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❛ ᴇᴛᴏɪʟᴇ​​​​​​​​​​. ❜ ° . ༄
- ͙۪۪˚   ▎❛ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 ❜   ▎˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
»»————- ꒰ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ᴏғ
sᴛᴀʀᴅᴜsᴛ & ʟɪɢʜᴛ ꒱


❝ BUT THIS [ FLOWER ] ONLY
REQUIRES THE COLOR OF
THE SUNSET AT THE TIME
YOUR LOVER DIES ❞

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A L F H E I M

The world was very small to Eleanora, a woman who had not so much as left the confines of her realm, let alone the acre plot of her mother's cottage. However, she knew how big it could be, if only one were set foot a step farther than they had ever gone before. Elin spent many an evening sharing stories of her past, telling her tales of Asgard's king and queen, her secret romance with an Aesir soldier and the hours spent in the healing bay under Eir's tutelage.

Beyond that, her mother spoke of Yggdrasil and the nine realms, each more terrifying and enchanting than the last. Although Elin herself had never been to more than two realms— Asgard and Alfheim— she spoke of the others as if she'd been there herself, to which she admitted that some were Magnus' (the soldier she had been in love with) tales. It did not matter to Eleanora whose tales they were; she soaked them all up like a sponge, wishing each story lasted longer than it did.

When she was old enough, her mother taught her how to hold a charcoal pencil and the letters of the Alfheim alphabet. Then, even more stories were available for her to read and treasure. But they were still exactly that— stories. Eleanora longed to travel beyond her family's plot, to see the world— worlds— as the books described them. For this early part of her life, she only had her imagination to picture them but she knew that seeing the real thing would be beyond her wildest expectations.

Her mother, however, had deemed it unsafe for her to travel. Being a Star was dangerous enough; other beings could sense the source of power if they got too near and would use it for themselves. It was even more of a risk when the reason for her mother's flight from Asgard— King Odin, the Allfather himself— wanted her to use as his own weapon. So, after explaining these perils to Eleanora, Elin had kept her confined to their cottage with the rare trip to Alfhiem's biggest town, Stormhold.

Stormhold was not an ordinary village like one would find on Midgard or even Asgard. The entirety of the city appeared to float on verdant hills, as if the buildings and people weighed nothing at all— or, rather, they were what was holding the village aloft. It did not, actually, float. It was situated on a river; indeed, the water flowed directly through the town, cleaving it right in half. The mist from the rapid waters made Stormhold look as if it were sitting on clouds.

There are tall mountains— so tall that the tops disappeared into the sky above— that surrounded the village to protect it from possible invaders. Everything was a vibrant shade of green, even the buildings; they were decorated with ivy crawling up the side and other exotic plants, the likes of which only grew in Alfheim. Most of the buildings were made of glass; Light Elves had an affinity for sunlight and prefer to be near it at all times, leading to open-air rooms and extensive gardens.

The shapes of the buildings were otherworldly, even in the mystical sense. Lofty spires made up most of the shops, so straight and narrow that they jutted up into the sky like spikes. The smaller structures had the opposite effect: they were squat and round, with signs that read things like Invisible Ink Supplies (if you can't see it, it's working!) and Oracles for Hire (prophecies for cheap— know your fate on a dime!)

It was a days' ride to the village of Stormhold if the weather was good, but the end of the journey more than made up for the length. Eleanora would always ease Celestia into a gallop when the spires of the city came into view, her excitement too unbridled to contain. Her mother would call after her, scolding her for running off, but Elin's words would be lost to the wind by the time they reached her daughter's ears.

As Celestia raced towards the city gates, Eleanora felt the familiar rush of wind against her face. The grass underfoot passed by them in a blur until the city was the only distinct object before them, the glass buildings making it sparkle like a star against a velvet green field. Eleanora's heart raced with anticipation as the spires of Stormhold loomed closer, the excitement of seeing something new— even if she had seen it a handful of times before— urging her ever faster.

She stopped just outside the village gates to wait for her mother. Even her horse seemed to pick up on her anticipation as she shifted restlessly, flicking her tail as the minutes passed. When Elin finally caught up to them, she was already wearing a disapproving frown. "Eleanora! You need to be more careful. You don't know who can be hiding in these city crowds."

The blonde sighed at her mother's worry— finding it unnecessary herself— and merely agreed to get the lecture over with. She only paused as long as was needed before she nudged Celestia into a walk, weaving between passersby in her eagerness to get to the market. Although she knew the town itself well enough by now, the market would always hold new, interesting things, which was the main reason for her enthusiasm.

