The Dying Sparrow
It began in darkness—an endless desolation. It was all that he had known for centuries: broken moments of isolation and despair. Wánmere. The pale lake. It had ground his pride to dust, yet still, he walked its formless waters in a never-ending cycle. Only shadows found comfort in the shifting waters of this cursed place. Their hungry gazes followed Astyrian as he made his futile march into the ceaseless night. He felt it upon the back of his neck—their burning desire for destruction. On aching feet, he moved, face down, eyes locked on the shifting nothingness of Wánmere. Through the stagnant air, his endless march continued.
Time held no sway. There was no sun, no moon, no stars in the sky. Once, at the beginning, Astyrian had glanced upward—only that once—for no constellations greeted him. Instead, all he saw was the still face of the lake reflected back at him, mocking him. Wánmere curled around him like smoke. It whispered to him in dulcet tones, promising salvation—but delivering red-coated agony. He knew its games too well, had become accustomed to the sequence of torture.
First, a light. Flickering in the sea of darkness. He could hear it now, just out of sight; a chorus of tormented screams from all those he had left to rot and die. It had begun again. The masquerade. He did not turn to witness the figures dancing in his periphery. A centuries-old waltz formed around him, and all he could think was, soon… she would be here.
The show had begun again, but this time, he refused to play his part. Closing his eyes against the vast abyss, he pulled on what little of his princely pride remained.
"Eft? Ne eart þu gedrefed?"
Once a mighty roar, his voice now dragged across his vocal cords like the dull edge of a rusted knife. The sting of it made his eyes scrunch shut in defense—he could remember the last time he had dared to speak. His hands trembled as the words left him, the memory of inky tendrils violating his throat still razor-sharp. Even now, he could feel them oozing past his tongue, slipping deep, curling around his lungs, choking him for the audacity of speech.
But… he was so very tired.
Let them come.
Let them all come and tear him to shreds.
"Hwí forlēte þu ūs? Þu wǣre ūre æþeling..."
A thousand ghosts whispered. Betrayal dripped like venom from each word, hitting him between the ribs, as it had every time before. Closing his eyes would do nothing to dislodge the anchor of guilt that hung about his neck, so he kept walking. His feet unsteady as he continued to tread the water’s surface. He could feel their contempt like a stone lodged in his gut. How many times had he heard their wails? How many times had he answered them? I did not leave — I love you still. Yet in the hollow abyss of Wánmere, he found only the silent jeers of the dead as his reply.
Tears unshed built at the corners of his eyes. His back bowed as his arm rose to encircle his fragile form. All about him, the grotesque masquerade began to take shape, and he tried desperately to cling to the last fraying edges of his sanity. She will be here soon. Women he had once known danced about, draped in their own intestines as if wearing the finest silk scarves. Men he had hunted with laughed, though every sip of wine they drank poured out from the gaping holes where their throats should have been. And the children… he had never been able to bring himself to witness the children, for fear of willingly joining their parade of suffering.
In the blood-soaked water, he could see himself. Once golden skin turned to pale ash, stretched taut over his bones. The eyes that had been more radiant than the light of the pale moon had become as full as stone. He saw it all. Purple robes lined in silver were now no more than torn threads that barely hid the skeletal form of what had once been a fierce warrior.
"Ærn, hara, ærn, hara, ærn ærn ærn~"
It started slowly, a soft brush of air against his cheek. It always came like this, a lover’s caress against skin that burned for any form of touch. The words built in his mind before they ever filled the air. A lullaby. Her melodious voice now deformed as it swirled about him, demanding he run. With each new step, it got louder. Every single movement gave it strength until it was a howl in the silence.
The parade of sin and decay followed him. Long-dead hands reached out to draw deep welts into his flesh. They had once tried to drag him into their revelry; now they tore into all that remained of their prince. Lords, ladies, barons, and dukes—they all took what they could of him. Even his mother. Her heart shriveled and deformed, even she had succumbed to the call of the damned as she gazed at him with love while ripping him down to the bone. The safety that she had tried to provide him had turned to rot all about them, yet still devotion shone in her golden eyes.
