Thistle has light feet and a heavy heart.
She has dreams of a mountain, a king, and a storm. Teardrops that shine like gems as they fall and dissolve in the toxic water. A heart that freezes and cracks and shatters like all those who came before it.
She dreams of howling wind and an avalanche of deadly rocks that fall from the angry red sky.
She dreams her own memories -of life and death and life again- and wakes up screaming. Or at least what would be a scream if her body wasn't frozen in place, petrified in a position of pleading agony as it was in her last death, surrounded by the matching corpses of other Sky Children, willingly led -as she was led, as they all were led- to their own demise.
Other times, she dreams of walking among the stars, a flightless bird with clipped wings, guided home by the beckoning pharos of the tolling bell. A moth drawn to a flame that scorches it to ash, over and over again. Why would a living creature willingly give up its life, and gain nothing in return? Nothing, except stronger wings, so it is easier to fly to its death. Does it not know better? Or does it know too much?
The mountain calls to Thistle as it always has. Thistle the Child of Light. Thistle the moth. Thistle the broken corpse, fed to the dark crystals.
She recalls the one who led her to her first death. She trusted them, felt safe with them, and was taught by them about the world around her.
I'm scared, she remembers saying to them as they climbed the mountain that had always been their distant goal, huddling close to lanterns and each other for light and warmth, hiding from the hungry dark dragons circling overhead.
It'll be okay, they told her, as they had countless times before. It had never not been okay, so Thistle believed them. We're almost there.
And then we can save the other Sky Kids? she wondered.
And then we can save the other Sky Kids, they confirmed.
This was their purpose, Thistle had been told. To return light to the fallen, to rescue and befriend the spirits, to illuminate the darkened Sky Kingdom and awaken the elders. It was their destiny.
What she hadn't known yet was that purpose and destiny also meant sacrifice.
She was about to learn.
When they summited the mountain, she saw the statues scattered throughout the ruins, battered by the tempest. She didn't like the look of them. Dread and panic gripped her in a tight fist and began to swallow.
Watch me, her guide said before they made their way over to a statue…
And tore a Winged Light out of their chest.
They stumbled, expression twisting into pain as the light spirit that had once sustained their flight was ripped away from them, catching and igniting on the statue. Thistle gasped in fright, wondering why they had done such a horrible thing.
They need our light to be saved, they informed her, recovering their balance and attempting to stand up straight.
It's your turn.
Thistle thought she had known pain. But sacrificing her Winged Light to the statues hurt more than anything else had before, fiery agony burning through her before giving way to a chilling numbness, brought on by the contaminated water as she dropped into it, supporting herself on her hands. It felt as if her very soul was fracturing apart.
These aren't statues, she realized, hot needles prickling throughout her entire being. They're bodies. Bodies of Sky Kids like me.
This is how we have to save them?
You're ready now, her guide told her, a tiny sliver of pride making it through their labored tones. Goodbye.
Wait! No! Don't leave me! Thistle cried out after them, voice snatched away by the storm. I don't want to…!
It'll be okay, they repeated themselves from countless times before, but now they sounded hollow, despondent, as if they didn't believe in their own words. After a while, it doesn't even hurt that much.
How much do I have to give? she asked desperately.
Until you have nothing left.
I don't want to-
You have to.
I want to go back!
They turned and met her gaze, and their eyes no longer glowed a warm orange like a candle. They were black, endless pits with nothing behind them.
It's too late.
Their hand left hers and suddenly, she knew emptiness. Emptiness like the sockets of a bleached skull, a vacant chair, an everlasting hunger. Her palm was cold. This was the last thing they taught her, the final lesson of her mentor. A void, a bone-dry chalice with nothing to fill it, a windswept desert. Sky Children do not always need to breathe, but in that moment she was sure that they had taken her breath (of life) with them. She was choking.
There is no going back.
Thistle never saw her guide again after that. They disappeared into the Eye, leaving her behind to stumble aimlessly in a hazy fog of disbelief, denial, betrayal, and pain. Her feet were swollen and sliced by the sharp rocks, her cape tattered after seemingly countless strikes from the hail of stones from above. Her power of flight, her stars that she had worked so hard to gather for so long was ripped and beaten out of her again and again, but eventually she stopped trying to dodge and hide and take shelter, instead only continuing to walk, surrendering herself both to the storm and the fallen Sky Children, losing blood and Light drip by drip from wounds she no longer counted.
It never stopped hurting.
Not until the very end, when, at long last, she had nothing left. Nothing left to give. But still she would be taken from.
