AC Finals: The Mongrel

[Silence Sei]

Apologies for getting this up late. You have two weeks from 12:01 PM CST to complete this thread. The 24 hour rule has been waived for the finals. Will the Mongrel prove why she's Top Dog against a Forgotten One?! Good Luck!

[The Mongrel]

Unwoven


Long life our Father gave us,
He who watches from on high.
Good health our Mother gave us,
She who tends us in the night.
The seas were from the Rain Star,
So the world we could explore.
We have weapons from the Swift and Silver Stars,
To defend ourselves in war.
It was the gentle Sweet Star
Who gave us art and splendor bright.
And the youngest Star, who loved us best,
Gave song and memory to keep nigh.
Traditional Raiaeran Nursery Rhyme

Podë is lost. No one starts out meaning harm to others. At some point, her mind or soul or intentions must have been twisted into something she never wanted or foresaw. At some point, she must have had a reason for the things she did. At some point, she must have either gone completely mad… or completely sane.

I spent days in the Lindequalmë following the star-lit path.

Almost immediately after leaving the mausoleum, it manifested in a quiet tunnel underneath tangles of ancient roots. It twisted and turned deep into the bowels of the earth, drawing me inexorably along. In some places it was wide enough for five fully grown human males to pass abreast, in others it was so narrow that I had to shove my weapons and gear ahead of me and squeeze through jutting roots or long-entrenched boulders. Above, I could hear moans, shrieks, and crunching footsteps. Podë’s horde marched above my head, either utterly oblivious to my passage or utterly unable to reach me.

Whatever plans the path - no. Whatever plans the Stars had for me, they were concerned with preserving me from the relentless onslaught of the forest. I definitely heard the Death Song’s trills and refrains, but it did not touch me.

I had plenty of time during the walk to reflect. Why was I drawn inexorably forward, when people who were stronger, smarter, or more righteous than I had surely been overcome by the Lindequalmë and its mistress’s machinations? I was just a stray dog. What made me special?

I wouldn’t have returned to Raiaera but for my brother’s request. Why would he write for my aid when he knew I was just a petty criminal? Why the duality in throwing me to the wolves (well, Dur’Taigen, but same difference) and then being so concerned about the dangers of traveling with an orc? I hoped we'd both be alive later so I could ask him.

That turned my thoughts to Erirag. We’d both fallen prey to Podë’s deceptions at the mausoleum. For all I knew, this quiet path through silver-kissed gloom was just one more illusion. What had my former companion’s fate been? Had she named me urukhai, an orc, and then met her doom after we parted? Or had she safely returned to camp as intended? I hoped she’d find her way home, wherever home was.

What of the idiots I’d been assigned to when I first stepped into the Lindequalmë? The world would lose nothing if the Asshole and the Ape, in their infinite human hubris, had succumbed to the Witch’s wrath. The blonde who had stormed off in a huff, though, Alyssa, I wondered if she had survived the forest. Maybe that was only because I saw myself in her. Myself with half a century of life stripped away, anyway. I remember being unbalanced and uncertain. I remember being alone and afraid. I remember clawing and scrabbling for my place in the world. I hoped she’d find hers.

Without having to worry about stealth in my crypt-like corridor, I picked up speed. If I was going to die seeking my answers, I’d rather hurry up and get it over with.

More questions filtered through my mind with every step. Why had the Stars sat idle through the ravages of the Corpse War, but chosen to act now, when the elves were going out of their way to attack Podë? Was the loss of Belegwain i Beleg so much more offensive than the loss of so much of Raiaera and so many Raiaerans? Or was something present on the Day of Burning that wasn’t during those dark days?

If so, what?

I almost hoped my curiosity killed me. Then the questions would at least stop.

[The Mongrel]

Podë is misbegotten. Whatever she once was, what she is is made of anger and fear. She is isolated, not just from her kind, but from the world entire. She is a goddess who has been scorned and hunted like a rabid dog. Of course that makes her dangerous - perhaps even more dangerous than if we’d just left her alone.

