Just Illara
The week wasn't out before Illara found herself restless. Ever a creature in need of something to do, she had to find something or risk recklessness.
Her automaton finally arriving certainly helped with keeping her from launching directly into that. After days of wear and tear of walking once he followed her direction by Sending, he was in need of maintenance. They spoke nothing of what happened leading to his aloneness. Perhaps he did it out of kindness, knowing she couldn't bear it. Perhaps he did it for himself, unwilling to bring the mood down and live days or weeks under that cloud.
Perhaps he had his own hurt when she turned to nothing in his arms, nothing but the things she'd worn and specks of light. Perhaps he'd held onto what he could of her, kept carrying it because– after all these years– what else was he to do?
When he presented her with her jezail– her thesis item from so many years ago– she thanked him, even calling him by name to show the depths of her sincerity.
"Don't," he asked of her, voice a quiet warning.
And so she left it alone, letting them both instead do what they'd always done together: find something to work on, while he watched over her.
Her crown was missing from her effects he'd carried with her. It felt almost like fate, that.
Hadn't Vrinn been murmuring to her, pleading to her, she needed to find who she was without it?
Knot in her throat, the more she learned of what was happening in the world beyond the cold mountains of Lux Brumalis, she found she would have to. Her kingdom… was gone, and its remnants now belonged to her daughter. Time did not change her feelings in that regard, only affirmed to her she needed to let Naliya carve her own path with all that remained.
Still, it hurt.
It hurt when everything she stood for– the advancement of technologies meant to make living more productive, more luxurious– was the very thing the dragons declared needed eradicated from this world. At least her people, save for those who had chosen to stay, would be safe from the destruction they wrought and would yet wreak on the world, determined to undo all that had been advanced in the timeline she and the Morninglight Company had saved.
Still… still it hurt to sit on that mountain and imagine how the skylines were changing. How the rest of Athanor and Dalvath were falling– how the city spires in the former lands of Crypha would crumble. Perhaps Endora would be safe, she thought to herself. They, the keeper of prophecies.
… Fucking prophecies.
Mid-morning walk, the thought is enough to make her hurl what's left of her tea, mug and all, over the side of the mountain– leaving it to tumble end over end down a seemingly endless cliff.
Even her breath shivers in anger. Her companion by her side, normally silent, gives her a moment longer of it. Then his visored helm looking so much like a suit of curious armor turns her way, the helltech powering him burning as embers between the slits of the eyeguard. He asks, "How long will you let this rule you?" in the most unassuming of voices.
Rounding on him, she snaps, "As long as it takes me to get my son back!"
Unimpressed, he lets out a quiet hrm and looks over the pristine vista, mug now long out of sight. He notes, "It's been years like this, my Queen." It almost sounds gentle, but the harsh reality is soon to follow. "He brought war upon you, and he won. He killed you in the process. What more proof do you need that he's chosen his path?"
He only says so much aloud because Vrinn isn't present, she knows. Why, she doesn't know. It sounds very much like something Vrinn himself might agree with.
Illara clenches a fist by her side, one that trembles less the further she gets away from her initial outburst. She takes in a deep breath, considering her response, and sighs the answer out tiredly. "He doesn't stop being my son because of that. He… never will."
Another grunt of disagreement rumbles from the suit of armor.
"I can't just turn off the way I feel, what he is to me," she replies in the sharp tone of a reprimand. "I've tried for two years. I will never–" Her voice hardens now. "I will never give up on him."
The silence lingers for a moment, and then it's the automaton who turns to continue walking the jagged mountainside path. "When that costs you your second life, too, I refuse to be the one to carry you to the Anima pyre."
It's not an expectation she ever would have had, but the outright statement of it smarts all the same. Tongue pressed to the back of her canine, Illara looks out over the mountains and mist and huffs out an incredulous, petulant breath. His nerve.
But was he wrong?
Illara looks down at her palm, at the place a sun-shaped marking long ago found home. A pale blue ring is all that's in its place now, and it's one she's not called on with any frequency.
Perhaps that was wrong of her. Perhaps if she were to get through to Corvin, it would have to be through force she'd before not dared touch.
"Kenna," she asks of the spirit that stays even more silent to her than the demon inhabiting her automaton. "Would you be opposed to some training?"
