Apostate's Blade Grips

When she hears of Eris, Mara thinks of Saturn. Remembers disintegration, molecule by molecule, the sword of Oryx's intent and throne severing her from the mortal coil more thoroughly than any firearm ever could. She remembers the pain of surrendering, looking out on cessation and allowing it in, against all her instincts. The journey across the Sea of Screams, and the safe harbor she barely reached. And its consequence: Eleusinia festers still. Mara ever has some awareness of its presence, her third and truest throne. In its placement it is bound with the Dreaming City, looped in the same febrile pulse again and again. Shattered, haunted with sickness, with no true capacity to heal. A ruin of a shining thing. Like some would have thought of Eris. So this is where that thought brings Mara back: the beginning again. First seedlings after frost, the delicacy of hope. Look at Eris. Look at what Eris wrought for herself, climbing up from the very bottom of the Pit. Mara will not mourn by ceasing, for that would not honor her. Instead, there is honor in action. In beginning to climb, even if one must first crawl. Sometimes, as she does now, Mara imagines a future where she and her Techeuns return to that heart of the Dreaming City. She does not hope for a miracle, new-made and perfect; instead, when Mara lets it come to her thoughts at all, she bears in mind the slow work of forming it, the queensfoil and the chisel, and what it means to start over again. The ragged edge sewn up; the broken stone mortared. She wants to scar her hands with the work. Someday, when she can, when she does, the name Eris Morn will be chiseled into the walls. The sky can always be found again.