Discordant Note | TBATE

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Aurora Asclepius

I watched as my son gently began to draw the youngest of our family into a slow routine of flowing steps. He conversed with them, explaining much of his recent attempt at growth and improvement in his martial abilities.

I smiled, watching as they gravitated about him as if he were a star and they a dozen planets. And gradually, more and more of my family floated down to the training platform, drawn in by the sudden fervor.

We flock together so easily, I thought, feeling a kindling warmth in my heart as they became engrossed in their talks.

"My style focused a lot on parries and counters," Toren said to a few listening phoenixes as he worked through the strikes and deflections. "It's effective and really good. It meshes well with my maneuverability and abilities, but I'm also not as limited as most are in taking damage."

Toren held out a hand, then conjured a small shrouded dagger. A few of those who hadn't seen this before muttered in surprise at the formation of a heartfire vein that the weapon used as support.

After all, if they wish for anything similar, they must spend untold years slowly building it instead of the casual manipulation my son can do.

Toren casually struck the dagger across the inside of his palm, drawing blood. Then, with just as casual an effort, he flared his lifeforce.

The wound sealed over in a wash of dawnlight. Surprised squawks erupted across the increasing crowd as they leaned in to see what exactly he'd done.

Toren smirked as he gestured with his now-healed palm to the intrigued members of our clan. "I can afford to take far more damage than most with my abilities. So while a style based around evasion is good, I have a larger margin for error. So a lot of my movements now–while they still seek to avoid and deflect damage–they take into account this fact."

A few of our family raised their hands, asking questions and inquiring about Toren's abilities with heartfire. He responded best he could, trying to lay out his insight and what had granted him such power.

My eyes drifted to Roa and Lithen as I slowly walked away, noting their clasped hands. It seems in the time since I have lived here, they have finally come together, I noted. Some things do change in my Hearth.

I slowly lifted into the air, hovering away. I surveyed the myriad shades of red and darkening black hair of my family as I drifted about them like a ghost.

Sensing my bittersweet melancholy, Toren stopped suddenly, looking toward my ghost with worried eyes.

"Aurora," he thought. "Are you okay?"

I am well, my bond, I replied back with honesty. I simply wish for some time to myself before my upcoming plea to the clan.

Toren could sense that that was not all there was to my current emotions, but he did not press. He nodded slowly, darkening our bond slightly as he let me go.

There was a time when our connection never darkened. When he was always listening for my heartbeat and steady praise. Where my advice was always quick and earnest in the wake of his needs. But those questions—that need—had fallen away somewhat.

I settled down on a balcony high above, a tunnel opening behind me as I watched like an angel on high. At least forty of our clanmembers milled about, talking with Toren. Learning more of him as he learned of them.

I turned around, pushing those thoughts from my mind for a time. I centered myself, remembering how I'd always focused on my inner fire as I'd been lashed in Taegrin Caelum's vaults. That fire… it had shifted. It wasn't just within me, now, but with my son. Through him, I found the strength for what needed to be done.

I strolled through the Hearth, the sounds of the training ground leaving me behind. As a ghost, I had no true sense of taste, smell, or touch. Sight and sound were all that were afforded to me. The wonderful music of my son's acceptance into our flock slowly drifted away on an Unseen breeze as I walked down familiar halls.

The Hearth was originally a sanctuary, one for the long-gone djinn. My Andravhor had taken great pride in his art of crafting it. Even until the end, he found joy in the enchanting effects of the place. His room in particular—the observatory—was where I had finally realized my feelings for him.

But the vines and autumn fire leaves that snaked along the walls? The Charwood and Sunswept Gardens? Those were our personal touches. Our attempts at making something truly like our past home. The Starbrand Sanctum was empty now, but we tried to bring a mote of it here.

My gaze lingered on one of those silver vines. An affinity for nature magic was rare among the phoenixes. Even rarer that one of us mastered it in any sense of the word.

Aurora—named after me—had found a way. Barely past her first Sculpting, the young phoenix had discovered a way to use the barest remnants of an age-old Catastrophe—one that the djinn had possessed—to not only plant the seeds of the Elshire Forest, but also to weave obscuring layers about our home that enhanced those of our djinni brethren.

