[PK] Per Inferum, ad Astra | Through Hell, to the Stars

[Cheese 8873]

 

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

 

“WILL YOU ALWAYS BE THERE, PAPEJ?”

“AYE, ALWAYS.”

“PROMISE, PAPEJ?”

“PROMISE. ON MY HONOR, STARSHINE.”

 

A very happy girl, embraced in warmth despite the frozen Haeseni climate. Esfir Artemisia Amador’s childhood was a happy one, surrounded by the love of her parents, her four younger sisters, and the Hauchmamej and friends she held dear. Despite her young age, the girl found herself traveling the continent of Aevos to befriend anyone who would so much as look at her.

 

She was named after Queens and Princesses; the stars and the moon. She was born to be great, and from a young age Esfir knew it. Despite the tediosity, Esfir dedicated herself to her studies and work. One day, she would be the Viscountess of Zvezlund. She would lead her House, bring further glory to her ancient lineage, and take care of her elderly parents and little sisters. It would be perfect. She would be perfect.

 

And it was perfect, for so long. Esfir was resilient in times of grief, knowing that despite the loss of her Grandmother Amaya, she was loved and watched over. She warded beneath the Grand Lady of Haense and the former Princess-Heir of Balian; she dug through every text known to man to document and compile centuries of the Amadors’ history into a single compendium. Esfir was the twelfth Baroness of Mondstadt, a title she worked for that would precede her tenure as Viscountess. Her work was paying off, and she was proud of herself. Everyone was proud, weren’t they?

 

˳˙⋆  ──────────────────────༺⠀☆⠀༻──────────────────────  ⋆˙˳

 

“WHAT DID I DO WRONG?”

 

Nothing could have ever gone more wrong in a single year. Nothing could have ever prepared her Esfir for it, either. After meaning to offer a stranger directions, Esfir found herself in an isolated cave, bound and loomed over by two darkspawn. 

“Join us,” they offered her with wicked grins and dark powers flowing through their fingertips, “Or die as our enemy.” 

Join… them? The monsters that her family had fought so hard against? How could she? 

“No, never,” Esfir decided, and rejected them with a spit to the face. How she survived the encounter is a miracle in itself, one Esfir attributed to GOD, of course. He had a plan, surely. She was born to be great, so obviously she couldn’t die like this.

 

However, when the starved and beaten Baroness returned to Haense, something was off. There was little concern; she found that there had been no search parties or worry from her family regarding her disappearance. After two weeks of captivity, the only one who showed Esfir relief at her return was Ilya Ivanovich. Where were her parents? Why didn’t they look? Why were the servants whispering at home?

 

Disinherited, she found out that same eve, and for what? A silly rumor that she was unfaithful to a man who had broken up with her? Esfir was in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. Where were the parents who loved her so dearly? The family that stood at her side and was meant to stand up for her? It didn’t make sense.

No, Esfir thought, the embers of Mondstadt’s fire pit mirroring the hot tears of rage that burned at her eyes, This isn’t the end. I can’t go down like this. I deserve more.

 

˳˙⋆  ──────────────────────༺⠀☆⠀༻──────────────────────  ⋆˙˳

 

“YOU DON’T GET IT.

I HAVE TO BE PERFECT.”

 

Arms were outstretched, beckoning Esfir into them. Across Aevos, people asked to meet her. They called it a grave injustice; they called her a hero. Royals from all over sent invitations; extended family offered refuge and solace. Several realms offered her titles that she entirely believed she deserved. The smart, charismatic woman who dedicated herself to her passions and duties; Haense, Aaun, Numendil, Petra, Hyspia, Balian, Ravenmire, Silasia. The list of invitations and letters went on and on. She all but drowned in well wishes. Everyone wanted Esfir Artemisia Amador. So why didn’t her parents?

 

At the forefront of Esfir’s supporters were her dear cousins in House von Augusten. While she recovered from the trauma, she spent much of her time within Hohengarten. And it was through the eldest of her cousins, Konstantin, that Esfir met her to-be husband, Achillius. Accomplished, kind, and undoubtedly handsome. He was loyal, and he loved her. It didn’t take long before Esfir returned this love, and she considered herself lucky that what originally began as an arrangement of desperation turned into a new family; one that loved her; one that was hers. In no time, she found herself wed in a lavish ceremony befitting a queen. 

