Information

Ronni has a minion!

Terminus the Golden Marauder

Ronni
Legacy Name: Ronni

The

Custom Bloodred Neela
Owner:

Tribe

Age: 6 years, 10 months, 2 weeks

Born: June 4th, 2017

Adopted: 2 years, 3 weeks, 3 days ago

Adopted: March 26th, 2022

This pet has been nominated for the Pet Spotlight!

Statistics

Level: 310
Strength: 773
Defense: 771
Speed: 770
Health: 770
HP: 765/770
Intelligence: 254
Books Read: 246
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Combo Creator

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helix (get it)
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Tribe with tips from

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story by

Tribe
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dalice
background courtesy of Unsplash user Rene Böhmer

The Age of Old Gods is Over

God is dead.
I killed him.

The ichor, spattered all over, darkly gleams gold in the first rays of morning.

The god's heart still beats, a faint one-two tempo in my hand; it's beautiful, like a living gemstone run through with golden threads. I raise a goblet brimming with godsblood to my lips, down it without a second thought.

His body lies crumpled at my feet, grotesquely bloodied, his eyes peacefully closed.

He carried himself with a long-suffering countenance, harried by the passing centuries. He bowed his head, asked me to end it.

This isn't what I came for--

I am no zealot: just someone seeking to reconcile the modern present with the lore of long-standing past.

I didn't know these travels would end with blood on my hands.

Mum raised us--three girls: Rhiannon, Branwen, Nimue--in the Old Way, with the antiquated eccentricities and traditions of the Old Gods. We grew up nurtured by this spark of mythology, our bedtime stories ripe with larger-than-life figures: Salixa the Protectress, Malum the Destroyer, Analia the Watcher, Veiss the Absolver, Nariel the Daring...

Gods and their angels, their morals fickle and flawed in our fables--a warning that even the mightiest are not infallible, perhaps.

I remember the sunny afternoons where we played in the yard; Mum would watch over us with a music box in hand, its tune sweet--if not a bit tinny--ringing in the air. That tune, that tune: the backdrop to so much of our youth. My sisters and I grew sick of it as we got older; we drowned out its simple tune with radio pop hits and telly programming, with loud bickering aplenty.

Over the years, Mum chastised us for straying, tried to bring us back into the fold time and time again. Yet we three strove to roam--to leave these old ways where they belonged, deep and dusty in the past. The world had changed much since those figures, be they real or not, left their marks on these fantastical histories.

We set forth to make our own marks, reckless little girls playing at being part of the modern world.

We were not ready for the rude awakenings awaiting us.

We were doe-eyed, yet defiant. We believed ourselves strong, believed ourselves ready; whatever the world held, we would face together.

Yet who are three girls setting out into the world with brash, brazen ideals and heads full of long-forgotten stories?

Prey.

It made us prey.

... Deer in the headlights.

Nimue was the most innocent of us three, the baby of the family. Despite the lanky angles of adolescence, Nim hadn't quite lost that baby-roundness to her features. Her hair framed her face in soft honey curls, wherein she peered out with curious green eyes above her lil upturned snub nose.

She was naively sweet, so sympathetic and kind--she'd rebuff you so gracefully that you'd hardly know she said no lest you were listening for it.

So it was men who helped themselves to her innocence, her gentle rejection falling on deaf ears; whether they did not realize or did not care, they carved their damage deep onto her.

She said it felt like everything had spun out of control, like she couldn't find what were the right boundaries; she didn't know how to protect herself anymore.

We wiped away her tears, held her hand, smothered her in hugs, kissed her forehead as she trembled and shook. We consoled her with supportive words and stayed by her side when the nightmares took her, when they became too real and kept her screaming in the dark.

We tried to protect her. We tried. Oh gods, we tried. We tried to shore up her worries, scaffold her weaknesses--

Yet still, the trauma claimed her, crystallizing in an episode of delirium--a tragic one that drove her to take an extreme act. It was a desperate act, a kind of frenzied, fucked up agency that threw all caution and regard to the winds.

