Brother

You've found a motley collection of pages, some of them ripped or burned. They’re barely held together by a cracked leather spine. It is—or was—a journal. It seems someone has tried to rip, burn, bury and drown it, all to no avail. The text inside is perfectly preserved, in spite of the condition of the pages.

37 Year of Zephyrs
She’s dead.


91 Year of Zephyrs, Mistral Jamboree
I’m supposed to enjoy this. A troupe of Wind minstrels stopped by the clan today. They’re good at what they do. Lots of acrobatics and dancing and all those beautiful colors of cloth... It’s like a moving rainbow. It’s beautiful. One spiral made loop-de-loops in the air and tried to get me to join in the fun. I refused because I was thinking of you. I managed to smile to ward him off when he gave me a goofy little bow. I’ve learned how to do that, Sister—smile. You always said I should. Coatls aren’t very good at this sort of thing.

I wonder what you would have thought of these Wind minstrels. Would you have found them funny? You probably would have joined in with the dancing and the singing. Imagine a wildclaw dancing! I did—and laughed at your expense. I apologize. I would have joined you and we could have laughed about my voice later…

1 Year of Foam
The Mistral Jamboree is over. It’s another Water year. The air is cold and crisp and there’s a chilly fog in every corner of the temple. Even the tapestries seem damp. I miss the soft breezes of last year already. Past’s Echoes has christened this one the Year of Foam. Borden said the amount of foam on the waves this morning is what inspired him. It’s as thick as icing. But when I look at the sea, I still think of my sister. Shouldn’t I be over this by now? Instead, I wonder what she would have named this year.

5 Year of Foam
I visited her grave today. All I could think about was the flowers I gathered rotting above, her sleeping underneath. What else could I have done?

23 Year of Foam
I have to do something. I’m tired of the days passing by like the slugs that crawl up the columns. Moping is getting me nowhere.

All my spells are so much harder to cast. It makes the work that much more exhausting. I’m driven to distraction. I find myself staring out through the marble columns or watching a single tapestry flutter in the breeze for hours. Great mage my fading feathers. I want my magic back.

41 Year of Foam
I’ve been reading things I shouldn’t. The others put it down to grief, if they notice at all. Everyone says that grief affects us in strange ways. I suppose this new fascination is mine.

The tribunal is getting antsy, though. It was probably my latest addition to my collection. I must be more careful. Stolen books straight from Lightweaver’s library are perhaps a bit…attention-grabbing. I have hidden the other finds from this particular haul. I will read them later in peace.

I have thrown myself utterly into my work and in so doing, reached new heights of magic. I feel my talent returning to me as well—and stronger than before. Stranger, too.


93 Year of Foam, Wavecrest Saturnalia
I miss her again. I thought I had mastered myself, but here I am, staring listlessly at the sea. Some days are worse than others. Why did she go and get herself killed? How could she have been so stupid? I suppose I should have seen it coming. My sister was always hot-blooded. She was the adventurous sort, never the kind of wildclaw to sit around and wait for fate to find her. Haha. I remember the sparkle in her eyes when she’d bested another enemy. I could never beat her in a duel, but neither could anyone else. I envied her; I never had that sort of freedom. My parents’ expectations were stronger on me than on her. Often, I would watch from a window as she spoke to the seafaring dragons in our harbor and admired their ships. I wished I could join her, but I knew I couldn’t.

I laid more flowers on her grave today. Lillies—her favorite. They smell disgusting to me now. There were so many at her funeral. At least the scent of the pines and the sea masks theirs. Sometimes I look at the waves and wonder what she saw in them. Was it them she loved or her clan? Perhaps the fight?

I don’t know what it was. We never spoke about it. I doubt she even knew I was a mage. At least I think about her less nowadays.

We had a contingent of Water dragons visit us for the Saturnalia. They brought strings of pearls and the most beautiful shells I’ve ever seen. I picked one up and admired it. Iridescent on the inside, a sort of pearly-white. I was about to put it back when the water guardian stayed my hand. ‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘They’re free.’ I thought of my sister as I pocketed it.

I bought a couple books off the visitors too. The tribunal wouldn’t fault me for properly-acquired materials. One spiral had a couple interesting copies, spelled with water-repellent magic. At first, it was the spell alone that appealed to me. But their innards were just as fascinating. One was a treatise on nature magic, with its ties to Plague. A couple of prophecies were scribbled at the back. Another was an essay on exaltation and rebirth, some sort of fringe piece. The spiral I bought them off let them go for a couple sand dollars each. A cheap new project for me! Perhaps I can figure out what the spell on them is. I enjoy tinkering with things such as these. They keep me occupied.

