The Raiselig Dossier: Here, in the Castle at the Edge
The letter was written on dry leather. It was written with black ink taken from the glands of a deep-sea monster. It was shaped with a pen carved from the finger-bone of a dead god. It was dusted with the sands made from ancient cities long since crumbled away. The wax of the seal was made from the blood of a man who had been hanged for killing his lover in fear of what she had birthed, and mixed with the rendered fat of a stillborn horse.
It was hand delivered by a being who had no other purpose, and knew nothing more of its existence than the letter. When the letter left its clawed hand, that was the first of the three deaths it suffered.
When the seal of the letter was broken, a chill wind blew through the House of the Horned Serpent. Beings of all shapes and sizes found their drinks not as sweet, their coats not as warm. Conversations dwindled before the finding their lost threads again, and continuing with a newly hushed and reserved tone.
Raiselig read the letter, paid for their drink before it had reached their table, and left the city by a gate known only to the Scriveners and a secret few bound by ancient magics to never reveal their hidden knowledge.
The journey took seven weeks, and would have taken as long no matter where Raiselig had come from. The trail wound back and forth on itself so often that even Raiselig soon lost the sense of where they were, because the road was nowhere at all.
There is no telling what happened on that road, neither by Raiselig nor any know have traveled it, for such things that are seen on those winding paths are not to be spoken of by any who care for others.
What is known is at the end of the road lay the palace.
Carved from deepest midnight and perched atop an obsidian mountain, the Palace at the Edge towered high over Raiselig as they approached, their yellowwood cabinet rubbing sores into their shoulders. The air was still, devoid of storm or breeze. There were no birds calling or wheeling about above their head. Even the insects of the world knew better than to trespass on the domicile of the Queen.
Raiselig took only a moment to catch their breath, and then stepped forward.
The gate — which was made from iron hewn from the corpse of the Great Golom of Exanca, when its seven hundred and seventy-three centuries of life were finally ended — rose to allow Raiselig entrance. The chain that raised it, they knew, was the same chain that once bound the great Urwolf at the core of the planet. It had been given as a gift.
Raiselig continued walking forward, past parapet and rampart as the towers of the Palace at the Edge rose higher still. Closing their eyes, Raiselig reached the keep door and raised a hand to knock.
“Don’t yew dare!”
Raiselig kept their eyes closed. “Hail and well met, lord door-knocker. I have been summoned by the mistress of the house.”
“Queen, more like,” the reedy voice hissed a blast of steam into Raiselig’s face. “Queen o’ the palace, yew sorry state of a flicker-wick. Why would our highest and most gracious lady spare a glance for the likes of yew?”
Raiselig reached into their pocket and felt around until their fingers brushed warm leather. “This letter was delivered to me by a denizen of this very land. It is signed by her majesty’s title, pressed with her majesty’s seal, and writ in her majesty’s very hand. By these three signs do I know I am summoned, and must be allowed to pass.”
“Give us a look, then.”
Keeping their eyes firmly shut, Raiselig lifted the letter in front of their face.
“Hmm…” the thin muttering voice gave a sigh. “Well, alright then. Yew just mind your manners, damp-wick. I’ll keep my ears open, an’ if I hear word that yew been rude, yew’ll wish yew never survived the Settling.”
A loud clatter echoed behind the door, and the creak of dry iron echoed through the air as it swung open. Raiselig stepped forward, slowly, until they heard the door slam shut again behind them.
With a sigh of relief, Raiselig opened their eyes.
The Way of Many Passings was taller than most of the palaces Raiselig had seen in their long life. Pillars as thick as towers in their own right stretched high to the ceiling, covered with moss and ivy. Shards of glass split outward from their smooth surfaces, shining like needles in the dark.
Through the forest of pillars, shone torches.
Small flickering lights. In the distance. Beckoning.
When Raiselig could move again, they cast their eyes to the floor and continued walking. The steps of their shoes on the stone floor echoed between the pillars, until it sounded like two other pairs of shoes kept pace behind them.
They didn’t turn to look.
Finally, there was a door. Raiselig knocked gently.
“You may enter.”
Had Raiselig not known better, they might have believed the voice had come from over his shoulder. As it was, they only paused a moment before opening the door and stepping inside.
It was warm.
A fire was burning in the fireplace.
Red cushioned chairs and an ornate table.
A bed as big as a room.
She was sitting on it.
She was smiling.