That haunting fear, it must've felt inescapable. This brash final act must've felt like her own chance to take control, this one last act of self.

It was her cruelest act: one that twisted her pain into ours, one that left us to pick up the pieces.

She would never grow old in our memory, a fresh-faced woman barely more than a girl.

Branwen took our loss harder, struggled to come to terms with it. In more ways than one, she blamed herself: that she couldn't protect little Nim when it counted, that she couldn't coax our little sister to make the right choices the ways she always did--like convincing our finicky eater to eat her cereal when her appetite was dead and dry, or to take long slow breaths with her in moments of panic.

Bran was a natural carer, full of little sage wisdoms and soothing words--ones that could reach the heart of your struggles, offer the solace you need.

Yet she struggled with this persistent baggage of hers, this tangled, traumatic knot of grief and shame and obligation--the what ifs and why couldn'ts. She held it quietly, patiently: waiting for it to unravel as the future beckoned us on.

Yet its insidious patience wore longer than Bran's, slowly unraveling her instead.

I think she saw much of herself in Nim--too much, perhaps.

It didn't help that their physical resemblance was striking. They were night and day in demeanor: Branwen, a few years older, had a face with carved, statuesque features that offset her natural curves; she carried herself with this knowing and unshakeable dignity, almost verging on haughtiness. Yet in spite of this difference, they both had Mum's eyes, though Bran's were the hazel of summer to Nim's bright spring greens. Their curls were touched with the same ethereal frizz, with Bran's being a deeper, richer gold than Nim's bright honey hair.

She'd always doted on Nim--some even mistook them as mother and daughter--and, with her gone, Bran struggled to make shape of herself still.

After a handful of years, we parted ways; she returned home to Mum to retrace the steps to what was familiar. From her many hand-penned letters and sparse text messages, it seems that Mum convinced Bran to partake in the Old Way once more, that they'd made amends and lived happily together. In her correspondence, Bran wholeheartedly encouraged me to stay in the city, to find my place here; she said that all was good in the family home, that there was nothing to worry about.

And so there I was, the eldest, alone in this modern world, one I grew up alongside but not quite within. It was still a touch strange to me, a bit mysterious in its ways.

But I survived, resilient and hardy; my gray-brown eyes are now cold and flinty in the mirror when I stare back at my reflection--the fall and winter to my sisters' sunnier eyes. My hair, all this time, stays largely the same: half-straight waves in an ashy medium brown, chopped a few inches past shoulder length.

Four seasons in my three little girls, Mum always said. The three of us used to roll our eyes at the little saying, but I see it more of what she meant now.

The twelve-spoked wheel of the year rolls round, time and time again. The tread of its path battered and bent me--but I never broke.

I made it: weathered and weary, but wiser, stronger, savvier.

I made my peace with the present, worked some odd jobs--barista, hostess, tarot reader--until settling down as a bartender in a bustling establishment tucked in affluent corner of downtown. Rhiannon was too long a name for such a busy place, so I slipped back into the familiarity of a childhood nickname: Ronni--a snappy name for a snappy living. It was a quaint, witchy kind of place: black lacquered counters with dark plush velvet seats and glimmering beaded curtains, gold filigree galore and a sprinkling of shiny knickknacks--which were, of course, bolted down to prevent them from "sprouting legs" and running off.

I smiled winningly at patrons and made clever, glib conversation as I shook my cocktail shaker and poured their drinks. I watched as some drunk themselves into near stupors, handled my share of angel shots, dealt with disorderly individuals with decisive enough ease.

It was a simple enough life--certainly not the most well-paid, but it was comfortable.

It was when I received word from Mum, the letter scrawled in weak, messy handwriting, that I learned of Branwen's passing. Mum urged me to come home, to keep her company and help manage her things.

So I left behind the busy city: its highrises reaching up into the skies, the glimmer of its bright streetlamps, its pavement cracked and half-puckered with wear. I started for the sleepy place that was once home, tucked in the verdant mountain foothills.