Something’s been bothering me, though. I’m not sure what yet, but I feel stifled by Light magic. Perhaps these books are a sign of sorts. Not that I believe in signs; those are for the Water dragons telling fortunes outside the temple. But there must be more out there. I aim to explore for a while. I shall remember my sister’s bravery and summon up my own courage. Perhaps in exploring, I shall find my answers.


97 Year of Foam, Wavecrest Saturnalia
These books are quite interesting. More so than I thought. I’ve taken to staying up late to read them. They’ve opened my eyes to things I’ve never thought of before. Lightweaver forbids certain magic, but perhaps…

I aim to keep studying. I am on the trail of something now. Nature magic and Plague magic—life and rebirth and survival. I think of sister often. It’s as if a fire has lit in my chest once more.

XX Year of Foam
How did I not see it before? What sort of Light dragon am I? The rest of the answer is in the Emperors. It must be. This will be my true test as a mage—and a scholar. If I can find [Fragment. The rest of the page has been ripped out.]

[ The next hundred or so pages are torn too, some of them burned. From the fragments that remain stuck to the spine, they seem to have been crammed with writing and diagrams. One piece reads ‘…in the deepest depths, far below in the blackness…’ Another fragment reads ‘born from the elements of Nature, Light and Plague’. Little else can be gained from them now.]


XX Year of Echoes
I’ll try tonight.

I’m sorry it took me so long, sister.



52 Year of Echoes
She paces back and forth, as if caught in some interminable routine. I do not understand. I have tried to stop her. She shakes me off and storms out with an angry look. When I find her, she always is on the outskirts of the clan—watching for something. Waiting? I do not know. She will not explain. When I ask, she shakes her head and puts a claw to her lip.

I gave you all my magic. What more would you have me give? She is a silent, sullen ghost, mournfully flitting around the abandoned dig I have brought her to. When she is not on the outskirts of the clan, she is in the dark excavated caverns, huddled next to one of the ever-burning fire I made for her. I bought Glowing Embers off a traveling fire mage; I cannot make so much as a spark for now. The thought of my lost skill makes me ill. Rhymes. Huh. Even worse is her interminable silence, her baleful glares.

I avoid her when I can. I know she will come around eventually.


63 Year of Echoes
Why won’t she speak to me still? Now I see her mouth move but no words come out. I’ll fix you. I promise. I tell her as much and she just glares at me. Does she not believe me? Does she not believe that I would do anything for her?


78 Year of Echoes
Why does she stare at the sea so often? Does she remember? I wonder what she thinks about. Sometimes, when my mind has hidden in its dark places, I even wonder if what I brought back is my sister no. I won’t put that in writing. It’s her. Perhaps she misses sailing.

I empathize. I miss my magic still. It feels as if a part of me was stolen—perhaps a limb or an eye. I am learning to live without it, to do without magic what I had done so easily before. If I am patient enough, it will return. It must return. But still, I feel the ache sometimes, especially when the thief receiver of my magic is so recalcitrant.

I missed you. Why didn’t you miss me?


Year of Echoes (?)
Still silence. I suppose this is the way of things now. I have come to accept it, as I must. Still, when I am not in my study, I am here in the abandoned dig. I suppose it’s some masochistic notion of keeping my silent sister company that brings me back here. I think more of my home is here than at my burrow. Sunglass sparkles against the marble and chimes ring softly at all hours of the day.

I am trying to make her happy, but she doesn’t appreciate it. I’m not even sure she notices it. Am I becoming a ghost? It seems that my disappearance, too, has gone unnoticed. Perhaps I am to take her place in the realm of the dead, in some ironic twist of fate reserved for blasphemers such as myself.

My magic is well and truly gone. I do not believe I will get it back anymore. The most I am capable of are a few sparks. What I have sacrificed for this wretch who doesn’t love me!


?? Year of ??
They know. I hid the journal behind the fireplace after I tore out most of what should not be known. Still, it must not be found. I will return to Past Echoes and introduce my sister. If we are not accepted, I do not know what will happen to us—to her.

I am more afraid than when I heard the news of her death.