Blue

Caerulea was thrown flat on her ass. Her freshly bruised tailbone sang in harmony with a hiss of pain she couldn’t keep silent. Her eyes watered at the smell of singed flesh, her flesh. She slapped a fistful of mistletoe into her scorched shoulder and groaned again. The leaves stung like hell, but they were a perfect conduit for healing magic.

​

Barely affording herself time to breathe, she lurched to her feet, squaring herself in preparation. Solomon stood some thirty feet away, poised to strike again with his stolen magic. A microscopic movement from the old man summoned three sparking blue missiles from his core, which spiralled violently as they surged toward the priestess. Caerulea drew her blade and ignited it. She lanced an arc of radiant energy toward the wizard. By chance it collided with two of the missiles, though Solomon dodged it with ease. The third missile impacted against Caerulea’s abdomen. The missile did not tear through her armour, nor did it singe her skin. The crack of a broken rib was the only evidence that it had done damage at all. Caerulea fought the urge to double over and wound up falling to her knees instead.

​

Solomon was pacing closer. She had to stop him. While one hand clutched at injuries, the other gestured to the stolen circlet on the geriatric’s head. Within moments, it was beginning to blanch. The metal grew cloudy, before turning a bright red. He didn’t flinch. Did he even know it was happening? The stench of charred hair was already barrelling through her respiratory system when Solomon clasped a hand on her armour. Gripping Caerulea by the pauldron, Solomon lifted her to her feet, then off of the ground entirely. Was he taller now? Or had she shrunk before him?

​

Solomon’s free hand grasped Caerulea's headpiece, the material splintering and groaning in his vice-like grip. He ripped it from her head. The hair that had been meticulously braided and pinned to remain out of sight was pulled and yanked as he wrested the headpiece free. Caerulea attempted to steel herself in view of this monster, so far removed from the weary old man she first met.

​

Solomon let go of her shoulder, now favouring the hand that was closed around Caerulea's neck. She kicked in vain and thumped at the old man's arm relentlessly. As her vision was darkening, the priestess saw Thalia fall into rank behind Solomon, staring ahead blankly. Then Kyros appeared in kind.

​

‘Traitor,’ they said in unison. Then again, ‘Traitor.’

​

They repeated the phrase again and again, drumming and drilling into her mind. A fourth voice joined the harmony, a dark, hungry voice. The three were flanked by a tall, dark figure. The Imperator. He had fallen so far. She had idolized him. And now…

​

She tried to warn them. He, no, it was behind them! They had to run! But Caerulea could barely remember the last time she had breathed, let alone spoken.

​

‘Traitor,’ thrummed the chorus.

​

The protesting thumps against Solomon’s arm turned to slaps.

​

‘Traitor.’

​

Each kick to his gut was weaker than the last.

​

‘Traitor.’

​

Was her vision fading? Or was the shadow consuming them?

​

‘Traitor.’

​

And Caerulea was dead.

​

When she awoke, she found the ground beneath her soft and uneven. It was dark. She pawed at the ground to straighten herself, but her hands and knees slipped on some unseen liquid that coated her surroundings. She found purchase on something metal, embedded vertically in the ground. She steadied herself against it, still reeling from her fight with Solomon. She summoned the last of her energy and forced it into a final sprig of mistletoe. The leaves burst into a vibrant tangerine flame, and Caerulea found herself face to face with Chariton.

Caerulea screamed and fell again. His skin was shredded and gangrenous, chunks of torn fabric and crumpled armour sloughed off of his form as he lurched toward her. The smouldering sprig had fallen to the ground, and Caerulea processed her location for the first time. She stood atop a mountain of corpses. A mess of swords, armour, flesh, and pointed ears. How many had fallen by her hand?

​

Chariton lurched ever closer.

​

‘I… died… for you…’ he gasped.

​

‘I didn’t… I tried to… Solomon, he…’ Caerulea stammered.

​

The priestess felt insignificant, helpless. She was sickened. Where was the stone-faced stoicism that had accompanied her loyalty? Was this the price of desertion?

​

‘…and this… is how… you repay me? Chariton finished.