Only the light was free to move as it wished. The performance was not new; he had seen it a thousand times before. Wánmere would call the dead from their graves, play with them like puppets, until he fell. His fall was inevitable. But the light—it shone so bright, he could not help but walk toward it. If he were to fall, he would do so having known that warmth.
While the masquerade played itself out in the darkness of eternal night, Astyrian dragged his still-warm corpse toward the only salvation he had. Her hair was still as dazzling as polished copper. Her eyes like molten amber. Not a scratch could be seen on skin purer than porcelain. She was beautiful. His starlight. The sun to his moon. His Sunniva.
How many times had he been here? How many times had he seen her dancing in the mist of decay? Yet each time felt like the first. He stumbled upon nothing, tripped over the remains of his own robe—but no matter how far he got, she was just out of reach. An angel fading among the demons. He could not stand to see it happen again. He would not lose her again. His strength may have been long gone, but he would see her free of this game.
"Sister—stop dancing. They are all gone." The time had come to end this macabre waltz into damnation. Wánmere would not stop until it had consumed him, but it did not want her. His lips pulled into the first true smile in over a thousand years. For her, he would grant this place his death. It was fate that brought them to this place, and to fate, he relinquished his soul. No more fighting, no more dancing—just a quiet prayer for the only part of him that mattered: her.
He fell to the ground, knees buckling under the weight of his frame. He kept her in his vision as he succumbed to the writhing tendrils of the echoing darkness. Lǣt hīe freo. His final thought was of her… He reached out his hand… and she turned. Eyes of amber found dull green.
She saw him.
She felt him.
The dream had come to a crashing halt.
All at once the veil was lifted from her mind, and she saw only ruin where a gilded hall had stood. Death greeted her as she stood motionless in a cascade of crumbling decay. The only lifeline she found in this blighted reality was her beloved brother - just out of reach, and giving into waiting arms of oblivion.
“Little Scale..”
Sweet as honey wine, her voice cut through the mocking jeers of the dead as they watched him sink into the lake. To hear that name from her lips was the greatest blessing. He would die a happy man. She stood, still out of reach, her eyes becoming clearer with every passing second.
“Astyrian!”
Her voice ripped from her soul as she forced her body to move. He lay there smiling that wonderful smile, and she wanted to slap it off his face. Finally they were together once more, she was no longer lost in fantasy - yet now is when he chooses to lay down his sword? Her feet pick up in speed, smacking against the water hard enough to have it raining down upon her with every motion.
The sound of her feet hitting the water is the last thing he heard. It was too late of her to reach him; the lake had won…
“Astyrian, I will never forgive you if you die in this place.”
He was too weak to keep fighting. A thousand years of never ending torture. He was tired.
“Astyrian Morcantyr.”
"BROTHER!”
All he could do was to reach out his hand in the hopes that she would find some comfort in knowing that he did this for her. He did this for their childhood. He gladly laid his life down in the hope that she would be free of this place, and as her finger tips grazed his, he begged the universe to sooth her pain. “I love you, my Starlight.”
Sunniva was still watching him, she could not pull her eyes from him as he sank deeper into the waters. She was losing him. Her protector. Her dragon. Her little Scale. The anger built in her chest as she watched in horror as the maw of the great waters opened ready to take the last of him. No. The dream had come to an end, there was no more grand ball - her mother and father had perished in the culling. How long had Astyrian been here alone? How long had he fought while she danced?
She did not have the strength of her brother, but she too was an Æ𝑠𝑐𝑤𝑦𝑟𝑚 and if this place desired a wyrm that it would have to take her instead. Using what little ability she had, she dashed forward and firmly clasped her darling brother's hand in her own. Holding those wrinkled fingers tight she yanked with all her might. He weighed next to nothing, and it broke another piece of her heart. This once powerful man had been brought so low that he was going to accept death.
