"The tribe who neglects a child will one day awaken to that grown soul setting their village ablaze."
Valerna Jorgenskull
“Respite”
Valerna’s return was marked by a stillness in the air that wasn’t of peace but of a world too patient in its suffering. The jungle and rivers of her homeland stretched before her like the veins of a body she had once known intimately but had long been away from. This was no triumphant homecoming; it was a return shrouded in grief and weariness. The war had kept her away for decades, and now, after enduring the torment of captivity, she sought the one thing that could offer her solace—her family.
But as Valerna stepped into the familiar warmth of her daughter Maria’s village, the pulse of life seemed slower here, more fragile. Word had reached her that Maria, her beloved daughter, lay on the edge of life, her once vibrant form wasting away before her time. At thirty years old, Maria was still young by any standard, yet death clung to her like a shroud.
Valerna’s heart, though hardened by centuries of war and loss, trembled at the sight of her daughter’s home. She had survived battles, betrayals, and endless suffering, but nothing could prepare her for this. Her steps felt heavier, each one echoing a truth she had long denied—that time, the cruelest of all enemies, had claimed another piece of her soul.
The hut where Maria lay was small and humble, nestled in the arms of the jungle, surrounded by flowers that bloomed under the starlight. As Valerna entered, the air inside felt thick with sorrow, mingling with the sweet, faint scent of lavender and earth. There, in the dim light of flickering candles, lay Maria, her skin pale, her breath shallow. Beside her were her two children—Mikhel, her son, standing tall yet unsure of how to handle the grief that hung over them, and Tatyana, her daughter, clutching her mother’s hand with the innocence of someone too young to fully understand the gravity of what was happening.
“Mama…” Tatyana whispered, her small voice like the last note of a song that had been fading for too long.
Valerna knelt beside Maria’s bed, her towering form casting long shadows across the room. She took Maria’s hand in hers, the once familiar warmth now cool to the touch. “I’m here,” she said softly, her voice breaking through the weight of years spent apart. Tears that she hadn’t let fall for decades now slipped silently down her face.
Maria’s eyes fluttered open, dim yet filled with the light of recognition. “Mother… you came,” she whispered, each word a struggle. Her face was drawn, her once rosy cheeks now hollow, but she smiled, a soft, fleeting gesture that carried the weight of a lifetime.
Valerna’s heart ached, not just with the pain of seeing her daughter like this, but with the knowledge that this was an inevitable truth she had faced too many times before. She had stood at the graves of her children before Maria, seen their faces in the cold stillness of death. Yet each loss tore a fresh wound in her immortal soul, a wound that time, with all its vastness, could never truly heal.
As the night wore on, Valerna stayed by Maria’s side, holding her hand, whispering stories of the battles she had fought, the lands she had seen, and the stars that had vanished from the sky since they had last been together. Her words were not those of a warrior recounting victories, but of a mother trying to weave together the fragments of their time lost to war and suffering.
Mikhel and Tatyana, though quiet, were ever present, their young faces etched with a sorrow that went beyond their years. Mikhel, now barely a man, held his sister close, offering her the comfort of a brother who had tried to be strong for them all. Tatyana, her wide eyes brimming with tears, looked to her grandmother, seeking answers to the unspoken questions that lingered in the room.
“What will happen to Mama?” she finally asked, her voice trembling.
Valerna, her voice soft but steady, looked into Tatyana’s tear-filled eyes. “She will go to sleep soon, little one, but she will always be with you. Not in the way you can see or touch, but in the way the stars remain in the sky, even when we can no longer see them.”
Tatyana’s lips quivered as she nodded, her small hand reaching out to grasp Valerna’s. The giantess felt the fragility of the child’s touch, so reminiscent of the delicate threads of a spider’s web she used to weave. In that moment, Valerna realized that she couldn’t let herself be consumed by the inevitable—by the knowledge that she would one day stand over yet another grave. She had to hold on to the moments, however brief, that would carry them through the darkness.
As the first light of dawn began to creep through the cracks in the walls, Maria’s breath slowed until, finally, it stopped altogether. The room fell into a profound silence, broken only by the soft weeping of the children and the distant call of the jungle’s creatures. Valerna, her heart heavy with the familiar ache of loss, leaned over to kiss her daughter’s forehead one last time.
But this time, unlike the losses she had endured before, Valerna made a silent vow. She would stay. For Mikhel and Tatyana, she would remain in this village. She would not leave them to face the world alone, not until they were old enough to stand on their own. She had lost too much, but these children, these bright flickers of hope in her darkened world, were the reason she would carry on.
As the village began to wake, Valerna found herself sitting beside Tatyana, knitting a delicate outfit of silken web for the child. Her fingers, though large and calloused from war, worked with a tenderness born of love.
Life was fleeting, ephemeral, like the web she wove. But in the moments she had with them, she would create something beautiful—something that, though fragile, would hold meaning. And in those moments, she found a peace she had long thought lost to her.
“Dunes of time”
The dunes of the White Sand Empire stretched endlessly before Valerna, each crest and valley a reminder of the time that had passed, the lives that had withered like the desert’s delicate flowers. She moved with the silent grace of an immortal who had seen kingdoms rise and fall, her towering form casting a long shadow over the sun-bleached ground. Her footfalls stirred the fine, white sand, each step erasing the traces of her passage like the tides of time swallowing the past.
Beside her, Devante, a kitsune of honor, walked with the easy poise of someone who had spent centuries navigating the subtle currents of the world. His fox ears twitched at the sound of the wind, and his many tails swayed gently behind him, moving in rhythm with the desert breeze. They had been traveling for what felt like lifetimes, yet each moment together felt new, a testament to their bond as immortals in a world that had changed while they had not.
"I can still feel the pulse of the empire," Devante mused, his voice rich and warm, like the desert heat at dusk. "But it’s different now. The heartbeat has slowed."
Valerna, her amber eyes scanning the horizon, nodded thoughtfully. "Everything fades, given enough time. Even empires." She glanced at him, her gaze softening. "Except us."
They came upon a tiny hamlet nestled in a rare hollow between dunes. The settlement was quiet, almost forgotten by the world, yet a single well stood at its heart, a relic of a time when the village had thrived. The well, like the immortals themselves, had survived countless years. Its stone was smooth from centuries of hands drawing water, its depth dark and cool beneath the oppressive desert sun.
Devante paused beside it, his reflection shimmering faintly in the well’s water. "Obsidian Canyon isn’t far now," he said, running a hand along the edge of the stone. "My ancestral home… though I doubt anyone remains who remembers it."
Valerna stepped closer, her hand finding his, their fingers intertwining. "The world forgets, but we don’t," she murmured. "We carry the past with us, even when no one else can."
The village was a haunting reminder of this truth. Its walls were crumbling, its people long gone, but it had once been alive, bustling with the voices of those who had laughed and loved in the shadow of the empire. Now, it was a ghost of what it once was, left behind as time marched on.
As they stood there, the wind shifted, stirring the sand into gentle swirls around them. Valerna watched the dunes rise and fall like waves on an ancient sea, each grain of sand a fleeting memory, and yet they endured, unchanged by the passage of time.
"Do you ever wonder," Devante said softly, "if we’ve stayed too long? If there’s something we’re missing because we can’t change like the world does?"
Valerna considered his words for a long moment. "Perhaps," she admitted. "But we’ve also seen beauty in ways others can’t. The way the stars shift in the sky, the way empires fall only to be reborn. It’s all part of the same story."
Devante smiled, his tails flicking behind him. "And at least we’re writing that story together."
They continued their journey, leaving the silent hamlet and its forgotten well behind, the distant shadow of Obsidian Canyon looming on the horizon. The canyon had been Devante’s birthplace, a place of black stone and sharp cliffs that had once teemed with the vibrancy of his people. Now, it was a silent monument to the past, much like the empire around them.
But as they walked, hand in hand, Valerna and Devante knew they were more than just relics of a bygone era. They were survivors, witnesses to the dunes of time shifting beneath their feet. And in each other, they found the one constant, the one thing that would never fade.
The world had changed, but they hadn’t. And perhaps that was enough.
“Killing Monsters”
The scorching heat of the desert sun painted the sky in a blaze of gold and crimson as Valerna stood at the entrance of the noble’s tent. Her broad shoulders, laden with the weight of centuries and the head of the colossal serpent, cast a formidable silhouette against the evening horizon. The lifeless head of the beast—its scales once shimmering with life, now dull—was evidence of the task completed. A faint hiss of venom dripped from its fangs onto the white sand, which swallowed it without protest, as the dunes themselves bore witness to the inevitable decay of all things.
Before her, the desert noble lounged in decadent luxury. Draped in flowing silks of deep emerald and adorned with jewels that gleamed even in the dying light, he sat amidst cushions embroidered with gold, his smug expression already anticipating praise and gratitude. The noble rose with exaggerated grace, clapping his hands in mock appreciation.
"Ah, Valerna," he greeted her, his voice slick as oil. "You’ve exceeded my expectations. The serpent, slain at last—what a grand service you have done for my people. Our lands are safe once more, thanks to you."
Valerna’s gaze remained cold, unmoved by his flattery. Without a word, she dropped the serpent’s massive head at his feet. Its impact against the sand sent a shiver through the ground, as if the earth itself recoiled from the wretched thing. The noble’s smile faltered momentarily at the sight, but he quickly recovered, masking his unease with a flourish of his jeweled hands.
"And now, your reward," he began, his voice lilting with false charm. "I shall—"
But Valerna cut him off, her voice a low rumble, as deep as the caverns beneath the world. "Why did the beast target only one family? Why did it only rage in one direction, destroying no other lands but those of a single house?"
The nobleman blinked, clearly not expecting the question. He chuckled nervously and waved a hand, his rings glinting in the dying light. "Ah, well, beasts are unpredictable, you see. These things cannot always be explained..."
But Valerna took a step forward, her massive form casting a long shadow over the noble. Her towering presence, backed by the endless stretch of desert behind her, seemed to drain the very air from his lungs. The weight of eternity pressed down on him.
"I tracked the creature’s path," Valerna said, her voice soft but dangerous, like the whisper of sand in a deadly storm. "It moved with purpose. It was driven from its lair, pushed into rage. It did not attack at random." She tilted her head slightly, her gaze piercing through him. "Tell me, noble, who drove the serpent out?"
The noble’s face grew pale as he realized his game had been discovered. He shifted uncomfortably under her unyielding stare. "I-I had no choice!" he stammered, stepping backward, almost stumbling over the cushions scattered around him. "That family—those fools—refused to sell their land to me! It was their stubbornness that forced my hand! They were standing in the way of progress, and that land was—"
"Yours?" Valerna finished, her tone as sharp as the blade at her side. "You unleashed the serpent to drive them out, knowing it would slaughter them. You set me on this path, not to protect the innocent, but to clear the way for your greed."
The noble’s face twisted with anger. "I am a ruler of these lands! I did what was necessary! You were paid to kill a beast, nothing more!"
Valerna’s lips curled into a grim smile, her fangs catching the last glint of sunlight as it slipped below the horizon. The shadows grew long, and the winds of the desert began to stir, whispering across the sands like the voices of the dead.
"I was hired to kill a monster," Valerna said softly, drawing her blade. "And now, I have found one."
The noble backed away, fear flooding his eyes, but it was too late. With the speed of a striking viper, Valerna’s sword flashed in the twilight, slicing through the air with deadly precision. The noble’s head fell to the ground, rolling in the dust like a broken relic of a forgotten time. His body collapsed into the sand, lifeless.
Valerna stood over him, her breathing steady, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the stars began to emerge, one by one. The desert around her was silent, save for the soft whisper of the wind. She wiped the blood from her blade and sheathed it, turning her back on the fallen noble.
As she walked away, the white sands swirled beneath her feet, carrying the memory of what had transpired. The dunes shifted endlessly, reshaping themselves with every breath of wind, just as the world reshaped itself around the fleeting lives of mortals.
Valerna, untouched by the passing of time, left behind the corpse of yet another monster—one of many she had slain, though this one had worn the face of a man.
In the end, there were always more monsters. And as long as they existed, she would hunt them.
For that was her duty.
As the stars brightened, Valerna’s figure disappeared into the night, a lone giantess wandering the desert, eternal and unyielding, while the dunes whispered her name to the silence.
“The StoryTeller”
Hassan was one of the greatest storytellers the region had ever known, beloved by the people for his tales of battlefield bravery. His stories, however, were not just tales of war—they were delicate creations meant to ease the pain of loss for families who had lost loved ones in combat. Valerna, the giantess charged with guarding him, admired his ability to bring comfort but remained silent about her own long and tragic history, filled with battles and farewells.
Hassan’s stories were carefully crafted for the people, embellishing events and transforming moments of terror and suffering into heroic narratives. “People don’t want the truth of war,” Hassan once said. “They need hope, even if it’s a lie.”
Valerna watched as Hassan mesmerized the crowds with his embellished tales of valor, knowing that the reality was far more brutal. The soldiers on the frontlines, those brave souls, died in agony, terrified and far from the heroics Hassan described. But the people, hungry for pride, believed every word, their hearts swelling with nationalistic fervor.
One day, a young soldier named Aran—a boy Hassan had known since childhood—visited the camp. “Your stories are why I’m here, Uncle Hassan,” Aran declared proudly. Hassan’s face clouded with regret. He knew what awaited the boy on the battlefield. That night, he begged Valerna to guard Aran instead of him. Valerna refused. “I’ve been ordered to protect you,” she said, ever bound by duty. But Hassan couldn’t shake his guilt. “My words sent him here, and now he’s going to die because of them.”
The battle the next day was fierce. Amid the chaos, Hassan repeatedly told Valerna to go to Aran, but she stayed at his side, shielding him from danger. When they finally reached Aran’s unit, it was too late. The boy was on the ground, mortally wounded, gasping for his mother.
After the battle, Hassan returned to the city square, but his usual vibrant spirit was gone. When Aran’s mother asked how her son had died, Hassan spoke the truth. “He died in pain, crying out for you,” Hassan said. The crowd was stunned into silence as Hassan exposed the brutal reality of war. “There are no heroes here,” he continued. “Only the dying and those left behind.”
His words enraged the soldiers, and they silenced him, cutting out his tongue for daring to speak against the army. Even so, Hassan’s message spread, carried by the people who had heard his final, defiant words.
Years later, as Valerna wandered through the city, she heard a child humming a familiar tune—the song Hassan had tried to sing as he lay dying. “What’s that song?” Valerna asked. “It’s called Give Us Peace,” the child replied.
Valerna walked away, humming the song herself, her heart heavy with memories of the storyteller who had sacrificed everything to speak the truth.
“Winners and Losers.”
Valerna stood at the heart of the city-state, an imposing figure recruited to maintain order within a juvenile prison. The regime that ruled the land classified people into two rigid categories: "winners" and "losers." The police commissioner, a man hardened by the responsibilities of domestic security, explained it in stark, unforgiving terms.
“Life’s a lottery,” the commissioner had said, his words heavy with disdain for those less fortunate. "Some are born winners, while others... well, we know what becomes of the losers."
The harshness of the words did little to stir Valerna’s heart, for she had seen the worst humanity had to offer in her long years. Nations rose and fell, each crumbling under the weight of their own misguided ideologies. But this particular city-state, governed by a harsh dichotomy, had taken its cruelty to new heights. In its pursuit of control, it had become a land where children—those most vulnerable—were thrown into cells and forgotten, branded "losers" for life.
The prison looming before her was a fortress, built not to rehabilitate but to isolate and erase. Valerna's assignment was clear: if unrest broke out during the brewing coup, the children were to be kept in check. Nothing more, nothing less. The commissioner believed in this system, that punishment rather than redemption kept the peace. It was a philosophy Valerna had heard many times before, but one she never accepted.
"You can't let compassion get in the way," the commissioner said. "They're losers. There's no saving them."
