Eden

She sat down on the grass, still as a stone. Eden was a glacial blue color with white hair. Tears fell from her face and froze before they fell in her lap. It looked like she was starting some sort of ice teardrop collection. She hadn’t cried like that since the first night she spent in this world, alone, and without a soul nearby who cared that she existed. She sat, facing the crater where the city used to be. Where everything she loved used to be. She built a living there. She found friends there. And all that died there. Well, what now?

Eden didn’t react when she heard footsteps behind her. Slow and ponderous, it was obvious that whoever was there wasn’t trying to sneak up on her. At this point in time, she didn’t care who it might be.

“What a desolate sight…” a deep voice said.

“What’s there to see, anymore?” She replied, bitter as winter. The voice was silent. She cast a glance to the ground behind her. Black, hand-stitched boots, almost covered by a black robe, the figure supported by a utensil with a long wooden handle. Without looking up, she could only guess it was a scythe. She looked back at the city. She could see trickles of molten stone from where she was at. At this distance, they might be rivers, though. She wasn’t going to let her last sight be the Grim Reaper. No way in any of the hells. Her last sight would be of the city.

“Are you a musician, she-elf?”

“Was.” She stated. “My instruments got burned up in the inn I worked at. What gave it away?”

“The calluses on your fingers.” the voice had a humming quality to it, reminiscent of something she couldn’t quite place. “Stringed instrument plucked without a pick or nails; you don’t play hard or long enough to cut your fingers, but often enough that your skin has toughened against the string.”

“Very observant, dark one.”

“I take it you escaped the explosion?” the voice asked.

“You mean you’re not here for me?” Eden asked, surprised.

“I might be yet, though that would be a cruel twist of fate.” the voice replied, almost morosely. “Suffice it to say, I was in the area for work reasons, and this happened to be a surprise.”

“A surprise? For you? There must be some powerful magics at work to keep something like this hidden from you until the last moment.” Eden said with a dry chuckle.

“Do you know who I am, child? Because that would be a surprise, as well.” Confused, Eden stood up and turned around to see a tall, pale, gaunt, older human man, holding a grime-encrusted shovel.

“Oh, I thought you were someone else. I’m not sure if that’s a relief or not at this point, but now I’m surprised. Who are you?” The man frowned his bushy, grey eyebrows and asked in return,

“Who did you think I was?”

“Well, I thought you might have been the Grim Reaper.” The old man chuckled wryly and said,

“Oh, no, definitely not. He doesn’t like my company very much. What made you think I was the Reaper?”

Eden shrugged. “After the evening I’ve had, death coming to escort me away is not a surprising idea to me. At all.”

“That’s fair.” the man said, nodding and looking back to the city. “Alas, I came for lavender and soil; instead I witnessed the end of Almaz, that great and holy city. That doesn’t bode well.” The man spoke as if commenting on the weather.

“You came for lavender?” she asked, slightly shocked at the normalcy of it.

“A specific kind that only grows around here. It’s red, and this specific kind can grow even in the snow.”

“It doesn’t snow around here…”

“I’m well aware of that; I just said that it can grow in snowy climates.”

“Do you live up north?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He replied. Eden turned to look at the crater again and shivered.

“What is your name, she-elf?” He asked.

“Now that’s a question with more irony in it than you know.” She said, turning and sitting back down on the grass, facing the city as one would a bonfire. “You may call me Eden.”

“You’re fae.” He stated, though, not in an accusatory tone.

“What gave that away? The color or the turn of phrase?”

“I had my suspicions with the color. The turn of phrase confirmed it.” He paused for a few minutes. She turned to look at him and found that he was staring at the crater, rubbing his chin as if deep in thought. She turned back to look at the emptiness that had been her home

“Do you have any skills besides musicianship?” he asked after long deliberation.

“Not being able to go home.” She said miserably. “I’ve managed to lose access to my home in one way or another twice, now.”

“Then come with me.” He said. She turned and glared at him, her color turning orange and red. He held his hands up, letting the shovel rest on his shoulder. “Hold on, now, it’s nothing that warrants that look, I assure you.”

“No.” she replied, firmly, still glaring at him.

“Obviously that proposal needs more context; you don’t want to just hop in a wagon with creepy old men in the dead of night. Please allow me to explain myself.”