She had earned the moniker all knew her by now. Aurora of the Vine, as I was of the Talon.

It is our young who push what is truly possible, I thought. Roa. Lithen. Sundren. Chul. Toren. It is they who strive for more than what we have now.

But the laughter of children no longer echoed through these halls. The only offspring of the Asclepius Clan that had been born in the past millennium had been of the union between djinn and phoenix. And among them all… among them all, Chul was the only such star that bore our lifespan.

I paused, the utter silence of the halls seeming to close in on me for a time. Without the laughter, it felt so empty in a way I had never realized before. Like a theater devoid of the music that made it what it was.

But the deaths of the djinn—and the children we few had in such unions, I thought, swallowing at the memories, it broke something in every one of us who experienced it. The phoenixes alone claim the mantle of eternal life. But we could not spare our husbands and wives and children who bore djinni blood.

That was something else Toren had to fight against in these Forums. He had to push past our grief.

I wandered for an indeterminate time, allowing myself to contemplate my long-desired reunion. It was something Toren had taught me as much as I taught him: letting myself acknowledge and feel each emotion. It was different than the meditation techniques of nearly every clan. Instead of finding serenity through the absence of feeling, one found it through the embrace of emotion.

I paused in my reminiscing, however, as I heard something else reach my ears. The sound of brushes across the canvas, the clatter of utensils and tools and hurried footsteps.

Belatedly, I realized where I was. Though the passages were nigh endless in their twisting and wandering, I knew them by heart. Here was the Passage of Art, where many of my kin had their pastimes.

I drifted to the side, noting an entrance to the grand chamber. And inside I was immediately greeted with an almost overwhelming sight.

Dozens of pages drifted on calm eddies of wind in one corner, each yellowed page coasting about like a swallow in a cool breeze. They flapped slightly as they flowed from phoenix to phoenix. Those that caught them scanned them over slowly with burning eyes, scribbled a few notes onto the edges, and then let them back into the air to be caught on currents once more.

In another corner, I recognized a few individuals as they sang a light melody. It was a sad, somber tune, one I had not heard in an age.

The Lament of the Lost, I thought, stuttering to a stop as the mournful melody washed over my phantom ears. For those fallen in war and battle.

I did not need to swallow as the music rushed around me, but I did anyway. I forced my eyes away from the singers and their haunting song, unable to focus on the memories it brought to the fore.

There was a single phoenix in another corner. Aphora was painting something on a broad canvas with blue and yellow paint, making a deep weave with every stroke of his brush. That brush glistened with orange runes along the edges, flaring with every swipe. This far from my bond, I could not draw on his mana sense to peer at the inner workings of the artifact. Nonetheless, I knew he somehow imbued mana into each and every line of paint.

I could not see what masterpiece he was creating. His hunched form sat in front of it, blocking it from my view.

"We still spend much of our time in the Passage of Art," a familiar voice rumbled. "Though it is not the same without the sound of your voice every morning."

My burning eyes drifted back to those who sang the Lament. "Rarely have I sung since Andravhor left us," I said quietly. "I do not expect to do so again any time in the future."

Soleil stopped beside me, looking in at the many writers, singers, and painters of the Hearth. "But you have sung?" he asked, quietly imploring.

My mind drifted back in time, coasting along my journey with Toren in this world. I remembered when we'd stared out into the infinite purple void of a Relictombs Zone, contemplating music and platforms and life.

"I sang the Oldest Lullaby," I said wistfully, remembering the simpler days of trekking through my husband's Lifework. "You know the one, Soleil. I think I needed it more than my son did, at least at that moment."

It was that moment when I'd recognized what Toren had truly become to me. Contractor and bond, true… But son. I had not recognized him truly as such until he'd heard the old lullaby of the Asclepius breathed from my lips.

Soleil spared me a single glance, his eyes sad. "Mordain hummed it to you when you were young. I remember it fondly."

A ghost of a smile feathered across my lips at the old memories. My upbringing in the Starbrand Sanctum had been… unkind. My mother had perished soon after my birth, taken in battle, and my father had fallen to Kezess Indrath's predecessor.

