4.2.25 - The Weepers of Distant Forevers pt 1

4.2.25 - The Weepers of Distant Forevers pt 1

Parable 1: The Moonya and the Waking Oath

"DAYDREAMERS! WAKE UP!!"

The shrill command cracked across the air like a bolt of electric ribbon, warping the sunlight that had dared to enter the ceremonial classroom. The voice belonged to none other than Moonya Aillag, whose mere presence warped protocol, gravity, and reality itself.

She stepped through the ornate doorway of the converted academy chamber—a room restructured with silks, pillows, and runes for the induction ceremony—and stopped just past the threshold.

"As subjects," she continued, adjusting the massive hat that crowned her curls, "you should rise the moment my foot crosses the boundary. Vigilance is a virtue, is it not? Or have you all been skipping ethics?"

A sea of students scrambled upward in a symphony of awkwardness. Underwool tugged, lapels fastened, sweat stains hidden beneath secondhand ceremonial armor. Among the flailing neophytes, even the highly decorated Regina—the entangler in pink—and her ever-curious boyfriend George, stumbled out of their perfectly coordinated poses.

Aillag watched with pleasure. Silence eventually descended. Her gaze moved slowly to the couple in the front row. She offered them the barest nod of acknowledgment.

George promptly fainted.

"You have all been hand-selected," Aillag began, voice poised like a blade of velvet, "as the highest-performing students of your generation. It is now your honor—no, your privilege—to assist your Moonya in planning this year’s Infinity Ball."

Cheers erupted. Joy exploded like an overripe fruit. Aillag allowed the moment, standing amid the fanfare with languid detachment. Then, without lifting a finger, she wove a small glyph in the air.

Silence.

Clapping hands continued without sound. Mouths moved. Laughter flickered but no audio emerged. Eyes widened.

Aillag wandered slowly through the room, trailing her fingers along shoulders and silk-stitched jackets.

"This year’s harvest," she said, now more to herself, "will be unlike any we’ve had in decades. The Moonlit Festival will require perfection."

She arrived at the plush bed prepared at the room’s center—an absurdly decadent nest of pillows, imported furs, and golden tassels. She collapsed upon it like falling fog, curling inward and tracing the stitching idly.

"You will ensure it goessss... ssmoothly..." she murmured, voice slipping into a singsong hum. A pressure filled the air. The temperature dropped. Students found themselves unable to blink.

"The town must remain occupied until the night of the celebration," she continued, her tone distant, dreaming. "The lower cities have never seen the Moonlit Festival. It must be the best night of their lives."

And then—clarity. Her voice returned to normal.

She clapped.

The room exhaled. Cheers resumed in a roar.

"We get to dress up for the ball!" "It’s going to be a night to remember!" "Beyond their wildest dreams!"

As the chaos renewed, Aillag searched through her clutch, eventually fishing for her respirator. Before she could retrieve it, a soft tap landed on her shoulder.

Viumod—the aide assigned to her mother, the Sunya of Ghentsai—stood beside her, face unreadable.

"Urgent news," Viumod whispered, leaning in.

Aillag offered no response. Viumod leaned closer.

"A flightless bird was caught slithering to safety. And... there are ants."

Without a word, Aillag calmly inserted two fingers into Viumod's mouth, silencing her mid-sentence. Viumod gagged.

Aillag withdrew her fingers and stood.

"My dear chosen," she addressed the room, now re-assembled and breathless, "I must leave you prematurely. I understand this wounds your hearts, but take comfort: we shall reconvene soon."

The students rose in unison, hands over hearts. Aillag lifted her right hand, palm toward the sky.

"May the sun set and rise on Neela Sol," she intoned.

The classroom erupted in a single, visceral howl:

"For the space between the two shall be none!"

They chanted again and again as Aillag walked through the archways. The chamber’s old identity—a modest classroom—had been erased. The new room was gilded and inscribed with handcrafted etchings of forgotten runes, scrubbed clean from ceiling to stone.

Outside, the emerald-studded staircase caught moonlight and melted snow. The streets of Ghentsai shimmered in prepared perfection. Snow fell, only to vanish instantly as it touched the heated ivory stone.

Only the distant mountains and cursed woods felt the kiss of true winter.

Aillag emerged to find a divided crowd. Protesters clung to their chants across the avenue, but they were drowned out by thousands cheering in adoration. Citizens reached toward her. Devices hovered for photographs.

She ignored them.

The new Kobring vehicle gleamed like a dream made metal.

"Is this the new model, Viumod?" Aillag asked, eyes sparkling.

She danced in a circle, dragging her fingers along its sculpted frame.

"Send the CEO of Basilisk a thank-you. The new Kobring is elegant—just like me."

Viumod merely nodded.

Aillag turned toward the sea of adoring faces.

She lifted one hand and waved.

The crowd surged like an ocean, roaring:

"May the sun set and rise on Neela Sol!"

But from across the plaza came a sharper cry:

"Neela Sol. Never Lost. All hail Tor Hos!"

Aillag paused, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Then she stepped into the vehicle. The door shut.

And the Kobring carried her away from the people—and deeper into the true dream that lay ahead.

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