Gore and angst warning, no seriously it's BAD. On that note though you should listen to Blomstertid (Reprise) from the game Bramble for the beginning of the chapter and then switch to Blood and Moonlight also from Bramble halfway through Gandriel's part. Have fun! I literally almost cried.
They were too late.
There was no life within her.
Not a hint or a wisp of essence that could be cradled close and saved, pulled from the void back where it belonged.
With a cry, she tried once more to flush Anelisse's battered form full of that accursed life-giving power that she barely understood, that was not strong enough to undo what had been done no matter how she begged and demanded it. This farce of a blessing that had once driven her family to turn on her, and now, the one time it truly mattered, would not heed her call as she tried to repair what had been destroyed.
She beseeched every fragment of that shredded body, calling, begging, that absent, precious soul to return to her once more.
To come home so that she could right what she had so thoroughly failed.
She pled with the Mother, with every ounce of her wicked, fractured soul to take her in place of the limp woman laying prone in her arms.
She would give anything.
Everything.
An anguished, strangled scream tore itself from her throat as her power flared once more, flowing into every vein and nerve of that empty, cracked vessel, before pitifully sputtering out.
Celeste sobbed, clutching her sister's stiffened form close, rocking her gently as she had so many years ago, when storms or nightmares had frightened Anelisse into her arms, pressing her lips to matted silvery hair darkened by dirt and blood. Memories of a shattered childhood crept through her mind, released like a river through a collapsed dam. The tattered canvas surrounding her faded, replaced by a flash of a tiny blonde girl standing in the doorway of a rundown cottage, rivulets of bright sunlight illuminating her face, playful mischief quirking her mouth. Recalled the flitting, vibrant kernels of her sister's silver eyes flashing as she darted down the dirt path towards the outcropping where they fished in the evening, her playful bantering words that kept the darkness in her own heart at bay.
Anelisse was only person she had ever truly loved beyond reason, who had been with her every step of the way, her sister's fierce and loving ways saving her again and again from depths of her own tattered past.
The gentle child who had slept snuggled close to her in the coldest nights when her own tears had been unbidden, drawn out by the shadows that haunted her, and who had thrown her head back in joy and laughed with her in her happiest moments.
The one who had sworn to stay beside her to the end of her days.
There was no life without her.
Something in Celeste shattered as she gave a gasping sob, crumbling and scattering like the fine dust stirred outside by the soft morning breeze, fragments cast forever to the wind, never to be reassembled.
No existence was worth living if her sister was not there beside her.
Distantly, as though the sensation belonged to someone else, she registered that the stench had become nearly unbearable now, but Celeste could not, would not release the withered form in her arms, Anelisse's delicate fingers so swollen and misshapen the discolored skin wholly swallowed the fine silver rings adorning them beneath bulbous balls of warped flesh flecked in hues of grey, green, and black-
Rotting.
Her sister was rotting in her arms.
The world around her had narrowed to nothing, her mind unable to register anything but the horror before her but also unable to accept it. No sound reached her, the soft flap of the tent in the warming air replaced by voidlike silence, the bloodstained earth beneath her knees falling away into an abyss. Her chest burned with sobbing breaths she was unaware of taking, the pain so dim compared to the agony of her soul shattering, never to be repaired.
She couldn't tear her gaze from those unseeing eyes rolled skywards, sparkling silver-blue dimmed to misty white, the trailing marks of tears still visible through the dirt and blood remaining on Anelisse's blotched skin, the lingering stench of fear and remorse eternally intertwined within. And her body . . .
Celeste closed her eyes.
She could have prevented this had she not been such a fool. If she could have seen past her own blind goals for more than half a moment.
They should have never parted ways, should have never exchanged words in a such a hateful, irredeemable way—
Her fault.
This was entirely her fault.
"No."
She didn't move as the world warped and Gandriel landed beside her, didn't hear his sharp intake of breath or the nearly silent choking sob that followed as he froze behind, either unwilling or unable to approach. Didn't hear as Icarius crept closer from the shadow of the wood outside, keeping his distance at the edge of the camp, his hands absently holding the whickering, curious kelpies in place.