 

Finally it was coming together. She had married a man she believed to be not only worthy of her hand, but also her heart. Her cousin, the new King Marius III, promised to reinstate her as the Heiress to Zvezlund, though that had never come to fruition. There were things she had to leave behind, of course. Esfir chose her love for Achillius over that of Ilya’s– it just couldn’t work, they were from two different worlds, writing two different stories. Bridges were burned fully; Esfir knew her family would not attend her wedding, so why not beat them to it? Her parents and youngest sister would not be allowed, they could not touch the perfect life Esfir was forced to rebuild. Most devastatingly, perhaps, Esfir had to hide away her daughter, Sweet Tereza, as she thought of the Barrow girl she bore, for the hopes of a life with the seven other children she would come to have with her husband. Still, sacrifices had to be made. Everyone would be happier this way. Esfir would be happier this way. 

 

˳˙⋆  ──────────────────────༺⠀☆⠀༻──────────────────────  ⋆˙˳

 

“I WILL BE PROUD KNOWING I WAS PERFECT; 

THAT I WAS DESTINED FOR GREATNESS.”

 

Work. Yes, that’s it. Esfir would work and regain everything she had lost. It was that easy, right? She would clear her name, step up in the world, and everything would return to the way it once was. She would once more be the Heiress of Zvezlund, she would return to her family’s arms. She would make them proud; dedicate her accomplishments to her family. It would be perfect; it would be just as it was meant to be.

 

Royal Secretary of Haense; Curador of Balian; Palatiodora; Amiratus. Heiress; Baroness; Countess; Duchess. Higher and higher Esfir climbed, and yet she was always left waiting. Though of course, she could never let anyone know that. What would people think, the persevering Esfir Artemisia missed the family that cast her aside after everything she did for them? How could they ever know that Esfir, the woman with the world at her fingertips, was still the one left wanting?

 

Esfir was a pioneer of many things; the first Regnant Duchess of Sunholdt, Countess of Salia, and Baroness of Selm; a reclaimer of two of d’Arkent’s Orenian titles. The first foreign-born, the first Duchess, the second and longest-reigning female Amiratus of Balian, and the first Amiratus of Lotharia. She came to Balian with nothing but her cracked pride, and later watched the world from her lands with the pure gold floors, the museum and art gallery worth tens of thousands of mina, and views overlooking vast seas.

 

˳˙⋆  ──────────────────────༺⠀☆⠀༻──────────────────────  ⋆˙˳

 

“I BECAME SOMEONE TO BE PROUD OF! 

I’VE WAITED FOR FIFTY-THREE YEARS FOR THEM TO WANT ME BACK!

TO LOVE ME AGAIN.”

 

Months turned into years; years into decades. Esfir, the poor deluded woman she had grown to be, never gave up on checking the mail for any letters of regret from her parents— letters asking her to come home so they could be together again. Her attention was diverted by her new work within Balian and the children she and Achillius bore. Each one of them, unique and beautiful. Achillius Jr., Aleksandr, Caliope, Theodosia, Korina, and Octavius. Philippa too would always hold a special place in her heart; a daughter by bond, if not by blood.

 

Each time Esfir looked upon her sons and daughters, there was a swell of pride and love, but it was mixed with an odd confusion. They were so perfect; they were hers. A hole burned in her heart for the children she had lost. Perhaps if they were dead, it would be easier to move on. That way, Esfir thought, she wouldn’t have to think of reaching out to them, of hoping that they would return to her the same way she hoped her own parents would. But she knew better; she knew through Philippa’s cruel and premature murder that even the severance of death could not have eased the pain of loss; this lesson was learned twofold with the deaths of her eldest twins, Achillius and Aleksandr.