The air is crisp, cool, bracing--the way I remember it. It brings back memories of running in the yard and cozy blanket snuggles by the fireplace. The little cottage is all fresh and fixed up, a fresh coat of paint sprucing up the humble place. Mum greets me on the porch, a wizened little lady with a slow wave and quiet voice.

"Hi Mum," I say as I make my way up the steps with a suitcase, the rest of my things still in the moving truck. I want to say more, but I'm too choked up to continue.

"Lovely to see you, dear. It was nice getting letters, but you here?" She wraps me up in a familiar hug, then holds me at arm's length to peer more carefully at my face. "I can hardly believe it. You really ought've come by more often when the girls... were here."

Mum is so small, so frail feeling as I hug her back--like a baby bird you need to carefully hold.

"Girls?" I balk, confused. "I thought only Branwen was here--there's no one else out here, Mum."

"I must be getting dull with age. Maybe imagining things." She shakes her head. "Come, come, darling. Let's get you settled in."

The alpine sun streams in through the windows, giving the rooms a kind of cozy lit warmth; the whole place is smaller than it was in my memory. I stop in my tracks, take it all in.

Save for a thin coat of dust, the place is well-kept and tidy. You can tell Bran's been here; there's little bits of stitched handiwork--neat patterns of lavenders and succulents and Celtic knots and cosmic moons--on the lampshades, the tea cozies, the throws on the living room armchairs. She always had clever hands; Nim called them "handy hands" in the way of sweet sisterly teasing, often at the expense of being tickle-attacked by said hands. Bran always had something in progress, working on some little project: baking, painting, stitchery, crochet--any manner of craft, really.

It almost aches seeing the reminders of Bran here, knowing that she wasn't around with a fresh batch of something in the oven--something to snack on during our little talks. I miss her: miss her nurturing sweetness, miss her considerate nature.

She's gone.

She wasn't perfect; after all, we're only human and making the best of what we got.

Even as she was, she was wonderful.

This place--it's haunted with the ghosts of memory, Nim and Bran wrapped up all together. I press my lips together, trying not to let the tears well and spill over; the knot in my throat is overwhelming, oppressive.

There's a gentle hand on my back, one that softly guides me. "There now, sweet. Let's not linger here too long--c'mon, let's go to your room." Mum says it quietly, solemnly.

Our childhood room in the loft feels even smaller still, like the peaked ceiling is a swift gale away from snapping shut like a book; I suppose that's a kind of gruesome thought, sitting here like a kind of bookmark--the last one standing, the sister holding the place in our story.

It feels too empty without the other two: no girl talk, no bickering, no reconciliatory snuggles. There's just the silence--the too hollow, empty silence that's too loud on its own.

I rummage through my space, sifting through mementos of the past:

Of growing up--barrettes and beaded bracelets and scattered dried flowers, pretty stones and stray drawings.
Of feeling grown--magazines and ticket booklets and half-scribbled itineraries, to-do lists and half-read stories.
All mixed with that dawning feeling of being grown--the overwhelming nostalgia for what used to be, the innocence of unknowing what was to come.

I sit among my field of memories for far too long, reminiscing in what was and what could've been. As I tidy my way through the room, a sight catches me off-guard: hair ribbons, laid out neatly across Nimue's nightstand and held in place by a thin book volume.

That's how she used to lay them out, day after day. That book? Her favorite retellings of Salixa's folk stories, penned by a far-off ancestor or other.

All I can feel is this horrific, perverse dread--a mounting horror that threatens to erupt. This? This is grieving in its most cruel and twisted form, a denial lived and breathed.

Nim is gone. Nim has been gone for years--almost two decades now.

But this? This makes it feel like she was just here. I feel sick to my stomach: that nauseous, bitter-sick feeling that twists up your insides with maniacal glee. The kind of twisting that unwinds the careful ways I tried to move on: the tiptoe around what it meant to lose her--the ways I quietly tried to contain my grieving as Bran spiralled without her.

