Too often the theologians claim our captain is linked with Fate. Her course she only knows, charting by that unpredictable Goddess’ own hands. And yet at times, I wonder if she indeed knows all. For ‘twas true, and she knew all that would be, then there should be little point in staging a contest in her domain. And yet she had. Perhaps some things could not be known, only guessed. And even immortals could but hope their plans play out as they designed.

So it was that in the unlit morning of the ritual, far beneath the shaded sunny Tithonus, nestled in the mythical secrets of the Underland, held since the world was young and the sun yet to climb the skies, dreams and reality, past and present, all came to be woven into one fine mesh. A play staged by the immortals, its actors the desperate mortals.

Litzia and I sounded the depths of the endlessly high-ceiling hall, approaching with careful steps this stage of combat. Even as we descended, the clashing howled and shook the frail surface we trod. The massive crumbling of some vast structure at times reverberated our very bones, driving us to some shelter close to the walls lest we fall when the dark roots give. The roars grew and grew, until at last we discerned the fighting pair. Not much could be glimpsed from where we stood, for a portion of the hall had been blocked with shattered stone and roots, forming a barrier over the lower part of the place. A deliberate entrapment designed by Valerian perhaps to seal the stage of combat. Through a crack near the wall, too small to admit a wyvern but enough for a slight human to pass through, we penetrated this closed stage.

Destruction was prevalent. Smashed stone, fine dust, maimed roots, scorched air. Almost nothing, and there was precious little to begin with in that barren place, was left intact in their wake as the two wyverns circled in the air, missing each other by a hair’s breadth with their fangs and claws or their knights’ runic assaults.

But missing was not all the combatants had done. Both sides were bloodied and burnt. Presently, Galanthus, soaring on her tattered wings, sailed in an unpatterned path to gain Wisteria’s topside, and for a better angle where Valerian to further punish a bleeding Hyacinth.

One wonders if they had not forgotten their initial purpose: to protect or capture. The malign assaults now came with deadly aims. Allies they might have been at another time, another place. Here, in possession of only lethal weapons, it did not seem humanly possible that a victory, or even survival, could be gained without a complete disregard for the other party’s well-being.

The ongoing demand of her right hand, which must hover over a ghastly wound on Galanthus’ torso impaired Valerian’s aim; trickling blood splattered the air. The constant ebbing and flowing lent the battle the aspect of a stalemate, until an unpredictable move would break the pattern, disrupting confidence, and punishing carelessness.

Abruptly and without warning, even with her flagging pace, Galanthus gave a mighty roar, ceasing her flapping wings almost to a floating still exposing herself to Hyacinth’s runestaff. Then midair, a melody tore into existence, ringing as though from some unseen viol, overriding Wisteria’s shriek and freezing all our senses. I knew not how long I was in that stupor, but all else without vanished. Litzia was gone from my side. The earth vaporized under my feet. So similar it was to the blackness of the leviathan Sheol in my first flight with Litzia, only far more intense, my wit could scarce operate even to despair. The world reduced to a complete whiteout.

Yet ere long it ended. When I came to, my skin was dampened in sweat, and I was no more on my feet. Even so, Wisteria had persevered in the air, charging. A triumphant smile painted Hyacinth’s face. ‘Twas them who shattered the whiteout. How they did it was beyond me, but the pair was perfectly in sync, and as they arrowed towards their enemy, I saw them as one connected, unconquerable body. 

How many years had that abandoned soul hidden near Wisteria’s chest, feeling every heartbeat, soaking in fears, sorrow and regrets? Is it in any way possible for such a connection to be rent by magic alone?

Galanthus was not strong enough to sever it. And the very moment Wisteria accosted the opposed wyverness with her rending shriek, scattering her with sharp talons and threatening fangs, Hyacinth’s staff sang, aiming at the occupied knight. Valerian was unable to timely snap out of the daze wrought by her own pair. 