 

As she aged, the delusions and paranoia rooted deeper within Esfir’s mind. Wrinkles and gray hair were unthinkable, and had to be combated with black alchemy and excessively dying her crow-black locks. Despite being well into her sixties, Esfir hardly looked a day over twenty; she barely looked older than when she was ousted from her home, and she appeared far younger than her own aging children. She was paradoxically empty and overly confident; both better than everyone else, and yet never good enough. The worst was the watching. People were always watching. They were always looking at her. Thinking about her, talking about her. Weren’t they? Give them something to talk about, Esfir told herself. Give them something memorable, something great to burn into their memories. Let them remember Esfir Artemisia Amador d’Arkent as the woman to look up to, to be written into the annals of history.

 

˳˙⋆  ──────────────────────༺⠀☆⠀༻──────────────────────  ⋆˙˳

 

“I GAVE YOU A LIFE OF LUXURY! I GAVE YOU SUNHOLDT!

AND YOU SPIT IN MY FACE AND THROW IT AWAY?”

 

Achillius was leaving. He had taken the House, the one Esfir gave to him, and packed for Numendil. Esfir couldn’t fathom it. The boy she raised to be a Count, to be a Duke, letting it all fly to the wind a Barony in the very same place that wished for their genocide? Foolish. Appalling. Betrayal.

 

Esfir had raised House d’Arkent from nothing. She built them to be great, she built them to be her family. And that family, so readily, would leave her? Again? Was it her? Had she not done enough? It didn’t matter. So what if they chose to leave? What if they didn’t want her? Esfir didn’t need them. She didn’t need anyone. She would be better. They would crawl back, just like everyone else. They would beg for her to take them back, they would miss her, they would see everything she had done and everything she was worthy of. It would go back to how it was before, how it was meant to be. They would, once more, be the family she had micromanaged and so carefully curated to be hers. To be perfect.

 

Finally, he– what? Achillius, dead? That little, round boy? No– No. He was still so small, running around Portoregne with his siblings. He was energetic and full of life, not old and taken from illness. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t meant to be. Achillius was supposed to come back. He was supposed to apologize; to want to be a family again. Esfir wasn’t supposed to be alone, without her children, without a family. She wasn’t supposed to have repeated history, she was supposed to forge it. But what now? What without Achillius, and the d’Arkents, who she had allowed to flee to Numendil? What without Anaksandr, and the Amadors, who she had forbidden any attempts at reconciliation with?

 

˳˙⋆  ──────────────────────༺⠀☆⠀༻──────────────────────  ⋆˙˳

 

“I CAN NEVER HELP BUT ALWAYS FEEL BETRAYED IN SOME SMALL WAY, 

EVEN THOUGH YOU REMAIN WHEN NO ONE ELSE HAS.”

 

Alexander. A brief acquaintance in Esfir’s youth; a stranger for most of the rest of her life. He only resurfaced in Esfir’s later years. Resurfaced, and reached out. He offered a hand to hold, a smile to brighten the room, and arms to keep her warm, to keep her safe. Alexander opened his heart, and Esfir, in turn, tried to reveal her own. It had been so long since she had been loved–felt loved. Is this what it felt like? It was scary, but it felt right. She was going to do it right this time. Esfir had to be right.

 

But it wasn’t right, as if anything ever was. Esfir kept ready. One foot was always out the door. Pieces of her true self, tucked just out of view. Alexander was perfect, to her. He was everything. She needed to be perfect for him. She needed to be perfect.

 

Slowly, shards of vulnerability were handed out, along with Esfir’s trust, her love; her. In return, Esfir received the world–a County, an Island, relics, and most importantly, someone to hold. A family, if she ever was ever so close to one. Could this be it? Could Esfir, after all these decades, have a family? Amelya and Cecily allowed her a place in their lives next to Alexander. And Alexander himself became a home even more familiar than the ruined palaces Esfir once walked.

 

Those few years with Alexander were happy; perhaps the happiest of Esfir’s life. And yet, they were fleeting. It was her own desperate, raw need for love and adoration that drove her to ruin, and dragged him with her. She was always hiding. What was she hiding? What would he find out? Would he find out? Impossible. There was nothing to find out, nothing to discover. Right? There was nothing for him to see that he had to know besides the fact that she was what he wanted; perfect. Moments of imperfection drove Esfir further away. Why was she running? Was she running from him? No, no– she only ever wanted to run to him, to her Alexander!

