An extraordinary chapter to celebrate the Author's nineteenth birthday as well as of the Trio and to welcome her first year in university; also, to honour the contributions and deeds that built the glorious legends as they are today.
The title alludes to the song "Thà Như Giọt Mưa" by Phạm Duy.
___________________________
25 May 1203...

'Tis the fourth year since the first time she met her "creator". Without fail at this very same time each year, the little Author would come and bring her somewhere interesting for her— and her "descendants'"— birthday. So convenient that they were born in a same day! So convenient... indeed!

Instead of wandering the towns and got the Author lost, she would stay here and wait her miniature matriarch. Wait patiently like a good child should be. However, no one came. If she did recall it correctly, her Author should have been in— what was it, "university"?— later this year. She must be terribly busy, since the matter sounded utterly serious. Till near the end of day, there was only her lady-in-waiting came to deliver the news.

"Any child comes asking for me?", asked the impatient princess.

"No, milady. But some madwoman demands your audience..."

Before Anaivere could know who was it, that person stormed in as if the chamber was her own, with a furious mumble "Anyone dares tell me the princess is in another castle again...!" preceding it. Unceremoniously and unbecomingly of a noblewoman, it, in a way, evoked a greater authority than Anaivere's own and yet somehow still remained the properness expected of her. It sounded so ironic, but it sounded so right at a same time. Needless to know whose attitude rubbed off on her.

"Finally, been able to find the correct castle! Princess Anaivere, I have come to ravish thee!"

"What."

The noblewoman announced and ran towards the window, grabbing Anaivere along. The lady-in-waiting, being frozen by that overwhelmingly startling incident, forgot to call the guards, giving Hortense enough time to ravish the princess away. With a determined step, they jumped out of the window, and needless to say our poor Anaivere was so frightened she could not say a thing let alone exclaim in fear. However, before the fright had passed her mind, Anaivere realised her feet had safely touched the ground, as lightly as a feather's touch.

They had arrived at some place, somewhere, neither of them knew. Somewhere looked like Oxford University, but far simpler and more "modern" in architecture. Surrounding them were a maze of houses painted crimson and spacious squares, and underneath their feet was a vibrant carpet of poinciana. Walking under the curtain of poinciana petals was a figure dressing in a black robe, carrying a heaping pile of books. Who would it be if not another familiar of theirs?

"Where. In the name of our Creator. Didst thou take us to?"

The duchess shrugged and shook her head.

"'I put a portal outside Anaivere's window for thee', quoth our Excellency, 'Just ravish her and jump into the portal from that spot'...", said the equally bewildered woman.

"Exact same words?"

"Who art thou for me to lie to? To find the correct window in the correct castle was a lot of efforts of itself..."

"And thou didst not know where on (or outside, probably) this earth the portal leads to?"

"Có kẻ chưa sống đủ lâu trên cuộc đời này để biết mấy cái đó điện hạ à..."

Echoing in the air, weaving with the rain of scarlet blossoms were notes of a song they had heard one time too many. The song didn't fit so well with the scenery, but perfectly suited to the atmosphere.

Rừng lá xanh xanh cây phủ đường đi,
Thành phố sau lưng ôm mộng ước gì...

"Welcome to the Realm's Temple of Unreachability, my ancestors..."

The duo was startled by a call, whose owner could never be mistaken. More startlingly, the person called them from some trees behind them while their figure was amongst some trees in front of them. They turned over reluctantly to see the caller, and sitting under a poinciana shade, waiting for them, there was indeed their beloved "descendant", in the figurative flesh and bones (like anyone else in this Realm) and dressing in the same black robe as last year, greeting them with a smile. However, that smile— which used to be very bright— was somewhat weighed down by some unknown sorrows and burdens. Where were the optimistic air and the laid-back attitude of the young barrister they had just seen a year earlier?

"Seven agonising years are oncoming our way, my dear ancestors. Seven. Agonising. Years! Three years of bachelor's degree and four years of doctorate! (Or eight, we won't know as of this moment...)"

Somehow, the young barrister could cry such desperate words while keeping a collected expression. Perhaps it was just that she had been through enough.

"Sherline, is it not! Sherline darling, what happened? and where is this place?", rushed Anaivere to the tree where sat her "descendant", who was the de facto embodiment of knowledge in this Realm. If their Author had anything, Sherline— her Excellence's "confidante", usually— would be the first to know.

"A place across the pond, the New World, or at least, the Author Realm's rendition of that place... That'll explain the poinciana trees and the figure right there...", pointed Sherline to the black-robed person from afar.

"That ain't thee, darling?", addled Hortense.

"Well, that is indeed I, but not the current 'I'... That is—", paused Sherline, as if to reminisce of something. "Well how can I put it— when I was still serving as the embodiment of our Excellency's figurative self in one of her so-called 'prophecies'. Perhaps this may be the oldest prophecy that still remains canonical in my canon, at least at this time of speaking..."

Good old wishes of a child nearly a decade ago, one of them was to be fulfilled at last. However, in their current circumstances, the fulfilment of this particular dream was somehow so close yet so far. A dream their Author had been harbouring since the creation of her very first tales, yet seemingly could never reach.

"This is my initial purpose of existence. I carry my Author's dreams and actualise them in myself. I was born my Author's manifestation in her own tales, her own wildest dreams that she could dream only. I do for her anything she cannot, and I live for her a life she cannot live..."

