The Mare Befallen [PK]

[MercyAzalea 405]

 

THE MARE BEFALLEN

 

 

 

Penned upon the deathbed of Vanya Vourkehardt, a hand lain still in tinted black and hair streaked silver.

 

The last product of her quill.
 

 

The Mare Befallen

 

I was born beneath a name,

that which bore a weight yet lay but half-forged upon the tongue of history.

 

Work Wilts Weakness.

 

Not as iron law, nor unyielding decree,

but as the quiet philosophy of my house,

a truth spoken softly in the halls wherein I was raised.

Never was I driven by their hands,

only by mine own belief,

that I must become worthy of the name I bore.

 

For I was the eldest born within marriage,

my dear sisters preceding me in years, equal in standing,

and though no voice pressed me toward greatness,

I yet heard a duty that none had placed within my hands but my own heart.

 

Whispers beneath the burning sun of Balian,

a golden and relentless witness to my becoming,

where I first mounted a horse that trembled as though

the world itself had not yet resolved its own certainty.

 

The reins bit gently into my hands

as my Patriarch’s gloves at last released their guiding grasp,

and I mistook control for understanding,

as though will alone might teach the shape of destiny.

 

I sought Knighthood,

not as ornament of tale, nor expectation laid upon me,

but as something sacred by which I might prove my worth.

I wore it in thought long ere it touched my skin.

 

I trained beneath skies too vast to answer back,

my tutor a man so wanting in nobility

that I could never bind myself wholly unto that dream again,

not in the final, unbroken manner such paths do demand.

 

And so it did not break upon me,

it but loosened its hold,

like a future that turns aside to rest in other hands.

 

Reinmar followed.

 

Cold stone and quieter judgement,

where even echoes moved with measured restraint.

I followed matters of the heart within those walls, yet learned

I could not dwell within them without being claimed,

present yet never rooted.

 

And still, even there, the greatest weight was mine own,

for I bore expectation not imposed, but self-forged,

pressed gently yet endlessly upon mine own shoulders.

 

So I returned to my stables,

to the place where names are not questioned, only continued,

and there I laid down the hunger of becoming aught sharper than I was meant to be.

 

I took up the quill.

 

Ink became my quieter breath,

softer than steel, yet no less enduring in its persistence.

I wrote of friendship, and the gentle magics therein,

of the bonds of the Church, and the wisdom found in kindness.

I wrote of an accursed land wherein

the demand of one’s works came at the cost of creativity itself.

 

I wrote of my Father, after his passing,

of days grown long and drear and dim with absence.

 

And I came to understand that

legacy is not always borne forward in clamour.

Ofttimes it is preserved in stillness long enough to be remembered.

 

Now the world fades at its edges,

as though even time grows gentler in my final hour.

My breath grows thin, drawn like silk through narrowing days.

 

If I am to be remembered,

despite no ring nor bairns of mine own,

let it not be as failure nor triumph,

but as something quieter,

something truer.

 

A life that pressed greatness upon itself,

not because it was demanded,

but because it believed devotion unto a name

must be proven in becoming.

 

I reach for thy hand, dear sister,

yet find it not.

You must live on.

 

I rest within my chambers,

for I was not so blessed as to remain in these lands

as long.

 

I return to thee, Father,

as ink returns unto still water.

 

Not lost.

At last, at rest.

 

Work Wilts Weakness.

 

 

Vanya Vourkehardt,

A depiction of her youth.

 

 

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

 

In my final days, I, Vanya Vourkehardt, do hereby set my affairs in order.

I name Auris Vourkehardt as executor of my estate. She is to sift through my belongings and distribute them amongst the new generation of Vourkehardts, as she sees fit and with fair judgement, that what I leave behind may serve as legacy rather than burden. Her word is my word, and it is to her that i entrust this task. She is to provide the original copies of my written works to the Vourkehardt whom oversees our market stalls.

My sword, Ogresbane, is to be returned without delay to the Vourkehardt Vault, there to remain amongst the relics of our house.

All remaining possessions I entrust to my executor’s discretion, that they may be passed on in service to the continuation of our name.

Vanya Vourkehardt.

[Tainga 521]

Athaenis began to return home with the curse cured. The storm inside her finally broken and stilled. No more jagged urgings, no restless chaos whispering reckless thoughts she would never have entertained before.

 

Her mind felt feather-light. Gentle. Whole.

 

Outside, the moon had risen soft and silver, bright and bold between the newborn stars. She had stood there smiling at it, feeling something fragile and miraculous bloom in her chest. Everything would be alright. She could be herself again. Nothing would crumble in her hands. Nothing would wilt beneath her touch.

 

Hope felt possible. 

 

She felt alive. Answers had unfolded in her mind like petals, blooming where questions once tangled, and she had rushed home eager to spill them. To family, to friends, to—

 

The moment she crossed into Ardrossil, hope collapsed into silence. The air inside Ardrossil was wrong. Servants turned away when she met their eyes. Faces pale, eyes swollen and red rimmed. Grief had hung in the corridors like a fog. And she was all too familiar with it.

 

Her heart had lurched.

Another name to carve into memory. 

 

But who this time? Who had the Skies claimed now? She began to move, footsteps echoing too loudly against the stone, following the quiet trail of mourning until it led her to a room she already knew too well.

 

Vanya.

Her sister.

