In the early years of the Pax Humanae, when the Citadel had begun turning out witches into the world, there came a time when humans had, by their own accounts, destroyed most of them. Instead of calling the witches an experiment failed, the Citadel convened for “Citadel II,” a group of meetings held with the leading witches of the institution and the high Fae who, at the time, was Stodio Elvinblood. They decided to create an order of nuns to be bound to each witch. These nuns would be bound internally that they might not use majik at all, and taught in the physical martial arts to defend the witch to whom they were bonded. It was a desperate development, and one with which many did not agree at the time, for it killed many recruits before they even endured the Crucible. As the program continued, additional Fae were invited to the Citadel, both for the training of the nuns and for creating something that would symbolize the sacrifice and purpose of this new order. This is the story of the first Timora blade, and the smith who created her.
Oluria, Cast Otín, Dwarven, considered the dark pit before her. At its bottom, several figures moved in the dim light, their movements strained as if they walked through water. Around the edges of the pit, different colored lamps glowed ominously, their bioluminescent beings asleep despite the clanging of swords.
Brow furrowed, Oluria glanced around at her neighbors. Faild of Cast Hoven, Centaur and a couple fairies with whom she had not yet been acquainted did not return her glance. Their gazes too, fixed upon the pit. “The Crucible” was what the witches of the Citadel had named this atrocious experiment.
A flutter of wings and a quick request of permission, and a small pixie, no taller than Oluria’s hand, alit on her shoulder.
“Allain.” Oluria greeted the pixie. He sniffed.
“They haven’t even been bound yet.” Allain said softly. “Their movement slows because they cannot use their entire mind, even in practice.”
“They’re trying not to kill themselves.” Oluria defended the initiates.
When she had first volunteered to visit the Citadel a few seasons ago, she had not known the full extent of what the high Faen, Stodio, had been asking. In the attempts to offer protection to their precious witches, the sitting authority of the Citadel had condemned another group of humans to servitude. For that was what it was to give up a part of the mind. It was why binding anyone else was an elder rule, a Faen law never to be crossed.
“They have trained too much as witches.” Allain murmered. “They are too accustomed to relying on their minds.”
“Aren’t all sentient beings accustomed to relying on their mind?” Oluria bit back.
She heard Allain shrug his tiny shoulders. “These creatures must be, at first, creatures of instinct. That is how they will defend their witches.”
Allain flicked into the air as Oluria shivered involuntarily. “That is not an existence. That is slavery.”
“That is not for us to decide.” Allain reminded the dwarf gently. “This is a human project.”
“That we tacitly support.” Oluria snorted. “When we signed on to offer majik and everything that comes with the First Language to the witches, we opened ourselves to all possible permeations of monstrosity.”
Allain remained silent. Oluria could tell that Faild and his companions were listening to their conversation now too. That was part of the challenge with Faen company, and part of why many chose to speak with their minds. There was little privacy when everyone could hear near spans around themselves. Oluria knew that the Elvin teachers in the pit could hear their argument as well. She also knew the human initiates couldn’t.
“It is an elder rule, Allain.” Oluria finally turned from the pit, pixie swaying on her shoulder. “That should have been the end of it.”
But it wasn’t, and while Oluria was grateful she had not been assigned to training these poor initiates, she did not relish her task either.
The soft click of hooves let Oluria know Faild had also turned from the pit. He fell into step beside her as they made their way to the Citadel’s great hall for a meal. The students of the Citadel cooked and cleaned from meals together. The Faen ate separately, in a far corner at a rounded table. The hall was, Oluria had to admit, quite beautiful with its soaring ceiling and its murals made by majik. Its vibrancy matched by the energy of its students who seemed to have no understanding of what their supposed companions were experiencing in the Crucible.
“How do you forge a bond between two peoples with such different experiences of purpose?” Oluria asked, mostly to herself.
