#oh and Ataria is Atarq’s ancient name

[tryingtimi]

Ash and Rot PART I.

PART I. | PART II. | PART III.

Here's a scene or an almost half a chapter from Book III that I was meaning to write for a while now. It started as a prompt scene, but ended up like this. Blood Upon The Snow by Hozier was a great inspiration to get started with it and then finish it up as well. Incoming In-World legend also.

Context: Cronyl loses control during a fight, where Syonehlia tries to stop him. It ends up as a disaster, because Cronyl tries to kill her, so In order to finally, actually stop him, Eldnar trashes his leg. He then completely separates himself from the others during his recovery while they travel to draar land for help. So Bra'aka tries to offer thim something that might help him get over himself and what for they eventually started the journey to his homeland.

BOOK III EXPLORATION | MENTION OF DEATH | BLOOD | SELF-LOATHING | WC: 2,759

Screams. Silence. A lion cub lost in the forest. Snowflakes falling. Cronyl was surrounded by a thousand starbugs, all of them circling around him.

Blood.

Mother’s smile appearing as she watched the glowing creatures crowding him. She was always amazed by how much starbug loved Cronyl. She said he must be one of them.

Red and black snow.

Cronyl was hiding behind a trunk with Father by his side. Watching the wandering cub carefully. It dragged its leg, an open wound gaping at it. The injury reminded him of a biting mark, its pain surging through his leg as well.

“It was its mother,” Father whispered as he leaned closer, red blooming on his nose from the cold. Cronyl grasped the trunk stronger upon hearing this, not daring to lift his gaze off of the young animal. Father continued. “They do this sometimes. If the little one can’t bond with the mother or acts strangely, they might try to eat them. Either because they stayed a stranger to them or as a protection so they won’t suffer social exclusion. No matter if they’re the same kind.”

Snow, red on white. Silence.

Starbugs approached the cub, curious. It wandered so far with that leg and still, it wouldn’t stop. Cronyl’s chest tightened hearing and seeing nature’s doings.

“It’s mercy.”

The nearest starbug disappeared in the mouth of the cub with a crunch as it bit down on them suddenly.

Cronyl snapped his head at the side, where Commander Caldan’s frigid stare pierced him through. His indifferent tone making Cronyl tremble as ice would.

The Commander never revealed his spikes and yet, now they were visible. Thick blood dripped from his wrist, staining the snow.

The blood of Cronyl’s leg injury. The blood of his parents.

Silence.

Screaming.

Cronyl slammed his wrist spike into the arm which startled him up.

His breath as wisps of air puffed out of his lungs, the same way the surprised Bra’aka’s. The warrior’s clawed hand held Cronyl’s arm firm, but his incredibly sharpened spike still touched fur and skin, sinking in slightly. If it hurt the man, he didn’t show it.

Cold sweat like pearls prickled down on Cronyl’s forehead, his eye trembling as he stared at the warrior. His leg throbbed with spiking pain. And yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away. In the corner of his eye, he still saw Commander Caldan’s motionless figure, covered in blood and snowflakes; and so he just wasn’t capable of letting himself turn away, giving in to the tiniest chance he could be truly there.

Bra’aka slowly pulled his spike out of his arm.

“You’re safe,” he said as he placed two plates at the desk beside the table finally. One was packed with fresh, colorful fruits and roasted meat slices. The other had a strange plant lying in it; thick, fleshy leaves or blooms embraced each other, dark red specks covering the dirty white base. Like...

At his arm, tiny redness stained his white fur, like blood upon the snow.

Enough!

Cronyl restrained the urge of shaking his head to drag himself out of the twisted lands of memories and nightmares. Clearing off any remnants of sleep from his clouded gaze and mind.

He tasted iron on his tongue, his sharpened teeth making it difficult to keep his lips closed. He set his jaw, still.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?” The draar leaned back on the chair he seated himself, right beside Cronyl’s bed. He wore his light armor as always. “That scratch? All good, lad. I didn’t feel a thing.”

He cocked an eyebrow anyway.

“Bad dream,” Cronyl stated, not looking at the warrior while trying hard not to grimace from all the numbing, underlying throbbing in his leg.

“You have nothing, but bad dreams. I’m more interested in how are you doing.”

Tightness nested in his muscles as he forcefully pushed himself up to a sitting position by his elbows. He grunted, letting his blanket fall back at his hips, his injured leg still free from it. However cold it was outside, the hut had enough heat so Cronyl didn’t need to force the leather to touch his bandaged wound.

“Good.”

A bestial growl ran out through his clenched teeth when Bra’aka touched the cloth wrapped around his leg.

