Aubade For the First City

Collection No. 0451, Box 18, Folder 1: The Tower

fig. a: Transcript of the last known recordings of Dianthus, the first Weaver — dated 14.6, 41

M.A.

On the 10th day of Celenna’s muted season, Angela Marisol Derringer rose with caution, for that day was the day she sought an audience with the divine.

It is an open question whether the beast that emerged from that meeting was the same woman who walked into it. Some might’ve told you there was no difference at all. Anyone who had ever found themselves on the other side of whatever line Derringer decided to draw would’ve told you she was always more force of nature than mortal woman.

But see, that’s where they get her wrong. Oh she was plenty forceful, but—nature? Nature is willful. A force of nature has agency, intention. The wind whistles in a direction all its own. No, Derringer wasn’t a force of nature. She was a weapon. And a weapon has no will.

Point. Shoot. Kill. That’s our Derringer. Which, of course, left her and any miserable souls unfortunate enough to end up in her crosshairs at the mercy of whoever held the tightest leash. And so, when Shirine’s finest attack dog rose that morning, it was with a righteous fire in her eyes—and fear in her heart. As the suns scraped their trepidatious pathways across that hazy morning sky, she rolled her sleeves up tight, baring her burnt flesh for the world to see. To be burned is to be blessed, after all. What right did she have to cover up her Goddess’ handiwork? We should all be so lucky.

Across town, her so-called comrades, those precious few for whom she now offered up her very soul, slept fitfully, anxiously awaiting the big day to come. That day, you see, was special even for those ignorant of our dear Derringer’s imminent ascension to her fateful place as Celosia’s Blade. With bated breath and ignorant minds, that great many-headed animal we call the city stood poised on the eve of revolution. That day was the day the world was to change. How right they were.

And so Derringer, betrayer of all mankind, emerged from her squalid hideout to streets too-still, too-quiet. Perhaps the upstanding citizens of Shirine were simply following their instructions, treating the severe haze warning with the weight it well deserved. Perhaps they, all of them, held some grim apprehension of what was coming. Perhaps I’m reading in. Whatever the reason, she faced no resistance on her road to supplication. Through those streets, crowded with naught but dust and decay, she drifted like a ghost, like the dead thing she already believed herself to be. It must have been hard for her, pushing down all those memories bubbling up from every crack in the stones beneath her feet, but I’m sure she put up a good fight.

Maybe she, under her breath, whispered her final goodbye to that thrice-damned city. More likely she whispered her last curse. That damn city, blessed and blighted in near-equal measure. More sinners than saints, all told, but spend enough time in the shadow of those lofty walls and you’d stop trying to tell the difference. Sunlight gets in your eyes, and you might squint enough to mistake one for the other. See the glint off that sinner’s heart of gold, pull back that saint’s veil and see them for the devil they are. If only Derringer had had such vision. But I’m being unfair. Chances are, she knew exactly what she was getting into. So long as those she loved made it through, she didn’t much care what was left in her calamitous wake. Good riddance, she must’ve thought. This city, her one and only home, had never been all too kind to her.

Whether those she sought to protect approved of her actions or not, well. That was a problem for later. That was a problem to be argued once they were safe. All their desperate pining for a better world, their pleas for freedom, what was the point if they didn’t even live to see the new day they fought for? Better to live on the leash than die in the dust. At least as far as Derringer was concerned.

But perhaps you think this story should start elsewhere. I can see it in your eyes—who cares about some two-bit bruiser getting in over her head? She’s just a pawn. You want the big picture. You want the excitement, the bombast. I get it. And yes, our dear Derringer was just one bright thread in this grand tapestry. But you asked me how the world burned. This is the woman who lit the match.

*

fig. b: A ragged page torn by the storm from the journal of an unidentified wanderer, preserved in the strongbox of Saint Valentine, captain of the wrecked ship Justice in Death, alongside other items recovered during expeditions into the desert west of the First City — dated ~296 O.C.

It has been thirteen days, or thereabouts. Hard to tell. Suns don’t shine the same out here. Came out here in search of something more. Preachers told me I’d find redemption, peace. Heaven alive. But ain’t no divinity here. Just dust. Dust to the left, dust to the right. Dust up and down, if you can still tell the difference. Thought I’d seen my fair share of dust before. Hah!

Thought I’d done my part. Thought we could fight back, human vivacity breaking that storm, protecting our own. I thought we were strong. Saw the way people looked at us, saw how they cleared the street when we walked by, damn near bowed at our feet for what we did. Saw a woman’s arm bit clean off. Saw her get right back up too. I thought we were strong. Hah.

First night on the ship out, captain turns to me, says, “You ever seen a storm before?” Told her I reckon I had. Said I’d seen a lot. Spent more of my life out here than inside the walls. Told her I felt at home in the dust. Told her a whole crock of lies. “Of course I have.” And she laughed, long, deep, and quiet. “Not like this you haven’t.”

And she was right, too. It’s a wonder I didn’t get down, hands and knees, and beg her to turn that ship right back, then and there. That damn “bravery” of mine.

Maybe them preachers were right. Maybe this hell is where we all came from. It’s damn sure where we’ll all end up.