Valerna said nothing. She merely accepted the document—the “license to kill”—with a faint nod. It was a grim testament to the regime's resolve, granting her the authority to do whatever was necessary to keep order.
As Valerna toured the dark and frigid halls of the prison, guided by a veteran guard, the oppressive weight of despair was tangible. The children, many just on the cusp of adolescence, lay listless in their cells, wrapped in tattered blankets, shivering from the cold. The air reeked of hopelessness. Moans echoed from a feverish boy in one cell, while a high-pitched, hysterical laughter rang out from another. These were not criminals—they were lost souls, crushed under the weight of a system that never gave them a chance.
“These are the ones the system deems unredeemable,” the guard said, sneering as he pointed to the punishment cells at the far end of the corridor. "They’re worse than the rest. Trouble-makers, every last one. They don’t know when to quit."
Valerna felt it before she saw it—the simmering defiance emanating from one of the cells. The boy inside, Diran, was unlike the others. His body was gaunt, his face pale from malnutrition, but his eyes—those eyes burned with the fire of resistance. It was the look of a warrior, one who had refused to let the world break him, no matter the cost.
The guard laughed as he hurled a bucket of ice-cold water into Diran’s cell, mocking the boy’s resilience. "You see, they all break eventually."
But Diran didn’t flinch. Even drenched and shivering, his eyes never lost their flame. Valerna recognized that spark—the same fire that burned in those who fought on, even when the battle seemed lost.
That night, the coup erupted in the city, just as predicted. Fires spread, and the regime’s forces scrambled to maintain control. The prison, isolated from the rest of the city, was left to fend for itself. The guards, true to their orders, abandoned their posts. "Let them burn," one of them muttered as he ran. "Losers aren’t worth saving."
But Valerna stayed. She could not abandon them, not like this.
With the prison engulfed in flames, Valerna knew there was little time. She rushed to Diran’s cell, unlocking it with a swift movement. The boy looked at her, startled.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked.
"Because I refuse to see the world as they do," Valerna replied. "You're not a loser. None of you are."
Handing Diran the keys, she watched as the boy unlocked the cells of his fellow prisoners, freeing them from the fate that awaited them in the flames. But before they could run, Valerna stopped them.
"Come back at dawn," she said. "Prove them wrong. Show them that you're not what they say you are."
Diran hesitated, but he saw something in Valerna’s eyes—something he hadn’t seen in any of the guards. He nodded.
The flames consumed much of the prison that night, but as the sun rose, every child returned, standing at the gates, heads held high.
Years passed, and the system that once condemned them fell, replaced by a new government—a government that no longer believed in winners or losers. Diran, once a boy locked away for defiance, became the leader of a revolution, a symbol of hope for those who had been discarded.
And Valerna, watching from the shadows, knew that change had finally come. The regime's division of people into categories was gone, and in its place stood a generation that understood the true meaning of resilience and redemption.
The world had changed, just as it always did. And Valerna, eternal and unyielding, continued her journey, knowing that, for now, the flame of hope burned brighter than ever.
“An innocent lie.”
"May I see Liora now?" Valerna asked, her voice a quiet murmur, almost drowned by the heaviness in the room. "She hasn't opened her eyes since last night," the innkeeper responded with a hushed sorrow, his words carrying the weight of inevitable loss. Valerna’s gaze moved to the slight rise and fall of Liora’s chest, her frail body clinging to the final thread of life. The innkeeper gave a resigned nod, though his next words faltered, “I don’t think she’ll know who you are.” His voice cracked with the burden of watching his daughter slip away. “Such a shame,” he added, “I know you made a special point to come here for her…”
Another tear traced the curve of his wife’s cheek, glistening in the low light. Valerna, battle-hardened and immortal, placed her arm around the woman’s trembling shoulders. She had seen this scene unfold countless times; death always followed the same script. The power to speak went first, then the ability to see, but hearing — hearing remained until the bitter end. It was that sliver of hope she clung to now. "It's fine," Valerna reassured, "I have many stories to tell her. I’ve been looking forward to sharing them since I began my journey." But her words fell into the well of grief, met with another tearful nod from the mother, “And Liora was so looking forward to hearing them.”
Valerna, carrying the weight of this final meeting, laid her pack gently upon the floor and slipped into Liora’s room. The girl, frail from birth, looked as delicate as a porcelain doll, her small frame barely disturbing the linens around her. Valerna sat beside her, a giantess whose very presence contrasted sharply with the fragile creature in the bed. But her voice softened, her tone warm and comforting. "Hello, Liora. I'm back." She waited, watching the faint rise and fall of the child's chest, as if the stories she had prepared could weave together the fragile threads of life. And so she began, describing the azure ocean that stretched endlessly across the horizon, the sky that held nothing but the moon's pale glow. She painted pictures with her words, of lands far beyond the reach of even the tallest mountains.
As Valerna spoke, she believed Liora’s cheek moved, a slight shift of recognition. Though the girl’s eyes remained closed, her hearing was alive. Valerna continued, threading her words like a tapestry, each sentence a bright stroke in the narrative. The battles, the bloodshed, the screams of men falling in war — those details remained unspoken. Instead, she filled the room with stories of beauty and serenity, tales of vibrant flowers and mist-filled jungles, of ravines with the sweetest spring water. Valerna had always shielded Liora from the horrors of her life, crafting her tales to be a sanctuary for the child, one free from the ugliness of human nature and war.
In those quiet moments, Valerna understood that her stories were as much for her as they were for Liora. The inn had become her refuge, a place where, for a fleeting moment, she could forget the endless bloodshed and loss. Liora had given her that gift — the ability to feel something other than the weight of lives lost. As the years passed, the girl had grown older, her death creeping closer with each day, but still, she had listened with those same sparkling eyes. And now, as Liora lay on the brink of her final journey, Valerna found herself telling the last story she would ever share with her.
The morning would come soon, and with it, Liora’s final breath. Valerna, ever the traveler, would continue her eternal wandering, but now with one less light in her life. "You’ll be leaving on travels of your own soon, Liora," she whispered gently. "You’ll go to places no one has ever been. You’ll walk wherever you want, free at last." Her voice softened with a tender reverence, as if death itself was not an ending, but the beginning of a new adventure for Liora. "Tell everyone you meet about your journey," Valerna said, her eyes betraying a sadness she seldom showed. "This is not goodbye, only the start of something new." Yet, even as the words fell from her lips, she knew it was a lie, one final untruth to soothe the parting.
Liora’s passing came with a peaceful smile, her face serene as if she had just whispered a quiet farewell. A single tear trailed down her cheek, a reminder of the life she left behind. Come morning, Valerna would once again be alone, left to tread the endless road of her journey, burdened by the weight of yet another departure.
"Nupitals"
Valerna Jorgenskull stood before the mirror like a deity entangled in a web of her own weaving, her introspection a tight-lipped spectator to the eternal. The wedding gown, a pristine cascade of white silk and lace, clung to her body as though the fabric feared being torn apart by the raw power beneath. Roses, ivory and soft, adorned her chest and hips, fragile symbols of a purity she had long since abandoned. Her spider legs, gleaming with a crimson sheen, arched above her, a reminder of her true nature—predatory, ancient, untamed.
The veil sat delicately atop her ruby hair, a thin, ephemeral thing that fluttered with her every movement, whispering faint secrets of what might have been in a different life. But life had never been one of simplicity for Valerna. She had long since cast aside the notions of innocence or romance, leaving them in the dust of centuries past. Yet, here she was again, preparing for another marriage—a political arrangement, a union of convenience wrapped in the trappings of ceremony and obligation.
Her eyes, twin ambers glowing with the fire of countless battles, stared into her reflection. They were the eyes of someone who had seen civilizations rise and fall and watched as time devoured even the most stalwart of realms. They were the gemstones of someone who had outlived numerous lovers, friends, and enemies alike. Each blink seemed to carry with it the poundage of eons, as though she could feel the sluggish turning of the world beneath her feet, the grinding of the astral gears that propelled existence forward. And through it all, she remained unchanged, unbowed, eternal.
As her hands, large and strong, adjusted the roses pinned to her bodice, she felt the softness of the petals beneath her fingers, a momentary contrast to the iron will and sinew that coursed through her. The juxtaposition amused her. It was absurd to wrap a creature like her—an apex predator, a juggernaut forged in war—in something so delicate. The roses, the lace, and the veil were mere symbols, embellishments meant to appease the traditions of those who still feared time and sought definition in fleeting rituals.
Valerna had no such misconceptions. To her, marriage was just another battle. Another negotiation. Another war, but one fought with words and promises instead of steel and blood. She had been here before, time and time again, binding herself to mortals for the sake of alliances and empires. And every time, it had ended the same. Husbands died, alliances withered, and yet Valerna remained.
She had long since lost count of how many lovers she had buried, how many vows had been spoken in the name of prudence and power, only to turn to ash as the years dragged on. She wondered idly how long this one would last. A decade? Two? Perhaps she would be fortunate; this union might stretch to forty years. But forty years was nothing to someone like her. Forty years was a sigh, a breath between battles, a transient lull in the ceaseless procession of time. The thought of enduring another political matrimony, with all its deceitful smiles and hollow words, brought the barest hint of a smirk to her lips.
The gown felt heavy, though not in a physical sense. It was the consequence of expectation, of obligation. She wore it not because she wanted to but because it was required of her. She had to play the part of the bride today, stand before an altar, and pledge herself to a man she barely knew, all in the name of securing power for her empire. Her spider legs twitched slightly, a subtle reminder that she was not meant for these delicate, fragile games. She was a creature of the hunt, a predator who thrived on dominance and conquest. And yet, here she was, draped in white and roses, feigning purity.
She often wondered if the mortals around her ever realized how brief their lives were in the grand scheme. Did they feel the clock's ticking, the slow erosion of their bodies as time gnawed at their bones? Did they know, deep down, that their struggles and victories were all for naught in the face of eternity? Valerna had learned long ago that time was the only true victor. Empires crumbled, kings fell, lovers died, and through it all, time marched on, apathetic to the dreams and initiatives of mortals.
For Valerna, time was both a friend and an enemy. It had given her power, immortality, and the ability to outlast all who opposed her. But it had also taken from her—taken lovers, taken comrades, taken the very meaning of life itself. When you live forever, she realized, everything eventually loses its luster. Even love.
A soft sigh escaped her lips as she picked up a delicate white glove and slipped it onto her hand, feeling the fabric stretch over her battle-hardened skin. How ironic it was, she mused, that a being like her—a colossus of flesh and power—would be bound by something as fragile as love, or at least the pretense of it. This marriage was nothing more than a game, a political chess move designed to strengthen her empire. But still, she would play her part. She always did.
And if, at worst, she had to endure this union for forty or so years, that was but a drop in the ocean of her life. Time was on her side. It always had been, for better or for worse.
As she turned from the mirror and prepared to face the ceremony, her spider legs moved with her, a classy, fluid motion that belied the raw power beneath her wedding gown. The veil fluttered lightly as she stepped forward, her eyes drifting past the present moment, beyond the nuptials and into the future. She would endure, as always, for time was her constant companion, her true lover. This marriage would come and go like all others, leaving her unruffled.
Valerna Jorgenskull was eternal; no vow, ceremony, or mortal union could ever change that.
"The Taskmaster"
Valerna Jorgenskull's hands sank into the warm, gummy mud, her fingers curling as they shaped the wet earth into crude bricks. The white sands of the desert stretched endlessly in all directions, a barren sea of heat and shimmering mirages. Sweat poured from her brow, stinging her eyes as she worked, the unforgiving suns hanging high overhead like a vindictive god, determined to wring every ounce of life from her. Her red hair, now dull and matted with dust, clung to her neck as she bent over the shallow pit where the mud was mixed. Each motion, scoop, and slap of the muck felt like a sentence passed down by the taskmasters who patrolled the brickyards with whips and cruel eyes.
Her once-bronzed skin now blistered under the pitiless heat, her muscles aching from days that bled into weeks, weeks into months of lasting drudgery. There had been a time when her body had been revered, worshipped even, as the embodiment of power and strength. Now, it was reduced to a mere tool bent beneath the yoke of a desert empire that mandated her labor. The grandeur of her past felt like a faraway dream, one she could scarcely recall through the haze of fatigue and thirst.
Her spider legs, which had once arched high and proud from her back, now hung limp, useless in the face of the heavy chains that bound her. They were a reminder of what she had been—once free, once mighty—but now they were shackled like the rest of her, their nimble movements restricted by the weight of her captors' iron.
The sun beat down mercilessly, its rays refracting off the white sands in blinding waves. Valerna's breath felt like it burned her lungs, the air thick with dust and the stench of sweat and suffering. She could hear the dull thud of other slaves working around her, their toils mirrored by the unfeeling march of time. The taskmasters' whips cracked in the air, sharp reports of dominion that punctuated the otherwise ceaseless drone of work.
Valerna's mind strayed as she pressed another brick of mud into shape. She had once been a voyager, free to walk the lands, to carve her own path through the world. She had danced beneath the canopy of the Great Tree, where her people had thrived in harmony with the ancient forests. Now, she was bound to the desert, a land without trees, where the bones of those who had fallen before her cast the only shade.
"Why?" she whispered, her voice gravelly and cracked from the heat and thirst. "Why has the Great Tree forsaken me? Forsaken us?" Her words were lost in the wind, swallowed by the desolate expanse of the desert. The Tree had been their protector, their guide, and yet here she was, far from its roots and shadow. No longer could she feel the earth's heartbeat beneath her sandals, nor could she hear the ensemble stemming from the psithurism of the jungle. She had no answers, only the bitter taste of dudgeon.
The taskmasters were staunch. They moved like vultures among the workers, eyes continuously monitoring for the slightest hint of faltering. Their whips were not used lightly, and Valerna had borne the sting of their lash more than once. She had seen others fall under the heft of their brutality, their bodies broken by weariness and the cruel hands of their captors. And yet, for all their viciousness, the taskmasters were just as much a part of the empire's machinery as the slaves they oversaw. Both cogs in a greater system, both bound by forces larger than themselves.
When the sun reached its zenith, the taskmasters allowed a brief reprieve—a brief mercy as the workers sought what little shade they could find. Valerna, aching and slick with sweat, approached a small patch of shade near the river. The river was the lifeblood of the desert, a narrow ribbon of water that snaked through the dunes, offering a respite from the heat. She crouched under the sparse shade of a rock, her back resting against it as she closed her eyes and let the cool breeze from the river wash over her. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget the chains, the whips, the endless grind.
The din of footfalls approached, crunching softly over the sand. Valerna opened her eyes to see one of the taskmasters standing a short distance away, his face unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood. He wasn't like the others, she knew. His whip, though coiled at his side, rarely cracked. He was younger, his eyes less hardened, though no less burdened by his role.
Without a word, he sat beside her, his back resting against the same rock. The silence between them stretched, neither acknowledging the other for a long while. Valerna glanced at him from the corner of her eye, waiting for the sting of his words, the inevitable command to return to work. But none came.
After what felt like an eternity, the taskmaster spoke, his voice soft, almost wistful. "Hard work, this... in the sun." His words, though simple, carried a weight of shared suffering, as if the heat and the sand had stripped away the boundaries between them for just a moment.
Valerna nodded slightly, her lips dry and cracked. "Hard work," she agreed, her voice carrying no bile, only exhaustion. She could feel his eyes studying her, but she did not turn to meet his gaze. Instead, she looked over the river, watching its slow current move lazily through the desert.
"You're... different," he said after another long pause. "Not like the others."
Valerna let out a quiet sigh, her fingers idly tracing the chains that bound her wrists. "I was different, once," she replied, her voice soft but firm. "But that doesn't matter here, does it? We all work. We all sweat."
The taskmaster was silent again, and for a moment, Valerna wondered if he had more to say. But he remained still, his gaze now turned to the horizon where the river met the sands. For a brief moment, they were not master and slave, not oppressor and oppressed, but simply two people trapped beneath the desert sun. The silence between them felt almost sacred, a brief breather from the world that demanded so much of them.