All that echoed through her was that void.
That eternal emptiness that would never again be filled.
Cenric had entered a realm of shadows, doused in darkness so deep he could not make heads or tails of where he was, even as the garden of the Riverside Estate remained around him. And at the center of that darkness . . . a flickering silver light, so faint it was barely more than a wisp.
It called to him, like a siren on the sea in the wildest storm.
So near and yet so very far.
Something he had spent a lifetime searching for, something he did not know he needed, could not exist without.
He reached a tentative, trembling hand towards it.
I couldn't get to her. A somehow familiar, grieving feminine voice wove through his mind, the only anchor he could find into the desolation he'd descended into, a pale, gleaming thing that was as natural to him as breathing, a bond unbreakable. I couldn't protect her, I've failed, failed her in every way imaginable. I truly was too weak.
That anchor, it was failing, slipping into the nothingness that lay in the beyond, its light doused like a torch dipped into the ocean, coldly and brutally extinguished.
And there was nothing left to save it, to hold it in place.
Instinctually Cenric dove for it, dragging it back from darkness in which he'd been born.
He focused on that voice, delving deep into himself as he scrambled for the loose shreds fraying in his mind, unraveling like spools of thread, and wrapped their pale, silver edges in his night-kissed darkness, begging the voice to stay, to draw on his strength where all others had failed it.
He strained to give it some tether, this sacred, blessed thing he did not understand, as he willed that presence to remain, to explain.
A presence he found he could not lose.
That she who flickered at the edges of his heart could not lose.
Who? he gently asked the voice, his attachment to the outside world evaporating as his vision began to bleed to darkness, replaced only by the wisp's gentle, pale light in the distance. Who did you fail?
Those strings pulled taut, a will unbreakable wrapping and entwining with his own, fighting against the darkness like a flickering, failing candle in a room of cold shadow. He did not why, but he offered all of himself to that presence, knew he had no choice but to do so.
Would never forgive himself if he did not.
It was then a figure appeared, a visage of memory immortalized in a beautiful light, her faint but delicate features an answer to a whisper he had not realized his soul had long been asking.
Her angelic features, for he could have described them no other way, frowned as she looked at him, her being a star crafted from the rarest and finest crystals. His memory devoured the details of her face, as lovely and delicate as porcelain.
And utterly human.
Pale pink lips curved into a soft smile, the glimmering ashen waves of her hair twisting about her face as the familiar voice said in a tone as soft as silk even as anguish soaked the words—
My sister.
Cenric's heart twisted at the familiarity of those words spoken with such love and pain, for how often had he whispered them himself, in just the same way?
Your sister? he inquired, awestruck by the woman before him, the curves of her face, her lovely features that were melded in such a portrait of sorrow that mirrored his own, features ringing a bell of familiarity in his mind.
Where had he seen her before?
Yes, she offered softly, barely more than a wisp of tattered clothing billowing in the darkness, my sister. She's gone off to fight and left me behind and now I cannot go to her, will never be able to go to her again.
What happened? He stepped forward, resisting as his body and soul cried out to reach for the vision before him. Where has she gone to fight?
The figure bit her lip, as though she could not remember exactly where her sister had gone, as though her mortal memories were slipping into the darkness as quickly as her form, as though she struggled for the words she could no longer find.
He settled for inching closer.
What can I do?
She leveled her gaze at him. I do not know. Tears welled even as defiance skirted across her features. I do not wish to go. If my sister returns, perhaps she can save me . . . but I do not know how long she will be gone. She glanced at her fading hands, drifting away into the darkness around them like shattered stardust. Or how long I can remain.
Something in the brokenness of her tone made his very soul ache, and he gave in to the instinct roaring through his soul, reaching for one of her translucent hands, the brush of their palms sending electricity coursing through his form.
Some tie lay between them, some unspoken oath that tethered their souls.
