Azeyrion Ilearanos

I miss them.

Mother, father… family, friends – all of them.

I have done so much, I should be proud, but… it’s never enough.

Azeyrion takes another swig out of a delicately crafted and beautifully engraved golden inkwell. He sits atop one of the many hills of Kythara famous for their beautiful views of the sunset. But Azeyrion does not care about the sunset.

The negotiations went well; the war is over. Kythara is at peace. Not completely at peace, but the doctrine of the Church will be up for discussion soon. My purpose is clear. I have been able to influence the world and my Goddess beyond my wildest dreams — heck, I met her! Multiple times!

I should be proud of myself. Isn’t that what they all tell me?

Then… why don’t I feel anything?

Azeyrion does not move. The last light of the sun disappears as the moon ascends in all its glory. It is a full moon; from where he is seated, Azeyrion is bathed in the surprising warmth of the moon’s light.

It was a full moon when I first arrived here.

It is a surprising realisation. But many things have been surprising these past few years.

Azeyrion does not even notice when the first tears start. He does not try to fight the urge. He lets it all out. He does not remember the last time he cried so loudly, or for so long. Good thing no one is around, right?

Wait, what if someone else is here? FUCK!

Azeyrion tries to hoist himself up in order to look around, but he simply cannot gather the energy to do so. Realising that there is no point in trying, he resigns himself.

Emotions, repressed for years, come out. Sadness, anger, joy — even nostalgia. I’ve never felt nostalgia before. He remembers the days of his youth. He remembers his days in school, he remembers messing around with his siblings, and he remembers the day he passed the Examinations. He hadn’t thought about that day since stepping foot on Kythara – but ah, how could he forget the happiness on his mother’s face.

I have… always been a traveller. I have travelled to so many places around the Southern Empire. They were not my best days, but I have experiences from them I… remember. I even cherish some of them. I… was happy. I have been happy. I… was happy, when I was with the Church. I was happy when I went out with friends.

I am not doomed. There is so much to do in this life. There is so much to see. I have met so many different people during my time in the Labyrinth and Kythara. Different cultures, ways of life, religions, ethnicities, and different ways in which societies are organised.

Slowly, the tears stop. The shaking reduces in intensity, then stops. As his thoughts slowed down, Azeyrion took out a small tuning fork and gave it a flick. Its ringing bought forth a silence which enveloped him.

Silence had always been deeply comforting to Azeyrion for reasons he could not articulate. The quiet contemplation in front of the Goddess provided him the strength to keep going, no matter how bad it was. No matter how bad it seemed – there was always a way.

Azeyrion stood up and emptied the contents of his inkwell. He descended down the hill, making his way home. If you were the moon, you would notice a slight spring in his step that wasn’t there before. If you were his friend, you would notice he walked a little surer than before.

If you were his mother, you would finally be proud of him.

— Written by Debayan B.

Azeyrion had spent a long time — years or decades — working diligently under the Principia on Kythara to produce revised, or annotated, or altogether novel works in the aftermath of the new covenant made between the Church and the Goddess to whom it was dedicated.

He had proven a prolific writer, though he kept at least a part of the secret behind that to himself. It was, he'd learned, much easier to sit down and spend a day productive when he managed to titrate himself to just the right level of drunkenness, and in a turn of events rather convenient to him he had acquired long ago a relic that made doing so really quite easy. Another sip from what had once been an inkwell, and back to work he would go. When it finally came time to pass on, he would have to arrange for that to be presented as part of his belongings bequeathed unto the Church in some way that did not implicate his character quite so severely.

Vice or no, his service had been long and loyal. It was on the cusp of nature when the year turns from summer to autumn that the Principia gave him invitation to her office, and offered him the rank of a Bishop within the Church. Given that Vena herself had received the renewal of the Guardian's covenant in person, that would make him part of the first generation of bishops to inherit the Church's new relationship with its mistress.

He accepted, of course. Barely a few weeks had passed from that day to when he found himself on his knees before the altar in the Temple of the Scale of the Guardian, receiving the anointment with oils and the laying on of hands that consecrated him to his position. He could not help but imagine Deep-Lantern, whose own consecration he had attended all those years ago, standing with the Principia and the other bishops besides.

He did not linger long after the ceremony to celebrate or receive congratulations. There was always more to be written.