Even so, for all the constant cornering threats posed by the other pair, Galanthus coiled with startling speed to deliver her knight from certain harm, only at her own expense. The blast struck squarely, ghastly; blooming scarlet on tainted snow. And yet unlike some base beast, her dignity held, wings stretched taut, carrying her to the downward glide of an autumn leaf, haplessly heading to the earth, and yet lingered - lingered as though to deliver one last spectacle of the will. I saw Valerian frantically reach down to close the wound, but was snapped, was rebuked angrily by the patient herself. Plainly only one thing mattered to the wyverness at that moment in time, and that was not her well-being. So Valerian acceded, and, even as they lost altitude, angled her staff, taking sure, unwavering aim at the preying carrions overhead.

The blast swirled in the air, skirting all obstacles, chasing even as Wisteria dodged, and pierced the wyverness’ hind leg at last. And still on it shot skyward, striking the ceiling of stone and rock, raining on the pair one last apocalyptic hindrance.

Of what came next, I could guess but not witness with my own eyes, for Litzia had in haste pulled me to the wall, seeking shelter in a crevice, lest the falling mass crushed us under its weight. 

Only when the last rumbling had died did we emerge again, and saw Galanthus lay sprawling before us, her wound treated by the healing hand and intense expression of Valerian, even as she had done some hours before to Wisteria. But though her chest heaved laboriously, her dress tattered, and the pooling blood far too gory for the faint of heart, the white wyverness showed little sign of a coming death, if sorely weakened. Vigor lived still in her intense gaze even as the body failed to observe the mind’s commands.

Then there were Wisteria and Hyacinth, likewise in their human forms, beholding the bleeding victim of their own making from some way aloft. They both perched on a ledge in the broken wall, timidly peered out from their safe haven, inaccessible by foot from where we stood. Wisteria, no more a child, was bleeding from her harmed arm, though that did not matter anymore: they were safe from our pursuit. And though both sides had been taken from the air, by virtue of preserving their prized soul and coveted pledge, those two had won the duel.

Bloody scenes are no place for celebration. And there was no triumphant in Litzia’s stillness, though of a surety she did not regret the outcome. But we were exhausted, our actions in vain either way it could have happened. And so the curtains closed. But for those whose fates the result had rightly decided, it was not so simple to give a shrug and quietly taste the fruit of their failure. One fights to win, and one loses to find their craved prize taken.

When Litzia and I came down to the side of the fallen pair, Galanthus even in her weakened state gripped Valerian’s healing hand. “Avast,” she said, struggling as she spoke, “help me up.”

“Lay still,” Valerian’s voice was as low as a whisper.

The white wyverness never wasted words, she clung to her healer’s shoulder and heaved the weakened body to an awkward sitting pose. Blood oozed from still-open wounds. With what remaining strength she held unsteadily to her support, until Valerian yielded and slid a hand beneath the wyverness’ arm.

There Galanthus scanned and found the watching pair, and stared at them with such intensity they soon retreated from the ledge’s edge. She gasped, the reality of her failure dawned. She had wanted badly, had striven in vain, to gain what she thought hers. Rightly fought and failed. A hatred that might never subside burned high, and if ever it died, it will but be scant reduced, ever remaining as smoldering jealousy, ever coveting what cannot be attained. And though aware of it all in their cruelty, she unfortunately was not fool enough to deny her loss. “So that’s how it is,” she said, and almost fainted, but the hand reclaimed its desperate grasp on Valerian’s shoulder, stubbornly her consciousness persevered.

“I’m sorry,” Valerian muttered.

“What good is that now? It went how it did,” so she said, and leaned wholly on the knight’s frame. “’Tis fine. All we might do has been done. So does Fate declare: it is over. So what is to happen now? I say I am to return to what I was before. The creature that had lived a long life before she came, even now it shall live until the very end. There are things constant and change not, come ages or eras: the end.”

It was a possibility, I trust, that she would be fine, quite so. But perhaps years down the line, not now. For all the brave and aloof speech, the pretended serenity, the girl trembled not only from the pain of her earthly wounds. But she trembled by the shaken inner core and bitten lip; only the wonted placidness faintly masked suffering’s keen expression. Valerian held her wordlessly. But she would be fine, if only eventually. Though those miserable two were not made for each other, neither souls joined, they shared in memories and the gap happiness once filled, the same pain of loss - Galanthus and Valerian. A wyvern and a knight who failed.  And one could only hope that such a thing suffice. ‘Twas not the best of endings, but then, beyond doubt, was one.