The tunnel ended abruptly, shoving me unceremoniously into the sea of trunks. So far into the forest, the air didn’t reek of miasma and bitter blood. I breathed deep, drawing in the cool scent of night blossoms and welcoming the gentle breeze on my face. The dirt embedded in my pores rebelled against my freedom, itching like a firestorm now that I was out of those claustrophobic confines.

All lore I knew spoke of greater dangers this deep in the forest than the Dur'Taigen pack and the resurrected warriors I'd faced earlier. If the tales were to be believed, the very beat of my heart might summon my death in these parts. While that might have ordinarily been true, the commotion above my passage told me that Podë had sent most of them toward the edges to repel the intruders and keep them away from her heart. After my long walk beneath the Lindequalmë, though, I would have gladly faced a dragon just to breathe sweeter air than musty loam and mildewed fungus.

Impenetrable darkness shrouded the depths of the Lindequalmë; a member of a night-blind race would not have seen far beyond his arm span even with a torch. I could see myriad vines dangling and flowers opening as clearly as if they were lit by full sun. Snakes slithered through the leaf litter, hunting the smaller rodents and lizards that skittered over the forest floor. For once I was glad of my mixed heritage; I wouldn’t stumble blindly and brightly, drawing undue attention to myself.

Why am I here? Where am I? What now?

Buried underground for so long to push my way past the horde, I had no accurate measure of distance, direction, or even time. I might have been a hundred miles into the forest. I might have only been five miles from the edge. There was no sign either way.

After a moment of stillness, I caught sight of the path that had brought me thus far. Flecks of silver touched a twig here, or a leaf there, leaving a subtle trail. I’d followed it that far, and without any clue as to my location, I had no choice but to stay my course.

I stalked those woods for what seemed like ages. The path wound in curves and corkscrews, sometimes up trees and through thickets, sometimes over slick lichen or soft moss. Occasionally I saw a reason for the roundabout route. A smattering of giant constructs lumbered through the mists, and a few herds of undead deer and horses trotted through the grounds they’d known in life, and my path veered to avoid them. How old were they? Did they date back to the Durklan?

Gradually the smothering darkness broke. At first a few shards of moonlight lanced through tiny cracks in the branches and buried themselves in the forest floor. Then it carved a path like cobblestones and laid a road like flagstones, leading ever deeper into the woods.

As the trees spread out and the forest became less oppressive, the colors shifted. Silver birch, green poplar, and even blue liviol intermixed with the red. Delicate ivies replaced thorny vines. Glass mirrors and ornaments adorned many branches - the area looked more like a carefully-cultivated courtyard than part of a cursed forest, right down to the little table set up with wine and fruit beside a flowing fountain.

A woman stood beside the table. Her alabaster skin contrasted sharply with the luxurious purple of her dress. Her hair flowed like bloody waves over her shoulders and down her back. Her emerald eyes widened when she caught sight of me.

“Of all who entered my forest, you were one of the few I did expect to see again. But I did not expect to see you at this grove.”

[The Mongrel]

Podë is friendless. There were only five of her kind to begin with. Two of them have been banished from the Firmament, destroyed in their entirety. The other two haven’t been heard from in centuries. She alone is active. She has followers, yes, and people who crawl this forest even now seeking to preserve and protect her. But they are her pawns, not her companions, and the rest of the world marches against her.

My sword flashed into my hand, sparkling with a mythril fury all its own. I leveled the blade at Podë, who gave me the same amused, un-intimidated look I’d give to any Radasanthian urchin who dared threaten me with a pen knife. She was politely not laughing in my face, but the dismissive wave of her hand said that she wouldn’t tolerate my nonsense for long. “Put it away, child. You couldn’t kill me, and if you think – really think – you’ll find that you do not actually desire to.”

I kept my weapon between myself and the Red Witch. “You called my lover faithless, me foolish, and tried to kill me twice over. That’s a good reason to try.”

“But is it a good reason to die?” Podë tilted her head, challenging my mortality. “Honestly, if you’d rather do this the easy way, I can simply kill you now. But I think that you, Illara Alfheim, of all the beings on Althanas, might understand my side of this mess. I am not quite the monster your people have portrayed me as.” Her tone was patient, almost gentle.