So this is it, she thought as she collapsed to her knees, stripped of all strength, any traces of identity and personality melted away into the oil, her cape little more than ragged shreds as her final star sliced in two (it cannot be half, only whole or not whole), reaching fruitlessly for a rescue that would not come. My life for theirs.
Her dying flame, a wick burned at both ends, guttered weakly for a few fleeting moments before finally flickering out, and then she was gone. Mercifully, her soul left her body before the dark crystals consumed it completely.
Awaken, Child of Light.
The voice called out to her like the bells of the temple, bringing her back from the dust of nonexistence, and it was not until she was facing the gate to rebirth, having embraced an achingly familiar yet unknown figure (a ruler without a crown) and ascending to impossible heights (where the Moon is close enough to touch, where a Rose waits for her Prince, where the Mother of all Spirits sings), that she understood the impermanence of her demise. It was not the end, but a beginning. She found herself back home after becoming a comet, falling like a star knocked from its orbit.
Her journey had only just begun.
But her soul forever bore the scars of her first time through the Eye of Eden, and it took her a very long while to gather the courage to go back and relive the horrible experience all over again. And again, and again.
(To heal the land, it must first be burnt to the ground, so the fresh new shoots can find the sun.)
She only thought of her first guide with bitterness, and resolved to not ever do to another what had been done to her.
Never, never never, she thought fiercely, clutching her sunshine-yellow cape around her after her rebirth, curled up and shivering and shedding silent tears. I refuse to lead the innocent to the slaughter. I refuse, I refuse, I refuse!
And yet, and yet, and yet.
She grew older, she grew wiser, and she eventually knew the Sky Kingdom better than the one who had first taken her through it. She learned from the spirits and elders and other Children of Light, teaching and being taught, using what they gave her to form her identity. Her wings grew in strength with every cycle, and she flew fast and far and free, swift and surefooted and able to traverse even the dangerous realms with ease.
And before she knew it, she was holding the hand of a newborn Sky Child, their star-filled eyes turned up to her, trusting.
(So trusting, so innocent and pure, such soft skin and weak, delicate wings)
She rode with them on the backs of mantas and sky whales, lent them the shelter of her umbrella from the toxic rain in the weeping forest, raced with them down hills and tunnels of sun-streaked ice, and shielded them from the dark dragons when they tripped and fell just outside the shelter. She told them stories, and gave them hugs, and they knew what it was like to have a friend, to wrap their arms around her shoulders, to have help chasing away shadows and loneliness.
She brought them to die on the mountain, watching as the light left their eyes, now full of nothing except betrayal. She only stood there, bowed by her own sacrifice, her cape already leaking embers into the oil like scales from a butterfly's wings. Or rather, those of a moth. She was still a moth underneath everything else, after all.
(A moth drawn to flame, leading others if they do not heed the call)
That young Sky Child was the first, but they would not be the last. One way or another, the nascent and helpless found their way to her, even if she did not find them. They landed in her arms, hands, and always, inevitably, at her feet (provided, of course, that she wasn't already dead).
Before long, she learned to avoid looking at their faces. However, she could still feel their accusation and hurt even as she turned away, averting her gaze, and it pierced her despite her knowing they would be reborn. She wondered if her eyes were the empty ones now, abyssal and unforgiving, a candle with no flame, reduced to a puddle of wax. It became a fear, a deep-rooted terror from her very core that she could only try to ignore.
Thistle knew that she had become the very monster she dreaded and loathed for so long, or at least her idea of a monster that left children to the mercy of the storm's fury, but it was as if she couldn't stop herself even if she tried. The mountain sang, it beckoned, and it pulled on her harder and harder until she inevitably slipped away into the darkness, a herald of Eden leading the little ones by the hand. The mountain always reclaimed its children no matter how far they ran.
(Eden knows its own. Long live the King)
Thistle has light feet and a heavy heart. She has feathers in her hair and sparse constellations of forgotten companions. She hides her eyes behind lenses of dark glass, feigning sensitivity to the sun, the eternal timekeeper that works in tandem with the bells. It is impossible for the eyes of a Child of Light to be hurt by the sun, but no one questions her. She no longer hopes that it is because they understand her, for that is also an impossibility.
Thistle is lost at sea. Which one, she does not know. She only knows that the waters are too wide and it is too difficult a task to furl her lonesome sails.
She dreams of golden blood dripping between her fingers. She dreams of the sharp metallic tang it leaves in her mouth, the scent that haunts her for days. She dreams of frosted peaks and secret jewels beneath rolling waves. She dreams of birds picking away at her flesh. She dreams of home, both her own and others left empty after war takes its share. She dreams of the dragons that roam the wastelands, of their twisted souls, of their haunting cries that only she can hear.
We are not so different, they seem to say. You will never be free.