That left only Morn and I, one hatchling and a fledgling forced to fly far too soon. But as Mordain found his footing within our clan, becoming a politician and a force of fire itself, he'd reserved a tender care for me, raising me in the absence of our parents.

"I don't think I've heard Mordain sing in a long time either," I said consideringly. "Not since we first came to this place. I did not understand why he kept himself quiet… Not until now."

Soleil considered this for a while. As one of the oldest members of our clan, he had seen many things. I wondered what was going through his head as he considered what might best soothe my pains.

"When this Forum ends, you may have a chance again," Soleil said. "There is healing here, in this place of refuge. This you know."

I shook my head slowly. "It is unwise to discount our upcoming plea so easily," I said with a sigh. "Toren and I will still push for our plea, despite the… temptation."

Soleil sighed himself. "Your son—Toren Asclepius—he has a draw with our younger generations. Those who know little of battle and bloodshed and loss. He still holds the fire of youth, not unlike his brother. But it is not enough to sway us all. I understand your hopes, Aurora. But… it will not bear fruit."

"You see the impact he has on our younger flock," I replied softly. "We both know that the tides can turn in our favor."

"That matters not," the older phoenix cut in harshly. "When asura battle on lesser grounds, it can only lead to bloodshed and death for those we wish to protect. I know this, Aurora. Which is why I can't understand."

Soleil was one of the originators of the concept of the Hearth. He was one of the elders who discovered the ruination of the People of Life alongside my brother, and it was through him and his ideals that we managed to save so many of my husband's people.

A silence settled between us that made the Lament of the Lost ring painfully in the back of my mind. And at Soleil's words, I remembered the frantic flight from Epheotus. How many we lost when the Indraths put together our plans. The scorched fires of the Faircities and broken remnants of survivors we squirreled away.

Soleil was right, in a way. I did not see a path forward without bloodshed. I looked down at my phantasmal hands, noting their purple-pinkish undertones. A gift from Andravhor.

"I… know it will result in warfare," I admitted, my voice small. For the first time in countless millennia, I felt like I was a young chick again. "I do not want this, Soleil. I don't want to see them die again. Something of me withered when Andravhor left. So many of us withered when our family suffered. I do not… I don't know if I can see my family break."

We'd all died with those we loved, in some small way. And the ashes smothered us, burying us all beneath their shadows. How could we ever hope to claw ourselves up from such a death? How could we—phoenixes of life and light—comprehend such a darkness?

The older phoenix finally turned, his hard face scrunching up. Soleil was always a blunt man, one who rarely engaged in any sort of emotion. But as I stared at him, watching as he worked his jaw and struggled to put words to his thoughts, I realized he felt just as much as any other phoenix.

"Please, Aurora," he said, forcing the words out as if they came from a hole too small. "We wish for you to return. To be a part of our clan again in truth. We all do. But this insistence on intervention drives a wedge through our community. You know that you and Toren are welcome here. He can live his life here freely if that is what you truly fear. But this path you tread will lead only to despair. Because we are firestorms to them. They are lesser. In being, no, but in power. And they can only suffer beneath us, should we step into the light. But if you abandon this course, it can be as it once was."

I stared up into Soleil's eyes, quietly pleading. He knew on some level that I was… different from when I had last been here. That some part of me had been burned away in Taegrin Caelum. It appeared he thought that our family could heal those wounds, too.

And for an instant, I allowed myself to dream. I could see Chul returning to meet his brother. I could be a mother to them both in a way I'd failed before. I could sing with those I loved beneath the happy lights of the Sunswept Gardens. It was a life of contentment that I had enjoyed before for countless years.

We celebrated the Aurora Constellate every few years. We could not risk stepping out under the stars, but the festival we threw in our little slice of Epheotus was grand and wonderful. The food and drink never grew old. Toren would surely love our festivities. It was the sort of thing that drew him closer to the people around him.

And the training grounds wouldn't be so empty. Chul would find a brother in not just blood, but in the blade as well. He wouldn't be alone in his training any longer, for Toren shared that same love for magic.

And maybe… maybe I could sing again. Andravhor said it made me seem even more beautiful, the way I could truly relax as I breathed out each note. He'd told me that when I sang for him, I was more alive than any of the People of Life.

