Chapter 20: Shaping Fates

Talk to me. It was you wasn’t it? You were the one keeping my nightmares away? Vilorlith, I don’t know why I think that is your name. But I just feel it in my soul. With you gone, I think I can hear your voice, but I can’t tell if they are my thoughts or yours. Please tell me how you kept the nightmares away.

Year of Wrath 1232, Season of life D.60. Rhys

   Rhys no longer stood at the gates to the Shrine, walking with these humans to guide them through the Valley. There were far too many for something not to be amiss. Rumors of war, tales of refugees, and masses of people trying to flee a coming conflict. The visions Neaves was having were starting to sound less like fanatical ravings. 

   This group was found by Erlin, who flippantly told Rhys to deal with them himself. He barely even landed before pointing the group to him and taking off again. "I don't care, do with them what you wish." Was all he said as the glow from his wings dimmed into obscurity in the swirling mists. Rhys had never learned Common enough to hold a conversation, but he could already see the intimidation in their eyes as they craned their necks to look up at him. 

   With a calming gesture, he told them the only human word he knew for the situation. "Follow." He heard them mumbling as he walked forward. He knew from the last few groups that they were looking at the War Sword on his back, the torn wing that eternally burned. The shuffling footsteps with backs laden with packs, women carrying their children. 

   They were tired, hearing the exhaustion in their voices, their breathing. He held a hand up for them to stop. His shoulders were strong; no one would challenge the Paladin of the Shrine Guard in the Valley. Turning, he offered a hand out to the women carrying packs themselves, pointing at them, he said in badly accented Common. "Help. If can."

   They smiled up at him, four of the older-looking women taking their packs off and handing them to him. Slipping them on, careful so they didn't touch the fire coming from his wing, he began walking again. The group behind him sounded quite a bit more cheerful than they had just been. Rhys smiled, wondering what that smug look on Erlin's face might look like right now. 

   From where they were now, it was only a few hours' walk to the other end of the Valley. They had made it an impressive distance before being noticed, then again, Neaves was gone, and Pyria. Well, he had no idea what was wrong with her right now. She had fallen ill; every morning her stomach turned, and she seemed so much weaker than she had been before. 

   These last few weeks, there had been wagons, entire caravans worth of humans wandering through the Valley. Heedless of the old stories to not stray from the clear path, that the mists hid many dangers. Those stories were not wrong; they simply left out that the Mistwalkers who came to aid them were the danger. Rhys was living proof of that, Erlin was proof, and Pyria would have been. But the Warriors of the clan were not the careful guides they might have been. 

   Rhys tried to ignore the scabs on his fists from the lessons he preached to the wayward Warriors of the Clan. Erlin had almost entirely given up on even putting up the front that he was participating in the defense of the Shrine. Rhys couldn't exactly blame him; without Neaves, it felt quite a bit more pointless. Not to mention that "Witch of Ash," as the Clan and humans called her, wasn't around to intimidate the others of the Clan into submission. 

   She always was the most powerful pyromancer anyone had seen in generations. Rhys may have been the most powerful physically, but he was still just a small candle to her sunlight. At least in his opinion. Despite what Afjie had told him, he still had no control over his fire, not like her. He was broken out of his reverie by one of the human children tugging on his shawl. "Hmm?" Was all he managed while the thing babbled up at him. 

   He assumed it was a girl based on the bright yellow dress it wore, but he couldn't tell very well with humans; he had only ever seen the adults. Usually, while his blade found a new sheathe in them, forcing the image from his mind, he smiled down at her. Her mother walked up, holding a flower out to him, gingerly picking it from her fingers. He gave it a sniff. Bright, spicy, they probably didn't know it was a vanilla flower, but it was a pleasant gesture. 

   Bending down, he quickly weaved it into the girl's hair, causing the group to stop and gawk at him. While he wasn't an expert at emotions, he spent most of his time suppressing his own for the sake of control over his fire. He could recognize shock when he saw it. "What?" He asked the group with his far too deep voice. 

   The little girl babbled on in that incomprehensible tongue they used. Though two words stuck out to him, "Gentle, kind." Rising to his feet, flattening his face in a well-practiced move, only continued walking, letting his followers decide to keep up with him while he had four of their packs. The sounds of their feet moving toward him again gave him the answer. 

   Gentle and kind were not traits he showed his fellow Mistwalkers; they never allowed him to be such to them. He was a Shrine Guard, an outcast from the Ascendant Butterfly's light. To spend their entire life fit only for serving the Clan as guardians and atonement for their parents' crimes. A strange bitterness rose in his mind as he thought back to all the things Neaves used to talk about. All those arguments with Afjie being cast in a new light. 