“Your side?” I hissed. “You destroyed the most beautiful part of Raiaera out of spite. You cursed and murdered-“

“That is the Raiaeran side.” Podë's voice turned to ice. “I am disappointed that you haven’t broadened your perspective beyond those petty lies. This forest was my homeland, in a far distant time. It was the cradle of a proud, fine civilization. Your ancestors stole our lands from my people, swarming like maggots on a corpse. When we fought back, they annihilated us. Yes, I destroyed what the elves wanted in this forest. Yes, it was purely for the sake of not letting them have it. If some stronger power than you came, killed everyone you loved, then moved to take your home, would you let them have it as the victors of war, or would you burn it to the ground?”

My sword lowered a fraction of an inch. She’d been in my head at least once; she knew I’d rather torch Unfounded than let someone else take it from me. “You’re drawing comparisons where they don’t work.” Podë was a manipulative bitch. I had to remember that.

“Don’t they? The elves spin themselves as blameless and morally superior, but they drove out this land's native peoples for the simple crime of existing in their way. They exiled much of their own population for a mere difference in ideology, rather than letting their minds and culture expand and strengthen. Even now, most of them look down their noses at anyone who isn’t exactly like them, so caught up in their vanity and venality that they ignore their own stagnation.”

Podë's eyes traveled over me with a strange mixture of sympathy and admiration. “Why are you here, Illara? Why have you come? Obviously you are strong, smart and brave. You have survived this far and come to me. But why is it not your brother here, in mortal peril? Why is it not some other Bard or Bladesinger, or a whole troop of them? If your motherland’s military felt strong enough to challenge me, why did they summon and send unwitting foreigners into the deadliest place on Althanas? Clearly, none of those lives were of value to them. Your life was of no value to the one who sent you. You were simply called for and used. What do you owe here, what do you owe them, that it is worth so much?”

I lowered my sword to my side, where the light on it rippled with murderous rage. I didn’t sheathe it or take my eyes from the demi-goddess. What did I owe? Why had I come?

[The Mongrel]

Podë is faithless. She watches outsiders march into her stronghold to ensure her demise. She knows the world is out to get her. There is no one to support her, no one strong enough to stop her impending death. Every power in the world has forsaken her. Every power but her own.

Podë stepped toward me, shimmering in the moonlight. She halted after a single stride when I whipped my sword back up. “You’ve come into my home exhausted and filthy. I would hardly be a hostess if I didn’t offer you the opportunity to refresh yourself.”

“Do you think I’d believe in your hospitality?” My muscles burned from the tension in my stance. Like a feral hound faced with the dog catcher, I was snarling and bristling, threatening to bite, because people aren’t just welcoming and accommodating to me. Ever. Not my kin, not strangers, not sweet little human grandmothers. Certainly not a demi-deity who held my ancestors responsible for her actions.

Her hands spread slightly, moving out to her sides with her palms out in a gesture of appeasement. "I would not expect you to simply trust me even if I was not me. Trust has never been your reality, Illara, and I understand that better than most. You've spent your life wanting nothing more than to be accepted, to be cradled and loved. But you've experienced rejection so much that you don’t know how to handle the thing you want most. You don’t know how to act. So when given the opportunity, you react wrong, get pushed aside, and then that deepens the pain you’ve always felt and justifies your sense that you will never belong."

Podë's tone, calm and almost warm, cut through a little bit of my wall. I didn't know if she was in my head again, digging for my secrets, but no one had ever vocalized that one. Not even me. My posture relaxed a little bit in response to her understanding, though I kept my sword out.

She stepped toward me again in the same way I'd seen my people approach many a terrified urchin on the streets, in the same way I'd approached many runaways and strays who had put up similar displays to my own: unthreatened, but unthreatening. The clover underfoot whispered in her wake, quietly urging me to be calm.

"What have you been greeted with in Raiaera to justify your aid to them? Your own blood sent you into exile, then called you back for their selfish cause. You were sent into the forest with ill intentions by your handlers, first with a group of violent and manipulative personalities, then with an orc. Never mind that you survived and triumphed, that is your doing. Your own people never meant you to survive, just as they do not mean me to survive. Would you allow yourself to so easily yield to their disrespect? Or will you rise above their machinations and be who you are?"