 

Finally, it clicked–she had been wrong this whole time! Only, Esfir didn’t realize it at first; she didn’t realize it when he reached for her hand and asked for her trust; not when he handed her the letters patent for San Adriano; and not when he got on his knee and swore his fealty to her; not even when she witnessed Emperor Tiberias placed the famed Balianese relic Cloudbreaker into Alexander’s very hands. 

 

No–the realization came far too late: it was only when she found herself obsessively checking the mail for a reply to her letters, even more hopeful than she had ever been for her parents. Yes, it was only then that it hit her.  Alexander didn’t love Esfir Artemisia, the Duchess of Sunholdt. He didn’t love Esfir Artemisia, the Countess of Salia; or  Esfir Artemisia, the Amiratus; or Esfir Artemisia d’Arkent; or Esfir Artemisia Amador; he didn’t even love Esfir Artemisia, and all the glory that name had carried. He had just loved Esfir, and she– who was now just Esfir, on her own, had to sit in it, without her Alexander.

 

˳˙⋆  ──────────────────────༺⠀☆⠀༻──────────────────────  ⋆˙˳

 

“THERE IS NOTHING THAT CAN BE DONE TO MAKE IT RIGHT. 

BUT I AM STILL BETTER, AND THAT IS WHAT MATTERS. 

WHEN HISTORY IS WRITTEN, MY NAME WILL REMAIN INSTEAD.”

 

Betrayal, distrust, dishonor. A never ending cycle that became the indicator of change in the chapters of Esfir’s life. Lotharia was gone; with Iohannis couped by the wretched nobility he had titled in the first place, she was forced to flee once more. This time, to the very place she had fought so hard to avoid; the Empire of Man.

 

Her days were long, and filled with tedious work. Paperwork was all she seemed to do; managing what little there was left to put in order, and assisting in the blueprints that would go on to develop the to-be Barony of Cascanova. When she wasn’t working herself to the death that neared her each day, Esfir spent time reuniting with her kin. Bridges that were left unmaintained and burned were rebuilt with the Colborns, Marsyrs, and d’Arkents. Grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren, filled her time. Perhaps things would not be the same as they were in her prime, in Sunholdt, but this… it would suffice. It would stave the loneliness in her heart, and ease the ache of regret that things could not turn differently. Not entirely, of course, but some.

 

˳˙⋆ ─────༺⠀☆⠀༻───── ⋆˙˳

 

It was one day in particular that Esfir found a rare moment of aloneness–something she truly hated–that she strode the paths outside of Kazan. It was quiet, unsettling. Wrong, though Esfir chalked it up to her dislike for isolation and boredom. It wasn’t until leaves began crunching on the pathway behind her, and a beastly, hellish laugh echoed through the quiet streets.

 

When her head turned, a beast of a demon, a zar’akal, stood behind Esfir. Her breath hitched; her face paled. A harbinger of death, of evil, of Ibleesian will. It was really here, right in front of her face, and it was it and her, alone. Quickly an overwhelming anxiety flushed over her body. The feeling of dread was immense. She reached for her sword. It was the boomsteel one, that the first Achillius had given to her, and that she had taken back from the second. That blade, the one that belonged to every d’Arkent Patriarch that preceded her, as it gleamed beneath the moon, stood as the only thing between Esfir and the demon.

 

The battle–if one could even call it that–was quick. A lone woman of her hundredth winter against a King of Hell? It was an impossible fight.

 

‘Save me– somebody, save me.’

 

“Oh–”

 

The word came out in a rasp, as Esfir’s mouth dropped agape. It was dumb, she thought, as she imagined how she might look right now. Dirt mangled into her perfectly styled curls, her flawless makeup sullied by sweat and tears, and one of her priceless designer dresses forever ruined by the ugly stain of blood and flesh charred by an ugly, yellow malflame. 