"And she created us likewise...", murmured Hortense.

"Ah, ours was not merely just a relationship between creations and their Author, I would say... But, every legend has their glorious days, my dear ancestors—", adopted Sherline a sarcastic and lamentable tone, "— and then be demoted to literary punchbags..."

Apparently the "old" Sherline was the glorious one here, just like she herself recalled. There were days when the Author's attention was paid to nothing but her tales, and there were days her Author spent days doing nothing but rewriting a lost draft of hers. In the "old" Sherline's eyes, as everyone might see, there were not many evident misfortunes experienced, nor there were many despairs felt; the "current" one, on the other hands, was riddled with her fair share of troubles and worries like her ancestors and her Author, or in her own words, becoming "literary punchbags".

"Many prophecies have been fulfilled, let it be good or bad, but only this one— this particular one we are witnessing— becomes further fetched as we approach. Well, can everything be more ironic than this?", snickered Sherline, reminiscing how those bright days had turned out. "Ha, a failure be called an Excellency! said our little author. If it was true then I, the setting stone of everything, should better have been never existed at all; because if it was true, those worthless hands wouldn't have had the talents to create anything in the first place, let alone... those whom you prided upon...", tears started trickling down her cheeks, and even her ancestor was surprised. Never in her existence Hortense had seen the ever calm and stoic descendant of hers shedded any tears, yet now, Sherline was undeniably crying. The poor woman had witnessed more things than anyone else in this Realm and perhaps had been through more unpleasantness than anybody, even the other two legends. Sherline did not sob nor whimper, she just let the tears trickle down silently, until the hem of her robe was all wet with the salty drops. All those years she had been suppressing her tears and fears for her Author's stead, all those years she had sculpted herself to be her Author's protector in the face of increasing adversities, she was the sole reason her Author had yet given up. It could be said, it wasn't for the Author that everything in this Realm still existed; it was for Sherline— her Excellency's literary spirit.

It could have been easier for everyone if she had just treated them as her playthings, or at least created them as separate entities instead of making them from fragments of her own soul. She should have learnt sentimental bonds are the hardest to forsake, but alas, the Author whose hands they were formed by was just an adolescent child who had yet tasted the first bitterness of life.

At this time another figure appeared in the memory to accompany the past's Sherline. Her visage still bore the pureness and her smile filled with innocence of those days long passed, which were still clearly embedded in Sherline's reminiscence. The child approached her newly-created creation eagerly, her little eyes sparked desires to become like said creation— embodiment of her dreams— to escape her sheltered cage and reach out toward the bright sun above. Sherline's Author was not an ordinary child, but not exceptionally extraordinary either; a natural jack-of-all-trades, her little Author had many talents yet could not actually bring any particular one to its highest height, unlike her peers. She had never published anything, never known for anything beside her timidness and... never... had any remarkable achievements. Everything could have been fine, finer than current situation, if her little Author had stayed positive and believed she could reach where her Sherline was; she could at least be comfortable that she had tried to actualise what she desired... but, the poor child grew up loathing herself instead. Loathing her accursed talents. Doubting her own capability. Doubting everything born of her hands. Doubting she could even create such legends she had given existence to! Yes, our little Excellency, you could never created such legendary creations in a fortnight and with those budding unrefined talents of a ten-year-old, however...

"It is fruitless for our loyalty if Her Excellency does not even believe in her own hands...", Sherline shook her head resignedly, "Those hands were cursed with eternal failures, and those same hands gave us these existences and... illustriousness for a certain forgotten legend..."

It sounded... so relatable, Anaivere realised. Since the day she carried the burden of a monarch-to-be on her shoulders, she had no longer seen herself or her future with a bright view like she did when she was younger. The swirling thoughts of how to become a perfect monarch whom her people desired and deserved disabled her from thinking for her own well-being and amusement; though her life and her Author's were in very different circumstances, the feeling was virtually similar. In her times of need, she had her well-experienced lady-in-waiting at her side and her uncles' trustful adviser to guide her through the hardships, but her Author— a grown adult in flesh yet a child in essence— had to walk herself through everything without being allowed to fail even for once. She was expected to bring the long-awaited pride to both her families, she had no choice— just like Anaivere— but to succeed. Even if the path before her eyes seemed pretty bleak.

"Our little Excellency, it was not she had never had any achievements along the path, evident in my name and various accomplishments she had been awarded, but...", remarked Anaivere meekly, "Something has blinded the light from her eyes. Something does not let her see the delightful deeds her hands had reaped. Something..."

A poinciana blossom fell into Sherline's hand, whose eyes were still dripping tears. Tears seemed to blur the vibrant colour and the beauty of the blossom, but she couldn't stop the salty drops from flowing continuously down. "Sherline, darling, are you all right there?", asked Hortense concernedly. The barrister did not reply. "Thou art shedding rivers of tears there...", the duchess took out a handkerchief and reached to wipe her descendant's tears, but the latter pushed her hands away. "All the sorrows of her many past failures blind her eyes from seeing the true wonders her own hands— those accursed hands she calls— are able to create...", murmured Sherline seemingly absent-mindedly. Another blossom fell gracefully onto her tearful hands, and yet another landed on Hortense's own. "These scarlet blooms are pretty looking up close, now I realise...", commented the duchess. However, she didn't realise how or why there were poinciana blooming in such an unexpected place. She had never questioned it.

"Pretty, but fragile...", said Anaivere, plucking the petals off a fallen blossom.