Raiselig knew case law that dated back to the Settling itself. They knew laws and precedents that were as old as the constellations that had long been forgotten by the current crop of mortals that dotted the planet. Raiselig had memorized more contracts and rituals than were currently in practice.
There was nothing, not in the whole of legal history, recorded on paper or passed by word of mouth, that demanded, requested, or otherwise suggested any amount of deference due to the figure who sat before him.
Nevertheless, Raiselig took off their bowler hat.
“Honorable Scrivener,” she stretched, her thin arm dragging across the bedspread. “I had so hoped it would be you.”
“I set out as soon as I received your letter.” They produced the leather again, holding it up like a badge.
“I expected no less,” she purred, sliding over the silken sheets. “Please, take off your pack and rest yourself.”
No sooner had Raiselig pulled their yellowwood cabinet off their chest, than the sores and blisters rubbed into their skin for the past months began to throb anew. Setting their cabinet aside, they walked to the cushioned chairs and sat.
She laughed, a light silken sound. “Refresh yourself, I insist. Grain and water, yes?”
Raiselig looked at the table, where sat a small silver bowl and golden cup. Up until now, Raiselig had held some small flicker of hope that they had not been summoned for an official matter. “That is the proscribed offering, your majesty.”
“Good,” she slid off the bed and moved to Raiselig’s side. “I do so want to do this properly.”
“Your majesty,” Raiselig cleared their throat after taking a drop of water and a single grain of barley. “I have no wish to be rude, but as tired as I am, I have no wish to misuse your time. If it is your will, I request that you divulge why you have asked me here?”
“Please, little light, do not call me your majesty. For tonight, and indeed however long you remain, I would have you call me by my name.”
Raiselig opened their mouth to protest, then closed it again. “You mock me, your majesty.”
“Perhaps a little,” She laughed again as she crossed to her own chair. After sitting down and wrapping her coils around the chair-legs, she gave a small sigh. “And as for you…is it Raaisellig or Reiselig?”
“Raiselig, your majesty.”
“Ah!” She clapped her hands. “Neither. Or perhaps both? A Reisraaisel? What a raaisel of lig to reis.” Her laughter was bright and joyful. “How I envy you, sometimes.”
Raiselig blushed. “I am…honored, your majesty, that I merit any attention of yours.”
“You all do,” she smiled kindly. “But to your question. The answer is, in truth, I am not sure why I have summoned you.”
Raiselig licked their lips as they sat opposite, hanging their bowler off the chair’s arm. “You offer grain and water — this is not a social visit. You wish me here as a Scrivener.”
“Indeed, I do,” she rested her head on a thin hand, “but I am not sure if what I wish is even possible. Why, to speak it is dangerous enough, to ask it of a Scrivener…” she shook her head.
Raiselig could feel the sweat begin to leak out of their pores. “Dangerous, your majesty?”
She must have heard the fear in their voice, as she burst out laughing long and loud, not the soft snickering from before. “Oh, you silly fool! I could have my pick of thousands of all species and genders who are far more willing — nay, eager — than you. Even so, it has been centuries since last I bedded anyone. No, I have no desire to take you between my sheets.”
Raiselig felt only the slightest relief. “Then, forgive me, your majesty, but my mind must wander to…more inventive dangers.”
“Well, perhaps you should keep your mind from wandering,” she waggled a reproving finger. “No, Raiselig, I wish to talk. Nothing more, nothing less. Then, perhaps, you shall come to an understanding, and me to an answer. What more can we ask of ourselves?”
Raiselig did not answer.
“Tell me of your recent escapades,” she cocked her head, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips. “There must be something in your travels to amuse, or perhaps instruct?”
Raiselig cleared their throat. “In fact, your majesty, I thought of you recently.”
“Oh?” Her smile widened.
“I required the signature of an ersahj who had been bound by the rites of a holy enclave that sought to trap her forever more.” Something flickered. Raiselig coughed. “That is…forgive me, your majesty, I did not mean to imply —”
“No, of course,” her eyes were sad. “I too felt the poor dear’s agony. I only wish there was something that…” her voice trailed off before her smile returned like lightning. “Enough. Let us speak of old times, when the world was younger. When we were younger.”
“Your majesty was ancient before I was newly born,” Raiselig blushed.
“You are too kind,” she smiled. “Yes, and now I find that the world has changed beyond my old familiar home. Even now I find myself loathe to leave my castle, my fortress against the end. Tell me, little light of mine, you wander to and fro across the many lands and oceans; has it changed much?”
