The immense undulation could not be described in words, in sounds or even in touch. A terrifying thing to stand on that soil as the cavern’s foundation shook. Somewhere in that desolate space, there appeared a crack that could only be beheld by the faintest perception of consciousness, but one that reached as deep as the bedrock of hell, stirring mysteries we could never imagine. I was sure of only one thing of the many that transpired then: that what we saw then was not for mortal’s eyes. The world had warped and what was there no longer existed, new shapes emerged and merged with the world where before there was naught. ‘Twas not so much that reality had been altered but ourselves, our perception, our memories, our very understanding were corrected. All of which shattered in the kaleidoscopic outburst of a rearranged truth. And once the colors settled, the unheard sound ceased ringing in our ears, and the stranglehold over our brains was released, we then saw that neither Wisteria nor Hyacinth was there any longer.

On that hanging ledge from the ancient wall stood a lonely figure, on whose features I marked many a similar aspect, even as the slight, bleeding creature in Valerian’s arms. But not wholly.

And yet, without a doubt, that was Acis as I knew her. Captured by a shock that verily shook her, the knight stared aghast at her empty hands, those that only moments before had embraced someone so dear to her. But now, even of that crucial truth she could no longer be sure. She was half-dreaming. For the opposite of truth and reality could only be falsehood and dream.

She turned towards us. The dirtied, grimy locks swayed, displaying a striking contrast in their varied hues. Stripes of black marked her hair, that color that she once bore in her days of youth, now mixing in, tainting the pristine white. It was not something I at once recognized, the synthesis of two beings, but only the one who knew both so dear could readily discern it. So it was that Galanthus gasped. And Acis answered her gaze with eyes of shifting colors, alternating between light blue and opal gray.

The changed knight clambered down the ledge and in hasty steps made for her pair. And they joined, and Valerian released the wyverness to her knight’s purchase. I do not think many words are needed to describe their union, so I shall leave it to your imagination. As for us, Valerian, Litzia and I, we found an apt reason to excuse ourselves from the scene. 

In the aftermath of the quake, there now stood in the ancient wall something blending so well with its surroundings, that I could not be sure it wasn’t there before. Only that I had beheld it, in equal dimness, in another place, at a time now seemed ages ago. A door, ancient and dusty. The last time I saw it, I had remarked that the intricate and queer carvings of grotesque beings upon its surface did not fit at all to the crude surroundings of the Loredan estate’s basement.

I did not tell the two of the fact, for there was no question as to the door’s obvious nature. It would be where this story drew to a close, I was sure. There was no crude lock upon it now, now that its location alone sufficed to keep prying eyes away. And yet, whether the conclusion sits well with aught of us, we were part of the story now, and the ending necessitated our witnessing. Thus, we entered the door, braving what dark aftermath it still harbored.

Naturally it was unlit. No lamps, no candles, no mysterious ambient light entered that place. Only an imperfect darkness illuminated by a long extinguished sun, now conjured by way of memories, a world away from its natural habitat. For it was in a scene of the past that the remembered sun peered through the drawn damask curtains. A fully furnished room, as it was when the owner expired, whose exquisite nature pointed to its being the living space of a woman of great import. A canopy bed situated in the middle of the room, where lay the once mistress. Upon the plush seat by this bed, the vanished wyverness now sat looming over the woman.

“They come,” said the woman in a faint voice, “are they your friends, Wisteria?” Her hair, once long and lustrous, now dampened in sweat, draped over the black horns crowning her brow.

“Estival alares, mother,” said she without turning to us, “one of them was my pair in the ritual.”

“Ah, I know which, a brightness in her eyes, though a shadow clouded it.” Notwithstanding her state much weakened by illness, the woman’s gaze was keen, as sharp as preying eagle as it swept over us. “And an azure alaris, how peculiar a sight.”

“Ma’am, should we be here?” Litzia inquired, “Perhaps you wish to spend the hour with your daughter.”

“No, stay. You are a part of our story now. And I must beg your pardon for the troubles I put you through.”

“So it is true then, that you hid Acis’ soul in wait for the ritual.”

Silently, the mother lifted her gaze to the ceiling of her room, where only darkness reigned. “Have ever you heard of the legend of our city, that myth of the fair Tithonus, Miss Alaris?

