Time passed the way time likes to pass: without so much as a by-your-leave and leaving you to foot the bill. Days bled into weeks; weeks, into months. My infant body, once a useless and noisy lump, learnt to roll with purpose, to grasp objects with an intent other than just testing the law of gravity, and to protest with a vocal efficiency that bordered on the theatrical. The cottage, meanwhile, stopped being a 'temporary shelter with a high probability of collapse' and began to look dangerously like a home.
It wasn't a miracle or divine intervention. It was because Morgana waged a silent, daily war against entropy, and I had a front-row seat, right from my wicker throne. And what a spectacle it was.
First Battle: The War on Water Ingress.
The original roof had more holes than a religious fanatic's logic and leaked like a drunken confidence. The first proper downpour was a miserable affair. I watched from the safety of my dry basket (which she moved three times with weary resignation) as Morgana orchestrated a chaotic symphony of buckets, pans, and occasionally an old boot to contain the aquatic invasion. She didn't complain. She didn't look to the heavens and curse the gods. She just stared at the ceiling with the expression of a general facing an enemy line that had to be broken.
The next day, the war began. She clambered onto the roof with slats of wood she'd spent the morning planing, a pot of hot, sticky pine resin, and an expression of pure, mulish determination. I could hear her moving about up there, the careful footsteps, the rhythmic sound of wood being nailed down. It was methodical, relentless. She installed eaves an architectural innovation that, for this cottage, was the equivalent of building aqueducts in Rome. She sealed every joint with resin and, at the edge, drew a discreet magical symbol with a tar-stained finger. The rune glowed a soft amethyst for a second before vanishing, leaving behind a subtle spell that, in essence, convinced the water to fall away from the structure, without fuss or fanfare. The next rainfall was gloriously, audaciously, silent.
[Analysis: Moisture ingress index reduced by 97%. Structural integrity of the roof increased by 12%. Probability of sentient mould with malevolent intentions forming: drastically reduced. User morale: high.]
Second Battle: The Fight for Light Without Consequences (or Insects).
The cottage originally had two lighting options: total darkness, which was excellent for contemplating the existential void, or an open door, which was a formal invitation to every insect and gossip in the forest. Morgana solved this by cutting a tall, narrow window into the north wall. For two days, the air filled with the rhythmic rasp of a saw and a plane. She built wooden shutters and hinges of reinforced leather, a masterpiece of emergency carpentry. In the frame, an almost invisible rune was carved, a complex air-circulation spell that taught the brazier's smoke to go out and the fresh air to come in, without inviting the mosquitos to the party.
[Airflow optimised. Risk of carbon monoxide poisoning: eliminated. Entry of flying insects with intent to suck your blood: reduced by 99.8%.]
Third Battle: The Campaign for Civilised Flooring.
The floor was a symphony of creaks. Every step Morgana took was an announcement, a protest of old wood. It reminded me of a ruined fortress in Drangleic, where every loose board could be a trigger for a deadly trap or just another sign of inevitable decline. One night, after a particularly dramatic creak woke her from a light sleep, she had had enough. The next day, the operation began. She prised up the old floorboards with a lever and replaced them with new ones, sanded and joined with wooden dowels she carved herself. In the gaps, she applied a mixture of clay and ash that dried as hard as stone. The silence that followed was glorious and profound.
And, of course, came the animals. First the goats, who became established members of our small, dysfunctional community with their stubborn personalities and judgemental stares. Then, three chickens that arrived in a wicker box, clucking insults at anyone who would listen. Morgana built a roost and, near the nesting boxes, drew a discreet rune that meant, in the runic tongue, 'the premium-quality grain buffet is here, be back for supper or become soup'. The chickens, apparently fluent in basic runic, got the message.
[Egg production: regular. Morning noise pollution: high, with unpredictable peaks. Recommendation: develop a tolerance or introduce a natural predator into the equation. Option two is ill-advised due to the guardian's bond with said avians.]
And, most importantly for my comfort, the basket was honourably retired. In its place, Morgana built a proper cot. She spent days hollowing out a large, fallen log, sanding the surface with sand and patience until it was gentle to the touch, and padded it with layers of linen and sheepskin. It was solid. It was safe. It was comfortable. It was an investment.
Meanwhile, my abandonment thesis a mental document carefully compiled over centuries of empirical experience was beginning to show serious structural flaws.
