Lesser Bloom

Fallen star

After that night something inside Lirael finally snapped. She had tried—gods, how she had tried—to save them all. But the task was Sisyphean, the death endless. Lirael lost track of time after the fight and only the mountains knew how long she kept walking and aiding. She closed countless eyes, between them Galen's too. Her new mentor laid stone cold in front of her with his skull split in half. Lirael light a small candel and whatever was left from Galen's cloak, she covered his face with it. Tears stung her eyes but she stood up. The remaining soldiers carried the fallen bodies into a huge pile, and went to celebrate what they dared to call victory. Lirael walked out to the heap of bodies, knees buckling as she collapsed in front them. Blood-soaked earth soaked through her knees. For a long moment she knelt motionless, silver-copper hair matted and wild, breath ragged. She cursed the deity she served and believed in throughout her whole life Rillifane Rallathil the Leaflord, god of woodlands, nature, protection of the wild, and the primary patron of elf druids. She cursed herself for not being strong enough or just simply enough... The sky got dark and the air turned colder, each faint breath she took left a small, cloud in the night before vanishing, turning into nothing, just like all those dreams and lives laying in front of her dead. Piled up like firewood ready for disposal, they served their duties. Only those who are left behind will feel their loss. Lirael knew, looking at the lifeless face of a young man, that he will never become a baker as he wanted to. She remembered how the young lad bragged about his famous shortbreads and promised to her that the day this nightmare ends, he'll prove their quality for her. Her gaze wondered further up on the pile and met the glassy eyes of a man in his late fifties. He used to be a blacksmith, and he didn't thirst glory or fame, just wanted to get home to be able to take his daughter to the altar... Tears ran down Lirael's face as she got up and clenched her teeth to get on her tip toes. Her legs were shaking and her body shivered in the cold, but she managed to close the blacksmith's eyelids before falling back to the ground. Her knees sank into the mix of blood and mud. Her breath ragged and vision blurred, only Gods knew if from exhaustion or pain... Then, instinctively her hand reached out, this time not to heal, but touch. A dark pulse stirred within her, born of exhaustion, grief and loneliness. She shut her eyes closed and she tried to envision all of these brave men alive again. She wanted Phill the big mouthed boy to become a baker, she wanted Leon the blacksmith to walk his beloved daughter to the altar. While she did that, the wind blew the sound of cheers to her ears. The noise came from the camp and from the tent of the captains. They were laughing... At a time like this. Lirael's lips curled into a vicious smile and her hands shivered as she murmured words she didn't know she knew. She prayed, but not to the God she served so devotedly for all those years, but to Velsharoon the Archmage of Necromancy, Lord of the Lichdom.

Without expectations, or any agenda, Lirael heard an otherworldly voice in her head.

-The Leaflord offers blooms that wither. - the voice echoed in her soul, cold as grave-mist, she couldn't see anyone, yet knew in her core that the God spoke to her. Without answering, she kept listening.

- I offer the harvest that endures. Take it, child of thorns, and rise unbound. - Lirael could feel the touch of boney fingers on her shoulders and the power that shouldn't be hers, yet was offered on a silver plate. In that desperate communion—a forbidden pact sealed in blood and shadow. In hope of seeing her friends alive again, and to be able to send them home to make their dreams come true, Lirael accepted the hand that offered her the power that shouldn't be wielded by anyone.

In that moment the ground shook, cracking sound of limbs being placed back to their places echoed through the night. The laughter and cheers, from the camp slowly died as all living were listening of the song of the dead. The pile in front of Lirael moved and all the familiar faces opened their eyes, but something was missing... The shine from their glance was gone. Lirael's lips trembled as she softly mumbled in disbelief of her own naivety.

- This is not what I wanted... - Velsharoon chuckled gripping her shoulders a bit more as they both watched the army of dead line up. He leaned closer to her ears and whispered.

- You should've been more precise my dear... With your current power, all you can do is avenge them. So what do you say, lesser bloom? Thorn of House Aerindel, will you show the world what you are capable of?

Lirael looked at the more and more tents lighting up and then at the army ready for her demand. She looked at the God for the first time over her shoulder. An icy shiver ran down on her spine and the fear she felt made her skip her breath. The God appeared in front of her like a giant skull, covered in flames. The flames stretched eagerly toward the sky, and though they seemed uncontrolled, their light gave off no warmth. Velsharoon's eyes, just two empty holes yet they held such a gaze that Lirael didn't dare to look into them for long. She didn't say a word, just cried. She felt like a failure, whom couldn't save anyone at the very end. Remaining soldiers came out of their tents and gasped at the army of dead, their eyes fall on the small, broken girl. The Silver Healer how they used to call her, now stood in frotn of the army of their fallen friends. Captain Starshield and Thorne rushed out one after the other staring at Lirael with disgust and disbelief in their eyes. Pip in their heels and hisneyes widened at the sight. While others without thinking drew their swords and marched to kill the undead and to erase Lirael from the world of living, her one remaining friend just stood there. Pip's frame disappeared in the sea weapons and running figures. Lirael without thinking instinctively lifted her arms between herself and the attack, giving a signal to the army at her disposal to counterattack. She shut her eyes and covered her ears hearing the cries and screams of the living mixing up with the groans of the dead, while the laughter of the God echoed in her mind. Lirael stood up in the middle of the fight and got ready to shout "Stop" but an arrow pierced through her throat silencing her. She heard out fromnthe noise Pip's worried voice calling her name, she pulled out the arrow covering the bleeding hole on her throat and commanded with her last breath.

- STOP! - The army stopped and shook as the undead became dead again. Lirael smiled with blood pouring from her mouth yet, her mortal frame proved frail, a candle guttering in the gale of her own excess. The ledger notes her collapse amid the charnel fields, her body yielding to exhaustion's inexorable claim—a pseudo-demise, her heart stilled momentarily in the threshold between realms.

Here, the entry pauses, ink drying on the precipice, for Velsharoon's meddling forestalled my final seal. As Lirael, she stands inscribed not as a concluded soul, but as one deferred, her deeds a litany of shadows that beckon the ultimate reckoning. In my eternal vigilance, all accounts balance in time.

Jergal put the final dot at the end of the sentence and carefully picked up the story of Lirael from Areindel. He placed it into one of the countless folders on the enormous bookshelf to his right and gently rubbed his temple. He looked at the folder once more seeing dark mist surrounding it and he knew that Lady Lirael Aerindel's story might've ended up here, but that soul still had lot to do before its final rest.