Needless to say, Aurelien disapproved of her plan. "Illara," he plead with her in Dream Council. "You have to get this out of your mind. If you died…" His voice broke with the pain feels just from imagining if that were to happen. Such that Illara can't bring it upon herself to tell him she hadn't recovered from the stab-wound. Her hand came to touch the spot on her side anyway, eyes averting. "Please," he asked in a way she so often found hard to resist. "Promise me, my love." The most she could summon was a smile, small and apologetic. Her eyes shimmered as she looked up at him, even though it was a dream. "I can't fix all of this. What's done can't be undone. But if I can't fight at least for him… what else do I have to live for, Aurelien?" Hurt and conflict swam in both their expressions, and in the end he came to her only to wrap her in an embrace, his wide wings encircling her, too, in that process. "There's so much," he promised her quietly. "You just have to choose it." Her fingers dug into the fabric of his robes with the intensity she returned his hug, holding onto him like it will help her summon the strength to take a path other than the one she pines for– one where somehow everything becomes right again in the end. "I can't forgive myself for my part in this, too. Even if I give up the title of Exalted Queen, even if I become 'Just Illara'– who I am… what I believe in, Aurelien… I can't…" She takes in a breath as he strokes her hair to steady herself, insisting, "I can't turn my back on absolutely everything. It's hard enough to watch the world fall, to know that we didn't protect our children from that, and to not intervene at all. I need… I need something to work toward or I'll…" After a brief pause, Aurelien finally laughed softly into her hair, "You couldn't pick something… that might be attainable?" Illara made a sound of discontent rather than dignify that with an answer. "You could come home," he pried gently at her by saying. "You could help Naliya with what you've left for her. She's angry, still, Illara– but she could use her mother, too." "I'll get in the way of her growing into the leader I know she can be," Illara answered him in a pained whisper, truly believing nothing else but that. "And if I were there, is it not possible Corvin's people could come to finish the job?" Aurelien fell quiet then, lifting up from her to look down at her, hands rising to cup her face gently. It goes unsaid that it's possible the tiefling population left may not be safe anyway. Illara finally closed her eyes and covered one of his hands with her own. "I love you," she promised him. "And I think we've established that I'm not suitable advisor material for your people, Illara," Aurelien reminded her unhappily. "I'm there for the children, because they are my children, but…" Jaw quivering with tears she knew she'd not be able to hold back forever, Illara whispered, "I can't. My love, I…" Blinking hard, she only shook her head. "I'm no good to anyone the way I am right now. I'm just not." She looked up at him long enough to promise, "I'll find you again when I am." And then she faded away between his hands, the dream joining them together wisping to nothing.
A cup of tea is placed on her workbench beside the tools she's been reaching for all morning. "My Queen." "Just Illara now, Al," she reminds him without looking up, eyes covered over with dark goggles that shield them from the sparks between her hands. Albert bristles at the use of his given name, but understands the severity of the situation if she's resorted to using his name. He doesn't say anything while he considers that, leaving Illara room to further qualify that with, "And likely something else entirely when we leave the mountain now." "This is undignified," he protests very quietly, the creature of deep and simmering pride that he is. "It's reality, and we'll adapt or risk ourselves needlessly," she answers before setting aside the welding tool in her hand, no longer channeling electricity into it so it breathes flame. She pulls off her gloves and sets them aside to pick up the gun she's finishing up work on, pushing up her goggles next. Her brow knits over thinking of just where to inscribe the runes that will bind a soul to it, where it'll be most safe. For once, she doesn't sag under the weight of… everything. And the automaton notes that. "You're doing better," he observes aloud. "I'm…" Illara bristles to have had it pointed out like that, glancing up at him out of the corner of her eyes. Her hands flex before flattening out before her to help her with an emphatic, "I'm trying, all right?" She slides the rifle off of the table as she comes to a stand, pointing it away from them both as she lifts it to look down the sights, judging the alignment that'll need to still take place. "Given I still see you out there practicing your swordplay, I'm just… surprised," the automaton clarifies. "Pleasantly," he tacks on when she glares his way. "But I am." Illara can't find anything to say to that, so she looks down at the rifle again. She runs her fingers over the most powerful spot she could place the binding runes, and resolves to protect them by putting a decorative plate over them.