She dreams of spears and arrows, of screams and smashed pottery, of tombstones marking graves both small and large. She dreams of lost hearts and minds. Sometimes, when she walks among the towering trees, she does not seek shelter from the rain. Instead, she stands and lets it slowly douse her flame, feeding the chill that has never left what serves as her bones, not since her first death. She lets the rain saturate her wings until they are nearly too wet to fly.
Nearly.
White funeral flowers bloom at her feet, and she knows they will mark her grave. She allows them to grow, their vines twining up her legs and arms, strangling her and wrapping around her already broken heart, binding the pieces together and burrowing into her veins to plant their seeds, watered by her golden blood.
She dreams-
Thistle! Wake up, Thistle!
She does. She blinks, and puts on her glasses.
And, for the first time in what she feels is so long, she smiles.
But it cannot be that long, because they always make her smile and she just saw them a few days ago.
Carefully crafted clothing of colorful fabrics and soft pelts, a shimmering blue cape, tiny azure beads bound and braided into their shining white hair, the color matched to Thistle's own loose, cascading curls. All Sky Children have the same hair and skin colors, but it is easy to forget that when they distinguish themselves from others with certain styles. Thistle has always had long hair, and she thinks she likes it that way.
Her companion's hair has always been short, with the same beads and perfectly intricate braids, and she knows she loves it that way. Thistle knows two suns: the one in the sky and the one standing in front of her now. Opal is radiant like a fallen piece of the heavens, as if they were born in Orbit with stars laid into their skin.
She no longer remembers how long it has been since she and Opal met, but they have been her one steadfast companion. They are not a shy, naive moth, nor do they judge her for taking the little ones to the mountain. Opal went to Eden with her once, and only that once was she not afraid. Opal is her guide, her lodestar and lighthouse that helps her to chase away the shadows and loneliness. They fly together, and sometimes sleep curled up next to each other, sharing the warmth of their flames. There is no cure for what is wrong with Thistle, but when she is with Opal she finds herself unable to worry or dwell on the painful past. It is not something she mourns the loss of.
They are the balm to her wounds, her ship on the rough seas. With Opal, Thistle can ascend without ever nearing the mountain, set in the sky next to her friend, a pair of stars leading weary travelers to safety. Opal reminds Thistle of everything there is to love about life. They are wildflowers, the sunrise over the snowy peaks, the crest of a wave on the horizon, the glittering shine of precious stones but infinitely more valuable. They are the feeling of a butterfly on her nose, the coolness of a koi pond she dips her feet into on a hot day, the music of chimes and birdsong, the comforting blaze of a Babylon candle whisking her away to any place she can imagine.
Thistle finds that she doesn't mind her dreams so much, when they end like this. When she can wake up to Opal.
Hey, Opal! She returns their greeting and they share an embrace.
Look what I found in the forest! They say eagerly, always excited to tell her about their adventures and show off their treasures. She coos in adoration as they open their travel pack, pulling out a potted light bloom.
It's beautiful!
I saw it and thought of you, Opal admits shyly.
I love it, Thistle says, cradling it carefully in her hands and setting it on a shelf where she'll see it every night before she goes to sleep. She turns back and meets their eyes, full of golden galaxies, and allows them to push her glasses up onto her head, so they can see her eyes. Another thing that's hard to remember is when exactly she started wanting to wear glasses every second spent around others, panicking if anyone saw her eyes in case they had become cold black holes, but she knows it is a deep and crippling fear. Yet Opal takes away that fear, and they are the only one she allows to remove her glasses like this. She knows Opal would never be afraid of her eyes, no matter how they looked. They would love her anyway, because they would still see her for herself, even if she no longer could.
So, how was the forest when you weren't stealing plants? She teases them. They give her a light, playful shove.
It was cool! But cold and wet too. Of course. And of course I missed you too! You should come with me next time. Like, today!
Maybe I will, she muses almost to herself as Opal brightens, fiddling with the ends of their cape.
Really? They tilt their head.
Yeah, sure! Why not?
Opal grins and extends their hand to her, and she takes it with no hesitation. With Opal, the adventure never ends. Life is a journey, but Opal seems to find the paths to the brightest futures, and Thistle will always follow them. Even when they get into mishaps, it's never boring, and better than any amount of time spent alone.
With Opal, I am always home, Thistle thinks as they run off into the forest together. They are where my heart is. They are a gift.
And what a wondrous gift it is, the love and warmth and happiness they share so freely. Their laugh like silver bells, their smell like petrichor and open skies. These things she is so lucky to have, these things she will never forget. The simple delights that mean the world to her.
The feeling of their hand in hers.
