Part II: The Amorosi
Location: Arbola Forest
Timeline: Sixth Age, 46th Year, Spring
Ah, the spring of the forty-sixth year. A time of rebirth, of new beginnings, of fresh growth—and of course, the most exquisite political deadlock. As it stood, the Amorosi deceived themselves into thinking they were having a civilized discussion about something of cosmic importance – i.e. Nathily’s Azora Training. And so Rian and his Council sat in their little wooden chambers, surrounded by the raw power of a world I so meticulously crafted, and they argued over “tradition” and “dignity” as if such things ever held any meaning at all. They were consumed by their own small dramas, so blind to the greater narrative unfolding around them. They believed their words held power, when in fact, their every syllable, their every impassioned plea, was just a note in the symphony of chaos that I conducted.
The Arbola Council chamber, usually a place of serene, flowing harmonies, felt like a pressure cooker. The scent of damp earth and blooming moss was overwhelmed by the stale perfume of a year’s worth of unspoken tension. Sunlight, filtered through the thick canopy of the great oak that held the chamber in its boughs, fell in fractured patterns across the faces of the council members. It illuminated every furrowed brow, every pinched mouth, every flicker of fear and ambition. I sat, invisible, on a high branch, a silent audience to the most entertaining farce I had seen in a year.
As he’d done for countless days already, Regent Rian sat at the head of the circular table. His posture was impeccable, but the tremor in his hands and the dark circles under his eyes spoke of a spirit at its breaking point. He was a man who believed in a world of gentle logic, but he was trapped in a maelstrom of raw, emotional politics.
The debate had, for all its stagnation, picked up a delightful new momentum. The most ardent voice against Nathily’s candidacy came from the very heart of the Azora order. Adarius, a Cavalier of immense skill and unyielding conviction, stood before the council, his posture as rigid as the ancient oak he stood beside. His eyes, the color of cold steel, were fixed on Rian, but his words were meant for everyone.
“My brothers and I have dedicated our lives to the preservation of our people,” Adarius’s voice was a low, hard rumble, devoid of any poetic flourish. “Our order is a weapon forged in fire to fight a war that has no songs, only screams. You speak of her ‘destiny,’ but I speak of our history. I saw the horrors of the Last Great War and before that the dreaded War of the Ghast. I saw what a true warrior must become. To ask an Amora to take a life… it is to ask them to surrender a part of their soul forever. A male Azora can bear this burden, but to ask it of a female… it is a betrayal of everything we stand for.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the faces in the room, challenging them to disagree. “I have walked the Way of the Azora for more than a centure. I have felt the life drain from my opponents’ bodies. I know the cost of our duty, and I will not, cannot, see it paid by one so innocent and so fragile.”
His argument was a wall of granite, unyielding and absolute. He wasn’t talking about Nathily’s spirit; he was talking about the immutable, brutal law of his order. The very essence of Azora purpose. A deep, murmuring agreement went through the crowd, a chorus of old fears confirmed. The Azoras who sat among them nodded, their faces grim.
And then, as if on cue, Helena rose from her seat. She was a vision of cunning, her face a serene mask of righteousness. Although the Circlet of Desire was safely (and secretly) back at her bungalow, she’d used my little trinket to rehearse her speed and the magic of the crown still imbued her with some persuasion – amplifying her words, making them sound like undeniable truth. She did not argue against Adarius’s points; instead, she used them against him.
“Our great Cavalier speaks of the ‘nature’ of our kind,” she began, her voice a clear, crystalline note that cut through the tension. She took a step toward the center of the chamber, her gaze fixed on the Azora. “But what is a nature that stagnates? Is not the very essence of our goddess, Alyssa, one of growth and change? The Azora were forged to protect us, yes. But if we deny a new path, if we refuse a new form for that protection, are we not betraying our very purpose?”
Adarius held his ground. “We protect what is sacred, not what is new and untried. Our order is not an experiment, it is a way of life. A Way that does not change its shape for a new enemy; it holds firm.”
