Areion sat on the wide stone balcony of his chambers, the cool stone seeping gently through the thin fabric of his night robe. He gazed upwards, not with the casual admiration of a mere observer, but with the focused intensity of one deciphering an ancient language.
His mind drifted back through the years, a nostalgic warmth spreading through him despite the chill of the night. He remembered Ādima, her silver hair like spun moonlight created by her own shaktih In everbright Suryasthirh, pointing a gnarled finger at the heavens as she unveiled the secrets of the cosmos. "Look closely, arya," she would say, her eyes mirroring the distant stars. "The heavens in eos are not just beauty; they are a clock, a calendar, a map of once fate."
He recalled her patient explanations of astronomical units, the precise angles and distances between celestial bodies, and how they corresponded to the passage of time and the unfolding of seasons. Ithos in the fourth house signified a period of introspection, she had taught him, while Mabana in the third heralded communication and connection. He mentally charted the current positions of the prominent constellations, a skill ingrained through Ādima's tutelage.
His gaze settled on a particular cluster of stars, a distinct formation of fourteen brilliant points arranged in a shape that resembled a celestial torch. Yajra. The constellation of growth. He could see it with an almost visceral clarity, each star burning with a distinct intensity, the torch-like structure seemingly suspended just beyond his reach. It was a time of burgeoning, of reaching upwards, a period marked by expansion and potential. A faint smile touched his lips.
He sighed softly, his gaze drifting from the expanse of the cosmos to the sprawling city below. Lorium glittered like a fallen scattering of stars. A stark contrast to the silent, infinite expanse above. He wondered about the lives unfolding in those brightly lit windows, the joys and sorrows, the triumphs and failures that painted the intricate tapestry of the city.
Turning away from the captivating view, his eyes fell upon a simple, empty fruit bowl sitting on a small table beside his chair. A stark reminder of its recent abundance, now vanished. A fleeting pang of something akin to loneliness touched him. He had lost his appetite amidst his contemplation of the heavens.
He rose, his movements fluid and silent, and stepped back into the warm glow of his chambers, leaving the empty bowl on the balcony, a silent offering to the night. Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single flickering candle on his writing desk.
He settled Into the worn leather chair, its familiar creak a comforting sound. His fingers brushed against the spine of a half-filled leather-bound book lying open on the desk. It was his journal, a practice he had begun with a newfound urgency after what he now considered his "new birth." He picked up a quill, its feather soft against his skin, and dipped it into the inkwell.
At the top of the next blank page, he carefully inscribed: "89th day of Age 5645."
Below the date, he began to write, the quill scratching softly against the parchment. [Why this chronicle? Why this meticulous recording of the mundane and the momentous? After the… the awakening, the weight of what I had been, what I had done, pressed down on me it's suffocating. To simply move forward, to pretend it never happened, felt like a betrayal. A betrayal to them. A betrayal to myself.]
He paused, the ink momentarily staining the tip of his quill. [This journal… it is a penance, of sorts. A way to take note of every sunrise and sunset, every act of kindness and every flicker of darkness within me. I must bear witness to this new life, this chance I have been inexplicably granted. Perhaps, by understanding the nuances of this existence, the good, the bad, the neutral, I can somehow… begin to atone. Being with people who love me I still feel so alone. So lonely. I don't know if I can bear it anymore.]
A deep sigh escaped his lips. [The faces… they still haunt my dreams. The echoes still ring in my ears. How can I ever truly apologize for the lives I've taken? A true apology… it would require their presence, their forgiveness. A forgiveness I may never deserve.]
A fragile tendril of hope, stubbornly refusing to be extinguished despite the gnawing despair, stirred within him. [Perhaps… perhaps somewhere, in some distant corner of this vast world, they are like me. Safe. Changed. If that miracle has occurred, then maybe… one day… I will be able to share these pages with them. To lay bare my heart, my regrets, my desperate yearning for redemption.]
But the relentless passage of time, each day marked in his journal, chipped away at that fragile hope. The silence from the world beyond Sangrael was deafening. Yet, he shook his head, a small, defiant gesture against the encroaching despair. [No. I cannot succumb to that. I must write. I must record. I must continue to feel, to learn, to strive for something better, even if that 'better' remains shrouded in uncertainty.]
He dipped his quill again, the ink a dark mirror reflecting the turmoil within him, and began to write, the words flowing from his heart, a testament to a past he could never erase and a future he desperately hoped to shape.
He dipped his quill again, the ink a dark mirror reflecting the turmoil within him, and began to write, the words flowing from his heart, a testament to a past he could never erase and a future he desperately hoped to shape.
[There is something else… a subtle shift within. It is unsettling, yet… strangely comforting. My thoughts, once a relentless storm of guilt and despair, now seem… calmer. The edges are less sharp, the shadows less consuming. I find myself resting more easily, the constant tension that had coiled within me for so long beginning to unwind. Pessimism, once my constant companion, no longer holds such an iron grip. Clarity of thought, a lucidity I haven't experienced in… well, in this life, at least, is becoming more frequent.]
