They grow up together, and looking back, those were the best years of Edna's life.
Impromptu adventures and walks, laughs under chiseled rocks and fairylit stars; she never had to say anything to make him understand, he always had.
A particularly strong gust of wind tears at her umbrella and she wraps her fingers tightly around the handle, microaware of the roughness of her glove and boots scraping against her skin.
Take care of yourself, he had said before he left for the ocean.
I will, she promised. Come back safe, she wanted to say.
Now she stands in airy reverence, saffron tassels snapping in brittle mountain air as she looks at the small stone memorial.
It was all just sentimental stupidity, she thinks. Graves never meant anything.
Sometimes the world is blisteringly cruel, Edna. Eizen had reached out, ruffled her hair. And sometimes we don't always get our own way. You understand that, right?
Rain starts to fall, and she tilts her umbrella up to catch it.
Death is salvation to some, Zaveid had said that night, where everything was crystal still, town airbrushed with scintillated light.
I think I understand, she said, and in some ways, she did.
She understood, but she didn't want to.
Because there was a crucial difference between knowing and accepting, and selfishly, she didn't want to acknowledge the salvation he wanted.
It was agonizingly egotistical, and she knew.
Seraph get terribly embarrassed, Zaveid had joked. We just need to send them somewhere they can sulk in peace. And if that's the afterlife, then so be it.
A thin crease of scorching lighting rips the sky, and for a breathless second she is blinded by the brilliance. Unconsciously, she tugs on the plush normin tassel on her umbrella, feels the familiar stretch of the neck and presses her feet together under her small, dry haven.
Thunder roars above her, and the grave is flooded with painfully fulgent light. Suddenly, without thinking, she thrusts her umbrella out over the stone.
Rain soaks her shoulders, her hair.
She's too old for crying. She'd seen more deaths than she had ever her whole life in these past months, and by maotelus she was tired.
Think about Meebo, her brain scolds impetuously. You're not the only one.
Sorey's all that he has left, and even then he might never wake up.
Three consecutive flashes of lightning claw the sky, and the resulting thunder is deafening.
She's completely drenched in rain; it's dripping off the ends of her latticework dress, her hair, pooling in her boots and glove.
The grave stays peacefully dry.
She was 1000 years old.
She knew these things.
She knew how to take care of herself, how to control the thunder and create stalagmites and stalactites out of nothing, how to shatter earth and bend wind; she knew that loving was dangerous and beautiful and terrifying, knows this but all the same, she knows while loving she had never been so dizzy with happiness and there was nothing that had felt more agonizingly breathtaking or so painfully right, and truthfully, she doesn't know what to do anymore.
Now she doesn't know if the water clouding her eyes is the rain or her tears.
Don't worry about a thing, we'll be okay. I promise.
I'm so proud of you.
When she had found him, curled up on himself, so enshrouded in the wet darkness of a cave that it was impossible to distinguish where the long hem of his jacket ended and the silence began, it left her bewildered like nothing had.
Leave, Edna.
Her feet were frozen to the ground, umbrella hanging loosely at her side, and she had stared at him as if paralyzed.
Edna!
If she'd been braver, if it'd been a standard story, if it'd been literally anyone else but her they would've launched forward, not deterred by Eizen's desperate, struggling face-they would've held on, they would've never let go, they would've been brave and strong and have sworn to stick with him until the end, but this was Edna's story, this was their story, and she understood.
She'd left that mountain and never looked back.
Seeking solace in the forest, curling up on a tree branch and listlessly watching the birds sing; knowing that she could do nothing but wait was agony.
She returns to that mountain an immeasurable amount of time later, umbrella held close and open as if a shield, but nothing would have lessened the shock of horrific fear as she rounded the bend to the summit.
A towering, scaled monster, all snarling teeth and lethal limbs, wingspan a hundred times her height, curled smoke rising from bared, sharp teeth, all of Eizen's familiar features lost in macabre malevolence.
She runs.
Zaveid had come a few days later, and she'd selfishly indulged in the feeling she wasn't the only one who cared as she looked at his stricken face.