Still and dead.

 

The word rang hollow and enormous in her skull. Her gaze fell upon her sister, and time warped cruelly around the sight. She had not seen her in years, decades, even. And now she saw her all at once, and far too late. Age had touched her gently and then all at once. Silver threaded through her hair, lines resting softly at her eyes. Still, silent, and gone.

 

And yet memory refused to stay buried.

 

It dragged her backward to another room, another bed, another farewell. Their mothers face, younger but unbearably the same, turning toward her and beckoning her closer. Calling her forward to say goodbye before the dark could take her, too.

 

Vanya wore that same stillness now.

 

Auris moved closer without feeling the distance beneath her feet. Her sister lay tucked beneath blankets as though simply resting, hands folded neatly as if sleep might still claim her if the room stayed quiet enough. Auris reached for one of those hands and felt the cold truth settle into her bones as the mattress dipped beneath her weight. Her eyes never left Vanya's face, afraid that looking away might erase her entirely. With her free hand, she brushed stray locks from her sisters brow, desperate for one last unobstructed memory. 

 

And then the realization came, slow and merciless.

 

The moon had not risen to give her hope. It had not climbed the sky for her healing, or her joy, or her newfound peace. It had risen as a lantern for the dead. A silent herald marking the moment her sister slipped beyond the world. 

 

She had stood beneath the sky and smiled, never knowing she was watching Vanya ascend to the stars to join the rest of their family waiting in the starry night.

 

Her thumbs traced slow circles along the back of her sisters knuckles, and the dam inside her mind finally broke. Memories surged forward, bright and loud and painfully alive. 

 

She remembered the first time she met her, her younger sister, yet the eldest child of Baldric and Valeska. A smile tugged faintly at her lips as the chaos returned in flashes. Vanya storming through the Balian courts, small and furious, shaking the halls with a tantrum when Baldric scooped her up before she could petition the King for permission to open a candy shop. The outrage had been volcanic for it was a serious dream. 

 

She remembered Celia'nor and the breathless laughter from when the two of them darted through rooftops during endless games of hide-and-seek. She remembered the day they jousted, wooden lances clattering as Vanya charged forward with stubborn, blazing determination. Losing had never been something she had accepted. She was bright, fierce, and impossible to contain. 

 

And the titles, god the titles. Every new fascination became a crown she wore. She was the Lady pirate-cowboy-fairy-knight-princess-officiant-cow-bracelet-seller-crafter-ponytiff friend-magician-kazoo queen-acrobat-bird-ferret-comedian-jouster-storyteller-fighter-lawyer.

 

She had been endless possibility.

But somewhere along the years, that light dimmed.

 

It had begun when Vanya stepped down from being heir. That was when the world seemed to fold inward around her. She retreated behind closed doors, appearing only in fragments with an armful of books pressed to her chest. Books she had written with fleeting smiles before even those small appearances faded into nothing. 

 

Auris felt the guilt bloom. Had she helped extinguish that light? Could she have reached further, refused the distance that grew between them? She wondered if something as simple as an invitation, an evening of Ludodain filled with laughter and warmth, might have changed the path. Vanya didn't even get to meet the children. Never got to meet the newer branches of their family tree. 

 

And now she laid here, silent and unreachable. 

 

The weight of it pressed in. Only two of the ten remained, everyone else had slipped beyond the veil of years. Auris felt the shape of the loneliness settling around her like a shroud. She would carry this grief largely alone while her sister joined their father, their mother, her twin Vandrake, and the rest of the siblings waiting in that same quiet, promised place. For no current Vourkehardt alive would grieve her. For no one else knew her.

 

A touch at her shoulder pulled her back to the room. It was the first time her gaze left her sisters face, drawn instead to the parchment placed gently into her hands. The will, and beside it, a single poem. The last words Vanya had ever written.

 

The ink blurred as she read, her voice shaking as she replied. 

 

I reach for thy hand in return, dear sister. 

Yet I find it not.

You have passed on, and I must live on.

 

For the rest of that night, Auris spent the time in her sisters room. She had stayed by her sisters side.

[ApetheticOrange96 92]

Veyric had been out and about, dealing with his various responsibilities, to Tir-Glas, to Idunia...

 

...But, Ardrossil felt wrong...

 

The servants spoke in hushed tones, turning away or rushing from the rooms when he entered...

 

He wandered the keep, looking for family, for someone to tell him what had happened, when he crossed a random door ajar... 'Funny, I thought no one stayed in this hallway,' Veyric thinks to himself, wandering closer.

 

The sound of silent tears was the first thing that told him that something had happened, then as he approached, he saw his mother sitting by someone he had never met, an older woman, the telltale marks of Vourkehardt heritage lent her peaceful visage a certain familiarity... he looked at the name carved into the brass nameplate by the door, Vanya.

 

Veyric had seen that name in his family trees growing up, never having the opportunity to formally meet his aunt. Hearing his mother's sobbing, he silently backs away from this part of the keep, letting his mother grieve in her own way. sending a silent prayer as he goes for his aunt's peace in the seven skies.

 

Finding a small secluded corner on a balcony, Veyric lit a cigarette and spent the night mourning for an aunt he had never met, yet was family regardless, and as such deserved the grief.

[confusedjester 811]

Aged, weathered hands accepted her cherished sister into an embrace, once finally reunited in the Skies.