It mixes in with a different kind of mourning: the dread-mixed regret that I didn't fully mourn her, that I was too quick, too eager to leave her in the past.

A fury rises, some mixture of righteous and irrational; I storm down to the den, my shout outright accusatory. "How, how could you do this? This isn't right, this can't possibly be right!"

Mum peeks in the doorway. "What's the matter, Ronni?"

"Nim's gone, Nim's gone." I'm already tearfully inconsolable, hysterically blithering through half-sentences. "The ribbons. The book." I take shaky half-breaths, ones that don't quite bring in air. "She's not here. The place." More sobbing breaks through, the anger puttering out into despair. "Like she's here."

"Oh, hun." Mum comes to my side, holds me close. "I know. It's hard for me too."

I shake as I cry, quiet questions whispered through tears. "Why would you? How could you?"

"Bran kept it that way." She looks back at me with sad eyes: green-gray, like some mix of my sisters and mine. "And if Bran can't explain, it's not my place to put words in her mouth."

Bran, why do this? Did it not kill you inside to see this reminder, over and over again? None of this seems to make sense. I heave through more sobbing as I sit curled up on the floor for the next hour, the waterworks fully on show. What didn't you tell me?

Mum stays by my side, motherly patting my back the way she used to when coaxing us to nap. She gets up thrice: once to drape a blanket over me, another time to brew up two mugs of tea, the last time to light the hearth.

The fire beats back the dark; basking in its warmth, we sit quietly and sip our tea late into the night.

It's a peaceful few years with Mum--a quiet life, one that lives on the borders of modernity.

We reconnect in a lot of ways; I take the time to listen and learn, take in what the Old Way means to her. Gradually, I come around and slowly explore what it means within my own understandings and experiences. We stay up late having candleside chats, usually drinking tea during these conversations.; it becomes a kind of tradition for us, a kind of quiet candlelight vigil for what we've lost as a family.

We speak of gods and angels and witches, of might and magic. We speak of those mythical, fantastical stories and what they mean--what we are meant to understand and what simply is to know. We speak of consequences and tradeoffs and finding balance, of bloodlines and destinies. I'm not sure I fully believe it all, but I listen to the stories, taking note of their details and symbols and themes.

In these stories, I see my sisters and me: wavering parallels of patterns that repeat themselves in the fabric of history.

The two gods, Salixa and Malum, are two halves of the same duality. Salixa, stately and shrewd, led them both out of the primal base natures; she opened the way to peace between them, to reconcile their need for each other in care rather than conflict. Malum witnessed her great burden, understood the ways in which they broke her--and was the one most wounded by her choice to pass the torch to the angels of her origin.

In their story, I see Nimue and the tragic fallout of her end: the ways the world bowed and broke her, the way she grappled with the great trauma of her experiences, the ways in which she twisted the knife in both Bran and me with one selfish fell swoop of painful escapism.

The archangels Ananiel and Verchiel, better known as Analia and Veiss, are gentle and forgiving--the best of the angels. They are those that understand the delicate balance of authority and compassion.

Analia is best known for making amends with the Old God Malum, who bore a long-standing grudge with the angels for their lackadaisical and conceited approach to their obligation, their purpose. She is patient, yet decisive and stern; she is most at grips with the landscape of what was, what is, and what will be.

Veiss best knows man for their follies and flaws, devoted to healing the hurts of the soul; his legendary compassion is highly spoken of in the Old Lore. He proffers a blanket acceptance of even the most broken, on the mere condition to strive--in whatever small capacities are within grasp--for change; he seeks for those under his wing to find healing on their own terms.

In them, I see an imprint of Bran, who strove to keep her heart open and patient. I see the ways in the way she cared for others, tried to give others what they needed--and see all too clearly the ways in which our mortal humanity forces us to struggle with this balance of self and others.