"Poinciana blossoms are pretty indeed, but their beauty is always ignored and their life is short. And once they fall upon the ground, their only fate is being crush under the heels of some passerby... just like us literary creations...", mused Sherline, "We literary creations are subjects to the whim of the creator, and our creator is subject to the wheel of fate likewise..."

Tôi là người vui chinh chiến dài lâu
nên mộng ước đầu tôi nghe đã chìm sâu...

Ah, somehow, these wartime melodies sounded oddly suited to the occasion, though the lyrics were less so.

Từ máy thâu thanh cô nàng vừa ca
"Trọn kiếp yêu anh lính khổ xa nhà"...
Giữa rừng già nghe tiếng hát thật cao,
nhưng giữa rừng già tôi có thấy gì đâu?...

All of a sudden the winds blew the poinciana petals off the grounds and out the tree, blurring the scenery in a storm of crimson shades. "Colours of a dying dream", as Sherline called it. While it was common seeing the eldest of all coloured dully grey and speaking pessimistically, it was rare to actually witness her such willing to forsake. It gave the other two a feeling that this year might be their last, and it could be. If something serious came from Sherline, it was more likely to be true than not.

The past images of Sherline and her child Author had dissipated along with the crimson storm, leaving only a figure sitting on a bed of poinciana, head nodding solemnly down. A child girl wearing a flowery orange dress, hands weakly fiddling the petals on the grounds. Needless to come closer nor see the visage, Anaivere could be pretty certain who was that. The child had been singing the tunes since the moment they arrived, with a voice so angelic yet verily troubled inside.

Thà như giọt mưa rớt trên tượng đá...
Có còn hơn không...

She switched to another song, this time it wasn't a soldier's melody. The lyrics were clearly romantic, yet through her singing voice, it became something less of a love song and more of a recall, a nostalgic lament.

Người từ trăm năm về phai tóc nhuộm
Ta chạy mù đời, ta chạy tàn hơi
Quỵ té trên đường rồi...

She who was once considered the most blessed child ever born. She who once harboured many beautiful hopes. She whose hands moulded the very existence of these realms and memories. She... who had no longer been.

The little girl moribundly glanced upwards and caught their presence. Sherline stood upon the root where she sat and returned the gaze.

Người từ trăm năm về ngang trường Luật...

Their miniature Excellency had had many dreams. As grand as becoming a doctor to as mundane as being able to see her creations displayed on a shelf, like any child her age would dream. However, it was the story of the past. The enthusiastic and dare-to-dream Author of theirs had long gone into the damned history. Tears had drained dry and spirits depleted, only the seemingly soulless shell remained, perpetually singing the forgotten melodies of forgotten soldier-musicians during the bloodiest days of war. She had left behind everything she treasured, braving into a distant and strange land, risking her own past and future, to exchange for what? The closest word to describe what they were seeing in front of their eyes might be pathetic. The once omnipotent and omniscient Author now had no vigour enough to be even considered a living human. Her past, present and future all had crumbled around her. The ever lively child they called their Author now was nothing more than a feeble creature awaiting imminent doom under the heels of fate... like those poinciana petals under the heels of passersby...

Sherline gingerly approached the child, whose eyes dully followed each of her step coming closer. She leaned forwards a little to face the pitiful thing sitting in front of her.

"Sakka-sama, do you— perchance— still remember this place?", asked Sherline with an anguish yet abnormally calm voice, "The place you have always wanting to come, the place you have been dreaming to be a part of. The place so afar yet so close, the place you have always yearning to reach..."

The child remained mute, gazing at Sherline with her unfocused eyes, seemingly catatonic.

"The place you have never seen nor come, but you have made it the nurturing ground for all things call your realms home— I, my ancestors, the poetesses, this robe I wear...", smiled the eldest of all a sorrowful smile. She bowed her head to her Excellency, whom she had been accompanying all her existence, and who probably had been too far gone to even recognise her. "You summoned us here... to witness such abominable excuse of a human? and to witness our dearest creator slowly being swallowed by that abomination? Though you hands may be cursed and you may fail countless of times thenceforth, remember just one thing, my sakka-sama, the fact that you have created us is undeniable..."

"If you truly believe that, from the bottom of your heart, my child, say that you regret having I as your creator!"

Exclaimed a raspy voice from amongst the branches. Just right above where Anaivere and Hortense stood, sat the older and far more worn Author of theirs. Her youthfulness was still there, yet overshadowed by many adversities she was and had been enduring. Her expression was no longer soft and bright, but deadly stern and abnormally dark. Such expression might only belong to someone who had witnessed the utmost bottom of hell itself, not a nineteen-year-old with decades of possibilities in front of her.

"'Twas for thy good, my child. Deny me as thine Author, or risk suffering increasing despairs and torturous distresses thenceforth...! Despairs and distresses... brought forth by the hands of thy very creator..."

Sherline instinctively turned over, and the pitifully dull gaze of her child author faded away along with the flowing streams of poinciana petals. A sudden and overwhelming feeling of emptiness and unknown sadness just aroused in her heart.

"Suffering despairs and torturous distresses?", snorted the barrister, "Ain't that what we are doing since the last nine years, my dear Excellency? Ain't that what I was created for, my dear Excellency? Your despairs and distresses, I have always been shouldering for you since my creation without a single thought of complaint, just so I can see my Author be as happy as she should be... Ain't that my purpose to exist, my dear Excellency?"