Her form immediately brightened, like a star rising on the horizon at sunset. And that brightness, that pure, limpid light . . . he knew what the answer was, knew what had to be done as he poured his own magic into her delicate frame, anchoring it to his own soul.
This delicate thing that he never wished to be apart from, who was waiting on the one thing that would never return for himself.
Perhaps in this way, he could save another from the anguish that had haunted him since that night so many years ago. Perhaps he could prevent this woman's sister from suffering the same way he had, in losing what was most dear and cherished to her.
Then I will hold you until she returns. He rotated that hand in his palm, memorizing its lines. I will not let you fade.
Gandriel stood unmoving as he watched Celeste try again and again, her power swelling and fading like rise and fall of the sun across the sky, a brilliant light that poured endlessly into that mangled, unmoving form before once again dimming into nothing.
It wasn't working.
That heavenly, unfathomable power that he himself had experienced as it snatched his soul back from the void, was doing absolutely nothing.
It had felt like forever now that she'd tried, anguished sobs weakening to ragged, gasping breaths as she relentlessly summoned her magic, willing her sister back to them.
He'd watched in mute horror as she'd cursed and pled with the Mother again and again to show her wretched existence a drop of mercy in a life she claimed was filled endless, senseless misery. Listened as his friend whispered bargains and sacrifices, offering her life again and again in place of the one taken before her time, promised every ounce of her immortal existence, as though her own life meant nothing.
As though she weren't just as vital as the woman lying limp in her arms.
Yet even as Celeste begged and fought endlessly . . . Gandriel knew there was nothing left of Anelisse, nothing left of the woman he had loved, had cherished beyond reason. Though neither of them truly knew or understood the extent and limitations of Celeste's mysterious gift, something within him knew they had truly been too late, that there was nothing left to save. He'd felt the emptiness that followed death the moment he'd laid eyes on Anelisse's mutilated form, knew that whatever soul had existed within was no longer tethered to her body.
The woman he would have happily married and called Lady if she'd so chosen it. Human or not.
Now she was nothing more than an empty husk, devoid of all of the things he had treasured so fiercely.
And it was all because of that heinous, traitorous bitch Ithaca, who had abandoned Anelisse when she'd sworn to protect her.
Gandriel had seen where she had marked some crude, barely visible wards on the outskirts of the camp before fucking off to Mother knew where, knowing full well that her young, mortal charge's life would be at stake.
As though the bitch had done it intentionally.
Some spiteful action she'd taken to get back at Celeste for her power over her.
It had been so stupid and ignorant of them to have trusted her at all, so idiotic to have not told her to piss off ages before, to have saved themselves this.
Anger rolled at that, tent flaps snapping sharp as a whip in the sudden wind that rose outside as his power swelled to match, desperately seeking an escape, a target to hold accountable for the unspeakable hell that lay on the dusty floor before him. To take retribution for the innocent blood that had been needlessly been spilled.
And he would hold Ithaca accountable too, would hunt her to the ends of the earth if it meant bringing the justice that Anelisse rightly deserved.
Both her and Dune.
For the bastard's scent saturated the camp, so clear and recognizable it was like he'd left it there on purpose. He hadn't even bothered to cover his tracks, the knife he'd used to demolish Anelisse still sticking up in the dirt next to the billowing tent as though he were a conquering general raising his flag triumphantly over a battlefield, rather than a sadistic coward who sought out the helpless for his own enjoyment.
A taunt, as brazen and arrogant as it was stupid and suicidal.
The male had already had a target painted on his back for the threat he'd made against Gandriel's mother, but now having brutally murdered the woman he loved-
He finally understood the endless fury that seemed to burn eternally within Celeste, the depths to which she'd fall when wrath truly took her.
It was the next ragged sob ringing through the camp that instantly doused the burning rage, the unbearable cry that made his entire being cave on itself like water trickling into the burning inferno that was so unlike himself.
