The Holy See of Arcadia, the Lower City…

Snow was falling, down upon grey stone and cold mortar in specks of radiant white. It was mostly dark up in the moonlit skies and the heavens above, the hour of daylight lost into the throes of night far past the evening gloom.

It was cold, so terribly cold. Quiet, too. The little human girl out alone upon these silent streets could feel it all so strongly it in her frail bones barely eight winters old, her petite figure covered in threadbare rags patched up with scraps of mismatched cloth and a tiny apron stained with dirt and frost. Her tiny feet fared no better barefoot, exposed upon cold stone and snow alike.

She had shoes, back home. They were small and yet still very much a perfect fit for her frostbitten toes, woven together from pink cloth. Almost two years ago, her father had bought them for her from the market and she was sure it had cost him quite a bit, as she remembered watching him pay for it with a silver coin rather than the dull gleam of copper coins that she was used to seeing change hands all the time at their little shop down the corner that sold all manner of sundries with names and descriptions that her little mind had yet to fully learn.

Now, however, it was all gone. Her shoes, the shop and sundries, and her father. The first, she had lost as soon as she had left home, having been chased out by her mother, whose breath reeked just like the broken glass bottles and their red liquid seeped and stained upon the floor of their little home. The second, she suspected had to do with the third, for her father, her most beloved father, had donned a black robe and left home for the Upper City almost two years ago, seeking out a person he kept calling, between harried breaths in his sleep, the ‘Master’. Whoever that was, whatever had happened, only his ashes remained now, stored in a rusty urn on a cobwebbed shelf back home. The devatas who performed his last rites, had been strangely tight-lipped about his fate.

Everything was gone, indeed. Now, all she had were the matches, stuffed two boxes full within her little apron. There had been five earlier today when the sun was still up in the heavens, given to her by her mother from what little remained of the unwanted sundries left behind by the shop’s new owner, a portly man who did not live here, but up in the Upper City. On the pain of another beating, she had spent the whole day trying to peddle them to everyone and anyone passing by, to no avail. She had not earned a single coin, at least until Sister Natasha, the tall devata with long and pretty red hair and blue eyes who worked at the soup kitchen alongside Sister Violet, had bought them all from her so that she could go home.

Sadly, it had all been for naught. Her mother had sent her out yet again without any dinner, screaming and throwing bottles in her general direction until she fled into the late evening with two more boxes of matches to sell. This time, though, she was all alone. Everyone else had already withdrawn into the sanctuary of their homes, taking refuge with crackling fireplaces the finest woollen blankets that their coin could ever afford. And in a narrow corner formed between two houses, she remained alone in the cold. She could not return home without a single coin earned, for her mother would surely beat her. That, and it was cold at home as well under this sort of weather and time of night, for the frigid winds always seemed to have a way of sneaking through the straw and rags stuffed into the windows.

With her feet aching with frostbite every step of the way, she made her way to the soup kitchen down the empty street. Like the other shops in the market, it was closed for the day, and Sister Natasha and Sister Violet were nowhere to be seen. Defeatedly, she leaned back upon a nearby wall and sat down with her little legs drawn close to her chest, her eyes gazing tiredly upon the snow-swept buildings nearby as she instinctively reached into the pockets of her tattered apron and clutched at the box of matches stuffed within. And as she shivered, she drew a single match from the little box, and struck it alight with her trembling hands. It sputtered and burned like a blazing star.

Quietly, with her cheeks red with cold, the girl gazed upon the single flame now held so tenuously between her fingers, warming her hands underneath its dying light as it danced in the cold. The light reminded her of the hundreds of pretty candles she had seen lit in this same place during last year’s Harvest Festival, and the warmth of their flames combined that seemed to rise up high and bright like the stars in the sky. And as she continued staring into the fire, she envisioned and remembered so lucidly, the devata who had worked so hard on preparing those pretty candles last year – Sister Alyssa, who had short locks of golden hair much like her own, who stood so pretty in hooded robes of white, purple, and gold just like that of Sister Violet’s or Sister Natasha’s. And she liked Sister Alyssa most of all, much like a best friend, for she always found the time to read to her every day from various books filled with colourful pictures, telling their stories as she explained the vagaries of life as best she could.

Interestingly though, Sister Alyssa’s ears were different – elongated and pointed like a dagger, much unlike the flat roundness that felt so natural to the girl’s little sensibilities, even as she did her best to envision her friend’s face from within the depths of her memories. There were others with ears like hers, a scant minority in this little neighbourhood of hers within the Lower City, and she also wondered why.

But then again, did the shape of one’s ears really matter? Sister Alyssa was kind and lovely, just like Sister Natasha and Sister Violet. Smiling, always. Warm and ever welcoming just like the broth she served, boiled for hours on end from stewed meat and potatoes. Her mother did not agree, apparently, for the girl remembered how she had all but spat the words ‘elven witch’ in Sister Alyssa’s presence, throwing the cup of soup offered to her onto the ground. It was a perfectly good cup too, and she recalled how her mother had gone home, ranting angrily about the knife-eared devils and how they had taken away everything she held dear.