These words were more suited coming from someone equalling their Author's standing, someone like the great Authoria herself, not a mere creation like Sherline. She said, as though she could read into her Author's very soul.

"'Twas for thy good, my child. A proper author should provide their creations a better life than what I gave thee..."

Sherline, still having that signature smirk plastered on her teary visage, calmly glanced up to face her creator. She extended her arm upwards, trying to reach her Excellency, but the latter hesitantly withdrew into the branches.

"A proper author gives their creations a real life, not a better one! A good author makes their creations humans, not just some soulless people on papers...!", cried Sherline with her deepest frustration and utmost sorrow yet remained the calm attitude. "Look at us, sakka-sama, look at us very closely. We are not just literary words and devices, aren't we? She who created the most talented creations, must be very talented herself; moreover, you still have eighty years ahead, please do not think of debacles so soon. And may you be a forgotten failure, never forget...", the barrister stepped onto a larger root to reach closer, "... you still are and always are our Author. That, is undeniable...!"

Such loyalty... was what she had discarded so long ago, believing no one would ever want anything with her, let alone a long-lasting companionship that would fare longer than nine months. Yet it had been nine years staying with this certain creation of hers. It was doubtlessly that Sherline Holmes, her first and oldest creation, had inherited that forsaken loyalty; the loyalty she always desired one day she might give to someone now was devoted to her. No, Sherline was not embodiment of loyalty, she was loyalty itself; that was for certain. Nine years, despite the weights of increasing adversities weighing down and challenges repeatedly thrown her way, canonical or not, literary or not, Sherline— her Author's literary spirit— had never uttered a single word of complaint; and Hortense and Anaivere, though having their fair share of burdens and the misfortune of being the less favoured creations, though once in a while did speak of distaste, never would a will of betrayal arouse in their hearts. She who did not give them better lives, made them humans.

"...Chính truyện ngài, chưa đứa nào có được cái kết hậu. Kẻ ghi danh vào lịch sử một cuộc đời ngắn ngủi, kẻ đổi bình yên để đứng vững chốn bão táp, kẻ còn lại không một ngày không xông pha tử địa; chiến tích tuy lẫy lừng đó, nhưng rồi trong cái ngày sau cuối... kẻ bị trảm thủ trước mắt dân chúng mình yêu, kẻ vội đi khi nợ trần còn chưa dứt, kẻ còn lại cũng nằm xuống trước thềm giông tố...", snickered Hortense while proudly and tearily recalling the sacrifices they had made for the last nine years, "... Đàn con ngài... có khác chi ngài đâu? Chính truyện ngài tạo ra không chỉ đơn thuần là tạo vật văn chương, đúng không?"

Apparently, the more the Author doubted her talents, the more it proved her worths. Amusingly, it had been known that readers had tried researching for the "historical" Anaivere, to no avail, obviously; she was real, yet she was not, and she could feel herself alive, but she did not live. Such charm would be naught if her Author had given her a "better" life instead of a "real" one. She was a legend, like the other two in the Trio, yet still a mortal like any mortals who loved, who cried, who smiled, who sympathised, who lived and died. Her three canonicals were mortal creations like that; and while the non-canonicals were essentially carbon-copies of the canonicals, she still managed to make them each their own person rather than a shadow of their canonical counterpart.

Người từ trăm năm về ngang trường Luật...

The voice of her Author was heard again in the breeze.

Sherline clutched her barrister robe, hands trembling. Something very overwhelming, more powerful than a moment prior, had just aroused in her. She almost collapsed on her knees, head drooped down and tears started dripping again onto the poinciana carpet.

"Tại sao...? Tại sao vậy, sakka-sama...?", murmured the barrister then exclaimed all of a sudden, "Đã đến nước này, lý nào lại bỏ cuộc!"

"Sherline my child?", Hortense asked, concernedly.

"That is it!", cried Sherline furiously, taking off her robe and pushed her ancestors out of the way, stepping into the endless field of coquelicots which had just taken the places of surrounding buildings. "Denial of your own creations, your own legends, your own talents! Surrendering ere the storm ends! Submitting before a mere 'nother impediment! This is not the liege worthy and deserved I pledge loyalty to!"

Betrayal? From Sherline, of all people? It could not have been...

"Ah, they did show regret for having I as their Author, at last... It is... for your good. It is better not waste your quintessences on something as pathetic as this sorry excuse of a writer for the rest of your days...", murmured the Author to herself.

Seemingly overheard those words, Hortense's expression also changed and she followed her descendant to the coquelicot field, pulling Anaivere along.

"W—Wait, please?", plead Anaivere to the duchess.

"Let us go anon...", said the duchess bluntly.

"But to where?"

Hortense did not reply.

"And our Excellency?"

Silence was her response.

The Author's gaze moribundly followed her creations departing into the ocean of coquelicots. Perhaps this would be the end of all— her end and her creations' ends. Perhaps the legends would return to the dust as expected, and she herself would be in the embrace of the cold soil soon after. The brighter future would be all but a whimsical dream, and the glass of wine celebrating and wishing her a better time was all but dried. She would spare the poetesses of witnessing this moment, this dreadful moment. The embodiment of loyalty had eventually left her, and all that remained was a dull emptiness.

