Olympus

The perfectly-imperfect home.

The wind howls as you approach the gates of the Citadel, before you could knock, a bird drops a note onto your face, and the note then lands at your feet. And the bird yelled, “Good luck not falling to your certain death!” and disappeared amongst the clouds.

Starling, make your way to the lower docks next to the Cosmic Citadel, I just returned from the enchanting city, and I certainly don’t have the energy to make my way uphill. I hope Raven handed you this note.

-Bea

As you walk around the Palisades to the stairs leading to the docks, the enchanting city appears in the distance—its tall spires and gilded walls visible from paces afar. As you make your way down the twisting, narrow path, the landscape dramatically changes—the further you drift from the citadel, the more life teems around you. The terrain surrounding the docks toward the city stands in striking contrast to the cosmic citadel high above.

The mellow sound of the stream gushing from above weaves through the lush vegetation, joined by chirping birds and croaking toads. Compared to the dead silence of the cold citadel, this side of the world thrives—alive through every sense.

At the path’s end stood an ancient building. Its cracked walls and rustic pillars towered gracefully, holding the structure together while blending seamlessly into the surrounding flora. A serene hallway led through it to the docks, littered with leaves and twigs. There stood a lonely, massive vessel—the Heron, the Enchanting city’s mammoth cruise liner. Contrasting this gilded monster, at the front rim gleamed a figure in serene white robes: “Starling! You’re finally here!”

Tossing his hair, he bounded down like an excited child. Trailing him were two aged souls—they seemed familiar. Betelgeuse glanced at them. “Yeah—today’s tea partly will be about them,” he laughed.

We made our way to this isolated corner of this old dock, a broken flight of stairs leading to what once was a tower, but all that remains of it is just rubble. He then plopped down on the stairs stretching his legs , “The city proved to be as tiring as ever”, he looked at me, “C’mon now don’t stand there forever”, he sweeps off the litter with his hand, tapping a spot to sit.

The river’s calming winds wove a strange silence amid nature’s harmony. His eyes traced the horizon, where the city’s skyline glimmered. Tilting his head east - toward the vast void the river carved, he began: “The way of the wind leads you east. Let the River guide you, dear child. Where the river meets its destiny and the winds whistle in joy , lies a place nestled in serene waters against a gilded cliff rising eternally to the heavens —that is home. That is Olympus.”

He took a whiff of the River’s gale and continued...

Dearest Starling,

’Home’ - some define it as ‘the place that bore one’s cradle’, others as a place we feel ‘union’ with. I’m sure you too have a home - a place you retreat to after our lengthy conversations. But to me, home isn’t confined to a place, realm, or a person. My definition defies form; to me, home is a feeling - one the soul understands. It can be found anywhere - in a person, a place, a thing. If you pursue it and feel all of your existence is in harmony with where you’re pursuing this feeling, then that is home in its entirety.

As Lady Vanessa of Sherwood once said, "For a soul that has found its harmony with the cosmos, its home is... everywhere." But I too once called a ‘place’ home—the Jewel of the East, they named it. The world deemed it "perfect": my cradle, Olympus, flawless in their eyes. That's all they see—the immaculate facades. Behind the crafted finery and steady walls, something shakes Olympus to its core. It's a delicate dream built on placid foundations, its shiny canopies and palisades barely cloak the storm within. I have witnessed it—and it is far from perfect.

The Empress of Olympus—my mother—might disagree that her home is a glass fortress ready to shatter anytime. To me, that place is a living irony. It’s neither sinister nor a serene garden; it’s borderline. I've tried interpreting its essence at extremes, yet it always settled in a strange limbo—neither hell nor heaven, neither warzone nor graveyard silence, surely isn’t love’s abode nor despair’s residence. It simply hovers on the edge.

But was Olympus always this way? - Even the builders of this flimsy abode seem clueless, their memories lost to the storm within. One might call me a coward for escaping the turmoil of my own home, but if I didn’t, the last of me would have been consumed by that place.

That’s how I ended up in the Enchanting City. After ages confined to the walls of my cradle, this city broke the cage—(in reality, I just traded cages). My father, Lord Zahyr, sent me to the Consortium of the North to learn about life, so the wisdom could prove handy when I was to inherit the throne (I refused, and it didn’t happen).

For all the right or wrong reasons, that’s when Queen Rosaline—formerly of Brenett—and I met, opposing each other in an intellectual exchange during a chamber session: a debate on “Is life more valuable than death?” (I opposed; she supported). Who knew we wouldn’t leave each other’s shadows for ages to come—despite always being nemeses in chamber debates? . Moons and Suns passed, and before we knew it, we rose from amateur apprentices to anointed Paragons. A Paragon must traverse the world to understand it, enlightening the self to one day bear the responsibilities of a ruler, a partner, and a whole individual.

Lady Rosaline and I traversed West from the City, stepping onto Wesbrooke’s soil. Funny enough, as we made our way through that realm’s dense woods, a pompous idiot ambushed us, assuming we were spies—Lord Gregory Wesbrooke. Then, he was just the naive heir to Wesbrooke’s old throne (now he’s the Crown, but still naive nonetheless). Our journey from being Wesbrooke prisoners to -Rosaline betrothing her heart to Gregory is a long story, stored for another tea time—but I too grew to like Gregory there. I escaped dramatically for the second time—from a place I’d grown familiar with. This time, detaching wasn’t as painful or guilt-inducing... or was it a different kind of pain? I couldn’t tell back then.