Faild folded to his knees to sit at the table and considered his companion. “They are not supposed to know. Any more than the nuns are supposed to tell them.”
“You don’t think that will breed resentment?” Oluria nodded at a student who placed a heaping bowl of spiced vegetables on their table.
“I don’t know what to think yet.” Faild shrugged.
An elf, one of the teachers of the nuns, scurried into the great hall and bent to whisper in Stodio’s ear. The High Faen of the Citadel sat with the other witch teachers of the institution, not with the visiting Fae. They didn’t mind. That was his place.
“See.” Oluria’s vegetables turned to ash in her mouth. The elf had just informed Stodio of a death in the Crucible.
She watched Stodio’s gaze flicker slightly to her, and felt for the slightest of moments, a seed of doubt in her gut. Stodio was known for his competency with the First Language. While all Faen were conduits of majik, moreso than any human could ever hope to be, there were, of course different aptitudes between individual Fae. Stodio was one of the best at manipulating the natural world. That was how he had found himself as the High Faen at the Citadel; not just anyone could be trusted to teach humans majik. Oluria found that she did not want to test him.
“He will be carried to the peak of the island and offered as a sacrifice to this space.” Oluria heard Toma confirm to Stodio. Toma, one of the high witches, seemed to remain reserved through this entire exercise. Oluria could not tell where he stood on the development of the nuns. She had no love lost for any of the witches, having been orphaned by the Fae wars herself, but she grudgingly respected their desire to learn more of their world. One could not fault a human for desiring more knowledge, especially when they possessed so little to begin with.
It is a bitter twisting of the natural world, this relationship. Oluria thought to Allain. Humans are not yet versed well enough in the First Language to know what they are dealing with.
Allain chose not to respond, leaving Oluria alone with her churning thoughts, her dark expression, and the concern of her fellow Fae.
~.~
The next morning, Oluria awoke early and opened her mind. She had slept well and was determined to see this day reflect better on her mood than its prior. Electing to skip breakfast, Oluria opened her mind and wandered the island, curious as to the traces of majik these new speakers of the First Language might leave.
As she wandered the marble halls, Oluria took pleasure in the basins overflowing with bright petals, flowers from all around the continent. She wondered how they had managed to find themselves on an island. It made for an encouraging symbolism, she had to admit.
The effervescent blue of the sea and sky contrasted with the pure white of the columns, and as Oluria wandered, she found herself unexpectedly drawn to the institution. How could something this beautiful grow something so profoundly unnatural?
She stopped. She took a few steps back and tested the air again. No, Oluria’s heart sank. She had been right. There was a taint upon the air, as if something rotten strained at her mind. Closing her eyes, she asked the air to show her where it held such majik. She asked the walls to direct her to its source.
Quietly, Oluria picked her way to a fountain. Shaped like a human with wings, humans called them angels Oluria remembered, Oluria found the trace seeping downward, underground. Disturbed, Oluria asked once more of the marble to show her from where the trace was emanating.
A slow rumbling troubled the foyer, and Oluria found herself standing at the top of a darkened staircase. She followed it, casting her mind forward to keep alert to the trace, but also to discover if any other presences lurked in this underground.
They did.
As Oluria found herself moving forward, she could feel a press of minds, feverish, in front of her. To a one, they were human. And only one kind of majik produced such a trace: martial majik.
She stilled. This was something altogether unheard of. Oluria knew the witches were strictly forbidden from practicing martial majik; this was how so many of them had died. There was nothing taught about self-defense of the mind at the Citadel. So what was this stench on the air?
Oluria rounded a last turn in the dim tunnel and stood back slightly, so that she might not be seen by the initiates. They grouped in pairs, standing in front of one another. Most faces contorted with concentration or pain, Oluria watched as swords and weapons descended upon neighbors as if in slow motion. A terrible dance, Oluria knew what she witnessed; martial majik required more concentration than almost anything. One had to be conscious of that which he was doing to his opponent’s mind and environment, as well as paying attention to the pain he intended to inflict with his weapon. It was dangerous majik, and it had been strictly banned in the original Charter of the Citadel.
