"Those aligned with shadows understand the movement of knowledge,

"These people take solace in which they can learn,

"For Ase'Lesinia, there was no greater gift than insatiable curiosity,

"One of two halves, given the blessing of mortal wonder and creation,

"Where darkness does not equate to an unknowable abyss."

Passage Three ~ Dragon Soul of Shadows. (Under Review for Heretical insertion.)

Falora

County of Crackjaw

Azarian honey in hand, she rushed out of the Herbalist shop to avoid any further questions from Emraine. In a way, she appreciated the privacy of her inlet, where deep willows shadowed the banks and rustled their leaves with each breath of the world. It hushed a painted song, where she'd often sit among their roots to listen in. It was a symphony of water and air, pushing together and against with the gentle heaves of waves.

Back inside her house, she cracked open the windows to allow the whispers in. Alright, first order of business. Check that the stray evil god hasn't got up and wandered.

Everything remained as she had left it. Cupboards closed and unrifled through, though she wondered if a god needed to eat. Her oven's fire rune laid dormant. Nary a speck of dust out of its usual place. Flynn's mess was the same as she left it, and she cringed at her previous comparison to a tornado from Asen'Orilion going through it.

It was time for the moment of truth.

Falora raced for her closet screen, which hadn't moved an inch. Orilion remained on his side, but the rise and fall of life proved faint. Her bag full of medication and books slipped from her shoulders, and she knelt down, closer to him. Oh... don't tell me he passed while I was gone. Strange sympathy flitted through her heart at the thought, but she reached out with both hands to grip his shoulder. One pull, and she had him on his back. Unreactive to the change in his position, she frowned. "Ah... Asen'Orilion?"

Is he even breathing?

Falora tugged out the Azarian honey and set it to the side. She leaned over him, where her shadow flickered across his timeless features against the light of the lamps. Closer, she struggled to detect vital life, only the whispering willow trees outside. Cheek almost pressed up against his nose, she waited for the world to fall silent and the wind to come forth as it had during the storm.

Faint chills crawled up her back when his breath tickled her cheek. Alive, but barely. He's... He's barely breathing. Falora rested her hands in her lap, at a loss for actions to take. One second left to think about ending the world's evil, she uncorked the medication to save his life. "Let's get this in you."

Golden liquid dipped onto a spoon, she wasted no time in sticking it past his lips. Senses ready for an attack or retribution, none came to smite her down. Falora drew back to place the spoon and honey to the side. He shifted in discomfort, and he released a heavy, struggled sigh. Falora readied herself when he opened his eyes to reveal the cyan swirls of morning clouds. Words failed her.

His lips parted for another struggled breath. "Where... am I?" He glanced around the closet.

Where am I? Falora rubbed her head. That's... not what I was expecting. "You're..." She drew closer to him, and her curiosity grew. "You're in Crackjaw. I... I saw you crawl out of the waves, swept up in a storm."

"Storm...?" His voice trailed into waves of weakness, and his face scrunched with confusion. "Crackjaw? What is... Crackjaw?"

"It's a port city on the edge of the Celestial ocean," she answered. "Did... the medicine make you feel better?"

He pressed his lips together. Heavy shadows flitted across the cyan. Every breath threatened to cave in his body. Confusion filled the eye of the hurricane as he raised his hand up as if to grip something that was no longer there, and then switched it to rest on the back wall. He tilted his head both ways, reminding her of the creature he held within him.

A dragon.

A dragon. Is in. My closet. A scream almost escaped her, but she bit down on it. Get a grip, he's not a dragon, clearly. I don't think a dragon could fit into my closet... Falora snapped her attention to him when he lapsed back into unconsciousness, where the last speckles of divine light disappeared into his pupil, and his breathing quickened.

Gods, he's not struggling to breathe... he's dying.

Out of all the relics she searched for on the beach, a living one was once unthinkable. It was her one chance for the truth. One chance for knowledge. Odds refused to make sense of her life.

And I can't get any answers if you die. Falora huffed out her frustration at the sickly god. Evening light sprinkled through the leaves of the singing willows. Take this one step at a time. First step is finding a way to help him breathe. Which... I don't know how to do that...