   When they reached the edge of the valley where the mists fell in great rolling clouds, he set the packs down. A single woman stopped in front of him, holding a hand out expectantly. The rest of the group looked toward him as if waiting for something, cocking his head, he only stared down at the women. Her green eyes reminded him of Afjie's, deep, piercing, full with a wisdom brought only through a long life. 

   She stepped forward and clasped his hand in hers, giving it a good shake. "Ah, some kind of greeting, or I suppose a goodbye in this case." Rhys thought absently while he did the only thing he knew how to do in this situation. He wrapped the woman in a tight hug that nearly squeezed the breath out of her. It always got a laugh out of Neaves and Pyria; this woman laughed, too, at the sudden gesture. 

   He pointed to her, then pointed back at the mists. "No come back, dangerous. I am here." It sounded more ominous than he intended when the group around him widened their eyes a bit, but the woman he had just hugged patted his arm while she walked past. But the rest of the humans simply picked up their belongings and wandered further out into the bright sunlight while the mists swirled around him. Obscuring him from view, before he turned on his heels and made his way back to the Shrine. "Odd customs." He commented to no one in particular. 

   By the time Rhys had returned to the Shrine, he had regained enough of his own composure to retain the placid and indomitable front he put up for the Clan. With enough time to already hear Erlin bitching at Afjie before he even set foot in the door. "I'm sick of this, Mother! Why are we even protecting them? They don't respect us, they cast us out before we could even see the light of the world, how is that fair?" 

   The venom practically dripped from his voice, an anger directed at the wrong person. Erlin jumped as Rhys silently padded across the floor and set a heavy hand on his shoulder. Catching his wrist that came up next with a knife, like a choreographed rehearsal, Rhys twisted his wrist, and the knife clattered to the floor. While he never spoke much, he did this time. "I know." Was all he said. 

   Erlin wrenched his hand away from Rhys, stooped to pick up his knife while the giant Mistwalker stepped back to allow him the space to do so. Stomping back out the door Ryhs had just appeared from, Afjie sat down in her chair with a hand on her forehead. 

   Rhys went over to the kitchen and picked up the cup of tea Afjie had abandoned when Erlin appeared, heating it in his hands, and handed it back to Afjie. She took it gratefully, taking a sip of the calming drink before she caught the look on his face. She had taught them all what was expected of her to teach. Rhys never showed emotion, but he always showed intention. "Erlin has already filled me in about the much larger groups of humans wandering the territory. Are they all still refugees?" She asked her son. 

He only nodded, waiting. She took another sip and asked if he would like a cup. He only shook his head, "Rhys, Darling, you can use your words around me, at the very least." But he only stayed quiet. 

Setting an aging hand on his arm, she looked up at him again. "Pyria is still ill; she hasn't been getting any better. I'll need to stay here to watch her condition. I just hope she doesn't stay this sick for too long. I'm worried about her." Rhys set a comforting hand on his mother's shoulder, though his massive hand looked like a pauldron on her. 

   Leaning her head down on it, she held him there for just a moment. Letting the quiet linger, Rhys could remember as far back as when he was just old enough to talk, Afjie had always treated him like a firstborn son. Though he supposed that might also be part of Erlin's anger, the only one who never argued or raged against Afjie was he.

   "I need you to talk to the Father. The Warriors must be brought into line and under proper supervision." Rhys didn't need to be told anything; he knew what his task was. With a gentle squeeze on her shoulder, he walked toward the door. Her voice made him pause for just another moment. 

"Establish dominance, the others won't listen if they don't see what they want to see, son." With that, he was out the door. 

   Fear was not something he allowed himself to feel; it just wasn't productive in most aspects. It made you make mistakes, it made you second-guess a choice at the wrong time, and rarely did it ever play to your advantage in any meaningful way, at least if you were the one feeling it. For Rhys, being feared was something he was well practiced in cultivating. 

   Afjie had on more than one occasion waited for something like this to remind the Clan that the Shrine Guard were guardians, not slaves. They were expected to act without a sense of self-preservation; they were expected to act with only the Clan's best interest, no matter how much personal suffering came from it. Mother Afjie had always been the Shrine Guard's biggest defender, but only when her children had grown strong enough not to need their protection. 

   He shrugged off the glances toward him as he walked, his sword on his back without a sheath. Looks of disgust, looks of fear, looks of pride, looks of envy, they mattered nothing to him. When he stepped onto the practice area where the warriors spent the majority of their time, they too gave him those same looks. 

   Having walked in during a sermon from one of the Priests, the holy man didn't notice him as he continued his proselytizing, though his flock noticed. "Though we live by her goodwill, the mists occlude the world for our protection. It is by her benevolent light we see through the mists, and with them, we see the threats that would harm the clan!"

