Fate Bender

FATE BENDER

By Kyle Edwin Salveson

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Yet, from his vantage upon the towering cliffs of Trapitl-Himilien, the keen, celestine eyes of Aodh Ollaimhalla discerned three figures aloft, soaring splendidly on the waning warm winds of summer's end. The ruby, emerald, and sapphire of their scales glimmered with divine enchantment. They flickered in and out, illuminated in the night sky by the pale light of a shattered moon, whose tragic fragments trailed eerily across the void. Circling amidst the thin cloudscape with supreme grace and strength, the dragons saw, heard, and knew all that transpired within the verdant expanse, the Valley's solemn guardians. Aodh found it a sobering reverie, surveying the far-flung sanctuary of the elusive wild elves, which was now a refuge for the final congregation of surviving creatures of the world.

Muttering softly and tracing glowing runes in the air with his slender finger, Aodh reached out with arcane empathy, leaving his physical form in a statuesque trance on the earth below. His consciousness sailed over the leagues of lush woodland in the span of a breath. He dared to only briefly brush against the staggering force of the creatures’ mentalities, quickly overwhelmed by the magnitude of their transcendent force. Being familiar now with his touch after these fortnights spent on watch, they freely opened the corridors of perception to him. A deluge of lucid sensations coursed through him. His young mind could hardly comprehend the ancient wisdom of the primordial creatures, and he was again humbled by the great undertaking before him. The advent was close at hand.

Releasing the spell, Aodh's astral body melded once more with his own flesh and bone. Even through the separation of his projection, his anxious hand had managed to clench itself, white-knuckled, over the jeweled pommel of Syngvangr, who hung reassuringly upon his hip. The sword emanated a profound intensity, as it too sensed the gravity of the impending engagement. An impossibly telling sigh passed Aodh’s lips as he gazed again into what remained of the decimated heavens, the absence of so many extinguished stars weighing woefully upon him. Syngvangr grew warm in his grasp, its dutiful readiness the only comfort it could extend to him in this moment. Gently, he offered the night a wistful serenade. His expressive tenor perfectly conveyed all that which he had no other means of capturing. Another warm breeze, laced with the intoxicating perfume of the countless exotic wildflowers of the weald, sent his long, fiery hair akimbo.

Momentarily, his lament was disrupted by the emergence of a small but resplendent bird. Resembling a nightingale, only plumed in a unique patterning of gleaming jade, silvery sage, and earthy ivy tones, it made two mesmerizing loops around him before settling upon his shoulder. With its striking verdigris eyes thoughtfully transfixed upon him, it proceeded to pipe out an eloquent harmony to the final stanza which it had interrupted, nestling affectionately into his neck upon its conclusion.

“Thriss, my love,” Aodh murmured, returning the sentiment with a loving caress across the length of its form. With a subdued coo, it again took flight. Circling him dramatically one more time, it then made to land beside him. However, by the time it alighted, it was not the talons of an avian outstretched to greet the earth, but delicate pointed toes. Folding in the wings of a bird, elegant arms took shape; and where its beak withdrew, there formed a comely, angular visage. In a seamless fluid motion, the nightingale transformed into a fiercely beguiling she-elf, landing with peerless finesse. The only thing which remained unchanged were her matchlessly virid irises, vividly gleaming like precious stones. Every breath and gesture she made was an embodiment of dance and poise. As she spoke, one found it impossible not to listen.

“Aodh, Keeper of My Heart,” she declared, her voice sonorous, dignified, and certain, “know that yours, too, is wholly known to me. Now is not the time for doubt, that creeping poison which pervades and betrays. You fear for the things that you are not, which might render you unworthy. Yet, it is the singular thing which you are that has created true hope against illimitable despair. You are enough. This is so.”

If anything could rectify the discordance of his heart, it was the smoldering truth her stare now possessed. Her hands cradled his imploringly, and he sensed a thrumming energy ebbing through his veins. Whether or not she was aware of the arcana she was channeling, the manifesting fervor with which she brimmed was undeniable. His anxious heart appeased, he found his courage in her faith.

“Thank you, my dear one,” he spoke, “It is through you, ever and again, that I am resolved. You have never once failed me so.”

“And nor shall you fail us. Now come, the time draws near.”

They shared a last profound moment of quietude with their hands entwined. Then, at once she drew him into an embrace and whispered, “Hold on to me.”

Beginning from within her voluminous locks of hair, jade feathers began to sprout, fledge, and unfurl. It was not, however, a diminutive songbird into which she shapeshifted, but a magnificent bird of prey. With admiration for her monumental beauty, Aodh did as she bade him. Climbing upon her back, he held on.

