Ash.
All she sees is ash.
She stands alone. Surrounded by it. Choked by it.
It swirls gently with the wind. It hunkers low to the earth, as though clutching for dear life. As if this place were its kingdom, and she the intruder.
Her cloven hooves carry her through their domain - the domain of ash, where her people days earlier laughed, cried, sang, and slept.
It was their home.
Now, it is the home of waste. Pointless, terrible waste.
One spark was all it took. A tiny ember, like a fleck of glowing orange dust.
It touched wood, or leaf, or grass. She does not know which, specifically, because that is the nature of fire.
It comes, sporadic. Chaotic. It feasts upon all which surround it, fingers of licking fury taking, touching, consuming. It worms its red-hot way inside, and from thereout chews until all that is left behind is ash.
She closes her eyes and breathes deeply of it. Charred stone and scorched earth and blasted homes.
She does it to imprint this memory, so she does not forget.
Whether made by nature's touch or kirin's hoof, whatever the flames sampled they consumed. Eras marked in bricks and branches served ultimately as nothing more than fuel for the fire.
She opens her eyes, feeling the hot sting of cinders below. She is kirin, and therefore she is nirik. Nirik is fire, and thus it cannot harm her.
Except that is not always true.
Normal fire cannot harm the kirin. But the flames of nirik?
That is different.
The ashen lands stretch around her for what feels eternal. The ground, black and gray and powder to touch, glitters with the fading incandescence of expired rage. Some embers are yellow. Others are orange, red, white.
These are the oldest flames. The ones that once radiated with a glorious heart, now withering upon the vine. Trapped in a prison of their own making, where no tinder may grace their presence, and fuel the re-ignition they so desperately seek.
Then there are the others. Purple, blue, magenta. Of these, she steers away.
Their anger has yet been quenched. Their greed unspent. She knows to come in contact with a single member of their species means death. Death would mean to derelict her duty, and of this she cannot allow.
Strewn about the horizon there stand the foundations of kirin life. Brick walls and stone supports jut from the battered, strangled land.
They remind her of bones, and of kirin hooves reaching out for salvation.
She could not give them such. Only peace may she now offer. The mercy of returning to the Summerlands.
And so she turns away. She has seen what needs be seen, and knows what she must do.
On the outskirts of their ruined village, the refugees walk. Some homes dot the unburnt forest, but are few and far between.
Tents cluster around, providing shelter to her people. Without a true mattress many are forced to sleep on cots, wrapping themselves tight with blankets. Others choose the ground, to be closer to nature.
The food and drink are adequate, for survival above all else. Ironwrought cauldrons roil over small fires, holding basic stews and plain rice.
It is not ideal, but it is, and thus they forge on.
Battered. Bruised. Burdened.
But never broken.
Heads lift and gaze her way as she returns. Soot clings to her coat, a fitting symbol of her failure. A mark, visible to all, that speaks loud and clear the burning she let happen.
She will never shake herself of the stain. On the surface she may wash, she may clean, but it remains. So it shall go for as long as she draws breath.
It is no less than she deserves.
The least she can do is mend the wound.
She puts together a force worth reckoning. She does not order them to join, because what is her place, who is she to tell the mourning and displaced they must do as she commands? To solve what she started?
She is prepared to handle this alone. Many volunteer, regardless.
She recognizes each and every face, as she knows all of her people, for they are family.
Lilac Bloom. River Song. Root Whispers. Autumn Blaze. Cinder Glow.
They are but a few of her strongest. They come to her, bow before her. They swear vows they shall keep.
They shall rebuild.
She divides them by task. Some will clear debris. Some will raise nature, revitalize it once more. Some will begin the process of remaking their village, and all that entails.
There is one task they won't do. A task she wouldn't allow them.
"I will identify the bodies," she declares. Many nod. Those who don't stay quiet.
Save one.
The one with the coat of cream, scales of grass, and mane of fallen leaves.
Autumn Blaze.
She knows this one well. The kirin makes it difficult not to. Her personality swells large well beyond the confines of her body, embracing others in its passionate warmth.
"Yes, my child," she asks.
Autumn frowns. Such golden eyes glimmer with something she cannot place. What is it?
"My Queen." Autumn bows. Her branched horn points up in reverence. "You shouldn't do this by yourself. Let us help you."