   The glow from Rhys's wings backlit the much smaller Mistwalker before him, casting just enough light to eclipse the Priest's own wings. The Holy man sensed something was amiss when he watched the eyes of his flock, then, finally noticing his shadow on the ground, turning, he stumbled back at seeing the massive paladin. Rhys caught his shoulder before he fell flat on his ass. "Careful, Calfis." Were the only words he offered the man. 

   Though the second he let go of the Priest's shoulder, he still fell anyway. He stood a full head and a half taller than most other Mistwalkers, his shoulders twice as wide, his arms as thick as their legs. Even his torn wing was broader than theirs; he had been the brunt of their antagonizing since before he could pick up a sword. He had always been big, but there were always problems with it. If you don't do anything, people think you're a pushover; if you fight back, you're just picking on something smaller than you. But, in most cases, Rhys didn't care; he never started fights, he ended them.  

   Stepping past the group, he entered the training field. The group of warriors stood around the ring of the arena, spears and swords held in relaxed positions. Many spotted him immediately, though he stood like a lion among sheep in comparison; he didn't exactly blend into any crowd. The Father was sizing up another fighter, eyes flicking to Rhys before turning back to his target. 

   The fighter was young, a boy that Rhys recognized as the one who spent a suspicious amount of time with Pyria lately. Well, he was; he had stopped coming around a few weeks ago. Still, Styr fought hard. Landing a quick series of punches into the Father's jaw and chest, knocking him back as he bounced on his feet. 

   The Father regained his stance, ducking low over the next punch and grabbing Styr's arm in a hold while he threw him over his shoulder to land painfully on his back. Styr gasped at the impact, but rolled to his side. "Wrong." Rhys thought. 

   The Father anticipated him rolling and caught his ribs in a swift kick, sending him tumbling. "Should have braced on the ground, and grabbed his leg and pulled him to the ground," Rhys commented to himself, while the other Mistwalkers began distancing themselves from him. Styr rose to his feet, holding his side, readying himself for the next strike from The Father. It didn't matter much at that point; a quick jab to the nose sent him back to the ground. 

   The group of warriors whooped, a glorious smile on the Father's face as he offered a hand down to Styr. "You did good son. Next time you get knocked to the ground, bring your opponent down with you. Use their weight to pull yourself up and into a better position. You were distracted by the kick that you didn't see me moving to give you that bloody nose."

   "Yes, Father," Styr said, pinching his nose to stop the bleeding. With a wave of his hand, he directed the fighter to the medic who always accompanied the training days. Eyes flicking back to Rhys, he pointed. "Well, if it isn't the big guy himself. I thought I told you years ago that I didn't want you making light work of my fighters!" 

   Rhys smiled as he pushed his way through the small crowd. It didn't take much effort; they were all much smaller than him. The Father smiled back at him with a rictus grin; they both knew what was about to happen. "Weapons?" The Father asked, the slightest hint of hope in his voice.

   Rhys only shook his head as he grabbed a wrap from his shawl and began binding his knuckles. The Father copied his gesture and pulled out his own. The crowd made a wider circle as the Shrine Guard squared off against the Hierophant. Rhys was calm, heartbeat even as he slid into a standard boxing position. The Father, however, let his fear show. 

   It was all Rhys needed. He flew inside the Father's guard and gave him a few quick jabs, though he was blocked with expert precision. The Father parried his next jab, but was met with Rhys's knee to the gut as he overextended himself. "Domination, not the Father, the crowd." Rhys thought to himself. He followed that knee kick with a downward strike with his elbow to the top of the Father's head. 

   Having a height advantage has far more than just reach. The Father stumbled back, while Rhys cleared his mind. Falling into the pace of long-practiced rhythms. The Father countered, but his fist only passed by Rhys as he turned his head. Feint low, getting him to move his head forward. Another quick jab that broke his guard. 

   Followed by a single powerful punch that knocked the Father to the ground. He didn't try to kick; he knew he would only grab him and put him off balance. Instead, he danced behind the Father. Before he could react, the Father was looking around to see where Rhys had gone. He spotted Rhys behind him just as an elbow landed on his head again. 

   Rhys wasn't breathing hard, barely taxed at all by the fight. While the Father waved up at him in surrender, breathing as if he had just run a mile. Offering a hand down to him, the Father took his, hoisting himself up. Resting a shaky hand on the large Shrine Guard's shoulder to steady himself, making a motion that he needed a second to breathe. 

   After a few moments, the Father announced to the rest of the crowd around them. "I saw how you all treated Rhys when he came here. I thought I taught you all to respect strength and glory. You all may think Rhys is just one of the Embers, forsaken by the goddess. But I should point out that Rhys is also one of the Guardians of the Shrine. Fucking idiots. Not a single one of you would last nearly as long as I did against him, and that was only a few seconds." Pointing at a group of three leaning against the arena fence. 