She reached out and put a fingertip beneath my sword, tilting it gently up so I caught sight of my reflection in the shining mythril. Dirt smeared my face so that I looked more like a mud-wrought construct than any type of elf, my hair had slipped from its braid and drooped like a wilting tree.

Most strange and striking, though, were my eyes. They'd always been a deep green, but now they shone silver. A few legends spoke of elven warriors or prophets whose eye color had changed in the same manner. While it hadn't happened in the last four or five thousand years, we still had a name for the phenomenon: Elendethoa, Star-Chosen.

Why had it happened? And when?

I looked back at the Red Witch, who was rubbing her fingers as though wiping filth from them. She was more than correct that I didn't owe Raiaera one damned thing. Haide, I'd realized on the boat from Radasanth that I shouldn't have come. There seemed to be no reason to attack the Lindequalmë, not with so much of their farmlands and hearthlands still rotting beneath Xem'zûnd's curse. Should not their focus have been there, where it was needed, instead of engaging in this forest frivolity? Why waste their resources in an area where no elves have been able to live for over a thousand years, especially since she'd posed no immediate threat prior? Did the High Bard Council feel that the cleansing of the Red Forest would help them pick up momentum and aid for what was really important? Did they not have better ways?

[The Mongrel]

Podë is Forgotten.

I stood a little straighter and lowered my sword, still pointing it at Podë, but holding it loosely. "I owe Raiaera nothing, it is true. I owe its gods nothing, and its bards nothing. I owe nothing to the man who summoned me here. But you admit that I have no reason to trust you, nor do I have any ties to you. Why should I not at least try to kill you?"

Podë's eyebrows raised, though I couldn't tell if she was insulted that a mere mortal would demand further reasoning from her or impressed that I'd had the gall to ask. She held the expression for only a moment, then smiled.

"Oh, you are brave, child. Most would be content to simply walk away alive." She motioned me to the fountain. "Come here."

I stepped warily through the soft mosses and small plants that carpeted the grove. It was peaceful, despite practically being Podë's parlor. I didn't know what to expect if I ever met one of my people's ancient enemies, but a well-manicured ornamental courtyard was not one of the images I'd had in mind.

"This is my home. Why would it not be beautiful?" Her verbal response to my unspoken question laid musically over the soft chimes of swaying glass and the wind through the leaves. She was definitely in my head. But how far could she reach?

I sat on the fountain's lip as I was bidden, but refused the offer of wine or food. Never trust nourishment from a deity of destruction, just as a general rule. She didn't seem offended; trust had to be earned. Any trust. And I was a difficult subject at best. Instead, she soaked a cloth in the water that rushed over the fountain's smooth, cold marble and offered it to me. My hand didn't erupt in burns or boils on contact, so I wiped my face.

“Look at yourself.” Podë put a hand on my shoulder, despite my flinch, and directed my gaze into the gently rippling waters. “Have you not always felt that you could have been so much more if only you weren't hampered by how other people judged you? Have you not spent your entire life scratching and clawing for better than you have always had, but thwarted by what you cannot help but be? How about, to prove that I am not the monster you've been taught I am, I give you the chance your own people and gods would not?”

She knows. Why would she bring the Stars into it if she didn't know that I knew what the eye change meant? What was her angle? Survival, obviously; one does not become the Red Witch by being altruistic. But there were always exceptions to a con. Maybe she saw herself in me, as I'd seen myself in Alyssa - alone, abused, oppressed, desperately struggling to validate my existence and then angrily throwing it away. Was that her, as well? The Raiaeran elves paint the Alerian elves as monsters; as a half-breed, I was an abomination. But I didn't think of myself as a monster. Was she not, either?

"Let me show you the others who are challenging parts of me, in other parts of my forest." She reached past me and touched the water. It stilled, and four murky windows blossomed in the fountains depths. In them, I saw two faces I knew personally - Alyssa Snow and Erirag Songcrafter. Then there was Madison Freebird, whose paths had never (and hopefully would never) crossed my own, but whose visage was unmistakable. The last was a human male I didn't recognize.