As the sun descended, the taskmaster rose, brushing the sand from his robes. He looked down at Valerna, his expression hidden behind the shadow of his hood. "The sun doesn't wait for anyone," he said quietly, almost apologetically, before turning to walk away, his figure blending into the heat and light of the desert.
Valerna remained seated for a moment longer, her eyes still on the river, her thoughts drifting back to the Great Tree and the land of forests that now seemed so unreachable. She longed for its shade, its shelter, the life that it had once given her people. But that life was gone now, replaced by chains and labor, by the endless sands and the harsh light of a sun that showed no mercy.
With a deep breath, Valerna rose, her muscles groaning in protest. She picked up a half-formed brick of mud, her hands sinking into the familiar rhythm of work. But in her heart, a vow had taken root—a vow born not of anger or bitterness but of resolve.
Never again, she promised herself as she molded the mud in her hands. Never again would she bend her back beneath the yoke of another. For now, the sun beat down, and the taskmasters watched. But Valerna Jorgenskull, the eternal voyager, would endure. And when the time came, she would rise.
"The Taskmaster, Part 2"
Lord Ravin had never been a man to stray from his path. He was a man of faith and discipline—raised in the rigid structures of the empire, molded by the teachings of saintliness, and trained to uphold the inalienable laws that had governed his people for generations. His entire life had been lived under the watchful eye of gods who demanded purity of body and mind. His thoughts were to be clean, his desires virtuous. Lust was the domain of the weak, the impure, those not fit for the divine order he served.
And yet, when he first saw her by the river, something had stirred within him—something primal, something he had spent years trying to bury beneath layers of doctrine and devotion. Valerna had been resting, her massive frame leaning against the smooth rock as the desert breeze caressed her bronzed skin. The glow of sunset played over her body, highlighting the sheen of sweat that clung to her from a day's grueling labor. Her hair, loose and wild, caught the fading light, transforming her into an almost otherworldly vision.
It was then that the struggle began.
Lord Ravin watched her from a distance, his heart pounding in a way that felt wrong, unnatural. Her form—so powerful, unlike the women of his world—had drawn him in, igniting something he had spent a lifetime denying. Her spider-like legs, extending from her back, should have repelled him, should have disgusted him as a mark of her foreign nature. And yet, he found himself inexplicably drawn to her, his eyes lingering too long on the curve of her body, the way her muscles rippled beneath her skin.
He tore his gaze away, his hands clenching into fists. "No," he whispered fiercely to himself. "She is a savage... a temptation sent by malevolent forces." His mind raced, repeating the words repeatedly as though chanting them would cleanse him of the eros slowly building inside. "I am a man of faith, a man of purity. I will not be tempted by her... by that."
But the more he tried to suppress the feeling, the stronger it grew. He began to notice her everywhere—while she worked in the brickyards, while she rested under the few scraps of shade the desert provided. His thoughts clouded, his prayers frantic as he begged the gods for strength. He sought solace in fasting, in rituals meant to sanctify the mind, but nothing worked. The image of her—sweat glistening on her skin, her voluptous and titillating form—haunted him.
It was her fault, he decided. She was a temptation placed in his path, a test from the gods. Yes, that had to be it. She had been sent to destroy his piety, to befoul him like a venom spreading through his veins. The weight of his own cravings bore down on him like an anchor, suffocating him, and he abhorred her for it. He detested the way she made him feel. He despised the way his body betrayed him when he thought of her. And so, in his mind, the only solution was to eradicate her—to alleviate himself of this malediction.
The breaking point came one evening when he found her again by the river. The soft glow of dusk painted her bronzed skin in hues of gold and red, and she stood there seemingly at peace. Lord Ravin felt the wrath coil in his chest as he approached her, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. His heart pounded in his ears, a mixture of bitterness and longing twisting his thoughts into something dark, something hideous.
She looked up as he neared, her amber eyes meeting his with a tranquility that only stoked the blaze within him. How dare she, he thought. How dare she stand unbroken and unbothered while his mind was consumed with iniquity. Her alien loveliness—her assets—constantly reminded him of the desires he could not control. He clenched his jaw, his hand trembling as it hovered near the hilt of his dagger.
"You," he spat, his voice cracking with indignation. "You have done this to me."
Valerna frowned, confusion flickering as she tilted her head slightly. She was tired from the day's work, her body aching, but how he looked at her now—like a man cornered by his own demons—made her feel apprehensive. "I've done nothing," she replied evenly, her voice unperturbed, though she could feel the tension building between them.
"You lie!" Ravin's voice was louder now, feverish. His eyes were wild, his body trembling as though on the verge of collapse. "You... you foreign savage, you've embittered my mind. Your body... it tempts me, it pollutes me." He took a step closer, his breath hot with anger. "I am a man of faith, pure and righteous. And yet you... you have made me weak. You are filth, a creature sent to destroy men like me!"
Valerna narrowed her eyes as she rose to her full height, towering over him. She had dealt with men like this before—men who blamed their weakness on others, on women, on anything but themselves. She could feel the anathema radiating from him, mixed with something far more dangerous. "I am nothing more than a slave in your empire," she said, her voice cold. "I have done nothing to you. Your sins are your own."
Ravin's hand lashed out, striking her with a force that sent her stumbling back. The sting of the blow was sharp, but the words he hissed afterward struck deeper. "You are a bane upon me, Valerna. You and your... buxom form, your...foreignness." His voice dripped with malignancy, the madness in his eyes blazing as he drew his dagger, the blade shimmering in the fading light. "If I can't have you, no one will. You... you will die for what you've done to me."
Valerna steadied herself, her mind racing as she felt the rising adrenaline pulse in her veins. She had fought countless battles and faced enemies far greater than this man, but she was bound, her powers restricted, and her body feeble from the labor. The desert wind whipped through the air, carrying the sound of Lord Ravin's ragged breath as he lunged toward her.
But before he could strike, a shadow moved in the corner of her vision. The taskmaster—the same man who had sat with her by the river days before—stepped forward, his whip cracking through the air with deadly precision. It coiled around Ravin's wrist, jerking him back just as his blade was about to find Valerna's throat.
Ravin screamed in fury, his eyes wide with disbelief as the taskmaster pulled him down to the ground, the noble's body hitting the sand with a dull thud. The taskmaster's dagger flashed in one swift motion, and the blade plunged into Ravin's chest. The noble gasped, blood spilling from his lips as he stared up at the taskmaster, his expression twisted in stupefaction and bewilderment.
For a moment, there was only silence—the desert wind ululating softly as Lord Ravin's body lay still, his blood soaking into the white sands.
Valerna, breathing laboriously, watched as the taskmaster rose to his feet, his face hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. Without a word, he moved to her side, unlocking the chains around her wrists with practiced ease. The metal clattered to the ground, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Valerna was free.
She turned to him, her mind still reeling from the attack and the strange mix of sentiments swirling within her. "You saved me," she said, her voice raspy. Will you come with me?"
The taskmaster smiled faintly, shaking his head. "No," he replied softly. "I've learned that men and women... they work together from the heart. Sometimes that means standing together. Sometimes... apart." His words were simple, but Valerna could hear the depth of his conviction. He was a man bound not by chains but by something far more powerful—his ideals, his sense of justice.
"They'll kill you for this," she warned, her eyes lingering on the lifeless body of Lord Ravin. "You've killed a noble."
The taskmaster's smile never wavered. "Yes," he said, his voice calm. "That is the will of the universe. Justice has its price. We all pay it, one way or another."
Valerna stared at him for a moment, a strange gloom welling inside her. He had shown her compassion and had saved her life, but he was still a slave—bound not by the chains of the empire but by an ideal that would lead him to his death. She pitied him, knowing that the taskmaster who had saved her was just as bound as she had once been and that the true taskmaster—justice—would show him no mercy.
Without another word, she turned and began walking north toward the leafy bosom of her motherland. The desert stretched out before her, an ongoing sea of white sand. As she trekked, the wind picked up, erasing her footmarks as quickly as they were made, leaving no trace of her passage.
The taskmaster had freed her, but the desert would remember him as it did all who had fallen beneath its merciless sun.
“Field of respite.”
The giantess stood among the white blossoms that adorned the streets of the harbor town, their delicate petals fluttering in the soft breeze of early spring. The snow still crowned the distant mountains, but the sea shimmered under the warm sunlight.
The town, flourishing with its many piers bustling with ships, carried a heavy history. An earthquake had long ago shattered it, and its memory still lingered in the cracks of its foundations. Though the locals preferred not to speak of the disaster, the sorrow of that time remained, even as they celebrated the "Resurrection Festival," a time of joy marking the town’s rebirth from ruin.
"Passing through?" the tavern master asked, pulling Valerna from her thoughts. His voice was warm, as if the festivities had already infused his spirit. She turned, giving a small, polite smile in response, not revealing the weight of her true intentions.
"Here for the festival, I suppose?" the tavern master continued, his eyes glimmering with the joy of the evening. "You should enjoy yourself, take in the fun. Drink, eat, dance—let the night sweep you up."
Valerna’s heart was heavy with memories, and she shook her head gently. “Not really. I came here for another reason.”
His brow furrowed, sensing something deeper in her tone, but then shrugged with a grin. “Well, on a night like this, it’s hard not to get swept up. I’d say take it easy—there's no room at any inn tonight, anyway."
“That’s fine,” Valerna replied. “I won’t be staying long.”
Though the tavern rang with the sounds of merrymaking, laughter, and clinking glasses, Valerna's thoughts drifted back to the reason for her journey. She had been here before, centuries ago, when this town was nothing but rubble, when the earthquake stole away her wife and daughter. They were memories she rarely allowed herself to revisit, but something had drawn her back—an unseen tether pulling her toward a past that would not let her go.
The tavern master’s words floated back to her as she sipped her drink. “The earthquake was a long time ago, before even my grandparents were around,” he said, his tone more serious now. “You wouldn’t know it from looking at the place now, all these white flowers blooming everywhere.”
Valerna's gaze softened as she looked out the window, watching the flowers sway in the wind. “The last time I was here, they called it 'Earthquake Memorial Day.' It wasn’t such a happy celebration."
The tavern master paused, blinking in confusion before chuckling nervously. “You must be mistaken, traveler. It’s always been the ‘Resurrection Festival,’ as far back as I can remember.”
Valerna smiled faintly, knowing that the memories of sorrow had faded with each generation. What had once been a solemn day of remembrance had transformed into a festival of life. The town had moved on, but she could not. For her, the scars of that day were eternal.
Later, as the night deepened and the laughter faded, Valerna made her way to the town’s central square. The crowd had gathered in reverent silence, all eyes turned eastward, waiting for the dawn. Among them, Valerna stood tall, her heart heavy with the weight of centuries. As the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, illuminating the sea of white flowers, she closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer for her lost loved ones.
And then, as the town awoke in celebration, Valerna turned and continued her journey, leaving the past behind once more, if only for a little while.
“The Bell.”
Valerna found herself in the rolling farmland at the outskirts of a village, her large hands skillfully working the earth with a hoe, her immense strength gentle in its precision. The late autumn sun cast a crimson glow over the sky, and she paused to wipe her brow, a fleeting stillness filling the air. Nearby, Fatima, the farm’s owner, heaved a sigh of contentment, her weathered hands resting on a basket brimming with freshly harvested vegetables.
“We’ve done enough for today,” Fatima said, her voice soft, yet thick with satisfaction. Her stocky frame was clad in simple, practical attire—an old shawl slung loosely around her shoulders, her hands calloused from decades of labor. Valerna, towering above, gave a nod, silently acknowledging her as the dying light of day spilled in from the horizon.
Fatima smiled. “You’re quite the worker, Valerna. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Valerna’s brown eyes, reflective of long-buried sorrow, met Fatima’s warmth. "I don't know where I belong,” she said. Her voice was deep and resonant, almost echoing across the fields.
“Does it matter?” Fatima chuckled, adjusting her headscarf. “You work harder than most. Moon or sun, you’re welcome here.”
Their shared silence was interrupted by a distant bell ringing out—a bell whose solemn chime cut through the quiet hills. Down in the valley below, a funeral procession wound its way slowly along the road. The sound of the bell drifted up to them on the breeze, a melancholic call to pay respects.
Fatima immediately dropped to her knees, her hands clasped in reverence, eyes glistening with humility and prayer. Valerna glanced around the fields; other farmers, too, had stopped their labor, heads bowed toward the passing mourners. The tall, elegant figure of Valerna followed their lead, though her heart knew nothing of the comfort that faith offered.
“They're going home,” Fatima whispered after the bell’s final note had faded into the evening air.
“Home?” Valerna asked, her voice tinged with ancient curiosity. Home was a concept alien to the eternal giantess.
“To the soil, the sky, the sea…” Fatima explained, wiping away a tear. “We all return to where we came from in the end.”
Valerna's brow furrowed. She had witnessed countless deaths across centuries, watched as empires rose and fell, yet she—immortal—could never return to the soil. She remained a wanderer, exiled by time itself.
Fatima, always perceptive, turned to Valerna and said, “I know you must think about these things. You’re quiet, but it’s there in your eyes.”
The giantess looked away toward the fading light of the sun. “I don’t have a place to return to,” she confessed.
Fatima placed a gentle hand on Valerna’s leg. “The earth takes everyone, even those who wander for a time. Perhaps, when my time comes, you could scatter my ashes here, in this field.”
The request struck Valerna deeply. She, who could never die, would be tasked with watching over the inevitable passing of someone who had offered her a fleeting home. She nodded, her heart heavy with the burden of eternity.
As the evening bell tolled again from the village church, Fatima clasped her hands, her voice soft in prayer. “May we have another safe day tomorrow. For today, I am thankful.”
Valerna stood silent as the words washed over her, a profound sadness pulling at the corners of her mind. She knew then that her time here, brief though it was, had to come to an end.
“I will leave after the harvest,” Valerna said, her voice low, yet unshakable.
Fatima blinked, taken aback. “But why? You’ve been good here. There’s plenty of work in winter too.”
“I do not belong in a place where time claims all but me,” Valerna replied, hoisting the basket of vegetables onto her broad shoulders. “I cannot stay where death always comes, but I never do.”
Fatima, still kneeling in the cooling soil, gazed up at the fading figure of Valerna as she made her way down the hill, her silhouette bathed in the crimson glow of the setting sun. “Where will you go?” Fatima called after her.
“Somewhere. Anywhere,” Valerna answered, not turning back.
The sun dipped below the horizon, and the giantess disappeared into the twilight, forever wandering.
“What once was.”
The eternal voyager stood at the prow of the ship, her mourning veil stirring in the wind as they neared the island. The archaeologists around her, led by the eager young scholar Xochitl, prepared for their exploration, unaware of the land’s tragic history.
“The island we approach,” Xochitl began, “was once home to an ancient people who mourned their dead with song—elegies that carried through the wind.”
Valerna’s eyes, dark as the depths of time, flickered with memory. She had no need to tell Xochitl that this island was more than a historical curiosity to her—it had been her home, long ago, before the flames of conquest had reduced it to ash.
“They sang even as they perished,” Xochitl continued, her voice trembling. “My ancestors were the ones who destroyed them, weren’t they?” The sorrow in her voice reflected her unease with the violent history her people carried.
Valerna said nothing for a moment, then finally spoke, her deep voice like the rumble of distant thunder. “The dead do not vanish, Xochitl. Not as long as someone remembers them. Their songs may have faded, but the island still sings.”
Xochitl, her curiosity piqued, asked, “How could that be? How can a place sing without people?”
“The land remembers what the living forget,” Valerna replied. “Listen closely, and you will hear the voices.”