 

‘It’s not supposed to end like this. I don’t want to die.’

 

‘I need to be better. I need to be enough.’

 

And yet, as Esfir laid there, a pitiful, dry laugh left her mouth. The tears she wept were no longer ones of pain, but turned to ones of regret. It all played out in moments. Regret for a life never lived for herself; for wasted decades destroying herself in her work; for having never let anyone see the ugly, vulnerable pieces of her; for yearning for something so simple, yet so far from her reach.

 

‘This isn’t what I wanted.’

‘I never got to tell Alexander–’

 

She laid there, her head lolling to face the sun, rising in all the irony that at the same time, Esfir’s own light was dimming. Though the dying woman’s own consciousness was fading, she spoke, and the thoughts that solidified into the final words that escaped Esfir Artemisia Amador d’Arkent were anything but befitting of the prideful, accomplished woman anyone might’ve known.

.   .   .

“I don’t want to be alone…”

 

˳˙⋆  ──────────────────────༺⠀☆⠀༻──────────────────────  ⋆˙˳

 

“I MISS THE WAY HE CALLS ME STAR, AEDYMAMEJ.”

 

The Duchess of Sunholdt; The Countess of Salia; 

The Countess of San Adriano; The Baroness of Selm; 

The Lady of El Palau del Sol; The Matriarch of House d’Arkent;

The Amiratus of Balian & Lotharia;

The former Baroness of Mondstadt; The former Heiress of Zvezlund;

She had died.

Esfir Artemisia d’Arkent, born Amador, was dead.

c. 1959–2059

E.S. 512–612

B.A. 92–192

 

Spoiler

Esfir was an incredible character to play. Her story was riveting, unexpected, and at times, immensely stressful. Since beginning to play her I’ve also done many things; I graduated high school and started college, visited four different countries, was accepted to my very first research internship, and made some of the best friends I could have ever dreamed of. While Esfir unfortunately did not die happy or particularly fulfilled, I have personally come so far and have never been happier or more proud of myself.

 

There are so many people I want to thank, but far too many to properly list. If you’ve been a part of Esfir’s story, you know who you are, and I’m glad you made her life so impactful.

 

[The Vulgate Cycle 577]

It had been a quiet, peaceful night. A tepid chill filled the air, and the night had been clear and filled with stars as a gentle breeze swept through the trees and the towers of Tirgoneth. Arthur Uthyrien had ridden home, as he had every night, ready to spend the rest of the night's waking hours with Tereza. A familiar pattern he had followed for the last 60 years since they first began their courtship at the ages of 17 and 16 respectively within the lands of Aevos. But just as he had been about to enter the tower, a courier had stopped him with news from Kazan and a letter addressed to Tereza from Mother Esfir. And the news had stabbed a dagger into the peace that had existed just moments before- and died. 

 

Now, as he slowly made his way into the east tower, and crossed his bridge to the western most, the air's howl seemed more haunting than it was tranquil. The stars seemed to blur as though they were fit to weep, and the cold seemed to become bitter and run bone deep. The Dragon of Sunholdt was dead and now the burden of carrying the news to his beloved fell entirely on him. So instead of taking the steps two or even three at a time to reach her, he walked upon each one ponderously one at a time. A slow march towards the destruction of Tereza's sanctuary of ignorant bliss. 

As he walked upwards, to the observatory, he was beset by memory. Many decades worth of them. He remembered his first initial bad impression of the Matriarch of d'Arkent, for the emotional turmoil her mere presence had inflicted upon her eldest daughter as she walked Numenost's streets past the Boutique. He remembered advising Tereza, against his own misgivings to reach out when she had expressed her want to be involved in her family's lives again. He remembered arriving at Sunholdt arm in arm at Tereza's side and being impressed by the kindness and presence that filled the room. He remembered the relief he felt when Esfir proved more than just political actor, more than just a woman wanting to hide from her 'mistake'. But most of all, he remembered the fire that seemed to burn in the core Esfir's being. That he had felt a particular kinship and understanding to.

