Part II – The Amorosi
Chapter 2 – Languishing
Location: Arbola Forest
Timeline: Sixth Age, 45th Year, Spring
Oh, how delectable was the discord that soon festered in Arbola Forest – it became a symphony of mortal frailties that I surely would have savored at the time had my gaze not been fixed on grander schemes! Yet even though I was blind to their strife back then, in hindsight I realize now that I still have the right to relish in the chaos that unfolded. Why? Because I am who am, dear reader, and as such even my shortcomings work to the good.
Consider – a golden circlet, a work of priceless craftsmanship by any standard, although it was but one of many examples of my forgotten handiwork. The prize was about to stir the deep seeded ambitions of someone – its whispers destined to weave a thread of unrest. Had I but paid heed, I’d have danced amidst the coming turmoil, and perhaps nudged their doubts to total ruin! Alas, I knew not of their petty dramas, ripe with envy and deceit, yet e’en still they were a prelude to my future glory, and I now declaim their tale with a god’s belated glee…
Whilst Fara’s Gambit and Nathily’s Future were the talk of Arbola, life continued as normal for most of the elves of the Forest. They laughed, they played, they sang, they spun – walking through the steps of their long lives with grace and hope. For theirs was a shared existence and within the commune of their woodland home, they relished in the chance to live, laugh, and love.
Yet there was one cabin in the forest that was larger than the rest – a veritable sanctuary of opulence, nestled within Arbola’s heart, and the air inside was heavy with ambition. Its walls were adorned with Amorosi tapestries—scenes of Alyssa’s grace woven in emerald and gold – that clashed with the stark luxury of polished oak furnishings and ornate knickknacks, their gleam reflecting the owner’s hunger for power.
Upon a highly embossed end table sat a thin golden circlet, its intricate filigree glinting ominously in the candlelight. A slim band of hammered gold, it pulsed with a faint, subtle rhythm. The Amorosi Helena sat in a pazziarra-stuffed chair nearby – gazing into a looking glass, examining her features with mild chagrin. Middle aged yet beautiful like all Amorosi, Helena had green eyes, auburn hair, and a face that was both serene and calculating. After a time she lifted the near weightless circlet and placed it on her brow – her reflection immediately improving in her eyes, yet her thoughts taking a darker turn.
Nathily unnerves me, she mused, her fingers tracing the circlet’s curves. Those eyes, that… strangeness. She’s no mere Amora, adopted or not, and her radiance is not normal.
Helena’s dislike of Nathily was a knot she couldn’t untangle. Helena knew the feeling was not rooted in reason, but still she couldn’t shake it – and perhaps didn’t want to. As for Nathily’s candidacy as the first female Azora, Helena had no real opinion on that matter either way, but as a high ranking member of The Arbola Council – and as someone looking to raise her own station on that board – Helena recognized the situation as something she could use to sow chaos – destabilizing Rian’s reign and hopefully paving her own path to the Regency.
She turned to Liriel, a middle aged human woman who’d long served not only as Helena’s house slave often as her sounding board too – though the uneducated woman offered little in return by way of intelligence. “Liriel, the council teeters,” Helena smiled, her voice smooth as silk yet edged with cunning. “Everyone can see that Rian wavers – the old fool’s torn by Fara’s zeal and his own doubts. Yet Nathily’s strangeness threatens us all— if we elevate her, she could fracture Arbola. Still, I’d love to see her fail at the Glade – that would surely sink Rian and Fara both.”
Liriel nodded gruffly, the wrinkles in her face creased as her gaze became uneasy.
Helena prattled on. “And there’s this – Alyssa’s so-called visions might be naught but Fara’s own words. There’s no proof they are divine writ. Even still, I’ll support Nathily’s cause to stir debate. But then I’ll shift, casting doubt. Rian’s weakness may well undo him, and when the council falters, I’ll guide Arbola to a stronger future.” Her eyes gleamed, the circlet’s whispers amplifying her ambition.
[About that mini crown that Helena fancied. The circlet was a trifle of my own crafting – The Circlet of Desire – forged ages past for an Amorosi Queen named Elara whose ambition I sought to stoke in the hopes of turning her into my pawn against Alyssa. Sadly Elara failed me— refusing to fall for my magic – and I soon became distracted by grander schemes and forgot the bauble, its whispers lost in the ether. Looking back now, I realize it was probably sending me signals all along, faint pulses I ignored, too consumed by other works to heed. Yet I I’m not surprised it made its way to Helena, for she was clearly a mortal hungry for power. Soon enough The Circlet would control her – for it was a lens, a prism that would focus and amplify her ambition, turning it into a tangible force, and eventually taking over her soul. Oh, the great Elara might have resisted the Circlet’s magic, but Helena had no chance!]
The Great Green Hall pulsed with activity. The Hall itself was a masterpiece of their pathetic craft. A vast, open-air circle woven from the living branches of a great oak, its canopy forming a cathedral of light and shadow. The air, usually so pure and fragrant with the scent of pine and rich earth, was thick with the dust of old anxieties and the cloying perfume of unfulfilled ambition. It was the perfect stage for the unfolding drama.
Hushed murmurs filled the air as the gathered council was arrayed in carved seats upon the main dais, their earth-toned eyes reflecting the hall’s light. Rian sat at the head of the table, his brown robes somber, his face etched with conflict. He was in fact the picture of a man at war with himself, his silver hair, usually so meticulously styled, now a chaotic mess. His knuckles were bone-white as he gripped the armrests of his chair, as if afraid it might float away from under him. Rian was a pacifist, a simple soul who believed in the gentle path, and he was being torn to shreds by a storm he could not comprehend. As Regent, he’d been presiding over the question of Nathily’s Azora candidacy for months now – and the more the debate dragged on, the more Rian’s heart was torn between Fara’s faith in Alyssa’s vision and his pacifist resolve to shield his daughter. His prayers for clarity had gone unanswered, leaving him adrift, doubting Fara’s claim, yet fearing to oppose a goddess’s will.