Oluria felt the slight sensation of a gaze alighting upon her. Looking up, she found the dark eyes of what seemed to be the leader of this group gazing into her own.
The woman boasted the darkest skin Oluria had ever seen, beautifully smooth and matching her eyes. Her dreadlocks hung low down her back, and her peaceful stance reminded anyone in her vicinity of her power. Oluria did not trust her, but neither did she sense malice.
Stepping back, Oluria returned to the angel fountain, asking the marble to close her portal behind her. Stiffly, she made her way to the offices of the High Fae and knocked, quietly.
“Enter.” Stodio’s soft voice bade. “Ah, Oluria.” He said as she stepped over the threshold. “I was wondering when you might visit.”
“It is not what you might think.” Oluria inclined her head. She recounted what she had just witnessed in the chambers below the bright white marble halls.
Stodio listened until she was finished before nodding. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
Oluria nodded.
“How goes your task?” Stodio asked, switching topics at top speed.
Startled, Oluria shook her head. “I have not found a sufficient symbol as of yet.”
Stodio leaned back in his chair and placed his fingertips together. “I bid that you do, and soon.”
Unsure why she felt chastised, Oluria departed Stodio’s office and returned to her small chambers until the evening meal. She knew she had been brought to the island for one reason and one reason alone. She was a prodigy, even among Fae. Growing up in the southern tip of the Astoriad, Oluria had bounced between smiths during the Fae wars, too young to fight and the last of Cast Otín. Vexed at her inability to help the cause, Oluria had sought to perfect her skills with flame, searching for new ways to incorporate majik into the weapons she created for the Fae. She had been the cause, indirect as it may have been, of many, many human deaths on the battlefield.
She felt no remorse.
And now, she had been asked to create something of the sort for humans. No, not humans, Oluria groused to herself, creatures. She could not consider these poor beings humans, not after their minds had been bound like this.
The evening meal proved quiet, with a pall hanging between the vaulted ceilings and the dining initiates. Faild and his fairies gazed at Oluria, who kept her head down as she ate. Allain said nothing.
Oluria heard Stodio whisper to one of the high witches, “about half have gone over.”
Oluria glanced over her shoulder to see Stodio speaking with Pride. As her gaze widened, she saw the woman from the underground considering her with frank curiosity. As Oluria met her eyes, she stood, taking such behavior as an invitation.
Curious, Oluria watched the woman approach the Fae table. The rest of the hall fell silent; no one approached the Fae.
“We were given a choice today.” The woman informed Oluria when she reached the Fae table. She did not sit, and neither did her body language offer anger. “We could stay and continue to train as witches, or,” she paused, “we could continue our training as nuns.”
Oluria did not react.
“Why did you turn us in?” The woman asked softly. Finally, only in her words, did Oluria hear the briefest whisper of anger.
“Majik and mayhem are not supposed to entangle.” Oluria answered gently.
“Should not witches be allowed to defend themselves?” The woman countered. “Fae hold both capacity for violence and majikal powers.”
“And look where it got us.” Oluria replied tiredly. “Humans do not treat violence the way Fae do. Look at your dearth of witches. Look at the reason we are here. You are plentiful, we are few. We understand the great ending of things better than you and are thus less inclined to inflict violence upon the world. You fear individual death. We fear a great death of all that is good and right and pure. You cannot even fathom that. You cannot understand this magnitude of fear, for your identities are too individual, too short. You do not bind to the way of the world the way we do. And so, it is in our best interest, and the world’s best interest, that we do not allow you to mix the First Language and its applications with violence.” Oluria had rarely spoken for such length out loud. It was not a Fae quality.
The woman remained silent for a long moment. “You better teach our nuns well.” And with that, she returned to her own table and considered the Fae no more.