"Vincent Cain," Podë supplied. "He wants to be more than what he is and desires what he cannot have, and so he faces my envy. Madison is so driven by bitterness and rage that it consumes her, and so she faces my hate. The orc struggles with the notion of beauty, and thus faces my vanity. All I am to them is a reflection of themselves."

I looked at her sharply. "What of Alyssa?"

A warm, almost indulgent smile crossed the Witch's face. "Alyssa is my daughter, and I am proud of her. Perhaps it is from my own attachment that she faces my pride."

"And me?"

A sly look crossed her face for a split second. Then kindness crept into her features. "You have fought all your life to be free, have you not? For you, I am a chance at freedom. Will you choose to fly, or will you remain stuck, where and as you are?"

Podë watched me carefully while I weighed my thoughts. If the Stars had chosen me, it was because I was the only creature available to them, but I was not so strong or arrogant to think I had a chance against the Red Witch on my own. She could have destroyed me as easily as blinking, but instead she was offering me a chance to be... to be more than myself. Would my brother and my people call me a traitor if I accepted? Perhaps. Probably. But I owed them nothing. There was no faith to betray.

I looked at our reflections in the fountain. She was glamorous and beautiful, splendid and desperate. I was filthy and impure, unguided and disillusioned. I still wasn't sure of her game, but it was presented honestly, with a modicum of respect.

No! Something screamed in my head, shrill and shattering and insistent. Do not trust the Witch!

What was this voice to command me?

I looked at my sword, which pulsated and gleamed with frustration, fear, and fury. Then I sheathed it and nodded to Podë. Damn the gods; I'd take the offer I could understand over the unclear imperatives from on high.

She put both hands on my shoulders, gripping firmly. “Breathe.”

I did, and white-hot agony lanced up my body. I couldn't move, I couldn't scream. I felt like I was being torn into shreds, body, mind, and soul. It went on forever.

The last thing I heard was hollow, mocking laughter that echoed from and faded into the trees.

And then I wasn't me.

[The Mongrel]

We are lost. For decades, cast to the wind, we have wandered without plan or ambition. Our only goal was to survive, even when our life was stable enough to take the world by the balls and make our existence mean something.

Darkness hung heavily in the Red Forest, drowning out all moonlight, all star light, and all radiance. In its tangles hid flowers beautiful enough to steal souls, vampire vines, shape-shifting wolves, and worse. In one grove, deep within the forest boundaries, a Raiaeran elf and an Alerian elf laid side by side, writhing in torment worse than death. The former’s screams bounced around a thick copse of trees that was as red and menacing as any other place in the forest. The latter clenched her jaw so hard that her teeth threatened to crack.

Gradually, the agony that pervaded every nerve in each of their bodies died down, leaving them exhausted and out of breath in the dirt and leaf litter. Ragged breaths tore from their throats, desperately pulling in the dank and fetid air. Like the adults they were, each more than a hundred and ten years of age, they had musculature and tone. Like infants, each body having been ripped into being only a few minutes prior, they lacked the coordination to stand.

While they tried to recover, the Raiaeran’s eyes probed the blackness of her surroundings, unable to understand the sudden shift in atmosphere. The grove had been breathtakingly exquisite. Had she been transported?

The world was clearer to the Alerian, who could see the brambles that had erupted up and ensnared both her and her former half in some sort of cocoon. Through the haze of memories from a life that felt like a bad dream, she dredged up one murky thought: it would not be safe in that space for much longer. Muscles twitching, she rolled herself over, gripping tepid dirt with a warm hand.

She reached to her belt for her sword, but grasped only air. Her daggers did come to hand, and she hacked at the rapidly-thickening vines with the sharp iron blades. “Get up if you value your life,” she snapped. Her voice sounded strange to her ears, too low, too harsh, too flat. “Peel these back so we can get out of here.”

The Raiaeran lumbered to her feet, staggering on new legs. Nearly sightless, she navigated by sound, stumbling to the other’s side and working with her to tear a small opening in the pod. They hacked and heaved with weak arms, struggling to free themselves.

At long last, they emerged into the weakly moonlit night. Cracked and crumbling glass littered the ground around the clearing, crimson overpowered any hints of silver or blue that some of the trees had displayed earlier. A stone table laid on the ground, covered in ivy and moss, and a weave of vines had almost entirely enveloped a once-glorious fountain.