The fire that had allowed her to own up to her own failings.
The fire that had compelled her to great ambition and triumph.
The fire that had kept her loyal to Balian even in at the death and against total cataclysm. 
The fire that had allowed her to tread upon dangerous roads and insurmountable challenge.

The fire that had led her to choose family and kinship, over pride.

Before he knew it, Arthur was at the threshold of the observatory's door and it was only as he reached out to grab ahold of the handle that he realized tears had been streaming down his face for the fire that burned so hot, that forever had gone to be one with the Sun.

Slowly, he wiped away his tears and turned the handle, so he could deliver the heart wrenching news. His every step buoyed by the grim certainty that word would spread and that no matter what happened, he and Tereza would face the future together.

 

@Apotolofo

[Travisty 1020]

DIETRICH was the first to discover her body - It was raining when he did - and in his mind, what he saw couldn’t be real. It shouldn’t be real. People didn’t just… end like this. Not Esfir. Not here. Not while he was still breathing. Not while he was still able to wield a blade.

 

“No,” He whispered, already reaching for her. He tore off his gauntlets and knelt closer, hands trembling as he tried to straighten her, brushing mud from her sleeves, smoothing torn fabric, as if that might be enough, as if he could fix this. Like if he just put her back right, she’d breathe again. He knew she wouldn’t want to be seen like this, dirtied, unkempt, to give her some dignity as though she were still present enough to care–

 

“I’m here now,” It was a desperate, foolish murmur, “I can fix this! I can– I just need–” He wiped the rain from her face, again and again, adjusting her head, her arm, in small, careful movements. As if he hadn’t come too late.

 

When nothing changed, his hands stilled. His breath broke. When the realization finally settled in, it was then that he bowed over her, shoulders shaking, “I should have– I COULD have– Why wasn’t I home?” He rose to one knee, kneeling beside her, and there he remained so she would not be alone. He remained, thinking of just how he was to break the news to his husband, their children, to Peter, and the rest of the family, until he gathered the strength to move her.

 

Prince of Slesvik. Knight sworn to protect.

It meant nothing when only the torrent of rain was left to answer him–

And not Esfir. Family– even if only through marriage.

[xo31 3979]

"Rest well, my guardian," A follower of Azdromoth whispered, sprinkling some ash into the Ash-Pit of Tor'Urldar. "I hope you were proud of me. You were the only one who could be."

 

-

-

-

A platinum blonde Haeseni man smiled as she joined him in the Seven Skies - it had been far too long.

[TaraJess 2848]

Johanna could not recall the first interaction she had with such a woman... but she remembered the gold. It was everywhere in that ballroom, underfoot, above her... How was it that her kin held higher titles when it was obvious that royalty itself sat atop Salia. 

A young girl she was, brand new to the adult world, and still she felt the jealousy of a teenager. It stung that her sister would win him over, that heir of Arkent, but what stung more was the fact that Laurelie would be the one to have the privilege to know her.  Vuiller was a house of men, strong, stubborn, bullheaded men... their women too, at least she. But still, she cracked to pieces when Laurelie not only got a new mother, but got her as her new mother. 

Esfir was all she wanted to be. So bold as to demand what was rightfully hers, to know fully she had deserved it. Gold floors swept under silk dresses worth more than the coin in her coffers, portraits upon portraits of legacy. 

She had tea but once with the both of them, Esfir would give a tour of Sunholdt, of Laurelie's new home. Johanna couldn't help but feel like a stranger, but so desperately she wanted Sunholdt to be her home, to feel like home. She wanted Esfir to feel like home. But how could she be deserving of her time? Of greatness in flesh? Of the one that made her brother's skin coil upon the announcement of her becoming Duchess... When did it become a competition? 

They are rising, we need to keep up. 

She remembered those words from a father who was failing to keep up with Esfir's greatness, and for some reason, it sat upon Johanna's shoulders. Rise in the ranks of the military, pursue Legate... survive a war... do not drink yourself to death...



"Esfir... you didn't forget to bring a dress with you for me, right...?" 