Helena’s smile was as cold as a mountain peak. “Then tell me, Cavalier. Were not the Azoras created with the coming of The Myz and were not The Myz a darkness unlike anything in our history. Those fell warriors were born of a chaos we did not understand, and they brought a new kind of dread. To fight them, we had to evolve. And that evolution was a necessity. Perhaps a female Azora is not a break from tradition. Perhaps Nathily is an evolution of it, a chance for us to learn how to fight a new kind of war with a new kind of warrior.”
Her words struck their mark. The Myz were a still a fresh terror, a wound still raw in the collective memory of the Amorosi, and Helena had just opened it for everyone to see. The council shifted uncomfortably, and a new, more nervous murmur rippled through the air.
And then, a figure rose from a seat in the back – the quiet, yet politically savvy Lorindel. He was a master of doublespeak, who had remained silent for most of these debates – making him an uncertain ally (or enemy) for all.
Lorindel smiled, a thin, almost invisible curve of his lips. “Perhaps both our esteemed speakers are correct,” he said, his voice as smooth as polished stone. “Cavalier Adarius is right; the Azora must be strong, uncompromising, and true to their purpose. And our dear Helena is right; our people must be willing to embrace change, to grow with the world.” He folded his hands and looked from one to the other. “The question, then, is not whether we should have a female Azora, but how we can be both strong and adaptable.”
Adarius grunted. “You speak in riddles, Lorindel. There is no middle path in this. Tradition is the law.”
“Ah, but is it?” Lorindel countered, a knowing look in his eye. “Is not the law itself an interpretation? A guide to the will of the gods? The gods did not write these laws in stone. They were handed down through generations, each generation interpreting them as they saw fit. We are not just debating a child’s fate; we are debating our very understanding of the divine will. Perhaps the gods, in their infinite wisdom, have presented us with a question that has no simple answer. We may not understand it, and it may not be to our liking, but is it not our purpose to follow their will, no matter the cost?”
His words, meant to placate, only served to deepen the mystery. He had said nothing, and yet, he had managed to imply that both Adarius and Helena were correct while simultaneously suggesting that they were both missing the larger point. He had created a new, more impenetrable deadlock. The fools were more confused than ever.
And then, a new voice, a quiet, serene sound that was as old as the mountains, cut through the tension. Dallegheri stood, his hands clasped behind his back. He did not look at anyone, but at the ceiling, as if speaking to the heavens themselves.
“My wife Eldara was a woman of great wisdom,” he said, his voice a soft, soothing balm in the tense air. “She saw beyond the chaos of this world when she last walked with me, before she passed over to The Elysian Fields. It’s been more than six centuries since Eldara passed over to the Elysian Fields but I remember her wisdom like it was yesterday. She always spoke of our people having a destiny and whether we understood it or not, her hope was that we might fulfil it. Today I ask you this – The Council, in our wisdom and our arrogance, have spent a year debating a truth that was given to us in a moment of boundless grace. The Azora are a sacred order, yes. But their purpose is not to debate the will of the gods. It is to fulfill it.” Then he turned his gaze from the ceiling to Rian, his eyes full of a profound compassion. “You, my son, have tried to protect Nathily, but you cannot protect her from her destiny. The will of the gods is not to be debated, but to be obeyed. You must let her go.”
The council fell silent. Rian, broken by the weight of the last year, and now, the crushing new truths, simply pushed his chair back. His face was a mask of defeat, his body sagging with the weight of a burden he could no longer bear, yet still he clung to his pacifist hopes like the life line. Avoiding the gaze of all, he said in a horse whisper, “The answers are still not clear. Let us take a recess. We will reconvene in the morning.”
Before any could object, Rian walked out of the chamber, a ghost of an elf. He was no longer the peaceful, contented regent of old. He was an elf consumed by a new, more profound, and utterly delicious despair. He was trapped between the will of a goddess, his love for his wife, and his fear for his daughter. And yet he knew there was nothing he could do but stall…and hope for a miracle.
The council remained behind, their debate unresolved, but the pieces of the puzzle had been rearranged in a new and infinitely more intriguing way. Helena had her chaos. Lorindel had his political game. Adarius had his rigid righteousness, now in direct conflict with a divine command. And Dallegheri… well, he had his quiet, unshakeable faith.
It was all so perfectly, beautifully, and gloriously screwed up. And I couldn’t help but laugh – for the intrigue had only just begun.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 