[Probability of abandonment in the next 72 hours: 2.1%. Protective tendency: stable and rising. Cost-benefit analysis suggests your value as a "bargaining chip" is outweighed by the extreme risk of exposing her own existence to hostile authorities. You are, logistically speaking, a toxic asset.]
Life became a routine of small tests that disproved my worst expectations. One day, the cottage door, caught by a sudden gust, nearly slammed shut with a bang that would have woken the dead. Before it could close, Morgana, from across the room, held out a hand, not to catch it, but to sketch a rune of containment in the air. The door stopped inches from the frame, as if hitting an invisible wall, and then closed with the softness of a feather falling on snow.
Another dawn, one of the goats began making a strange, guttural noise. Morgana went out into the darkness, me in a sling tied to her chest, a small spectator to a pastoral drama. The goat was in labour, and it wasn't going well. Warm water, clean cloths, steady hands, and a constant murmur of soothing words to the terrified mother. The morning gained a new sound: the thin, trembling bleat of a kid.
And then, I fell ill. A low fever, but it left me listless, irritable, and vulnerable. An unpleasant reminder of dozens of lives where a simple sickness was a death sentence. There was no panic on her part. Just a spoonful of bitter fennel diluted in milk, cool cloths on my forehead, and hours she spent sitting in the rocking chair she'd built near the fire, with me strapped to her chest, feeling the steady rhythm of her breath and the warmth of her body as she mended a tunic by the firelight.
[Body temperature: normalised. Anxiety state: at a record low. The administered herb is a low-potency, natural antipyretic, commonly used in this region. Dosage was correct and effective.]
And so, my abandonment thesis was refuted, not by arguments or promises, but by eaves, windows, a quiet floor, newborn goats, and spoonfuls of bitter medicine.
Someone who plans to leave doesn't spend three days installing a window for a winter that hasn't yet arrived. They don't build a cupboard for an 'after' they don't intend to see. They don't teach chickens to come home. They don't stay up all night for a goat kid or a feverish baby.
One clear morning, the sun streamed in through the new window, casting a square of golden light on the newly fixed floor. Morgana moved my cot a hand's breadth to the side, shifting it into the shade so the light wouldn't be in my eyes. It was a small, almost unconscious gesture. She paused for a second, her gaze passing over me, and said my name.
"Azra'il."
The word was no longer a strange sound. It belonged to this place, to this moment, to this morning light.
[Record: Affective bond in a state of exponential growth. Exceeding initial projections.]
That afternoon, lying in my spa-cot, I could smell baking bread and pine resin. I rested my small hand on the smooth wooden edge and was quiet. I had lived in floating palaces, crystal cities, and fortresses carved into the hearts of dead stars. This one-room cottage, with its scent of smoke, goats, and stubborn constancy, worked better.
[Processing… Definition of 'home' updated. Primary parameter: a location where the probability of being left behind, based on empirical and behavioural evidence, approaches zero.]
That night, I slept soundly. It was not out of blind faith or foolish optimism, emotions that were torn from me aeons ago.
It was based on evidence. Pure, simple evidence.
--------------(*)--------------
Night fell and the cottage shrank around the warmth of the brazier, becoming an island, a refuge against the indifferent darkness that poured over the forest. The house breathed in a slow, contented rhythm, a living organism built of wood, stone, and intent. There was the smell of freshly baked bread cooling on the windowsill, the soft sigh of the fire, and the distant sound of the goats settling in the pen that, somehow, now seemed to have always been there. I sat on one of the benches I had made, the wood still smelling of the forest and the linseed oil I had sealed it with, and placed the worn leather-bound journal in my lap. The firelight danced on the empty pages, a silent invitation to record, to make permanent.
The cot was beside me, within arm's reach. Azra'il slept on her back, arms thrown wide in a gesture of absolute trust that the very young and the very foolish possess, and which the world invariably teaches them to lose. Her hair, white as the purest snow on the distant mountains, was spread across the dark padding like a splash of frozen starlight. Such a small body, holding a soul I felt to be as ancient as the stones beneath the earth. She was a living paradox, an enigma asleep under my roof.
I reached out and, careful not to wake her, pulled the small woollen blanket I had woven over the last few nights amidst the polishing of chains up to her chin. My gaze lingered on that ghostly white hair. For an instant, it hurt. An old pain, sharp as a shard of glass in the heart. It was the memory of a similar gleam, and of a burning sky over a city that is no more, whose very stones still screamed in my nightmares. It was the memory of wings of fire and a justice so bright it was blinding, so pure it burned all it touched—guilty and innocent, righteous and lost, all turned to the same grey ash.