Kenna isn't the type to provide active feedback unless pressed for it, so Illara often has to critique her own progress when it comes to trying to refine her use of the powerful magicks within the Creator Blade. "How do you expect to accomplish anything with this level of focus?" she mutters to herself, tired and wearied from how much energy it takes to wield the blade effectively. Her constitution is better with her new body, but she still tires quickly when channeling Creation magic. "You're wasting energy like this." She breathes out hard and then takes in a steeling breath of crisp air. "Come on." She walks through the steps of an exercise she first learned from Phaedra, taught to her by her own mysterious blade's spirit. The entire time, she slowly lets energy build on the sword's golden edges. She allows a blue fire to spread from her grip down her arms– a fearful armor. Controlling them while moving is the trick she seeks to perfect, one she's never quite sure she'll master. Instinctive actions have always been powerful and effective when she's called on them, but she can't afford to lose control of the blade's power and send it slinging around where she doesn't mean for it to. While blasts of energy powerful enough to carve slices into mountainsides might strike fear into her enemies if not rend them in two, it'd mean nothing if she wore herself out quickly and left herself vulnerable. Furthermore, if she means to knock sense into Corvin in the martial sense, he needs to be alive in the aftermath. The blue flames dancing across her shoulders ripple and grow with that fear. Fear and self-preservation fed the power of her defense. Righteousness fed her offense. To balance the two continues to prove difficult… and reminds her why she continued to rely on her jezail rather than the Creator Blade later in life. She centers herself with the end of the exercise, and no sooner than she lets go of the power– willing it to disperse rather than dispel as force– does exhaustion hit her all at once. The heavy blade sinks down to the ground, tip piercing earth while Illara heaves gasping breaths. Sweat runs cold at her brow as she stands in the middle of the training arena alone, having sought no company while she treats with this power. She's aware more now of any stray eyes on her from other Blackguard training or merely existing out in the yards this morning, but it no longer drives the same anxiety it used to. She may not trust the world, but the people here have slowly been afforded some by her over these last few months. They stand apart from the issues of the world at large. They've left her to her work, and have not spoken to others of the inventor queen taking refuge on the top of their mountain. Sometimes there's even banter. One fang of a canine flashes in a half-grin as she imagines what she'd answer to any call across the yard at her today… But no such thing comes. "You are getting better at this," Kenna acknowledges, a blue shadow out of the corner of her eye, and then she's gone, snuffed out just like the other power that causes the mark on her hand still to sting with warmth. Illara spends long enough looking down at the heavy blade that she catches her breath before releasing the pommel, allowing it to magically disperse to nothing. Her last act of defiance against the toll it takes on her, dropping its sustainment at the moment of her will rather than giving into exhaustion. Vrinn finds her not an hour later sprawled across their bed, asleep without even undressing, when he stops by between afternoon errands.
Needless to say, Aurelien disapproved of her plan. "Illara," he plead with her in Dream Council. "You have to get this out of your mind. If you died…" His voice broke with the pain feels just from imagining if that were to happen. Such that Illara can't bring it upon herself to tell him she hadn't recovered from the stab-wound. Her hand came to touch the spot on her side anyway, eyes averting. "Please," he asked in a way she so often found hard to resist. "Promise me, my love." The most she could summon was a smile, small and apologetic. Her eyes shimmered as she looked up at him, even though it was a dream. "I can't fix all of this. What's done can't be undone. But if I can't fight at least for him… what else do I have to live for, Aurelien?" Hurt and conflict swam in both their expressions, and in the end he came to her only to wrap her in an embrace, his wide wings encircling her, too, in that process. "There's so much," he promised her quietly. "You just have to choose it." Her fingers dug into the fabric of his robes with the intensity she returned his hug, holding onto him like it will help her summon the strength to take a path other than the one she pines for– one where somehow everything becomes right again in the end. "I can't forgive myself for my part in this, too. Even if I give up the title of Exalted Queen, even if I become 'Just Illara'– who I am… what I believe in, Aurelien… I can't…" She takes in a breath as he strokes her hair to steady herself, insisting, "I can't turn my back on absolutely everything. It's hard enough to watch the world fall, to know that we didn't protect our children from that, and to not intervene at all. I need… I need something to work toward or I'll…" After a brief pause, Aurelien finally laughed softly into her hair, "You couldn't pick something… that might be attainable?" Illara made a sound of discontent rather than dignify that with an answer. "You could come home," he pried gently at her by saying. "You could help Naliya with what you've left for her. She's angry, still, Illara– but she could use her mother, too." "I'll get in the way of her growing into the leader I know she can be," Illara answered him in a pained whisper, truly believing nothing else but that. "And if I were there, is it not possible Corvin's people could come to finish the job?" Aurelien fell quiet then, lifting up from her to look down at her, hands rising to cup her face gently. It goes unsaid that it's possible the tiefling population left may not be safe anyway. Illara finally closed her eyes and covered one of his hands with her own. "I love you," she promised him. "And I think we've established that I'm not suitable advisor material for your people, Illara," Aurelien reminded her unhappily. "I'm there for the children, because they are my children, but…" Jaw quivering with tears she knew she'd not be able to hold back forever, Illara whispered, "I can't. My love, I…" Blinking hard, she only shook her head. "I'm no good to anyone the way I am right now. I'm just not." She looked up at him long enough to promise, "I'll find you again when I am." And then she faded away between his hands, the dream joining them together wisping to nothing.