Now, even amidst reminiscence in the bittering cold as she lit two more matches, the girl still wondered why her mother felt that way. Even if it was long in the past, for Sister Alyssa had departed for lands far beyond this big and old city, to a village in the lands up north. In these flames lit anew, she envisioned the farewell party held for her knife-eared friend in this same space just outside the soup kitchen where the queues normally were in the day, the big tables spread generously with snacks and drinks so savoury and sweet, and how joyous it had been. There were many candles too, just like the Harvest Festival, and when evening came that day, they lit the district up in a dazzling sea of blazing light that could be seen far up into the Upper City, long into the dead of night.

However, like the three burnt out matches in her grasp, it was over. The candles, the light, the food and the joy of gatherings and festivals past, gone. Just like that. There had been a change in the air in the past few months ever since that farewell feast, and the girl could feel it from her neighbours, though she knew not why. Especially so, from Sister Alyssa’s friends. Sister Natasha still smiled even if it was always a little strained, but Sister Violet no longer did, and was now always so listless. Everything now felt so empty and cold, a rift that even the passing of time could possibly never make right ever again.

Sighing deeply, the girl reached for the remainder of her matches, and lit three more to keep herself warm. Eyeing the flames intently even as the rest of her shivered, she held them up towards the heavens above as she thought of Sister Alyssa. Until they too, burnt out just like others. And yet, she could see one that remained so radiant, up and bright like a star in the sky as it fell in a line of fire like a falling star.

“Sister Alyssa says… when a star falls… a soul goes up to Elicia…”

In its fiery path, she found herself thinking of her father, who she knew loved her very much, more than anything else in the world. She envisioned him standing before her tall and strong, kind and lovely like what her mother had once been until he left them both. And yet, she despaired, for she knew that just like Sister Alyssa, the farewell party and the Harvest Festival, this image of her father would disappear. Leaving her, with nothing but smoke and freezing cold.

“Take me with you, dad!”

Choking, with tears in her eyes, the girl reached once again for the remainder of her matches. She struck them all in a massive bundle with all of her might, setting them alight. That if only, her father would stay with her for just a little longer. The matches burned brighter than daylight, and her father had never been so grand. She reached out towards him, the burning matches falling from her trembling hands as she reached out towards him. Hoping, that somehow, he would take her with him. To Elicia, away from this place, away from the cold and hunger and fear, forever.

“I know you’ll disappear! But, I…”

The girl burst into tears. Her father smiled at her warmly. His arms were both warm and powerful, and as he embraced her she felt something within her unfelt of ever before, in all eight years of her little life. It was a strong, powerful feeling, a vibrant warmth she could not put into words as it infused itself into every pore of her skin, down into to the depths of her very soul.

Infused with this newfound power, she opened her eyes anew. No longer was she in the cold streets of the Lower City, but amidst a seemingly endless army resplendent in their armaments and regalia of white and gold. She knew not who they were, yet felt compelled to walk with them as they made their way ever onward, their stride purposeful and resolute. For it was to be, now and forever, her part to play in the world of Melodia. Her purpose, in good and evil, in this war eternal. That in Elicia’s name, a long crusade unending against evil, injustice, and the enemies of Arcadia. Her father reappeared before her once more, and embraced her again.

“Are you prepared to carry this light forward?”

Resolutely, the girl nodded once. Her father’s image vanished before her very eyes, and she found herself back in the Lower City, her knees bare and knelt upon the snow, amidst the snow-swept buildings her visions had left behind just moments ago.

“Was it just a dream…?”

The girl stood up, amidst the burnt out matches upon the snow that formed a charred pile around her little and once cold-stricken feet. She felt herself standing up straighter than usual as she easily brought herself up to her full, yet petite height. Now, no longer did she feel the cold or hunger that threatened to consume her just moments ago, but instead, that same strength that had consumed her and left her whole, that was now forevermore a part of her. And in silent awe, she looked towards her reflection visible upon the frosted surface of a nearby window, covering her mouth at the sight of the golden hue that had consumed the colour of her eyes.

“It was not.”

Calmly, and slowly, the girl turned away from the window’s reflection, towards the gentleness of a lady’s voice like that of a winter’s sonata. Tall, nearly naked, and adorned from head to toe in silver and amethyst jewellery, she stood before her in the same spot where her father had embraced her in her vision, her elegant silver hair flowing down to her waist as she looked on with golden eyes just like what had become of hers. The girl did not know who the lady was. And yet, she felt a kinship with her, for she was her saviour and creator, the most powerful of the Lightsworn – the Ecclesiarch of the Central Church.

“It is time to go, Lightsworn. Alas…”

The Ecclesiarch’s golden-eyed gaze looked calmly and expressionlessly at someone standing far ahead. In that direction, the girl turned around. She spotted her mother watching on remorsefully from behind the street corner, a pair of cloth shoes in her hands and tears in her eyes that rolled down her cheeks and onto the snow.

“Would you like to, before we leave?”

Turning back around, the girl answered the Ecclesiarch with a nod. Barefoot, but free of frostbite, she ran with her little feet across the snow towards her mother, and embraced her one last time, feeling the coldness of her mortal body and the wetness of her tears upon the powerful warmth within her new self. She then returned to her Lightsworn matriarch, who nodded curtly in acknowledgement of her return before departing for the Upper City, towards the Ancient Cathedral.

And with those little feet of hers, the girl followed as best she could.