It never wasn’t changing, Raiselig reflected. Seeking some form of safety, they reached out to the table and pulled the cup of water into their lap. Wetting their throat did little to calm their heart, however.
“Everything is different,” Raiselig admitted. “Yet everything is still the same. Empires rise and fall, yet still there are Empires. Women and men learn of each other, and then die, all wisdom lost. Children spurn their parents, and cry when they are alone. They fear the dark, and yet cast long shadows. They still quarrel, still beg, still give alms and seek mercies and sing and dance and play.”
“Good,” she folded one scaly tail over the other. “It sounds all much the same.” She thought for a moment before reaching out for her own golden cup. “Forgive my ill manners, would you like something stronger to drink? For old times’ sake?”
Raiselig licked their lips. “I don’t drink any more, your majesty.”
“Please, Raiselig, if I may call you by your…new name, you can call me by mine.”
Raiselig’s fingers itched. The instinct was strong in them, to pull out an ancient scroll and transcribe what was being said. Even a scrap of cloth to scratch notes on would be enough. “What name would you have me use, your majesty?”
“Hmm,” a long fingernail tapped at her soft lips. “You always did know how to as the most difficult of questions.” They sat in silence, the two of them, the soft rush of the fire sending heat over them in waves. At last, “So many names, and none of them appeal to me anymore. I find myself tired of long words of late. Have you found this as well?”
In spite of everything, Raiselig smiled. “I am afraid not, your majesty. Long words are perhaps the first and most important of my tools.”
“Of course,” she sipped through blood-red lips. “The Settling made many changes, didn’t it. But still everything is the same, you say. Most interesting.”
Raiselig averted their gaze and stared into the golden water cup.
“You had such a lovely name. Why did you ever let them change it?”
“I changed it myself. There was no place for the old me in the new world.”
“Is that so? And yet here you are. You think you are so very different than before, but I still see the same flickering light that promises safety, sanctuary, civilization, if only the fools would follow. I still feel your hunger, your need to slip between the tent-flaps and drink your fill. I know the fire still burns in you, aching to come out and flare bright in the night, to challenge the stars and the moon and remind everyone that there is nothing worse in the world than being alone.”
“You make me sound a poet,” Raiselig blushed. “I was never so elegant. I was simply hungry, and baited my hook with the lure I was given.”
“How familiar you sound, little mystery light! I have often said of myself much the same. Do you know how many names I have been given? Over the years I have been called Lilith, Apep, Tiamat, Kukulcan, Echidna, the Lindworm, Shesha, Unk Cekula…I have had more names than there have been people on the land.”
“I am aware, your majesty.”
She set her cup down with a clatter. “Enough. I am no queen. Not tonight.” Raiselig did not answer, their heart beat quickly and strong. A moment longer, and she spoke again. “Tell me a story, Raiselig.”
“I’m sorry?”
“A story from the outside. From the world that my children live in. A story of lay lines and winding threads. A story about magic words with dragons and witches and sprites of all sizes. Give me a story of something true.”
Raiselig set down their cup. “I’m afraid I am no storyteller. Scriveners are not crafters of narrative or drama.”
“No? Then what do you create? What comes out of that willow-wick pen you use to keep your flesh from touching holy text?”
Raiselig swallowed. They had asked themself that very question, before. They wondered if she somehow could see into their heart. “We create…pictures, I suppose. Tableaus. A moment in time when everything is stable, orderly, and understood. A piece of chaos sharpened into a clean spear-tip of certainty. Predictability. A moment when everything changes…”
“And you say you are not a poet,” she smiled. “But I know what you mean.” She took a slow sip from her drink. “You must be very thirsty.”
Raiselig cleared their throat. “I swore off the drink.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
Raiselig opened their mouth, and then stopped. For a moment, the distant smell of blood drifted through their memory, like a trail of smoke.
At last, they spoke again. “I am…beyond thirsty. I have never been as thirsty as I am now. I wake at night, sweating for the taste on my lips. I ache to find a young mortal in the woods, or slip through a tent-flap and slake my dry throat.”
She nodded. “I am not unsympathetic. Many of us are in similar states of distress, though few have cut themselves off so completely. They took contracts of their own, bound themselves to rites and laws that allowed them to maintain their selves, even if somewhat…reduced.”