“You can keep saying that, I won’t stop asking.” Despite his enormous hand, the warrior was incredibly careful with it, perhaps even more like Avelyn would have been. However, it didn’t ease Cronyl’s building pain and tension. It towered upward, reaching his chest to gather there.

“What do you want from me?” he snarled, clenching the sheets as the cloth slowly disappeared from over his wound.

Bra’aka calmly stole a glance from him, before he continued to roll off the bandage. Although, his touch softened further.

“Not much. Just talk. You mad lad won’t let anyone inside when you’re awake and it’s been three weeks since Syon. She’s doing well, by the way. Nareethi could heal her wounds impressively fast. You can imagine how quickly little gold bullied her into teaching her; she needs the distraction since she can’t talk to you. Eldnar, also, is giving us way less headache than he used to. He disappears for hours during the day, and when he’s around he only talks to Darmon. It’s a whole load of gemclouds out there. Drehana’s the only one who still laughs with Ne’ekra while grooming the animals.”

Cronyl looked away, a loud huff bubbling in his throat when the last bit of cloth separated from his skin. He couldn’t risk glancing at Bra’aka’s injury while he inspected his wound. He couldn‘t risk falling back into the dream. Or worse.

Because the pain, he was used to. The excruciating agony the procedure came with, he was used to.

The fresh, heavy guilt blanketing all of it, however, he couldn’t deal with.

“They just need time,” to process I’m a monster. To get used to my absence. To finally realize they’re better off without me. Because I am alone and I’ll stay like that.

Bra’aka hummed to the unspoken words. Some minutes passed silently.

“Have you heard about Hoxxar and Unir, The Twins?” The wound had been fully revealed, Cronyl, however, couldn’t look at it. He kept his stare at the window beside his bed, watching the slowly falling snow after the storm through frozen glass. He remained silent.

Bra’aka continued, his tone changing, deepening. A quiet, humming rhythm accompanied the words.

“They lived in the ages long-long before us, even before Darmon. In the Age of The Beginning, they were born to be the children of a chiefess and her husband. They were strong and vigilant from the moment they were brought under the waving sky. As twins, they had many similarities, some tales say their father has often mistaken one for the other. However, it wasn’t something Hoxxar and Unir found bothersome. They loved each other as only a brother could one another. And as many things have they shared, they differed in an equal lot, if not more.” Bra’aka’s tone turned tender, melodic even. He slowly started to clean the wound out with a wet cloth. “Hoxxar liked to fight. He enjoyed the thrill of dealing with the problems of the world this way and the dance around Death itself. He judged, he killed, he took. Hoxxar, The Great was the finest, legendary warrior of old Ataria.”

What must have been minutes only, it felt like an eternity to Cronyl, when Bra’aka finally finished patting the cloth over his leg. He forced his eyes to stay open and watch the dancing lights on the night sky, his nails buried in the torn sheets way too deep.

“Unir, on the other hand,” Bra’aka continued. “Well, he was more drawn to nature and Life. In appearance and life path as a child, he was just like his brother. But never in heart. He helped others wherever he could, he healed, he farmed and planted, he built, he gave. Thus, their parents eventually offered him the title of the chief.” He reached for the white-red plant at the table. A pierce of his thumb claw was enough to slice the thick skin up fully. Its inside seemed to be something like a densely opaque liquid, but it didn’t flow anywhere as Bra’aka scooped some out with one finger. With that, the warrior’s tone turned erratic, aggressive, almost barbaric. “It happened to be the first time in their life when Hoxxar became furious at his own blood. Blinded by his wrath, he attacked their home that night and took the life of both of their parents. When he was done, he went right after Unir. A merciless snowstorm raged outside as he searched for his brother, the harsh wind cutting into his skin, wearing him down step by step. Still, nothing could falter, nor stop him.”

A breathless hiss left Cronyl’s lips as the strange gel met his wound. He could barely feel Bra’aka’s touch as he gently smeared it along his leg.

“He found Unir eventually, sitting in the snow on the white-coated meadow they used to play at as children. The storm didn’t soften as Hoxxar approached his brother. I have come to claim my title, he said to him, I am not afraid to take what’s mine. Unir remained silent, watching the far horizon. He seemed at peace.” Bra’aka’s voice muted, its rhythm slowing. “I know, he offered his words, when Hoxxar lifted his bloodied, frozen axe over him. I know brother, as I know you’ve taken everything from us. You’ve worked for this and would have died for this. They should have given it to you, so you shouldn’t take it yourself. But they didn’t. So here I am, giving it to you.”

Slowly, with even easing, the nearly unbearable pain softened into a familiar little ache in Cronyl’s leg. This gel cooled the flaming sensation, taking away the edge of the agony. Its smell reminded Cronyl of something very familiar.