*

fig. c: A letter found in the pockets of a custom-reinforced pelisse believed to be sewn and worn by Jace Carnation, a member of the revolutionary group The Tower who disappeared during the fall of the First City — dated 7 Celenna, 299 O.C.

Hey, kid.

Haven’t heard from you in a minute. I know you’re busy, I get it, but would it kill you to write back every now and then? If I wanna know what you’re up to, I’ve had better luck browsing the headlines than trying to get word from you. You and I just can’t stay out of trouble, huh? Val calls it our “magnetic personalities.”

You find Angie yet? Probably not. If you did, I’m guessing it’d be front-page news again. She’s a damn ghost when she wants to be. I should know. But I’m sure whatever she’s doing, it’s for your benefit. She would cut her own tongue off if she thought her silence would keep you safe. Doesn’t make it any less unsettling to know she’s out there unattended, though. Find her fast, for all our sakes.

Val says hi. Kind of. She grunted affirmatively when I told her I was writing to you, and I know her well enough to translate. She’s worried about you guys. So am I, but you’ll never get me to admit it.

Please be careful. Barring that, stick close to your friends. I may not trust you to take care of yourself, but Amos and Lev have done an okay job so far. Even if Angie’s off doing who knows what, you’ve got so many damn guardian angels, I’m starting to think you might be a god yourself. Imagine that. My kid brother, god of… getting into trouble, I guess.

Big day coming. How do you deal with the nerves? I’m shaking like a dog over here.

Seems like everyone on board is. They try to hide it, bury it under their usual stoicism, but it’s just been… quieter? Calm before the storm, I guess. We’re ready to bring the thunder when the signal comes.

Be safe.

- Daisy

*

fig. d: Informational placard recovered from the basement of Shirine’s Ancient Works Museum. The referenced painting was burnt, stolen, or otherwise lost during the fall of the First City. Note: this description is thought to be written by Lev Rosenthal. According to surviving records, he worked as an intern from 273-274 O.C., during which time this piece was briefly on display.

Untitled

Oil on Canvas

60x20 inches

Gift of the Floret Foundation

Lacking both signature and title, this piece presents an alluring mystery—one which has vexed both historians and art scholars alike. The central figure, a woman wreathed in a radiant blaze, can be none other than Celosia, Goddess of the First Flame, but the landscape that surrounds her—and, indeed, who exactly painted it—resists such conclusive interpretation.

In want of definitive fact, we instead turn to speculation: this piece bears striking resemblance to other works by the so-called “Marquess of Light,” a moniker given to an anonymous artist thought to be behind a number of ancient pieces which became influential during the early civic period. It is estimated that attempts to recreate the vivid hues of the Marquess’ work led to the discovery of nearly half of all dyes in use today.

This piece was struck by controversy in 236 when it was cited in Hendren Stockheld’s infamous deconstruction of Asteric orthodoxy. Stockheld argued that this piece, alongside a number of other historical documents which he asserted pre-dated our modern records, represented not depictions of myth but first-hand accounts of real events, from which the myths themselves then sprouted.

Though the historians the essay was directed towards dismissed the theory outright, it became nevertheless influential on the artistic counterculture of the time, and prompted, in the decades that followed, a widespread re-appraisal of Celosia as a mythopoetic subject. New depictions of the creation myth, spurred on by Stockheld’s theory, challenged dogmatic interpretations of Celosia as the mythical Adversary, a trickster who set flame to paradise for no reason but her whims and cast us out, into our imperfect mortal world. Using this very piece as their foundation, artists and poets alike brought Celosia to life as a valiant protector, a noble ruler wrongfully deposed, a lover of humanity spurned by betrayal, a daughter orphaned by tragedy seeking righteous revenge.

Just a handful of these innumerable interpretations, each adding another facet to this ever more-complex mythological figure, are collected here, for a limited exhibition, The Many Faces of Flame.

*

fig. e: Final entry of the journal of Amos Woupe, convicted seditionist and former heir of the Woupe royal family. Donated to the archive by Lior Brennan — dated 10 Celenna, 299 O.C.

Last night I dreamt of my ascension to the throne. I have not set foot in the tombs for a half-century and more, and yet every turn came readily to my unconscious mind, and I have no doubt that my internal map was accurate to the very inch. All that training, all my hours of labor, for what? For a ritual profaned by those who undertook it. For a paltry title. To be the firmest hand on the great wheel of civilization. The only hand, if we had had our way.

Today I woke to a letter from Jebediah. Among other useless handwringing, he writes, “I wish this could go another way.” Bah. If that was truly his wish, he would not have accepted his office. He would not have armed the Crown against us. He would have listened when we were young. He is, and has always been, a coward. And yet I wish it too.

I have received no word from Angela, nor from Lev. Jace is nervous, though I suspect nothing could have prevented that. But they have my faith, always. They know the plan, and I trust them to play their vital parts. We all must.

Today I wake to a world transformed, though as always it may be but a trick played by the light on my feeble, failing eyes. Today I wake to the final day of the old world, and the first of the new. Today we shake off the yoke clasped about our necks. Today we fight. Today, flames preserve us, we win.*

fig. f: Inscription carved into the blade of an anlace recovered from the ruins of the First City — date unknown.

The land I love, / O home, o home, / Burns bright

My guiding light, / ‘til I return, / O home.