He paused, tapping the end of his quill against the parchment, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. [Is this… is this the effect of this new body? This vessel that is growing, changing, developing in ways I do not yet fully understand? It feels… alien, in a way. Stronger, more resilient than I remember. Could it be that the very biology of this form is influencing my mind, well I read about high elves my species, they're much more calm have more wisdom as it comes with time, longevity is another suit for elves and we don't have much cravings towards any sort of pleasure same with displeasure. So demure.]
[The thought is both intriguing and a little frightening. Am I truly in control, or am I merely a passenger in a body that is dictating my emotional landscape? Yet… the rest is welcome. The ability to think without the immediate crushing weight of my past… it allows me to focus, to plan, to perhaps even… hope, in small, hesitant increments. I must observe this. I must note every change, every subtle nuance in my thoughts and feelings. Perhaps within this physical transformation lies a key to understanding this second chance, this unexpected dawn after a seemingly endless night.]
Next day,
Areion emerged from the bathroom, a radiant glow illuminating his features, a simple towel wrapped securely around his waist. He moved towards the expansive wardrobe, his fingers lightly tracing the textures of the various fabrics, searching for something that caught his eye. His gaze settled on a set of green garments, the colour reminiscent of his mother's favourite dress. Without hesitation, he picked them out.
Knock knock…
"Who is it?" he asked softly, his voice echoing slightly in the spacious room.
A scratchy, hesitant voice came from the other side of the door. "It's me, Young Lord. I'm your personal maid."
A flicker of confusion crossed Areion's face. "Come in," he said.
The door opened slightly, revealing a human woman in a maid's uniform, her posture visibly timid.
"Who sent you?" he asked, his tone soft yet commanding. He attempted to project an air of strictness, but his natural warmth and affection seeped into his voice, making it impossible to sound truly intimidating. The maid's heartbeat, whichh had been racing moments before, calmed at the sound of his gentle voice and the sight of his beautiful features.
"Her Majesty appointed me," she replied, her voice steady now.
[What is happening?] Areion thought to himself. [Why isn't she scared? She seemed more frightened before speaking to me. Is she not afraid of me? Then this will be no fun.]
"Can you turn around for a moment?" he asked, adjusting the towel around his waist.
She blushed furiously and turned around immediately. "My apologies, Young Lord," she stammered.
Areion rolled his eyes and quickly pulled on the trousers, which fit his form perfectly. "Fine, you can look now," he said.
Still blushing, the maid turned back as Areion adjusted the pants. She couldn't help but notice his perfectly fit body, still slightly damp from his bath, the towel now draped over his shoulder. She struggled to reconcile the image before her with the idea of him being a thirteen-year-old elf child. She tried to push away the inappropriate thoughts that flickered through her mind, reminding herself that Areion was still a child in her eyes.
She carefully scanned him, her gaze lingering on his features. It was as if someone had sculpted a masterpiece, combining the delicate beauty of his mother's face with the strong, lean physique of a young man. It felt both right and somehow unsettling. And he was still growing; she could tell he would become even taller.
Elves were a rarity in the world of the living, their presence akin to a glimpse of the divine. To witness an elf like Areion was like standing before one of the deities people prayed to for power, wealth, and wisdom. Romona's mind wandered, conjuring a vivid memory: herself kneeling before a pristine white statue, an elven figure clad in a bridal gown, holding a cross close to her chest, at the altar. A pastor's voice echoed through the nave, reciting teachings from a holy grimoire, while other parishioners stood with eyes closed or hands clasped gripping on their own miniature cross, their hearts filled with devotion.
A sudden touch on her shoulder startled her, snapping her out of her reverie. She looked up, meeting Areion's eyes.
He stood fully dressed, his emerald green garments fitting him perfectly, his long golden hair neatly combed. Romona felt a wave of embarrassment and guilt. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she had neglected her duties. Quickly, she bowed deeply. "I'm so sorry, Young Lord! I was… zoned out. Please, don't punish me."
"Chill, girl," Areion said, his casual tone a stark contrast to the formality she expected. "No one's going to punish you." His relaxed demeanour struck her as unusual, especially for someone of his status, or any elf for that matter.
"By the way, what's your name?" he asked.
Romona's face flushed red as she realised she had neglected to introduce herself. "I apologise, Young Lord. I didn't get a chance to," she stammered, pausing to gauge his reaction. He simply nodded, giving her an opportunity to rectify her mistake. She straightened her clothes and stood tall, adopting the posture of a loyal servant. "My name is Romona Humer, daughter of Goren Humer." She said, pausing again, then gracefully adjusted her long skirt, sliding her right leg behind her left, bowing at him respectfully. "And I'm your personal servant, appointed directly by Her Majesty."
"If Maa appointed you, then I have no complaints," Areion stated, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes.
Romona, relieved and pleased, followed Areion as he left the room, heading towards the throne room.