The graves of our past, Vale thought. The graves of those who carried on a torch of starlight and dragonfire.
It was here, upon the hill, that Vale buried his sister.
Not many came to the funeral. Most had lost too many of their own. Most were at other graves, grieving. A few hundred gathered here on the hill, standing silently. The rain died down to a drizzle, and the sun peeked between the clouds, and a rainbow shone above, flickering, struggling to form a bow. The last snows had melted, the ice was gone, and a few finches darted above, heralds of an early spring. Yet the day seemed too dark to Vale, and he did not know how spring could ever warm this land.
Elory stood at his side, clutching his hand. Lucem lay there on a litter, his stump bandaged, his face still pale. Til and Bim stood at his other side, faces stern.
But you're not here, Father, Vale thought, and the pain seemed unbearable. They would bury Meliora today, but they had never found Jaren's body, and it took all of Vale's strength to remain standing, not to kneel and weep.
Holding Elory's hand tightly, he looked down at Meliora.
She lay on a litter, clad in the polished armor of Requiem, her sword in her hands. Her face was pale, peaceful in death, her hair a soft gold, her eyes closed. For the first time, no halo shone above her head.
She was so beautiful, Vale thought. She was so pure.
Vale raised his eyes. Across the grave, the Vir Requis stared at him, more gathering from the valleys below. Vale spoke to them, voice deep, soft.
"Both the blood of Requiem and the ichor of Saraph flowed through her veins, but her heart was pure. Hers was a dragon's heart. She fought for Requiem, and she died for Requiem. She fought for her family, and she died for her family. She was too young. She was too pure. She was too righteous, too holy, too blessed to leave us so soon. Her soul has risen, and she rests now with our forebears among the stars of Requiem, yet that is little comfort for us, those who remain. Who miss her. Who mourn her. She was born to a queen of a foreign land, and she would have been queen of Requiem, and we would have been blessed by her grace." He placed his hand against her cheek. "Farewell, Meliora Aeternum, daughter of Requiem, my sister. May the stars light your final journey, guiding you to your sleep."
He draped a flag across her, which Kira—her former handmaiden—had sewn from fabrics collected from the camp, many taken from the fallen city of Keleshan. The flag was woven of rich green cotton, the color of birch leaves, and embroidered with silver stars shaped as the Draco constellation.
"Rest now in the kingdom that you loved," Vale whispered. "You're home now, Meliora. You're home."
He shifted into a dragon, and he lifted her gently. She felt so light in his grip. He placed her down in her grave, and finally he wept.
That day, after burying their dead, the survivors of Requiem found themselves facing life.
They never counted the dead, and some claimed that half of Requiem was gone, but hundreds of thousands still lived, for the first time facing a future, for the first time facing a life without chains, without battle, a life that seemed daunting. And they were afraid.
Many Vir Requis began to build crude huts from the felled trees. Others collected rain water and melted snow. Some dragons flew far to the north, where trees still stood, and hunted wild deer and boars that were emerging from their long winter. Kira and Talana were busy at the Chest of Plenty, duplicating food for the people.
There were no songs that day. No grand coronations. No dances or celebrations. One war had ended and another began—a struggle for simpler things. For food, water, shelter. Survival.
That day, Vale rose as a dragon, and he flew high and gazed down upon his kingdom.
Issari's words returned to him.
A great battle awaits you, son of Requiem, the Priestess in White had told him, healing him with her hands of starlight. Live, child of Aeternum. Your war has not yet ended.
For so long, Vale had wondered what battle she had meant. The battle against the seraphim in Shayeen? Perhaps the battle to retrieve the Chest of Plenty? Or maybe the great war against the harpies over Requiem?
And Vale knew now. He understood.
He looked up at the sky, and even though the sun shone, he could see it there. Issari's Star. A gleam in the sky, always guiding him.