[__Stal27 2126]

Lothar Casimir, looked upon the Duchess, his face grim as he spoke. “The greatest of them all. . . Oh if only there were more like you.”

[Koodini 854]

Birth did tension against a brow oft laced with pride. Dead, Anaksandr discovered, yet not from retainer or personal confidant. Rather, whispers which had caught like wildfire through canopies. Ravaged, both mind and soul. Had it all been for naught? Attempt after naive attempt to mend a wound he hadn’t a hand in originally opening, now proved meaningless? For a woman he failed to ever truly know, a woman he thought earnestly detested him, tears fell. So long as she breathed, he vowed to try. And now, so long as she rested, he vowed to remember her. She would not be lost in their blood’s annals. No, she’d be revered.

The expiry of a Phoenix, the gathering of ashes. As they claimed: Nod pepel, Asere Podnimat’sya.

[zuziee 4004]

The skies darkened the day the Reuss last drew breath,

bruised, almost.

 

Philippa had smelled of river mud the first time she met the

Countess. Her eyes fluttered when she was presented,

shy before such effortless grace. Then, she believed herself

an orphan. In time, she would truly become one. Both times,

Esfir stood unshaken.

 

On every road, at every turning, Philippa knew this was the

woman she could have relied upon. Perhaps in death, they might

both find peace.

[Navigator 4260]

"I have slain many mortals since mine crowning, Esfir of Sunholdt. . . You rank amongst the greatest of those feeble creatures. Die with a smile."

An oddly respectful tone slithered out of the maw of the zar'akal, who endeavoured to finish what it had begun. It ensured the woman had a proper passing, laid to face the sun, as its only act of mercy upon her. It stood, slowly, lumbering and uneven body looming over the deceased.

"And so the Indomitable Wheel turns, and the One Truth persists. The remnants will be excoriated. . ."

[HIGH_FIRE 5490]

Throughout her life there was one constant for Caliope, her mother. From being raised by her in Balian, to having tea with her in Lotharia every month, to her moving to Slesvik and living with her for her final years.

 

Nobody meant more to her than her mother bar maybe her wife. She looked up to nobody in the way she looked up to her mother, so much so she had forgotten all gossip about the drama in her past that she refused to look into.

 

To her, her Mother was everything she could ever want to be. Strong, fierce and independent, a woman that never ignored her obligations and always looked out for her family and loved ones. Someone who could raise seven children as a single mother and somehow still be a Duchess and Amiratus for so long. 

 

To Caliope, the woman she called Mamej was nothing short of perfect.

 

As the news came to her of her Mother’s passing, an emptiness awoke in her chest, a  feeling that refuse to heel of pass. The woman she could always turn to was gone. She soon found herself sobbing like a child on the floor, unable to properly contend with this loss in any way.

 

For some days her wife and children would hardly see her in Slesvik as she spent her time sobbing and mourning. The dresses she received were hardly a consolation for the loss of the perfect mother she saw.

[tcs_tonsils_ 3666]

Iohannis Basileus had never had a more loyal advisor or trusted mentor than Esfir d'Arkent. When the news broke to him about her death, a slight smile of relief pushed to his lips- for in truth, he knew she wished to rest. He did not know of what pain that death brought to her. "You deserved so much more than what the world had given you... If the thanks to you by everyone you served could be written upon a single parchment, surely it would stretch to the stars. It was an honor to be trusted with your advice and to be trusted as your grandson-in-law. I shall hopefully see you again in time... save a place for me." 

[Lalosia 988]

Peter d'Arkent stood, hand pressing against the fireplace within Selm. His features were grim, gray and dulled from lack of sleep. His eyes remained glued to the flickering flame, pondering all that had brought him to this point...

 

A twin born of the deceased had simply looked upon his mother as she joined him, and other family members who have since passed, in the afterlife. At the end of his own life, he was ridden with signs of his unyielding illness - the very same that killed him. Though now, he looked much the same as the lively Procurator of Portoregne from his youth. "I missed you dearly, mamej." embraced would she be, a laugh escaping Aleksandr!