"You three, get that look out of your eyes. He is an Ember, not a slave. Come here, now." He barked. 

The three slowly walked up to the Father, still supporting himself with Rhys. "Rhys, I give you permission to do what you want with them." The group paled as their eyes darted to the paladin. They were armed, but they didn't look confident in that fact. 

The Father looked up at him as he shook his head, not bothering to verbally answer. The Father looked back at the group. "Why would you look at that? He, too, sees that look in your eyes and chooses mercy. Would you have given him such a grace if I told you that you could have done whatever you wanted?" 

The group looked chastened as they all found something else to look at other than the Father's gaze. The entire crowd was finding something else to look at as the Hierophant cast his burning eyes over them all. Shaking his head in disappointment. "Seems I will have to teach this lesson to you all, again." He said just loud enough for the crowd to get the good idea to make themselves scarce. 

   "Afjie sent me, Father," Rhys spoke at last while the rest of the crowd dispersed. He jumped at the sound of his voice; everyone had a bad habit of forgetting that Rhys wasn't a mute. He simply preferred not to speak when he didn't strictly have to. His gestures and actions did the vast majority of the talking for him; the only people he spoke to any appreciable amount were the others of the Shrine Guard and Mother Afjie. 

   "Ah, I should have expected as much. She's been getting on me to get the clan back in line over the treatment the Family has been showing you all again." He searched Rhys's eyes for any hint of blame, finding nothing in them beyond the usual stoicism he always found in the warrior. Though he thought he might have seen something in them this time around. Pride? Anger? 

   "Disappointment, Father," Rhys answered for him. Everyone also had a bad habit of assuming he was dull because he chose not to speak, but that was far from the actual truth. "The Guard is having a difficult time dealing with all these humans passing through the valley at all hours now. Neaves is no longer here, as you well know. Pyria is indisposed."

   "What of Erlin? Surely between the two of you, you can deal with some measly human incursions." The Father waved dismissively. 

   "Erlin no longer sees the fires." Was enough of a statement to get the Father's attention once more. "What we need is information. Let me correct that statement." Rhys said with a raised hand. 

"I need information. Currently, I am the only acting member of the Guard, and I can only do so much." Rhys finished, looking down at the shorter veteran. 

   "I suppose I can get a few of the boys to go hunting with you." The Hierophant rubbed the back of his neck, uncertainly. 

   "No." The certainty in his voice brokered no further argument. "I do not need hunters, I do not need killers, I do not need your fools of warriors playing with their sticks and stones. I need information that will let us act as one. There are rumors of war, and you very well know what the visions Neaves was having were about, I know Mother Afjie told you." 

   The Father looked up at him with an odd look, wondering if he should weigh his odds about challenging Rhys to a real fight. He was usurping quite a bit more power than he said, and they both knew it. Making up his mind as he thought about the fight just a few moments ago, with a heavy sigh, he answered. "Fine, the entire force, what do you need them to do?" 

   "No blood. Not yet. They need guides to safely lead them around the Shrine and out of the Valley. I want the warriors of the Clan to share in the honor of defending their homes." Rhys said while he crossed his arms. Confident that the gesture would solidify his dominance, enough that he felt that he didn't need his hands free to do anything against the Hierophant. 

   The Father's eyes noticed it as well, dipping his head in acknowledgment. "I think it is time they started to rethink how they view the Embers as it were. Very well, how should we establish command?"

Year of Wrath 1232, Season of life D.61. Ilgor

   Days had passed without me leaving my room, that swirling darkness that creeped through everything, just beneath the surface. The once beautiful wood that made up my new home now offered nothing but nightmares. I had refused every meal left at my door, even the once delicious food of the clan now looked revolting. The few times I had spoken to anyone through the door, I hadn't yet gained the courage to open it for anyone after unceremoniously commanding everyone out that day; my voice was far more potent than I ever remembered it being. 

   Languishing in the thoughts of a mind that seemed to echo into my own, the Ghost had completely disappeared. Often, I had seen my skin color shifting without my control, looking down at hands that didn't completely feel like my own. Aspects of my body changed and reverted; I thought I had been imagining it as some kind of traumatic experience, like the wake of the events during my Ceremony. It took weeks before it felt like I wasn't in the dream any longer, but this? I had confirmation that my body was actually changing in shape and size when my chest expanded enough to burst the shirt I was wearing just a few hours ago. 

   Long ago abandoned, I sat on my bed, lost. "What is happening?" I said to the open air, "Gjorn said it took him a while to get used to his new voice, but what about this?" I asked myself as my skin shifted from its usual green to a bright yellow, then back again. A thought came to me, one that I couldn't tell if it was from me or the Ghost any longer. 