A different hush from the willow song entered the air.

Aethergines. Large ones.

"Be quiet," she ordered, though the pointlessness of her own words dawned on her. Snapping back into action, she slammed the closet screen shut and locked it tight, before pushing her bag underneath her bed. Heavy knocks rocked the front door, so she rushed to answer the unwanted visitors. Cloudsweepers hovered around her house and in her front yard, where ladders hung over their sides. Two Celestial Templars stood on her front porch, with their gleaming armour and the mark of Ase'Soliria on their chest plates.

"Ma'am, sorry for the disturbance," the younger one said with a slight bow. "We're here about the mist that once collected on the forbidden island, and the storm that came past the night prior."

Great. Falora leaned on her doorframe. "What about it? We live on the ocean. Storms are wont to happen."

"While one occurrence of nature doesn't speak of anything, the suspicious energies swirling around the island has forced the Celestial Templars into action," he responded. "We wish to know if you experienced any strange sensations as of late, or spotted any individuals, or if you know anyone who may have sympathies towards the tyrant titan." He took a step forward, but she planted herself in her doorway. "We wish to make sure there are no signs of cultists to Asen'Orilion."

"I live on this island alone," Falora hissed through her teeth. "If you want to look somewhere, why not follow the source of the energies you've retrieved?" Falora indicated to the distant island. "You'd have more luck over there."

"We have already taking necessary precautions, and will be investigating the matter," the older one to her left spoke. "That island has been under watch since our lady sun struck down the tyrant of the skies."

Falora opened her mouth, but stopped when the shutters along her windows shook and slammed. Both the Celestial Templars narrowed their eyes. Falora took in one breath and waited for the trembles of the world to cease. Free from the implication, she rolled her shoulders at them.

"Oh, dear. The world shook. It must mean some ground god somewhere is mad we're talking behind his back." Falora flicked her small braid out of her face. "Those are called quakes by dear sirs. Those can be explained quite easily, they aren't a great heretical mystery." She pointed at the distant beach. "There's an old wives tale around here, if you see the coastline receding, it's ill-advised to go looking for it."

The younger Templar turned to the older one, who sighed and shook his head. "We're sorry for the disturbance, Miss."

Falora waved at them, and shut the door. Ear against the wood, she listened for the sound of aethergines to disappear. Falora rushed back to her room to pull the closet screen open.

Blue twirled cracked up the walls to form cyan webs in the corners. Panic stirred up the hurricane along the cyan ocean. Orilion trembled, where he choked the blankets and hugged the wall.

"Oi!" Falora latched onto him. "Stop it!"

Panic turned into pain, then to utter exhaustion as the powerful clouds dissipated. He slumped back onto the mattress, but never released her forearms. Tears rolled down his cheeks, but his eyelids fluttered.

Falora calmed herself. "Are you well?"

"I... do not... enjoy small spaces." Each breath came out halved, and then his grip on her forearm slacked. He turned over onto his side, breathing in sharp and struggled, as if she had shoved him underwater and left him to drown with the bubbles. Sweat rolled down his brow, his cheeks clammy than before she shut the closet door on him. All the blue spiderwebs hushed with the willow songs. Orilion shook his head, raising his hand up to his back to grasp for something no longer there. "No... where are they...?" After a few moments, he curled further into the blankets.

Sick, dying, and also claustrophobic. Of all things I expected the tyrant of the skies to be... being afraid of small spaces wasn't one of them... I suppose it makes sense in hindsight though. Falora reached her hand out to touch his back, and her finger drifted down his spine. He tensed up and shook his head again.

"Orilion?"

He shivered.

"Orilion."

"Can't..."

"Can't what?"

His eyebrows creased. "I can't remember..." He frowned, then turned onto his back with a wince of pain. "Who are you?"

"My name is Falora Tyvlon. As I said... I watched you crawl out of the sea and onto the beach." Falora stopped her hand short from touching his shoulder. "You seem to be in pain. Is there something wrong with your back?"

"My wings are gone." He hauled himself up again and rubbed his back. "I don't understand..." He snapped his head around, where for a small second his pupils turned into the vertical, beaded slits of a dragon. "Why does it burn so much?" He shivered and recoiled back onto the mattress.