But when my father found me in Theonia’s taverns, wasted over a guy, he was furious. He sent me to Aronor’s Fjords—a hellishly cold place at the North’s tip (was it punishment? Yes). As if embarrassing myself at Wesbrooke hadn’t already diminished my grace, despite drowning in work in Aronor, my heart betrothed itself without my consent to Prince Bran. This didn’t feel as hopeless as the last—but had I deluded myself into falling? Was it unquenched yearning from before, or something new? I didn’t know. This time, I didn’t run—I sat with it. I thought to ask Bran’s hand, but before I could, Bran asked Lady Vanessa’s. Their marriage was of utmost grandeur. I became -Olympus personified—my internal battles borderline, jealousy and happiness for them pushed me onward. Yet I chose to stay.

I grew used to it; soon even this felt familiar. I simply enjoyed coexisting—until the Brenetts declared war on Aronor as part of their conquest. The war was gruesome: Aronor under siege, its populace starved. On the 178th night, a note arrived at my door: “Long have you longed for Bran. Funny how you call him ‘brother’ as you burn for him, coward. I wonder what happens when truth emerges. Meet me at North Ocean’s Gate—or face consequences.”

I could have let the truth out, but familiarity harbingered regret. I didn’t want to lose this. In the dead of night, I rode to the Ocean’s Gate. Winding down my mare, I approached the old tower and saw a cloaked figure. In fuming anger and creeping fear, I bursted out “What do you want? Why expose my feelings for Bran? Let me have peace—if it’s riches, consider it done.”

The figure turned, dropped his cloak, raised a torch: “You’d fallen for me, Bea? And—someone threatened to expose tha—”

Before we could speak, Brenett’s army ambushed us—it was a trap. I barely remember how Bran and I made it back to Aronor’s Castle. Apparently, before following me out of suspicion, Bran had alerted his army beforehand.

My father arrived in Aronor after the news spread like Bristlewood fires. Olympian and Aronorian forces reduced Brenett’s army to nothing. After victory, Father visited my chambers: “I have lost all hope in you, I can’t even trust you with yourself”—the second time I died inside.

Wounded, without a mare, I walked the great river’s banks, leaving a note: “I must leave—consider me dead, for I must be reborn.” Ages hopping settlements, piecing together that Gate night—I had so much to explain, but doors shut. My dreams revealed: as he carried me back, Bran said, “You should have told me. Sure, maybe I couldn’t love you as you wanted—but at least your heart needn’t bear that burden. It’s not like I’d have killed you, coward.” His warm tears fell on my face—I tear up every time.

All that labor, and I returned to the City—but something repulsed me. I longed to indulge again, yet my reflection in its clear walls whispered: Maybe I don’t belong anywhere. In despair, I jumped into the river’s violent waters, hoping it would carry me to true home—Death. But someone pulled me by my robes, throwing me onto the opposite bank. A man in refined high-mage robes: “Child, if you thought death was the end, I regret to enlighten you—that too begins the beyond.” Those were Orion’s first words to me.

Funny how he made me his apprentice. This time, home had no consequences—attached not externally, but to self. The endless archives’ wisdom bridged me to I. Before I knew it, what began as a small dome of scrolls, memories, and skycharts -grew into much more. A Citadel arose—the Cosmic Citadel, built to gaze beyond. News spread far, filling my court with wise ones pouring knowledge. This was life—this was perfect.

Until recently, I realized: i was no different from Olympian builders. They erected a gilded empire; I built mine—as distraction from the void.

*He stands, walks to the dockside cave, gesturing you to follow. Inside, it expands into a vast dome bedazzled with floating lights and life-carvings—Bea’s phases from child to now, endless in scope. He approaches a nook: empty space ringed by cracked, misshapen carvings. The void ahead churns turbulently—ground cracking, sinking, falling apart.*

“This is the void I’ve neglected so long—the more I ignore it, the more it grows…”

Carvings shatter; the void expands, consuming all.

“This is why Orion forced me away from distraction. Seeing Gregory at court a while back, I didn’t shy—I greeted him: ‘You were unkind; I could have reciprocated the same, but I’m not heartless, Greg. The shame taught me never to offer myself to the self-consumed. You shamed yourself, revealing your futility. I wish you—and your children—better. May nature spare your offspring while settling scores.’”

And then, I returned to Olympus- seeking the old priestess’s refuge to fight the storm. Apparently, I needn’t fight or claim it—but sit with all that birthed it.

That brings us to now. Olympus’s turbulence stems from eons of internal discord and realm anguish. The lords of all realms will gather at the Citadel in a few moons. Yes, I haven’t told my parents my agenda: exposing every realm’s vulnerabilities when they convene. Even Orion agrees—it will end their pretend games and held egos.

It's time I opened the doors I shut long ago. Yes, long have I ignored the past—I must reclaim my lessons from time's tales. Destiny has plans, and so do I...

*Horns blare in the distance. More vessels line the horizon—they are coming…

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Ps: The next time we meet at the tea garden , we will have much to catch up on, let’s hope I make it through that drama, I am the drama - of course I will get through it.