Cinder steps beside her tribesister. She is calmer, sturdier. This one reminds a soul of the thickest oak, able to bear whatever comes her way.
Brown fur. Green hair.
The colors speak truth. Give meaning to the world.
"If I may, Your Brightness, I agree. Nokirin should take on something like that by themselves." Her voice has to it a firmness, but a lightness as well. Like a slim trunk waving in the breeze, capable of change but rooted to the spot.
She considers their words, or she acts as though she does.
In the end, there can be only one answer.
"No."
She states it calm and cool. In it there is the placidity of a pond, yet behind it stands a great unmoving mountain.
A flash appears behind Autumn's eyes. Is it anger or sympathy?
Either way, the kirin nods and retreatss. Cinder follows. Before they disappear she calls out, imploring.
"Please, dear Autumn and Cinder. Trust me in this. You and the rest are better spent on renewal."
Autumn's tufted tail flicks. She glances back with an unknowable look. Their eyes do not meet, and she returns to Cinder and the rest.
The concern, at least, does not go unappreciated.
But this is not any kirin's weight to bear. If anything is to be done, let it be that her people are spared the ugliest task.
Before the others may move in, she re-enters the once-village. Magic is cast around her, sweeping in long, intricate waves. They find the signs of soul, so that she may locate the dead.
Her heart sinks deep, deep, deeper still with every one. The purity of kirin flame has staved off the unseen eaters, for now until they are removed. Thus she bears witness to their bodies whole, intact.
Nirik fire may kill the kirin, but it does not destroy. There is no damage.
Simply the absence of life.
Their soul - their inner flame - trapped within.
She, like with those afar, can place their names. She hears their voices. Remembers their joys, their hopes, their dreams.
Righteous anger flares within. It comes not in the form of fire, but water, hot nonetheless and tainted by ruthless emotion. They stream down her cheeks, utterly silent, and she does not make a sound as she gathers her children.
Parents. Siblings. Children.
The young, the old, the weak, and the strong.
None were spared.
She brings them to the outskirts, hooffalls leaden. Were she to step into the Stream, she imagines sinking to the silt floor the same way any ordinary stone might.
Her people part as the brush, allowing her passage. In many eyes, she notes the sting of recognition. The hope once kindled within guttering out until it is dead, like those with which she delivers.
She bows her head in shame as much as respect. It seems all she can bring is heartbreak.
Evenings pass. The reconstruction efforts pause to honor their dead.
Tall totemic pyres erect from the land's rich soil. Bundles of straw and wood surround them, encircled by stones the size of hooves to heads. These shall cage the funerary flames.
She carries the dead, one by one, to their own individual pyre. There she lays them upon, closing their eyes for the last time in this mortal world.
Loved ones gather. Family. Friends. All and any which have survived and wish to bear witness to the passing.
Darkness of the night surrounds her. Above, through the cracks between trees, silvery eyes twinkle down in a vast canvas. They shall bear witness as well, and ferry these stray souls to their rightful place.
Enormous leather drums beat as thunder. Strings sing with the melody of love. Voices join to express their symphonic sorrow.
She raises a hoof. At once, quiet falls upon the crowd.
"My dearest children, born of the wilds. On this sacred night we have gathered to witness the final journey of our beloved, those lost in the cursed fires. It is a sad night. It is a sad thing, to lose someone you hold close. Yet the end of body is not the end of being. Their soul lives on, held within the shell of their mortal form."
"Tonight, we see this soul on its departure, where they shall rise and travel to the Summerlands. The eyes of those past look down upon us, welcoming with loving smiles and open arms their kindred. We offer our dead to them, so they might experience eternal warmth in one another's kind embrace."
A short, one-note hymn rises from the crowd.
From the side, she grasps an unlit torch in her magic. A kirin steps close, his horn alight with pearlescent blaze. Dipping her torch the enchanted flame leaps, quickly spreading and crackling with arcane strength.
"Yet before we send them on their way, we honor the lives they led. Here." She stamps a hoof. "We cherish their memories. We vow for them never to leave our minds. So that when time comes another of us must pass along the great star river and they look down, they may see those they too cherished. And in time, they shall craft those next to inherit this earth."
She comes upon the first pyre.
"Thistle Grove. She is survived by her son Root Whispers and sister Cherry Blossom. Before we ferry this soul, do any of the gathered wish to speak on her behalf?"