"Everything concludes here... or... is it?", mused the lonely Author. She could feel her literary life slowly passing and her literary memories flashing before her eyes. Her first tales, her first creations, her first humble renown as a writer, first completed book, first time witnessing her children earn their own illustriousness, and for the first time she realised... the essence of Literature had seeped deep into her blood and bones; though she wanted, she could not forsake it anyhow. She had never actually paid attention to how long it had been since her first story, nor how many tales she had written throughout the course of her literary journey. How many pencils, how many papers had sacrificed to build the legends as they were today; how many efforts were put in to nurture and protect them; she had no idea, she just wrote and wrote a lot. Till the moment she realised the extent of her literary realms, nearly a decade had passed through. One decade. Half of her entire life up until that moment. Despite the mismatch between her skills, what she could and what she should write in Literature classes, despite the many challenges of hiding this second life and flourishing her talents in blanched soil... she wrote, and was still writing, till the last moments.

The gorgeously crimson scenery was slowly devoured by a looming, unforgiving darkness. Rising from the tainted grounds came the shapeless phantoms covered in bloody poinciana petals, limping and inching towards the tree where the Author lied.

"Have you... any... regrets?"

The phantoms growled with a crooked, hoarse and hopeless voice of some dying spirit. Each step they took closer to the Author, the hoarser and weaker they sounded.

"Is it... too soon... to depart this realm?"

"No, it is not...", muttered the Author.

"You... have no regrets... but... regretting... many..."

"What may a cursed one like I regret?"

"You... do not... regret... leaving your... creations... behind..."

"What use it is, asking that?"

"You... are... their... creator... Their... Author..."

"I am not!"

"Why... denying... it...?"

"No Author of theirs— exquisite wonders and extraordinary legends they are— could be such a failure like what I am..."

The phantoms shivered and trembled, putting themselves to forms, and monstrous beings, in addition to the ghastly phantoms, emerged from the bloodstained grounds. They growled, crawled and gasped the choking air, trying to get closer to her; their eyes were of a lustrous glow, as if they would love to devour her whole. Their crude but sharp claws pierce the calloused poinciana bark, attempting to reach their prey sitting on the top of the tree.

"Denial... is... paid by... death..."

She had nothing to deny, she was a failure in every meaning of it. Failed her only chance of a brighter future from the start, it was too late now to amend such damnation. Thirteen years prior, if she hadn't let that mere half-a-mark in her first exam be lost by a most mundane mistake, she would have been in the better classes, would have received better education, would have been able to go to better secondary school and better prepared for a better high school... Perhaps if that had happened, she would have had no need to create Sherline and the others to shoulder their author's burdens; if they had been destined to exist, however, perhaps destiny would have had given them an other, better author than her. A better author than she who fails at every expectations of her parents, her relatives, her acquaintances, even herself...

Her legendary Trio had left her side, even the one whose deepest loyal was once pledged to her; what would the non-canonical sisters do if they had been here? Perchance they had known and had accompanied with their canonical sisters to the eternal realm, but it'd better not letting them know. She would like to spare this horrific revelation to the delicate poetesses, they had witnessed enough painful departures and this adding to that would be excessive.

The tree collapsed under the damage and the frail figure of hers fell into the merciless phantoms' hands, whose eyes gleamed bloodlust. She cared not whether they would love to devour her whole, drain her dry or shred her into pieces; she accepted whatever would be her fate, let it be gruesomely torturous death or a swiftly painless one.

"A...nything... to... re...gret... at... last, ...sakka-sama...?"

The Author closed her eyes resignedly and relaxed all limbs. She would not retaliate, for the last person that might save her... was no longer. Authoria, her intuition and conscience, shall die with her... today.

_____

The intangible phantoms and monstrous creatures suddenly collapsed one by one, groaning their last breath, and coming from afar the hurried footsteps of some people. The shouting, the yelling of them calling her name was all but deafened in her ears.

Amidst the abyss of nothingness, she felt a biting cold hand grazed her cheeks and another, warmer hand, pulled her out of the darkness and escorted her away. Some other one called her repeatedly with an utterly desperate voice. Knowing the person who came wasn't Sherline her darling made it a little disappointing inside.

"All right there, sakka-sama? Of course you are all right! We are all right, so you are definitely all right!", her saviour, whomever was that, flustered. One of the poetesses, perchance?

"A bunch of non-canonicals took over their finale, well, the legends are sure to be amused!", said another sarcastically. The Author could not be quite certain whose voice was that, but it seemed a lot like Anaivere's.

"Didst thou honestly think they would be bothered by us non-canonical bunch taking over this mere non-canonical finale? Nay, worry about us surviving these damned demons first!", and this skittish voice... sounded like Sherline, but it wasn't Sherline's.

At the brighter end of the abyss appeared a crimson field beneath a clear blue sky, poinciana and coquelicot petals weaved into each other in waves of breezy winds. A tattered black silk robe accompanied by a white cravat fluttered atop a root of a gargantuan but lifeless poinciana tree, pinned down by a silver quill— many times broken and mended— suggesting a grim fate someone had just received. Her saviours stopped under the shade of a smaller tree and revealed themselves to be the last persons she expected to see this year. Bearing the likeness of her own legends, the poetesses surrounded her and looked into her eyes with a dearly concern. The more they concerned her well-being, the more painful it felt to depart.

"... may you be a forgotten failure, never forget... you still are and always are our Author..."

Those words painfully echoed in her head, the words of her very conscience. Why... was she betraying it? Why was it still believing in her?