The boat landed, and as the crew disembarked, the island greeted them with silence, broken only by the soft wind and distant waves. Xochitl and her team quickly set to work, but strange things began happening—one by one, the scholars fell ill, some claimed to hear faint songs in the air, and others could barely stand under the weight of an invisible sorrow.
Xochitl wandered deeper into the island, determined to understand the source of the unease. Valerna followed silently, her immense presence a shadow of the past that loomed over the future. “The island mourns,” Valerna said, breaking the silence. “It remembers the songs, even if no one else does.”
Xochitl stopped, turning to Valerna, her voice soft but urgent. “What really happened here?”
Valerna knelt beside her, her massive hand resting gently on Xochitl’s shoulder. “This was my home,” she said, her voice laden with centuries of grief. “These shores once knew joy, laughter, and life. But all that changed when your ancestors came. They brought war, fire, and death. The songs became elegies, and the land wept.”
Tears welled in Xochitl’s eyes as the weight of her people’s past crushed down upon her. “I didn’t know… I’m so sorry.”
“The dead are not asking for your apology,” Valerna said gently. “They only wish to be remembered. Listen to the island. Sing their songs with them.”
Xochitl, overwhelmed by emotion, began to hum softly. The melody was not her own—it was the island’s, the ancient elegy of a lost people. Valerna joined her, their voices rising into the sky, carrying with them the memory of a forgotten time.
As they left the island, Xochitl looked back one last time, her heart heavy. “When I return home, I will tell the world what happened here. People need to know the truth.”
Valerna’s brown eyes gleamed with approval. “Yes,” she said softly. “The truth must be carried forward, in song and in memory.”
The ship sailed away, a single white bird following, its cry echoing in the air. No longer an elegy, but a song of hope, a promise that the past would not be forgotten.
“The Wall Divides.”
Valerna stood silently, her gaze fixed on the crumbling wall that had, for decades, symbolized the schism between two halves of a once-unified nation. Around her, hammers echoed against the stone, signaling an end to the division. The air buzzed with joy, yet beside her, Yulgan, a young former border guard, scowled, his face twisted in disbelief.
"Look at them," Yulgan muttered, spitting at the ground. "Celebrating like nothing happened. How can people forget so easily?"
Valerna, her figure casting a long shadow, remained silent, her presence both comforting and intimidating. Yulgan, his youthful face betraying confusion, turned to her. "You’ve seen more than any of us. Can hatred just... vanish like that?"
Valerna's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. “Hatred, child, is a seed sown in fertile soil. But just as it was planted, it can be uprooted.”
Yulgan’s eyes narrowed. “But I’ve hated them my whole life! They taught us... to be ready. That they were monsters on the other side. Now, one handshake, and it's over?”
“They taught you to fear shadows,” Valerna replied, her voice a deep, melodic rumble. “But shadows are not real, they only exist when we refuse to see the light.”
Yulgan folded his arms, frustrated. “It can’t be that easy.”
The two stood in silence, as cheers erupted from the wall, signaling the official moment when the barrier between nations was broken. People from both sides, many of whom had once been enemies, embraced with laughter and tears. Yet, Yulgan remained rooted to his spot, staring down at his feet.
“What should I do now?” he asked quietly, his voice almost lost in the jubilation around them. “All I’ve ever known is hate.”
Valerna’s massive hand, gentle yet firm, rested on Yulgan’s shoulder. “It is never too late to change, child. You can begin again.”
Yulgan looked up at her, doubt still clouding his young features. “Can I?”
“You can,” Valerna said, her gaze distant, as though remembering a time long gone. “I have seen people transform—some from love to hate, others from hatred to love. People are like rivers; they can change course, but they must choose to do so.”
As the crowd around the broken wall swelled with joy, Yulgan hesitantly lifted his gaze, watching as the young people from both sides mingled, dancing, singing, celebrating a peace he struggled to understand. His brow furrowed as he looked to Valerna again. “I just don’t get it. Why was I the only one who couldn’t see this before?”
Valerna’s smile deepened, though sadness touched her eyes. “Because you were pure. You held onto what you believed was true, but truth can shift. Now, you must choose whether to hold onto the past or embrace the future.”
Just then, a young girl from the other side approached, holding a tray of heart-shaped sweets. Her smile was gentle, and her eyes reflected none of the hostility that had been drilled into Yulgan’s mind. “Would you like one?” she asked, her voice soft but sincere. “I made them this morning.”
Yulgan, his cheeks burning with sudden shyness, hesitated. Encouraged by Valerna’s nod, he slowly reached for a cookie. “Thanks,” he muttered, biting into it.
“Well?” the girl asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. “How is it?”
Yulgan blushed a deeper red. “It’s... delicious.”
Valerna looked up toward the clear blue sky, watching as a flock of white birds soared above the now-opened wall, moving freely from one side to the other, as though borders had never existed. The birds, in their graceful flight, seemed to sing a message for all below: In the beginning, there were no borders.
Valerna’s voice, a quiet rumble, carried with it the wisdom of countless ages. “In the end, Yulgan, we are all the same beneath the sun. It is the stories we choose to believe that set us apart—or bring us together.”
“The river”
Valerna, a towering giantess, stands tall as the unyielding winds of the vast grassy plain whip across the land from east to west. The Wind Stream, as the path is known, stretches endlessly, a natural force that shapes both the earth and its travelers. The shrubs bend in submission to the wind's constant push, and travelers, guided by this flow, journey toward the horizon where the sun sets. None traverse the plain in the opposite direction, save for those rare few—believers in an ancient and enigmatic faith—who walk against the current. These are the Upstreamers, pilgrims who seek the source of the wind itself, forever journeying eastward in defiance of nature’s call.
The first time Valerna crossed paths with the Upstreamers, the girl she met was but an infant, held tightly in her mother’s arms. Years later, the girl—now older, wind-chapped, and worn by travel—stood before her again, eager to recount her family’s long, pious journey. "My grandmother crossed seven hills," she said with a smile, pointing to the distant ridges. "She lived a long life, you know. Most people end their journeys after five hills, but not her. And now, this is as far as I’ve come." The girl's voice is filled with pride and purpose, a quiet certainty in her life's mission.
“Time to go!” her father’s voice calls from afar, breaking the momentary stillness between them. The girl stands, though reluctant to part, and smiles at Valerna, her face radiant despite the harshness of the journey. "Goodbye," she says, her smile unwavering. Valerna watches the family walk away, their backs to the wind, disappearing slowly into the horizon. The girl’s serene expression remains etched in Valerna’s mind—a look devoid of doubt, steeped in a belief that few could understand.
Years pass, and when Valerna crosses the Wind Stream again, she finds the girl now a woman, settled in a post town. Her once-wandering feet are now firmly rooted, her belly swollen with new life, the journey eastward left behind. "This is my third spring here," the woman says softly, patting her belly, contentment in her every word. Yet when asked about her family, she glances eastward, her gaze wistful. “They’re still walking. I’m the only one who stayed.” Valerna sees the choice in her eyes—a quiet happiness, though tinged with the weight of a decision not easily made.
The Upstreamers continue their pilgrimage, an eternal search for the place where the wind begins. "Have you ever thought about it?" the woman asks, her tone contemplative. “The place where the wind starts—do you think anyone’s ever seen it?” Valerna, with her immortal span, knows the answer better than most. The journey, endless as it may seem, has no final destination, just as the wind has no beginning. Yet, the pursuit—the unending quest for something greater—gives meaning to the fleeting lives of those who follow the path.
In this endless march, Valerna sees a reflection of her own journey. Though her steps carry her from battlefield to battlefield, her immortality does not shield her from the same yearning—the search for purpose, for a place where rest and peace might finally greet her. Yet, like the wind, her path has no end. The girl's family, walking eastward generation after generation, is no different from her eternal wanderings, forever moving forward, forever searching for something unattainable.
As the years flow by, Valerna comes across a funeral procession—an old woman, once the vibrant young girl who spoke of her grandmother’s seven hills, now lies peacefully at rest. Her family gathers around her coffin, singing songs of the journey. Valerna, offering a single wildflower in tribute, reflects on the ultimate truth of the Upstreamers’ faith: life, like the wind, is an endless journey, one without beginning or end. And though her steps will continue long after the flowers have withered, the serene smile on the old woman’s face tells her that perhaps, in the end, the journey itself is enough.
“The Stone”
In the dimly lit tavern, the air thick with the scent of stale ale and the hum of weary patrons, Valerna sat alone, nursing her drink like a shadow detached from the room. The door creaked open, and in walked a man — a warrior draped in the garments of exhaustion and battle, his presence silencing the room. Every eye turned toward him, reverence hanging in the air like a stormcloud.
He moved with the weight of a thousand memories, his massive frame barely supported by the stool he chose beside Valerna. He drank not to celebrate, but to bury the ghosts that clung to his skin. Cup after cup, the liquor flowed, until the tavern’s tranquility was broken by a sniveling figure. A local punk, eager to ingratiate himself, approached with a feigned smile and a bottle in hand. "Let me buy you a drink, hero," he coaxed. "Tell me of the men you’ve killed with those strong arms."
The soldier said nothing, his silence a rejection louder than words. When the man pressed further, the soldier responded — not with words, but with a splash of liquor across the punk's face. Enraged, the punk drew a knife, only to have it fly from his hand with a single, effortless strike from Valerna. United by an unspoken understanding, Valerna and the soldier shared a brief, knowing smile as the punk scurried away in disgrace.
The noise of the tavern resumed, but the two warriors remained in their bubble of shared silence, trading drinks and stories. The soldier spoke of his wife and daughter, their faces frozen in time within a small, weathered drawing he carried. His words were soft, fragile beneath the weight of his guilt. "I survived for them," he said. "But now... now, I’m afraid to face them. This is the face of a killer."
He pulled a small black stone from his pouch, once gleaming but now dull as night. "I call it my sin stone," he murmured. "It darkens with every life I took. I will find peace when saving a light returns its glean."
Valerna listened, her gaze steady. "You’re no criminal. You did what you had to do." But the soldier’s eyes reflected years of torment — every man he killed, every family he tore apart in the name of survival.
As Valerna rose to leave, she offered him quiet counsel. "Go home. Your family will understand. They’ve been waiting for you."
The soldier smiled a gesture that seemed almost alien on his war-worn face. "I needed to hear that," he said, offering his hand in gratitude. But their parting was interrupted by a sudden threat — the punk, returning with vengeance in his eyes and a castergun aimed at Valerna. Without hesitation, the soldier leaped in front of her, taking the arcane bullet meant for the immortal giantess. ironic, he gave up his life for one that couldn't die.
As he lay dying, he pressed the sin stone into Valerna’s hands, asking weakly, "Look at it... has its shine returned?"
Valerna lied, gently placing the stone back in his hand. "Yes. It sparkles now."
With a final smile, the soldier's breath stilled, his face peaceful at last. But when Valerna looked down, the stone — cold and lifeless — remained as black as ever.
“Remember me”
Valerna, the towering giantess, strode through the post town, her eyes scanning the crowd for a place to rest. Lost in her thoughts, she paid no heed to the noise around her until a voice pierced through the din, “Sister dear!” Startled, Valerna stopped, her brow furrowed in confusion. It was an odd sound, the voice of an old woman calling her "Big Sister." The strangeness of it made her uneasy, but she continued walking. “Wait, Big Sister! Don’t go!” The voice called again, insistent, as though pleading from another time entirely.
Turning slowly, Valerna beheld a tiny, hunched old woman in clothes far too youthful for her years. Her white hair was tied with a ribbon meant for a girl, and her bright smile was filled with joy that seemed out of place. “You’re Big Sister Valerna!” she declared, her eyes alight with recognition. Valerna, caught between confusion and discomfort, replied cautiously, “I think you have the wrong person.” But the old woman shook her head, laughing. “No, I don’t! You’re Big Sister Valerna!”
She was too old to be someone Valerna knew. Valerna, though ancient, bore no memories of this woman. Yet, there was something oddly familiar about her—something buried deep in the layers of time. A passerby, noticing Valerna’s hesitance, tugged her sleeve and whispered, “Just ignore her. She’s old, senile. She forgets things after a few minutes.” But the old woman knew Valerna’s name, knew her as "Big Sister." Valerna’s mind raced back through her endless memories, and slowly, the pieces began to fall into place.
The name came to her like a soft whisper carried on the wind—Shushu. The innkeeper’s daughter, a precocious child Valerna had met more than eighty years ago. The little girl who would say to every guest departing her family’s inn, “Don’t forget me now, you hear?” The memories flooded Valerna’s mind, and she suddenly saw it—the girl beneath the wrinkles, behind the decay of time. A wave of sorrow washed over her as she met Shushu’s bright, yet vacant, gaze.
Shushu’s great-grandson, a man named Khasche, rushed through the crowd and gently scolded his great-grandmother for wandering off again. Apologizing to Valerna, he explained that Shushu’s mind was not what it used to be. Yet, Valerna could see that in the depths of her senility, Shushu had not forgotten her. The flower wreaths she once weaved, the endless energy of her childhood—these were all still there, hidden beneath the years. Shushu picked flowers from the field, smiling brightly as she offered them to her “Big Sister.”
Sitting beside Khasche, Valerna watched as Shushu worked tirelessly to weave a floral wreath. “She’s been this way for years,” Khasche explained softly, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “Her mind is lost in memories, but sometimes... sometimes, she remembers a little.” Valerna nodded, her heart heavy. She had lived for centuries, watching the rise and fall of lives, of families, but it never became easier. To witness such a beautiful spirit wither away was a cruelty beyond words.
Suddenly, as if the weight of the world had finally been lifted, Shushu collapsed into the grass, her arms filled with flowers. Valerna and Khasche rushed to her side, but Valerna knew. She had seen this too many times before. Khasche, panicking, was about to run for help, but Valerna stopped him. “Stay with her,” she whispered. Shushu’s breath came in shallow gasps, her voice barely audible as she whispered, “Don’t forget me now, you hear?”
Khasche, his tears falling freely, grasped his great-grandmother’s hand. “I won’t forget you,” he promised, his voice breaking. Valerna watched as Shushu’s spirit slipped away, her face serene, her hands resting among the flowers she had gathered. The breeze carried away the petals from her floral wreath, just as it had carried away the girl she once was. Valerna stood, clutching a petal in her hand, and whispered, “No, I will never forget.”
“The Tide”
Illara’s story, steeped in isolation and heartbreak, caught the attention of Valerna, the Eternal Voyager. She appeared as a shadow at dusk, towering and somber, her presence a force of nature, her gaze unfathomable. Valerna had seen countless lives rise and fall through the ages, but Illara’s pain resonated with her. It was a familiar melody—the tune of displacement, of not belonging, despite being bound by love.
One evening, when Illara sat by the cliffs, lost in her thoughts, Valerna approached her, her footfalls soft but laden with ancient weight. "The sea is a cruel comfort, child," Valerna spoke, her voice deep and resonant like the whispers of a forgotten era. "It calls to those who feel lost, but it offers no home." Illara looked up, startled, but there was a strange comfort in the giantess’s presence. Valerna, with her many legs and haunting visage, embodied the very loneliness Illara felt. Yet there was strength in her—a resilience born from millennia of wandering.
"I have seen your struggle," Valerna continued, crouching down, her spidery limbs coiling in the soft earth. "You are bound by love, yet it is a tether that cuts. But running from it will not heal the wounds." Illara's tears, once locked behind her sorrow, flowed freely now. "I cannot stay," she sobbed. "I am a stranger here, always will be."
Valerna’s eyes softened, her voice like silk spun from eons of wisdom. "It is not the land, nor its people, that makes you a stranger. It is your belief that you do not belong. The world is vast, Illara, and there are paths yet untrodden. Do not seek your end in the sea. I have wandered too long to see another soul cast away so needlessly."
Illara wiped her tears, looking out over the horizon. "But what am I to do? They will never accept me. And Aelon… he is bound to his family, to this place. What life can we have here?"