In three mighty strokes of her gargantuan wings, Thriss propelled them above the cloudline, tendrils of wispy stratus in her wake. Aodh didn’t need telepathy to know when she was endeavoring to abate his nerves. When she took to rolling and tumbling through the firmament, it was all he could do to keep from laughing. To the lovers in flight, there was no qualm, portent, nor inevitability which could contend with the elation, freedom, and utter sublimity of the moment. Through loops, dives, and uncanny acrobatics she took them, until Aodh’s spirit was thoroughly rejuvenated. Sensing his restored will, Thriss finally took them at a steady bearing toward the summit of Trapitl-Himilien, the exalted mountain which overlooked the secret elven kingdom.

Approaching from above, Aodh could observe much of the commotion below. Dozens of camps and posts littered the terrain of the forested peak, which had become the operational throne of this last resistance. He spotted the pavilion of the Men of Aurudalia, as orderly and fair as any that ever walked. Recklessly sprawled not far from them were the rugged Men of Gardralandar, their raucous war songs audible even through the immensity of space. Between them were encamped a menagerie of other humans Iksiminst, Veldternessers, Ykrians, and some with which he was less accustomed. In refined rows stood steep silken tents of High Elves, cousins to their wilder hosts, flying the banners of several noble houses. A neighborhood of distinctive yurts signified the entourage of numerous dwarven sovereigns. In scattered sects, Aodh’s eye also picked out bands of centaurs, satyrs, and numbers of beastfolk. Though he could not see them, there was the unmistakable impression of tinkling bells in the air to which Aodh was well accustomed, which meant fairy-folk must also be nearby.

These multitudes were arrayed centripetally around a great pyramid, an elaborate limestone and hardwood tabernacle whose weathering inferred eons of existence. The venerable trees surrounding it, which would easily loom over the castle of any kingdom of men, were dwarfed by its prominence. What seemed a thousand grandly hewn steps ascended to its glorious temple. In the structure’s interior was housed an opulent courtyard, which burst with fantastic flora and opened itself to the heavens. It was into these extravagant gardens that Thriss descended. In its heart was an immaculate grove, in the center of which stood a circular stone altar, enclosed by a modest stadium. Outlandish species of willows, oaks, aspens, and maples as old as time looked down knowingly from all directions. Ornately carved antique braziers cast fiery hues upon the scene. Thriss landed just outside of the stadium, resuming her elven form upon Aodh’s disembarkation. Approaching its interior, one was immediately struck with absolute reverence.

There were already a small number of individuals sitting on the tiered stone benches, in deferential silence or whispering in piously hushed tones. Amongst them, Aodh observed distinguished representatives of the assemblages outside - kings, queens, lords, ladies, chieftains, celebrated warriors, and religious leaders. This was the council which had been formed to wage the impending battle, the final encounter with darkness to liberate the good world, or pass into oblivion. At the epicenter of the strategy was Aodh, the acclaimed hero, his supernatural ability the only instrument which might pose some prospect against the otherwise insurmountable odds. It had taken many weeks of deliberating around this same altar to unite the will of the last leaders, to persuade them of a course that would almost inevitably constitute the sacrifice of their lives - and all upon the divinations of a witch.

This was to be one of the last council meetings, meant to finalize a number of plans for the multiple scenarios that could emerge on the other side of the battle. Stepping into the light, Aodh could feel the skepticism of many of the eminent figures; the culmination of their fear, doubt, and sense of duty to their people all weighing upon him. He tried his best to be brave, or at least look it. His thoughts turned to memories of his father, Rothandar, and he wished dearly that he was here now to subject him to one of his unequivocally heartening monologues. The ache of his passing, though many seasons past, was grievously rekindled.

It was then that he noticed, adjacent to the altar, a small band of eccentrics that swiftly rallied his heart with joy. The most immediate of them, an impressively built and brilliantly red-haired man with a matching beard, was the first to notice Aodh and Thriss as they neared. He immediately jumped to his feet, and with a booming baritone which startled all in the vicinity, he shouted:

“My dear friend! At last you join us! Your solitude of late has caused your friends much dejection, understanding though we are of the loneliness of the path before you. Come, sit with us while we may, before the chaos ensues. Come, let us laugh, let us cry, for now we are with our kin!”

Despite the shocked stares of the strangers whose silence had been so abruptly shattered, the man stood with a beaming grin and his pure eyes twinkling. His massive arms hung outstretched in a motion of embrace.