A cup of tea is placed on her workbench beside the tools she's been reaching for all morning. "My Queen." "Just Illara now, Al," she reminds him without looking up, eyes covered over with dark goggles that shield them from the sparks between her hands. Albert bristles at the use of his given name, but understands the severity of the situation if she's resorted to using his name. He doesn't say anything while he considers that, leaving Illara room to further qualify that with, "And likely something else entirely when we leave the mountain now." "This is undignified," he protests very quietly, the creature of deep and simmering pride that he is. "It's reality, and we'll adapt or risk ourselves needlessly," she answers before setting aside the welding tool in her hand, no longer channeling electricity into it so it breathes flame. She pulls off her gloves and sets them aside to pick up the gun she's finishing up work on, pushing up her goggles next. Her brow knits over thinking of just where to inscribe the runes that will bind a soul to it, where it'll be most safe. For once, she doesn't sag under the weight of… everything. And the automaton notes that. "You're doing better," he observes aloud. "I'm…" Illara bristles to have had it pointed out like that, glancing up at him out of the corner of her eyes. Her hands flex before flattening out before her to help her with an emphatic, "I'm trying, all right?" She slides the rifle off of the table as she comes to a stand, pointing it away from them both as she lifts it to look down the sights, judging the alignment that'll need to still take place. "Given I still see you out there practicing your swordplay, I'm just… surprised," the automaton clarifies. "Pleasantly," he tacks on when she glares his way. "But I am." Illara can't find anything to say to that, so she looks down at the rifle again. She runs her fingers over the most powerful spot she could place the binding runes, and resolves to protect them by putting a decorative plate over them.
Kenna isn't the type to provide active feedback unless pressed for it, so Illara often has to critique her own progress when it comes to trying to refine her use of the powerful magicks within the Creator Blade. "How do you expect to accomplish anything with this level of focus?" she mutters to herself, tired and wearied from how much energy it takes to wield the blade effectively. Her constitution is better with her new body, but she still tires quickly when channeling Creation magic. "You're wasting energy like this." She breathes out hard and then takes in a steeling breath of crisp air. "Come on." She walks through the steps of an exercise she first learned from Phaedra, taught to her by her own mysterious blade's spirit. The entire time, she slowly lets energy build on the sword's golden edges. She allows a blue fire to spread from her grip down her arms– a fearful armor. Controlling them while moving is the trick she seeks to perfect, one she's never quite sure she'll master. Instinctive actions have always been powerful and effective when she's called on them, but she can't afford to lose control of the blade's power and send it slinging around where she doesn't mean for it to. While blasts of energy powerful enough to carve slices into mountainsides might strike fear into her enemies if not rend them in two, it'd mean nothing if she wore herself out quickly and left herself vulnerable. Furthermore, if she means to knock sense into Corvin in the martial sense, he needs to be alive in the aftermath. The blue flames dancing across her shoulders ripple and grow with that fear. Fear and self-preservation fed the power of her defense. Righteousness fed her offense. To balance the two continues to prove difficult… and reminds her why she continued to rely on her jezail rather than the Creator Blade later in life. She centers herself with the end of the exercise, and no sooner than she lets go of the power– willing it to disperse rather than dispel as force– does exhaustion hit her all at once. The heavy blade sinks down to the ground, tip piercing earth while Illara heaves gasping breaths. Sweat runs cold at her brow as she stands in the middle of the training arena alone, having sought no company while she treats with this power. She's aware more now of any stray eyes on her from other Blackguard training or merely existing out in the yards this morning, but it no longer drives the same anxiety it used to. She may not trust the world, but the people here have slowly been afforded some by her over these last few months. They stand apart from the issues of the world at large. They've left her to her work, and have not spoken to others of the inventor queen taking refuge on the top of their mountain. Sometimes there's even banter. One fang of a canine flashes in a half-grin as she imagines what she'd answer to any call across the yard at her today… But no such thing comes. "You are getting better at this," Kenna acknowledges, a blue shadow out of the corner of her eye, and then she's gone, snuffed out just like the other power that causes the mark on her hand still to sting with warmth. Illara spends long enough looking down at the heavy blade that she catches her breath before releasing the pommel, allowing it to magically disperse to nothing. Her last act of defiance against the toll it takes on her, dropping its sustainment at the moment of her will rather than giving into exhaustion. Vrinn finds her not an hour later sprawled across their bed, asleep without even undressing, when he stops by between afternoon errands.
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