"This is my battle," he spoke to that star. "A battle not against death but a battle for life. This is my great task: to lead my people. To build them a new home. To raise new halls of marble. To resurrect the lore of Requiem. Thank you, Issari Seran, Lady of Starlight. Thank you for guiding me here. For showing me your light."
The star shone, and he heard her voice in his mind.
Our light will always bless you, Vale Aeternum. You will never fly alone.
Vale lowered his head.
"I just wish you could fly here with me, Tash," he whispered. "I miss you."
"Vale?"
The voice spoke behind him, and Vale turned in the sky. He was so immersed in his thoughts he hadn't noticed her approach. An orange dragon flew before him, eyes green and sad.
"Til Eleison," he said.
"I found something," she said. "I want to show you. Will you fly with me?"
He narrowed his eyes, suddenly worried. Had she seen more enemies? Beasts attacking? Seraphim flying toward them? But there was no fear in Til's eyes, only sadness. He nodded and they flew together.
They flew for a long time, crossing the forests of Requiem, traveling north and leaving the column far behind. They flew silently, sometimes looking at each other, sharing a quick gaze, then flying onward.
The sun was low in the sky when they saw an escarpment ahead. The cliffs soared, stretching across Requiem, many miles long, and beyond them hills spread into the distance. A waterfall gushed down the cliff into a river.
Til led the way, gliding toward the escarpment. As they flew closer, Vale saw a canyon atop the shelf of stone. It was a small canyon, smaller than the limestone mine where he had worked back in Tofet. Several pillars of stone rose from it, naturally carved, topped with pine trees. Many more trees leaned atop the canyon and even grew, crooked and clinging, from its facades. Caves gaped open in the canyon walls, leading into shadows.
The two dragons glided into the canyon and landed on a floor strewn with boulders, some of them larger than men. Here they shifted back into human forms.
Til gazed around, eyes large. Her red hair billowed in a gust of wind. She had doffed her assortment of armored plates, remaining in her fur pelts, but her sword still hung from her belt.
"Do you know what this place is?" she whispered.
Vale nodded. "The escarpment. The place where, thousands of years ago, our ancestor—Jeid Aeternum—founded the kingdom of Requiem. Before we had a column, before we had a forest, before we had halls of marble and armor and swords, before our books and before our songs, we had a canyon. We had a cave. We had a dream."
Til nodded, reached out, and took his hands in hers. His were large hands, callused, hands that had spent years swinging a pickaxe. Hers were smaller hands, slender, pale, though hands that had swung her sword too many times.
"We stand on holy ground," she whispered. "A man and woman. Like King Aeternum and Queen Laira from the legends. We can do this again, Vale. Like they did. Build a kingdom. Raise halls of stone."
Her eyes shone, and Vale tried to imagine Tash standing here with him. She would smile at him crookedly, and the wind would play with her long brown hair and silken trousers, and the jewel in her navel would shine. She'd mock him, kiss him, and love him, and he would be happy—like the joy he had first felt with her, the only time he'd felt true joy.
And he thought of his father, the wisest, kindest man Vale had ever known. He wished Jaren could stand here with him, holding his staff, speaking of their old tales, granting him wisdom and strength.
He thought of Meliora, the sister he had known for less than a year, the sister he would always love. He wished she too were here, that she had lived to see
Requiem reborn, that she had lived to be his sister in times of peace.
He thought of so many others—countless slain in the wars, sacrificing their lives so that others may live, so that the stars may shine upon them again. Each life—a world. Each life—worth as much as a nation. So many lights gone. So many who would never see their kingdom rise again.
"Your eyes are sad," Til said.
He looked at her. For perhaps the first time, Vale truly looked at her. Til Eleison. A woman who had suffered, who had fought, who stood with him on hallowed ground, vowing to forever fight with him. To share with him this battle Issari had commanded him to fight. To share with him this life.
"We lost so many," he said. "And I don't know how we can ever feel joy again."
Til embraced him, and when the wind blew again, her hair tickled his face, the same orange color as her dragon form. Her body was warm against his, soothing, soft.
