said. Such is the connection of bondmates. With a look, each knew what the other felt and thought. I too cried.
It was Thamiel, Voice of the Creator, who spoke first as was his right. “The deed is done. The Aelutarn are accounted for. Glory be upon the Chynntai and Ordu.”
“The Ordu?” It was Nahael that dared to interrupt.
“Yes,” one of the other Suns replied – I could not determine which.
“Where upon the fields lie the broken bodies of the Ordu?” Nahael challenged. “Even now, they are only observers from afar!”
“Is one of us not here?” asked Nadarys as she gestured towards me.
“An insult!” Nahael spat. “Tell me, where is the Master of the Tower? Why has he sent you in his stead? What new blasphemy does he yet craft apart from the World?”
I shook my head. “It was his craft that so protected the Alathae.” I used the old word as a gesture of respect to the Deathless. It fell upon deaf ears.
“Yes, ours was the charge of protecting the Alathae,” replied Amathor. “We grieve for your losses, yet Narventhael and Hûndmar lie within thine own responsibility. How is it that those born with the sun in their eyes are so easily blinded?”
“We were the first to walk upon Ael’s Wonder! We care not for your grief!” It was Hulm who replied. “It is not your place to lecture us as to our own charges.”
“Nay, yours were not the first to leave mark upon the soil of Arasil,” I reminded them.
“The spawn of the Aelutarn are the dross of Her words – they are not of the Song! We are begat of the Nine and thus obviate the Ordning!” Ruhnn spoke as he turned to face me, steel in hand. “It was not by our hands that the Annonil was made! It was not we who were swayed by the shade of the Final Whisperer! Tell me, where is the Lady of Cinders now? Was she whisked away by the Blackthorn, or is it her mate and the servants of the Tower that yet conspire against the will of the Nine?”
Thamiel held aloft the ray of the first light. “HALT!” he decreed and it was so. “We are pleased that you have found victory over the horrors and brought an end to the Evanescing, but a task yet lies before thee.”
“What is thine command, Holy One?” Nahael asked.
“The Annonil must be closed,” Thamiel replied. “…from beyond.”
“What?!” Hulm shouted. “You ask too much! Look upon Asca! Their nation is undone! How can you ask this of us after all that has been given?”
“I will go,” I offered and stepped towards the brink.
“No.” It was Lumn. “The duty is ours. The honor is ours.” Nahael moved towards his bondmate, but she stopped him with a glance. He nodded darkly, his eyes filled with pain. The women of the Chynntai are always first upon the field of battle. Their speed unmatched by their bondmates.
Her steel in hand, Lumn stepped into the Annonil and was unmade. Next came, Ijone, steel in hand. She too was unmade. Narr followed, steel in hand and was unmade.
“Asca cannot go,” Yimn said. “I will go in her stead.” He grabbed up her steel and left his own behind.
“Nay,” said the Sun of the Creator. “Thrice have you tried. Thrice have you failed. It cannot be done. The Oblivion is anathema to those of the Wonder. Stay with thine bondmate, noble Yimn, for even now her light fades for Ael’s Wonder.”
I am Glathanya, first of the skin changers, and these words are my truth.
A Portent of Tears, The last days of the Oblivion War