“Not sure your point was well taken.” Allain chuckled from his place seated on the table.
Oluria sighed. “I am here for one reason, and it is not to be a teacher.”
The next day, Oluria retreated to the smith set up on the far side of the island. On her way, she passed the angel fountain and wondered which of the students had chosen the path of the nun. She found that she didn’t care. If anything, she disdained them. She recognized this as immaturity, but at the moment, she did not care. She wanted to be done with her assignment, provide a symbolic weapon to those who would likely never be able to use it, so she could return to her mountains and her own projects.
Once more grudging, Oluria had to admit that the smith was gorgeous. Set with granite bricks and high ceilings to dispel the heat, someone had set her tools out with specificity. With a few words, Oluria set the smith ablaze, choosing materials to begin her work.
After several hours, Oluria had grown frustrated once more. The catharsis she usually felt in creation had worn off as each material had proven uncooperative in her quest.
Wood did not have enough anger to be forged into an effective tool for these creatures. Marble was too proud. Any metals were too human, and gem was too rich.
As she tossed another blade into the pile of discards, Oluria stalked out of the heated space, silencing all fire with another quick word.
She began to walk, and as she did, she angled herself away from the Citadel. She needed to be free from its walls, its legacy. The beauty of its architecture dimmed as its meaning began to sink more deeply into Oluria’s understanding. She loathed it. She loathed that she would become a part of its history.
Unaware of where she walked, Oluria meandered around the island for several hours, noticing how much time had passed only when the suns on both horizons had sunk low in the sky. The shadows of the forest lengthened, and Oluria returned to herself.
On her left, a huge cliff face soared into the sky, its grey-bearded bottom fading into a moss-covered field. Oluria wondered what had chuffed her back into her senses so harshly, but then she saw them.
Along the ground, small mounds populated the forest floor. Soft and simple, they stretched into the woods to her right. She had stumbled upon a graveyard.
Gazing upward, Oluria realized where she was, though she was surprised the island had allowed her to visit. These were the final resting places of those whom the Citadel discarded over its peak. These were the failed initiates, the dead would-be nuns, those who could not grow with the First Langauge for whatever reason. It was a gentle place for those whom Oluria felt many understood to be weak.
“You think they do not deserve peace, simply because they could not channel majik?” A deep, rumbling voice surrounded Oluria.
She whirled around. There, in the center of a trunk, sat a face. A Sakjeden.
“How—?” Oluria choked, her thoughts of majik and the Citadel aside. The Sakjeden were supposed to live in the south, in the Grove. Never had Oluria heard of a Sakjeden elsewhere.
“You think we grew in the Grove alone?” The tree’s voice sounded like hushed vines over rocks, like water pouring between roots, like thunder far away. “Early, even before you Fae, we roamed the lands. We were its original caretakers. Now we care for the continent as best we can. Wherever we are.”
Oluria simply gazed at the tree.
“Why are you here, child?” The tree asked the dwarf.
Oluria swallowed. “I have been charged with creating a symbol, a weapon for those who would protect the human majik doers.”
The Sakjeden raised a bark-eyebrow. “Tell me more of this mission.”
And so Oluria did. She told him of the Citadel, of the humans turned out as witches. She told him of their deaths at the hands of their neighbors and how the solution now, was to create a band of humans whose minds would not be able to access majik. She told him how she distrusted the institution, how it would come to grief. She told him of her family and the Fae wars and why she had volunteered to come. Finally, she found herself offering tears. Rare was it, for a Fean to cry.
The Sakjeden’s face droops. “You are right, my dear dwarf.”
Oluria looks up, surprised.
“This task will fall to nothing but grief.” The tree’s voice was sad.
“Is that a prophecy?” Oluria asked, having never heard one from the fortune-telling Grove herself.
“No.” The tree sighed. “You must specifically ask for one, and I sense that you do not want to know what would be in your future.”