You know, he made me promise. He says later as they sit on a jagged outcropping so high up that Eizen looked like nothing more than a smudge of coal against the mountain, He made me promise that I would kill him if he became a dragon.
Will you?
….I don't know. But, I'll do my damnedest to try.
She folds her umbrella, leans against his shoulder. He puts an arm around her, gently rubbing her back; if she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend.
She had stayed on that mountain, hollowing out an alcove to sit and stay. She'd sat there in numbed shock for what seemed like weeks, watching the dragon-Eizen-circle threateningly among the rocky outcrops, gust aerobic circles around the ragged summit.
His distant roars had become her night-time dub, the counterglow sky behind them splattered with scintillation stars, all the imaginable colours of a harlem carnival, all radiant saffron and scorching viridans, the universe seemingly tilting on its vertiginous axis as she stretches languidly over a jutting alcove, arms thrown above her head, arching her back as she gazes up at the northern lights.
Far away, the dragon had roared, sad and lonely.
(Or maybe that was just her wishful thinking).
Why are you still here? Zaveid comes again that next week, shoes scraping loose gravel off the outcropping.
Is there a reason for me not to be? She mumbled back, tucking her knees up to her chest, looking at nothing and everything.
It's dangerous here.
I know.
He sighs, crosses his knees as he shifts down beside her. He wouldn't have wanted you to be like this.
You don't know that.
Edna-chan, some things don't have to be proven to be fact. He hesitantly pats her back.
It was the humans, she mumbles. Everything is always their fault.
You know that's not true.
I hate them, she says, childishly. I hate them so much. I don't know why we bother helping them.
Hey, remember how it used to be?
That was then. This is-
Now, I know. But this-This Age of Chaos, it's temporary, I promise. One day, someone will write a book, 20 volumes, maybe, and it'll soon be nothing more than a bad memory. You'll live a long time, you know.
Edna doesn't reply, burrowing her head deeper into her hands.
Who knows, maybe one day you'll meet a human who'll change your mind.
That'll never happen.
Zaveid chuckles, stands up. Well, there's an ogre down there with my name on it. I'll see you soon, okay?
Whatever.
This has to be a joke, she thinks later, umbrella digging painfully into her fingers as the new Shepherd looks at her, all childish naivety and bright, bright eyes.
Come with us, Sorey had said, battered and bruised but inexhaustibly ernest. I'll help save your brother, he promised, and Edna believed him.
You have to promise, she says, curling her toes in her boots, scrabbling hopelessly for purchase on the rocky soil. You have to promise, she repeats desperately, a little foolish, a little hopeful.
And in a way, he did.
The resulting War was terrible.
War was sickness, War was evil, but War was horrifically beautiful in its brutish honesty, and Edna couldn't look away.
You still say that humans should be saved? She asks Sorey quietly in the armatus.
His chest is heaving with exertion, eyes filled with agonized tears, but he says Yes without hesitation.
It was excruciatingly painful to look at him and Mikleo as they thrust the tip of the bow into Hedalf's hand, screaming as they lose the only family they ever knew, tears stinging their eyes as they sink brokenly into the ground; live bravely, love louder.
An agonizing reminder that she wasn't the only one who'd lost.
It's heartbreakingly bitter, and none of them say a word as they watch them struggle to their feet, wipe the tears from their cheeks, look at Hedalf with clear, burning eyes.
Because they'd traveled too far, given too much, and there was no turning back now.
What was it Sorey had said? She wonders now, alone with a grave, rain running down her arms, plunging from the slate-grey sky.
I'll never forget this pain for as long as I live.
Maybe it was time to do the same. Maybe it was time to close this chapter, to let Eizen go, to forget, to forgive.
But as she looks at the forlorn grave, kept dry only by the efforts of her umbrella, normin plush dangling right above clusters of clipped flowers, she knows that she can't.
She didn't want to forget, she didn't want to forgive.
Because maybe feeling something was better than pushing it away and not feeling anything at all, and hell if she was going to become like Symonne and despair for a century.