She pitied her ancestors for having such a pathetic creature as descendant; she pitied her grandparents for giving all their loves and hopes to such an incompetent wimp who would never bring pride to the family; she pitied her parents, respectable persons, for having suffered nine months of burden just to give birth to and nineteen years of patience just to nurture a disdainful failure; she pitied her teachers for having such a daring fool as a student; and she pitied the marvellously exceptional dames of this Realm, the legendary queen, chevalière and barrister, the honourable priestess and the revered poetesses, for having a unforgivably damned sinner for an author. To be an author was a great honour, and she— accursed cretin— deserved not such decoration.

"Ye fools! Risking thy valuable existences just to salvage the unsalvageable! Care for thy own selves, save thy own selves from hell! Waste not the last strength on such insolently insignificant wench who is better off deceased than defiling the earth with sins and damnations!", scolded the Author to her saviours.

"We just... cannot. If that 'insolently insignificant wench' was better off deceased, then we would be better off following her to the afterlife and greeting her there with most joyful greetings also...", shrugged the priestess and smiled brightly in reply, "It's how nature goes..."

"Fools...!"

"Indeed we are!", shrugged the younger poetess, climbing the roots to retrieve the tattered robe and cravat along with the quill and pass down to her elder sister. "Fools who were just simply taking care of their own selves and nothing else...!", laughed she.

"We know you knew, sakka-sama...", commented the eldest poetess as she checked the robe, "...that your denial is our death sentence. To forsake you as our Author is to suicide. To regret having you as our Author is to regret our own existence. We are bound to you by spirit, you may someday grant us the mercy but we cannot otherwise..."

"The Legends... they did choose to forsake their Author at last...! And ye fools should too!", laughed the Author hysterically, pointing to each of the non-canonical sisters. "What use it is, being stuck with a condemned spawn of failure till the rest of your days!"

The priestess shook her head sorrowfully, hearing her own Author, whom she had revered and respected all her existence, spewing such self-deprecating and delusional poisons towards her creations and herself. This was definitely not the same Author she held in high regards, and this was also too different from the Author she had seen just a year prior— a hopeful now-adult anticipating a bright morrow— just a fleeting year prior. This was but a mere shadow of the talented fourteen-year-old who had brought forth her— a caricature of Hortense with Sherline's earlier attitude— into a fabled priestess of reverent name, and initially joke carbon copies of the Legendary Trio into famed poetesses who were the actual essence of the story behind Thi Kỳ. The tattered robe of the person who set the foundation for all the subsequent glories suggested them of a bitter end awaiting the non-canonical sisters as the canonical ones had done their farewells.

Where was the person who repeatedly picked herself up after many ordeals? Where was the person who sacrificed her youth and success to build everything from a drop of ink to the breathtakingly expansive realms they were living? Where was the person who despite the hardships still prided upon her humble talents? Where was the person who maintained her smile after years of failing and beginning anew? And where had the undefeatable, the unvanquishable, the unconquerable, destiny-defying child they called their Author gone?

This silver quill had told many the intriguing mysteries of the investigator-barrister Sherline Holmes; the daring adventures of the chevalière Hortense de Beaudelaire; the legendary legacy of the Crusader queen Anaivere Plantagenet; the memorable journey of the holy maiden reborn Sherlinette and the extraordinary exploits of Sa Liên the historical scribe, Hồng Tước the imperial knight, An Viên the archer general and Thi Kỳ the young poetess. This silver quill, pinned on the robe left behind by the eldest of all, was the lone pride remaining inside that accursed heart of their poor Author. Out there, beyond the boundaries of her own realms, the little Author was nothing more than a pathetic no-name, no-achievement, no-talent adult stuck in the figure of a child (or vice versa, it changes nothing). Surviving till this day was a miracle to all of them, but with a hefty price tolled upon their Author's mind and soul; the effect, the canonical trio must have witnessed in all its marvels themselves.

"Why... salvaging the unsalvageable... my children? Why... wasting... your little time left in this mortal realm... saving an unforgivable sinner? Why sticking with this accursed creature who has no hope even for itself?", murmured their Author absentmindedly.

"Ay, who even cares about reasons now, sakka-sama? You hadn't forsaken us, why on earth would we forsake you in these times?", smiled the eldest poetess warmly, kneeling by the side of her Author and draped the black silk robe around the child. "We can definitely make it, sakka-sama! We can make it! Even if you had willed to give up, please wait for another year!", whispered she the encouragement, despite being not quite sure if her Author was hearing or not.

"Just one year, dear Excellency, just one more year. Once we have the decade anniversary, you may choose to gift us a coup de grâce for our short and miserable lives...", said the priestess as if having reached the ultimate resolution, "...or, you may choose to let us carry your burden loyally till the end of your days as promised..."

This was the direst time everyone in this realm had reached, as if just a moment slipped loose could have costed the existence of everything; however, the Author still managed to keep her will stable enough on the edge, allowing the poetesses to swoop in and save the day at a hair's breadth. Though their Author was safe for the moment, the whereabouts or situation of the canonical trio was all but a dim light. Knowing Sherline's infallible loyalty and elusive experience from nine years staying and surviving alongside her Author, there was nary a slim chance the authorial literary spirit would depart for good; she was the only one entrusted with the precious robe, after all. And yet... she was, simply, gone.