"We will still feel joy." She touched his cheek. "Sadness will always fill us. Sadness does not always leave the souls of those who mourn. But that is not the same as never feeling joy again. Joy can always be found, even in wounded hearts, as flowers can still grow from ashen fields."
They rose from the canyon, and upon the escarpment, between the trees, they found a great stone statue, carved as a wild dragon—an ancient statue, perhaps carved by the very first Vir Requis, those who had lived wild in the forest before they had a kingdom.
Vale and Til sat on the dragon's head, both in human form, and held each other in the cold. Silently, they watched the sun set and the stars emerge, and for a brief few hours, here in the dark with her, Vale felt joy.
ELORY
The rain fell, and the sun set, and the sun rose, and the stars moved across the sky. And they lived. And they built.
Spring came to Requiem, and for the first time in five hundred years, leaves budded and flowers bloomed under a sky of dragons.
Throughout that spring, dragons toiled. For generations, they had toiled in Tofet, learning how to carve bricks, plow fields, raise great halls. They had worked under the whip there, but here they worked with joy. Now they plowed fields and sowed grains to feed themselves, not cruel masters. Now they built homes of stone to live in, not great temples to cruel gods. Slowly a city rose here from the ruins, and they named it Nova Vita, the same name as the ancient city that had once risen here. New life. New light.
Saplings rose in the ravaged forest. And new columns rose with them. One by one, the dragons raised them—great pillars of marble, twins to King's Column. It would be years, perhaps, before the palace of Requiem stood again in its old glory. But rise again it would, and a king once more would sit on its throne.
It was in this spring that they chose this king and crowned him.
The people of Requiem gathered before their marble columns that day, dressed in green and silver, the colors of their kingdom. Before them he stood, King's Column rising at his back—Vale Aeternum.
The heir of Requiem's ancient, royal dynasty wore silvery armor and a green cloak. A longsword hung at his side, its pommel shaped as a dragon's claw—a sword first borne by Queen Fidelity centuries ago. Vale's dark hair had grown longer, falling across his ears, and his beard was thick. No longer was he gaunt and haggard, for the spring had strengthened him, and he stood straight and strong before his people.
He looks like a great warrior king of old, Elory thought, gazing at her brother. But this is a time of peace.
She walked across the marble tiles they had lain out around King's Column. Her gown, woven of dark green velvet, whispered with every step. Around them, beyond the marble columns, rustled the young birches of King's Forest. Between the trees, spreading for miles, stood the children of Requiem in human forms, though many flew above as dragons too, gazing down upon them.
Elory approached her brother and stood at his side. She faced the crowd—the hundreds of thousands who stood before them. Suddenly Elory was afraid. She had never faced so many staring eyes before, never spoken to so many people. Sweat trickled down her back, and her pulse quickened.
Yet what have I to fear? she thought, feeling silly. I faced armies in battle. I'm among friends.
"Today we crown a new king!" she cried out. "We have chosen Vale Aeternum, son of Jaren, heir of our lost kings and queens, to wear a new crown, to sit upon a new throne. If anyone objects to his rule, speak now. For our time of tyranny has ended, and only one who is loved shall rule us."
They all stared, the nation of Requiem, silent for long moments.
Finally one voice rose.
"Long live Vale Aeternum!" cried a man.
Another joined the chant, then another, and soon thousands of voices rose together. "Long live Vale Aeternum!"
Elory blinked tears away from her eyes. She looked at her brother, smiling at him softly.
"Kneel, Vale, son of dragons."
He knelt before her on the marble tiles. In the light of King's Column, Elory placed a crown on his head. She had forged it herself in her dragonfire, had shaped it into many dragons flying together. She had made this crown from gold found in the mountains of Requiem, but she had mixed iron into it, taken from the shackles of a slave—a reminder of their enslavement, a memory they must never forget.
"Rise, King Vale Aeternum," she said.