“Include your name in your explanation.” she said, still looking a bit sulky.

“I’m a musician, and a fantastically good one, too, if I do say so myself. I have been called The Grim Skald in the past, among other names, but now I simply go by Ichabod. More importantly, I am a powerful magic user. That being said, you’ve lost your home, and it looks like anyone who ever knew you, as well. You might not have started to consider it yet, being that you’re in mourning, but you’ll need a safe place to start over, preferably doing something that you’re familiar with, which will, in turn, help you feel safer and more yourself: music. Plus, being an elf, magic will come naturally to you. I don’t have an apprentice, in fact, I never have, and in my old age, I’ve been thinking about rectifying that. It’s a good opportunity for the both of us. Plus, you’re young, and will be able to carry on my craft long after my soul departs.”

Eden’s demeanor relaxed and her expression softened. Her color started to drift to light orange and yellow. “Young? I’m an elf. I might be three-hundred years old, for all you know.”

“No, you’re in your mid-twenties, with a lifespan topping out at near the two-thousand year mark.” Ichabod replied, matter-of-factly.

“That’s a guess!”

“No it’s not. Due to the nature of my craft, I can look at someone and automatically see a decent idea of what their lifespan is like, as if a wick without a lamp is laid out in front of me–I can see how long the wick is and how much is burnt up.”

“So actually show me something, Ichabod.” Eden challenged.

“You mean you want to see a parlor trick.”

“Something to prove that you’re more than a two-bit charlatan who picks up defenseless elves after a… tragedy.”

“Fine. But first, I want you to do something for yourself. Consider this a start to your apprenticeship.”

“What?”

“To start with, turn and look at the ruin of your home.” She did so, her color turning back to a frosty blue as her mood took a turn for the worse. “I want you to feel what you’re feeling. Don’t try to block it, tough it out, or process it, let your sorrow take its course. Feel what you feel, the loss, that hole that is forever going to be in your chest! I want you to feel all of it; for only a few moments, take it all in!”

And she did. Maybe it was the cadence in his voice, maybe it was just something she needed, but she did. For a few moments, she stared at that crater, remembering the camaraderie of tavern songs and the patrons that faithfully joined in on them, the small annoyances of Sael, the rich girl with too much time and money on her hands, yet a large desire to just simply not be alone, which was something she could empathize with; the general quiet that she felt whenever Azrael was around; if anyone knew peace and how to have peace, it was certainly her friend Azrael, and that was almost as valuable as his friendship, for her antics and small adventures never felt as bright without him there to enjoy them with her, his peace contrasting wonderfully with her exuberance, and all the other lives in that city that, now that she thought about it, made her who she was, were now snuffed out like a candle that had given her world light; only the wisps of smoke remained. Tears streamed down her cheeks, fresh tears that forged new rivulets through the dirt and soot on her face; she cried, and not the pretty cry of someone witnessing something beautiful, but an ugly sobbing that erupted into hacks and chokes as the outward flow of liquid and emotion overtook her intake of air.

Everyone was gone. Her chest ached. She sunk to her knees, praying, praying to any god that might be listening.

Did it have to be this way?

Can this not be so?

“Odin,” she cried out, not realizing that she was speaking aloud, “Frigga, Zeus, Hera, Titania, Oberon, somebody, bring them back! Give them back! Please!”

Please!

Please!

Please… give it back.

Give it all back!

It wasn’t yours to take from me!

My life wasn’t yours to take from me!

Those people weren’t yours to take!

They weren’t yours to take!

She shuddered, her fists clenched so tight her palms bled from where her nails punctured them. Her small frame was wracked with agony, as it struggled for air. She leaned forward, putting her weight on her elbows and bent her head between her arms, and she gripped the back of her head, rocking back and forth.

“Good,” Ichabod whispered to her, “What you’re feeling, right now, I want you to remember that and hear it in your mind; it’s a tone–a single tone that will eventually be sown into your music to sprout and flower into a gorgeous and haunting melody unique to yourself. Hold onto that feeling, and store it away, ready to bring to the forefront again when you are ready to make music from it. It is an arrow in your quiver, ready to be drawn and aimed, a paint on your brush, making the backdrop on a canvas, and a thread tied to a needle, ready to be sewn into a masterful tapestry that you. will. make.”

