SOMEONE WORTH SAVING

[Xarkly 17299]

 

@Halt

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

A river coursing up a hill.

 

“ … So too shall I affirm with heavy heart the passing of my royal brother, Sigmar Lorik.” The words of Vasilia Barrow echoed through the throne room of New Valdev, reverberating through the high-ceiling and the redstone columns. 

 

The news had already travelled, of course, and so the Barrow’s affirmation was met with little more than downcast eyes and the drawing of crosses - save for those who had shared blood with the departed Prince; silent tears rolled down their cheeks. 

 

“His loss is truly one of the hardest for our family …” the young King Karl IV answered in turn, his solemn voice filling the silence left by Vasilia. 

 

Leaning by a pillar, Villorik sighed as the mourning went on. “ … Tell me something, Malna,” he muttered softly to the bespeckled Elf at his side. 

 

“ … and a blow to the grandness of our future,” the King went on with his head bowed. “We shall have the arrangements made posthaste, so that he might transition to the Skies …”

 

“Hm?” Malna, prompted by Villorik’s whisper, glanced away from the grim procession, and she arched an eyebrow at him. “What are you …?” 

 

Villorik glanced down at his gauntleted fingers, and the threads of ethereal light that shimmered between them. “Do you believe in miracles?”

 

A ring of fire, halved, and feathers falling.

 

“ … in the company of our ancestors, as he did in life.” As the King finished, the echo of his words emphasised the silence of the throne room, despite the dozens of knights, courtiers, and petitions gathered there. 

 

The King closed his eyes for a moment; his lids felt like led. Since his own father’s death, everything had happened so suddenly. The crown, the courts, the councils … In a way, it had all been a welcome distraction from Sigmar’s untimely passing. Yet, as Vasilia knelt before him and spoke that inevitable truth, guilt lanced through his stomach. It racked his body, as if he had been submerged in cold water, and he squeezed his eyes shut together.

 

I’m sorry, Sigmar. I’m sorry I could not - 

 

But he never finished the thought. For, at that moment, it happened.

 

The sounds of the woods, peaceful.

 

It started as a mere cinder.

 

It appeared from nowhere, just a few paces behind where Vasilia knelt before the King and his court, and the air rippled and folded around it. That cinder floated there innocently, but only for a moment. With a hiss of ignition, it drew the court’s gasps and widened eyes as it blossomed into a spiralling inferno right in the middle of the throne room.

 

The flames - though a soft golden colour - swirled violently as they formed a vortex, casting long shadows and brilliant light down the aisle. The fire’s golden hue flared against steel blades as alarmed soldiers drew arms, beckoning others to stay back. They could only watch as the inferno blazed, their frightened voices barely audible over its cackle, but finally … something began to take shape within the coalescing embers.

 

No, not something - someone.

 

You stood with a sword, murmuring words unheard.

 

Within the flames, the shape seemed to be invisible, saved for the way the fire formed a silhouette around it.

 

The entire Haeseni court bore witness as a fire-outlined shape seemed to lean through the vortex, towards the ground. Wings, blazing like a phoenix, spanned the length of the inferno as the figure placed something down in the fire’s epicentre. There, in that spot, the cinders swarmed together; from fire, they became flesh, and, with a sudden snap, the inferno winked out of existence. All that remained to indicate it had ever been there were some final motes of fire, drifting up in the air.

 

Motes of fire, and the figure left on the ground at what had been the flame’s heart.

 

The unconscious form of what appeared to be Sigmar Lorik. 

 

They were not for me.

 

Word of the ‘miracle’ spread as fast as the fire that had birthed it.

 

Sigmar Lorik, the Prince of Galahar, returned to life by a fiery act of divinity before the entirety of the Haeseni court. From the banquet halls of the palace to the common rooms of the Tipsy Tarchar, the tale was sung in a dozen verses, but all to the same tune. 