   "If my voice is so much stronger, can't I do more with it?" 

   Concentrating just long enough to pull my attention away from my shifting body, I whispered to the air, pouring just enough power in it to make it do... something. "Gjorn, I need you. Help." 

   Getting up from my bed, digging through my chest for the longest sleeved thing I could find. Quickly throwing it over my head and wriggling into the rest of it, I was just happy it also had a hood. Feeling more than a little self-conscious about what was happening, first time for feeling that way in my life, in fact. Shivering as I tried to ignore the thin threads of darkness inside the cotton that the dress was made of. "Don't think about it right now, Illy." 

   Finding my way to the desk, suppressing another wave of fear. The desk was infused with that same dark slithering veil, though it was far slower. I wondered briefly if it had to do with the fact that the wood was dead, but was once alive. Sitting down in my chair, I didn't want my bare skin to touch anything. Even as I sat waiting, I saw the darkness try to enter my body, but was denied by my skin. 

   As I watched for what felt like an hour, though in all reality, it was maybe a few minutes, the darkness would only touch my skin, but never sink in. There was a sound at my door; I had forgotten to unbar the thing. But with a quick word, the bar tipped up without apparent force and slid from the bracing. The lock clicked without the key as Gjorn stepped into my home. 

   Noticing me immediately, he stood staring, wide-eyed. Even him, I could no longer see the color in his eyes, that darkness pumping just beneath his skin; his eyes were just black pools. "Illy." His voice was still the same, thank Bhal for that. At least something familiar, I didn't even mind that he had easily circumvented the basic security for the room that he himself had suggested. "I shouldn't be surprised that you can do a few new tricks with your magic now." He said slowly, walking even slower toward me. 

His hands were empty, holding them in a calming gesture. "Why don't we talk about what happened. Before you kicked us all out, you said you could see it. You can finally see it. Correct?" He sat very slowly in the chair in front of my desk. Carefully taking his sword, his pistol, and a series of small knives out from his belts and setting them on the desk. All of them pointed toward himself. Seems he thought that might make me feel better; in a way, he was right. 

Flicking my hood down, somehow his eyes grew wider as he watched my hair color change at random, my irises changing shape and dimension. He even spotted the skin at the nape of my neck, changing color and texture. He didn't need to say any of it; watching his eyes told me everything I needed to know. "Let's first start with this, I need to ask Odeza to come here, now." 

   "Why?" I demanded quickly, the worry and frustration more than evident in the way I growled the words. 

   "Because she is still a Child.” He said child as if it were a title. “She will know what you are going through far more than I." He said in a calming way, though I could easily hear the way he manipulated the sound to make it try to force me to calm down. I had never been able to hear his magic before, but now? It was all too obvious. 

   "What do you mean by a Child? You say it like a title." The words fell out of my mouth faster than I had intended. 

   "Because it is. A Child refers to something rather specific. It would be best if she explained it." He responded placatingly. 

   "Fine." I snapped, flicking my hood back up. 

   He dispelled the illusion concealing that thing on his head again; the antenna vibrated with a sound as he spoke. "Scout: Realm. Immediate audience with the VIP, and Scout: King. Coordinates Alpha, Centari, Zero, six." I could hear whatever the antenna was doing now; I could even hear it pass through the solid stone and bounce off something far away before coming back with some kind of affirmative chirp. 

He turned his attention back to me. Setting his hands on the desk so that I could watch them. "Let's start with the first part while we wait for Odeza to come here. The infection is what you are seeing. Tell me what it looks like, what it's doing. I know what it is, but I can't see it like you can, as the other Children can." 

   Taking a shaky breath, I told him what I saw. How it moved through everything, how it pulsed under his skin. How it pooled in his eyes, it couldn't penetrate my own skin like it was his. It was in everything, the air, the stone, the wood in the desk, even in the fabric of my clothing. He only nodded his head while I continued my explanation. 

   "That lines up with what I have been told." He said calmly, he noticed I could hear his magic, but how he did that, I didn't know. But he stopped trying to use it now. "Let me tell you this. What you are thinking, it is correct. Everything is infected, everything. Everyone you know, everyone you have ever met, will meet, or has ever existed as far as you know has lived with this infection being omnipresent." 

"The infection, in its most basic explanation, is the remnant of a much greater conflict that had occurred long ago. As we see it now, it is largely benign; you were infected, never even knew it. Yet now? You are claiming you can't see it in yourself, and it can't reinfect you." He framed it as a statement, but his question was just as obvious without him needing to say it. 

   "It would seem so, but why can I see it everywhere now? Why can I see it? And what conflict are you talking about?" I asked, feeling just a little calmer as things were starting to be revealed. Just having a conversation seemed to be helping; I wasn't sure if it was just because isolating myself like this was the wrong decision, or if Gjorn was actively doing something to calm me down. Maybe a bit of both. 