He could hunt them later, could track them and pin them so Celeste could exact whatever revenge she wanted, that she so deeply deserved.
Gandriel swore the hot tears streaming freely down his cheeks would never end, the salt trickling into the corners of his lips. Swore that there would never be a moment that the heart that beat in his chest would cease its aching.
He had never known such a loss, had once made a bargain with a demon that he might never have to feel it. And that very bargain had led to the anguish within him now.
And that loss, that endless suffering . . . he could feel the cracking of his own soul as Celeste let out another gut-wrenching moan that made his entire being shudder as she pulled Anelisse closer into her arms once more, unwilling to be apart from her.
A sound so deeply laden with agony and grief it could never be stitched.
They would never be the same.
He glanced towards Anelisse's wrecked form, trying with all his might to make himself see what remained of the one he loved, and immediately felt bile build in his throat as he turned his attention elsewhere.
He could not make himself look at her.
Could not make himself go to her.
He did not know if he could ever face the remains that lay only feet away, to lay his eyes on what remained the woman who he had betrayed so deeply by leaving her in this wicked place in a desire for her own safety.
A place that had cost her life.
Sucking in a shaky breath, Gandriel buried his face into his hands, trying desperately to anchor himself to something, anything that would allow him to rise from ground he'd sunk onto, to make himself go to those he called family, to try to be something other than utterly useless and cowardly.
Yet no energy came to him, nothing more than another chest deep sob that threatened to leave his throat as he tried and failed to shove it down, struggling to hide his own wretched pain from the mourning sister before him.
He was pitiful and weak in all the ways that mattered.
A male who could not protect those he cared for most.
The soft sound of approaching footsteps caught his attention, a pair of a leather boots appearing in his vision as he blinked away the tears. Icarius loomed above him, his eyes still deep in shadow beneath his hood but fixed onto Celeste as his fingers mindlessly twitched, covered in a fresh coat of dirt and grime that had not been there prior.
Those fingers stopped twitching as that dark gaze turned on Gandriel, heavy beneath the cowl. Silently, the cloaked male nodded his head over a shoulder, and Gandriel managed to raise his head enough to catch sight of the deep grave freshly dug at the edge of the grove, yawning open to the clouded sky above.
A resting place Icarius had dug with his own hands, made evident by the dark mud now caking his cloak and tattered cowl.
An act of kindness from a stranger who did not know them, who had lost everything because of them. Who despite everything, had taken it upon himself to do what he likely knew they could not.
And the look he sent Celeste, as though he would walk over and gently take Anelisse's prone form from her arms, would take on the duty of burying her himself to save the mourning female that hardship . . .
The thought made Gandriel's heart twist further.
And looking back at that small, dark grave; a damp, cold hole where the loveliest woman would forever rest, where he would have to leave her without a single goodbye . . .
No.
No.
He refused.
To the deepest core of his heart, he refused.
Something in him sparked, defiant and resilient.
They would not bury Anelisse.
He would not allow it.
And Celeste, who kept fighting and fighting to bring her back while he sat worthlessly in the mud mourning, endlessly pouring her power into a body mangled and rotted beyond healing, devoid of the beautiful soul that belonged to it . . .
She needed more power.
Something he was not lacking in.
He rose suddenly to his feet, nearly ramming his head into Icarius who quickly sidestepped, watching as he made his way towards Celeste who had finally given up trying to revive her sisters lifeless form and instead wept endlessly into her unmoving chest.
He had to do something.
Anything.
Thoughts began to spool in his mind as he considered options, his mind twirling through the stories and lessons his aunts had taught him year after year, the legends and myths that had surrounded their people, the endless artifacts and powers. How combining such powers could amplify their effect.
Few had ever existed that could revive the dead.
He'd been brought back by one such being.
And the High Lord Rhysand and Feyre Cursebreaker . . . they, too, had both been revived through the strength of the Mother's magic, through the collective efforts of all of the High Lords, the combination of their power an unfathomable force that had defied the very laws of nature itself.
