Side A – Yasgrid
Gods receive gifts from mortals in many forms. Prays offer devotion and affirmation which even the divine find pleasing. Sacrifices offer proof of devotion, at least in some cases (in others they are little more than attempts at commerce and serve to diminish both the mortal and the deity). In almost no cases however is the gift which the mortal offers something which is outside the power and scope of the divinity who they make the benefaction to.
Almost no cases.
“You cannot…” Ilia said, her hand reaching slowly towards the flame flickering in Yasgrid’s hand.
“I don’t,” Yasgrid said. “It does. This little one is not mine, anymore more than I am yours, or this world is any of ours. It belongs to itself, and its wishes are it’s own.”
“But why?” Ilia asked. “Why would it not want to be free? The transgression done to it…”
Yasgrid stroked her hand over the burning Heart.
“Your fellow gods were wrong to capture it, yes,” she said. “These sparks of divinity were lured here by your creations and should either have been given a place of their own within it or allowed to depart as they wished. To bind them to the world, while never being a part of it? To twist them into something which could bear away the unbearable Troubles of the Elves in order to ensure peace within the Darkwood? That is a sin your fellow deities will need to answer should they ever choose to return. But for the Hearts themselves? Why could they not love this world and the people within it, despite the misery it has inflicted on them?”
“They should despise us. They should seek our destruction in retribution for what was done to them.” Ilia said, her hand hovering inches away the from the eagerly flickering flame.
“After the long centuries bound to hatred, do you believe they would truly desire more?” Yasgrid asked. “They, more than any of us, mortals or gods, know the pain which comes from burning yourself in rage and torment.”
“Those memories are not easily forgotten, nor simply abandoned,” Ilia said, drawing her body close enough that Yasgrid could feel the goddesses breath.
Behind them the poor Fate Dancer who had tracked Yasgrid down was still bound in webs of moonlight and was mumbling “No. No. No!” over and over to himself.
Yasgrid could only imagine what he was seeing. All the futures he’d ever glimpsed shredding and unraveling? Time tear itself asunder and reweaving into a configuration which shouldn’t have been possible? Or was he seeing nothing more than emptiness?
Yasgrid didn’t know what Ilia would become if she touched the Heart’s spark and accepted the change it offered. She didn’t know what would become of the Darkwood either. Unlike the Fate Dancer, no part of the future was hers to see.
All that lay before her was a choice.
A choice to believe that no matter how scarred a Heart, or a Goddess, or a mortal might be, they could still become something new. Could still find a path to a better tomorrow.
It was that belief, more than anything else, which Yasgrid gave to Ilia.
That belief which had been forever beyond Ilia.
The belief which moved the goddess only a inch, but it was the last inch which lay between her and the Heart’s blazing warmth.
Side B – Nia
Nia did not arrive back in the Frost Harbor Shatter Band’s camp at the head of an army of Roadies.
That would have been silly.
And put her in between two groups of people who were uniformly bigger, stronger, tougher, and meaner than she was.
Being at least marginally sensible, Nia did the smart thing.
She lead from the back.
It wasn’t really even ‘leading’ so much as tagging along to witness the outcome and be sure to be available to step in as fast as was needed.
Worst case, she assumed, the two groups would beat each other silly and she’d skip over the unconscious forms of both groups of Roadies and make off with a couple of drums which they were unconscious.
Of course they’d beat her to a pulp once they were recovered, but the punches would be lighter once they saw that she’d been telling the truth and had been able to fix the problem of the ever expanding rift to the Darkwood.
Or at least call for the kind of help even the most stubborn of Roadies could respect.
That was Nia’s plan.
As most plans go however, it did not work out.
At least not as she expected.
“We need your drums,” Kolbana, the lead Roadie for the Gray Rift crew.
“Can’t have ‘em,” Horgi said.
“Need them to get our drums back,” Kolbana said.
“How?” Horgi asked.
“That one back there can call in help with them,” Kolbana said.
“That one there is a mad woman,” Horgi said.
“Yes,” Kolbana said.
“Might mess up our drums,” Horgi said.
“Might,” Kolbana said.
“How many?” Horgi asked.
Nia thought he was asking how many drums Kolbana was asking for but Kolbana apparently understand the actual intent of the question.
“All but five partially tainted,” Kolbana said. “Thirty two lost.”
Horgi winced while Grash standing beside him made a choked retching noise.
“No,” Horgi said with an audible mantle of horror smothering the word.
“Seven last night,” Kolbana said.
“No!” Horgi said, balling his hands into fists.
Among the Elves such an overly aggressive posture would be followed within less than a second by a flurry of blows.
But that wasn’t Horgi’s intention, and Kolbana’s silent nod spoke clearer than any shouted words could have of her understanding.
“Grash.” Horgi gestured to his compatriot who nodded and turned away without the need of any further instructions.
“Is he going to get the rest of the Roadies?” Pomdrin asked. “Are they going to fight now?”
“Nope,” Jurdy said.
“There’s no need,” Margrada said. “Roadies fight for the drums, never over them.”
“What does that mean?” Gracella asked.
“It means these two have got their drums,” Jurdy said, spearing Nia with the weight of expectation which came with the sacred charge she was being given.