   "That would be a better question for Odeza. As for the conflict, there is much I am going to have to leave out. But I will try my best. The infection comes from a group of entities called The Shadows. They make it, spread it, control it. As for the conflict I mentioned, it was the reason they won against their enemies." He was clearly picking his words very carefully. 

   "Who were their enemies, and I'm assuming that because this infection is everywhere, these Shadows are still around?" I asked. 

   Gjorn thought for a moment before answering. "The Ghost that was following you around was one of them. Is one of them." That got my interest; he had my full attention now. "My benefactor is also one of them; there are two others as well. But right now, that isn't important to the topic. Suffice it to say, when I said this world is infectious to Odeza, that wasn't hyperbole. She is not infected, like I am, like you were. Do you remember that gas mask apparatus she wore the last time you saw her?" 

   I did, in fact, he called it a rebreather, and it was always hidden with some extremely potent illusions. At least until Gjorn had broken the spell hiding it, just to show me it existed. "What are the Shadows then?" I asked. 

   "Point in fact, I do not know. My benefactor would have a much better answer for you when you eventually have the chance to meet her.” Her? I thought to myself. “All I know is what I have been told, what I have experienced. They are things you have an intimate understanding of already." He said as he crossed his arms.  

"There are eight of them." Something rang familiar about that. Why did that sound like he was trying to tell me more without outright saying anything definitive? "Back to the infection. The disease is a metaphysical thing, as well as a physical disease. To call it a disease that disfigures wouldn't do it justice." 

   "What do you mean?" I asked, leaning back in my chair. Falling back into this familiar banter was making me feel a little better. Though I still suppressed a shiver at knowing the infection was in the wood of the chair, too.

   "It alters the mind, body, and soul. It changes the afflicted to whatever is needed by the Shadows, or in most cases, the Shadow that is directly infecting those around them. Illy, how do you feel?" He said it like he wanted me to notice something. 

   "So you're saying that I was some kind of changeling, now that I am having some kind of immunity to some degree, you seem to be implying I am something else now." My words were chosen carefully. 

   "We don't know if it is immunity; it may be some kind of extreme resistance. Beyond that, you do seem to be physically cured. But, your personality seems to be the same, and your magic hasn't changed, but has become more powerful." He said. 

   "So I was partially cured by whatever the Ghost did to me," I said. 

   "Among, apparently, several other things," Gjorn answered. 

   "Let's backtrack just a little. So everything is infected? But we don't know that we are infected. Everything seemed normal to me until this happened." My words were slow, trying to process what was told to me. 

   "This planet is what is called a fully corrupted world." He began, but I interjected before he got much further. 

   "What is a planet?"

   He paused for just a moment to give me a strange look. "You have all these star charts in your room, and you don't?" He shook his head with an obvious bit of irritation at the gap in my knowledge. "A planet for the purposes of this discussion, a serious lapse in your education on my part, is this world. There are countless other planets on this plane of existence. For every star you see, there are dozens, if not hundreds, of planets orbiting them. They are other worlds, celestial bodies. This is just one of them." 

Nodding to his explanation, I gestured to him to continue while I blanched at seeing my hand the wrong shape and size. "There were numerous planets that came to this level, but the world you see is an uncontested one. Where the Shadows were allowed to take the planet without resistance. In this case, it is the only planet left, and their enemies are far too weak to do anything about it." 

   "The only one left?" His explanation of what was happening was fascinating enough to keep my mind from focusing on the oddities happening to me. 

   "Yes, this planet, called The Cradle, is the only planet left in this universe capable of supporting life. All the other planets... well, that isn't relevant to this discussion presently." 

   "Can you tell me about it later, after Odeza comes here?" The curiosity in my voice made him smile, and he gave me a small nod. 

   But, just as I was about to open my mouth to ask another question, there was an audible snap in the room as Odeza materialized from seemingly nothing. A quick look around the room, and her eyes settled on me. Widening as she took in what was happening. But what struck me more than anything else was that there was not a hint of darkness in her body. None at all, it tried to enter her skin, but failed in the same way it failed with me. 

   She wasn't bothering with the illusions, keeping her equipment hidden. That gas mask glowing softly with runes, she knelt to one knee in front of me. "We, we thought your kind was extinct."

Gjorn got her attention and quickly filled in the details of what had happened and what was currently going on. She looked angry under her mask, the longer Gjorn spoke. "Why wasn't the Legion informed immediately after this happened?" 

   "Informational security, as well as making sure a few uninvited guests didn't appear at this change." He answered with a terse tone.