Nariel chased the lure of human thrills, sought to explore what lay beyond the sanctimonious gates of the angelic realm. To punish her straying from their sacred ways, elder angels struck the wings from the young seraph; they thrust her into the mortal world, forcing her to fend for herself and come to terms with what the consequences meant for her identity within the seraphic ranks.

In her tale, I place myself: one who seeks to wander, one who bears the burden, one who survives the stakes.

There is one last story, an age-old spirit that closely knows the nature of death: Hamaliel. He is one who wanders the earth, reaping the souls to ferry to the Other Side. Little is written about him, but there are fragments enough to piece together his being. He is one of the first born of Salixa's sacrifice, presumably as powerful as the archangels--yet he is somehow lost to the annals of history.

He is, at best, a mystery. I'm not sure what to make of him, but his indistinct place in the mythos is like a reverberation: an echo, a fragment of something that was.

Mum too passes young, late-fifties in a world wherein decades more were in order. Her last months were half-delirious, a slow-burn watch as she crumbled as a person. She mumbles about being blood of witches, of a birthright born to the bloodline; she murmurs of Old Gods and magic, of a past broken by the present. Somewhere in the haze of her confusion, she pulls out a wooden block from somewhere in the cottage, insisting that it's a box that will open when it's the right time. It has no seams, no hinges to indicate that there is more than meets the eye; we wait together day after day for it to open, but it remains a stolid block.

I made the funeral preparations on my own: wrapped her in a shroud of blankets embroidered by Branwen, its ties fashioned from Nimue's plentiful hair ribbons. I set her adrift downriver in the family canoe; she was always most at peace near the water, in spite of our rambunctious childhood antics.

The cottage is too quiet with only me here, a place of memories and haunts.

I wind the music box, hoping to find some kind of solace in its tune, one unheard for years on end; on the contrary, its opening notes only irritate me, incensing a wild, unthinking frustration. In a moment of rash impulse, I throw it against the hearth. With a crumpling crash, its delicate wooden shell smashes against the brick, spilling the guts of its metal mechanisms on the floor.

I can't think straight; I fall to my knees with my face in my hands, weeping.

Quietly, quietly, the top of the wooden block swings open, revealing its contents: a worn compass, long battered by the ages.

Left to its own devices, the compass needle swings wildly--an unsteady navigator pointing to both everything and nothing. When in my hands, the needle steadies; not towards true north, but is, nonetheless, set on its course. If you listen closely, it sometimes hums with eerie song; the hazy melody sings with a deep-throated timbre, a keening steeped in a mourner's yearning. Yet it is familiar... I didn't recognize it at first; it's on the tip of my tongue, just out of reach. I keep it close by, let its song ring as I do chores around the property and tidy around the house. I find myself humming along, trying to recall what exactly it is.

It takes some time, but--eventually--it clicks: it's the music box song, the lower half of it.

The coincidences are uncanny--unsettling, even. Yet, as reckless as it is, I follow the song-bound compass. I take care of my affairs and make the proper arrangements, charting the path of my journey and setting off into the unknown.

It reminds me of leaving home with my sisters--this feeling of not knowing what's next, taking in each new moment with bated breath.

Before, I had my sisters; now, it's too quiet. It feels almost too lonely to travel like this, impatiently tapping my foot in wait of the next stop. I board the planes, the trains, the trams--all manner of transport, hoping to find the unknown destination of my course. I repeat the compass inscription to myself, a kind of comforting mantra: may the road rise to meet you, the wind always be at your back.

It points on.

And still I follow, through bustling metropolis and forested paths and forgotten ruins and the muck of marsh; my bank account dwindles, my stomach grumbles, my patience runs short. It is weeks passed when I stumble upon His refuge.

He wasn't expecting visitors.

The grotto is carved out from the base of the cliffs, its edges smouldered with signs of lightning strike. The surrounding air crackles with electricity, keeps your hairs on end.

The compass hums in my hands, perfectly matched to his singing. He sits at a languid pool's edge, knapping a statuette from the pale flint in his hands.

I stand at the entrance, peeking cautiously. I don't know what comes over me, but I start to sing along, filling in the higher notes--completing the melody, the one from the music box.