 

Some avowed that they had seen Saint Raguel within the flames, returning Sigmar to the Material so that he could carry his holy blade one more; others say it had been a divine phoenix, flown from a gateway to the Skies to return a virtuous soul; while others, in alehouses of lesser repute, whispered that the Seven Skies had rejected the Prince on account of his alleged Carrion curse. 

 

But the song mattered not, for all had borne witness, and all had heard the tale. 

 

It did not look like you, but I recognised your eyes.

 

The din of those stories filled the air of Valdev that night.

 

The noise washed over a white-cloaked figure as he stood at a balcony atop the Basilica, with the sea of slate rooftops and dappled torchlight spread out below him. As the summer wind softly swept across those rooftops, they rang the windchimes that hung from the Basilica’s rafters in a dulcet chorus. 

 

Villorik closed his eyes at the sound. It was the one small measure of peace he could exact from the day’s events. Naturally, though, it did not last long.

 

He was aware of the presence before he turned to see it. A pillar of fire manifested on the balcony just behind him, but where the fire in the throne room that had graced Sigmar had been soft and golden, this fire was red, and angry. With a rush of air, a figure garbed in robes so brilliantly white they almost seemed to be woven from light itself strode out, drawing with him a blade from the fire.

 

Gritting his jaw, Villorik looked back to the city below. 

 

“What is it you want, Raguel?”

 

Red and white flames.

 

Raguel’s laugh was as callous as his fire.

 

“I came to commend you on your little trick,” he drawled. With a weight that betrayed any mortal strength, the stone balustrade creaked as he leaned back against it. “Rather derivative of my own handiwork, though.” 

 

“Do you object?” Villorik retorted curtly. 

 

“No,” Raguel answered indifferently. “I would have done it myself, if you hadn’t beaten me to the punch. I have my own purposes for the boy. Still, I’m curious.” With steps that hissed from heat, Raguel stepped astride Villorik, and the warpriest’s hairs stood on end. 

 

“Why did you do it?”

 

Struggling. 

 

A chill lanced through Villorik, and he closed his eyes. Naturally, it had all been a lie; a trick, but the greatest of which Villorik had ever brought himself to tell. He could only hope that, for Sigmar's sake, it was worth it.

 

“Because,” he whispered softly.

 

“He was someone worth saving.”

 

 

 

[Rig 17580]

The wayward Valerius Montalt made note of the news, before returning to his local church to pray for the safety of the young prince. Miracles are short and few, but when they happen they inspire the most devout forms of piousness.

[Werew0lf 24180]

St. Raguel’s gauntleted hand was clenched violently; he could not comprehend it--the Archaengul did not know what Villorik had meant, and all that he could do is repeat those same words. 
 

“Someone worth saving…”

 

”I would not understand.”

 

And he disappeared once again, wisped away by the air as streaks of burning, raging fire.

 

 

 

[sarahbarah 7105]

A wisp of a memory, fleeting but not entirely forgotten, softly smiles upon the mortal realm.

[MunaZaldrizoti 8037]

The Lady Palatine knelt beside the burned form of her youngest son, her cheeks stained with tears as she observed his cracked flesh and scorched clothing. Villorik had left them some hours before, alone with the words he had imparted. Talk of truth, and faith, and divinity. But for the first time, that armoured cleric's mask had slipped--revealing some semblance of a man underneath all his zealotry and brooding. All he did, he did for a woman who did not ever return the same affection he seemed to perpetuate so long after her passing. It was enough for Milena to pity him...but also admire him.

 

Her son had been returned to her, a piece of her soul restored. Whether she wished it or no, it had been by his will. She was in his debt. 

[kaylacita 1317]

For the days after her brother’s passing, Vasilia Barrow had sequestered herself to prayer. She had blamed herself for her inability to save him. She wished him a lesser man, that he’d left behind those he sought to save. Then he might still be alive. Or herself, a greater woman, that she might have saved him. How could lighting candles possibly make up for the loss? 