Valerian came forth to spare the woman the effort of a long tale, “That I know, or so at least the popular version. That long ago when the world was young, Aurora used to favor a beautiful and loving youth above aught else in her radiant host. The youth’s name was Tithonus, his home country the mountain where we stand. At first the Dawn must pursue him, for an immortal love is a mortal doom. But when a time passed and a mutual love was born, he begged the gods for immortality, but in mortal foolishness he failed to ask also for eternal youth. And so when the Gods granted his request he lived on for-ever though his earthly body withered into nothing.”

The mother lifted her head, propping herself on the velvet pillows, pale lips parted, “So all things come to a natural end, should they be mortal. I am one, and cannot ask for more than what my body avails. And yet there are things so dear one wishes even with all expiring strength to protect.” She glanced about one more, as if to make certain. “I see that Hyacinth is not here. I would have liked to meet her one last time, for I have done a great many wrongs to her family... ah, terrible things! The twists of Fate, drive us to courses we dread to tread, and yet we must! I do not sue for clemency before the Scales, esteemed alares. But only to atone and abate my heart that I contrived one last ploy in my long life of intrigues. And she asked me, you know, Hyacinth’s mother, with whom I once shared a pledge, to aid her daughter. ‘Twas an unreasonable request, for when she asked me I myself lived on borrowed time. So we begged for one last boon, as former sisters in the pledge, of the shining Mistress. Not for Tithonus' immortality, but for my fractions of time, my last hour in the realm of the living to be scattered. That necessitated a place to locate it. So I instructed my most loyal servant to reassemble my room in a space the mistress linked to her realm under the mountain. And it was nicely done, for the basement of our estate reached deep, in many senses. At any rate, there I remained as flickers in time, blinking in and out of existence. The nights I came through the passage of time, I brought my daughter with me to the dark realm, so ever she remembered the path to this room. I imparted my little bits of wisdom, I soothed her little heart that’s wounded by tormentors by day. But chief of all I constructed a place in reminiscence of the past. Look yonder.” She gestured to the opposite wall of the door where we entered.

Paintings of the children even in the order revealed to me in the basement back then were in full display.

“These are memories. These are concrete evidence of that girl’s existence, who you thought was gone. And so even as the little girl I painted ever lived on in Wisteria, her memory imprinted on the undermountain’s halls, so the paintings provide a nurturing anchor for the discarded soul. A spell of this nature was unleashed to divert your attention and turned Wisteria back to her wonted self in this place. As for Acis, there was not a way to preserve a soul without a body, you see. Not one that had been thrown away so carelessly. But I kept it alive. And ‘twas no mindless soul. But one with thoughts and desire. One that craves existence, one that hankers for a little bit of warmth beyond the confines of its prison. You understand, don’t you, Miss Azure?”

I flinched. That I did. A thing to be tossed aside, a thing unwanted by nature. An error of existence. And yet it wants life.

“So that day, after so long a time, it felt the presence of its old body when my daughter invited the new soul to our estate. And if I had aught doubt as to my purpose before that, I became sure then. That soul deserves life. It seemed Hyacinth had driven that girl’s body into a mindless wander, and almost had displaced the constructed soul when the magic that sustained it was deprived by distance. But that would not do, for the trial had not yet come. It was not my wish to simply release the soul forcefully back to whence it came. The children must decide for themselves! So the locket kept from exerting its full influence over the body.”

The rest of the story, of course, was known to us. And she need not tell what we already knew well. But as I thought of what had transpired, the ordeal, the contests, some few questions remained.

“But why,” I asked, “must you wait for the trial? By releasing the locket power back when Acis visited your estate, the soul would have merged the same way it now is. And the girl who is both Acis and Hyacinth would have chosen the same course now: persisting by Galanthus’ side.”

“Call it selfishness then,” answered the mother, “My old pledge-sister wished to prevent her daughter from foolishness, so did I want to see my daughter’s smile.”

“Why Mother?” suddenly Wisteria spoke up in an even tone, for all this time she had been in a sullen silence. “There is but cruelty. If ever I had any hope, it is now forever dashed.”