Valerna smiled, the weight of her ageless journey visible in the curve of her lips. "Aelon loves you, as surely as the sea rises to meet the shore. But love must be chosen, again and again. As must you. It is not his family’s acceptance that matters, but his choice. Speak with him. Tell him of your heart before you surrender it to the waves."
Illara stared at the vast ocean, then back at Valerna, her heart heavy with indecision. "And if he chooses them?"
Valerna stood tall once more, her shadow a protective veil. "Then you will choose your path, as I have chosen mine, and walk it with the strength of knowing you did not abandon yourself. You are not lost, child. You are simply searching for your place, as we all are."
With that, Valerna disappeared into the mist, leaving Illara alone but strangely unburdened. When Aelon found her there, the sky turning gray with morning light, she turned to him and spoke of her heart, of her pain, and of the choice he had to make.
Valerna, from her eternal watch on the cliffs, saw them embrace as dawn broke—a flicker of hope in an endless journey.
“Prisoner”
Valerna knows, deep in her bones, that her efforts are futile. Yet the urge swells inside her, primal and uncontrollable, driving her to slam her powerful body against the iron bars that cage her. Each impact reverberates through her muscles, leaving only the dull ache of resistance. The guards bellow, their voices echoing down the stone corridor. She is not Valerna here; she is "Number 8," stripped of identity and freedom. The bars don't bend, don't yield, and yet she persists—again, again, again.
The guards' taunts pierce the stagnant air. They sneer at her, mocking the warrior once celebrated on the battlefield, now rendered powerless in her iron tomb. But their jeers are hollow echoes to her. The stillness, the unyielding walls, and the endless stretch of time are what truly strangle her spirit. She thought she knew solitude from the endless roads and battlefields, but this prison, this place devoid of motion or life, is something else entirely—a deeper desolation.
Time here is stagnant, congealing like water left to rot in a sealed jar. With no view beyond her cell, no way to mark the passage of days, Valerna feels herself decaying—her spirit, her mind, perhaps even her body, turning putrid in the stillness. She crashes into the bars again, seeking not freedom, but the fleeting sensation of air moving across her skin—a momentary reminder that time still flows, even here.
The guards come again, their faces twisted in irritation. "Number 8, it’s the punishment room for you!" they declare, as though this is some sort of victory over her. But Valerna smiles. A change of scenery, even the punishment cell, is a reprieve from this static void. They bind her wrists and ankles in chains, but she laughs, her voice rising in the damp, stale air. The guards don't understand—how could they? She laughs because for a moment, there is something new. The air in her lungs is different; the movement of her body, though shackled, is a rebellion against the stagnant reality they impose.
She is a prisoner, yes, but the bars, the chains, the punishment room—they aren't the true prison. Her eternal journey, her endless wandering, is the real cage. No matter where she goes, no matter what path she takes, she is bound by an unseen force, shackled to a fate she can never escape. The walls are irrelevant; it is her destiny that confines her.
As Valerna contemplates her existence, half-waking, half-dreaming, she wonders: Was I once imprisoned before, in some distant past? The guards, the cell, the endless monotony—could this be a reflection of some long-forgotten life? Or perhaps it is merely a manifestation of her endless captivity, bound by fate rather than iron bars.
When she awakens fully, the questions slip away, lost to the darkness. She wipes the sweat from her brow, her chest heaving with the effort of breathing. The nightmare fades, but the prison—both real and metaphysical—remains. She mutters to herself, trying to recall what has been buried in the depths of her mind, but the answers elude her.
And so, it dawns on her that her prison endures, whether it be the stone walls that now surround her, or the winding roads that have stretched before her for eons. Valerna is a prisoner, always has been, always will be—captured not by iron, but by the inexorable pull of her fate.
“Peace.”
Valerna, the giantess, stood on the hill, her towering form now at peace, a stark contrast to the many battlefields that had once echoed with her name. Her return to her homeland, a desolate village nestled between the arid steppes, was a celebration of old victories—ones she no longer cared for. The villagers, led by Altan, their chief, cheered and praised her, calling her the pride of their people. Yet Valerna, with a distant expression, stroked her long silver hair, a habit she had developed over the centuries whenever she was uncertain.
The village's people gathered, throwing a festival to celebrate their war hero. Altan, with his chest puffed out, beamed, “To think that the great General Valerna came from our humble village. You’ve slain thousands! Twice the size of our population!”
Valerna winced but kept her composure. Her smile barely hid the weight of the souls she carried.
The village jester, Bahram, grabbed her ornate sword, asking to reenact her glorious battles. The villagers laughed, cheered, and clapped as Bahram mimed slaying imaginary foes, slashing at the air with exaggerated movements, his jovial tone retelling how Valerna had vanquished her enemies. But Valerna, watching the mockery of death, felt her heart sink. As Bahram pretended to slice through imaginary enemies, she could still see the real faces, the blood, the agony.
That night, Valerna spoke to Temur, an old war general now retired to a quiet life of herding. The two sat by a quiet fire, Valerna recounting the haunting memories of her many battles, how each face blurred, yet none were truly forgotten. Temur nodded in understanding, stroking his grizzled beard.
“I know that feeling,” Temur said, his voice low. “At first, you remember every face. You feel the weight of each life you’ve taken. But after a while, you numb yourself to survive. Still, it eats away at you.”
Valerna stared at the distant stars, her voice quiet. “I left the battlefield, yet I can never leave the war behind. Even here, all I see are ghosts.”
Temur smiled gently. “You are not alone in that. But we make our choices, and sometimes the right choice is to walk away from the battlefield.”
The next day, during the closing ceremonies, children came forward with a floral wreath, placing it around Valerna’s neck. One child, a boy named Shirin, read a poem he had written about his simple life—his love for the animals he helped raise, the joy of new life on the pasture, and the pain of loss when his grandmother passed. His innocent words stirred something deep within Valerna, bringing tears to her eyes for the first time in centuries.
Later that evening, Valerna handed her sword to Temur’s most trusted lieutenant. She wrote a letter to the king, renouncing her title and retiring from warfare. “I no longer seek glory,” she said, her voice heavy with the years she had carried. “I want to be myself again.”
Temur chuckled. “I understand. That choice… that’s the most human thing any of us can do.”
Valerna, now free from the burden of the battlefield, walked away from the village with a gentle smile on her face. The next chapter of her life would be quieter, but filled with the hope of rediscovering what it meant to live in peace. As Temur called his sheep, Valerna waved to him.
“May you find the peace you seek, Valerna,” Temur said softly as the giantess vanished into the horizon, her massive frame finally at rest.
“The Portrait that never was.”
Valerna, the Eternal Voyager, stood beside Rosa as the boat gently rocked in the spring breeze, the air thick with the fragrance of blooming lilies on the riverbanks. As Rosa adjusted her mourning clothes and checked her sketchbook, the towering giantess gazed at the distant horizon, her mind wandering between the realms of the living and the dead. Rosa’s profession as a portraitist of the dead intrigued Valerna, for she understood the transience of life more than most. Centuries of watching mortal lives flicker out like candles in a storm had given her an unmatched perspective on the fragility of existence.
“It’s a race against time,” Rosa murmured, her eyes steady as she spoke to Valerna. “I have to start before the face changes, before the transition from this world to the next leaves them unrecognizable.”
Valerna nodded, her amber eyes reflecting the shifting river waters. “The crossing to the other side always leaves its mark,” she whispered, her voice like the rustling of ancient leaves. “You must capture the moment before they belong entirely to the shadows.”
Rosa sighed, her hands gripping her case of painting supplies. “It’s not an easy task. I often wonder if what I do is heartless—preserving a moment of death as if it’s just another canvas.”
Valerna placed one of her colossal hands on Rosa’s shoulder, the strength of her touch paradoxically comforting. “Heartless? No, Rosa. It is not heartless to bear witness to the end of a journey. You give them a semblance of immortality, however fleeting.”
As the boat neared the riverbank, Rosa’s smile faltered, her gaze lost in the memories of her daughter. “I couldn’t finish her portrait, Valerna. My hands… they trembled too much. She was the one face I couldn’t capture.”
Valerna's voice softened, reverberating with the weight of endless lifetimes. "The grief of a mother transcends even the skill of an artist, Rosa. You are not weak because you loved her. In the end, the pain of loss is what makes us remember. Immortal though I am, I envy those fleeting connections—those moments when love burns brightest before the end."
Rosa wiped a tear from her cheek and smiled, knowing that, even in her sorrow, she had found an unexpected kinship with the eternal voyager who walked with her, between life and death, between memory and oblivion. Together, they stepped off the boat, ready to face the next passing soul.
“A broken home.”
The boy had lost his smile, though he denied it. "Don't be silly, Val. Look! I'm smiling, aren't I?" His brown skin pulled tight as he forced a grin, but Valerna knew better, seeing beyond the forced expression to the pain behind his eyes. She nodded gently, humoring him with silence as they both walked toward the tavern. The boy, full of sweetness, had quickly become attached to Valerna, despite the wary distance the townspeople kept from the giantess traveler. Today was no different, for the boy was leading her to a sight she had come to expect—a tavern not yet opened, yet already echoing with the pitiful sounds of a man drowning in midday intoxication.
Inside, the boy's father slumped on a barstool, barely upright, his gaze clouded by whiskey. The boy’s soft gaze turned sorrowful as he watched the man who had been his pillar now crumble before him, week after week. Valerna, ever the silent witness to these moments, placed her large hand on the father’s shoulder, quietly moving the bottle away. "It's time to go home," she stated gently.
The father, as always, resisted, his drunken bravado surfacing with slurred words. "I hate you drifters," he spat, though Valerna had grown accustomed to his outbursts. "Yes, I know," she replied, her voice steady as stone. "But you’ve had enough for today."
The boy stood by, a painful mixture of resignation and pity in his eyes as his father slumped further, defeated by his own weakness. Valerna supported the man’s weight, easing him off the stool, the boy watching silently, as if it had all become part of the routine. "Poor Papa… poor me…" the boy muttered, half to himself, half to the wind, his voice carrying the resignation of someone far older than his ten tender years.
Valerna smiled at the boy, trying to lift his spirits. "Yes, but you don’t let it bring you down. You’re stronger than that." The boy puffed out his chest in response, his eyes reflecting a depth far beyond his years. "Sometimes kids are tougher than grownups," he said, smiling, though the bitterness of his words hung heavily in the air. It was the kind of smile that stung the tongue like sour fruit.
It had been this way for a year, ever since the boy’s mother—driven by a thirst for excitement—had abandoned them for a life on the road with a traveling salesman. The boy’s voice, when recounting her departure, carried a detached maturity, as though he had already come to terms with the capriciousness of love. "Mama was bored," he stated plainly. "Papa told her that man was tricking her, but she wouldn’t listen. She stopped thinking about us."
At such a young age, he had learned to speak of heartbreak with an air of indifference, as though it were just another story in the book of life. His father, however, had not fared as well, his resentment festering in the amber glow of whiskey bottles, his anger turning to violence when drunk. He lashed out at his son, not with love but with bitterness, resenting the boy’s forced maturity, his ability to bear the weight of abandonment better than he could.
Yet even in his stupor, the father would sometimes grasp at moments of clarity, asking Valerna questions he had already asked a dozen times before. "Do you enjoy it?" he slurred, eyes half-closed. "All that traveling, meeting strangers, leaving behind everything you know?"
Valerna’s answer never changed. "Sometimes," she would say, her words carrying the weight of truth without the burden of explanation.
The father couldn’t understand the call of the road. He couldn’t fathom the pull that drew some people away from their roots, from the comfort of familiar faces. "Why did she leave?" he would ask, eyes glazed with drink and sorrow. "Why wasn’t our life enough?" But Valerna had no answer for him. She knew better than to explain the restless spirit that called certain souls to wander, for such things could not be understood by those who had never felt it.
The boy, too, had become familiar with the father’s fear—fear that one day his son would leave as well, drawn by the same invisible force that had taken his wife. "Sometimes I get so scared," the father confessed, voice barely a whisper. "So scared that he’ll leave, too."
And then, one day, the mother returned, her spirit broken, her body worn from the hardships of the road. She had been used, betrayed, and discarded, with nowhere left to go but back to the family she had once forsaken. When she arrived, the boy ran to her, his small body shaking with emotion as he embraced her, tears streaming down his face. It was the first time Valerna had seen him smile—truly smile—since she had met him.
But the father, still drowning in his resentment, could not bring himself to forgive her so easily. Drunk and stumbling, he made his way to her, but the boy stood between them, pleading for peace. "Papa, please," he cried, "Mama’s back. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?"
The father’s rage crumbled under the weight of his son’s tears, and he fell to his knees, pulling his wife and son into a clumsy, tear-streaked embrace. The family, broken and battered, was whole once more.
Valerna watched from a distance, her heart heavy with the knowledge that while this family had found its way back together, her journey would continue, endlessly. As she prepared to leave the town, the boy followed her to the edge, his youthful face shining with hope. "Will you come back?" he asked, his eyes searching hers.
"Maybe," she said, smiling down at him. "But you’ve got your family now. That’s what matters."
As she turned to leave, the boy called after her one last time. "Even if we’re saying goodbye, I’m not going to cry! Sometimes kids are tougher than grownups."
And with that, Valerna walked on, her journey once again a lonely one, with no place to return to. The poets call it "wandering."
“That darn brat.”
Everyone in the marketplace despised the girl, who, despite her tender age, had earned a reputation for dishonesty. Barely ten years old, her childhood innocence had soured into mistrust in the eyes of the grown-ups. With every fib she spun, the adults had grown wearier of her presence, the distrust building like heavy clouds before a storm. "Hey mister, I just saw a burglar sneak into your house!" "Look, lady, everything fell off your shelves!" "Everyone! The traveler said bandits are coming to raid this place tonight!" Her constant lies grated on the nerves of the townspeople, stretching their patience thin as old rope ready to snap.
Valerna, a towering stranger to the town, had recently arrived and began working in the market. The shopkeeper, a plump greengrocer, warned her about the child’s deceitful ways, "Better watch out for her too," the woman said with a concerned sigh. "Nobody here believes a word she says anymore, but she'll go after newcomers, especially someone like you."
"What about her parents?" Valerna asked, unloading a fresh cart of vegetables, her brow slightly furrowed.
A deeper sigh escaped the shopkeeper as she shook her head, "She doesn’t have any." With a more hushed tone, she elaborated, "Her mother passed away a few years ago. Collapsed out of nowhere, despite being healthy as a horse. And the father? Well, he left for the city in search of work, promised he'd return in six months, but it’s been a year now. His letters stopped coming, too."
The tale hit Valerna with a pang of familiarity. She knew the type, the abandoned children who wandered aimlessly, tethered only by fragile hope. In a world that had cast her out, the girl now slept in the communal storehouse, left to scrounge for care among the traders. The plump woman continued, "We tried. Really, we did. The whole market talked about standing in for her parents, but..." She trailed off, the weight of frustration slipping into her words. "That girl changed. She started lying to everyone. And now, we’re all just sick of her."
"Loneliness does that," Valerna said softly, her voice carrying the quiet empathy of someone who had traveled too long and seen too much.
The greengrocer shrugged before retreating inside the shop, the conversation left unfinished. As Valerna busied herself with the crates of ripe produce, a small voice piped up from behind.
"Hi, miss! Are you new here?"
Valerna turned and found herself looking down at the girl everyone had warned her about. The child stood there, her too-bright eyes hiding a sadness that ran far deeper than anyone cared to admit.
"Uh-huh," Valerna replied with a soft grunt, continuing her work. "You’re not from the town, are you?" the girl pressed.
"No, I’m not," Valerna answered plainly.
"Are you living upstairs? Working here now?" The questions came rapid-fire, but the girl’s eagerness was tinged with an odd melancholy.
"For a while. That’s what I’m hoping," Valerna responded, keeping her tone even. She could feel it coming. The lie. She could almost hear it before it was spoken.