​

‘Let me help…’ Caerulea offered.

​

She began the recitations of a simple healing spell; it was the best she could offer in her current state. She reached out to touch Chariton, but her arm stopped short. It was frozen, locked in place.

​

‘Not again,’ Caerulea gasped. ‘No!’

​

There was no magic at play here, just exhaustion and injury. Her muscles were locked in an immovable spasm. This had never used to happen. Not until she started doubting herself, doubting her loyalty.

​

She tried to shimmy forward, bridging the gap between Chariton and her useless, rigid arm. She passed within a hair’s breadth of him when the immense jaws of a golden dragon broke her line of sight with him. A final cry of pain rang out as Caerulea threw herself backwards, attempting to scramble to safety.

​

Instead, she found herself tumbling down the mountain of her victims. Faces familiar and strange streaked by her as she fell. In the swirl and spin of her seemingly endless cascade, she caught glimpses of a radiant light drawing nearer. She hurtled towards it, desperately trying to find purchase or slow her descent to no avail. It crept into full view at last, it was her blade, pointed toward a dark sky. One final thump against corpse and carcass threw her upwards, and then onto her own sword.

​

Caerulea screamed as she woke, clutching at her abdomen. The dull thud of marching sounded nearby. The priestess tumbled out of her bed and reached for her hip. No weapons. Shit. Two elven guards stood across from her, more inquisitive than aggressive. She maintained her fighting stance.

​

‘Are you alright, Lihun?’ the female guard asked.

​

Caerulea's brow arched in confusion and anger. The male guard elbowed the former with a cough.

​

‘Miss Rubicas, I mean,’ she corrected.

​

‘Get out,’ Caerulea demanded.

​

There was a moment of tense silence, interrupted only slightly by the strands of loose hair that fell across Caerulea's face. The guards sighed, but to her surprise, they complied. They marched out of her cell with the same expediency with which they had entered. Only when the door was closed did Caerulea abandon her fighting stance.

​

Caerulea returned to her bed. Planting herself on the edge, she began plaiting her hair. She had adopted the style since abandoning the Praeceptum’s headpiece, which now occupied most of the small bedside table the elves had afforded her. At times, it had seemed to be watching her, judging even. Rightfully unnerved by the sensation, she had turned it to face the wall.

 

It occurred to Caerulea that her nightmare had resulted in a cold sweat. Finishing her braiding, Caerulea began rooting through the drawers of the generously provided table for something in the way of a towel. She found a handkerchief stuffed behind inkwells and quills; apparently the previous occupant had been a writer. The rag was unfortunately too filthy to wipe anything with. The following drawer contained hair pins, a simple hand mirror, and a folded tunic, adorned with swirling gilded threads weaving down the sides. Typical elven ostentation, and with fake gold no less. She peeled off the sweat-caked shirt she had been permitted to keep upon the seizure of her weapons and armour. She repurposed the shirt into the towel, a role the handkerchief should have fulfilled, and pulled the tunic over her head. She heavily telegraphed her reluctant donning of the elven dress; she had no doubt that she was somehow under observation here.

​

She had been here for two days now, in a room Otoño had erroneously dubbed ‘guest quarters.’ It was far more analogous to a cell. Its contents included a bed, a bedside table, and three Romanesque windows; enchanted to prevent egress. The only door into the room was flanked by two guards, whose duties included escorting Caerulea to the water closet, and unceremoniously wandering into her quarters when boredom struck. She had not seen Otoño since being dumped here.

​

The lack of entertainment meant that Caerulea spent most of her time doubting her decision to flee the Empire. She had mulled her options in that cave over a thousand times, if not more. She found herself developing dozens of possible theories on what happened after she left, and for every bad outcome she could summon a good one to meet it. If she could distract herself from the past, she wound up fixated on the present. In this line of thought, she believed her execution imminent. She had little faith in Otoño’s ability to sell the remaining Archons on Caerulea’s usefulness. The Empire’s intelligence had shown that the autumn eladrin had a rather lackadaisical attitude to her duties. Caerulea tried to convince herself of the old saying: any port in a storm, but it was of little consolation when this tempest was of her own creation.