After he said this, he pulled out a handkerchief from his robes and handed it to her, stepping back respectfully as she cleaned her face. When she had finished, she handed back the now soiled cloth, which he now bid her keep. After a while, she stumbled to her feet.

“Come with me to my wagon, and I will show you the magic you asked for. It’s a ways off, so while we walk, would you mind telling me of events that lead up to the destruction of such a beautiful, and well-crafted city?” She nodded, and told him the events of the month past, of the paladins’ departure, of Odin’s raven, of the man who claimed alcohol wouldn’t affect him, and of the unexplainable dwarf who disappeared without a trace after speaking of deities. Finally, after what felt like forever, she spoke of the events of that very night.

“Azrael and I were making our way to the temple of Odin. It’s strange, now that I think about it,” she said, “but I think we all were avoiding that temple since Azrael had his encounter with Huginn. We all found reasons not to go.”

“That actually sounds about right.” Ichabod interrupted. “Priests, particularly the ones of large temples, usually have a bit of magic at their disposal. Nothing that would make them proper spellcasters, as the magic usually comes from an altar, a holy item, or sometimes the temple itself; but if the priest thought something was amiss, he could activate the magic and it would influence the targets of his ire to not return. Naturally it wouldn’t work very well if you’re aware of the magic, but for most people who don’t know about it, they just continue on with life sans the temple, not realizing that it’s a big deal.”

She nodded. “That makes a lot of sense. Anyway, we’re walking and the street is suddenly filled with people running for their lives and screaming. They’re panicked and it’s quite alarming because we don’t see anything at first. I hear someone scream something about helwolves. Do you know what a helwolf is? I mean they showed up, but what are they?”

“You’re sure they’re helwolves?” Ichabod asked.

“Well they were both hellish and wolfish. They’re tall. Maybe seven feet at the tallest, but I don’t think I saw one below six. And they’ve got long arms, like some sort of ape might. Paws on their back legs and hands on their front with terrible claws. Their teeth are strange, too. When they grin, there aren’t any gums that you can see; just a mouth full of teeth, and their breath glowed green.”

“Did they have the brand of Hel?” Ichabod asked.

“The brand of Hel…?”

"Yes, it should look something like a skull with lightning bolts for hair. Ideally it would be on their chest above the heart or on their forehead.”

“They had something that glowed on their shoulders, but I didn’t get a good look at it. It was green, too, though.” Ichabod just nodded in response, so Eden continued, “They cut through the crowd, like… I don’t know, like a spinning blade or something. It was quick, so Azrael and I took off in the opposite direction, running and hiding. It didn’t do us any good, as the helwolves just broke into every building they came across, slaughtering everyone inside, and leaving just as quick. There were a few times that Azrael and I had to dive out of open windows and take off, because the things would tear down every door they came across.”

“So, they weren’t eating people. They were just killing them and moving on?”

“That’s right.”

“That doesn’t sound like the helwolves… Please, continue.”

“ People died all around us, and it was sheer luck that we didn’t get cut down, though there were a lot of close calls. We reached the fountain in the middle of the city, and we turned around to find a great big one stomping through the city, picking up people with one hand and swallowing them whole. And breathing fire.

“What did that one look like?”

“Between twenty and twenty-five feet tall, I think, and more proportional, too. The arms weren’t longer than the legs, but its eyes glowed orange like hot coals and it smelled like smoke and burnt hair. I’m not sure he looked entirely like a wolf, though. Maybe a wolfish dog? But it was black with tiger-ish stripes that glowed like its eyes.”

“Did it wield a weapon?”

“Yeah, it held a short-handled axe. Do you know what it is?”

“It sounds like Garm, a minor deity. It’s supposed to be guarding the gates of Hel.”

“That was a god walking through the city?”

“Probably not the god itself. Usually it’s an aspect, a throwaway representation that appears in place of the god. Easily manufactured, but difficult to summon. For all practical points and purposes, it’s the god at a fraction of the power, and the god’s consciousness wears it like a suit on this realm, furthering its own ends.”

“So the god itself was not there? That was just a stand-in?”