"You." He draws himself up to his full height, a towering man of tanned medium skin and silvery eyes; his charcoal hair is disheveled, messy. Eyes narrowed, he spits the word out, venom in his accusation, as he spins to face me with eyes blazing. Those angry eyes, a half-crazed fury in his glare. "Who do you think you are? You come here, singing a sacred song as if you have the right to it?"

I can't quite find the words to respond; instead, I open my hands to reveal the compass, its needle freely spinning once more.

"Ah..." He seems to shrink into himself. "I see."

"I'm... not quite sure where I've wandered, but I followed its course." My answer is soft, almost uncertain.

We sit in uncomfortable silence for a second too long.

He breaks it, softly asking. "Do you know what you hold, witchling?"

I shake my head slightly, watching the needle skitter.

"That... compass has a history, a purpose. Salixa and I used that compass to find each other whenever we separated to quell disasters in the mortal world. It was always meant to find the other, bound by the song we wrote together." He closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath. "It was lost after her passing."

I soundlessly shrug, still nervous in his presence.

He looks at me with sad eyes. "I see you have wandered much, child of magic." He sighs, sets his handicrafts down. "I wonder how much you know. Come, walk with me."

The sea winds stir the salt-heavy air, gray clouds above the crashing waves. He dons a cloak mantled in storm-grey feathers, offers me one trimmed in golden furs; I take it, slip it over my shoulders.

He sets off at a brisk walk, but is quick to talk, almost brusque. "Tell me, little one: did you notice that, in your journey here, that you crossed into another dimension?"

I give him a wide-eyed look of confusion. "What?"

"Ah, clueless. Delightful. No wonder so many of your kind died young." He takes a deep sigh. "You walked between dimensions into my pocket, which rests in the lower branches of Yggdrasil, the world tree. Dimension-walking is precarious even for talented mages, more so for clueless ones. Were you ever trained?"

"No." I shake my head. "I'm barely following as is."

"You came in knowing little enough." He clucks in tongue, rearranging how his cloak is sitting. "Witchling, do you know the principle of fundamental exchange?"

The phrase is vague, but hinted at in the Old Lore often enough. "It's the idea that everything is built on balance, a give and take."

"So you do know something." He nods. "Do you know how it applies to magic?"

"The best I can do is guess." I shrug, weighed down by the cloak. "I assume it has something to do with an exchange of something to perform an act of magic."

"Indeed. Often it is energy for energy; harnessed improperly, it burns down your lifespan and, eventually, your mind and body." He stares longingly at the horizon, twin suns hanging above the water. "The most basic of magics--dangerous as they are--are those birthed from your deepest of wills, done unconsciously. It has been the end of many a promising witchling."

"So, what's your point?" I cock my head in question.

He seems to ignore my question altogether, pausing in the sand. "Give me your hand, witch. Let me see your past, see what has transpired to bring you here."

I put my hand in his, confused.

He falls silent, his eyes sparking as his fingers glow in mine. As the glow fades, he looks at me somberly, his words gentle. "You have suffered much loss, witchling."

I can only soundlessly nod.

"Do you know the truth of what transpired between your sister and mother back home, what led to their untimely passing?" He says it tenderly, as if prepared for me to run.

I shake my head.

"Do you wish to know?" His words seem to tremble, on the brink of a truth that is too big, too terrifying to truly confront.

I am silent, my eyes filling with tears, but I nod. It's a timid little nod, one that struggles to find conviction.

"Let me find you some peace, little witch." He brings me into an awkward hug, almost fatherly. "Your mother is easiest to explain: her greatest wish for safety burned her candle down over the years."

He sighs. "Your sister is... a wholly more complicated matter." He takes a step back, his careful gaze on me. He presses his hands together, turns them to face his palms to his fingers; when he pulls his hands apart, a small scrying rift forms between them.

In the rift is the family cottage: my mother with both sisters full-grown, all living together. The scene shifts to show the day Bran passed: Nim disappeared without a trace--as if she was never there.