Milky white fingers grasped for a bud forming on the pod, ripping it away before it could grow into a fully-formed, hungry Fealotë. They didn’t have the strength to handle a soul-stealer as they were.

The elven women turned to each other, inspecting and evaluating. They both wore the same clothing, boots, and armor they’d walked into the forest with. The Alerian had their daggers. The Raiaeran had the shortbow and eleven arrows. Neither of them had the mythril sword.

“You look like Mother, Illara,” the Alerian said after a long silence. Ellyerial Alfheim had been beautiful, tall and thin with skin the color of white gold, hair the color of rose gold, and eyes the color of the highest quality amber. With the exception of the eyes - this elf had one dark green and one silver - and the scars that lingered from their life on the streets, that image stood before the dark elf.

The Alerian, on the other hand, was shorter and a little stockier, with olive gray skin, raven black hair, and a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were also green and silver, she bore identical scars, but those were the only resemblances the two women had to each other.

“Zarae.” The new Illara dug through her memory for the Alerian name Podë had given them earlier. Her voice was music captured in a throat, light and delicate, but strong. “You must resemble-”

“The bastard who sired me, most likely.” She gave the Raiaeran another cursory glance, then indicated the grove. “We are an idiot.”

[The Mongrel]

We are misbegotten. Literally. That we exist at all is a war crime – one for which our punishment was ostracism to the point of exile. As one life, there was no way for us to atone for the defilement of our mother, for the poison in our blood. As two lives, separate, maybe… maybe.

Illara looked around the grove, letting Zarae’s assessment sink in. “I don’t understand. It was so-”

“Perfect?” Zarae mocked. “Must you always get so caught up in fairy tales? ‘Oh, if I could only be a real elf, mommy and daddy will love me and everything would be perfect.’ ‘Oh, if only I could be a real elf, then I wouldn’t feel so lost and alone and pathetic.’ We were a real elf. They didn’t like us because we were a rape-born little shit. And I will stress that we were a little shit.”

Illara’s mouth hardened. “You were a little shit. I tried to become an accepted and acceptable member of Raiaeran society. I learned how to sew, like mother, and I was good at it. I tried my hand at education. I learned our religion. You were the reason I failed. Skulking off, hiding, going and shaming our family name by getting us into trouble.”

Zarae rolled her eyes. “If you’ll recall, our Lord Stepfather hated us. I kept us out of his way and therefore alive. When you wanted out, I kept us alive on the streets of Eluriand, then of Radasanth. Who was it that wanted to just lay down and die?” She spread her arms, puffing up to challenge her taller accuser. “And who was it that insisted we get our ass up and keep going, again and again and again? Do you want to keep blaming, or do you want us both to get out of here? Because last I checked, we have no clue where the fuck we are, you can’t see a damn thing out here, and I’m not the one who can navigate the wilds.”

A shriek pierced the night somewhere distant, emphasizing the danger they found themselves in. Both looked around the crumbling courtyard, seeking the forest’s perils and any escape routes. All either of them could make out was dense, murderous vegetation as far as their eyes could see. There was no sign of their passage into the grove - if there had been, it would have required an extremely skilled ranger to find.

Illara sat down on the fragmented ruins of the fountain, putting her head in her hands and dragging her feet through the gravel. “Even if we could find our way back to the tunnel, we’d still have miles of hostile forest to traverse. We don’t have much water left. We don’t have food. I wouldn’t trust any in this place, anyway. There’s no way we-”

A crack like a gunshot filled the copse, leaving Illara holding her cheek while Zarae glared down on her. “Get. Your. Ass. Up. After we get close enough to the edge, I don’t care if you quit. But I’m not ready to die just yet. If I have to cut your eyes from your skull to use them, I will. But you might prefer it if you stopped whining, acted with some fucking dignity, and got us on our merry way.”

Illara glowered, but she shut her jaw and stood, holding her head high and throwing her shoulders haughtily back. As much as Zarae might not deserve to exist, she was at least right about two things: the noble elf was not acting according to her station, and there was no point in surrendering without at least making an attempt to escape.

