Welcome back to Story Sunday!
If you enjoyed The Strife, fear not! It’ll be coming back (next year, most likely) with the second part where we’ll find out more about these “older gods”.
I’ve been working on a new story for the coming weeks called Shadow Wraith.
Haerith was a beautiful continent. It always had been, Svorin thought. He peered from the mouth of the cave past the water and to the grassy shores of Alatra. Though an ancient country in terms of the written histories, Alatra was still new in his eyes. He’d only heard of it several hundred years ago, sometime after the fall of Korin, his birth state. How short the written histories were; so lacking in culture and knowledge. Yet today people all around Saiala considered themselves so much more civilised than their illiterate forebearers. Svorin gave a soft snort at the idea and retreated back into the cave.
His bare feet made soft pattering noises as they met the rock and he allowed himself to focus on the restful rhythm of it. No more than fifty paces into the cave he found Ithryel sitting in the little enclave she had decided was the ‘peaceful corner’ of the large entry cave. So many centuries and she still held onto some semblance of running a household. Svorin complained of course, but really he enjoyed it. Ithryel was higher born than he was and some of her habits still fascinated him. He’d never admit it, though she clearly knew. It was a matter of pride. She knew that, too.
“Why do you insist on reading that rubbish?” He queried.
Ithryel looked up from her perch and smiled. The cover of the text in her hands read ‘Ancient Myths from the Three Lands’. Thenis had brought it with her when she’d come to give her report to the others and Ithryel hadn’t put it down since.
“I want to know what they say about us, of course.” The smile lingered as she read a passage from the text in an officious voice. “’Shadow Wraith lore dates back to the dark times when all Saiala is said to have been engulfed by a never-ending cloud. These times, known in popular mythology as The Woe, are said to have lasted for many decades. As we see from Rilarian myths of the time, people believed that the darkness was caused by gods who were waging a war in the skies.
‘The Shadow Wraith are said to be twelve warriors imbued with superhuman abilities by the goddess Issalu (see Creation myths). Their role is to protect the WorldSoul, a vessel said to house all the power of the goddess Issalu, thereby keeping the world from falling back into The Woe’” Ithryel looked up at her companion. The smile was gone, replaced now by thin-lipped recognition of the truth.
“Amazing how much they got right, isn’t it, kin of mine?” Whenever she felt nostalgic Ithryel would call her fellow Shadow Wraith ‘kin of mine’. Svorin found it mildly endearing but said nothing. They all had their ways of dealing with the burden they carried. He found Ithryel’s method far more appealing than Qast’s borderline-fanaticism, at any rate. Or Millen’s brooding silences… Svorin’s thoughts wandered to his dear friend Millen, who was no doubt practicing his skills somewhere solitary at that very moment.
After more than two thousand years there really was very little, if anything, left to know about each other. Even those who had initially tried to keep parts of themselves hidden away had come out with their dark truths when they realised that all those to whom they had sworn oaths of silence, or wronged, were dead. And so were their children. And many generations past that. But Millen was the exception that proved the rule. He had never opened up, never surrendered his guilt to the forgiveness of time and he’d never stopped…
Ithryel’s laugh cut through the silence and Svorin snapped back to the present, realising he had been about to take a wrong turn into the sleep cavern. Correcting his course, he again allowed his mind to meander to its oldest memories. The steady pattering of his feet brought him comfort and by the time he reached the hidden away little enclave he called his own, a smile of contentment had spread on his face. Next time the others came in he had to remember to ask them for more of his favourite sherry. Thousands of years and the recipe hadn’t changed a bit. Somebody should write a book about that, he mused.