The Loneliest Traid

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  • Published: 2 Apr 2017
  • Updated: 13 May 2017
  • Status: Complete
Love and death and war and Gods and blood and magic and dancing and rest and revenge and kings and fate.
Don't worry, within these three stories you'll know yourself,
And I will put you back together again.

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31. A Playout

My name, it is Nona, and I spin the life to which all will meet.  My sister Decima measures its length like cord, and my sister Morta cuts it when she deems it long enough.

    But we do not weave the fabric, that is not us and we will not be blamed for it.

    When Daphne was stolen, when Jinmi fell to the Gods, we did not send Eros to tear their love apart.  When Ichais was bitten, when Estha was born, and when they let just that turn them against each other, that was not our doing.  And when the enemies of War were introduced, Chene abandoned and Gomez half-blinded - we will not be held like the stones of the devil and allow you to throw rocks at us for our sins.

    We are the Gods which allow all to be, each love story you have read in our realm.  Nothing more and nothing less, we are those which set up the board but do not move the pieces.

    And if you are to blame us for what we cannot help, give us the credit of the boy who found sun, the two that found more than surface-known, the soldiers that found peace in their time.  Their lives were more than the deaths, and I will be damned if I let you forget that.

    I did not spin each life to allow you to decide which parts should be cut and tied together like cheap cloth.  I did not make life for you to deem it worth it or not.

    And if you are to put blame you can find my sisters down the waterfall and look at the tape in one hand and the blade in the other, and watch how they find the end to a story that you do in fact find worthy, but know as there is a God of Love and God of Loss, there must be us - the sisters that even the creators fear - birth, life and death, the grounds of all stories.

    My name, it is Nona, and my story changes hands to that of my sister.  Her name is Decima, and she will now thread the tale for you.  Her needle is sharp and her hands are nimble, but their story is better vile than forgotten, no doubt.

    For my final written word, I say this:

    

    Dyrad is soon to fall to his successor at the hands of a man with a charge and no relevance.  On his tomb, it is written that he is a saint.  He is not.

    Sinder won the war, and great cost, including the life of his party and of his son.  His only daughter would come in and see him crying over his corpse, and she would laugh, for she had grown foolish in her death and resurrection.

    Eros would return to the second realm and meet a fate undeserved, the line snapping in Morta’s knowing hands, though her features wounded at this.  

    Appalla would find judgement where it suited - not her anymore - but those who seeked bitter revenge.  Osir cut her tongue from her mouth, Brizo tied her in sailor knots.

    Daphne felt something vanish within herself.  Perhaps a memory, or a name, or a boy she had left and wanted to live on for.  Without him, she was nothing, and yet she could not find his face in her mind.

    And as for our heroes?

    A family so horrid they lived in hiding until their deaths welcomed home a weary traveler that had once been her own, their lips only spilling lies of the story she knew, strengthening the promise to remain locked away forever.

    A boy found his leader and handed him a letter salvaged and stolen from the dungeon floor, unsealed, sprayed in the blood of few.  Ashamed, he was given a new collar of copper studs and an army to lead into the first wave of battle.

    A lost soul snuck away under the bridges that lead to land and found himself cursing those which brought him not only to this place, but to this life at all.  He would then find something he shouldn’t have if only he had stayed behind golden gates, and his love would become nothing but a dream forgotten.

    An adventurer, now going by the title of thief, would spend her immortal life as she had before, wanting nothing more than to be able to die again with soft gums and full stomachs.  She gave in to each body she met, devouring each inch of flesh and drop of blood, and every last one reminding her of what she could have been if she hadn’t been so bitter.

    A prince was freed again, sent out to fight with a sword in his hand.  The deja vu frightened him, but with the burn of his father’s touch still in his eye, he moved out that night, at least glad to be rid of the horrid place that now held ghosts only he could see.  He would never hear of the father’s death.

    Finally, a God awoke after a long slumber, his mind still holding onto the sights all those who came before his name had seen.  The war, the torment, the loneliness.  And the young God knew that something was very wrong in the fates, and whatever it was, it came for him next.

    Philotes’ Ballad had been awakened from the depths of the God’s realm, ready to be found but only by those who needed what it offered most.  She heard of three lullabies, one of grace, another of freedom, the last of peace.  The spell pulled the fates in her favour, already having decided who would be the one to hear her song of love.

    And now riddle me this - now that you have heard their stories you must have decided on your answer.

    Knowing them, do you believe that they would let their soul be taken by fire just to feel warm again?  Drown their lungs so that they know feeling, scream so that they can use words at least once more?

    Would they die just to never be alone again?  

And now, what about kill?

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