If there is any comfort to sorrow, to a tragedy, it is the brighter side of the contest, of the defeated turned victors. A long repressed pain relieved come the final act at the villain of the day’s expense. Such is how our world works, so that she who seeks beauty in sadness may always find it, provided her eyes are sufficiently averted from sights not as pretty.

And it is true, I give you that, to speak of the good things, that I have no right whatsoever to declare good or evil on the outcome. And if I ever claim my favor for which, I do not call on justice or morals to secure my stand. But a desire so selfish. Aye, Galanthus and Acis - the Acis I know - are those close to me, and if I may venture to claim, very dear. So I have rooted for them. Even so. Even so indeed. Who could possibly grudge long such enemies of one’s desire who had also set out, first fled and then fought, only to amend a wrong, to claim once more the happiness that was once theirs?

Bloody scenes are no place for celebration, but who dares speak for, or blame, those who had shed blood and tears to emerge from the battlefield, clutching within bruised hands the hard-earned prize of life?

So here I admit my hypocrisy, my ever-lacking principles. That though I had tried to aid the people dear to me. That though I rent my precious pledge to prevent the happiness of strangers. I was not so devastated, or filled with anger, or despaired of Fate’s unfairness, or even saddened, even disheartened, as I watched that scene which Galathus could but resent, of Wisteria and Hyacinth, of their tearing faces wrinkled with laughter and sobs of joy.

It was not violent, howling like the wind, twisted and tunneled by cragged mountains, until through a deep gorge escaped. It was not quietude, unerring and unaltering, like the still lake’s ripples enlarging arcs after a disrupting rock. Simple and confusing, unadulterated and crippled. 

There was Wisteria, biting her lips, mumbling unheard words. What she said then - the precise words of her overwhelmed by joy - none could hear but the two souls upon that ledge.

There was an attempt from Hyacinth to hug her, to calm her. Her trembling ceased not.

“I’m here,” one heard the knight whimper, “I am here. Here.” and sometimes, “...no more...”

And then the voices grew, clear and resounding, punctuated by halting hiccups, interrupted by subtle sobs.

“Don’t I know that!” said Wisteria, “But I must tell you... how much I have regretted, how much I tortured myself every waking hour. Well, but why speak of that? Since I did not regret so much as I had craved. I had craved for but another chance! And that was all ever I dared want! To apologize! Not even forgiveness, not even a chance to reconcile! But to speak of all the things I shouldn’t have done. To tell you what a fool I had been. To confess all my sins, my jealousy, my selfishness, all I could never betray even by the faintest hints to my family, my servants and colleagues. For they are weaknesses! Unbefitting weaknesses! And I am a Loredan, proud and flawless. Not the dumb and wretched thing I really am. And you, you are the sole person in this world I may show such ugliness without scruple! Don’t you know, I asked to speak to you one last time before the ritual for that reason! For that last chance to remove all doubts, but banish lingering hopes!”

“But you need not that now,” so the knight held her wyverness tight, saying in a firmer voice, if winded by excitement, “They are now without a reason to exist! And all the things you call ugliness - by my side, you need not care to conceal! The pledge conquers all, does it not? And all the things your family and people ridicule shall ever be land-locked. Meanwhile, you and I will soar the skies; what are they but the useless bygones! We are one. And henceforth shall be everything ever we need, Wisteria!”

“Ah, how you utter my name...” lifting her visage from the knight’s shoulder, she stared into the other’, “Don’t you know how much I missed it... Don’t you know? Have you the slightest idea? The hundred things about you that I have missed and pained me so? Your eyes, your touch, my every memory... and yet... And yet... The worst of it all that I could not forget, not for all the peace I hankered - your pained look - once regarding me as your enemy, and rightly so! You are my greatest bane! I rejected you for my foolishness, my useless obligations! I know you better than aught; your pain I saw too clearly! Of course I hurt you for a lifetime worth of pain! How could I - how can a living being hurt another so? Cruel deed! Accursed thing! Know you some nights I dreamed of hurting you, over and over again? How am I to bear such a thing and hold to sanity? I feared myself, that disgusting, revolting creature!”