They do.
Root steps forth. She retreats a step, and allows him words. After comes the sister, then friends, to those who simply express their communal kinship and honor for her existence.
When it is done, she brings the torch to pyre. Instantly it ignites, and a brilliant, celestial inferno swells.
"May she prosper in the bountiful lands of Summer."
So the evening goes.
She does not rest. She does not idle.
Aid is refused. Others do not help her - should not help her. She exists to help them.
Old foundations are torn. New foundations rise.
Brick by brick, stone by stone, and strut by strut. Magic shapes the land around them, but they do not force the matter. The forest whispers its permission, and when granted allows their light to flow within. To create.
They are not custodians, nor curators, nor dominionists. Any who think themselves such will understand, in time, this world was never theirs to take.
She, as her people, as the grass and bugs beneath, are one with it. They must learn to live side by side, or else be destroyed. Be that in days, years, or decades, nature's vengeance pursues with the inevitability of death.
To this extent, they open the gates for reclamation. Magic assists the growth and seed, but beyond this they do nothing. Plants and flowers and saplings appear as they shall. The kirin simply make do, and build around or with them.
They unify behind this singular purpose, yet not all goes according to plan. Minds are different. Hearts yearn for other things.
A comment here, a look there. Words of offense and insult trade beneath whispers, growing steadily higher.
Hotter.
She stops them, or they stop themselves, yet bitterness sticks on the tongue for time after. Caustic.
One spark is all it takes. She requires a current to douse its chance, but from where will she retrieve it?
Regardless, she assists. As she does two join her with more consistency than the others. She knows why, and does not like it. Nor, however, does she begrudge them.
They worry for her.
All the tribe does, yet only they prove so bold to draw near.
Lines grow heavy, sullen beneath her eyes. Movement becomes labored. Limbs stiffen and crack with the wind.
Still, she persists.
She cannot rest. Not yet. She can't. She won't.
Not until this work is finished.
It takes months.
The tragedy occurred in mid-spring. When the last brick lays down, it is late fall.
Celebration is in order.
A true communal feast has not been thrown in all this time. That staple of coveted tradition, left to anguish, but no more. It returns with the blessing of their homes.
Grand tables of smooth wood and polished rock are dragged to the center. Woks and pots and pans, cooking tools of all kinds, too many spices, meats, flavors, fruits and vegetables find their place among the bustling. Pits of fire erupt, their promise and destiny to knit bonds, fill bellies, and say once and for all more than she ever could:
"You are okay now. You can heal."
She joins them ostensibly. Several cooks and bakers rush to her, asking what she'd like them to make. After everything that's happened they look up to her so much, and it breaks her heart.
She wishes they didn't.
She smiles, shakes her head. No, she says, do not worry about me. Make what you wish. This is your victory. Share in it together.
Perhaps it will be the light that opens their eyes.
As the oils spit, rice cooks, and game roasts, she joins to assist how she can. Before long though, they force her to sit and drink. She's done so much for them already, they say.
Evening arrives. Everykirin gathers, none are exempt. Hopeful smiles adorn muzzles, wide eyes sparkle looking towards the future.
Before they feast, she bangs her hoof against the end of the largest, most ornate granite table. On few and fewer occasions has she delivered meaningful words during their banquets, but this one is among those exceptions.
The words she says are expected. Wrote. Trite, if she were forced to speak honest. That is how she feels.
They, apparently, do not.
She dines with them for a time. Dishes of thick, spiced curries are served her way. Come the hot ginger teas, the glazed salty sweet meats, the peppered rice. They're all amazing, and she wishes the only thing that twirled in her mind gazing upon them was pride.
Exhaustion arrives soon after. The toll of constant labor, nipping at her heels, has caught up. She excuses herself politely, gives the necessary thanks for the food and merriment, then departs.
Her new residence resembles the old. Her aged, wisened mind rivals a dagger with its point, and so she rebuilt it herself from the mental blueprint. It's a small comfort to have, a precious one.
She sets a pot of green tea to steep. The fragrant, floral steam wafts from the kettle, flooding her nose with memories. Muscles relax and her breathing slows, and for the first time in seasons she grazes the concept of peace.
She grasps it with avarice, before it can leave her. Carrying a cup of the piping hot liquid, dragging a tassled pillow out, she seats herself in the center of the room.