“Rory,” Aodh greeted through an unrestrained smile, wrapping his arms around his behemoth friend, “‘Tis truth you propose; Let us be together.”

Nearly sending him sprawling, Rory gave Aodh two thunderous pats on the back before beckoning him to a central seat, along with Thriss, among the five others waiting to receive them. For a moment, there was much shaking and holding of hands, kisses lain upon cheeks and foreheads, and words of fondness. One by one, Aodh looked upon the faces of his companions. Much was known about Aodh and his legendary deeds; but he knew without question that it was by the blood and toil of these comrades that he had ever achieved a mote of greatness.

There was Rory, of course, his closest friend since childhood. Having fallen in with one another as young misfits, there were scarce few ventures Aodh could remember in which Rory was not an accomplice. No matter what tragedy was promised around the next corner, or how great the threat of personal risk, he had never wavered in his devotion to Aodh’s welfare. His morale was unshakeable, his humor impeccable, and his genuine selflessness without equal.

There was Brother, or so Aodh had named him following the fortuitous encounter that bound them together. Brother sat cross-legged on the ground, stoic as always, as tall as most men would stand despite his position. Brother was a Fhulki, an extraordinarily complex primeval race that lived close to nature, but were highly misrepresented as mindless, violent monsters. He stood nearly twelve feet tall, not accounting for the spiraling ram-like horns that capped his otherwise bald head. Upon a whim, he could crush a stone - or a skull - with naught but his immense hands.

When first they met, Brother was a slave in an underground fighting circuit, subdued and endlessly tortured by wicked magics. At this time also a captive, Aodh and the creature were made to fight to the death; but with cleverness, compassion, and great luck, Aodh instead liberated him, then turning the tides against their captors. Tragically, a lifetime of cruelty and savagery had irreparably damaged his mind. Though a deeply wise and intuitive being, he had long since been rendered a mute amnesiac. Following these events, and a pact of blood, wherever Aodh had gone, so too had his Brother. Despite his unequaled capacity to destroy, it was with a remarkably gentle touch that Brother now took Aodh’s head in his hands and adoringly kissed his brow.

Next, there was Yngvindr, or Yng, as the party called him. Once a member of the robust tribesmen of the northerly Iksiminst, Yng was something very different now. Like Brother, Aodh and his company had freed him from a terrible prison - though it was, in a most regrettable way, much a result of his own actions. It stirred Aodh deeply to study Yngvindr and recall, many seasons ago, the torment that once gripped him, but from which his aspect was now free. His face was no longer contorted in an agonized grimace, and the grisly rage in his eyes had since been quenched to reveal benevolent pale blue halos.

Long ago, Yngvindr suffered a great tragedy of his own, and in his grief was led to do a terrible thing, which vexed him for many years. Yngvindr the Bloody, as he was once known, had always carried the curse of lycanthropy. When his secret was discovered, his other tribesmen conspired and slaughtered his expectant wife, fearing for the monster she might deliver. His wrath was hell on earth. After settling these affairs, Yngvindr was left with nothing but the crushing burden of his grief and guilt. For three centuries, he submitted to the wretchedness of despair, surrendering to the monster within; unable to die, yet more unable still to move on. It was a chance encounter with a young Aodh who convinced him that forgiveness was achievable for any who would seek it.

“Perhaps, my companion, this is the makings of true redemption,” Yng said, his hand resting seriously on Aodh’s shoulder. In a moment seldom observed in over three centuries, an impassioned tear trickled from his spectral eye. With sudden zeal, his hand rose to unsheathe the glorious sword he wore on his back, which he called Penance, and drew only once in a great while. It was forged from pure silver, and covered with intricate runes which were now ablaze with argent flames. Holding it high, he cried, “Absolution! Deliverance! Judgment cometh!” to which there was a roaring chorus of, “Huzzah!” from the companions.

Next was Zolte, the Reconciled. The austere onyx of her eyes could be disconcerting, but after years of travel together, Aodh had learned better how to read the emotions swimming beneath her fiendish semblance. Like Yngvindr, she had once walked the path of malice. Her demonic heritage had caused her nothing but ostracism and contempt since the day of her birth. By a dark miracle, a sorcerer called Baetetmund discovered her abandoned before the elements could claim her infant life. Recognizing what she was, the sorcerer raised and tutored her in the dark arts, using her prodigal talents for his own nefarious gain.

