zephyr_eternity [Fated]

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======The Wanderer======

Zephyr del Had belongs to the Palace. They know this. Amber Trelawney knows this. And Cenau knows this.

And so, before the Wanderer leaves the Palace, they decide to lay Zephyr to rest.

Zephyr del Had was a liar, and the Wanderer would be too if they claimed to have forgotten that //all those who deceive deserve to die.// But this is not the reason why Zephyr must go — although it is the reason why they must clarify that Cenau is not another deception, but a being born of necessity, of the Wanderer’s desire to protect themselves and help a friend until they decide for themselves who they are. Of their desire to look at the world through clearer, more confident eyes.

No — Zephyr must die because, for the Wanderer to enter the future, they need to make peace with their past.

They are in control, now. No more magic. They will let Zephyr go with intention.

Once more — or perhaps for the first time — the Wanderer writes. They tell Zephyr’s story. They don’t tell it with poetry, or beauty, but they tell it nonetheless: everything that Zephyr saw in the Palace, and everything they felt. From their very first step into the banqueting hall, neck ringed by crusted blood, to the moment that Cenau came to be, out in the gardens after the Palace fell, choking on chains as that same blood trickled slowly down their scarf — they tell it all. They need to write, because they cannot forget this, even if everything else is lost. The Palace has freed them from themselves, but that freedom comes with a price: they must carry it with them, always, a warning to never again become who they once were.

And when it is done, they know they are ready. It is time to take their leap of faith, to close their eyes and trust the wind to hold them up.

And so, in a lonely, breezy corner, the Wanderer pulls the last few charred, crumbling scraps of notebook from their pocket and holds them aloft, handing them over to the wind. And one by one, the wind takes them and spirits them away, consigning the selves lived within to oblivion.

A lost soul in the stars, their notebook eaten by flame. Perhaps they were wrong, back then: this, here and now, was where they were always meant to be. Haven’t they spent these past two weeks in chains? It was fate, all of it, calling them to this moment to start anew. 

The Wanderer watches their past drift away, piece by piece until only Zephyr remains.

They feel lighter for it, quieter. Almost whole again.

//Ready to leave?,// they ask themselves.

//…nearly.//

//Cenau would not wear a scarf.//

So they take that off, too, and fold it into their pocket. Around their neck, a scar-slashed chain seeps slowly, proudly, as the Wanderer walks back through the space where the Palace used to be. It’s yet another new start. 

But this time, they mean it.

//Written by Eloise P.//

====== Pilgrimage ======

The Wanderer walks through the forest of Vyrhen: alone but not lonely, contemplative, relaxed. They trade stories for meals, entertaining those in the villages they pass through. They introduce themselves to strangers as “Cenau”, the name doesn’t taste bitter in their mouth like Zephyr did, or Bora, or Vejas, or any other names they’ve used. Those people are gone, and the Wanderer is what remains. 

Cenau: a title, more than a name. A gift bestowed on them by a friend. The Blade-Singer. Saying goodbye was bittersweet. Urien is dead. The Wanderer and Ruth acted as witness to the justice that occurred in Rheged that night. A cold wind blows through the Hall. Saying goodbye was a difficult but needed task. There will be letters, and visits. This goodbye is not final. 

Who is the Wanderer when alone? When performance is no longer needed?

Their hand finds its way to their throat, but there’s no chain there anymore and no scarf to cover it. They’re free. Completely and utterly free—to go where they like, to do what they must, to be who they are. The scar remains: the Wanderer will always carry the memories of Zephyr with them. 

Being The Wanderer is easy, easier than they expected. A pilgrim to an unknown destination. The forests of Vyrhen bleed into the forests of Itascrius. They put one foot in front of the other. There is nowhere to move but forwards. 

For the first time, the future doesn’t seem to loom. At night the Wanderer dreams of a home: of comfort; of community; of late mornings spent in bed. Under the shade of a willow, the Wanderer wakes in the morning to bird song.

There’s a dove in the tree. The song is light and melodic: singing of new beginnings and sunrises. The song is somehow familiar somehow. It couldn’t be one of the doves from the Palace, there’s so many white birds in the world. But the Wanderer chooses to believe it is anyway. 

The bird flies to its nest. Home: The Wanderer is sure they’ll find the perfect one soon.