“Why, child? Because you are strong. You are stronger than your sisters and your father. You are stronger than Hyacinth and the White End. You are stronger even than I, who they call the Iron Apostle. And so I must break you. Because by being strong you are weak. One cannot always be strong, Wisteria dear. I feared that you would eventually break. Most people survive being toyed with by Fate by retreating back to their weaknesses, abandoning principles when they become too difficult to protect. They make excuses, they wallow in bad habits, they drown themselves in compromises. It is a truth of living that a justified weakness can sustain a person as well as an unwavering strength. But you have no ground to retreat to, you are too proud to allow yourself to. You could not tolerate even a moment of indignity. So you tortured yourself for the sin you committed, became angry at yourself for even daring to entertain delusions. That vain love lingering in your heart you absolutely despise. 

“Of course, it is right to move on from a broken heart. Perhaps it is for the better to confront the truth head-on. But people are not made that way, Wisteria. Even you must have limits. I fear, oh Wisteria, I fear to death, that should one day your convictions be pushed to the extreme, when the world be bent on destroying you, you would turn on your principles and be cynical even of your prized values. I do not want the beautiful things about you to be lost, my beloved. Perhaps they are too beautiful for this ugly world, but still I want to protect it. So in my selfishness I gave you a chance to be weak.

“And indeed you fell to temptation, Wisteria! Your desperate love spurred you to a theft. If only for a moment, you had attempted to lock a part of your loved one away, so that you might have her all for yourself. You were willing to harm others for your own selfish desire. And you did not merely think about it, but have acted on it. You have erred. You have sinned. It is a cruel thing, as you said, to force your hand so. Indeed. But life has worse in store for you. I fear much worse, dear. But you were strong enough here. By admitting the grim truth of your weakness, not accepting, but being aware of the devil, you may brave the coming challenges. You can’t do away with the devil by force, no more than the world can be ridden wholly of evil.”

The woman’s face paled. For a while she breathed hard as her daughter sat there dumbly. The time drew near.

“But you will smile. Not today, but one day. Now that you have striven in earnest to obtain that thing precious to you. You will never again need to wonder what it would have been like if you had done everything without scruples to win your love. Ah, I pray that day will come... Knight of Ala Estival, what be your name?”

Valerian started, but she moved closer to the bed as beckoned by the dying woman. She answered the question.

“Valerian. What is the shadow which clouds your bright eyes?” the mother enquired firmly. In that hint of steel and her weakened voice, one glimpsed what she had been like in life.

“Losts, ma’am. I am the thing you feared your daughter could become. I have turned on my principles and my faith, I have lost all that I once held dear to my heart without hope to ever regain.”

The mother looked long in those clouded eyes, then smiled inexplicably, “Bestow all you could. Begrudge not the poor aught gifts. But be charitable even with your lesser alms.”

“But be charitable even with your lesser alms,” Valerian automatically followed, “Your flaws, your sorrows, your ignoble shame.”

“For even those things one deems unwanted are offerings to the Goddess Ashura, Charity, is that not one of your faith’s precepts? You may have turned on her, but I do not think she has done the same. Share your flaws, give your sorrows to the poor of heart, teach the shameless your ignoble shame. You may not be a perfect follower, young knight, but there are things even you can offer to her service.”

“I... can try, ma’am,” Valerian said. There was doubt still in those clouded eyes.

“Would you give those unwanted offerings to my daughter, Valerian?”

She did not answer but gazed down upon the seated wyverness.

The wyvernesss raised her head at her mother's words. Staring back, she said with equal doubt. “You can try.”

“Then perhaps I will.”

It is an uncertain thing. But it is something.

The mother sighed, then smiled vaguely. “She and I,” turning her gaze back to the dark void overhead, she breathed, “A lifetime ago, we had been sisters in the pledge... perhaps even friends. Still we did not like each other overmuch, you know. Tradition regardless dictated our pairing. Long I had suspected that such tradition must end someday, though not so soon. For the better, I hope...”

And she passed.

This time Wisteria cried. But it was a natural thing to cry for, something long expected. For all things mortal must one day pass on. And perhaps after long years of arriving at the dream’s end and beholding her mother on the invariable deathbed, she had prepared herself amply. But still, it is in mortal nature to grieve even for the inevitable. What unnatural is putting on a brave face though one is saddened, or looking at this sorry world and saying with a straight face in uninterested speech: “It is how it is.”

After all this time. After all these years.