In Her Element

Beginning…

From the ornately carved throne that sat on the darkening clouds, the Lady gazed down at the ghastly war that raged beneath her feet. Her sweaty hands swiped at her favorite silk robe, then clutched at the cushioned armrests in anguish as her children struck at each other brutally. Her pale, drawn cheeks were wet and her appearance disheveled—a reflection of the pain and sorrow that was transpiring.

A low cough sounded from behind, and she stood as she slowly raised her sorrow-filled eyes to her husband, looking utterly defeated.

“What have I done wrong, my Lord?” she whispered, distress evident in her voice. “I have done all that I could, and yet they still cannot exist in harmony,” she sobbed, leaning into him as he reached her.

He smoothed her unruly hair and gently kissed it, before answering slowly and tenderly, as though speaking to an ill child. “The fault is not in you, love, but unfortunately, in our children. You have gifted them with remarkable powers and they chose to turn them against each other and—” He stopped abruptly.

“What is it, my Lord? Tell me,” she implored with her eyes wide at the sudden prospect of hope.

“Perhaps it would be for the best if we would revoke their abilities,” he said gently. “Or possibly leave them with only one.”

She inhaled sharply. “But it is inconceivable that fire should exist without water, earth without air; they all require the others to exist at their full and complete potential.” She looked up at the man, her troubled thoughts reflected on the sadness that shadowed her beautiful features. “And if I must, how can I possibly choose what to entrust in their hands?”

He stroked her arm, and kissed her forehead, her nose, and her cheek, and she moved to bury her face in his broad chest as she once again burst into wracking sobs. “You need not worry yourself, my Lady. The ruling has been decided. Tomorrow at the break of dawn, it shall be announced. It is final,” he finished off as soothingly as he could.

Gathered there that fateful early morn, with the sun just barely peering over the blood-soaked plains, the noble sons and daughters of the King and his Lady awaited the decree. Some among them trembled, while others bore their confidence high. The latter were perhaps the cause of this formidable gathering, as trembling signified submission, and the submissive rarely misuse the gifts with which they are blessed.

Yet even the assertive ones fell humbly to their feet as the ones who held their strings, the King and his council members, passed them by as they moved up to the rostrum. The murmuring ceased in volume to a steady hum of apprehension before coming to a halt completely as the King stood there and faced his subjects, his sizeable frame towering over them all, his presence intimidating.

“Any parents would shower their child with love and gifts, all parents wanting what is best for their offspring, wanting to make things as easy and comfortable as possible. However, should the parents find the child undeserving, they may feel it necessary to teach said child a lesson, by withdrawing these gifts from the child.” He raised his voice over the clamor that immediately arose. “Believe me, or choose not to, but this too is a show of love—a harsher form of love that is just as hard to give as it is to swallow.” Following this statement, the noise level of the side of the room that held all the more powerful of the people rose once again to a clamor.

One man among the crowd stood up, and the noise level lessened once again. This man was a powerful one and he knew it, his posture arrogant and his nose in the air. He was wealthy, judging by his magnificent robes of blood red laced with gold, and he was used to everything going his way.

“My Liege,” the man bowed deep. “If I may have your consent to speak?” he asked upon straightening.

“Speak, child. But be aware, Lord Brent, that what has been decided shall remain as such.” The great King caught the eyes laced with darkness and pride and held them long, daring him to look away. “And it is not in your favor.”

The reaction to this announcement was silence—enough to hear the heartbeats of the hall’s many occupants. Then, there was a deafening racket as many of the men and women stood in great upset, the enormity of what was said only now occurring to them. Chairs were tipped and felled, fists pounded hard on the smooth tables to the point that the tables were on the verge of cracking due to the pressure, and there was a general roar of protest. This was accompanied by the crashing of thunder as the sky turned an ashen grey, harsh Winds blowing the fallen chairs, and whipping clothes and hair against the body and face. The ground trembled underfoot, as the people used any one of their means to express their utter indignation.