This was a correct statement, and Oluria almost smiled at his prescience.
“Why are you here?” The Sakjeden asked again.
Oluria hesitated. She knew he meant to inquire why she was in his graveyard. “I don’t know.” She whispered. “I was trying to create with all the substances I know, and none of them bent to me, spoke to me like they usually do. I grew frustrated. So I walked. And I found myself here. It was as if…” Oluria hesitated again. “It was as if the island wanted me to find this place.”
If the Sakjeden could have nodded, he would have. “There are old facets of majik that even the Grove do not know, or could not explain.” He said gravely. “I think you are right.”
They fell to silence once more.
Finally, the tree spoke again. “Take a look at my my own grove.”
In the last glittering light of two setting suns, Oluria looked past the old tree and gasped. Behind him, stretching as far as Oluria could see, grew trees as if of glass, shimmering, sparking bark of all different colors. Except, something wasn’t quite right.
“They are dead, petrified.” The Sakjeden explained. “They have been preserved in amber.”
Oluria looked back at the Sakjeden, whose face had grown sorrowful. “This is a graveyard, you remember.”
Oluria nodded.
“Do you know the story of amber?” The tree asked the dwarf. “It drips to protect the heart of the tree. These trees saw too much violence. They could not defend themselves. So they expended their amber and died, petrified, here, waiting for peace.” The Sakjeden gazed past Oluria to his grove. “You may ask the amber to take shape, to imbue it with the unbent will of those who sleep here. Do not create this in a forge; fire is too hot for the temper you are trying to instill.”
Oluria, utterly spent with emotion, nodded once more. Carefully, she stepped forward to a tree glittering red in that curious light of the evening: stars and sun. Right then and there, Oluria began to create. She asked the tree to offer her what little it could. She asked the amber to move for her, spinning in her hands. And as she worked, she asked the spirits of those beyond the graves to return, to sing for the sword, to tell their stories into these new symbols, that they might offer lessons and protect those who held them, who chose them.
Finally, Oluria fell to her knees. In her hands she held a sword. The small light of an early morning moon alit upon her face, her cheeks taut, her eyes sunken. The sword was simple, much simpler than many of the instruments she had built before. Its blade perhaps the length of her arm, its hilt waiting for a hand to grasp it. Inlaid in its hilt, a tiny silver figure of a skull. It was a beautiful piece and it sang of majik, pure and whole and good.
Oluria knew she could not offer this to any student.
Instead, she struggled to her feet. Walking forward, she fell once more to her knees, and offered the sword to the Sakjeden.
Surprised, the tree bade her rise. “Child, I cannot keep this.”
“This is not for anyone here.” Oluria croaked. “I will make more. I will return to the Citadel and tell them that this is where I will create. But this blade, I cannot present to anyone there.”
Unsure for a moment, an unusual expression for one so old, the Sakjeden reluctantly agreed. “Place the sword at my back.” He instructed Oluria.
She did so, and as she did, she watched the bark grow slowly over the red amber, the silver skull. And once it had disappeared into the tree, she collapsed in sleep.
“Oh, little one.” The Sakjeden rumbled. He called upon a breeze to cover her in leaves. “You know not what you do.”
It was true. Oluria could not have known what time would do, how the continent would unravel, or what this sword would become. She simply played her part in the great ordering of things, and she did so with aplomb.
The next morning, Oluria returned to the Citadel gathered her things, informed Stodio she was ready and that when he needed a sword, he should throw a sword over the peak for her. She would return to meet the nun, and she would create for that creature.
“What will we call these blades, then?” Stodio asked as Oluria turned to leave his office.
“We will call them Timora.” Oluria explained softly, the meaning flitting across her vision, her tongue.
Surpriesd, Stodio murmered, “I do not know this word.”
“It is not mine.” Oluria explained. “It is bound to the blades.”
She stopped once more as she saw the sky. “It is something new.”
~.~
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