"I’ll tell you a secret, okay?" The girl’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes glinting with the anticipation of weaving her tale.
Valerna stopped sorting the vegetables for a moment and humored her with a nod, "Okay."
"There’s a ghost in this marketplace. The grownups don’t say anything ‘cause it’d be bad for business, but I’ve seen it. Loads of times."
"Oh really?" Valerna echoed, feigning awe but choosing not to chastise the child for her falsehood.
The little girl pressed on, her voice heavy with the weight of her fabricated story. "It’s a woman. And I know who she is. She’s a mother, you know. Her daughter died in a terrible epidemic, and she was so sad, she took her own life. But now she can’t find her daughter, not even in the other world." The child’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she reached the climax of her tale. "She’s searching for her. Every night, calling, ‘Where are you? Come to Mommy.’ Isn’t that just... sad?"
The sincerity in the girl’s eyes almost moved Valerna, but the giant knew better. This child, broken by loss, had mastered the art of weaving pain into tales for the simple reason that she didn’t know how to confront her own. "Why do you think she can’t find her daughter?" Valerna asked gently, using the question not as an accusation, but as a way to guide the child to some truth.
Caught off guard, the girl stammered, "What?" Her confusion flickered for a moment before settling into thoughtful silence. "You know, no one’s ever asked me that before." A faint smile tugged at her lips. "You’re different," she declared, her youthful sincerity peeking through the cracks of her charade. "I think we could be friends."
Valerna smiled softly but didn’t speak. The girl, her face still youthful yet prematurely aged by sorrow, scampered away, waving as she went.
As the days passed, the girl returned frequently, whispering her secret stories to Valerna, each more elaborate than the last. From baking cookies with her dead mother to tales of being kidnapped by bandits as an infant, the girl spun her webs with the careful precision of someone desperate to be believed, if only by one person.
The lies, each thread tied to some deeper sadness, were innocent enough. They weren’t meant to hurt. And Valerna, having roamed the world for so long without a destination, found herself listening. She had become the girl’s confidante, her witness, the one person who wouldn’t turn away from the truth that lay beneath all those fictions.
But one day, the girl’s stories grew darker. "You could steal from the tailor, you know," she whispered with casual ease. "He keeps all his money in a little pot at the back of the shop. He deserves it." Valerna raised a brow at the girl’s audacity. The child, with no hesitation, launched into a tragic narrative about a girl whose father had been sending money from the city, only for the tailor to intercept it.
Valerna could only sigh inwardly. The girl was burying herself in her fabrications. She didn’t believe her story this time, but she chose not to condemn her, either.
The next day, a frantic commotion swept through the marketplace. "Burglars broke into the tailor’s shop last night!" the girl cried, running through the street. The adults, hardened by her history of lies, dismissed her at first. But soon, the tailor himself emerged, pale and trembling. "My money! It’s all gone!"
The marketplace erupted into chaos. Suspicion fell quickly on the little girl. Whispers circulated, and the crowd’s fury built like a tempest ready to break. As they organized a search party to find her, Valerna stood in their way, immovable as a mountain.
"I stole the money," Valerna stated flatly, tossing a leather pouch at the crowd’s feet.
Stunned silence greeted her confession before it exploded into accusations. Valerna raised her hands, offering no resistance. "Do what you will," she said quietly, her gaze calm.
It wasn’t long before the truth emerged—letters from the girl’s father, hidden by the tailor, uncovered Valerna’s defense. The child had left the town, her last lie traded for a truth that finally set her free.
In the days that followed, a letter arrived for Valerna, thanking her for everything. Though she knew the girl’s words might not hold weight, Valerna allowed herself to believe, if only for a moment, that the girl had found happiness.
After all, lies are born from loneliness, but so too is the hope that keeps them alive.
“The Wayward Son.”
She stood silently by the pier, her massive form casting a deep shadow over the docks. Her gaze was fixed beyond the horizon, where the boat approached slowly, its mast barely visible against the fading light. By her side stood Saran, a weathered mother, clutching an old handkerchief as if it held her son's presence within its folds.
Saran, a woman worn by the passage of time but still filled with hope, had received a letter—a single, precious message from the child she hadn’t seen in nearly three decades. “He’s coming,” she had said to Valerna the day before, her voice brimming with an eager anticipation that made her old bones move with the vitality of youth. “My boy is finally coming to take me to the mainland.”
Valerna, her massive hands resting on her sides, merely nodded, her mind distant yet focused on the same hope that lit Saran’s face. She had stood by many mothers, seen the sorrow that time buried deep in their eyes, yet somehow she knew Saran’s pain reached into another world, another realm where hearts break but are held together by faith.
“I sold everything I owned,” Saran said, her voice cracking with excitement as the boat approached. “There’s nothing left for me here on this island. I’ve lived alone for too long. I want to see his children, feel the warmth of my grandchildren before my time is done.”
Valerna’s eyes, as dark as the storm clouds gathering in the distance, remained fixed on the boat. The waves lapped gently at the dock, but there was an eerie stillness to the scene. Something, perhaps, was out of place. Valerna too was waiting for someone, the same someone. She was hired to make this man pay for his crimes, or so her contractor alleged. She was ordered to kill him.
The boat finally arrived, and passengers began to disembark. Merchants, workers, and weary travelers all filed out, one by one. Saran’s eyes darted eagerly across each face, her bony fingers clutching the handkerchief tighter, but the face she longed to see was not among them. Her shoulders sagged slightly, yet her lips remained curved in a hopeful smile. "Tomorrow," she whispered, more to herself than to anyone.
Valerna, ever the silent sentinel, turned her gaze upon Saran. “He will come,” Valerna rumbled, her voice a low, steady current of reassurance. “If not today, then tomorrow.”
And so it went, day after day, each evening filled with the same hopeful anticipation, each ferry bringing new passengers but never the one Saran awaited. The days bled into weeks. Saran’s smile began to fade, her hands no longer waved the handkerchief with the same vigor, and her steps grew heavier as her savings dwindled. She moved from the finest inn to a humble, weathered room on the village’s edge.
“I’ve been foolish,” Saran said one evening as she and Valerna stood by the ruins of an old house where the giantess had taken shelter. “He’s busy with his life on the mainland. Who has time for an old woman like me?”
Valerna, whose colossal hands could have cradled Saran’s entire frame, knelt beside her, the earth trembling with the weight of her body. “Do not doubt the bond between mother and child,” she said. “Even when stretched across time, that bond does not break.”
Saran smiled weakly, her eyes moist with unshed tears. “You’re kind to say so, but sometimes a mother knows when she’s been forgotten.”
As they huddled in the shelter, Saran spoke of her son’s youth, of his mischief and his defiance. “He was always the wild one, always in trouble,” she recalled with a chuckle that quickly turned into a cough. “He left when he was barely a man, and not a day has passed that I haven’t wondered if he survived out there.”
Valerna listened in silence, her heart as ancient as the mountains she once roamed. She had seen many families torn apart by war, by pride, by time itself. But she had also seen them reunite, against all odds, under skies both dark and bright.
The next morning, Saran’s frail form was racked with fever. Her body, weathered by the years, finally gave in to the cold nights they had spent waiting for a reunion that never came. Valerna tended to her as best she could, her massive hands surprisingly gentle, yet she knew that time was running out for the old woman.
As the boat arrived once again, Valerna watched alone from the shore. Among the passengers was a man, weathered and thin, his eyes scanning the crowd with growing desperation. A scar ran across his left cheek—a scar that matched the one Saran had described in her fevered whispers.
Valerna’s heart grew heavy as the man moved toward her. He stopped, his eyes meeting hers. There was no need for words. He knew who she was, and what she represented.
"She’s waiting for you," Valerna said softly, her deep voice carrying the weight of sorrow.
The man’s eyes filled with regret, but before he could speak, Valerna gestured toward the old ruin in the forest. "Go to her. Hold her, as you should have long ago. Do not waste this moment." She spared his life, and he knew it. Valerna didn’t care if she was wanted or had a bounty for this act of kindness. She had grown weary of being a mercenary and instrument of pain. For once, she wanted to be a healing balm, if even for a moment.
Without hesitation, the man ran toward the shelter, his feet kicking up the dirt of the path. Valerna watched him go, her chest tight with the burden of knowing that time was slipping away for mother and son.
As the boat's horn blared, signaling its departure, Valerna turned toward the pier, her silhouette towering over the dock as she walked back into the shadows of the island. She knew that some bonds, no matter how strained, could never truly be broken. But the weight of waiting, of unspoken forgiveness, was one even a giantess could feel in her bones.
“Revolution.”
“Stop this! Please, I beg of you! Let me go!”
A young man’s desperate pleas break through the abyss. There is no answer.
Valerna remains still, counting the footsteps reverberating through the void, three figures—two steady, one frantic. The young man is the source of the chaos, yet the captors remain indifferent, responding only with the cold clank of an iron lock. The prisoner’s cries for mercy echo endlessly as he's thrown into a neighboring cage. No hope in sight. No solace to find.
"Let me out!" the voice cracks, turning feral as panic takes hold. Valerna imagines the boyish face—someone who probably swaggered on the streets, yet folded under true fear. She understands too well. The shroud of darkness claims its victims in different ways. Some are devoured instantly, others slowly unravel, a slow burn of hopelessness.
"Quiet down in there!" an old voice cracks the silence, rough and ragged from years in the same suffocating cell. “It won’t do you any good,” he advises, voice dripping with the weariness of one who has long accepted his fate. His role is to calm the fresh ones, the ones who flail against the inevitable. “Close your eyes and suck on your memories like candy,” he says with a sardonic chuckle. Valerna smirks at the words but does not join in. Most have lost the strength to even laugh.
The young man’s protests descend into sobs. He rails against the fate that awaits him, insisting that there is nothing to hope for in this godforsaken place, this ‘No Exit’ prison. The darkness, the old man knows, is worse than death. Stripped of light, stripped of time, it gnaws at the soul until there is nothing left but hollow echoes.
“Close your eyes,” the revolutionary advises. “Imagine the ocean, the sky, vast fields. Hold onto your mind, son, or it’ll slip before your body does.”
The old man, a political prisoner, had once led a charge against the tyrannical regime, now reduced to offering comfort in the perpetual blackness. “This system can’t last forever,” he assures the new inmate, though even he struggles to believe the words. Revolutions, hope, and promises crumble beneath the weight of years spent in total blackness.
The darkness swallows the young man whole. He begins to break, his sobs turning manic, thrashing on the floor. Valerna listens to his slow descent, knowing it won’t be long before he follows the others into oblivion. He is not the first, nor will he be the last, to be devoured by the void.
The old revolutionary remains hopeful in his own way, speculating on the crumbling government outside. “It’s happening out there, Val. My boys, they’ll come for us. Just you wait.”
Valerna, pragmatic in her own suffering, gives little credence to his dream of freedom. She is familiar with prisons, though her memories remain elusive. The darkness feels familiar, like an old companion, yet she cannot place when or how she has felt its suffocating embrace before.
The revolution does come, sooner than the old man could have hoped. Armed youths storm the cells, releasing the prisoners from their iron cages. But freedom brings with it a cruel lesson. The outside world, bathed in evening light, blinds the prisoners who have known nothing but darkness. The old revolutionary stumbles out, blinking against the glare, only to fall to his knees, his eyes burned beyond saving.
“Tell me, Val,” he gasps, “what is the world like now? Are they happy? Are they smiling?”
Valerna, shielding her own eyes from the glaring sunset, opens them slowly, her vision adjusting to the horror spread out before her. Bodies litter the ground, the corpses of soldiers, civilians, families torn apart by war. Blood stains the earth, and there is no joy to be found.
The old man waits for her answer, clinging to the last vestiges of his hope. She doesn’t have the heart to shatter it completely. “You must work to build a peaceful society now,” she tells him softly, a truth wrapped in a lie. He nods, believing her words.
As Valerna walks away, the old revolutionary calls out, “There’s always hope, Val, wherever you are—until you throw it away yourself.”
She continues her journey, leaving behind the broken remnants of the revolution, her path uncertain. The young boy’s body, lifeless on the battlefield, draws her gaze. She kneels, gently closing his eyes.
Darkness, she knows, is both a curse and a solace. For some, it is terror. For others, it is peace.
And for Valerna, it is the only constant in her endless wandering.
“The rain”
"The bright rain is going to start soon," the boy says, pointing toward the distant horizon. The young lad, a fixture of this isolated island, speaks with a wide-eyed innocence that belies the tragedy looming over his world. To him, the "bright rain" is a wondrous, almost magical event—an ethereal spectacle lighting the sky each night. But to Valerna, the immortal giantess who listens with a heavy heart, the boy's innocent observations carry a weight too dark for him to understand. The "bright rain," he believes, is a beautiful sight—light pouring from the heavens like a celestial blessing. But Valerna knows better.
This remote island, separated from the rest of the world by a vast ocean, shelters people like the boy who live their simple lives without knowing the true nature of the "other country" beyond the sea. The boy, like the others, dreams of leaving, of escaping to the larger, richer lands he imagines are filled with shimmering treasures and boundless delights. But Valerna, having crossed those same waters just days before, knows what lies across the ocean—war, destruction, and a society built on cruelty and avarice.
As the boy eagerly describes the distant shores he longs to visit, Valerna's heart aches. She doesn't have the will to shatter his dreams with the truth—that no one who leaves this place ever returns because the "other country" doesn't offer the life they imagine. Instead, the islanders who dare to leave are met with hostility, forced into ghettos, and labeled as "illegal aliens." Their skin, dark like the boy's, marks them as outsiders, forever destined to be unwanted in a land that promises only suffering.
The boy returns with fruit, offering Valerna a piece of what he calls "Grains of Happiness." He believes it is the sweetest thing, but Valerna can taste the bitterness of reality underneath. The fruits, much like the boy's dreams, are small and simple, overshadowed by the far grander, more dangerous world beyond.
As they sit together, the boy's excitement grows, waiting for the "bright rain" to begin. For six months, the sky has filled with light each night—an unnatural glow that the boy finds beautiful. But Valerna knows this glow is the result of warfare, the reflection of bombs falling from the firmament in distant lands. As he watches with innocent wonder, Valerna sees the truth—a war that is swallowing nations and creeping closer to this island with every passing night.
The boy's cheerful laugh breaks Valerna's reverie, but her concern deepens. She has come to warn the islanders, to urge them to flee before the war reaches their shores. The "bright rain" that the boy so admires is nothing more than the approach of devastation. Valerna doesn't want to see these children—the boy and others like him—caught in the crossfire of a conflict they can't comprehend.
Just as the boy's excitement reaches its peak, the dull thud of distant explosions punctures the air. The bright rain has begun, closer this time than ever before. At first, the boy believes it to be thunder, unaware of the true danger. But Valerna knows—she's seen it before. The bright rain isn't a storm; it's the opening salvo of bombs, creeping ever closer to the island.
Panic seizes Valerna as the noise intensifies. She urges the boy to run, to seek shelter in the woods, but he doesn't understand the urgency. Instead, he gazes at the sky, mesmerized by the brightness. Before she can pull him to safety, the bombs fall—swift, unrelenting, leaving nothing in their wake but devastation.
By morning, the island is no more. The village, once alive with laughter and simplicity, has been reduced to ashes. All that remains is silence, broken only by the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore. Valerna, the lone survivor, prepares a small dugout canoe for the boy’s body. She places a "Grain of Happiness" on his chest—a final offering to the child who never knew the true danger he faced.
As she pushes the canoe out to sea, Valerna watches it float away, the boy's body carried on the tide. He smiles in death as he did in life, a gift from the gods, perhaps. Valerna hopes his journey now leads somewhere far from war, far from the "other country" that had consumed so many lives.