“Yes, there are many.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I found…little virtue in being so diminished. I gave up much of who I was so I could become who I might be. The laws and contracts of the land have ever since bound me.”
“Is that the only reason, Raiselig?”
“I am not what I once was.”
“We none of us ever are. We change so easily, and oftentimes we do it to ourselves. You took the name they gave you, little candle, as surely as if they had branded it on your skin. It is not who you are, not who you were, and not who you will be in the future.”
“I chose the name.”
“Did you? Did you even speak their language before the Settling? Did you know the words that make your name, or did they force them down your throat until you cannot frame any others with your mangled tongue? Did they beat you? Trap you? Promise to keep you safe? Of the thousand whispered torments that surrounded you before the Settling, which frightened you the most?”
Raiselig took a deep drink from their golden cup. For a moment they let the silence be their answer as they stared into the bright flames in the fireplace. When they looked over at her, she was staring into the flames as well, her own thoughts turning about each other like her own curling tails. Her black-rimmed eyes were steady, like shiny coals from the darkest pits of the earth.
At last, she spoke. “Did you know, I am frightened too?”
Raiselig blinked. “In truth I cannot imagine what you might be frightened of.”
“Frightened…terrified, more like,” she fingered her cup. “It is my nature to create. I have birthed many children. Some of them even call me all-mother, as if I were the planet itself.”
“I have heard as much,” Raiselig nodded. “They speak it only in jest, an exaggerated honorific.”
“Some, yes, but some say it in worship. Do not deny it, I can feel their prayers like needles under my skin. But I am not the all-mother. Mothers encourage growth, which is a beautiful thing. I neither nurture nor suckle. I tear pieces of myself out of gaping wounds on my body. Do you know what it is like to create? To form from your own being a thing where there was nothing before? There is pain, of course, and sweat and blood and shit and all such things. In truth, there is nothing more revolting and repellent than the act of creation.”
Raiselig set their cup aside. “I have seen many horrors in the world, and I cannot agree.”
“No? But creation is a messy, slapdash, unreliable process. It is spreading spores and twisting vines. It is parasites and cancers. It is unconfined, and it is inescapable. Giving birth is…” she paused and shook her head. “Will you ever give birth, do you think?”
Raiselig bit their lip a moment before answering. “I was not given the choice.”
“Of course. You really were given a poor deal, weren’t you?”
“It kept me alive.”
“Is that what this is?” She lifted her arm and gestured about her. “Is this life for you? For me, mother to a thousand monsters…I can still feel them, you know. Every single one. I feel their joys, their pains. I know when each one feasts and rests on a stomach full of meat and wine. I know when they go hungry, and tear at their hair to keep themselves from screaming. I know when they are kind, when they are cruel. I feel their deaths.”
Cutting herself off, she pulled her cup to her lips and drank deeply.
“You do not know what I am telling you, do you, little lamp? When the Settling came, they thought they changed. Every one of them. Before long, the changes were all they were. I, I knew how much they hadn’t changed. All the same instincts and desires and hopes, I could feel them all. I even tried to tell some of them, to warn them, and they did not listen.”
“Your majesty, I —”
“I do believe I told you not to call me that.”
“But I must, for Queen you are. Not all-mother, but mother to us. We respect you, if not love you, and whether you accept it or not, most of us look to you as a symbol of what is right, or even possible in this new world. You remind us of what we were, and so provide a promise of what we can be again.”
“When?”
Raiselig paused. “When? When what?”
“When shall we be again what we were? When will the clock turn back, returning us to our wild and magical ways? You tell me, Scrivener. What would happen if the threads that held the tapestry of contracts together were to be pulled away?”
Raiselig didn’t answer.
“I thought as much,” she sighed, leaning back in her seat. “You say I am a symbol of promise. Yes, perhaps I am, but I know too that I am a symbol of the past. I am tired, Raiselig, and have been for many years. I have felt such pain for so long, and I no longer wish to be defined by what I have created. The pain, the agony of seeing your every cherished child torn to shreds around you, seeing them changed and twisted into what you know they are not, and worst of all, to see them desire it…”
“Your majesty, what are you asking me to do?”
She looked at him. “I am asking you to not call me majesty.”
Raiselig shot up from their seat.
They wanted to run. They wanted to cry for help. They wanted to pull a sword or spear from some outer plane of existence to protect themself, or perhaps to strike out. They wanted to scour the words from their ears.