​

Today, however, Caerulea had a different, albeit related concern to endlessly consider in her empty cell. Flashes of images from that dream would not leave her. Eventually, the anxiety it stirred up had her lying down, attempting to control her breathing. She dreaded the idea of this becoming a recurring dream. Her first night here had been restless and paranoid, and she had barely slept. She couldn’t have dreamed if she had tried. But her first night of calm rest had been rife with these haunting images. Caerulea winced and twisted and turned when each image returned to her. Chariton’s corpse, her cadre’s disapproval, and the Imperator… or at least, a shadow of him.

​

That haunted her the most. He had been such a beacon to her; the sheer embodiment of what the Empire was supposed to be. He was a symbol, in the way she wished to be. Every step in this damn war had been a means to that end, and for what? He had thrown it all away, he had become… whatever he had become. She had nearly burnt herself out at Amloris trying to be noticed by him. She had led her own squad into Lothiviel in his honour. Why had she put her life on the line so many times for a man that fell so far? The sense of betrayal she felt was some small vindication for her desertion, she supposed. If those above her in the Empire could disappear for as long as they liked, only to return as monsters, perhaps they were not to be relied upon.

​

Moments later, Caerulea recalled that the incumbent Summer Archon had recently done the same thing and wondered if the elves were having the same existential crisis as her right now. She remembered her final words to her cadre before leaving them with what was left of Pragulos.

​

‘This is bigger than all of us.’

​

For the first time since she said it, Caerulea believed those words again.

​

Suddenly, the moment of stillness Caerulea had pondered herself into was broken by singing. It was the female guard.

​

‘Eleanor Tipp was a pretty, young maid,

But never did she learn to read.

At twenty-four years, to rest she was laid,

Having mistaken poison for mead.’

​

Caerulea smirked, though she tried her best to fight it. Her mother had sung that song, before the Praeceptum, before she even new the word ‘war’. It had been years since she had heard it. But apparently the elves knew it, albeit the words were different.

​

‘Those are not the words!’ said the male guard. Caerulea found herself in silent agreement.

​

‘It goes: Eleanor Tipp was a pretty, young maid,

And weekly she cooked us a feast.

At twenty-four years, to rest she was laid,

When the price of utensils increased.’

​

Caerulea’s fleeting smirk disappeared in a scowl of confusion. They weren’t the words either.

​

‘Where did you hear that? It does not even rhyme,’ the female guard teased.

​

‘Yes, it does! A feast, in-creased!’

​

‘You’re both wrong!’ Caerulea snapped, not wanting to hear any further argument. The pair had bickered all last night too.

​

‘Do you hear this?’ laughed the male guard. His voice grew louder as he turned toward the door that separated them. ‘And how do you believe this song goes?’

​

Caerulea sighed. There was nothing else to do, so she obliged and cleared her throat.

​

‘Eleanor Tipp was a pretty, young maid,

But no one could say she was bright.

At twenty-four years, to rest she was laid,

From wearing her corset too tight.’

​

The male guard laughed audibly. The female was less impressed. ‘I still prefer my one.'

​

The male guard turned back. ‘She was a good singer, no?’ Caerulea felt her cheeks threaten to blush, and she was glad the pair had not entered the room.

​

‘She was no Octava.’

​

‘Of course, she was no Octava! Did I say she was?! I said she was good.’

​

‘And I said she was not as good as Octava.’

​

‘No one is as good as Octava. Why must you always hyperbolise these things?’

​

‘I never hyperbolise!’

​

‘Do you hear yourself?’

​

The two guards descended into a seemingly endless argument soon after, despite Caerulea’s efforts to dissuade precisely that. Caerulea turned over in her bed to better cover her ears, but she still could not drown the bickering elves out.

_____________

‘Traitor, traitor.’

​

‘I’m… not…’

​

‘You left me for dead…’

​

‘I didn’t want…’

​

‘Wake up.’

​

Caerulea startled awake suddenly. Something was looming over her. She scrambled to the corner of her bed, shrinking away from the figure. It was night now. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She was caked in sweat again; that damn dream.