From all sides she is surrounded by the guts of a tree, sped by magic into maturity. Graciously, it allowd her to enact this, and further continue to hollow its core. In return, it thrives off her natural energies, and she off its.
Closing her eyes, she focuses on many things. The stillness of her breath. The heat of the tea. The way it pours down her throat and warms her from the inside, not in the blistering way that transition to nirik does, but that familial way of receiving a lover's kiss.
Like she has done since this began, her mind turns to her mistake. What wrong step she took, or pitfall she failed to notice.
More importantly, how to prevent such a thing from happening again.
Her mind has come to a conclusion. To say it's one she finds distasteful puts things delicately.
And yet, she sees no alternative.
A knock startles her from the trance. She slips back in with ease, opening the door and allowing the stranger to enter.
"Enter, child. Who is it, and what do you desire?"
"It's me," the voice answers, soft but steady. She doesn't need to open her eyes to know its owner. "I came to ask if you're okay."
"Her smile twitches. Her trance threatens to break.
"Of course. The great rebuilding has been complete. Our way has returned. We can recover."
She hears the frown in Cinder's next words. I mean No offense, Queen, but I didn't ask about the village. I asked about you. Are you okay?"
Her meditation crumbles, falling away.
Opening her eyes, she feels her lips pull into a deep grimace. A part of her wishes to answer truthfully. The other - larger, louder - knows she cannot. Not in full. She doesn't want anyone to worry.
She also will not lie.
"I have been... thinking," she manages. "Meditating on the mistaken steps which led us to this place, and the road has become clear to me. Can you promise to keep this between us?"
Cinder nods.
She nods back. Closing her eyes once more she breathes deeply, expelling with deliberation.
"The Stream of Silence."
An ancient place. A mythic place. Cursed, bewitched, fouled if old superstitions are to be believed.
Waters that douse the passions, snuffing the littlest ember to the roaring flame. It's the only way to be sure, for no fire can spread under the river.
She hears no immediate response. Then, quiet shuffling.
Meeting her gaze, she sees in Cinder an unknowable look. It reminds her of someone else.
"I understand." Turning to leave, Cinder casts a glance back, standing on the threshhold. "I can't say I agree or disagree, but I understand. I wish you a good night."
The door shuts, and Cinder is gone into an evening of chirping crickets and calming chill.
She holds the cup aloft, sipping, debating whether to sleep or ponder. Her thoughts break as voices speak behind the door. As the conversation holds, they grow fevered.
Standing, she makes her way to the door, and presses her ear flat.
"She won't condemn us to something like that! I know she won't, it's wrong!"
Cinder hisses. "Keep your voice down, Autumn. She trusted me with that information. Nokirin else is supposed to know."
"Entering the Stream?" Autumn snorts. "Yeah, no wonder she doesn't want us to know. I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't been here to hear it."
"I'm not sure I agree with it either, but you have to understand where she's coming from. What we went through... We can't do that again."
"You're right. We can't. That doesn't mean we should sacrifice our emotions because we're scared of them, either."
Cinder sighs. "Listen, I'm tired. If you want, we can continue this conversation later. In private. Goodnight, Autumn."
"Fine. Goodnight."
Two sets of hooves turn away, walking in opposite directions.
Leaning back, troubles churn in her mind. She is certain of nothing, least of all herself.
But she can be certain of one thing.
Her perspective alone is not enough.
Deep amber light paints the world, like masterful strokes upon the canvas. It clashes with rich purple, spotted with the eyes of the ancestors. On her right the sun dips halfway below the horizon, and on her left the full moon rises halfway up.
She has waited for this opportunity, when the Ladies of Day and Night put aside their differences and share the heavens as equals. Together, they trap the sky between them, a moment so fleeting and thin it trembles upon a delicate string.
Together, they open a door. One which allows her to beseech guidance.
Before her yawns the impenetrable black maw of an ancient cave. Here, at the peaks' summit, where frozen air bites the skin and razors the bone, wisdom just as ancient awaits.
Two have followed her. The same two as usual.
Cinder says nothing. She merely observes.
Autumn pleads with her. Don't do this, she yells, over the screaming of wind.
If the elders' judgement aligns, she will do as Autumn asks. She says as much, but this does not satisfy the mare. She demands an oath not to go through with this decision, but that promise cannot be made.