The first time she had attended the market was her most memorable. She had seen a two-headed elephant so tiny that it could fit in the palm of her hand. There had been a jar full of eyeballs that, when she bent to get a closer look, had turned their pupils to face her, making her jump back out of shock. At another stall, she had found an hourglass where the sand only flowed up. She had been enjoying the strange sights when a woman with dark hair had caught her attention and waved her over.

"See anything you like?" the woman had asked, gesturing to the wares before her. She was obviously not from Alfheim— her brown hair gave her away immediately. Her ears lacked a certain pointiness and her eyes were too dark for a Light Elf's. Her skin was lightly tanned, not like the almost-white of the realm's residents. While she was beautiful, she was not elven-beautiful, with their striking facial symmetry and nearly translucent appearance; the blonde guessed she was from Vanaheim— very few (if any) mortals made it this far in the Nine Realms, so although her coloring could have been Midgardian, it was extremely unlikely.

Eleanora looked down to see delicate, glass flowers that looked so real she could swear there was a scent coming from them. "They're very pretty."

"Which is your favorite?" The saleswoman had an almost coy smile on her lips as she watched the blonde think over her answer.

The girl's eyes had caught on a blue, many-petaled flower. "The blue one. How much are they?"

"They might be the color of your hair," she replied cryptically. "Or they might be all of your memories before you were three." She picked up the Aster and handed it to the girl. "But this one only requires the color of the sunset at the time your lover dies."

Eleanora frowned. "That's awfully morbid. Isn't there a happier one?"

"Of course," the woman allowed, "but that would be the price of a different flower."

It was truly a very pretty flower, with each slender petal distinct from the next. The blue was as vibrant as the sky and the yellow center reminded her of the sun. "Deal," she agreed, and reached forward to take the fragile blossom from the woman's grasp.

The brunette smiled again, so brightly that her lips pulled back to reveal straight, white teeth. She went to say something, but a hand landed on Eleanora's arm. The girl turned in panic, only to relax at the sight of her mother, though the older woman's eyes were wary as she took in the stranger. Elin frowned at the saleswoman. "Come along, Eleanora. We're in too much of a hurry for time-wasters."

She had the blue flower even now; it was tucked into the pocket of her dress and it still smelled like the market that day: the sweetness of the flower stall, the earthy, spicy scent of foreign herbs, even the warmth of the sunshine in the afternoon— exactly the time she had bought the trinket. It was also at that first market where she bought her own set of charcoal pencils and a journal bound in buttery leather. Her mother had started to teach her letters the next day.

Now, even when she was not present at the market, she or Elin would buy a journal and pencils as Eleanora had filled up her first one a dozen times over, mostly with pictures. Drawing was her favorite form of artistic expression; it was the only way to put what she saw in her imagination down onto paper as she pictured all of the worlds her mother described in her stories. She had started off by drawing simple animals: birds and cats and horses, but as her skill improved, she sketched more detailed images of what she thought each of the Nine Realms looked like.

✧ ✧ ✧

On average days, there was not much to do. After she completed her farm chores and had breakfast with her mother, Eleanora's time was her own. She would often walk the familiar paths of the woods that surrounded her house, but even the forest grew old and tiresome after a while. She climbed trees despite her mother's insistence that eight hundred years was too old to be doing such things. She sat by the river on a picnic blanket, lying with her back to the grass and her arms stuck straight up in the air to hold up the book she was reading.

Eleanora found comfort in the steady flow of the water. Even with it being confined to its banks, it still had more freedom than she did; it came and went as it pleased, sometimes even overflowing its limits when there was too much rain. She wondered where the stream went— if it somehow met up with the river in Stormhold— and where it came from. She wished to be just as free, going where she wanted to, persisting stubbornly enough to weather down the borders and shift steadily as the years passed. But for now, she could only read or draw beside it and listen to it laugh as it tripped over stones.

Eleanora was old enough now to enjoy romance books in addition to fantasy adventures. The books available to her didn't have much of a selection— Elin's library was quite small— but, in addition to a new journal, she would often look for a new story at the market, and she slowly increased her mother's collection over the years. She preferred romance novels with princes who had dark hair and light eyes, with quick wit and mischievous humor— just like the dreams she had of the boy long ago.

She no longer had dreams about him; they had flickered out, like a candle loosing light— slowly, and then all at once. She wasn't sure why they'd stopped, but she missed seeing him every night and the reassurance that he existed. So, Eleanora turned to the medium that always helped clear her thoughts: drawing. At first, she could only draw him as the boy he had been (though surely he was much older now.)

As she became familiar with the lines of his face, she made them sharper, more distinct. The mischief in his eyes remained, but became something more polished— as if, now he knew the intricacies of pulling the perfect trick. She sketched his dark curls longer, almost reaching his defined jaw. She tried to picture what his voice would sound like— warm and smooth as honey. Eleanora was almost certain that he was tall, with a slender frame and broad shoulders. She could see him clearly in her mind's eye, almost as if he were standing right in front of her.