“Most likely.” Ichabod said. “Granted, a minor deity would be more likely to show up in its real body than a greater deity would, but that’s not always the case, and most gods don’t for a variety of reasons. Sometimes they literally cannot, due to a treaty or a promise between rival gods, as some of the good and evil gods have forged between themselves, sometimes it’s to prevent accidentally breaking the world by their very presence, as is the case with some of the greater gods, and sometimes it’s because they are afraid they will become mortally wounded on this realm.”

“You can mortally wound a god?” Eden’s head was spinning.

“Not me, personally, but yes, gods can be killed. Thor is a prime example of this. That battle-crazed psychopath has been bitten by Jörmungandr a few times, knowing full well that bite is lethal to him and if he dies from it, it’s the end of almost everything.”

“But he hasn’t died?”

“No, the Olympian and Ma’atic gods aren’t too keen on the world ending, so they work together with some of the Yggdrasilic gods who care to fix problems like that, healing wounds of that nature and neutralizing the world-serpent’s venom. But, at the very least, it’s a good example of a major god nearly dying from a wound.”

“How do you know about this stuff?”

“I’m a bard. Retaining stories–or at least information that will make good stories–is my business. So what happened next?”

“We gave up. We stopped at a fountain when my knees just gave out and we just stopped. The big wolf thing… Garm… didn’t even seem to see us. He raised his axe and swung it at the fountain, destroying it, and the ground below, directly into the sewers. I guess that snapped us out of the daze we were in, not that it did us much good. The ground started falling out beneath us, and we ran so we wouldn’t fall, but Azrael… wasn’t fast enough. He fell. I tried to catch him. I tried.” She started to cry again and they both stopped their walk until she regained herself enough to continue the story and their trek. “The helwolves were all around me, and they all stopped what they were doing to turn and laugh at me. It was an awful rukking sound, like they all had something in their throats. I just sat down and gave up as they advanced on me, but another crazy thing happened.”

“Oh?”

“A dragon swooped in and lit the place up with it’s breath. “I’m not sure what that was. It wasn’t fire or ice. It looked like… sunlight. Most of the helwolves around me were vaporized, and next thing I know, this dragon had me in its claws and was flying me away from the city. Ichabod, it was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Describe it to me.”

“It was beyond gargantuan. It probably matched Garm pound for pound, and was as tall on four legs as Garm was on two.”

“You’re saying it was thin?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Birds are generally light. This dragon looked like a bird. Like a hawk. It had a hawk head, and its talons looked like bird talons, and it was covered in gold-and-blue feathers in a hawk pattern.”

“Hawk pattern?”

“Like what rich people use to hunt rabbits and things. White, sometimes speckled chest, with brown wings accentuated by white at the tips, so it almost looks like the bird has scales, and the tail feathers are striped.”

“That sounds like the standard Lannest Falcon. That’s what’s usually used for falconry in the circles that I used to frequent.”

“But instead of brown, it was gold, and instead of white, it was blue. The chest was blue with gold speckles, so it looked like the night sky.”

“So, no lion feet?” Ichabod asked. Eden shook her head. “So, what your describing has a build similar to a gryphon, but due to having four legs, all with falcon talons, a general pattern similar to a falcon instead of an eagle, and definitely some sort of dragon breath attack, I’d say your description does fit into the broad category of ‘dragon’. But you’re right, it is strange. The light dragons of the upper stratosphere are known to often have feathers instead of scales, and a sunlight-esque breath attack, but they don’t have falcon heads, and they certainly don’t have a blue-and-gold pattern; they’re usually completely white. I’d say out of all of the things you’ve mentioned, the dragon does happen to be the strangest.”

“It gets a little stranger. It flew me about three miles out, if I had to guess by how far I had to run. It set me down on the ground, looked me in the eye, and spoke.”

“That’s not so strange. Most dragons of that caliber can speak.”

“No, it said, ‘Tell Miriam I’m sorry’. And it flew back to the city.”

“Do you know a Miriam?” Ichabod asked.

“No, I don’t. I don’t know why it’d think I knew a Miriam. Miriam who? There have to be hundreds of Miriams on the continent!”

“That is troublesome.”

“I ran back to the city, but I didn’t get there in time. It exploded. There was a flash of white light, and next thing I know, I’m on my back, and the city, and everything underneath is gone, and the foundations melted. I don’t know how long I sat there until you came along.”

“And now we come full circle.” Ichabod said as they approached the wagon. “You said you wanted magic? Here it is.” he said as he took out a flute.