Rian was joined at the board by the rest of his council – the Amora’s Helena and Ardala, the Azora’s Adarius and El-Janus, The Lore Master Dallegheri, the Diplomat Lorindel, and other lesser advisors. Although The Hall (and all of the council discussions) was always open to the Amorosi public, Rian was thankful that neither Fara nor Nathily had attempted to sit in on the council meetings. He knew this was because Fara considered the matter as ‘resolved’ since, in her mind, it was Alyssa’s command, yet Rian had a different opinion and thus still held out hope that perhaps he could ‘rescue’ Nathily from the Azora fate.
Today’s discussion was again getting nowhere as Helena, Adarius, and Lorindel were arguing over the situation with the same lines of reasoning they’d each stuck to for months. Observers in the crowd were also discussing the ‘case’ and their voices were growing more animated. At last, Rian raised a hand, silencing the hall. “Councilors and friends, we weigh a grave matter: Alyssa’s vision, as my life partner Fara claims, names Nathily the first female Azora in spite of our Life’s Code. At some point we must conclude this matter, therefore I beg you all, speak your hearts, but let wisdom guide us.”
Dallegheri spoke first, his frail form belying a mind still sharp with the knowledge of eleven centuries. “War defiles our essence,” he raised a gnarled finger, his voice somewhat quavering. “The Azoras’ path is sacrifice, not harmony as both Adarius and El-Janus will surely attest. Nathily as an Azora may well risk Arbola’s soul and we should not rush to judgement. Let us now allow our light to be dimmed by haste.” He glance at his son Rian, his earth-green eyes troubled.
Taking the opportunity, Helena stood, her smile somewhat pious. She was a slender, striking elfess with eyes the color of emeralds that shone with a dangerous, calculating light. Her posture was all confidence and grace, her every movement a silent challenge to Rian’s quiet authority. “The Lord Master speaks wisely of our tradition, yet I wonder – might Alyssa’s vision fortify Arbola against any unperceived challenges? Is it possible Nathily’s strength could inspire us, uniting our people in purpose?” She paused, her tone shifting, subtle doubt creeping in. “Then again visions are frail. Although I hate to cast doubts, as the governing body of this forest, we must ask ourselves the painful question – did Fara’s zeal perhaps outstrip the truth? Do we not need to know the answer to this question before we risk our harmony on an untested Amora, adopted and… strange as she is?” Her words hung heavy, her dislike of Nathily veiled, her flip-flop sowing discord to weaken Rian.
Ardala, steadfast but reserved, spoke briefly, urging caution, while Adarius and El-Janus were against an Amora as an Azora, claiming it would violate sacred traditions of their order. That left Lorindel, his dark eyes gleaming as he asked, “But what is a tradition that stagnates? Is it not merely a cage?” And so it was that the council’s voices clashed, their arguments circling without resolve.
The deadlock a growing weight on Rian’s shoulders, the Regent rubbed his temples before standing, his voice weary. “Enough. We remain unresolved. Let us reconvene again when hearts are clearer.”
And so another day was wasted as Rian adjourned the debate. And with that, he stood, his shoulders slumped with the weight of his failure, and walked out of the chamber, leaving the council to their festering resentments. Helena watched him go, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across her lips. She had won this round, and she hadn’t even had to raise her voice.
In a quiet glade beyond the hall, moonlight filtered through Arbola’s trees, their silver leaves whispering in the breeze, a serene in contrast to the debate’s tension. Nathily stood alone, her golden hair aglow, her emerald eyes reflecting the stars. Ever since the news first broke that she might dare to walk The Path of the Azora, she’d long since lost most of her friends. And although she’d known her entire life she was ‘different,’ even still the sting of the voices she heard behind her back had become more unnerving. They echoed now in her mind—adopted, strange, not one of us—their jealously a weight she couldn’t name.
Why do they fear me? she thought, her insecurity surfacing, a rare crack in her divine resolve. But then she touched an arbol’s bark, its warmth steadying her, and her composure returned, Alyssa’s vision a quiet strength within her
Meanwhile in his bungalow, Dallegheri sat amidst scrolls, the scent of parchment heavy yet comforting to him, whilst a single candle cast shadows across the room. His palsied hand brushed a jade figurine hidden as his thoughts drifting to…another – the allure a secret that had haunted him for a milennia. Yet his youthful travels to Ramos, forbidden and known only to his dead parents, had cost him the Regency – it was a wound that had never healed. And while Nathily’s situation troubled him as a mystery his lore couldn’t pierce, he pushed that matter aside, and relaxed into the bittersweet refuge that his secret talisman provided him.
Finally, at their cabin, Rian and Fara relaxed in their bedroom, the moonlight soft through leaf-patterned windows, yet a chasm still separated them. Rian stared at the wood ceiling, his prayers unanswered, torn between Fara’s faith and his fear for Nathily. Fara lay with her back to him, her silence heavy, her conviction unshaken. Their strained glance before sleep held love but no resolution as the debate’s deadlock held a shadow over their hearts.
How exquisite, this mortal tangle of doubt and desire, a drama I now savor though I missed its unfolding! Helena’s ambition, Dallegheri’s regrets, Rian’s faltering resolve—each a thread in a tapestry of discord I’d have woven tighter, had I but seen. Alyssa’s people thought they were in control – they thought they were making their own destinies – but in the end, they were just puppets, dancing to a tune I was quietly humming to myself.
Shall we continue? I believe the little story is just starting to get good.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 