Deafening herself to her child's words, she enters.
At once, sound drains from the world. The air takes on a distinctive shift, growing warm and inviting. She answers the call, plodding deeper into the cave.
At the end she comes upon a large, circular cavern. Many faces of beautiful, regal Queens stare down at her, painted with exquisite detail against the stony walls. One day, hers will join them.
Candles lie unlit beneath each portrait's base. Beside them, whichever possession or trinket they held dearest.
She begins to pace the atrium, counter-clockwise. By each candle she lowers her head. Sparks of pearlescent flame flicker from her horn, snagging on the wicks. When the room blazes she is finished, sits at the center, and awaits their coming.
Hours pass.
When she leaves the holy place, Lady Night has asserted her dominance. The two have left, retired for dream most like. Weak, worn, and weary, she desires the same.
In the morning, dawn has just arrived. The sun scarcely shows itself, lighting the sky a dim gray-blue. Birds have begun their morning song, flowers stretch blooming towards the heavens, and the village lays resting in their warm, cozy beds.
A mallet strikes the central gong. The quiet shatters, but quickly refills the vacuum.
The gong rings again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Bleary eyes blink themselves to awakeness. Mouths yawn. Bodies stretch. Hooves hit the ground and doors open. Curious, dozens trickle to the village center.
She stands waiting for them, chin tilted high. The gong hangs massive, over twice her height in diameter. Sun filters through the leaves, reflects on the gold, and rebounds against countless kirin scales.
She waits before speaking, as murmurs and fertive glances ripple through the crowd. She silences them with a hoof.
Two stand at the front. They do not go unnoticed.
"My children," she speaks. Her voice carries strong with the wind, a forceful blow like the mallet's strike. "For many long weeks I have pondered, meditated, and argued with myself. As a community, as a people, we have moved past our tragedy, but we cannot forge a verdant future if the fear of such transpiring once again lurks ever behind us."
Increased chatter.
"I have considered the choices before me. Last night, I went to the Summit, and spoke extensively. Not all will agree with my decision, but it is made, and there is none other I have been offered."
She points leftward. Heads follow. Two abstain.
"As one, we shall march into the forest, sing our final song, end enter the Stream of Silence."
Gasps rise from the crowd. Autumn hardens. Cinder remains expressionless.
The murmuring spreads quick, like fire. Embers catch. Voices rise. Tensions flare.
Panic grips her heart, and she slams the mallet once, twice, thrice, against the gong.
"Silence! My mind is made, and there is no alternative! If we are to protect ourselves from such loss coming to repeat itself, we must cleanse our passions. It is the only way."
Heads bow. Some wear masks. Others scowl, as Autumn does. More look resigned, or simply impassive.
They cooperate, all the same.
As though they were a stream themselves, the village moves as one. Undaunted, she leads the charge, and is the first to pick up song.
It is an old melody, passed down through generations. It speaks of their history, from the times before the peaks, the brutal years of dynastic war, the touching moments of love and sacrifice. Each time a pivotal event transpires, more lines are added. Already, there are those which tell of the Great Fire.
When they return, this moment shall be penned as well.
No one will sing it.
And so they sing now, with the voices they have before they are gone.
A lone kirin trots ahead of the rest. Reaching the head, Cinder slows into step beside her. Their eyes meet.
"What did they say?" Cinder asks. "Did they agree?"
"Some did. Some did not."
She offers no more, and her gaze returns forward. Cinder falls back into the mass.
By coincidence, the song ends as they reach the Stream. Its waters travel noiselessly over and between protruding stones, for this brook does not babble. The hint of magic, hidden just below the surface, twinkle-shines in the rippling rush.
They pause, and she turns to address her people.
"This is my penance, foremost and above all," she declares. "Thus, I shall be the first to enter."
She turns back around, gazing into the Stream. Her reflection gazes back, broken in shards, wavering in conviction.
In that image, years of leadership flash before her. The good times and the bad. She is thankful one greatly outweighs the other.
Sustained by the properties of her title, she persists far longer than the others. Her stature is testament. Although she knows not when her reign shall end, she knows it shall end all the same.
Sometimes, she wishes she were never chosen. She misses those younger, innocent days. When choice and consequence hardly mattered.
Those times are long gone. They are never coming back.
And she has a duty to her people.
So she closes her eyes.
Breathes in.
And steps forth.