The sky, now emptied of its artillery, is a cruel shade of blue. The same vast sky the boy once looked upon with hope and wonder. Valerna walks away, her tears falling like silent rain, knowing that no matter where she goes, the bright rain will follow, ever looming, ever threatening. The boy's innocence, lost in the bomb's inferno, haunts her as she journeys onward, her eternal path stretching into the horizon. The rain continues to fall—not from the sky, but in her heart—cold, silent, and full of sorrow.
“An isolated town.”
In this mountain-ringed village, snow blankets the ground and the air carries whispers of both life and death. Valerna walks beside a young man who smiles despite the heavy burdens he carries. Here, the villagers bear children in abundance, not out of joy but out of necessity, for death claims them quickly—as though the sky, indifferent, calls them home after only a few short summers.
"Why so many children?" the young man muses aloud, his breath mingling with the frozen air. "Because most die before they ever grow up." His voice holds a touch of melancholy as he shares the fate of the village’s children, most of whom barely see past the age of six. Even the village headman, a man of great respect, has already lost seven of his ten children to this curse of early death. Whether through disease or some dark malady coursing through their veins, death’s grasp is swift and certain.
Valerna, silent but watchful, takes in the sorrow and resilience that swirl around her. Her immortal eyes have seen this before, in lands far removed from this frozen haven. Yet, something about this place tugs at her soul, a reminder of a long-forgotten tragedy. She surveys the village, noting the absence of elders. In a land where no one ages past fifty, the cycle of life and death is a quick one, yet somehow, it feels eternal.
The young man gestures toward the mountain path ahead, speaking of their task—to harvest ice from the sacred lake they call the "Spring of Life." He speaks of the ice as though it were a gift from the gods, a vital source of strength for mothers, children, and the laborers of the village. "It never melts," he explains, his voice filled with reverence. He offers Valerna a small piece, which glistens like crystal in the pale light.
She accepts the offering but knows better than to partake. She can taste the poison in it before it even touches her lips. The village, unknowingly, has been consuming this poison for generations—sweet yet deadly, a remnant of a long-lost past where a river ran toxic from a distant mine. The tale has been forgotten, buried beneath centuries of snow and silence, and only Valerna, with her ageless wisdom, can sense the tragedy that lingers in every drop of water and shard of ice.
The young man remains blissfully unaware, smiling as he speaks of his hopes for the future. His wife is due to give birth at any moment, and he dreams of raising a child who will defy the village’s fate, who will live long enough to see adulthood. "It’s all we can hope for," he says, his voice filled with quiet determination. Valerna watches as his strong hands carve through the frozen lake, his breath rising in small clouds against the crisp air. He is filled with life, yet death hovers ever near, a silent companion on their journey.
As they work, the village bell tolls—a somber, echoing sound that signals both beginnings and ends. The young man’s eyes light up, for he knows what it means. "My child is born!" he cries, his joy overflowing. He speaks of the child as though it were a promise of hope, a flicker of light in a world blanketed by shadow. But even as the bell sings of new life, death strikes without warning. The young man collapses, his final breath escaping in a soft sigh.
Valerna, her heart heavy, lifts his body onto the sled. She makes the solemn journey back to the village, where the people welcome death as they do birth—with smiles and songs. His wife, newly a mother, places a piece of the sacred ice in her newborn’s mouth, unaware of the slow poison it carries. "Grow strong," she whispers, her voice like a lullaby on the wind. "But take your time. There’s no hurry to reach Heaven."
The giantess, burdened by knowledge and time, remains silent. She knows that to speak the truth might spare the villagers from future heartache, but it would also rob them of their peaceful ignorance—the belief that Heaven awaits, just beyond the snowy peaks.
As she walks away from the village, the bell rings once more, its sound crisp and clear as it reverberates through the mountains, a blessing for the young man who now rests in the earth. Valerna, too, offers a silent prayer, though she knows her journey will never end, not in this life or the next.
With each step, she moves further from the village closest to Heaven, but the memory of its people—those who live and die without resentment—remains with her. She walks on, a lone figure against the endless expanse of snow, forever wandering, forever searching, never finding the peace that those she leaves behind have already claimed.
“The chorus.”
The jungle cradled a treasure beyond worldly riches, one only the elders knew to revere: the cicadas' song. As the elder sipped his fermented berry liquor, the cicadas' chorus poured through the air, as steady as the rains that nourished the earth. The village had hired mercenaries to guard this treasure, though their hardened hearts saw only insects and not the eternal legacy the villagers had safeguarded for generations.
“Tell me, Valerna,” the elder began, his voice heavy with a lifetime of duty, “Do you know the true value of what we protect here?"
Valerna nodded, her eyes lifting to the canopy where the cicadas buzzed like living raindrops. "The cicadas," she said softly, reverence threading her words.
The elder’s face bloomed into a smile, his wrinkles deepening in satisfaction. The other mercenaries, however, shifted uncomfortably, their brows knitted with confusion.
“Cicadas?” one scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’ve got to be joking. We’re supposed to risk our lives for bugs?”
Laughter rippled through the group, but Valerna remained unmoved, her gaze steady on the elder. She understood the weight of time that lay in the air between them—how the cicadas' song, born from the soil after 75 years of slumber, represented a life that had persevered through decades of peace, preserved by generations who fought for summers they would never see.
The elder nodded at Valerna, his eyes reflecting the eternal truth she grasped. “Exactly 75 years. The cicadas spend a lifetime beneath the earth, waiting for their moment. This chorus you hear now, this rain of sound, was made possible by those who protected this jungle three-quarters of a century ago.”
One of the mercenaries, more intoxicated by the liquor than the elder’s words, sneered. “And what, we’re supposed to fight now for bugs that’ll sing in 75 years?”
The elder’s gaze turned sharp, cutting through the noise of the soldiers’ grumbling. “We fight for the future,” he said, his voice strong despite the tremor of age. “For the children, 75 years from now, who will hear this song and know peace.”
But the mercenaries, their souls bound to the present, could not grasp the depth of his words. One by one, they abandoned the cause, muttering curses under their breath as they stormed out of the fort, the heavy clang of their armor fading into the distance.
Only Valerna remained.
She understood. The weight of centuries lay on her shoulders, an immortal being wandering through the ages, witnessing the rise and fall of empires, the fleeting lives of mortals, and the eternal cycles of the natural world. She could see beyond the present, into the time where the cicadas would emerge once more, their song a testament to the legacy of those who had fought for them.
The cicadas’ chorus, so often dismissed as mere noise, was life itself. A symphony of survival.
As dust clouds rose on the horizon, heralding the approach of the enemy, Valerna stood ready, her sword gleaming in the sun’s dying light. The cicadas continued their song, oblivious to the battle that would soon rage beneath their treetop sanctuary, a battle not for gold or glory, but for the simple right of life to sing its song in a future unseen.
The young man at the lookout, watching the horizon darken with approaching forces, asked, "Why did you stay, Valerna?"
She did not look at him, her eyes focused ahead. "Because sometimes, it's worth fighting for a future you won't see."
The elder, smiling faintly, raised his cup one last time as Valerna marched toward the battlefield. The cicada's song echoed behind her, a melody of life, of time, of the unbroken chain that connected the past to the future.
And so, she fought, not for the present, but for the summers yet to come—the summers where the cicadas would once again rise from the earth and fill the jungle with their timeless song.
“The Stars.”
The jungle, draped in shadow and moonlight, pulsed with the life of creatures hidden within the thick underbrush. Every breath Valerna took seemed to inhale the essence of the forest itself—the scent of damp earth, the rustle of unseen leaves, the faint hum of insect wings. But beyond the cacophony of life, her gaze was drawn upward, where the stars, so distant and indifferent, speckled the night sky.
For centuries—no, for millennia—Valerna had watched those same stars. She had seen them flicker and vanish, one by one, over the endless procession of nights. What once felt like a reliable compass of constellations had gradually become a reminder of her own strange permanence. Stars, once brilliant beacons, had dimmed and disappeared, swallowed by the inevitable maw of time, leaving patches of the sky bare where once light had reigned.
"Why not me?" she muttered, her voice deep as the earth beneath her feet. She was a giantess, yes, a being older than the deserts and jungles she wandered. But if even the stars—the eternal symbols of permanence—could fade, then why was she still here? Why was she still bound to this endless journey through time, as all else withered and crumbled around her?
The question gnawed at her like a relentless tide, eroding the edges of her sanity. She felt like a stone caught in an ocean current, worn smooth by the constant wash of years, yet somehow never swept away. "Am I to remain forever," she wondered aloud, "a sentinel to a world that changes and shifts, while I remain unmoved?"
The stars twinkled back at her with no answer, cold and indifferent to the ponderings of a lone traveler. Somewhere, far beyond the sky, there must be others like her—immortals cursed to witness the rise and fall of civilizations, the birth and death of stars. Perhaps another soul, in some distant realm, stared at the same void of night, asking the same questions. Could there be another voyager adrift in the boundless sea of time, wondering why they too must endure when all else fades?
Valerna chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, like the earth cracking beneath the weight of centuries. The thought was absurd, but it comforted her nonetheless. The idea that, amidst the vastness of existence, she was not alone in her isolation offered a fleeting sense of solace.
With the same deliberate grace that defined her every movement, Valerna reached for her harp—a creation of bone and web, as intricate and ancient as herself. Her fingers, strong yet delicate, plucked the strings, and the instrument sang with a voice that mirrored her own heart. The song that rose was not one of sorrow, though the weight of countless years might suggest it. No, the melody was a strange and beautiful amalgamation of joy tempered with tears. It was a celebration of survival, of life’s persistence, despite the endless questions and mysteries that surrounded it.
Each note shimmered in the air, vibrating with the resonance of lifetimes. The music was both ancient and new, a tribute to the stars that had winked out of existence and the memories of those long gone. It was a song that Valerna played for herself, but also for that unknown soul she imagined far across the cosmos, staring up at the sky with the same weary eyes.
"Perhaps," she mused softly as her fingers danced across the strings, "we are all just flickers of light in the dark. Even the stars must end, yet here we are... playing our songs."
The jungle, vibrant and alive, seemed to pause for a brief moment, as if even the wild spirits of the forest were listening to her music. And in that moment, Valerna felt the threads of existence intertwine—hers with the stars, with the earth, and perhaps even with that distant other who wandered, wondering, just like her.
With a final chord, she let the music fade, its echoes carried away by the wind. She closed her eyes, leaning back against the thick trunk of an ancient tree, feeling the pulse of the jungle against her skin.
The stars above continued their silent vigil, some soon to fade, others to burn brightly for ages to come. And Valerna, eternal as the stars yet more aware of her fragility, smiled softly.
"Let them vanish," she whispered. "Let them come and go. I will remain... at least for a little while longer."
And as the night deepened, she played once more, a song not of endings, but of continuance—an eternal dance beneath the ever-shifting heavens.
“Signpost.”
Anri’s words tremble in the air, filled with resignation as she swallows another forbidden "signpost" tablet, the gray pill sliding down her throat like a dark promise. Her frail body, tethered to the bed, seems to float in that numbing chasm between pain and pleasure, a quiet surrender to an inevitable end. Valerna, the silent sentinel by her side, watches as Anri's eyes dim with a chemical bliss, the girl lost between fleeting moments of comfort and the dark pull of oblivion.
"Why don’t you take one, too?" Anri teases with a feeble smirk, extending another pill towards the towering figure. Val shakes her head, her lips sealed in a grim line.
“Coward,” Anri whispers, her smile growing faint as she dissolves into another layer of haze. The very air around them feels thick with sorrow and unspoken truths. The tablet—the signpost to her final destination—has taken hold, dragging her deeper into a dreamless state where even pain has become a distant memory.
“How many of those have you taken?” Valerna asks softly, her voice brushing against the silence like wind stirring stagnant water.
Anri shrugs, her fingers slipping loosely around the small leather pouch she clings to as if it holds the keys to her release. "I forget," she murmurs, her voice brittle and fading like the life within her. Her body, skeletal and hollow, stretches out on the bed as if seeking the very earth to consume her, to pull her under into that quiet beyond.
The signpost pills offer solace, yes, but they also serve as stepping stones—each one guiding her ever closer to the abyss. Each moment feels elongated, suspended in the treacherous grip of addiction that promises not peace, but a numbed path toward death. The alchemists named it well; it is a road marked not by hope but by surrender. Those who walk it too far seldom return.
Valerna watches as Anri, eyes glazed, mutters something unintelligible. The girl’s face, so soft with youthful innocence once, now wears a mask of strange serenity—one that hides the darkness looming within. The giant wonders how long she has left before the nightmares set in, those wicked side effects that so often twist the final moments into grotesque echoes of suffering.
“Do you want me to give you another?” Valerna asks, though she already knows the answer. Anri’s trembling fingers nod before her lips can, her dry tongue darting out to wet her parched lips. She is desperate to escape the growing shadows. She has no strength left to hold onto reality, nor to grasp the hands of those she loved once.
"Will I die peacefully, do you think?" Anri’s question is soft, almost lost to the room, her gaze drifting towards the empty corners where memories might linger, where echoes of her family once filled the house with laughter. Now, all that remains is the silent, lonely space of an unfinished life.
Valerna hesitates, her hand hovering over the small vial of poison the alchemist left behind. The instant death it offers seems so stark, so final. And yet, to stand by and watch Anri slip into torment, convulsing and screaming with visions of those lost to her, feels just as cruel. How does one decide such things?
The room holds its breath as Anri drifts into troubled dreams, her words disjointed, memories bubbling up from somewhere deep within the fog of her mind. Her hands reach out, clutching at the air as though reaching for something—or someone. “Mama… Daddy… I’m sorry…”
Her delirium intensifies, her fragile body convulsing as the hallucinations take root. Valerna tightens her grip on the poison, prepared to release the girl from her torment—but then, something pulls her hand away. Instead, she reaches for Anri’s grasping fingers, enclosing them in her own, grounding the dying girl with her presence.
Anri’s eyes flutter open. For a moment, the haze clears, and a smile spreads across her lips—a genuine, sweet smile untouched by the drug. “Are these my mother’s hands? My father’s?”
“They are here,” Valerna whispers, leaning closer, her voice filled with the warmth of a thousand forgotten comforts. “We are all here with you.”
Anri’s grip tightens, and her smile, though fleeting, holds the peace she had sought for so long. The convulsions cease, the nightmares ebb, and in that quiet, fragile moment, Anri finds her release—not through death’s quick sting, but through love’s gentle embrace.
The doctor, watching from the shadows, can only shake his head in disbelief. "I don’t know what magic you wield, but whatever it is, you gave her peace," he says, his voice thick with awe.
Valerna rises, preparing to leave. Her journey has no end, no final destination, much like the lives she watches slip from this world. And yet, in these fleeting moments of connection, she finds her own kind of purpose—a signpost of her own, however faint, guiding her through the endless wilderness of her life.
Where she goes next, only the wind will know. But for now, she carries the quiet gratitude of a soul who, in her final moments, found solace in knowing she had been seen, had been loved, and that her life, however brief, had meaning.
“The Eternal Queen.”
Valerna surveyed her vast empire from the tower of her palace, her towering presence a silent sentinel over a thousand years of change. The landscape, shaped by time and nature’s unyielding hand, bore the marks of history: dormant volcanoes, reclaimed shores, and rivers channeled into new paths. Yet as the land evolved, Valerna remained unchanged, her immortal reign a testament to the strength of a kingdom now flourishing under her watch.
In her thousand-year rule, Valerna had seen the rise and fall of men, their ambitions flickering like fleeting embers in the grand fire of her life. Her most trusted advisor, Nekhar, entered her chambers, bowing deeply, his voice as smooth as the winds sweeping across the valley.
"Your Majesty, preparations are underway. Today’s ceremony will proceed as planned, but I shall accompany you this time,” Nekhar said with a courteous smile, concealing the gleam of betrayal in his eyes.