"Sunniva, run. It is alright - get out of this place.” The draconic roar of a leader was now no more than a whisper. She could feel the tears gathering in her eyes, she did not have the physical power to drag him from his death. ”Be free..”
There was only one way she could think to save him now. Only one thing she could do. Closing her eyes she found that flame inside, her Æ𝑠𝑐𝑤𝑦𝑟𝑚 spirit, and let it fly. The darkness wished to feed, to consume all that her brother was - but she could never allow that.
If the abyss wanted to consume an Æ𝑠𝑐𝑤𝑦𝑟𝑚 then she would force feed it hers.
"Forlǣte hine nū!"
With a force born from a royal womb she set loose her spirit. Golden and as bright as the sun, it engulfed her brother, curled about him as a protective wall so that she could drag his still lifeless body from the waiting mouth. It would not last for long, but she only needed a moment…holding her dear brother against her chest she watched as the darkness devoured all that made her her.
”Mother, forgive me…”
Still with him in her arms she whispered the words that would free them from this place. Her mother had forced her to promise never to use them. It would open the pathway for Wánmere to seep into the world. She had given a vow that she would wait until her mother brought them home…but they could not wait.
"Þǣr þe wēsten windað on befǣstnodre brǣð,
Lǣt fyr plegian ofer his dēað.
Of holian byrg and lēohtlēasan cwealmhūs,
Ārīs nū—næfre swēfan eft!"
”Sunniva…what..?” the way his voice rasped against her ears cut far deeper than any sword. She would have given every drop of blood in her body to never see him so weak, all she could do was stare into those once vibrant eyes and pray. He was the moon to her starlight, there was no choice but for him to rise once more.
She watched as Wánmere fed. Astyrian shifted in her arms until his own were wrapped about her waist, dragging her into his orbit just as he had done since they were in their mother's womb. His lips brushed her hairline - then there was nothing.
Her arms were empty.
Death did not come with a scythe, nor with hounds of war. No, death came on silent wings and stood behind her like an old friend. The ghost of her fingers brushed unshed tears from ashen cheeks, Wánmere had lost, her brother was safe. Death placed it's frozen fingers against her incorporeal shoulder ready to guide her from the hollow emptiness. It was her time.
”I will never leave him.”
Low as the ocean floor, she gave her solemn vow. The day Astyrian was in her arms once more would be the day that she followed death into the next life. Wánmere had cost her everything, it was meant to be their safety, yet it had torn her heart from her chest - now it would learn why the Æ𝑠𝑐𝑤𝑦𝑟𝑚 were feared.
It had begun in darkness, but she would force it to succumb to the light.
The last thing he remembered was his sister's arms, her smile, her voice. She had surrounded him in radiant starlight, yet now all he saw was the bow-like timber roof of a memory. His back lay against compacted earth, and against his side the weight of a corpse almost crushed what was left of his shattered body. The darkness he had been trapped in for so long was chased away by flames of candles he knew were long burnt out…where am I?
Taking in a deep breath he forced his body into a seated position. Besides him his sister's body lay, eyes closed, chest barely rising - but alive. He turned his eyes from her and glanced at their childhood home. It looked just as it had all those years ago. Timber carved by masters, cheats filled with gold and paper, even his little practice sword still hung up on the wall.
The memory of a life he had once known surrounded him. He could see the smallest form of Sunniva crawling under a table, their mother racing to catch her - it was all here in this space where time could not touch - until…
Rot.
He could smell rot.
Reaching over he pulled the slight form of his sister into his arms. With great pains he forced his legs to stand and hold both their weight. All around the home he had once known began to crumble, ate away by the dizzying lights of a world he did not know. Silence turned to a wall of discordant sound that beat at his mind enough to have him stumble.
Packed dirt had turned to grey stone under his feet. Buildings that touched the sky penned him in on all sides…but still he felt the hungry gaze of red toothed grins at his neck. He could not escape their faceless forms, but he could not stand and wait for them.
So again the endless march continued, only this time it was into the unknown grey forest that shone with unseen flames.