But that wonderful dream cracked as, out of the corner of my eye, I saw what Aphora had been painting. He stood up, seeming to heave himself as he did so with an effort of will. And when he stepped aside, that vague impression of yellows and blues became one, beautiful whole.

It was the sky. The vast, endless, expansive sky. The robin's egg-blue of reflected light was so immersive I could almost feel the air beneath my long-gone wings. The sun was woven in brilliant gold with rays that seemed to shine beyond the scope of the canvas. Just the sight of it made me feel warm, drawing on my innermost psyche.

And beneath that was an endless sea, reflecting those waters like Toren's soul. And looking at that painting, drawn from the depths of Aphora's heart…

I felt free again, for a bare moment. And then my dream fractured and broke into a million shards. Each falling fragment sent reverberating waves of renewed sorrow through my mind as I finally understood what I'd wanted to avoid for so long.

"No," I whispered, holding back fiery tears. "It won't ever be the same, no matter the outcome of this Forum."

I stared at this man I'd known all my life, finding a tragic resolve, even as I felt the slow, mourning realization. "We've let ourselves die," I murmured. "We, phoenixes. Masters of life and death. We've clipped our wings and snuffed our fires. We've forgotten what it is to live, sequestered for so long in this place. We don't feel pain… but neither do we grow."

Soleil's expression darkened, somewhere between fury and sorrow both. "Yet we do live! That is the difference, Aurora. That is what you do not understand. We live, and no others suffer for it! None suffer the kiss of our boot!"

"Where is the laughter of our children, Soleil?" I asked quietly, staring back into the Passageway of Art. The Lament of the Lost had ended, and those members of our flock within were staring at their flutes. But I knew they heard us. "When did you last hear it?"

Toren had given me that sound again. That sound I hadn't known had been missing, until the terrible contrast of these empty halls, silver vines reaching for something that no longer was there.

Soleil was silent.

"What is life without pain?" I asked somberly, turning away from the Passageway of Art. Turning away from that great depiction of the sky. "What is life without suffering? How can we ever know joy and light without the darkness that precedes it? We've forgotten what it means to be phoenix, Soleil."

My old mentor and friend knew much, and was as wise as one of his age could attest. But he couldn't fathom rising from our defeats. He could not understand pushing past the heartbreaking sorrows of loss. When all had died, he'd forgotten how to rise from the ashes himself.

I knew what it meant to die. I knew the touch of deepest misery in the depths of Agrona's dungeons. Only in death could I love life all the more.

Toren and I shall prove him wrong, I thought, seeing the heartbreak in the elder's eyes. We know what it is to rise again, like a sunrise over the world. No matter what comes our way, we can overcome it.

—

It was early morning when I took the stand at the Forumground. I stood over the engraving of Faircity Zhoroa as I stared out at my clan, the lights of the faux suns streaming down on me.

But I did not feel warm. I'd felt cold since yesterday, when I'd recognized that the void in my heart was wider than I'd ever expected.

Beside me, Toren's hand brushed my arm supportingly. Not far away, my brother looked on with old, old eyes. Before I'd left the Hearth, I did not truly understand how he could look so old despite his airs of eternal youth. We of the phoenix were unburdened by age. We alone among the asura could tout an eternal life.

But now I knew how age burdened what should have been undyingly graceful. I knew how one whose body could not feel the ravages of time could still feel it passing.

All of the Asclepius looked down at me, their eyes like four hundred fireflies as they glimmered against a night sky. While I did not have Toren's sense of emotions, I still knew the hearts of my flock.

Today was different than yesterday. Toren's plea had been one of emotion, of pathos. But at its core, it was born of logic. And his words had sway, particularly with the younger of the Asclepius. Those who saw the most of themselves in Toren.

My plea would be different from his.

"When I last left the Hearth," I said into the grave-still silence, "it was to fulfill a single mission. As the result of our last Forum, it was decreed that I would act as a representative of the Asclepius to investigate Agrona Vritra's rebellion. To see if it was worth joining."

My hands clenched at my sides. "But I was betrayed."

My family shifted glowing eyes exchanging uncertain glances. They murmured as the silence hung, discussing among themselves quietly as they sensed what I was about to say.