“The Lindequalmë is the far south-west of Raiaera. We need to head north-east. If we survive, we’ll reach civilization eventually.” She cast her eyes up to the heavens, seeking direction from the faintly flickering stars above. She hadn’t examined the skies of her homeland for half her life, but they weren’t so far different from Corone’s. At length, she picked out what she hoped was the correct constellation and pointed to the darkest patch of trees.

“That way.”

[The Mongrel]

We are friendless. For decades now we have wandered between cities, not intimate even among our intimates, finding value only among the unvaluable. If we never return from Raiaera, we will not long be missed.

They struggled through impossibly thick vegetation, pulling away from thorns that grasped at their faces, hair, and clothes and squeezing through openings that would have given a snake trouble. The Lindequalmë’s canopy quickly closed overhead, blocking out the sky and with it any hope of navigating by celestial compass. Illara and Zarae simply had to keep going as straight as possible and hope they weren’t already lost.

Illara lagged. Her slow, halting steps threatened each moment to stop forever. Zarae would have charged ahead, leaving the weaker elf behind, but sooner or later the blanket of branches above would open. The Raiaeran’s keen eyes were the only tool they had to read north from south, east from west, so she needed to keep the despondent woman moving.

Threats and cajoles rose easily to her lips, but she bit them down. Half a century of helping to guide a massive organization and the people therein had taught her that encouragement usually worked better than physical or verbal abuse. Illara, certainly, would sooner shut down under Zarae’s natural method of motivation than hasten her pace. The dark elf remembered the despair in her breast when she was belittled as a child, and she had no doubts that the emotion came from her paler, weaker half.

Fortunately, Illara’s experiences had not simply been similar to her own, they’d been exactly the same. While the Raiaeran hadn’t acknowledged her bullshit, keeping her alert and moving ought have been as easy as encouraging herself.

“When we get home, we’ll have a hell of a story to tell Knave and Rainbow. Then we’ll need to come up with new names.”

“I’m not going back to Corone.” Illara peered warily over a broad frond, softly murmuring her response.

Zarae halted in her tracks, turning and grabbing Illara by the arm. “You aren’t what? All we’ve wanted to do since we left Radasanth was to go back. We don’t belong here!”

The Raiaeran pulled away, stumbling slightly over a treacherous root. “Then why didn’t we just stay with my brother instead of going deeper into the forest? We never had to go further than the second camp.”

“Our half brother. And like I said before: we’re an idiot. We’re an idiot who won’t make it out if we don’t smarten up. We. Have. A. Home. Why aren’t you going back to it?”

Illara shook her head. “I do not condemn you or blame you for wanting to return, and I swear to you I will do what I can to get you back to Radasanth if we make it out alive. But… look at me, Zarae." She gestured, making a plea for understanding. "I finally have a chance to be who I want, without condemnation for something I cannot change. I don’t have to be a criminal anymore. I can leave that all behind and just be normal.”

Zarae’s jaw worked for a few moments while her mind tried to wrap around Illara’s wishes. “You would start over with nothing – no resources, no friends, no family, because the Illara Alfheim they all knew is gone forever – for a chance to stay in this shithole of a homeland? Why throw away the best part of yourself so that you can get the crumbs from a table that kicked you away like a dog?”

Illara turned away, brushing her long hair out of her face. “You aren’t my best part. You’re the weight that always hung around my neck.”

Zarae’s shoulders lowered and her posture tightened, almost like a viper preparing to strike. Though her hands clenched her daggers, she kept her weapons sheathed. “What of Unfounded? What of Mutt?”

The pale elf’s skin dimmed from orange to red as the blood drained from her face. “Stars above, you had us sharing a bed with an orc.”

“We – WE – loved him. And he loved us. Not you, not me, us. Hells below, if you can’t recognize the only good parts of our life, I’m glad we’re separate now.” Zarae whirled, furious, intent on finding her own path in the darkness. Damn the stuck-up Raiaeran whore that was her lesser half. Let her die. Let her rot.

