The queen is coming.
Just this moment, something has been set in motion. A heart breaks. A father loses his temper. A girl flees. The island, lately bereaved, senses its opportunity and calls for its queen. What will follow cannot be told, but we shall be summoned to serve; of that there is no doubt.
Life after earthly life the queen comes, over centuries as dense and high as mountains. Sometimes a smith’s daughter, sometimes a beggar, sometimes a whore. But this time, she is highborn and has four powerful sisters. Highborn women have allies and armies, enemies and encumbrances. She will bring all with her, whether she intends to or not. We shall not escape this. The sky will split and the mighty eoten will be thrust into the world of the Thyrslanders.
Here, at the ragged edge of the world, the last six of us live, bonded in pairs. Day after quiet day, in cold sunshine and sea spray, we cleave to the gateway as the eoten always have. The death of one of us is the death of another. We have only three lives to give.
Where I sit, on this high ridge near the seeing pool, I look out towards Thyrsland. I cannot see its green hills and deep coombs, I cannot see its ancient woodlands and soft meadows. But as the clouds fan apart and the rising sun sends bright rays across the grey water, staining it amber and gold, I feel familiarity, longing. Once my people lived there; our bones were the land’s bones. To return is impossible unless it is to return in sacrifice to these mennisc, with their tiny, fast-beating hearts and quick, light steps.
We will do what we must. We always have.
I had hoped for a softer end. But what are hopes, what is softness, when gods go to war?