When she was restless, she returned to the drawings, tracing over lines she had become accustomed to. And when she could not sleep, she thought of him. Not the angle of his cheek, or the shade of green she had conjured for his eyes, but his voice, his touch. She laid awake and imagined him beside her, his long fingers tracing absent patterns on her skin. Eleanora craved feeling the warmth of the man that she did not know against her, the solid security of his presence. She knew that, if she asked, he would have such magnificent stories that it would be like almost seeing them for herself. He was the one who would take her to see the Bifrost of Asgard, the divine weapons of Nidavellir, and the vast oceans of Midgard.

He reassured her that she did not need to beg for these tales; he gave them to her freely, each one more precious than the rare gems found in elven jewelry. And when he does tell her stories, they are not at all like the kind her mother used to speak of, with soldiers and kingdoms, greedy kings and motherly queens. Not fairy tales and warnings of venturing outside the lines, but stories that felt like truths, of the world beyond Alfheim. And even though the words she put in his mouth are surely full of errors and lies, the man's conjured voice made them sound so wonderful, so real. 

If only you could see it, he said.

I would give anything, she answered. (Though she should have been more careful when promising this; anything was a vague term, and gods are cunning folk— especially the one she will meet. If she had known that she were trading one gilded cage for another, then perhaps she would not have been so eager to sell what freedom she had.)

One day, he told her. One day, I'll show you. You'll see it all. 

The words ache, even as she thought of them, giving way to want— a thing too genuine, too dangerous. And so, even in her imagination, she guided the conversation back to safer roads. Tell me about tigers, Eleanora asked, having heard of the cats of Midgard in the market. The prince smiled and gestured with his tapered fingers, and spoke of their silken fur, their teeth, their furious roars.

Tigers weren't the only tale she wished for him to tell; she asked about the fire demons of Muspelheim and the frost wisps of Niflheim. She had been a dreamer for as long as she could remember; much of her eight hundred years had been spent with her head in the clouds, wishing she could be anywhere but on Alfheim. She supposed that was part of her nature; she had been in the sky for eons before the fates had decided it was her time to shine.

After all, that's what Stars did best: they shone, sparkling up in the heavens as they watched the worlds from above. When they came to earth (the soil under their feet, not necessarily Midgard), they did not lose their shimmer. It was a part of them from the time they were born; a Star without light was just a rock in the dirt. Instead, their glitter manifested itself as a halo of light, concentrated around their head. Stars shone brightest when they were happy, and the light was an outward expression of their joy. 

The times that Eleanora had been truly happy enough so that her light shone were few and far between. There was only one time that she could recall it happening thus far in her life, and she thought that was why the woman from the market decades ago had sought her out: she had certainly been shining that day, the first time she had ever been to market. With so many new things right at her fingertips, that had been a rare moment where she hadn't wished to be somewhere else.

✧ ✧ ✧

Eleanora didn't have very many memories from before she was three. (She often wondered if someone had bartered them away for a pretty glass flower.) She had even fewer from her time as a star in the sky, one of many pinpricks of light that filled the heavens. At least, what she did remember were happy memories; she could still hear her sisters' voices raised up in song, though the actual lyrics had never been words. They had sung of abstract things: the breeze in spring, of wheeling through the galaxy, of the quiet lap of water on the shores of a peaceful lake.

They had brought her comfort over the millennia she had spent alone, but together with them. Now she could not remember how the tune went— or, rather, it was a tune she knew, but only every third note. But, she hadn't lost everything from her past life; she could still hear the songs that her sisters sang. So, when she was feeling most lonely (often late at night when she had woken up from a dream about her boy), she took her blankets outside and lay on the grass, looking up at the heavens.

She remembered when her position in the universe had been the opposite: she would look down on the realms. She recalled that there had been much fighting and violence— so much bloodshed that it had made watching the worlds tear themselves apart unbearable. But, like a Star glittering against the blackness of night, there was always a light in the dark. It was love that held her attention when the pain and lies became too much; there was something magical about it— not magical, with spells and sorcery, but its own kind of enchantment. It was one thing that bound all species together, a universal language.

That had been her reason for wanting to experience life— to have a love so great it challenged the cosmos, that it would change the course of time itself. She though that she might be able to have that sort of love with the boy from her dreams, if she ever met him. 

A/n: I hope that previous readers from the earliest versions of this story can appreciate/see the improvements my writing has gone through. To pat myself on the back, I think this chapter is better than any I have published previously for this book. I certainly have a better grasp on the plot now than when I first started in 2018. Hopefully this confidence will continue; if I make it past chapter 4 I will consider Etoile 3.0 a success 🤣