Chapter Text
On a cool evening during the Fifth Astral Moon, The Oracle closes her eyes and knows that when she opens them, she will open them as someone else.
She is still a girl-– not even ten winters seen-– and not yet accustomed to the drop that signifies the oncoming tidal wave of what she will come to know and name as her Sight. And it is a drop-- like she’s a coin tossed into a well that never splashes, or a pebble kicked down a ravine that never hit rock bottom, or a chick fallen from its nest too-soon, staring up at the wide, blue sky thinking: this is it, I’m done for, I’m gone. I never said goodbye.
So she is terrified of this gulf that exists within the core of her, of course she is terrified.
The Oracle–- who is, in truth, not yet The Oracle: she is still in possession of her name, a name she recalls, and it is ██, a name she values, and it is ██, a name that is hers to keep, and to hold, and to know and it is ██-– does not often feel even at this tender age, but fear is a universal constant across all creatures that live and breathe, an animal instinct that rears its head when danger presents itself and oh, she knows, she knows, that when this drop reaches up from beneath to twine its way around her fragile ankles, it does so with the intent to pull her, as ██, under, to consume and subsume her very essence.
For the sun blots all else when one stares directly at it, does it not? When one turns their gaze to the star above, to peer at it unshielded, at that piercing light, unyielding, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-consuming?
The scream inside her head is a desperate one in a muffled cavern that swallows it up without the courtesy of an echo–- and then ██ closes her eyes and opens them as Azem.
You are a Viera, in this life, and you are celebrating your nameday.
Ninety six is young for your kind, and you remind him as much from the placid pool that he refuses to join you in. He waves you off, dappled lighting playing off of his pale features as he smiles like a cat from the shade. It is rare for him to join you so far out into the wilds, and you sometimes wonder how he is always so pristine despite his perilous travels to meet you in these forbidden trysts.
The Golmore Jungle that you call your home is as vast as it is lush, untouched by the very notion of empires and rulers. Nature in all her beauty ensconces you in this grotto, this quiet place you have brought him to with no small amount of secret concern.
As intruder and wood-warder; you are not meant to be-– and in truth, you wonder how he remains so captivating to you while being so infuriating: as you take your well earned respite he is eating your portion of sweets, one bite at a time.
From the water you rise, like a cresting wave, a laugh in your voice as you reach for him with your hand outstretched, longing to bring him back with you into that cool, blue water, for no reason besides the sheer and wondrous delight of it, to crystallize this moment beneath a perfect and cloudless sky, to live, and to laugh, and to have this moment, this one last moment, your final moment, the moment you do not have, the moment you are denied, the moment that dies on your tongue and the copper that slides along it. You see the shape of your name in his mouth more than you hear it, and you do not need to gaze upon your breast to see the arrows that have flown true and clean.
The pristine water swirls crimson as you attempt to speak;
But as intruder and wood-warder, you are not meant to be.