It had never been a painful memory. It was just draining. She had remembered the sapping. The pull of something she could not describe. She was told then that the beast had no right to take it from her. The very essence of Thravadin, the phase of her, gone.

“Earth ear!”

“Earthear…”

Erthyr…

His whisper. His late presence. His promise was the only meaning that kept her clinging to the realm.

“I’m here… sweet wraith” he had told her. “Never alone… never”

The warmth of his honor had filled that void. He had been crying.

“Forgive me, Princess. Please forgive me.” He had knelt to her, his dark slit eyes, watering the bath to her cheeks. When he had took her in his arms, the scent of cherries whisked both his warmth and the cold that had made a home inside her chest. “Ready the horses.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“How could you let this happen!” It was a hushed hiss. “Enthah will never have pity on her, ever again… Answer me!”

When there was no response to her aunt’s question, she had jarred to the sadness of her cries. She moaned, the only strength she had before it took her again.

“Alve? Alvedaima!”

And there was a song. A deep foreign song of dry air and scorching sun.

“Will she be alright?” It was her brother.

Desperate for him, of anything from him, she pulled her hand and clutched to air.

“Alve!”

“Welcome back, little mouse.”

“Hurry!” It was faint. The heavy click of the locks enveloped her with wake. “Are you sure they won’t wake?”

“They may be gasoline guards, but they will never sustain my eth. Now, make space beside the pillow.”

“Are you sure this will work?” she felt leather hands sweep her gown by the neck.”

“She is twice blessed. Enthah Mandarah will never leave her.”

“You speak blasphemy, Mage!” As the Mistress spat, she had felt the Master’s hands down the shoulders before leaving beside something cold.

“To survive, we must make the greater sacrifices. I know this, you know this. But it is by courage that we are to remain strong.”

There was a breath of a moment before the Mistress had replied. “There was no other way.”

“I don’t know Clanadrin, was there?”

“Where are we…”

“Where do you think?”

He had gulped night air. “We shouldn’t be here, Mihca.”

“Have you lost your sense of duty? This is the perfect time!”

“I did not agree to any of their plans!”

“Then why are you still here?” she had heard then the sharp steel being pulled. “She had been sleeping for many moons, Malrow. She is basically dead. It is the perfect time.”

“No.”

“Then stop me.” The apprentice was now chanting. It was not long before she gasped and the scuffle that followed made her lose the spell. Something warm splattered her sleeping form and the loud banging of the door warned the apprentices from their fight.

“By Thravadin’s smite, you shall perish!”

“Let us go. Another time will come,” Malrow’s ragged pants turned her mind to worry.”

“Fine.” She was chanting something different. When the door smashed open, the presence of the Skiethalon apprentices were already lost.

She had been called many names. And with those words they named her, she had appreciated them dearly. They were from those who had loved her. She knew. The flames that had each time burned her heart had kept pouring in its spreading void. Filling the once empty shell. She may not have that thing that she lost but her loved ones made something new. It had kept her tethered. It had kept her there, floating.

But she had needed more. Not a thread to cling to but a push to let her through.

For she was loved, but could not love back

For how could she love when she was nothing to give?

And she was there. A light fluffy thing, gray to the tips of its feathers. It had watched her very form, asleep on a cushioned white bed. Weathered flowers surrounding the box where it was set on a long table. Torion was briskly rising from the long paned windows, glistening the pale flesh of her thin body. The very short hair that made her look like boy dug into the last bit of her soul, and she woke up.

Alve stared at the cotton ball that had perched at the end of the long box, the same place she had once looked at herself. Its yellow eyes, now golden to core as Torion basked it’s large orbs.

It hooted at her, a very quiet and cute little hoot.

“Hello, little thing. Where did you come from?”

It had hooted again but this time, it had bent its head fully twisted.

Smiling to herself, Alve stretched her hand towards it, her bony fingers promising a small roost for it, hopefully. “I’m Alve.”

Like from a long journey, soaring high above clouds of Entherah, the little bird flew to her like home. When its claws gripped her finger, Alve knew she had become a mother.

A very young mother

“What’s your name?” she asked the bird.

When it had only bent its head again in question, the whisper of a name had rested on her tongue. It felt right.

“Since you don’t have a name, let’s call you Walkre. Walkre Novra.”

As if baptized, the owlet shook its baby feathers, prickly small fur. Walkre hooted and slowly nuzzled Alve’s thumb. It took Alve time to realize it was freezing. And like a hen, she cupped the bird into her hands and buried it into her stuffy white dress by the neck.

The bird had somehow loved the cuddling and it kept burrowing into Alve’s nape. The digging was tickling and it made her laugh. Truly laugh. The blossoming emptiness, now a gust in the wind.