#featuring Trahearne's resurrection as Avalwyn

[archesa]

Is the Knight of the Thorn quest still off limits? If not then Knight of the Thorn quest on either Anwen, Elianora or Galaëd (or maybe comparison/differences between)

Ooooh! No, the "Knight of the Thorn" quest is not off-limits! 🌱 Thanks a lot for your patience, I remember you had asked about the Knight of the Thorn quest the first time i reblogged this ask game (once upon a december ^^) but at the time I still hadn’t done the quest and I wasn’t sure what to make of it...

I’m unfortunately (?) not quite in the mood for a deep exploration of Elianora’s deep depression...

But I will gladly talk about the other two! 😄🍂🦋

(this will also overlap with @i-mybrunettelady ‘s ask! enjoy 😘)

I'm still figuring out some of the details for Galaëd, since the restoration of Caladbolg will be very intimately linked to his secret wyld-hunt – bring back the Green Knight from the confines of the Dream.

His journey started by a visit in the Grove, the sight of the statue of his late mentor and friend filling him with rage, grief and guilt, but also fueling a fire within that he had almost forgotten about, a whisper swelling to a resounding call, beckoning him to embrace and reminisce of a now distant memory and fulfill the destiny bestowed upon him by the Dream.

Caladbolg laid broken and withered in the depths of Dreamer’s Terrace. Not dead. Merely dormant. Longing for its missing pieces, its memory to be restored and its wounds to be healed.

Riannoc had carried it first, and his virtues and his flaws still echoed in the whimpers of the wind as the shattered blade brushed through the air. Honour. Courage. Recklessness. And as Galaëd traced along a path that was always meant to be his own, his steps shadowing those of the sword’s previous bearers, the blade’s song changed — the wind on its sharpness, the light at its core, the buds blooming on his guard drawing with every memory revisited the strengths and the merits of the three noble knights who ever carried it.

Riannoc’s bravery and ultimate sacrifice. Trahearne’s erudition and everlasting dedication. Galaëd’s curiosity and unwavering loyalty.

Canach had once described the mesmer’s connection to the Dream as a high-pitched constant whistle, an edge he pictured clearly, unyielding and sharp as a blade,  as opposed to the constant turmoil of interlaced voices and visions gravitating around most dreamers like a haze. A thread connecting him to the ones before, and pulling him towards an inevitable future.

Night was falling on the Grove when he laid down his head under the protective embrace of the Pale Tree. This part of his journey had come to its end. Stars lit up the skies and flickered beyond a veil of mists and memories. He was dreaming. Dreaming of the ones who came before. A familiar presence, waiting far beyond the horizon, wounded and ensnared in an entanglement of thorns. Dormant. Only sleeping.

And with the guidance of a White Stag, the protection of the Dreamer, the welcoming embrace of a friend, the Green Knight would awaken.

It was different for Anwen, because Trahearne was there, still alive, recovering as she was, when she endeavoured herself to the restoration of the Thorn.🌹

She had taken Caladbolg with her, from the depths of the jungle to the heights of Divinity’s Reach, from the warmth and golden days of Tarir to the mists and starlit nights of Caer Aval, without a second thought as to why the Sword did not reject her the way it had rejected Canach — and it took broaching the subject to Trahearne for her to realise that Caladbolg had chosen her as its new bearer. And if the Thorn was willingly offered, it still demanded Anwen reconciled with the memories of its last two bearers to attune to its full potential.

Visiting Riannoc’s tomb was a very emotionally charged endeavour — Trahearne’s grief and regret echoed through the blade as much as it radiated through him, sorrow and guilt weighting on her shoulders as if they were her own, all the more crueler as she could barely find in herself the strength to comfort her beloved.

But the duel itself sparked anew her courage, reminded her of the power of unity, of the danger of isolation, fueled her pride at the thought that they had remained strong and loyal and steadfast in the face of certain death. She prevailed because even in the sword’s memory, Riannoc was alone, and even as she stood her ground in single combat against the fallen knight of the thorn, she was not.

The Vision Crystal next led them on the edge of Verdant Brink, where the Pact had fallen, the Thorn broken, and the wreckage of the fleet still painted in sharp shattered lines of scorched vines and torn metal a vivid recollection of their mistakes and nightmares.

The Glory of Tyria laid stranded, suspended in her last moments, a frozen speck of time holding within its core a shard of Trahearne’s soul — a part of him that had never left Maguuma.

Anwen took in a deep, confident breath before she plunged in the vision. She was not alone. Trahearne was with her.

Her heart sank in her chest, her lungs filling with frozen dread, and within moments before the second vision seized her, she knew what deep hidden, dark and secluded part of her the Sword had conjured.

She instinctively rolled away, a stone greatsword shattering the ground where she stood and vines like whips breaking through the metal carcass as if it were dirt to slash and ensnare her, but it were his eyes — fiery and burning with hatred — that immobilised her.

Pumice-like bark covered his bulk, a wreath of sharp thorns breaking through his skin like a crown, and at his side, half buried in the entanglement of roots and creeper plants conjured in his wake, laid the twisted forms of familiar figures, friends broken, corrupted by blight.

She blocked another swing of the sword, sent to her knees by the force of the blow and barely dodged the shadows frothing neath her feet, a column of darkness rising from the ground a split second before a scythe slashed it through.

Wreathed in obscurity, Trahearne charged at her and struck with yet another powerful blow that seemed to drain even the memory of warmth around them. Ice sizzling as it covered her armour and withered the still fragile buds of the sword, she slashed desperately at the vision, a litany of pleas and reassurances dying on her lips as she struggled to breathe.

‘You’re not real. You’re not him. You’re not Trahearne. Trahearne is safe.’

The tip of the sword encountered resistance and a light pierced through the shroud where the blade had dug.

'You’re not real. You’re not him! You’re a figment! The memory of a nightmare!’

Cold and darkness surrounded her, but a light shined through with every cut and slash of Caladbolg, the withered buds blooming and a scent of salt water and iodine replacing that of decay and rot as the wind swelled and the vines recessed.

The hardened bark shattered, and the blade dug in his chest without resistance. Bright blue flames flared from the wound as the fiery glow in his eyes dimmed to their familiar honey and closed forever as ley energy drowned the world and consumed him from within.

Anwen blinked away the vision, her breath stuck in her throat when she found herself not atop of the wreckage, but on the deck of the Glory of Tyria, a vast expanse of water beneath and the sun rising over Orr on the horizon. Trahearne was with her. Another memory, a vision of a past she would rewrite if she could, and yet would not change for the world; the morning after the Cleansing of Orr, the moment she should have realised, in retrospect, that Trahearne loved her.

He smiled at her, his glow a deep purple striking against the warm silver and pale gold of the skies around him.

“One day soon, this plague will be but a memory. Every dawn rising bring us closer to seeing these wounds heal... But in the mean time, dear friend, this day is ours.”

She closed the gap between them, finding herself engulfed in a towering embrace, rather than nuzzled in the crook of his shoulder as the vision faded and she returned to reality.

“I know you're probably tired of hearing this — especially from me — but thank you, dear friend. We've come a long way and have a long way to go, but for now, I am glad you’re here with me.”

“Here at the end of all things?”

“Hopefully, their beginning.”