Falora shook her head. "I don't know... what you mean."

Orilion looked at his hand, and then sighed. After a few moments of silence, he turned his gaze to her. "I... appreciate you not stabbing me."

Falora leaned forward. "Would it have worked?"

"No."

"Well..." Falora folded her arms. "I figured if you were in pain, I think it'd be really easy to let you die... if that's what I really wanted." Except it's always the easiest ways out of a situation that has the most drawbacks... "Instead I have found myself nursing you back to health, and if you don't know what happened to you, I don't know what else I can do to help."

"I can't breathe..." Orilion whispered with the willows.

"Well... I don't know how..." Falora faltered when his eyes fluttered close again. Swirls of shame coiled her stomach, and she got up, leaving the closet door wide open.

No more aethergines broke the song of the sky. Hopefully they got the message, but I know if they find anything over there I'm under their boot. Falora put a pot of water on the stove to make dinner, but stopped when a terrible idea came to the forefront. Actually... going to the island might not be the... worst idea I could come up with. He can't breathe, that's his temple. If anything has information on the god in my closet, the best place would be to look in a temple devoted to him... If I can escape the notice of Celestial Cloudsweepers.

Anything to regain the use of her closet and to get the god out of her hair. As the water boiled, she returned to Orilion to check on him. He stared up at the ceiling, dazed.

"I see you aren't dead yet. Are you hungry?"

He closed his eyes at her approach. "Miss Tyvlon..." he spoke. His voice, not the thunderous might of a dragon or an evil being, but the same whispered song of willows and ocean, soft on her ears. He indicated to her scattered papers. "What are those?"

Her heart stuttered to a stop, and she collected all of them, cursing Flynn for his infectious cleaning habits. "It's..." Falora shoved them back into the shelf. "It's nothing. You don't remember anything, right? Do you remember your name."

"Orilion."

Right. "Asen'Orilion."

"Asen is a title."

"Go back to sleep," she bit, but released her nervous breath. "You're — sorry for saying this — severely weakened."

Orilion blinked at her, then tucked himself deeper into the blankets. "I... remember light, and then... nothing. Just felt myself fading away..." He gripped the front of his shirt. "I can't breathe... every time I do, I cannot catch all of it..."

"I'll try to figure out a way to help you," Falora said. "For now, go back to sleep. If you still can't remember anything, I'll see if... I can jog your memory."

Islands or texts, she hoped she wasn't about to reawaken an ancient evil instead of destroying it when she had the chance.

"Wait."

Falora stopped at his soft voice.

He peered up at her. "What... What Age is it?"

"It's the Aetheric Age." Falora knelt down beside him to garner his reaction. "Several millennia since the Age of the Dragon Gods. Give or take a couple since... your fall." Falora frowned down at him. "Does the Age really matter to you? I'm sure you blink, and they pass you by, don't they?"

"My fall?"

Falora clenched her fists. "Since you were struck down from the golden heavens. Do you truly not remember?"

Whatever reaction she expected, the lack of one wasn't. Nothing came to smite her for possible lies. He stared at her, then overturned on his side. His breath decidedly more ragged than before. Pity overcame her heart on the pulled suffering stretching across his features. He spoke in quiet draconian, where he rubbed his back again.

"If people come knocking again," Falora broke him out of his quiet tangent. "Try not to panic. I don't know what you overheard..." Brow furrowed, she reached forward to grasp his shoulder again.

Silence.

Awake.

Asleep.

I... His condition is so unstable. Falora held onto the doubts of her idea, to get him to his temple. I hope I'm not making a mistake... maybe I should've stabbed you when I had the chance, but now I can't...

She wasn't a vanquisher of evil, she wanted to be an artist like Father.

Falora allowed her mind to drift to her second-hand Cloudsweeper. It couldn't outrun Templar airships. The thought of exploring an ancient, forbidden temple stirred something in her heart.

All the relics and knowledge it held.

If she could keep the living relic alive, the holes in history Father sought to fill might reveal the truth. Her own chance at discovering what laid beyond the misty sea.