If I still bore a body of flesh and blood, I suspected I would be sweating. My breathing would be heightened as the effects of adrenaline made my movements choppy and my thoughts run blurrily.

For all that we Asclepius tried to honor my husband's people with our Forum, we were different from them. The djinn had an almost impossible patience for silence as they allowed every person to have their say. But the silence was anathema to us. We needed to fill it with some sort of noise, be that the ruffling of wings or the chattering of beaks.

I restrained a tremble. I needed to present myself as strong, even if I did not feel it. I needed to show my family why they needed to fight.

"Agrona Vritra shared Hearthrite with me," I said loudly, "and with poison and treachery, he saw me imprisoned in the depths of his dungeons."

A surprised chorus rumbled through the gathered phoenixes. A few stood up, opening their mouths to ask questions. But when they saw my eyes, their mouths closed. Silence slowly grew in the Forumground. Out of the corner of my eye, Mordain slowly turned away.

And I finally wrenched the words from my throat. Slowly at first, each word burning and tearing as they left me. Then faster and faster.

I told my family of the horrors I witnessed in the bowels of Agrona's bastion. The experiments and grim darkness that tainted the edges of my vision black. The mind-rending horrors that pulled at my very soul whenever I let myself drift for too long. The lengths and measures to which Agrona was willing to go.

I was not interrupted. As I spoke of broken wings and even more broken minds, there were none who sought to interject and question me. The stage was mine as I spoke of the first-hand pain and sorrow that was my life for a millennium.

Despite my desires, my voice became more and more hoarse. My breathing grew ragged and pained as I clawed the deepest secrets from the depths of my psyche, tearing them as if I were severing tumors in the recesses of my mind.

"But you know all this," I wheezed out, clenching my fists. "I espouse the horrors and pain I experienced deep in those depths, but what does this change? Nothing. We all understand the monster across the sea. That is not the struggle that binds your hearts from action."

I looked down, my eyes tracing the intricate carving of Faircity Zhoroa. I had never seen the city, and I never would. "The beasts of the Indrath Clan razed the djinni Faircities to the ground," I said quietly. "A civilization that existed for five millennia—that preached ideals of peace and coexistence—was erased in the blink of an asuran eye. And we sheltered them the best we could. We tried to save what was left."

The tension in the room shifted, caving inward at my recollection of our old allies. Of our friends and adopted flock.

I had not known grief before Andravhor. I had not known what it was like to watch one you loved… waste away. In one moment, I was greater than any star in the sky, made more through the love we shared. And in the next, his bones were nearly ash. His breath was ragged dust as it told me to live for our son. To embrace life.

But I had not. I'd feared it so, so much. Feared it so deeply that I'd left Chul—my little battling songbird—alone in a cage.

And that grief was shared by everyone in front of me. They knew that strange grief. A few of my family even stood abruptly, but not to speak against me. To leave.

I knew those few. Those who had taken a djinn to love as their nest-mate. Who had born children of mixed lineage, only to watch it all crumble.

"We mourn them still," I said quietly. "But Agrona does not."

More phoenixes stood. These ones did not wish to leave, but to demand answers. Their eyes churned a deep orange, and though they spoke no words, I could feel their questions.

"He has their Lifework," I said somberly. I set my hand on Toren's shoulder, using him for support. "Like a parasite leeching off something once beautiful, he picks and prods and tears at their greatest creation. As a worm burrows into healthy flesh, he tears apart the last remnants of our brethren."

I swept my gaze across the gathered phoenixes, knowing that my words had sunk in. "He seeks power over Fate. Yet instead of the beautifully woven song crafted by the People of Life, the Lord of the Vritra seeks to turn it into a dirge of damnation as they march over this world.

"I know you worry of bloodshed and destruction. We all fear the lives that could be lost should we intervene in this war in any way. But we failed to stop a genocide once. We failed to halt the atrocities that befell the djinn, and now their memories are being tainted by the deepest rot."

More phoenixes stood, staring down at me with clenched fists and growing resolve. Roa. Lithen. Aphora, and half a hundred more. Like an infectious wave, they rose in silent support.

"I leave you with only one last question, my clan. If we had the chance to turn back time to the days before the slaughter of the djinn, would we have sat by the sidelines as their Faircities burned?"