“SILENCE!” At the sound of the voice of the King, the noises and the ongoing activities desisted instantaneously. “Speak now, Lord Brent, or not at all.” All besides the addressed sat down on the chairs that had been replaced in their previous standing positions by many small winds, and gazed at Brent in expectation, relying on him to voice their own feelings.

The Lord Brent of Paxton’s Region patted down his thick, grey hair that only seemed to give him an even more dignified look, and looked up audaciously at his sovereign. “I have no intent to accept the verdict upon myself, my Lord.” An intake of breath sounded at this statement of outright defiance. “I have done no wrong. If my feebler, weak-willed brothers are content in serving me, why must I do things myself?” He chuckled, as if participating in actual physical labor was unheard of and the thought, a bit entertaining. He opened his arms wide, inviting his fellow better-classed relations to join in his humor.

But the King and his council did not see the humor. In fact, it only seemed to further their cause. The King’s voice became dangerously low when he voiced his next words. “It is not your place to decide the comfort and abilities of others in their positions. I have seen and felt the pain and suffering your slaves endured!” The word ‘slaves’ was spit out with utter contempt, and the King felt the sudden, desperate urge to give the Lord Brent and his fellow cruel masters a good thrashing, so much did he abhor the controlling of one man by another. The Lord of Paxton’s Region and said fellows felt the immense hatred and disgust, and involuntarily drew back, their self-assurance evaporating in an instance. Their fear intensified when the King of the Universe was handed a scroll, which he opened and began to read in a voice that put thunder to shame.

“Listen now and listen well, all who are gathered here today.

“In the past, you, my children, came to me and my Lady, and asked that you be granted something that would help you tremendously in your endeavors. Admittedly, I was reluctant, for I could not think of what to give you without disturbing the balance that I set in the Beginning.

“It was my Lady who thought to bestow upon you the strength of Earth, passion from Fire, Water to satiate you, and the purity of Air.

“In fear that, with the help of these Elements, you would no longer seek us out, the Lady and I agreed to provide you with Spirit as a connection to us. With this Spirit, you would think of us when all else failed and reach out to us, your parents, in mind and soul.”

And here the King once more raised his voice and fixed Lord Brent with a piercing glare. “You all used these in ways that benefited you, as was planned. But some felt it was in their right to take advantage of those who had not as strong an affinity as they did. Those of you who held yourselves higher enslaved the others, killing them, hurting them, and in short, making their lives miserable. You used Spirit not to call to us, but to call them and control them. You used the Elements to keep them in their place; their place you felt was beneath you.

“You have shown that you are not deserving of these gifts. Those of you who were victims, you too shall be denied the gifts, save for Spirit. For, although I fear your corruption as well, I do not wish to leave you alone and defenseless, and therefore I give you all a way to call upon us.”

The King motioned, and his Council rose as one. Again he motioned, and they began to chant, a pure melody pouring from their mouths that twanged at the heartstrings like a musician playing the harp. All those who had been prey to the stronger of the people—to Lord Brent and such—stood as if pulled by strings, and they were each individually surrounded by a glowing light of several different colors. As the council sang, the lights faded slowly, all except the purple, which glowed as bright as ever.

The King dropped his hands and the melody came to a halt. “You may depart.”

Most of those just blessed—in a way—with Spirit filed out silently. Those who chose to remain moved to the back of the room as the King turned his infallible judgment on the others.

“You lose it all.” The remaining ones blanched at the brusque severity and finality of these words, and finally, they too trembled. Even those with Spirit drew back as though not to be contaminated by the ruling as well.

But despite his fury, the King still loved them, and would not leave them helpless. “One among each of your families shall have a weak aptitude to utilize Spirit, so as not to leave you devoid of all connection.”

Once again, he raised his hand, leading the council in song. This one was different than the first; it was beautiful—but hauntingly so—and would be remembered for years to come, along with the fading colors. All that remained was a very slight shade of lilac over some of their heads.