Chapter 24: The Fading Jewel
Time: 46 AC
POV: Aerion Silvanor
The vibrant hum of Ael'tharion, a constant symphony of growing wood and flowing water, had always been the backdrop to my life. But in the year 46 AC, a different sound began to subtly permeate our existence: the quiet, almost imperceptible fading of a brilliant light. My mother, Empress Vala, the cherished jewel of our family and the heart of our new Valyrian legacy, was nearing the end of her mortal journey.
We, her children—myself, Elaron, Aelia, Valerion, and Lorien—had always known of this inevitability. Father, in his profound wisdom, had woven the truth of her mortality into the fabric of our understanding from an early age. We were High Elves, children of agelessness, while Mother, for all her Valyrian fire and grace, was human. Her silver hair, once lustrous and unblemished, now held the delicate filigree of time around her vibrant amethyst eyes. Her movements, though still elegant, carried a subtle slowness, a quiet weariness that had crept upon her over the past few years.
Yet, knowing a truth is vastly different from facing its imminence. The shift was agonizingly gradual. Her laughter, once so full and unrestrained, became softer, more breathy. Her stories of Old Valyria, once recounted with fierce pride, were now told with a poignant nostalgia, her gaze often drifting to the verdant ceilings of our home, as if searching for something beyond them.
Father, the Emperor Kaelen, whose ancient eyes had witnessed countless cycles of life and death, rarely left her side during those final weeks. His presence was a quiet anchor, his hand often resting gently on hers. His emerald eyes, usually alight with strategic brilliance or calm wisdom, held a deep, profound sorrow that, even at my age of forty-five, I struggled to comprehend. He moved with a stillness that was not merely Elven calm, but an almost painful suspension of time, as if he could, by sheer will, hold back the inevitable. He spoke to her in hushed tones, the ancient tongue of our people flowing between them like a private stream, words of love, gratitude, and promises unspoken.
We, her children, hovered near, each grappling with our grief in our own way. I, as the eldest, felt the heavy mantle of impending responsibility, not just for the Empire, but for supporting my father, who, for all his ageless power, was losing a part of his very present. Elaron, ever the contemplative one, retreated to the shadowed alcoves of the palace, his face drawn, his usual studies abandoned. I found him once, his hand pressed against a solid stone wall, as if trying to draw comfort from the unyielding earth. Aelia, whose vibrant spirit and manifold powers usually manifested in bursts of joyous energy, was strangely subdued. The flowers in her private garden seemed to wilt a little faster than usual, and the very ground beneath her feet would occasionally quiver with an uncontrolled tremor that mirrored the turmoil in her heart. Valerion, observant and sensitive, often sat vigil outside their chambers, his enhanced hearing attuned to every faint sound, while Lorien, our youngest and most empathetic, wept often and quietly, her healing touch unable to mend the one wound that truly mattered.
The last morning was marked by an unnatural stillness. The usual soft sounds of Ael'tharion seemed muted, the light filtering through the living foliage dimmer than usual. My mother, Vala, lay on a bed woven from luminous fibers, her hand resting in Father's. Her breathing was shallow, her amethyst eyes, though fading, still held a beautiful light as she looked upon each of us in turn, a silent message of love and farewell.
Her gaze finally settled on Father. A faint smile touched her lips. "My eternal Emperor," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "You gave me a life beyond dreams, and children... children who are a living testament to what can endure. Thank you for our time. It was... perfect." And with a gentle sigh, Empress Vala, my beloved mother, slipped from this world.
The silence that followed was profound, deeper than any I had ever known. It was the silence of something fundamental ending. Father, for a long moment, remained utterly still, his emerald eyes closed, his hand still holding hers. When he finally moved, it was to gently close her eyelids. His expression was one of ancient sorrow, a quiet devastation that was all the more heart-wrenching for its lack of outward display. He carried her to a bier he had prepared, carved from a single piece of luminous white marble, surrounded by the most fragrant, rare flowers Aerion and I had ever coaxed from the earth. He then retreated to the highest, most secluded spire of Ael'tharion, a place where he often went to commune with the oldest energies of our world. He stayed there for days, his grief a palpable weight that settled over the entire city.
The mourning for Empress Vala Belaerys was unlike any ceremony previously held in Ael'tharion. It blended the ancient, contemplative traditions of the Ael'athar with the more fervent, almost mournful rituals of the Valyrian Dragonlords. The Silvanar sang laments that resonated with the very earth, their voices weaving into harmonies that spoke of the cycle of life and the journey beyond. The Belaerys kin, led by my grandfather, Lord Maekar, arrived from the Sunstone Isles, their sorrow etched deeply on their faces. They performed their own rites, a solemn procession where each dragonlord offered a lock of their silver hair to burn in a sacred flame, a symbolic gift to the departed. They grieved for a true daughter of their lineage, the bridge who had led them to a new, secure future.
My grandfather, Lord Maekar, bore his grief with the stoic pride of his house, but his eyes held an aching loss for his child. He looked at us, his grandchildren, a new generation of power and life, and his expression softened. He spoke quietly of Vala's courage, her intelligence, her unwavering spirit. He took on the mantle of supporting the Empire's external affairs, understanding that Father needed time, and that we, his children, needed space to grieve.
For us, the children of Kaelen and Vala, her death was our first true experience of loss, a stark reminder of the fragile beauty of mortal life.
I, Aerion, felt the weight of it in every fiber of my being. The responsibility of my lineage, the understanding that I was now the direct male heir of both the Emperor and the Dragonlords, settled heavily on my shoulders. I found myself instinctively reaching for Father, trying to offer what comfort I could, to act as a silent pillar. My connection to plants, usually a source of joy, now felt melancholic; every budding flower was a reminder of life's brevity.
Elaron, my thoughtful brother, spent his days in the deepest, oldest caverns, drawing comfort from the unyielding permanence of the earth. His hands, often subtly manipulating stone, found solace in shaping the unmoving, unchanging elements, a stark contrast to the fleeting nature of life. His rapid regeneration, usually a source of quiet wonder, now seemed an almost cruel mockery of the finality of death.
Aelia, whose vibrant spirit had been dampened, slowly began to find her way back to herself through intense physical activity. She would fly Aurora for hours over the vast Sothoryosi jungles, pushing the limits of her combined powers, as if trying to outrun her grief. Her elemental control, once so joyous, now manifested with a fierce, almost raw intensity as she wrestled with her emotions.
Valerion, the observant, often wandered the edges of the living city, his enhanced senses keenly aware of the absence of his mother's distinct presence, the void she left. He found solace in the quiet comfort of Umbra, his sleek black dragon, often sleeping curled against the beast's warm scales.
And Lorien, our youngest, her empathy a double-edged sword, felt every ripple of grief from us all. Her connection to water often manifested in quiet tears, and her healing touch, while still powerful, could do nothing to mend the broken hearts around her. She sought comfort in her siblings, her small hands often reaching for ours, an unspoken plea for reassurance.
The passing of Empress Vala left an irreplaceable void, but it also forged a new, unbreakable bond within our family. We, the children, leaned on each other, our unique gifts and blended heritage making us a unit unlike any other. Father, after his period of profound mourning, returned to us, his sorrow a new, quiet layer upon his ancient spirit, but his focus on our development and the future of the Empire remained undimmed. He knew, more acutely than ever, the preciousness of time, and the imperative to ensure that Vala's legacy, our living legacy, would endure for all ages within the ever-growing Silvanar Empire. Her light might have faded, but her children, empowered by her Valyrian blood and my Ael'athar spirit, would carry her essence into an eternal dawn.