Around the time that Zolte was a middling adolescent, Aodh and the companions were drawn into an epic engagement which led to Baetetmund's demise, foiling his plot to fulfill the sinister transformation into an undeathly lich of boundless power. Though Zolte was equally accountable for the atrocities the sorcerer had committed, Aodh had been stricken by a compulsion of mercy. In sparing her life that day, the door was opened for her to discover, for the first time, a life of virtue. She had played the role of an apprentice of sorts every day since then, ever eager to earn the favor of the world that had spurned the beast her obsidian skin suggested.

“Perhaps it was fate after all, Hero,” which was what Zolte often called Aodh, “that crossed our paths and spirited us to this crux. I look forward to meeting Destiny, that double-crossing charlatan!”

To this, Aodh could not help but laugh, so serious and impertinent was her tone.

“Why do you laugh, Hero? I do not jest.”

“Because, Zolte, me too.”

To this, she remained frozen in a scowl for a moment, before erupting into a hideously charming smile of razor-sharp teeth. A low, guttural laugh rumbled from within her like smoke and gravel.

There too was Nallah; her skin was as golden as honey, her lips were the candied pink of wild strawberry, and her temperament was as sweet to match. She was also the only one besides Brother who could put Rory to the ground in hand-to-hand combat. Despite her petite size, there was no question of her lethality. A lifetime of rigor and self-discipline had honed her into an illustrious, if not unsuspecting, instrument.

Years ago, after competing against one another in a distinguished tournament in the far-away empire of Veldternessen, Nallah and Rory promptly fell in love. Leaving behind her prestigious life, she had ventured with them ever since.

“Strange to think,” she began slowly, holding both of Aodh’s hands and looking at him with uncharacteristic seriousness, “that after all of these years, and all of our adventures… Every time I saved your skinny ass, I was really ensuring the future of all humanities! Guess that makes me the real hero, huh?” she finished with her signature smirk, reverting to her feisty nature. Aodh shared a welcome laugh in the otherwise grave hour. Rory’s playfulness had certainly influenced her during their journeys, but the spice was all her own.

Then there was Elloine. Out of all of the companions, even Thriss, perhaps only Elloine could truly understand Aodh's anticipation of the coming development. He moved to stand in front of her. She awaited him with her left hand out, palm facing up. She wore a rare smile, which was determinately charming on her gaunt face.

“Saw you coming…” she mused slyly. Aodh gazed into the haunting caverns where her eyes once resided, which now swirled with phantasmic mist. Unsettling as it might be, she had a certain aura of serenity, and in a short moment, he felt under her spell.

Assuming she meant for him to help her to her feet, Aodh reached for her. Like a cobra, she snatched his outstretched hand, bringing his palm a breadth away from her hazy sockets. She made a clicking sound with her tongue.

“Still nothing. Very good. Perhaps there is hope, yet.” She reported.

Elloine was a witch, and an incredibly powerful one. Her area of expertise was divination, or the foretelling of events which have not yet come to pass. It was largely due to her omens and insights that this last bastion of survivors had come about. Of the companions, she was the only one which Aodh had not necessarily found - rather, she had found him. It had all started with a palm reading, whose unclear result left her altogether obsessed. She had always considered Aodh’s inability to be divined a thing of wonder, for it implied that he was free of the bounds of fate. As time went on, and the Dark Day had drawn ever nearer, she became ever more certain of Aodh’s role to play in the decisive game.

“Only who is fateless is free from the shackles of inevitability. You may yet do, or become, anything,” She would say. It was this peculiarity that was paramount in their strategy for facing the coming darkness. Where the doom of the world might be spun and hung upon fate’s loom, Aodh might still walk alone to alter its course.

This time, he must go where none may follow; but though there would be no friends beside him, their love would always be within him.

“A harbinger wind stirs,” Elloine suddenly muttered, staring grimly with her sightless nebulous orbs toward the horizon. “Please, everybody, we must begin at once.”

“But seer, the council is not scheduled to commence for another hour, at least.” Nallah replied. She, too, stared toward the horizon, where she observed nothing unusual.

“You forget, there is but one fate here unsealed. Pray, it may be folly that we see the passing of another hour! It must be now! Kings, Queens, Heroes, signal your kin! Blood is in the air, the portented battle is upon us! Hurry!”

Thriss was the first to take initiative. “I will fetch Harklathandrian!” She cried as she exploded into the sky amidst a tornado of jade feathers. Two of the present wild elves blew slender alabaster horns in practiced tempo, the blare cutting through the quiet of the night. Runners from each of the thrones of men, elves, dwarves, and other creatures raced for the camps to issue the call to battle stations. In moments, the entire valley would rouse from its anxious slumber. Weeks of preparations began to actualize, the last congregation of goodly creatures uniting to stave off the impending darkness.