​

The figure had recoiled when Caerulea started. A moment of weakness, Caerulea had to strike before they did. She began summoning a flame to her hand, illuminating the face of her attacker. Before her stood a familiar eladrin, her face was absent of the charming smile that had beguiled her cadre. Instead, a controlled gentleness, a concerted effort to communicate peaceful intentions. Caerulea held still, but she did not snuff out the flame in her hand. Otoño began to reach out reassuringly.

​

‘Don’t touch me,’ Caerulea snapped.

​

She shrank into the wall again, reoccupying the inch or so she had ceded in the last few seconds. Otoño complied and recoiled immediately. She folded her hands across her waist and retreated slightly.

​

‘You are safe here.’

​

‘Bullshit,’ Caerulea bit.

​

‘Please, I bring good news.’

​

‘So, you ambush me while I sleep?’

​

Caerulea felt vulnerable in her huddled position. With a flick of her wrist, an ember spat from her handheld flame and lit a nearby candle. Then, refusing to break eye contact with Otoño, she stood. The added height of the bed made for an awkward dynamic as the conversation continued.

​

‘You were clearly having a bad dream. I intervened,’ Otoño explained.

​

‘You scared the shit out of me.’

​

‘What did you dream-.'

​

‘You said you have news,’ Caerulea interrupted.

​

She did not want to answer, and the news was more important anyway. Otoño sighed.

​

‘They do not trust you, but they are ready to learn to. That is, if you can extend them that same courtesy.’

At that, the flame in the priestess's hand grew hotter and angrier.

​

‘You’re not going to execute me,’ Caerulea bit, highlighting the only information that was contained in her words.

​

‘That was never going to happen.’

​

‘Bullshit.’

​

Otoño sighed. She closed her eyes for a moment. When they opened, she seemed to have centred herself, and addressed Caerulea as though there had been no prior conversation.

​

‘Will you walk with me?’ she offered, extending a hand to Caerulea.

​

‘I said: don't touch me.’

​

‘I won’t,’ Otoño ceded, retracting her hand. The eladrin paced to the door, still ajar following her entry.

​

‘If you will not walk with me, you can find me in the gardens when you are ready.’

​

Otoño took her leave of Caerulea’s room-cum-cell. Neither guard reached in to close the door behind her. Caerulea wondered if they were present at all. As Otoño’s footsteps faded down the hall, Caerulea finally dispelled her fire before reaching for the bedside table. She retrieved the hand mirror she had stumbled across earlier and began fixing her hair. Her hair had tumbled out of the plait she had accidentally fallen asleep with, and it had become a further mess in her apparent mid-dream restlessness.

 

While meticulously supervising her plaiting through the mirror, she noticed a wound that had not entirely healed in the previous days. She had of course been aware of the cut tracing from the bridge of her nose to her lip. However, it had felt much thinner than it was. In truth, the ugly scab was almost a quarter of an inch thick in places. She had been willing to let it heal itself; she wasn’t quite sure why. But seeing it now, Caerulea was amazed no one had offered to heal it just to avoid looking at it. She tilted her head to the side, pinning the plait between her ear and shoulder, and began tracing her finger across the wound, mumbling incantations in an old dialect the Praeceptors favoured over the vernacular.

​

The scab receded quickly; sensitive pink flesh was revealed underneath. With a few more traces, the pink blanched into a scar. A final pass masked the wound forever. Caerulea regarded her face for a moment. How many scars had been lost to her healing touch? She continued tracing invisible lines across her face, recounting where other scars should be. She straightened without realising. Sometimes she swore she could feel those scars still, panging just beneath the surface of the skin, begging to be remembered.

​

Caerulea woke from her contemplative trance when she felt the plait slip off of her shoulder and unfurl across her back. ‘Shit.' She began prying her silver hair between her fingers to restart, before pausing. She glared at herself in the mirror with a mix of confusion and disgust. Why was she tidying herself up? She wasn’t going anywhere.

