A/N: Forgotten Realms and all associated characters are property of Wizards of the Coast. The Emberverse and all associated characters are property of S.M. Stirling. OCs are technically mine, I guess, but I'm a bit of a butterfingers, so…
That out of the way, I noticed that there was a distinct lack of Emberverse fanfiction here, and as a huge fan, I just couldn't let that stand. This idea came to me when describing the Change to a friend, and they compared it to the Spellplague from Forgotten Realms, and the idea struck me as being very interesting. I have yet to finish Sword of the Lady, and I am WAY behind on my FR reading, so consider this AU.
Enjoy
Faerun: 1385 Dale Reckoning
Mystra lay on the ground, her vital life blood pooling around her. As she tried to stem the flow with her magic, Cyrik, her long time foe, struck her again, laughing. She let out a moan of pain and cursed the dark god and spat at him. He only laughed louder at her pitiable show of defiance.
She was dying. She, who had ascended to godhood to replace her predecessor and return order to a world in chaos, could feel the tendrils of oblivion begin to wrap around her and pull her down. Were she still mortal, she would be taken to the hall of whatever god she worshipped. But she had given up that privilege when she became a god, and now she would know only emptiness.
No! she though as she riled against the encroaching blackness. I will not let him win. Acting without thinking, she hastily gathered the weave about her, mustering all the will she had left. She did not know what she would do, if there was anything she could do, but she had to try. Without even giving it a command, she released the power of the weave before Cyric could strike, and the energy blasted outward, knocking even the dark god from his feet.
When he stood again, Mystra was gone. More than gone, he could feel that her presence had left the world at large. Her Weave hung in tatters and burned across the surface of Faerun. She was gone, she had been defeated. Cyric felt an evil grin cross his face.
But he was not aware of the eyes that had watched the final moments of this battle. Eyes that did not jump readily to the conclusion of the goddess' demise. Eyes, that had not been fooled.
Deep within the Abyss, Ertuu grinned as well.
Earth/Midgard: March 17, 1998
Mystra breathed a sigh of relief as the magical healing began to take effect. She wasn't sure where she was, her escape had taken almost every last bit of her power, and she was reduced now almost to a mortal. But even as a mortal she had been powerful, and she could already feel the Weave growing stronger, spreading out from her. For a brief moment, she could wondered what could be fuelling it's rapid growth, but then she felt the blackness of sleep approaching, and knew that she would have to wait for the answer.
She lay down on the soft grass, and sent a command into the Weave. Immediately, it began to wrap around he once again, this time encasing her in a cocoon of energy.
As it solidified, she closed her eyes and let sleep take her, completely oblivious to the empires that were beginning to crumble, the cities that were beginning to burn, and the countless lives for whom the coming days would be called the dying time.