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It takes approximately 1.11 kilometers to crest Karlan’s peak. The fall is more than enough to fracture bone. The rock that juts from the sacred mountain’s scarred facade consists of fault lines jagged enough to scrape one’s palms raw. Enough for Ensia to come crying to her big brother, who will immediately begin applying antiseptic with a sigh.
You will not have the heart to scold her, when she tells you how she feels the most alive with the coarseness of rope cast over cranny and crevasse, ice axe sinking its pick’s serrated teeth into stone. Only later will you steel the severity in your voice to knock at her door. She will brace herself, sheepish but only half contrite. In truth, you are not fond of lectures.
You are so frequently subjected to the twofold sanctimony and sermon of the conservative faction’s triumvirate, after all. And that is not even mentioning the increasingly excessive demands of the Vine-Bear Court.
You still remember. When you were children, it had been growing dark when Enya’s typical grace faltered. She had sprained her ankle, but neglected to inform you until she could not walk.
In a strained voice, she spoke: I did not want you to worry. You have enough on your shoulders as it is.
You ruffled her hair. Scoffed: I am your big brother. How can I not fret for my sisters? You are all I have left.
You carried her on her back as the sky grew dark, until you could hardly see past your hands. You haunted the doorsteps of household after household until the two of you were granted shelter from the brutal, biting cold.
Kjerag sunlight’s a special breed, they say. She’s temperamental as a jilted lover, always shining in extremes. At worst, it’s blinding. The early hours of morning fold into the afternoon on a day like this, though it does little to stave off the snap and snarl of the wind, piercing through layer after layer.
Matterhorn is cooking thenthuk, hand-pulled noodle soup, the way he always does in winter. When the broth starts to boil, the kitchen fills with noise. The whole household seems to compete for how fast they can pull the dough into little flat pieces, toss them into the pot. It’s almost terrifying how quickly Courier can transform into a noodle-pulling machine, though no one can dethrone Matterhorn.
King of the Kitchen, you teased, may you reign forevermore. I wouldn't mind eating your cooking for the rest of my life.
His expression softened, then, the dough of a soon-to-be-tingmo pliant in his hands. Enya was always fond of those soft, airy steamed buns, their layers unfolding like fragrant flowers. He twisted the dough in his hands, contemplative.
Murmured: It would be an honor. I have known you all my life -- I will follow you, wherever you choose to go.
“Pfft...At this rate, we will have more noodles than soup.” You let them have their fun, but really. Mirth tinges your voice, the dog-eared pages of a poetry collection you’ve read so many times: enough to recite each stanza by heart.
“Are you doubting my culinary prowess, Master Silverash?” You’ve known him long enough to hear the note of teasing, laughter in his voice.
You clap a hand over your heart in mock affront, voice dripping with mock melodrama. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Ensia will giggle at the snow crystals dusting Courier’s hair, teasing: if you wanted to bring home a taste of winter, you should’ve counted me in! Snow-crusted boots are all the rage nowadays, haven’t you heard? A low-cost, low-effort look with the smaaaall downside of potential hypothermia!
Enya will make a valiant attempt at elegance, but her pretense of poise will cave as a condemned building does at the sight of Ensia sprinting out the door, dancing in the snowdrifts like a child. Courier’s startled chuckles, Ensia’s carefree laughter, Enya’s exasperated mirth. The sight always filled you with such warmth.
Here, at Rhodes Island, the air is more often balmy than brisk. Here, the taste of Matterhorn’s cooking is only ever bittersweet. After all, Enya is not there to roll her eyes at Ensia, devouring beef momos one by one; the savory dumplings disappear at an exponential rate. There are no prayer flags, mantras inscribed on their colorful cloth; there are no prayer wheels to spin clockwise before passing through a monastery’s gates, gilded bronze glinting in the sun.
Home. You miss it. Miss Enya’s quiet smiles, Ensia’s boisterous laughter. You are endlessly fond of your chats with Courier and Matterhorn over tsampa and butter tea, in the scant mornings where your schedules coincide. There is still room for two. One day… perhaps…
Ah… what right do you have, to ask for forgiveness? What right did you have to decide the course of Enya’s life? You thought she would be safer as a Karlan Saintess, safeguarded from your innumerable political adversaries. That way, she would not succumb to the same fate as...
(Ensia was asking why’s Mother sleeping at a time like this, won’t she get cold? And Father… he’s looking so serious, I’ll have to give him a smile! Enya, Enya, I gotta give Mother my coat. Hey, Brother, why aren’t you saying anything? Encio...des?
You held your sisters close. Thought: ah, this is what goodbye tastes like. This is what instills the fear of letting go: sinking its fangs deep into blood and bone, mind and marrow. In the years to come, you will not allow yourself to succumb.
As its scion, you bear the legacy of the Silverash family. Anything less than Karlan Commercial’s meteoric rise would be a disappointment to their name. You’ll seize power with your own hands, survive the storm standing tall.
Enya… She’s free to despise you. She has every right. As long as she’s safe… As long as she’s alive… Oh, Enya. Your brother’s a fool, is he not? Yes, you can imagine her saying, without pause.)
The steam of your butter tea is like a sigh against your cheek. It’s a whisper of longing. A breath against your ear: there’s no going back to sweeter days.