​

Caerulea stepped out of her room. The two guards were still flanking the door. The male guard nodded to her; the female waved. They made no effort to pursue her as she walked down the corridor, following the path she took to the water closet. As she completed the re-plaiting of her hair, she scoffed silently to herself. Otoño knew that Caerulea was constructing a mental map of this place every time she left the room. She weighed the idea of pretending she got lost to avoid proving Otoño’s suspicions. She dismissed it as she took the correct turn, preferring to appear clever but predictable over just plain stupid.

​

She found the Autumn Archon lazing on the edge of an impressive fountain, the centrepiece of which appeared to be a statue of Verano. The statue was unfamiliar, it resembled the Verano the elves had known, not the creature Caerulea had encountered in that tainted grove.

​

Otoño sat up and turned to the priestess, her perceptiveness apparently rivalling Caerulea's. She crossed her legs and tilted her head, smiling. Caerulea got the sense that Otoño would be taking on a different tone with her in the coming conversation. How unfortunate that she would face the eladrin with the same scepticism and caution she had afforded her upstairs.

​

‘I knew you would come. Please, sit with me.’

​

The elf's voice was sultry and rolling, it flowed naturally like lapping waves. It was no wonder her charm was unrivalled. She could surely control lesser folk with her natural charisma alone. Caerulea, however, was made of sterner stuff.

​

‘What's your game here?’ she asked cautiously, approaching the fountain.

​

‘To show you that you are not imprisoned here,’ she smiled. ‘And now that game is ended, and we can talk as friends.’

​

‘We are not friends,’ Caerulea warned.

​

Otoño frowned. It was not the playful pout of someone who was not getting their way. She had seen that frown when the Archon demanded a dance from her in that wretched cave. This seemed a frown of disappointment, earnest disappointment, there was a hint of empathy to it as well.

​

‘You are doubting your decision to come here,’ she offered. A leading question disguised as a concern.

​

‘What was your first clue?’ Caerulea replied dryly. She leaned against a nearby tree. She afforded it a brief glance, and found it locked in a perpetual autumn. Glancing around, she spotted a tree reflecting each season interspersed amongst the natural growths of the garden. Russet leaves tumbled obnoxiously across her line of sight as they spoke, but Caerulea was too stubborn to move.

​

‘You were so sure when you first arrived.’ Her tone retained that playful curiosity, but her words were calculatedly inoffensive. Was she trying to embody the Otoño that Caerulea had first met with? She hardly believed reminding her of that life-size ventriloquist act would be a comfort, did she? And the careful efforts to keep Caerulea talking were shattering any sort of illusion the Archon was trying to maintain.

​

‘I was in shock. I was trying to survive,’ she said.

​

‘You made the right decision,’ Otoño rebutted.

​

‘How can you know that?’ She felt something catch in her throat. As though all the doubt in her had congealed and lodged itself in her windpipe. Caerulea was suddenly on the cusp of tears. That hadn’t happened in a long time, and she focussed all of her efforts on burying that sensation. She held her head high and waited on Otoño's next move.

​

‘You saw the same monster as I. If your friends survived, they are in a most dangerous position.’

​

Caerulea stood at full height, dropping her folded arms to her side. ‘And I am not? I am trapped in enemy territory, indebted to an enemy, with my life in the hands of an enemy council.’

​

‘We are not your enemy, Lihun.’ There was that word again, what did it mean? Caerulea had a passing knowledge of Elvish, but had never encountered the term. Without quite realising, she scolded in confusion at the comment. Subsequently, Otoño turned away to look up at Verano.

​

‘Do you truly regret coming here?’ she asked distantly, earnestly, as though she were asking herself the same question.

​

‘I don’t know what I think, and even if I did, I don’t know that I can trust myself.’

​

Otoño turned back to Caerulea. The pair locked eyes. Otoño regarded her with curiosity and a hint of surprise. Caerulea retaliated with a steely stare, refusing to lose this staring contest. ‘Sit with me,’ Otoño offered again.

​

‘No.’

​

‘For my sake, please.’

​

‘I said-,’ Caerulea started.

