By the elves many a man was enchanted,
So was I enchanted by strong love
By the best woman a man has ever befriended.
But will she for that reason hate me,
And stand up against me, willing to take her revenge on me
In doing what I ask of her; then she will make me so happy,
That my life will perish with joy.
I am inflamed by the light of her eyes so bright,
As the fire does to the dry tinder,
And her treating me like a stranger offends the heart of mine,
Like the water the glowing embers,
And her high spirit and her beauty and her dignity
And the wonders, they tell of her good deeds
That is bad luck to me - or maybe good.
When her bright eyes turn to me in a way
That all through my heart she sees,
Who would dare go in between and trouble me,
He must have all the joy of his totally destroyed,
I must stand in front of her,
And await my delight,
Just as the little bird (awaits) the light of dawn.
When will I ever achieve such happiness?
After having walked for nearly a mile along the Wending Way without any sight of side-streets, it came as something of a surprise when a three-way intersection finally presented itself. Visible to the south were more park spaces and a clearing for the town commons, while straight ahead was a spacious garden dominated by tall marbles statues of three graceful women. The workmanship and scale were similar to those of the three goddesses Arion has paused to pay respects, yet the whole of the area seemed less a monument than a shrine.
Here, the trees themselves had been carefully arrayed and shaped to give the sense that one stood in some vast woodland cathedral. Yet in addition to such sylvan influences, those of Ilmarond's rulers, the sky elves, were evident too. Radiating from the central shrine in both the cardinal and intermediate directions were eight aisles lined by elegant pillars and marble archways topped by ornamental finials. These drew one's eyes skyward, not only to the goddesses, but to the heavens visible thru intentional gaps in the chartreuse canopy above, fingers of light both natural and magical perpetually illuminating the trine in an angelic glow.
The goddesses themselves, their statues set on plinths, were each over 50-feet tall. They stood in a circle, each with their left shoulder towards the center, each sister holding the wrist of the one to her left so that they were all joined, each watching the back of the sister whose hand they held, yet none in a position of authority over the others. These were The Three, The Sisters of Fate.
The goddess to the south was clad in a heavy, voluminous gown, sleeveless yet carved with many folds that cast shadows upon itself. Her eyes were hidden behind an ornate masque from which seemed to billow a perpetual silvery mist as of tears being borne away by the wind. Perched upon her outstretched right hand was a nightingale that she beheld with a melancholy gaze. This was Fëarianna, the Queen of Spirits who looked with compassion upon the trials and tragedies of mortals, their ultimate fates known to her. Theater was the art most dear to the eldest of the three, for so thru it could the hopes and dreams of the departed continue to live on, so too could their sorrows and sacrifices be honored.
She held the wrist of the goddess to the northeast. She was garbed in much lighter and more airy attire, arms and midriff bare, one of her legs visible from beneath the swirl of a skirt that opened like a blossoming flower. It was as if some lithe, shapely maiden had been captured in mid-dance. There was a serene smile on her face as she gazed at an impossibly large and delicate butterfly of blue and purple stained-glass that was alighting upon a finger of the hand she swept out over the gardens below. There could be no mistake that this was Súmalya, Queen of Hearts, Queen of the Fey, and the Divine Muse whose gifts were the hope and inspiration to realize one's fate. This was the goddess that Alis herself revered and thru whom she best knew the divine.
The wrist she held was that of the youngest goddess who stood to the northwest and in turn held the wrist of the eldest. Unlike the resplendent gown of the eldest, or the more revealing dress of the middle-born, this goddess was arrayed in the more ornate, flowing robes of a royal scholar. Only her hands, feet, and sandalled feet were bared. Rather than sorrow or joy, her expression was instead pensive, and no matter where one stood, so long as they could see her face, she seemed to gaze at them, the quill she held and the ibis perched upon her forearm poised as if to chronicle their fate. This could only be Kamína the Handmaiden, the receiver of knowledge. It was by her hand that mortals were remembered or forgotten, by whose blessing one's fate might be proscribed.
Priyya found herself once more standing atop a high place, assessing the world while both moons lingered overhead. There had been dark clouds obscuring the sun, obscuring her sense of direction, yet in those moments, a single dark butterfly lead her onward until she had come to stand here.
Looking down, she could see her own hair, long and dark, flowing around her, yet her figure was more ample, it was her body yet not her body.
As she came to the edge of the precipice, the butterfly came to hover before, alighting briefly upon the back of her left hand, opposite her birthmark. A thrill raced thru her naked form, passion, yearning, emotion, and all those qualities that those few members of her order were taught only caused one to stray from their path, to falter.
Yet she could could also sense feelings of joy, hope, pride, and gratitude. Were the from the butterfly?
For a moment, the butterfly lingered, the gentle breeze of her fanning her wings was inexplicably refreshing and unlikely given her tiny size. Yet it was then that Priyya realized it was not one butterfly, but a whole host of them swirling around her.
Within her mind, she could hear two simple, yet sincere words, spoken in a musical tone. "Thank you."
Lyria says calmly, "Patience, my dear, you of all Vala should know that there are protocols we must follow. Besides, I believe that she should be acting very soon now."
"Whereas the absence of my aid in the battle below puts lives at stake." She nods in contemplation. "Strange that Híro takes no interest in his servant's travails. He must have high regard for your vigilance."
Watching the scene carefully, Lyria could see the effect the lapse in her junior's attention had caused. While Priyya was successful in her attack, the priestess of vile Qingu would yet remain standing. In the next moment then, she could see that the accursed one would call upon her fell patron and utterly destroy the one Priyya's lover held dearest. Betrayal, regret, and a hardening of hearts lay down that path.
Of course, this was the same man who grieved her own servant so, though she could see that he meant well even if he as yet held no respect for her.
She looked upon Alíta and knew that she at least would take no issue with such a development. If anything she no doubt saw intimacy as merely an unnecessary burden to the Surya-ka-Vahaak. No doubt she would deem Malandraenas' hardship as a worthy sacrifice — a catalyst to strengthen him.
"Yet he is a creature of passion... even if it is primal. What inspiration is there in that?"
Lyria looks up from the ambrosia she was enjoying and bids the lillends attending her to away for a moment. "You do realize that my servants are as vested in this conflict as yours, correct? I can see in her eyes and dreams how precious your servant's honor is to her. Would you begrude my servants the chance to avenge their honor?"
The goddess of inspiration smiles. "Was that philosophy, my friend? Very well, as you say, even a vessel that is not quite full was surely intended by its crafter to be filled to brimming, I'll concede you the point... if only to encourage you."
Alíta's fire seems almost to cast a shadow over the older goddess' delicate features. "Perhaps... yet just because they each have been taken from does not mean that taking equally or in greater measure from another would have made them whole. Emptiness begets emptiness."
"Oh I know, I know... why do you think I allowed the elf girl's flaming brand to strike the witch with that ungainly contraption she uses? Yet consider this, my young peer. That softness and compassion that rankles you so? The mortals know that as friendship and love. Even as the valor with which [i]you[i] instill your Surya-ka-Vahaak allows her to face the trials before her, so too does love allow mine to place the well-being of others before themselves. Is that not also a demonstration of courage?"
Alíta's expression darkened as if storm clouds gathered before her very eyes.
Nearby the goddess of beauty, inspiration, and dreams sighed pre-emptively, knowing that her junior was about to have one of her moments. "Yes, yes, I know. Caring for others is making her soft, she should be raining down death to the wicked, and laying low demons at every turn."