Atop the titanic tree, the younger counterpart of the Author came in a breeze of coquelicot petals, holding a branded and sealed letter in hand and with a contentment clearly evident in her bright expression. Donning an academic robe and cap and an oddly confident air, the young Authoria smiled gently and warmly upon her elder counterpart with a smile comparable to that of a certain legendary assassin-turned-teacher, hands fiddling proudly with the letter. "Am I not too late to the occasion?", asked the miniature matriarch.

The non-canonical creations were undoubtedly overjoyed when the saner half of their creator had arrived to save the blighted situation. The older Author clutched the robe tightly, a sense of jealousy suddenly stirred in her gorge; she felt like that letter— whatever the content— was not belonged to her, that she did not deserve it. Why did that child receive all the honours, why did that child claim everything born of her hands? She was the one walked through hellfire for them, she was the one sacrificed half of her life for them! She had risked everything for their continuing existences, for their glories and honours, yet the precious rewards she deserved nothing. In a hysterically and deliriously raging fit, she cried and denigrated into the gracious Authoria's face.

"Why coming back here, ye accursed damnation! Wilt thou mock, wilt thou laugh into this pathetic thing that is thy abominable self in front of thee? Ay, go ahead— this condemned craven cretin cares not! Everything slips from my hands, nothing remains!"

Still donning the soothing smile, Authoria gracefully landed down where her other half stood with a swift jump. Inside that envelope she held seemed thick and whatever lied behind that paper might rewrite the whole course of this Realm's history; it might flip upside-down the mistaken turns of the past as well as open the future's golden gate. "I have come... to deliver you your ticket for the morrow... my Excellency...", spoke Authoria softly. Despite the hostile attitude and delirium of her elder half, the miniature matriarch still kept the collected and patient expression, calmly gazing directly into the former's bloodshot and darkness-filled eyes. "As long as you live, sakka-sama, and I not tainted, I will certainly be with you— always...", her little hand reached out, caressing the feverous forehead of the older Author, "We are one and the same, aren't we? What are you, sakka-sama, without your intuition? Whenever you need me, I will most certainly come... no matter the place, no matter the time, no matter the circumstances..."

Like a miracle, Authoria's cool and soft hand seemed to have subdued the fiery and adamant beast inside her older counterpart's heart: the latter's expression returned to that of the mild and taciturn writer the seven sisters had known and loved all their lives. The poetesses, knowing the apocalypse had passed, cheered and teared from overwhelming joy; however, their Author, oddly enough, seemed to be more upset than the moments prior. She held up her trembling hands, staring at the limbs pale and horrified. She wept, right in front of the non-canonical sisters, which she would not want them to see if she was still sane. Her tears were bitterer than poison and dyed crimson from all those sorrows, nightmares and loathings of days long passed and days just recent.

Her precious Trio had gone, driven away by whom they had sworn utmost loyalty for. Perhaps the person whom she had hurted the severest was... Sherline... Sherline had always been there by her side since she was only an amateurish ten-year-old, holding her naïve child Author's hands through her first days into the literary realms and till her very last moment. How many times had Sherline forsaken her happiness for her Author's own? How many times had Sherline sacrificed her well-being so her Author might live an ordinary life? And just how many times had the Author willed to forsake her silver quill, in tears, and how many times had Sherline been there to save the future from spiralling into certain doom!

"It's only mere matter of time till everything is over, Authoria... I cannot save all of you, my children, for I cannot yet save my pitiful self! My fate had been sealed for the worse before I even set foot onto this land... It's been three years! Three years of foolishly believing these hands can overturn the course of that cursed fate! Three years of foolishly attempting to atone for the shameful sins these hands initiated more than a decade ago! Three years... of foolishly sacrificing this thread of sanity to rebuild the future... just to witness it crumbles like it was fated to crumble... Three years of sacrificing for nothing! Why would I still be here and hoping for some miracle? Miracles... do not exist...", cried the desperate Author, "...especially for the unsalvageable failure that is I!"

The gracious Authoria knelt down respectfully before her older self, presenting the latter the sealed letter. The envelope containing her fate.

"Your fate may have been sealed, my dear Excellency, but...", Authoria ran her little finger under the seal, opening the envelope and took out the letter inside. The poetesses and their priestess sister waited in escalating attention, eyes widened as if they were to witness something most extravagant. "... miracles still may happen. For it is you who have been making miracles in this little Realm of yours all along. By whose hands do you think that Anaivere's fate and reputation were averted? Hortense was saved from the brink of being eternally forgotten? and Sherline... was able to live...", slowly, Authoria unfolded the letter and unveiled her older self's shrouded morrow with a statement and a name. A statement and name that might dispel all doubts the hapless Author might have for herself.

It might.

If it didn't sound like... something like... a "beggar's alms".

Congratulations...
from University of Texas Arlington...

Contrary to their anticipation, every slim shred of hope the four sisters had managed to muster to celebrate their Author's precious success was shattered in a blink of eye as they saw disappointment added on top of the already intense desperation in the Author's eyes.

"And... the others? Where are the others?", she cried, her voice trembled and echoed with heart-shattering anguish. "Where are the other letters? Where are the ones from Massachusetts, New Haven, from Palo Alto? I want to know, Authoria, I want to know! Where are they now? Where is my miracle you just told me to believe in!"

The optimism on Authoria's visage was abruptly extinguished. She averted a direct look into her older counterpart's reddened eyes and sighed.