They took a few steps. They stepped back. They sat down, and then stood again, only to sit down once more.
The fire cracked in the fireplace.
At last, Raiselig could breathe steadily, if not calmly, and began to think of how to refuse.
“I cannot,” they said at last. “It is impossible, your majesty. There is no possible way to do what you ask.”
“No?”
“No.”
“No way at all?”
“None.”
“Surely, you mean no legal way?”
Raiselig blinked. “Your majesty, what possible — when it comes to…entities such as yourself…” they struggled for the words to translate the absurdity. “The Law doesn’t govern you the way it governs the world. To say ’no legal way’ is a disservice to the… impossibility of it. It would not be breaking a law, like some petty thief; it would be breaking the law. It would be breaking law itself. Like breaking the laws of gravity.”
“Which is broken all the time, no? Surely, every time a bird takes flight.”
“Not at all. There are countless addenda and caveats which allow for flexible — It’s all part of the law, your majesty. We all are beholden to them, even when it doesn’t seem like we are.”
She was leading them down a path, they knew. There were thickets and brambles waiting to catch and pull and tear, and Raiselig could only follow.
One of her tails snaked over to Raiselig’s leg, caressing it like a lover. “You must. I cannot bear it any longer.”
“Bear it?” They couldn’t believe what they were hearing. “Can you not bear it? But what else is it if it is not to be borne?”
“Please, my dear wisp. You are the only one who can help me.”
“Why?” they cried. “Why me? There are mortal Scriveners who would delight in performing such a deed; they would think of it pridefully, a shining crown on a career of uninteresting paperwork. Why do you ask it of me, who knows what you are asking?”
“Precisely because you know,” she smiled so sadly Raiselig thought their heart would break. “You say you are not a poet, but if there is any Scrivener who could paint the perfect picture of this moment, it must be you.”
Raiselig sat back.
“What happened with the ersahj?”
“You must already know, your majesty.”
“Indeed, I do. I felt every second in my flesh, as if it were I who burned. I would like to hear you tell it.”
“I am sorry, your majesty. I had no other choice but to do my job.”
“If you had no choice, what reason for remorse? If the fault of your job, then why speak contrition?”
Tears stung Raiselig’s eyes. “Why do you torment me, your majesty? What have I done to make you angry with me?”
“Angry?” She laughed. “I am not angry, poor dear. I am perhaps a little sad, a little frustrated, but above all I am curious. I know only what was in your heart. I know nothing about what you think about it.”
Raiselig gulped for air, and then whispered; “I begged her to stop. I had to defend myself. She would have destroyed me.”
“Oh? But you have not defended yourself for centuries,” she reached out to pat Raiselig on the hand. “She refused your legal order, her contract was forfeit. It was not self defense, it was your duty.” Raiselig looked at her burning red eyes. “It wouldn’t work for me, would it?” she asked.
Raiselig laughed, in spite of themself. “Your majesty, you don’t have a contract. You aren’t subject to the law, you are a part of the law. You are propter hoc and prima facie. You are part of the foundations of all magic in the world. If I burned anything of yours, it would be I who suffered, not you.”
“Indeed?” She slid her scales over each other with the sound of falling sand. “But when you suffer so do I. You don’t think I can die? I have died a thousand times, each more painful than the last as I feel my children continue to dwindle in number, and still I sit here, in my castle, slithering from shadow to shadow.” She stretched, pulling her thick arms above her slim neck. “They pray to me, you know.”
“Your children?”
“The shadows. The flickering absence of light reaches out to me, begs me to give them a shape greater than the floor-stones and walls. They want to caress my skin and scales, reflect themselves off my body to give themselves substance.” She paused, twisting her lips in thought. “You know, I never lay with a shadow. I wonder what our child would be like?”
Raiselig’s fingers itched as a slew of boiler-plate birth-certificates and contacts flew through their mind. “If your majesty wishes, I could —”
“I have said, and say again, you have no need to give recompense.” Shaking her head free from her musings, she leaned back in her seat. “No, it has been many years since I took anyone in my bed.”
Raiselig looked up. For a brief moment, there was a glint of understanding. “Form is function,” they said. “Were you forsaking your bed in the hopes of…were you trying to elicit a claim? Were you hoping —” their voice caught. “Did you not want to have to write a letter?”
