Private Soliloquy

[Ala Quin]

The wind screamed against the cliffside, its cry rising and falling like the sea below. Ala stood at the edge, robes whispering in the salt air, her hand raised in quiet defiance. Below, shapes crawled from the dark surf, half-formed things of shadow and smoke, clawing their way upward. Their eyes burned faintly, reflections of firelight where there should have been stars.

Behind her, the sound of the shuttle pulsed through the storm, steady and waiting. The air shimmered with its engines. Between her and that light stood Isla, her small frame silhouetted against the brilliance, the bundle in her arms wrapped in pale linen. The baby's cry cut through the wind only once before fading against Isla’s shoulder.

Ala turned, only for a moment, and their eyes met. Pride, sorrow, and understanding passed between them. The wordless acknowledgment of what must be done.

Then she faced the darkness again. The first of the creatures reached the ledge, and with a smooth motion, Ala sent a wave of light cascading outward. It didn’t burn them away so much as hold them back, a Force barrier. The cliff trembled. The shuttle rose. The light consumed the sound of the world.

When the noise faded, it became something gentler, the low hum of a fan, the chirring of insects beyond an open window. Ala’s eyes opened to the dim half-light of dawn.

The beams of their unfinished lake house crossed above her like ribs of a great ship. Beside her, Lorn slept, one hand resting loosely where she’d been. She smiled faintly, then slid from beneath the sheets without a sound, feet meeting the cool floor.

The house smelled of new timber, varnish, and lake air. Tools lay scattered near the door. Half the railing on the balcony still unbuilt. The kettle sang softly as she filled her tea cup, the steam curling like the dream’s mist.

She smelt her tea within the chipped cup — the one she had carried from temple to temple, world to world — and stepped outside.

Mist drifted across the lake. The water caught the newborn sunlight, turning gold at its edges. Birds skimmed the surface in silence. Ala sipped slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon where the light was gathering.

She felt no fear. The dream was a memory of what would be, perhaps — but it no longer hurt her. It was simply truth, carried on the wind.

For now, there was only light, tea, and the soft breath of the lake.

| Tag: Lorn Reingard |​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Tags: Ala Quin​

Lorn woke to the sound of wind moving through the beams. For a moment, he thought it was the sea again, the crash of surf against black stone, the echo of something ancient stirring beneath it. His hand reached across the bed before he could think, finding only empty, cold sheets.

His pulse quickened. A soft panic came fast, a feeling born of deep loss, more fitting for a man who'd already lost too much. He sat up, scanning the room. Light filtered through the unfinished walls, casting soft stripes across the floor. Her side of the bed lay undisturbed, save for the faint imprint where she'd lain. His breath caught, then steadied as he closed his eyes and reached out through the quiet.

There. Her presence glowed like morning sunlight over water. Still, the knot in his chest didn't ease completely. He rose, bare feet whispering against the floorboards. The boards creaked under his weight as he stepped out onto the balcony.

She stood near the railing, wrapped in the gold of dawn, her hair lifting gently in the breeze. A chipped cup of tea warmed her hands. The sight of her, real and whole, stilled everything inside him. For a while, he just watched.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough with sleep. "You should've woken me." Ala turned, her eyes soft but unreadable. He crossed the space between them, the chill of the air forgotten. "Was it a bad dream again?" he asked. The question was quiet, but the worry beneath it was sharp. He tried to smile, but it didn't quite hold.