I pushed the name and the torrent of images it brought with it to the back of my mind, to the locked chamber where I keep the things that cannot be mended. It was a room full of echoes, of the shadow of wings and the smell of ozone. I took a deep breath, feeling the familiar weight of the chains on my own wings like an anchor to the present. They kept me here, on the ground. They reminded me of the touch of the earth, the dignity of dust, and the beauty of imperfect things.
I opened the journal. The first page had been blank for years, since before Demacia was more than a dream in the minds of men and women weary of the Rune Wars. The charcoal touched the paper, and I wrote, in my practical, unadorned script: Azra'il.
I stared at the name. It felt like a solid foundation, but the house was not yet complete. She needed a family name. Names matter in the mortal world. They are roots. They are anchors. They are the answer to the question "Who are you?". It is what you give someone so they know where they came from, and more importantly, so they know they have a place to return to. This child had nothing. Only a name that seemed plucked from the stars and a soul too heavy for such a new body.
The charcoal touched the paper again, more deliberately this time, beneath the first name: Kilam.
A firm, final stroke. A line drawn in the sand.
"Kilam," I said aloud, testing the word's weight in the cottage's quiet air. It wasn't a Demacian name, with its hard syllables full of battle-forged honour. It was no Lightshield or Crownguard. It was older, softer. It was my father's name.
The word brought a memory I rarely visited, not because of its pain, but because of its preciousness. A memory that was like the smell of freshly cut timber and earth damp with the first spring rain. I remembered his large, calloused hands over mine, showing me how to mend a fence, his calm voice telling me that justice was not a flaming sword cleaving the sky, but the daily work of mending what was broken. It was the patience of waiting for a seed to sprout. The strength of a wall built stone by stone, with mortar and sweat. He was the one who gave me the humanity that runs in my veins, the love of the land, the stubborn compassion for the imperfect and the broken. He was the one who taught me there is more strength in the hand that mends than in the hand that destroys. To give this child his name... It was an honouring. It was an adoption. It was giving her a shield forged in the memory of the most just man I ever knew.
I nodded to myself in the silence of the cottage. A decision made. A promise sealed.
I took a scrap of white linen and a needle I used for mending my tunics. With dark thread, I slowly embroidered the full name: Azra'il Kilam. The stitching was simple, without the flourishes of the Demacian nobility. It was a stitch made to last, not to impress. A stitch my father would have taught me. The needle moved in and out of the fabric, a small, silent act of creation. Each letter, a link. Each stitch, a promise. When I finished, I sewed the small cloth tag into the corner of the woollen blanket.
I leaned over the cot, watching the small, sleeping face.
"Let's see," I murmured to the child who could not hear me, but who I felt somehow listened on the currents of her soul. "Azra'il Kilam."
She shifted in her sleep, turning her head to the side with a deep sigh, the sigh of one with no debts or regrets. A lock of her white hair fell across her eyes. With the tip of my finger, I brushed it away. My fingers lingered for a moment on her brow, just feeling the warmth of her skin, the pulse of life. I watched the rise and fall of her small chest, a rhythm so fragile, so stubborn.
"As long as I am able," I said to the night, to the cottage, to her, "you stay." It was not a dramatic promise, shouted at the heavens. It was a statement of fact. A contract signed with reality, with this small house, and with my father's memory.
I put away the needle and the journal. To complete the task, I took a small plaque of wood left over from building the window and carved the name again: Azra'il Kilam - Cloths / Remedies. I hung the plaque above a new shelf I had built near the fire, where I kept her clean cloths and a small collection of dried herbs for colic and fever. Organisation. Order. Not the blind order of law that punishes deviation, but the practical, careful order that keeps life pulsing.
I looked at the cot with the embroidered name. The child sleeping peacefully under her new shield. The tools in their place. The house quiet and warm. Everything had a place. Everything had a purpose. For an instant, I felt a pang of something I had not felt in a very, very long time. It was not happiness, that was a loud, fleeting emotion. This was something calmer, deeper. It was contentment.
"Right then..." I whispered to myself.
And the night continued, simple and honest, with a new name in its proper place, sewn not just into a blanket, but into the very fabric of this refuge. A name of the earth for a fallen star. A home.