Two beings that had given birth to only resurrectionist known in recorded history.
And if Celeste carried somewhere within her the power of all seven of the High Lords, as her Made mother did . . . and he the blood and raw power of one of them . . .
Gandriel slipped the knife from his belt as he strode slowly toward Celeste, his eyes finally landing unflinchingly on the wilted form of Anelisse, his heart nearly stopping at the sight. He knew then that he would give everything, every last drop to make this stop.
To right what had been wronged.
Blood welled as he drew the blade across his hand, immediately catching the attention of Icarius, who stiffened imperceptibly behind him. Outside, the kelpies lifted their heads, nostrils flaring as the rising wind brought the predators the metallic tang of the blood of a High Lord's heir.
Ignoring the confused glances of their audience, Gandriel focused on the memories of stories that Sophia had once told him of the fabled powers of those said to be connected through their souls, a resonance between beings that allowed them to pour their life forces together to amass abilities that no living creature could conjure naturally.
Long forgotten stories filled his mind, of fate-paired warriors who had cleared battlefields with the power of their shared bond, who could amplify each other's magic in a way that was beyond the realm of the possible, otherworldly even. A bond, different from mates, but no less powerful, in which one could not exist without the other.
Ancient paragons who were little more than myth now.
And if two souls could align in such a way, could entangle their powers so thoroughly . . .
It had been Maria who had told him that one should never attempt such feats, that all of the stories dismissed it as taboo, for such pairs were so rare as to be nonexistent, and a failed attempt would only bring great misfortune, the death of the wielders at the best and the shattering of their souls at the worst. But that act of magic, the art of revival from a resurrectionists hand and the added power of an Aella and High Lord's heir . . .
Celeste barely glanced at Gandriel as he knelt beside her, her eyes red rimmed but no longer filled with tears, only gazing unseeingly into the distance over Anelisse's blank face. She only looked up as she caught the scent of the blood weeping from his palm, her arms still wrapped tightly around the pale dressed corpse in her lap as she struggled to focus a confused look at his hand.
It was their only shot.
Celeste's voice was raw and broken. "What are you doing?"
He sidestepped the question, focusing instead on what lay before them. "Do you trust me?"
For at this point all they had left was trust, a shot in the dark that only they could pull off.
He offered the knife out towards her, nodding towards her own palm, praying he would not lead her to her own demise.
Yet what life could exist for her after this?
What existence could she have that would not be marred by this failure? And knowing Celeste . . . she would never come back from this, would never heal.
She, too, would be dead in all the ways that mattered.
They had to try.
She watched him blankly, her face warped in irreparable sorrow, glancing between the knife and his bleeding palm, barely registering what he was asking of her.
With a small shrug, she uncaringly thrust her own hand out towards Gandriel, as though waiting for him to slice her wrist open so that she might join her sister sooner. He would never do such a thing.
But gently splicing the skin of her palm, just enough that they might join their powers . . . he would try it.
With as much gentleness as he could muster, he slashed her hand, the scent of Celeste's blood entangling with his own, the tang a sharp contrast to the putrid scent of Anelisse's remains. Her palm wept, dripping languidly, deep scarlet stark across the grey, brittle mud.
Sheathing the knife, Gandriel began to explain, carefully selecting the words to explain his absolutely insane idea to her in some semblance of coherency.
"There are legends of amplification, of two combining magic into one to strengthen a power—"
Celeste's eyes widened in understanding, clearing and focusing a bit as no doubt her own feeble knowledge of the legends came to mind, almost looking ashamed that she had not thought of it herself. She looked immediately to his hand, as though she would clamp her to his instantly without hesitation before she stopped, gaze flickering with indecision.
Gandriel knew the look that draped over her features, that depth of caring that she possessed, even in the depths of such despair and hopelessness, that she so often denied. The affection and respect she held for him, for his family, even if she would deny it to her dying breath.
She leveled her violet gaze at him, sorrow dancing in its depths, the ever-present starlight trapped within dimmed out of existence. "It will likely kill you."