He rose before her, King of Requiem, and turned toward the crowd.
They bowed, a nation, sweeping across the hills and valleys. Above in the sky, dragons sang their song. A prayer rose among the people, soft at first, rising louder.
Elory clasped her brother's hand, and they sang the prayer with their people.
"As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home. Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."
The sun set, and the sun rose. The rains fell, and snows covered the land, and spring rose again.
And they sang.
And they built.
And they lived.
Autumn came to Requiem, and grains swayed golden in the fields, and fruits and vegetables ripened, and ale brewed. There was a rich harvest that year, overflowing with squashes, sweet apples, and green peas. Some fields yielded only a handful of crops; these the Chest of Plenty quickly replicated. For the first time in centuries, the Vir Requis patted full bellies.
These were busy times, times of building, nurturing, remembering. But many days, Elory remained in her home, in the small brick house she had built with Lucem. Often she simply sat watching her husband as he walked through the garden on his wooden leg, inspecting the flowers, filling birdfeeders with seed, leaving lumps of bread on the fence for the squirrels. The hero of Requiem, the boy who had scaled the wall, who had slain the great bird Ziz and several archangels—he had become a gardener, and he had never seemed happier.
"I lost my ear," she would joke with him, "so you just had to lose your leg to one-up me."
He would smile at this joke—she told it every now and then—and always replied with, "Somewhere your ear met my leg and is feeling rather envious."
Yet there was always sadness to their smiles. And even in the beauty of autumn, as they sat together in their armchair, sharing hot cider, the sadness dwelled. Even as snow fell, glittering outside as a field of stars, and icicles gleamed as jewels, and many lanterns hung from trees and homes, the sadness remained.
Because we are broken, Elory thought. And she did not mean her ear or his leg. Something had broken inside them in the inferno of Tofet, something she knew could never mend. Something that a warm home, a nation at peace, a world of beauty could not heal.
"We are broken," she whispered to him one night, as they sat gazing out the window at the rain.
He held her in his arms. "Then let us make something whole."
Spring bloomed across Requiem, and the scent of flowers and song of birds filled the air, when Elory gave birth to her daughter. T
he child had her dark hair, Lucem's blue eyes, and tiny fingers that Elory loved to kiss.
"I name you Liora," she whispered to the babe, "for you're brave and beautiful like my sister."
The sun set and the sun rose. The dry leaves fell, and the snow glided down, and spring bloomed, and great halls of marble rose among the birches. The sound of laughter filled her house. And still the sadness lingered.
One autumn day, Elory took her daughter in her arms, and she walked through the woods of Requiem. It was a chilly day, and many dry leaves rustled among the birches, and the sounds of song and prayer rose from humble homes. Elory walked for a long time, leaving the city behind, and stepped onto the hill where they had buried her sister.
The wind played with her long brown hair. She stood, holding her daughter, gazing at Meliora's grave.
"I don't know how to go on," she whispered to her sister. "I don't know how to feel joy. I don't know how to forget."
Elory closed her eyes, cringing with sudden pain. Again she could feel it—the flaming whip against her back. Again she could see them—the bodies on the lances, a forest of dead in Tofet. Again she heard the cries of the harpies, and again she saw dragons falling like the rain. The pain felt too strong, the memories too real, and Elory's head spun and she could barely breathe.
Her baby gurgled in her arms, and Elory opened her eyes. Little Liora reached up and tugged at Elory's hair.
Tears streamed down Elory's cheeks. She gazed around at her homeland, at the forests of Requiem, the distant marble columns rising from among the birches, the blue mountains in the north.
"It's beautiful," she whispered, tasting her tears. "It's beautiful here, Liora. I did this for you. I fought for this land for you, for all the babes born here. This will never be my kingdom, Liora. My home will always be in Tofet. That is a land I cannot escape, that I cannot wrench out from within me. But you will never know such pain, Liora. I promise this to you. This will always be your home."
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