 

“I thought it was a bad dream, Mother. Vy must have seen him. Please, tell me vy have seen Sigmar? Please, please,” she pleaded, for anything other than the truth. That her eyes had betrayed her. For her senses to have misled her. Perhaps it was only one of her delusions, a cruel one. That was it. She grasped onto this hope, until her brother revealed his prophecy. Then there was nothing.

 

“He was too far. Too far.”

If I was faster. 

“I couldn’t reach him. I tried, I promise.”

 If I had seen it first. 

“I tried—I would have.”

 If I…

He deserved a service. A memorial for his bravery. Something. Anything. And so, she petitioned their King.

[ContestedSnow 1435]

The Oracle-born Prince Aleksandr spent another evening alone in the woods, in silence. He preferred the quietude of the countryside; the babbling of the brooks, and the whisper of the leaves on the trees.

 

First, he had denied, when he heard the nervous cries of his sister.

Then bargaining, when he had heard the wails of his mother.

 

Occasionally, he returned to New Valdev over those weeks, ragged and dirty. When he did, he only made effort to track down his closest relatives; if he could not find them, he would retreat again. He knew that he was not a particularly ambitious man. Nor was he one possessed of a great vision, in his opinion, nor strength or skill with a blade. He knew Duty, and that was all. Those boons had belonged to his brother, whom he trusted so, that he would speak any and all concerns to.

 

"I wanted to be a brother worthy of vy."

 

His jaw set, as his eyes drifted closed, and memories and sights flashed before him. Vivid details in the front of his mind.

 

A river coursing up hill. A ring of fire, halved, and feathers falling.

The sound of the woods, peaceful. You stood with a sword, murmering words unheard.

It did not look like you, but I recognised your eyes.

Red and white flames. Struggling.

Vasilia could not be seen, but her presence was felt.  

 

He had seen it all. Years ago, when he was still a child scarred by the Mountain.

Perhaps it may never have happened at all, had he not told Sigmar Lorik of his fate that evening.

 

When that flame had appeared in the royal court of Lesanov, his first thought had been to stretch an arm across before his mother; was this a trial? Was what he had seen here for more of his blood, more of his kin? And then, a figure appeared. Even when Milena had shoved past her son, he grew numb again. It certainly was a trial. It had to be. When the figure of his brother was embraced, and then carried from the great hall, his feet had moved, even as his body was leaden. He had to know. He thought he had to know but... he was not brave enough to stay, nor brave enough to find the truth. And so he disappeared back to the woods; to the brooks and the shade of the trees.

 

He should know better than to hope for the impossible, and yet he did. If there was anyone worth saving.

Edited December 16, 2024 by ContestedSnow

[ivery 590]

A miracle is no small matter. Deia knows that well from the memories of her, of vibrant blooms watching over humble shrines, of a warm embrace from the beyond, of a clearing frozen in time and herself along with it.

 

It's only natural that news of the commotion spreads across the realm, both in rumor and in song. Spoken off-handedly amidst the excited chatter of travelers, it catches her attention. Blessed flame, they said. Her miracles were gentle kindnesses in a cruel world; this was something else. A terrible storm, another whispered. An inferno of pale fire, wild and all-consuming in its fury. A righteous sign of God's will, it must be.

 

"Hello, little god," a voice whispers from the corner of her heart. She can't help but smile.

[winterblood 11181]

 

Leagues away from the Courts of Lesanov, a wayward Princess of Oracle blood contemplates a wearing letter pinched between her fingers.  In her years away from home, she remained ignorant of the tragedy and miracle of her younger brother.  Yet, memories of him passed through her mind each evening as she swept her thumb over his signature scrawled upon the one letter she’d received from her kin.

Zofiya’s heart ached, and a day would not pass where she did not miss home.  Yet, she still had something to prove.

[Toffee 2843]

The first drink she’d ever had was from Sigmar’s flask. King Marius lay dead in the tower above, the wails of his children echoing through the red walls to Sigmar’s chambers, but he distracted Erika with his maps, weapons, and that flask of Carrion Black.