   Turning back to me, she unclipped something from her back, and her wings expanded out behind her. Burning softly with an ephemeral fire. "Governor, this may be a strange request, but I need to see the rest of you for me to confirm something." 

   Rolling my eyes, some of my anxiety about the whole situation had faded, but this at least felt like doing something. Stripping the clothing off myself, I stood in front of the two while I dropped my clothes to the floor. Standing there naked, they both watched as my body shifted colors and hues, textures, and changed slightly in size. Odeza's eyes turned far more clinical while Gjorn tried to crack a joke. 

   "Second time I've gotten to see you like this. My, Halgier would be furious to know I've seen more of you than him." But, he turned to look anywhere else after both Odeza and I shot him withering gazes. Odeza's eyes searched along my skin, noting the various changes. Something flashed across the visor of her mask. 

   "I remember seeing this in my studies." She said thoughtfully. "Not uncommon for newborns of her species. Sometimes even the children had difficulties. Though I never got to see it in person..." She muttered to herself. "All the newborns couldn't control it, from what I remember in the books."

   "Species?" I said seriously, "I am a goblin. We don't do this." Gesturing to myself as a whole. My hair color shifted again to a deep green. 

   Both Odeza and Gjorn looked at each other with a knowing glance. "She doesn't know?" She asked Gjorn.

   "Know what?" I practically yelled my words; all I wanted at this point was for my body to behave.

   "Odeza, you should take charge here," Gjorn said somberly. 

   To her credit, she took a deep breath before answering, clearly thinking about what she wanted to say before opening her mouth to speak. "Mother told us that you Brownies had a system for teaching their children to control their transformations."

   My mouth fell open, momentarily speechless, my moment of shock forced my body to maintain its original form and color at least. Shaking my head to clear the audacity of that statement. "What did you call me? A Brownie?"

   "Yes, that is what your species was originally." She turned back to Gjorn, who was having no part in this conversation presently. Turning back to me, the debate was clear on her face. "I do not know how, but you are free of the infection, at least physically; mentally and spiritually remains to be seen. However, that has awakened some of your race's actual abilities. Shapeshifting being one of your foundational elements."

I had nothing to say to that, how could I? But she continued anyway. "A Brownie has many other abilities that are inherent to them, though the Goblins seem to retain a few of them to a, well, to put it bluntly, lesser degree. I will be honest, I have not met another one of your kind. I was born after the fall of... well, that isn't important right now." 

   "You talk like you know what is going on, at least, can you help?" I asked with a pleading sound to my voice that I didn't like. 

   "I can only tell you what I was told, and what others have discovered through interacting with your race. Here," She slung off the tank on her back while keeping the connecting hoses to her mask still intact. She stretched out her wings to their full width. Gjorn seemed to understand what she was doing, as he silenced the area in the same sickening way he did when we spoke in the tower. 

Her wings began to glow, then the air around them began to shimmer with heat before they began to burn. Glowing brighter until the flames vanished, condensing into an ephemeral liquid that reminded me of flowing glass. "This is one of mine; my wings are conduits to the power of light and fire. Were we outside, then they would be throwing off an immense amount of heat, but the sun emits many different things that can pass through solid stone, even all the way down here, enough to sustain this reaction. But," Her wings began to dim quickly as she shut her eyes, concentrating.

"I wasn't able to control this when I was a little girl. A condition I think you will find very similar. But, from what I've read, the Brownies focused on an image of physical form. They were far less concerned with their bodies than any of the other Children; they were more part of the Song than they were part of reality." She said as the glow died entirely from her wings. 

   "I'm supposed to know what any of that means?" I said, crossing my arms. 

   She waved a hand to forestall me. "In time, you will. Your voice, for one, is far too off. It isn't that you have done anything to your voice, but you don't see how your words warp the air now, do you?" Now that she mentioned it, there was a certain something happening when I spoke. "You haven't begun hearing something in the background that you haven't noticed before?"

Uncrossing my arms, listening, there was something. A listless tune, like an uncountable jumble of notes being played over each other. Even listening for a small moment, a rhythm began to make itself known, but something about it made it seem like it wasn't fixed. "I'm a little surprised you don't have your tail back." That statement got my attention again. 

   "Tail?" 

   "Yes, they all had tails; they would wrap them around each other when they spoke, or to anyone really." The same thing the Ghost did, I thought to myself. "I've been told that it was usually a gesture of trust or at least endearment. To not have a Brownie touch you was not just an insult; it was dangerous."

   "Odeza, can you please get to the part where you tell her how to control her Shapeshifting?" Gjorn interjected.