“But no more! Avast!” Hyacinth cried, “You will keep your peace. Leave all your sorry memories behind! But if you can’t... even so! We have that now: all the time in the world for the darkest of pain to ease. Time! How only some years before I had thought so little of it. But now so simple, ever-present a thing could promise so much! So please stop your tears, and smile. Smile, Wisteria, for I miss your smile so...”

“Hyacinth,” the wyverness clung to the girl, her embrace so fierce, one thought she feared someone was to come and take the girl again from her. And she cried all the more miserably for it. “Don’t you see? Don’t you get it? Hyacinth dear, I just told you. I told you just now... I could not bear the pain of hurting you. I hurt you! I hurt you so once already! Then how could I... how in damnation could I ever do it again?” And she broke down. “Don’t you see? Don’t you see? Don’t you see? I hurt you once. And even now I am hurting you again! How could I!”

“What are you saying Wisteria? I am not hurt, there is no way...” Hyacinth stared back aghast.

“No, no, no, not you!” her voice raised to the pitch of hysteria. And for a moment I thought all the overwhelming joy had momentarily maddened the girl. But ere long she regained her composure, pushing Hyacinth slightly away, though her eyes crazed still. “I knew it... I knew it... I do not deserve this happiness! All this effort, only to lose it all again--”

“What say you?” Hyacinth shook her now, horrified by the dark look on her pair’s face, “What queer way you conceive joy! I am here, look with your own eyes! And never I shall let us part again!”

“No, you dumb fool!” Wisteria wailed, “How could I - How could I ever? You are precious to me. To be with you like so, though but for scarce a moment, everything that is wrong with this world in all these years is amended! But Hyacinth, Hyacinth, Hyacinth-- I loved you so. I love you even more now, having lived a life without you. That shall never change! Never I think, for this wretched thing could never forget... But, have I the right to it? Oh no, I do not. Not at all! I ruined it all - so I have not the right. And what’s more, how could I ever see you in pain again?” Even as she said, her hand reached to the locket in her chest as always when she was troubled, but this time, she clutched it with all her desperate being.

“Do not! Do not, dear,” Hyacinth cried, “You would undo me again? What speak in contradictions! That is hurting me! That is banishing me once more to the dark confines!”

Wisteria cracked a pained smile, “Is that so? But I shall not confine you, no more. No one person has the right to that deed, not even you! But this thing upon my chest keeps another part of you, that neither you nor I may deny. I cannot treat it as a thing to be discarded, no more than I can repeat the deed of that year!”

“No!” she cried, clutching the wyvern’s shoulders, “Hear me, do not do this thing! Is what we are now not what you want? This is what I want! Do not do this to yourself, Wisteria, my pitiable fool! Why is it that you keep putting your foolish ideal over your own happiness, time and time again! You are rejecting me once again with like reason, like mindless penance! You do not deserve this!”

“You are cruel, oh so cruel, Hyacinth! To say such cruel words... don’t you think I already know that? Do I not know what I want in my heart of hearts? Ah, all too well! So stop - oh for my sake, no more - I cannot endure this! Even I - not even I can endure much more! Ask me not to hurt you, aught part of you!”

“I care not of myself! Do you hurt yourself, you hurt me also!”

“And yet,” she sobbed, “and yet, that is precisely why... You already know, don’t you? Once you feel again all your time with her, that which imprinted upon your very soul, and no mere grayed-out memories, you are going to fall in love with her all the same, and you will see the truth. Between us there remained only memories inked in pains, waned feelings long corrupted in hate and regrets. You need not it, don’t you? Or why else would making you whole hurt me? For you have chosen her once, even at the dear cost of your soul, and you will do it again! Even so; Even so! I shall nevermore repeat my sin, my greatest mistake! Don’t be cruel, but go! Go!”

From the wyverness’ lips, a painful wail rent the dark hall, shaking its ancient foundation. And she crushed the locket.