But she had been.

She'd been there, living and breathing and--

A heavy secret: one Bran kept from me.

His voice is husky. "She split her remaining years between herself and your youngest sister--fundamental exchange at its cruelest."

Everything falls still to white noise.

I fall to my knees in the sand. He is quick to catch me, bundling me back to the cave.

I wipe exhausted sleep from my eyes--a rest of denial, one that held the truths at bay.

He continues on the statue, knapping the stone with short, decisive strokes; he looks up only to press more questions. "Witchling, I must ask you something: you never heard the compass's song in the box? Only after it was in your hands?"

I nod, warming my hands on the crackling fire. "Aye."

"You lack a true attunement to magic, but I suppose you're gifted enough." A look of wonderment passes on his face. "Let me train you, little one."

I am exhausted, emotionally scooped out from my travels and these new revelations.

The truth is, I'm curious about what all this is, what it means.

But I nod, a more confidently resolute bob of my head.

In his little world, we spend nearly three years of twin-sun days honing my magecraft; at day's end, we huddle near the crackling fire, whispering of contemplations and happier times. They are a kind of a creature comfort, these little talks. They fill the silence with chatter and tales. He is full of stories, telling them with rich detail, his hands dancing along with his words; storytelling enlivens him, sparks rare joy in his weary eyes.

As a mentor, he is a brusque teacher, but one who--deep down--seeks to nurture. He trains me to harness the elements: to pull energy from air, to arc lightning through my hands, to summon fire and winds and water and earth.

"You make a fine mage." He says. "Just know your limits, Ro. You are more than ready."

"So why all this?" I blurt out the question long hanging in my mind. "Why did you train me?"

"Salixa trained the first witches; it seemed fitting I trained one of the last." The god laughs quietly to himself. "I mean for you to be my successor, little one. My time in the sun has been waning; new powers keep watch over this mankind. The angels do their duty and I grow ever closer to a day where I see Salixa again. My roaming is over and I crave this final rest, to unburden myself from the damnation of each new dawn."

"None of this training can make me a goddess." I'm stunned, taken aback by his words. "You said yourself that I lack true attunement."

"All that you say is indeed true, witchling. But finding a truly attuned witch is an undertaking in itself; in all my years, I know of only one. She proved to be a dangerous fool, a monster of no uncertain terms." Unbridled rage flashes in his hardened eyes for the barest moment before he composes himself again. "You simply miss the greatest caveat: I am training you to become a destroyer, a killer of gods." Malum smiles at me, slow and sad. "I do not need you to be powerful or gifted; I only mean to press my magics into your hands. You just need to be ready, to be prepared to wield this might with a most judicious will."

He laughs to himself. "I know you will; I have seen your past, glimpsed how it has shaped you today. In this time, I have seen how you carry yourself, how you trust your instincts, how you strive to do what's right."

His next words are loaded, heavy in their quietude. "So, can I ask you to do this, to undertake this burden?"

I hesitate, watching the fire dance in his eyes--gold on his silver. "Yes."

"Keep the angels in check for me, will you?" The Old God cracks a wry joke, gives me a bittersweet smile.

I smile back, a small near-breaking smile. "Of course, Malum."

"Give me your hands one last time, little one." He says it with a finality, a newfound peace in his demeanor.

I place my hands in his, my fingers slender in comparison to his rugged, weathered hands. We shine together, bathing the cavern in silvery light. His power courses through me in a heady rush, an unbridled strength twining into my being. He steps away, falling to his knees--a shrunken, broken god.

"Ronni, take that goblet--" He nods at a vessel of pewter and ivory before continuing. "--and drink my ichor once the deed is done." He looks up at me, his eyes truly happy for the first time. "Do it."

I draw together my focus, my hand glowing white-hot. I inhale deeply, quiet rivulets streaming down my face; I gather my resolve to plunge my hand into his chest--

And my fingers find purchase around his beating heart.