   "I'm sorry, I'm just in a bit of awe. Child of the Great Mother..." She slung her tank back on while her words seemed to hang in the air. It was a moment before I realized she wasn't talking, like her words just hung in the air like a tangible thing. The sound processing much more slowly without anything else to replace the noise. "Brownies must center their minds on their bodies, visualizing a constant image of themselves. I'm told it doesn't need to be correct for their birth form, only what their idea of it is. With that image in mind, they will maintain their original shape." 

   "Well, I don't know how I feel about having to touch everyone I meet, but I can try focusing at least." Closing my eyes, I tried. Forcing out as many distractions as I could, errant thoughts, half-formed ideas, thoughts just for the sake of thoughts. Forming an image of myself in my mind, and forcing it to stay. 

   Opening my eyes again, glancing myself over, my skin was the same evergreen I recognized, and the freckles across my chest were there again. My hair is back to its usual coppery auburn. A far too excited noise left my lips, turning around to look at the rest of me. Practically running to the mirror to give myself a more thorough once-over. Looking back at them, I smiled. "This is taking a bit more concentration than I was anticipating," I said. 

   Gjorn turned around to look at me now, "Your breasts are bigger. You shouldn't be playing with this until you can handle maintaining your form." He said without any hint of shame. 

   "I'm so glad you've been paying that much attention to me. Besides, I like them this size; I've always thought they were a little small." I said, running my hands over them. 

   Odeza snorted a laugh, "He's right, though. Change them back to their usual size; you will need to learn to maintain that form at all times. It teaches young Brownies finer control later on. It should only take about a week for this to be second nature to you." 

   Deflating a bit, closing my eyes again, I brought myself back to that mental place. It didn't take very long, running a disappointed hand over my chest again. "I have to maintain this image constantly?"

   The fire in Odeza's wings burned bright for just a moment. "If I don't keep the fire in my wings suppressed, they will glow like a second sun, just like my father's. After a while, it's a lot like walking with a straight back or clenching a fist. You just don't think about it. With how quickly you were able to change and hold your self-image like that, as well as change an aspect about yourself, I don't think it will take you long. Though expect to lose control when you sleep, at least in the first few weeks." 

   "Why am I the only one who can do this? You said it was an ability of my species. So why only me?" I asked. 

   "The infection," Odeza answered somewhat somberly. "That, and a certain Shadow and their control over your people. The infection opens your body up to be manipulated by outside forces. But, because you are free of the infection, his hold over the suppression of what you are actually capable of is greatly lessened."

   "Him?" That got my interest; all this was getting my interest. Pressing for more information while I tried to maintain my form. Though I slipped and hair color quickly shifted before returning to normal. "Which Shadow are you talking about then?" 

Odeza looked away, clearly not willing to answer the question. Looking over to Gjorn, he appeared to have much the same reaction. "Fine, since neither of you are going to tell me that. About sleep..." 

   "What is it?" Odeza asked, returning her eyes to me. 

   "I can't sleep. Being able to see the darkness, crawling toward me, on everything. It doesn't let me sleep. I feel as if something is clawing at my mind, like fingernails being dragged across a door. I think I'm tricking myself into hearing a voice that isn't there; it reminds me far too much of the time just after my Ceremony. I..." I choked while the wave of anxiety washed over me again. 

"Seeing it cling to people, leave their bodies, swirling through every orifice they have." I shuddered as the thought ran up my spine. "I haven't been able to sleep well since the Ghost did what she did." 

   Flinching when Odeza set a sympathetic hand on my shoulder, she knelt to me so that we were eye level again. "It takes time, it doesn't get easier. It never will, but this is what us Children see when this first began. I still find it remarkable that you are not becoming reinfected without a rebreather." 

   "As traumatic and informational as this is." Gjorn stepped over, holding a shirt out for me. "Can you please get dressed? You have a wonderful figure, Illy. But I can only take so much of your casual display of nudity for so long." 

Feeling just a little impish, I may have let his hand brush past my chest while retrieving the outstretched garment. Laughing as he flinched, he frowned at me. "For a virgin, you are awfully willing." 

   "Virgin, maybe, innocent, no." My voice was slightly muffled from me sliding the shirt over my head as it hung past my knees, might as well have been a dress. "Besides, you Dwarves have very funny reactions to us. Always so prim and proper, you forget how communal we all are. A bit of nudity means nothing; it's the context and intent behind it that matter."

   Odeza cocked her head, muttering under her breath, but still more than audible to my ears. "They said as much about the Brownies as well." 

   "Well, now that we don't have both your tits and bush staring at us." Gjorn huffed as he crossed his arms, "Can we get back to more serious topics?" 

   "It sounds like you just wanted to see me in a different position." I teased. Laughing as he ran a hand over his face. This little banter, the entertained look on Odeza's face, I could almost forget about the swirling darkness that was just under the surface of everything. But that's the thing. I could almost forget.