Maybe this was something she would carry for the rest of her life.
You should name the stars, she'd told him. Aren't brothers supposed to do that?
Afraid I'm not creative enough, he smiles at her through long bangs. You should ask Zaveid.
He'll just name them after all the women he goes after, she grumbles, and he laughs.
Maybe so. But that'll be far more interesting than what I'd come up with.
She would never know what he would've named them.
A slight twinge in her arm brings her back, and she shivers violently. I should call up Meebo and ask him to stop the rain, she thinks in delirious laughter.
But Mikleo was gone, far away, carrying his-Sorey's-their-dream on his back, deep within hidden ruins and false trap-doors, trying to live, trying to breathe, trying to learn, trying to wait.
And Lailah, off nurturing another Shepard, trying to heal, trying to mend.
Zaveid, traveling, learning, trying to move, trying to explain.
And Sorey, sleeping under the weight of the hopes and dreams of the people of Glenwood, death-like in his tranquility, forgotten in legend and erased in memory.
What are you doing here? She asks herself, suddenly angry. Mourning the memory of a brother long-gone.
There's nothing else I can do, she lies.
Because here she was, stuck in time and stubborn in memory, frozen by unwillingness and the rain. She was dead for sentimentality, and that was the simple truth.
Now, her umbrella seems to grow heavier in her hands as she stares blindly at the cold tombstone protected from the rain.
Because there were more important things in the world, and sometimes she wouldn't get what she wanted.
Tell me I'll be okay, Edna thinks hysterically, boots scuffed from wear and weather, standing on the precipice of infinity in the scattershot rain.
The only sound in her ears is expectant silence and howling wind.
Look, Edna, He'd whispered, hand on the small of her back.
The cobbled streets of Lakehaven were ablaze with light and chatter, dancing torches scribbling the scene in glourious firelight.
What's going on? She asks, gripping his hand tighter.
It's a festival.
For what?
Far away, the rich scent of roasting meat curls into the city, and her stomach rumbles angrily.
Are you hungry? He asks her, humor crinkling his eyes.
….No, she denies sulkily, tugging on his jacket persistently. Let's go.
Are you sure? He drops down to ruffle her hair, takes both of her small hands in his. Because Zaveid and some others are at the Sanctuary, and I would be willing to bet they're stuffing their faces without us at this very moment.
….Alright.
He laughs, soft and deep, takes her hand, kisses her hair; his smile warms her like nothing else could, and in that moment, she knew this was love.
Now she coughs, harsh and jarring, wipes her eyes with the back of her soaked glove, determinedly holds the umbrella over the grave and scrabbles for purchase in half-hazed memories far gone.
She was barely seven when he took them to watch the sunrise.
I don't want to, she complains from the tight circle of his arms. This is boring.
But if you say that about everything, you'll never experience new things. Eizen shifts her higher on his hip. Besides, I'm doing all the hard work here, see?
No one asked you climb the mountain to see the stupid sun, She mutters, playing with her normin plush.
Eizen smiles infuriatingly, like there's a secret that she doesn't know, and Edna scowls.
They round the bend to the peak, and Eizen puts her down, gently brushes the dust from her petticoat.
Look at the hills, Edna.
She sulkily obliges, hugging the normin to her chest as she drags her feet to edge. She sits down, looks down at the sprawling greenland underneath, unimpressed.
So what? We see this all the time.
Eizen comes down to sit beside her, leans back on his hands. That's the perfect spot for a sunrise.
She buries her face in her plush, curls her toes around the edge of the cliff face and sighs longsufferingly.
Eizen nudges her, holds out his hand to reveal a spangled butterfly.
Its iridescent iris wings quiver in erretic anticipation, thin feeders wobbling with the temperal wind. She stares at it for awhile, finally reaching out a tentative hand to touch it.
When her fingers get closer the butterfly quivers, then spontaneously takes flight in a whirlwind of efflorescent wings.
Edna blinks rapidly, then quickly looks back to the cliffside.
I think the sunrise's about to begin, Eizen murmurs by her ear.