“Shh.” A slender hand, less fragile than its appearance suggested, clamped down on her shoulder. Illara’s eyes pointed to their right, somewhere beyond her vision but not beyond her hearing. Zarae turned her gaze to follow, finding the blue-green shape of a humanoid some fifty yards away. As her old self, she would have heard it. As her old self, Illara would have seen it.

We’re weaker without each other.

“Ghoul,” she whispered. “Bow.” Illara unslung the shortbow from her back, nocking it and allowing the Alerian to guide her aim. The thing crashed ever closer, making no attempt to be silent in the crackling leaves. The elf pulled back her arrow, and when she could hear precisely where her target was, let fly.

There was a sound like a hammer on bone, then the hungry beast’s footsteps stopped.

“You got him,” the Alerian grumbled.

“And I see the path again.” She pointed and Zarae craned her neck to look. To her surprise, she could also pick out glints of starry silver winding through the trees. She wasn’t sure if she trusted it, but it had to lead somewhere. Maybe now that they were no longer the elf harangued by the Stars, it would guide them out.

[The Mongrel]

We are faithless. The gods of our ancestors have spurned us from birth because we reeked of wrongness. The gods of Corone ignored us, but let death and ruin come to our compatriots like a typhoon among dinghies. And the one time we tried the god of thieves and vagrants? Our brother found us not a fortnight later. When the gods are only stumbling blocks, what use have we for them?

The night had been new when Illara Zarae Alfheim Rilynrahel had first stepped into Podë’s grove. The moon had just touched the eastern edge of the clearing when Illara Alfheim and Zarae Rilynrahel set out for the border. The branches at the western edge were grasping greedily at its middle when the silver path delivered them both, bleeding from dozens of tiny scratches, back into the mangled ruins of an ancient Durklan courtyard.

Zarae hung close to the edge, looking to see if the path they'd followed out of desperate desire to escape would lead them away again. But there was nothing, no glimmer of silver or hint of clear passage to guide them to safety.

She swore, viciously kicking a stump. If this was the work of the gods, then it was further proof those bastards hated her.

Illara wandered further into the open, looking around. There were the same shattered ornaments and mirrors littering the ground around the same gnarled and twisted trees. The same table laid next to the same ruined fountain. They had returned to the same place.

She sank to her knees in the rust red moss, gazing dolorously at the moon. “Why? I don't... I don't understand.”

“Why?” Zarae spat contemptuously on the ground. “Because the gods are assholes. That's why. We've just wasted half the night walking in a circle, getting back to this accursed ground. And of all ill luck, I've found the depths of my other half's weakness. We deserved the family we were born to, because you are just like them. Vain, disloyal, and blind to anything but what you want to see.”

Illara took the verbal blows without flinching. Had they not been the same accusations that had filtered through her own mind for much of her life? Had they not been her own beliefs? She looked down to her hands, and they were pale and alien to her own eyes. The golden hair, the beauty of her mother's face, that did not belong to her. Neither did Zarae's dark skin.

“Perhaps.” She looked at the Alerian – her sister... no, her self. “But you're also wrong about me. We left Nosse Alfheim because I wanted to live. You would have been contented to skulk forever in the shadows, bitter and resentful. I wanted to walk free and open in the wind and under the sun. Yes, I would have laid down and died so many times over the decades if not for you demanding that we get up, we fight, we keep trying. You're the reason we're still alive today. I'm the reason that just alive wasn't good enough. Not that it matters now. If Podë isn't defeated, there's no chance we can get out. And it seems she is long gone from here.”

Zarae's head lifted and her eyes locked with the Raiaeran's. “Why do you think the Red Witch wanted to separate us from ourself?”

Silence hung for a moment while both minds processed the implication of Podë's actions. Was her offer not to prove that she was not a monster, but to reaffirm it? Horror gripped both hearts with its silent, chilly hand.

Illara looked once more to the moon, mouth opening to form words that she hoped against hope would set right the wrongs. She never uttered the first syllable.

The ground shook with lethal fury. It split, it roared, and then it erupted. Boulders and clods of soil rained down, shattering the fountain and tearing trees from their roots. Both elven women scurried for cover, but a violent gale sent them tumbling out of control.

Red eyes glared down on them, and the massive, scaly maw opened wide, snapping down.