"Knew it! This daring fool wasted precious time again to gamble an unwinnable gamble!", the Author cried in frustration, turned over and threw herself onto the hard bark of the root all were gathering on, lying there, eyes fixating upon the sky emotionlessly. "This daring fool didn't learn her place... at all..."

Authoria let loose a heavy sigh, sitting down by the Author and gently stroking the latter's head as if to comfort her disappointed other half. A whistle was heard in the breeze. Authoria glanced at what had remained of her Realm, four non-canonical sisters, and just smiled cryptically.

"Lilium used to be a criminal's brand, yet it is a fragrant flower; who says a failure is not a talented one?", said Authoria, "We know this has been reminded since time immemorial, but once more won't hurt: look at everything around you, sakka-sama, and look at us. Look very closely. From a pebble on the ground to a world with unlimited possibilities, everything is created by your hands— and by your hands alone. Not mine, an intangible entity, nor anyone else; your hands. You formed us. You formed the foundation and you built everything that is this Realm upon it. You gave life to all of these children here, who may be similar in flesh but each their own person in spirit, not mentioning countless of other minor souls. The destiny might not be so kind to you in this life, however, but the least you are able to do— I wholly believe that— is to stand up and continue your walk..."

"I am tired, Authoria...", faltered the Author, "This path I shan't see the destination. Just... let me sleep..."

"You may sleep, but not now", gently reproved her younger half, "If you wouldn't stand up, how would you walk to Massachusetts, to New Haven, to Palo Alto, to Cambridge, to Oxford now? how would you walk to the places you've always wanted to see? how would you walk towards and grasp the prestige you've always desired? how would you even walk towards yourself? and... how would you walk home?"

The crimson breeze brought about the scent of blood as though forewarning something utmost sinister. The four sisters cautiously stepped back a little as a rip cracked on the gargantuan tree's bark. It widened and blackened. The blood scent intensified. And, to everyone's bewilderment, Anaivere stepped out while being befuddled trying to fastened the arm guard of her own armour. Everyone received a wide-eyed and silent reply.

The poetesses slowly rose their pointer fingers toward the still addled princess and squinted.

"W— What is with this... t—tense... atmosphere...?", giggled the princess sheepishly.

Following suit, Hortense— in full chevalier habits and her treasured feathered hat— stepped out of the crack on the tree bark and was met with the same bewilderment. The foulness of blood in the air was gradually replaced with a refreshing scent of water. Weirdly enough, the Author and her intuition half didn't even bother to turn over to check.

"Aargh—! It won't wash off!", cried a frustrated voice that was able to jerk even the depressed Author out of her trance. Behind Hortense revealed— of all people— Sherline, who had just stormed out of the crack and whose presence completed the reunion. While the other legends were clad in proper habits suited for battle, Sherline looked as if she had just hurried back from the laundry: her garments comprised of only the trousers part of her famous cornflower-blue cavalry uniform and a white blouse that had been yellowed with age. Draping on her arm was the remaining piece of the uniform— a rather damp blue coat whose colour was tinted with a rusty shade of red.

"W— What are you three doing here!", flustered the priestess, "N-No, we didn't plan to take over your finale this year! It was just a coincidence!"

"Your entrance was at half-way through the event, dolts. This is the finale and we are dressed for the occasion!", exclaimed Hortense savagely.

"Dressed for the occasion? Only you two are properly dressed for this occasion. And I? I couldn't even tell if my coat is red or blue anymore!", growled Sherline while putting the coat on to complete the ensemble.

"Why fussing about the colour of your coat, darling? Everyone knows it can't even be blue thenceforth, considering the amount of onions, salt and strawberry jam that Her Excellency is going to— I mean... we are going to voluntarily dive in...", replied Hortense with a bored expression.

The Author suddenly chuckled.

"Why am I so blind and foolish? Why is that so?", cried the Author, yet with a smile just genuinely bloomed from her lips. She sat on her knees, on the hard root covered in crimson petals, tears dripping onto her hands; however, they were tears of joy this time. "Why am I fussing over those sunken ships? This isn't even close to the first time!", laughed the Author tearfully. Gathering back her strength, she got to her feet and gingerly approached Sherline with open arms. The stench of blood lingering on Sherline's coat seemed to not frighten her Author at all. The latter's little hands reached out and pulled her into an embrace.

"Welcome back... again...", whispered the Author, burying her face into the crimson-tinted fabric of Sherline's coat.

"Không có con lấy ai thay ngài về ngang trường Luật?", grinned Sherline warmly, gently stroking her Author's head. "And before I forget... Happy birthday, sakka-sama...!"
___________________________

"Wait... wait wait wait... wait wait wait wait... How the hell did Sherline even get that uniform?", addled Sherlinette, "There's a flipping forty-year gap between the university crest and the brigadier insignia!"

"You know your Author is notorious for anachronistic canons", shrugged Authoria, "Also, that little twit has just broken the record for longest chapter ever! Again..."

"WHO'D YOU CALLED A LITTLE TWIT THAT CAN'T EVEN STAY CONSISTENT FOR A MILLISECOND WITHOUT BREAKING THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM!", a voice boomed over from a distance.

"Did someone let her read too much manga, again?", murmured a fed-up Authoria, "Can't blame her after all. It's not that you'll be able to find a relatable manga everyday..."
___________________________

Happy birthday to the legendary trio, one year till the decade anniversary of the little Author's literary journey,

And joyeux anniversaire, to the Author herself!