She laughed, not a deep booming laugh nor high reedy giggle, but a laugh that brought to mind deep rivers and boundless forests, free from the confines of roads and fishing nets. “You are too generous. I had no deeper machinations, simply a dissatisfaction. No more, no less.” She stared into the flames. “It was time for the pain to end.”
The words echoed in Raiselig’s head, and they knew, they knew, that she was right.
“But what will happen?”
She set down their glass. “I’m certain you know more than I, little flame. What would happen first?”
“At least seven branches of contact law would be reviewed, perhaps overturned. The whole basis of the law would be in question. Spirits would lose their protections, their benefits, some even their definitions. There would be dissolution.”
“No, no. What would happen first?”
Raiselig took a deep breath. “Your majesty, I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Yes you do,” she rested her head on her hand. “The same place you start everything. You would open the cabinet.”
It was a dream. It had to be. It felt like a dream as Raiselig turned to see their cabinet sitting beside them, from whence it came they did not know. With slow and sloven hands, they unlocked the doors and pulled them gently open.
“Then?”
Raiselig reached for the drawer full of empty forms. There were hundreds inside, each designed for a separate purpose. Requisition forms, reclassifications, relinquishments of dominion, requests for release from signed agreements, reinvestments of honors, rejections and refusals of judicial recognition, papers, books, scrolls of every shape and size were pulled from their cabinet and replaced. A thousand options were considered and rejected as impossible.
Still, Raiselig kept searching, and still she stared at them with piercing eyes that glittered in the firelight.
Then, their fingers trembling, they reached into their cabinet and produced a thin scroll.
They unrolled it in front of them.
They produced a pen.
They filled out the form.
They paused.
“What is this,” she asked, leaning forward in bemused curiosity.
“A charge for dismissal,” Raiselig coughed. “Simple enough. Used all the time when a contract is past its use, but accounted for no dismissal in its wording. If you sign this,” Raiselig spoke as slowly as they dared, “your contract will be considered fulfilled.”
“What contract?” She asked. “I have not been bound for centuries.”
“I do not know,” Raiselig admitted. “There is nothing else available. You are so tightly wound into the way of things…Perhaps signing this document will resolve your only contract still outstanding.”
“Myself.”
She stared at the paper before gently lifting it from the table. Her fingers played against the parchment, feeling its texture, scraping against the sharp edges. She stared with eyes glittering, not with hope, but with something like peace.
Was the knowing enough? To have the door where once there had only been a wall…a crack through which to breathe…
After an aching moment, she set the contract aside. “Perhaps — someday — I shall sign it. And then we shall see what happens next.”
How much longer Raiselig sat with her, talking calmly as old friends, they could not say. At long last, she rose from her chair and bid the tired Scrivener to go in peace, return to the real world, and rest for the coming years. They would need Raiselig’s help, she said. It would be a time of great changes, big and small. Even the small ones, ones that had little more than a piece of the future in them, would be of great importance.
There were many Scriveners, Raiselig replied. Of similar or even greater skill and intellegence than Raiselig. She agreed, and assured him it was not as a Scrivener that he would help.
Eventually, Raiselig left the cosy chamber and walked through the forest of stone pillars, ignoring the emptiness that walked beside them. The door grumbled as they exited the palace, following after with insults and threats to their person if they should ever return without reason. Raiselig knew they would only return twice more. She had told them so.
Round and back along the path they walked, eyes kept downcast as the rolling tides above and below crashed against the rocky cliffs. They covered their ears as they leapt through the shaded outcroppings, and grit their teeth against the whispers that flew from the darkness. They wandered aimlessly until they found the right path, and then never wavered, placing one foot directly in front of the other.
When they at last returned, they set their yellowood cabinet on the ground, and thrust their head into their hands to weep. The first tear was golden, and the second was silver.
The third…tales are whispered, but none know the truth of it.
“Do you still wish you could burn? I know you do. I can feel you there in the darkness, flickering and winking your way through the trees, singing your little song, taking them wherever you wanted to go…”
“That didn’t make it right.”
“I have lived so long, I existed before anything was considered alive. I have seen what happens to those who fight against their natures, and it is not good, for either them or the world around them.”
“Just because it is my nature does not mean it is good.”
“No, but there is a difference between changing yourself, and having others change you. Do you resist your nature because it is bad, or because they say it is bad?”
“Your Majesty…I swear upon my very soul, if soul I have, that I do not know.”
“My dear Raiselig, please. Do not call me Majesty.”