She stares at the rugged horizon in-attentionally until her eyes start to blur.
Slowly, an ombre of tea-rose washes over the twilight stars, and she looks at it despairingly. Is that it? She turns to look at Eizen.
Shh. He puts a finger to his lips. Nothing good comes without patience.
She sits there for what must've been an infinitude of time before another sliver of sun emerges, ripping the cliffside into monochromus shadow.
The rose bursts into dappled gold, vermillion, until an effulgent gleam of acerbic white gashes the horizon and the bottommost corner of the sun slides into view.
Stars are starting to blanch, melting into the daylight sky as the sun reveals in its egotistical majesty, and Edna has to squint to see the tips of the trees.
She sneaks a glance at Eizen sitting there loosely, enraptured.
The alice blues of his eyes melt into translucent plexi-glass as the sun shifts above the foliage of bramble, and she can see her own glazed reflection in the airy depths. His eyelashes cast an angled shadow across his cheekbones, high collar aristocratically stiff against the sharp curve of his neck.
She looks back at the sunrise, all halcyon gold and verisimilitude brilliance, crimson red bleeding into the edges of the forest, streaming beauty in spirals of corkscrew clouds, rockefeller majesty tilted in the chocolate caps of the distant mountains, bubbling scintillation shimmers in in the creeks. It casts Glenwood into solipsism chiaroscuro, breathing lustre into pebbles, into rocks dull under moonlight.
What do you think? Eizen asks.
She looks at him, the sunlight sleeping soft on his face, rich in his eyes.
It's alright, I guess.
She tilts her head now, feeling somewhat foolish as she opens her mouth to taste the rain. It assails her eyes, and she flinches at the newness of the cold on her cheek.
It's lucid sweet on her tongue.
The sky is packed with heavy gray clouds that seem baleful in presence alone, curling threateningly around the needle-tip of the spire.
Rough fabric from the glove scrapes against her hand, and she still remembers the blistering scorch of rope on her fingertips, the salty zest of ocean water in her hair.
Never had she thought any place could be as hot as the sea, air clogged with salty humidity, choking her throat. She'd been stubbornly glued to her umbrella, determinedly huddling underneath its small shadow and glaring at anyone that'd come two feet near her.
Eizen'd spent the whole day flitting around the ship, and she had watched him expertly maneuver the wheel, deftly unknot riggings, swing from rafter to rafter like an oversized crow.
He was practiced, familiar with the sea, and as she watches him easily command the crew, effortlessly spin the mahogany steer, she feels a flash of anxiety, can't help but feel that this Eizen was a stranger.
But then he turns to her, smiles, and she suddenly feels overwhelmingly foolish. He was her brother, always would be, and a stupid voyage wouldn't, couldn't change anything.
How wrong I was, she thinks now, standing alone at the foot of a tombstone. How very, very wrong.
Like all things, it would come to an end.
She would grow older, the seasons would change, there would be good and bad days, rainy and sunny both in equal measure, and yes, there would be days where the early dawn looked too empty in its feral beauty, night stars dancing distant in their cold, luxuriant sheen, when she would wake up, tightly curled into a ball, clutching her glove to her chest, gasping, so inexplicably lost with no recollection of how she got there.
There would be days when the sunlight slants in all the wrong ways, days where the feeling of lonely would seem so much heavier than she could ever remember, days where she can't wash out the feeling of dirt and dust in her hair, days where nothing would seem to go right, and these were the days where she would cry stop, no more, I can't do this, not now but these were the days that would pass, those were the days that would be forgotten with time, because there would never be a shortage of good days to come, and by maotelus was she going to live.
She was going to laugh deliriously, love exuberantly, and stay a little foolish, a little hopeful.
Far away, the rain starts to lighten.
A/N: A million thanks to NN, who's put up with my aimless babbling about this story and these characters, and finally pushed me to a conclusion :'D I would be lost without your patience ^^
Also a billion thanks to Koe who essentially ruined yet another portion of my life by roping me into another fandom. Thanks ever so much...