Valerna, unmoved by the courtesies, offered a quiet nod. She knew of his plans, the coup he had been orchestrating for years, and the traitorous whispers that would soon roar into a fire of rebellion. Nekhar, like many before him, was merely another player in the cyclical struggle for power, a struggle Valerna had witnessed countless times in her eternal life.
After Nekhar left, Valerna summoned her most trusted general, Khashan, a warrior of unwavering loyalty who had served her for over forty years. "The time has come, hasn’t it, Your Majesty?" Khashan asked, stroking his graying beard, his deep-set eyes filled with the wisdom of experience.
Valerna nodded. "Indeed. Today they will strike, thinking I am unaware of their treachery."
Together, they devised a plan. Valerna had allowed the conspiracy to grow, patiently watching as Nekhar gathered his forces, waiting for the moment when she could uproot the entire web of deceit. "They always grow impatient," she mused, "never understanding that time is my ally, not theirs."
When the moment came, the coup crumbled as swiftly as it had begun. Rashan, Khashan’s young protégé, led the loyal troops to crush the rebellion within the palace, while Khashan himself commanded the forces outside, snuffing out the flames of treachery in the city before they could spread. Nekhar, the orchestrator of the failed plot, was left groveling at Valerna’s feet, begging for his life.
"You will die with the dignity of a general," Valerna decreed coldly, leaving him to take his own life.
Later, standing once more at the window of her palace, Valerna watched the kingdom beneath her, the same as it had been for a thousand years, yet ever-changing. Khashan’s protégé, Rashan, approached her, offering a formal report. Yet when Valerna looked into his eyes, she saw it—the same dark gleam of ambition that had flickered in Nekhar’s gaze.
So it is again, she thought with a sigh. Another man with dreams of power, another soul destined to betray. And so the cycle would continue, repeating over centuries. But Valerna, as eternal as the mountains, would remain.
“Motherhood.”
Valerna cradled Florentina in the crook of her arm, the jungle night draped around them like a cloth woven in shadow and light. The fire flickered beside them, casting golden hues on the child's sleeping face, untouched by the world’s cruelty, unmarred by time’s relentless passage. Her tiny fingers curled instinctively toward the warmth of her mother, as if seeking safety in the only constant she had known since birth.
Her daughter was perfect—innocent, untouched by the heavy burdens of their cruel world. The giantess stared down at the fragile, ephemeral life she had brought into the world, her heart swelling with a tenderness she had thought lost in the eternity of her years. How many times had she held a child like this, wondering at their futures, only to stand silent as their lives blinked out like stars, extinguished before her ageless gaze? The thought brought a pang of sorrow, but tonight she swore it would not overshadow the joy of this moment.
Florentina stirred softly, her small hand reaching out into the night. Valerna gently guided her fingers back, enclosing them in her own.
There was beauty in this fleeting life, a sweetness in its brevity. Her daughter would grow, laugh, and one day love—each moment a precious bead on the string of her life, fragile, destined to break. But Valerna would not dwell on that now. The thought of Florentina’s grave, her tomb among the countless others Valerna had visited, was a distant echo, not yet real, not yet here.
"I will not let the weight of tomorrow crush the joy of today," Valerna whispered to the stars, as if to challenge the heavens themselves. She would not allow herself to mourn her daughter before her time. The sorrow would come, as it always did, but until then, there would be laughter, shared moments under this endless sky, a love that transcended the ephemeral nature of her daughter's life.
With practiced grace, Valerna summoned strands of shimmering webbing from her fingertips. Like the most delicate threads of fate, they intertwined, forming a small garment for the slumbering child. Each stitch held a prayer, each thread a promise of the fleeting but profound joy they would share. Her hands moved with the ease of centuries, yet her heart ached with the vulnerability of new love.
The garment took shape, a shimmering weave of protection and care, one that would hold Florentina close against the world. As Valerna worked, she hummed a tune—an ancient lullaby from a time when the stars above seemed brighter, when the world was simpler, when love had not yet become synonymous with loss. The melody drifted through the air, soft and bittersweet, a harmony of joy tinged with sorrow. It was not a lament, but a song of celebration—a tribute to life, however fleeting it might be.
As the final thread was woven into place, Valerna placed the garment over Florentina’s small form, tucking it gently around her as if sealing her with love. The fire crackled softly, and the jungle's nocturnal chorus swelled around them—a reminder that life, in all its forms, surged and ebbed in cycles of renewal and decay. Valerna brushed a strand of hair from her daughter’s brow and pressed her lips softly to the child’s temple.
She would not curse her immortality or dwell on the inevitable graves she would stand over. No, she would cherish the fleeting sparks of joy, the small moments that would become her true immortality. Florentina would live, grow, and one day fade—but before that, she would laugh, cry, and experience the beauty of life, if only for a short while.
And Valerna would be there for every moment, not as a mourner, but as a mother, holding fast to the love they would share. With a final glance at the stars, Valerna took up her harp of bone and web, her fingers coaxing a melody that resonated with the rhythm of her heart—joyful, sorrowful, and eternal all at once. The notes rose into the night, weaving through the trees, a song not of endings but of beginnings, filled with both the light of love and the shadows of loss.
Florentina slept on, cradled in her mother’s love, her first night under the stars. And Valerna, for the first time in many lifetimes, allowed herself to feel the fragile beauty of that moment, letting it fill her with a quiet, enduring peace.
"Show me a man without principle, and I'll show you a child who has yet to stop nursing from their mother's teat."
Valerna Jorgenskull
“Memories (Journal).”
I remember my days as a young girl living in a coastal village. Life back then was simple and without worry. My father often warned me about the heartaches besetting the world. However, they always seemed so distant and as mythical as the sagas of old. The sea brought us life; its waves lapping across the shore always seemed so tranquil. Nevertheless, it was all a lie.
One day, foreign soldiers entered our little paradise. It was then that I realized those stories my father often forewarned me of were all too real. The beach turned red as blackened fumes polluted the cerulean sky. I was weak back then; I wailed while sitting amongst the dead. Eventually, the invaders found me and took me under their yoke. I spent many years as a slave. Those once placid waters seemed like a dream, a distant memory.
War begot more misery and conflict. The southern invaders swept across the jungle with extreme prejudice. My people's weapons were ineffective as they were unceremoniously butchered like cattle. The soil was drenched crimson as the greenery of the wilderness became blackened by soot and ash. One day, I broke free of my bonds and raced into the jungle. There, I was picked up and traded one cruel master for another.
The people I served now sought retribution. Against my will, I was conscripted into their resistance and handed a spear. The banners of both my masters were unremitting in their depravity. My body was used to satiate their carnal hankerings as my value as a woman was forever blemished. I was navigated across the board as if I was a pawn. I watched people die while these alleged "kings" played their little game.
The body quickly recovered, but the mind was hardly so resilient. I learned that day that the complacency of my village had doomed us. The threading of language and subtle pushes protected me from meeting my end. However, perhaps it would have been better if my story had concluded there. One day, we marched like hogs of war to a dilapidated ruin. The trepidation was palpable as this site held grave significance to our people.
One by one, we accepted what was to come. We held the line against those southern outlanders. Their suits and weapons of metal made our most valiant efforts meaningless. I was powerless to thwart their sanguinary pursuit of violence. My comrades all fell as those of us unfortunate enough to survive were brought to our knees and forced to watch as the primordial heart, our most sacred of relics, was bashed to dust against the stone walls.
What should have been my end had been postponed- Not by the tender touch of a higher being but by a shadow that spread across the battlefield. Overhead, I witnessed it, a massive tower of twisted and decaying flesh and bone. And before I could process what was transpiring, we were all sucked skyward and into its lesions. Inside I woke, that putrid odor still etched onto my mind. Others had survived between both sides as we stared across this world of biomass.
We were enemies before this point. However, realizing our situation, we worked together to find a way out. Somehow, we knew that those outside were falling victim to that eldritch edifice. They were depending on us, and if we failed to take it down from the inside, the totality of existence might very well be doomed. Gathering the weapons we had, we trekked across this foreboding yet alien world.
In the distance, we noticed a beating heart on top of a mountain of tumors. After much dispute, we agreed to scale it and attempt to stop its vile cadence. I ascended first, not from bravery but because I was deemed the most expendable. Once up top, we began poking, punching, slashing, and gnawing our way through the sinew. That repugnant taste still lingers in my mouth to this day.
Large spiders and other such insects were dispatched to stop our onslaught. What happened next was a blur. Many died, but I kept hacking and ripping my way deeper into the walls of the beating organ. Eventually, I felt one of those monsters leap onto my back before darkness. We awoke by the great river. The eldritch edifice sunk into its depths as we four survivors were oblivious to the taint we now bore.
I returned home, foolishly thinking things could return to those blissful days. The sea was different, as was my father. We never talked much; despite living next to each other, it seemed we were worlds apart. The years went by before one day, I felt extreme pain in my back. Legs, like that of a spider, ripped through my skin. The people I once saw as my family looked at me with horror.
That was the last time I saw my father. And that look of shame still weighs heavily on my heart. I fled, never to return. For a millennium, I wandered- an eternal voyager, the fox without a hole and the soul without a purpose. I never asked for any of this, but when did the universe care for our input? And rather than become consumed by the miseries of this undying malediction. I sought to direct that negative energy to create positive outcomes.
I mourned through this undying odyssey. During my travels, I met many faces and names. I witnessed the rise and fall of oceans, the formation of mountains, and the entropy of empires. History may be keen to omit their stories, but I’m not so quick to forget. I’ve had countless lovers and buried a legion of children. Death and my lingering by their graveside had become routine.
I lived many lives. Sometimes I was a mercenary; other times a soldier. I donned the mask of a savant, the work ethic of a laborer. I hiked many miles in a plethora of shoes. I told many harsh truths and whispered sweet lies. However, I started to notice a pattern emerging. That while the names and faces may differ and the particulars might slightly shift. The same tragedies and travesties kept materializing on repeat.
I tried warning the world, but they weren’t inclined to listen. It was maddening to behold the same stories and the same outcomes with little variance. Notwithstanding my intervention, history appeared intent to keep running on that same wheel. Ironic that the world has changed, yet the people who inhabited it haven’t. It was then it dawned on me, a most stupendous of epiphanies. If the world were to alter its trajectory, it wouldn’t come from changes in its environment alone. But within the shifting of the people's hearts. And how would I introduce such a chance? Through language and culture.
That is why I returned to my motherland and united the tribes. I had to play the long game. Patiently, I abided on my web, meticulously plotting each step. Milestone after milestone had been achieved. However, I had no clue if the experiment would prove successful. And whenever I felt doubt, I would look at the faces of my people to regain my resolve. Heavy is the crown, but heavier is the price of failure. Funny, despite thinking I was a free woman I now realize that I’m still a slave. However this time, the chains aren’t physical.
Your belief in my account is immaterial. Just like my wishes, your opinions mean nothing in the eyes of the cosmos. After all, we're all just pawns in some cruel game. A cyclical pattern of interminable anguish. However, not anymore, as I wish to break the whole deal and change the world for the better. The advantage of immortality is that you have the time to wait and plot. One way or another, I will stem the tide and return those violent waves back to the placid ones of my childhood for the world to share. Even if only for a day. That will make all my suffering worth the cost.
“Introspection (Journal)”
Many a fool regards an eternal voyage to be a boon. However, few can conceive the malediction lurking 'neath the veneer. I've experienced a myriad of tragedies and travesties alike during this unremitting odyssey. The insanity of kings and the viciousness of their folly unendingly weigh down their constituents' future. The wickedness of a selfish generation leaves behind the greatest mark. Those stoked with avarice to the point they pick up all the grain in the field and leave none in the storehouse for those that follow.
The story never changes, only the actors and the most minute of particulars. I've come to see life as an excellent pollinator—an exchange not of the material world but the intangible facets that steer our strides. I've discommode many, however, never without purpose. If left unchecked, the appropriation of one's desire can only lead to misery. This epiphany, while seditiously circumvented for a time, can't be forever deferred, merely delayed.
Power is a thing many pangs after, yet few can adequately define it. Fools surmise it to be the capability to destroy. How quaint. Such hypotheses only highlight the dearth inherent in their sagacity. Nevertheless, I've come to understand the burden of such pursuits. Strength isn't brawn, nor is it the spells one can hurl. No, it's far more subtle and scarcely detected. It's the ability to use words and circumstances to contort others to your will.
A dolt pulverizes their opposition and crows as if it's a marker of triumph. Meanwhile, those who possess true strength need only eradicate their opponents' drive to fight. Tell me which epitomizes mastery more. The utter obliteration and the closing of your enemy's eyes? Or the nuanced art of influencing them so they might see the world through your lens? True fidelity isn't the sword to the throat. Fear, while a powerful motivator, can only result in erosion. But the persuasion, so when they throw themselves onto a blade of their own volition and express gratitude with their dying breath, is the zenith of power.
How befitting that my taint took on the form of a spider. An animal that spins its web and waits for its prey to surrender itself onto that filigree so willingly. Manipulation carries with it a slew of negative connotations. However, anyone who derides such sway is a nit. No tool is inherently evil. All implements within one's arsenal can disseminate untold ruination or deliverance. What makes something iniquitous is an amalgamation of the intentions and the consequences of its application.
The heft of authority I bedeck in the form of a crown, not for wanton aims. I don that symbol out of servitude and rectitude. For those who are mortally inclined, their lives are ephemeral. And who better to improve their transient existence than one unsusceptible to time? I don't mantel this responsibility lightly, nor do I do so to slake some infantile want for a legacy or domination. I adopt it simply because someone else might get it wrong. And the cost for ineptitude is high indeed. Do you contest my assessment? You need only look at history's chronicles to substantiate my claims' soundness.
Nonetheless, words are cheap and hold little value. But one's actions express volumes and can verify one's declarations. The Verdant Dynasty is a dream made real. The metamorphosis wasn't without a great deal of sacrifice. Nevertheless, all those girdled by my webbing know amenities, freedom, and security that would make their ancestors redden with covetousness. A unified identity that rewards diversity under a single umbrella hasn't been without episodes. However, those incidents are immaterial when contrasted with the dividends civilization received.
The halcyon of yore fails to compare with the elation I feel now. Reason is undying. All else perishes. Life is not a meadow. It's mountains, lowlands, and canyons. There is a grave blunder in permitting fear to dictate our actions—however, equal spades of stupidity to discount it. And no spirit is free unless they can command themself. But beware of the temptation of laxity. Complacency or inaction is what fuels the death of a person. And despite my long odyssey, I've never witnessed a nation that profited from extended periods of unrest. These truths I've learned through yesteryear's stumblings—both that of my own and the leaders of the past.
But how could I have accomplished so much? I learned to swallow my pride and accept the slaps of companions over the kisses of enemies. Be wary of those who say sweet things; they're often not your friends. Surround yourself with no men willing to oppugn your thoughts, for edification can be culled through the democratization of ideas. And should your comrade befriend your adversary, I counsel against conversing with them any further.
But how should one respond to aggressors? There is no need to stress the outcome of a thousand conflicts if you remain cognizant of yourself and study your enemy. Materialize as weak when you're at your best. And powerful when most debilitated. Your plans must be impenetrable, not due to a stroke of subterfuge on your part alone. But due to the bravado and pomposity of your enemies. The fault in such logic isn't the imposing of constraints on one's own intellect. But the failure to regard the infinite idiocy that beset others.
The takeaway is this. By being subtle and mysterious, one can be without shape. And, in turn, become masters of both their and their opponent's destinies. Just as the ocean retains no constant form, so must we be ever malleable to the changing of the tides. As a leader, one must swear to govern by example. It's best to be feared by your enemy and treasured by your allies and people. Anything else is nothing short of failure. And should you meet a swift end? I advise confronting that rendezvous with dignity, for there are fates far graver than an exit from this rancors world.
"A foolish ruler shows their people not how they should live; but how they will end. It is a pedagogy bereft of meaning, a tragic tale as old as time itself."
Valerna Jorgenskull