 

Later in the gardens, he came upon Erika as she spoke with his mother, the Lady Palatine. “Am I intruding?” he asked.

 

“No,” Princess Milena said. “I only speak with our Lady Erika of her great potential.”

 

His eyes, stormy blue like his mother’s, had been soft with sympathy, even if the rest of his face was hard. How could a boy so young have such a hard mouth and shrewd, suspicious eyes?

 

“Sometimes, mamej, I think myself unlucky.” His gaze slid to Princess Milena. “The waves and currents we are made to swim in… I would rather navigate torrents of demon-flame than what you plan to put her up to.”

 

“I wish to make her great. If only so many did not see that as some dangerous thing.”

 

Illness still writhed in Erika’s gut from their earlier conversation, but maybe that was just the Carrion Black.

 

“You mistake me.” Sigmar’s tone, calm and measured, was of a man thirty years his senior. “I mean only that I do not have the stomach for it.” He pointed directly at Erika then, and her heart pattered in a triple-beat. “Pray that she does.”

 

“If it comes to it, perhaps you might help her adjust.”

 

“She is a kind girl, mamej. I would not seek to take her best qualities from her. You remember, Erika, asking me about fate?”

 

The stars had glittered across the firmament; Kostana, Nikul, Morrighein, even Ybis all the way near the distant horizon. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I remember.”

 

Sigmar took her palm in his hand and traced the creases there with his fingertip. “These lines,” he murmured, his voice barely louder than the wind through the rose bushes, “speak of a future shaped by your own strength. I see victories, big and small—a life that commands respect. It’s greatness here, waiting to be claimed.”

 

“You see, girl.” The Lady Palatine set a hand on her shoulder. “Your fate is already there, within the very fabric of your flesh and soul. You now have the word of two Oracleborn.”

 

Greatness, strength, victory. Could it all be true? Could Princess Milena be right?

 

Sigmar’s expression remained deathly serious, but a slow smile stole across his cheeks. “Erika. I might be Oracleborn, but I cannot read your palm. Do not think me cruel… Consider this the first act of my aid.”

 

Erika’s fist dropped to her lap with a thump. Shame burned up her throat and brought a blaze to her cheeks, so hot her skin might actually start steaming in the cold evening air. How could I be so silly? Of course there is no great, star-written fate. Of course there is no destiny.

 

“And what aid is that, Your Highness?” she bit out through her teeth.

 

“Not every palm outstretched is one to take from. Not here.”

 

He, and his wisdom, had been gone. Swept away into ash. Erika had knelt in the chapel in Emsgrad and silently wept until the candles burned out, but now she knelt in grateful prayer.

 

First Oracleborn, now Miracleborn. The Prince of the Flames.

[ferdaboy 3472]

Josef fell to his knees before the destruction that had once been his son. The earth was scorched black and emanated the vile stench of burnt flesh. His horse jumped, unnerved by Josef’s anguished cries. His wailing tore through the silence of the forest as he pressed his face into the ashen ground, prostrating before what remained of his boy. 

 

Another loss, another failure.

 

For Zofiya to abandon her home in pursuit of her own path had been one thing, wounding as it was, this could be mended in time. Though this, this was something else entirely. His son, Sigmar, a godly boy, who had walked a righteous path, was gone, taken.

 

The Oracle was not known for his prayers, for he never pretended to be what he was not, a man of the cloth. His devotion had always been to the Kongzem, to his blood, to his children. But here, he knelt before the charred ground, where his son had died, in supplication to the forces that set Sigmar on this path. To him.

 

“Raguel” he rasped, amongst a litany of prayers. As he spoke, the flames before him grew. They coiled, into a shape, a four-winged figure. Slowly did this figure materialize, until it finally spoke.

 

“Only once.” The finality of its words left Josef unmoving, only able to stare at the Aengul. The flames grew to an intensity Josef had never seen before, then they collapsed into the figure, and it was gone.

 

He rose, and rode for home.