 

Theodosya von Augusten, once an Amador herself, welcomed Esfir into a hurried embrace within the billowing clouds of the Seven Skies. Long had she watched the girl blossom into a woman in life, and long did she watch over her after her own demise. "You may rest, mea love."

 

[mothsthetic 2250]

The young Iekami stared at the portrait, looking at the face that so closely mirrored her own young features. 

 

“So much like your hachmamej.”

 

Her father had said the words over and over through her short life. Independent, headstrong, and sure of herself. So much like Esfir. She remembered her mother singing to her one night, braiding those dark curls before the fireplace as she told stories of the woman. She survived wars. She was a warrior, a noblewoman, a diplomat, a survivor. She was everything. But as Ulyssa stared upon the portrait, she didn’t see any of those things. 

 

She saw her grandmother. She saw her own face. Her own eyes. Her own hair, and skin. And she cried. 

 

Ulyssa looked upon the portrait of the woman sh: never known, who she had told she was so much like, and she cried. For what was lost, and what would never be.

[Parasolii 182]

Reserved (how did everyone see this before me)

[Apotolofo 2204]

18 hours ago, The Vulgate Cycle said:

It had been a quiet, peaceful night. A tepid chill filled the air, and the night had been clear and filled with stars as a gentle breeze swept through the trees and the towers of Tirgoneth. Arthur Uthyrien had ridden home, as he had every night, ready to spend the rest of the night's waking hours with Tereza. A familiar pattern he had followed for the last 60 years since they first began their courtship at the ages of 17 and 16 respectively within the lands of Aevos. But just as he had been about to enter the tower, a courier had stopped him with news from Kazan and a letter addressed to Tereza from Mother Esfir. And the news had stabbed a dagger into the peace that had existed just moments before- and died. 

 

Now, as he slowly made his way into the east tower, and crossed his bridge to the western most, the air's howl seemed more haunting than it was tranquil. The stars seemed to blur as though they were fit to weep, and the cold seemed to become bitter and run bone deep. The Dragon of Sunholdt was dead and now the burden of carrying the news to his beloved fell entirely on him. So instead of taking the steps two or even three at a time to reach her, he walked upon each one ponderously one at a time. A slow march towards the destruction of Tereza's sanctuary of ignorant bliss. 

As he walked upwards, to the observatory, he was beset by memory. Many decades worth of them. He remembered his first initial bad impression of the Matriarch of d'Arkent, for the emotional turmoil her mere presence had inflicted upon her eldest daughter as she walked Numenost's streets past the Boutique. He remembered advising Tereza, against his own misgivings to reach out when she had expressed her want to be involved in her family's lives again. He remembered arriving at Sunholdt arm in arm at Tereza's side and being impressed by the kindness and presence that filled the room. He remembered the relief he felt when Esfir proved more than just political actor, more than just a woman wanting to hide from her 'mistake'. But most of all, he remembered the fire that seemed to burn in the core Esfir's being. That he had felt a particular kinship and understanding to.

The fire that had allowed her to own up to her own failings.
The fire that had compelled her to great ambition and triumph.
The fire that had kept her loyal to Balian even in at the death and against total cataclysm. 
The fire that had allowed her to tread upon dangerous roads and insurmountable challenge.

The fire that had led her to choose family and kinship, over pride.

Before he knew it, Arthur was at the threshold of the observatory's door and it was only as he reached out to grab ahold of the handle that he realized tears had been streaming down his face for the fire that burned so hot, that forever had gone to be one with the Sun.

Slowly, he wiped away his tears and turned the handle, so he could deliver the heart wrenching news. His every step buoyed by the grim certainty that word would spread and that no matter what happened, he and Tereza would face the future together.

 

@Apotolofo

 

The Barrow Bastard turned her head slightly as Arthur opened the door. 

 

"I am amidst my studies, my love- did you need something-" Tereza's words halt as she stares at her crying beloved. 

 

". . . My love?" 

 

∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼⭒✷⭒∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼∼

 

 

For the first time in decades, the near emotionless Barrow's cries filled the tower. Pouring tears, echoing sobs like screams.