She knew.
Knew that their chances of success were a needle in a whole universe of haystacks, that their compatibility was a less than a fool's hope and that even if the blaze of clashing magics did not burn them out entirely, they would likely wither in madness for the rest of their days, too demented and crazed to do more than soil themselves and shout at the skies in fear, losing all semblance of self and lucidity.
Should this fail, they would never been able to continue their fight against the slavers, could never return to their homes, to their old lives.
Celeste knew and did not care that she would perish, likely was pleased to know it would end soon, but for him to go as well—
They were a team.
A family.
He offered his bleeding palm to her, openly and freely, watching as his lifeblood dribbled lazily to join the droplets of her own on the ground below.
His mother was going to skin him for even considering such a thing.
"We either live together," he gestured towards Anelisse, her too-still frame, the rot on her face that he would never forget as long as he lived, the lips he longed to kiss and beg forgiveness from. He had already been granted the gift of freedom and second life once by Celeste, he could and would willingly take this risk for them both. For the three of them. "Or we die together."
Celeste paused, her red-rimmed eyes meeting his own, searching for and finding nothing but sincerity, before snatching his palm into her own and clamping them together, their blood seeping and welding together like a single blade. Gandriel stiffened, suddenly finding himself incapable of removing his hand from Celeste's even if he had wanted to, the magic entwined in his very being burning as it reached out to hers, the two twining about one another in a way that could never be reversed—
The world around him faded as the sparks of their magics burst together into an eternal blaze, thunderous and unbreakable as they roared in recognition of one another, a call to an echo of two beings linked together by the ties of destiny, bound by soul and power.
The rush of life magic tore through Gandriel so fiercely he nearly forgot to breathe, the flow of power fresh and welcoming as it was overwhelming and unstoppable, a caress that was as tender as a mother's, a force as eternal and undeniable as the world itself, breathing, growing, creating—
Forcing himself to focus amid the whirlwind of power surrounding and inside of him, he caught Celeste's gaze, her own eyes once again alight and gleaming with the glow of magic shared between them. She gave him the smallest nod, before bringing her free hand once again to her sister's chest and trying once more.
Cenric did not know how long he remained in that place, how long he held onto that gentle spirit's hand as they waited in the silence, her feeble form clinging to the magic he readily gave her, the essence he offered freely so that she might remain.
They did not speak through the passing time, did not look at one another as they waited on a force that she believed would come for her.
A belief and faith that resonated from her heart into his very soul, a living, tangible thing that no blade or weapon could shatter.
A bond that only one who truly loved the other could hold.
And whoever her sister was, this great being who she trusted with her entire being . . . she was blessed.
Truly and eternally blessed to be loved in return by something so faithful and dear.
And the spirit's sister's name, like a word on the tip of his tongue that would not form, was just as precious even if he could not speak it, like a gem tucked amongst a pile of fabric, cleverly hidden even if its outline was easily seen. Her sister's face, the fair thing that he could not quite unravel, framed by raven locks as dark as his own . . .
It was there but blurry, something he could not discern, even as he knew the spirit saw it clearly, clung to it with every fiber of her being.
As though some force or being stopped him from truly reaching it, deterring his every attempt to touch that sacred image.
A guarded, coveted secret that only this faint spirit could know.
A secret that some part of him wished beyond reason to hear, that begged endlessly to be united with even if he did not understand its pull, as though he somehow knew and loved this fair being as dearly as did the spirit he clung to.
He had nearly decided to ask her of her sister's name when a brilliant light flickered through the darkness, a warm, inviting power that brushed across the skin like the caress of a summer breeze, full of life and creation—
It exploded through the darkness, filling every crack and void around them, beating like an eternal heart driving the shadows into oblivion. The brush and taste of something he had long since missed, something that made his heart ache in longing, something that brought that image of violet eyes and raven locks to his own mind.
Fumbling, he grasped at the spirit's hand, watching as her fragile figure formed anew, her blurred features finally solidifying into a face that he could never forget.