Bra’aka’s humming voice turned even more benign, almost reminding Cronyl of a gentle breeze.

“Hoxxar froze upon hearing this. The first rays of dawn glinted on the tear on his face and the storm turned into steadily falling snowflakes as he fell to his knees beside his brother. He was ragged and wary, the storm took his strength, his will, his conviction. He’d been blind. He, Hoxxar, The Great was ready to take what could have been given. Why? How can you give after everything? he pleaded. Unir didn’t answer immediately. Because of you, brother. I could have never give, if you wouldn’t taken. And so they realized, they couldn’t have been who they were without each other. They couldn’t change, however. Which led them to make a decision, together. For the people never make a mistake like theirs, Hoxxar decided to take the place of the storm, while Unir had been given to be the light after him. Hoxxar judged and challenged the wanderers, pushing them the farthest, where they might never want to go. Only so Unir could have given them hope and relief, when they survived the storm, lighting up the path they’ve taken and showing them how far they came.”

Silence conquered the hut.

The fire quietly crackled once in the fireplace, when Bra’aka leaned back in his chair, finishing up his work. He locked eyes with Cronyl, and the driadlin realized only then, he was looking at him for a while now. He couldn’t say, when his nails stopped digging into the sheets, and when his teeth stopped poking his tongue. Some kind of peace as the evenly waving aurora outside surged in his chest. He could lean back on his pillow as well, finally.

“Thank you,” Cronyl said to the big man. He wasn’t sure what to make of the tale, but he was grateful. Beyond words.

Bra’aka smiled, then reached inside the pouch on his belt. He pulled out a glowing crystal that seemed to be almost as wide and long as Cronyl’s wound.

“You’ve asked me what I want from you. Well, I want you to make a decision. This is a piece of our atarqian crystal, the one we used for me too,” he stated proudly, lifting his crystal hand which in he held the remnants of the plant. The crystals seemed to merge into his skin where his wound should have been. Making it look like as if he was born with this arm. “We have a special ritual for it. One, only our most honorable warriors get offered to. It is not without pain. But it can give you back the ability to walk on two feet again. If you’re willing to take the chance.”

His eyes were flaming vortexes of colors from a blazing fire, while his enormous figure still seemed gentle in the dim light of the aurora that seeped inside the room through the window. Cronyl’s always-nesting fatigue and exhaustion disappeared from his veins as if nature could finally give him rest from all the strength he took from it.

His head also felt somehow clearer, yet he frowned and closed his eyes for a second.

“What’s the risk?” There was always a risk. And he knew Bra’aka didn’t tell him yet.

The warrior didn’t look away when they locked eyes again.

“Normally, the ritual requires three things. A crystal, a sip of the na’koro juice, and a drop of driadlin blood. Our ancestors discovered this during the Silent War when many of the opposite side died and some bled on them accidentally. During peaceful times, however, Caelis offered her aid in it, when she settled here. We never kill for it, especially not on purpose. In any case, since only one drop is enough to take you to another land while the ritual ends; what it would do to someone who possesses a fine amount of the blood, I cannot say. That is the risk.”

Cronyl didn’t know what to say. Strangely, his peace stayed with him, however disturbing all these sound. He had no doubt, Caelis wasn’t a simple settler, considering how she decided to build a home in draar land despite her driadlin heritage. But this was something Cronyl didn’t expect. And yet, the first question that popped up in his mind had nothing to do with her or the ritual itself.

“Is it the same na’koro juice that…”

“…that Xorrum was drinking with Eldnar to get drunk the last time, yes. It’s coming from this sacred plant called nakor,” Bra’aka explained, lifting the plant in his hand. “We use its juice for celebration because, without any of your blood, it is just like any of your simple alcohol as well. Probably more delicious, I might add.”

Cronyl took a deep breath.

“You’ve put it over my wound.”

“Yes I did,” agreed the warrior. “It keeps it clean.”

Reddish light danced on Bra’aka’s face as he calmly waited for him, perhaps to ask more questions. To pour out all and everything that was going on his mind right now. The fire’s and the auroras’ red and orange light blended, but its touch on the warrior’s white fur didn’t make Cronyl tense anymore. He knew he could say no without explanation.

“Is there anything I need to do to start the process?”

Bra’aka smiled softly, putting the crystal on his bed so he could squeeze the liquid out of the plant into the bowl. Cronyl’s leg faintly throbbed with a tiny crumb of pain, he almost didn’t feel it anymore. He was wondering if The Twins ever felt this way.

He turned to the window, clenching his teeth as Bra’aka carefully placed the crystal into his open wound and handed him the bowl.

Clouds seemed to gather in the sky, slowly reaching the light.

As if another storm was on its way.