The companions joined together at the altar, along with the kings, queens, and chieftains of the races. The High Queen of the wild elves, Shae’atamara’takina, soon arrived as well. She was the truest embodiment of ferocity and eminence, garbed in resplendent arrays of leopard furs, bizarre feathers, and precious stones. If the alarm had produced any fear within her, the striking features of her face made no impression.

“Never would I have foreseen the machinations of a witch unfold upon this most sacred altar. Ancestors, be with us; let the enemy be undone upon this consecrated ground!”

Thriss next arrived, swooping in as a bird of prey and landing like a strike of lightning. Rising from the whirlwind of feathers in her elven form, she joined beside Aodh, clutching his hand. Addressing the crowd, she announced the Dawnbreaker, the Lightbringer, the Lord of the Rising Sun.

What began as a windstorm rapidly became a turbulent hurricane as the vast wings of Harklathandrian brought him descending from the heavens. A titanic dragon spiraled around the crowd, his immensity filling the entirety of the grove. His tail twisted twice around the length of its perimeter, resting upon the ancient architecture. Every inch of him glittered with lustrous gold scaling, and the colossal twisting horns on his head resembled a mighty shining crown. Here stood the King of Dragons.

“IN THE BEGINNING, WHEN THIS WORLD WAS NEW,” He boomed, leaves fluttering from the trees in the wake of his tremendous speech, and every heart quaking with awe, “I HERALDED THE FIRST SUN. ITS LIGHT GAVE BIRTH TO THE FIRST GREEN THINGS. I OBSERVED, FOR TEN THOUSAND SEASONS, THE COMING OF YOUR RACES. MY CHILDREN GAVE YOU THE GIFTS OF RAIN AND TIDES, OF WIND, FIRE, CREATION, AND TRANSFORMATION! THESE GIFTS SHALL NOT BE UNDONE! MAKE USE OF MY POWER, WITCH, ITS LIKENESS IS NEVER AGAIN TO BE KNOWN. LET EVIL DREAD THIS DAY, FOR ITS EXTINCTION IS NIGH!”

“Thank you, Lord of Lords! Let all of our power be joined! Come, together, we have little time! The nightmare approaches! We have made our vows, now we honor them with blood!” Elloine addressed them, escalating to franticism. Her proximity to the threads of fate made her vulnerable to the impending climax.

As if prompted, interrupting her sermon, came a soul-shattering thunderous cacophony from the far side of the valley. It began with a mass of lightning bolts raining down from a tempest of pure darkness. Then, the earth tore itself asunder, the faces of the mountains catastrophically cascading down. Chasms ruptured the earth, hellfire and magma swallowing swathes of the woodland. Then, starting small but growing impossibly shrill, came the shrieks of legions of the hellish fiends that came slithering, crawling, bounding, and flying out from the wall of the dark storm.

The assemblage at the Temple of Trapitl-Himilien, the Stairway to the Heavens, stood transfixed in horror. There was no prayer that could be made against such terrible and awesome power. Thriss-Therasil found her courage first and tore the group from their trance.

“There is still hope! Do it now!” She screamed. Turning to Aodh, the desperation of these final moments weighed ultimately upon them. They held a single moment of affection, their lips pressing for what might be the last time. Cast by the blazing valley and tumultuous skies, their kiss existed in the timeless space of legend. Upon its end, looking fixedly at him with her verdigris eyes, she said just loud enough for him to hear, “You are enough. You are a hero. My love will always be with you.”

“I will find you!” Aodh declared, tears spilling from his celestines.

“Yes,” Elloine whispered to herself, still contemplating Aodh’s fateless palm in her mind. “Yes! The time is now! It must be now! Everyone, join hands! Join essence! We must unite our fates!”

The group did as she commanded, chanting the incantations they had been prepared with. The only two not joined in the circle were Elloine and Aodh, who were atop the stone altar, Elloine in a frenzy of spell chant, waving her hands wildly in an evoking dance. In moments, the entire assembly radiated with crackling arcana and spiritual energy, emitting the antithetical light of hope against the glow of hellfire. The screeches of the demons drew nearer every second.

Elloine’s tirade of tongues crescendoed suddenly, and with a final enunciation, her eyes burst into a maelstrom of prismatic emanations. A violent fit ensued for several wrenching seconds, the congregation halting their ritual, until just as suddenly, she stood bolt upright. She held her left hand out rigidly with her palm up for Aodh to grasp with his. As he did, he exploded into a chromatic pyre, and she declared:

“Aodhakan Rothandar Ollaimhalla, Fatebender, you are our only hope.”

~End Prologue