​

She stopped when Otoño's expression changed. The curiosity dissipated in favour of another, sadder frown. ‘You think I charmed you,’ she said. 'That I made you come here.'

​

She did. The idea had come to Caerulea a few times. Every time she explained the possibility away, she found a flaw in her logic and convinced herself that the decision had not been her own all over again. ‘The thought crossed my mind, yes.’

​

‘Do you truly think me so callous?’ Otoño asked quietly.

​

‘I think we are fighting for opposing sides in a war, and we would both do anything to win,’ Caerulea said flatly.

​

‘You told me this war had become something larger than both of us.’

​

‘For all I know, you made me say that.’

​

‘I did not!’ Otoño snapped, raising her voice for the first time. Caerulea resisted the urge to recoil. Otoño sighed deeply before speaking again at her preferred volume.

​

‘Please sit with me.’ There was something vulnerable in her tone, wounded even. Caerulea almost felt a heartstring move. She made a show of displaying her reluctance as she stepped forward. She angrily slapped a leaf out of her way as she left the tree's canopy and thumped down beside the Archon. Otoño did not turn to look at her. She stared at the ground, toward nothing in particular, her fingers folded together in her lap. ‘When that… thing appeared…’ she started.

​

‘The Imperator,’ Caerulea said. If she didn’t say his name, it didn’t feel quite as real.

​

‘Yes. The Imperator. When he appeared, I saw the fear in your eyes, and it was my own. In those following seconds, we both made a thousand, tiny, life-changing decisions. We were beings of pure instinct and intuition. How could I ever intervene in something like that?’ Otoño did not look up. She remained in her pensive stare. Caerulea got the sense that she had defended herself on this front before.

​

‘And… in the tower, afterwards?’

​

‘I saw a scared young woman who needed a friend.’

​

Caerulea could not find the heart to argue. Without entirely understanding why, she reached out to the Archon. Otoño startled gently as Caerulea's hand came to rest on her shoulder. She glanced to the priestess in acknowledgement. There were a few moments of silence, each more awkward than the last as Caerulea wondered when to remove her hand.

​

‘I’m glad it was you, who came with me,’ Otoño mused, weakly trying to revive her favoured playful tone.

Caerulea removed her hand at last, disguising the retreat as her readjusting herself on the fountain edge.

​

‘Why is that?’ Caerulea asked, more for Otoño’s sake than her own.

​

‘I can’t help but wonder sometimes; how real my world is. My people, do they like me? Trust me? Respect me? Or have I charmed them without quite knowing? But you…’ Otoño turned to Caerulea, locking eyes again. It felt less like a competition this time. Otoño's eyes seemed to glisten. Was she crying? It was hard to tell in the dark.

​

‘I could not charm you if I tried. In fact, I have!’ she laughed.

​

‘So, you’re excited for a new challenge?’ Caerulea asked, suddenly becoming wary of her proximity to the Archon.

​

‘No, Lihun. That means that whatever you might think of me, I know it is real.’

​

Caerulea was surprised by the Archon's honesty, and allowed herself to relax again. She supposed one had to take victories where they could. ‘Well,’ Caerulea started, and discovered she was a little more choked up than she thought.

​

She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘What I think of you depends on only one thing at the moment.’

​

Otoño looked wary and curious all at once.

​

‘What on Therros does “Lihun" mean?’

​

Otoño sighed in relief and giggled. Her laugh was much nicer now that it wasn’t conducting a hypnotized strike team’s dance recital.

​

‘Oh, that. It means “blue", the same as Caerulea, no?’

​

‘Yes. The guards were calling me it too,’ Caerulea was just relieved it had not turned out to be something vulgar.

​

‘We can call you Caerulea, if you prefer?’ The Archon placed a hand on top of Caerulea’s as she spoke, a gesture intended to reassure. Otoño let out a slight peep as the two looked down to their hands. Instinct told Caerulea to turn her hand over. Her fingers interlocked with Otoño’s. She felt a stark contrast between Otoño’s soft hands, and her own, hardened and calloused by a score of handling fire. Otoño did not seem to mind.

​

‘No,’ Lihun said. ‘I like it.'