Exquisite and beautiful beyond all reason.
Words failed him as she turned her attention toward that light, the desolation in her face replaced by resolve as she made to pull away from him, eager to flee into the waiting warmth of the light that had come to claim her, Cenric's energy mere ribbons in the presence of the aura that surrounded them.
The power of the Mother in its truest and purest form, likely come at last to claim this beautiful soul that he could no longer protect.
Something even he with his depthless power could not conquer.
She's here, the woman murmured, relief washing over her features as she dropped her hold on him and made for the light that seemed to call to her, begging her return.
Without reason Cenric reached for her, an undying need to touch the spirit once more before that brilliant light claimed her, an eternal desire to know her name, to know who she was, he hadn't had the sense to even ask the woman her name—
The light flickered once more like a candle in the night, drenched with the scent of jasmine and rain, before it consumed them both in its blinding glory.
Celeste had never felt such exhilaration as she dug deep into the wells of Gandriel's power, drenching herself in its scent of rain and the spark of electricity along her skin as she drank deeply from it, pulling as much of it into herself as she could manage, the brush of cool spring winds skating along every plane of her body, as though drying her tears, calming her grief as she drew in every draught.
Endless, unconquerable, and insurmountable.
It was godlike, so much so she knew any wise deity would have shuddered at its might, yielding wordlessly to the strength that flooded her. The depths of Gandriel's power were so vast, so far beyond any living being's comprehension, stretching endlessly into the distance as though they truly did not end.
And despite its might, at its very core . . . it was warm and gentle, filled to the brim with all of the kindness, love, and patience that a cruel world needed.
Filled even with a hope that might save that same cruel world.
An infinite power that only a male like Gandriel could wield without fear of corruption, an insurmountable pool of endless magic that could have leveled everything with half a thought but he instead chose to use for protecting those who could not protect themselves.
For saving those who could not save themselves.
Pulling from that unending reservoir again and again, Celeste poured herself one last time into her sister's broken body, carefully and meticulously reforming and healing every inch of tattered and mutilated skin, stiffened muscles, severed nerves.
Beyond piecing together that slender form that was so dear to her, she shouted into the darkness that lay beyond for any remnant of the soul that had long since departed, shining like a lighthouse in the midnight hours, guiding the lost vessel of her sister home.
She prayed against all reason that her sister saw that beacon, that she would heed that brilliant, endless light and come racing back to her.
Back to them.
Celeste watched the body in her arms as her magic flooded it, watched as the swollen skin slowly knitted itself back together, as though time itself had been reversed, unwinding what had been done to it and forming it anew, smooth and pale, almost glistening like silk under moonlight.
She watched as her sister's elegant face healed itself, warping back into its old curves but with finer definition as sparks of magic shimmered over its surface, the features amplifying and becoming sharper, more pronounced. Noted as her lithe body somehow became both willowier and stronger, slender and delicate as always but now carved like the finest oak, no longer the feeble, terribly mortal branches it had once been.
Anelisse's hair, its uncannily pale blonde splattered with mud and blood, slowly lightened even further, becoming truly ashen, like fine spun silver touched with the slightest hint of brushed gold and falling in the softest of waves.
Celeste did not stop until the power in her own hand faltered, spluttering, leaving a quiet and newly made body in her arms.
Whole and flawless.
And tipped with the finest pointed ears.
Still clutching Gandriel's hand, Celeste held her breath as she watched her sister, scanning her from head to toe and praying against all reason she would wake up, willing her to somehow return.
The sound of a heart kicking to life echoed in Celeste's ears, an undeniable sound that sent her whole body shaking in relief.
Anelisse suddenly took in a quick gasping breath, her body writhing in Celeste's arms as life bloomed into her once more, her once misty eyes opening to reveal a gaze that was now truly silver, like stars chipped from the skies themselves, her long lashes fluttering as she took in the world around her.
She was alive and devastatingly beautiful.
And completely and utterly fae.