Railyňdrä, Queen of Rain

Chapter I

“The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished.”

I imagine that’s what the Enhedǔännian headlines will say as my weeping citizens search for my frozen, dead body.

I’ve never felt shame like this before—the shame of not being enough. Of being too much. Of being everything I was supposed to be, and then evaporating.

Then there’s the fear. It nips at my bare, calloused feet, threatening to drink up my soul. There was a point at the beginning of this war when I believed I had power—when I presumed I could negotiate with our rogue, self-absorbed cousins, the Näephyrîans. Now, it’s become clear it is they who are the wolves, and I who am the rabbit. They won’t stop until they’ve devoured my bones and sipped from my blood, like rum.

As I flee under a quilt of Milkey-Way sky, running faster and fiercer than ever before, all I can do is beg the darkness for refuge. My breath becomes clouds of desperation that claw the night’s veiled walls, pleading to be let into its unassailable kingdom. But it’s of no use. I’m drowning in the lakes of my essence. I’m melting into puddles of the most primitive and survival-drawn shades of my existence—of the pathetic excuse I am for a queen. This is the end. I know it.

Even so, I run. I run past the pasture where my childhood friends and I used to sing, laugh, and dance. It’s now dry and barren because of me.

I run through the great, woody elms, where Xaviêr and I fell in love. The majestic, century-old trees are keeled over to the ground, having succumbed to the axe that is the sun—the fiery star I swore to always check and balance. I failed the trees. I failed nature. And Xaviêr—is he alive? Did those monsters capture him, too? Surely he must have come looking for me. Surely he and Fîrä…wait. Fîrä.

Dear gods, if anything happened to Fîrä, I’ll never forgive myself. Wait, stop thinking this way. Give her the credit she deserves. She’s fine. She’s more than fine—she’s strong. In fact, she’s ridiculously strong—much stronger than me—she just doesn’t know it yet. She doesn’t know what she’s capable of. I need to leave her signs. No matter where they take me, I must find a way to signal to her that she and I are still connected.

As I run past a bevy of boulders, I call upon every last bit of vim within me. I imagine I’m still mighty—that I still harness the power of rivers—and that I can once more carve pathways through rocks and erode mountains.

But, the result is a collage of small scratch marks on granite. My soul wants to vaporize along with my pride. I’ve become so weak.

Fîrä, I think, follow my signs. I know they're small and pathetic but please...follow them. Don't overlook them.

Though it aches, I continue running. I have to get as far away from home as possible.

I never imagined it would happen this way. I never fathomed I’d be forced to abandon those who depended on me—my people. Even in my most abhorrent dreams, I’ve never been as worthless as I am now.

I stop dead in my tracks.

“I’m a fraud,” I whimper into the shadows, “please, don’t let this happen. Not now.”

But I’m alone, bargaining only with the emptiness of the moonlight. The stars have faded, realizing I no longer reflect their small pinholes of light. I am no longer the wishing well into which children throw pennies. The silver linings of dawn, and hope, have all crashed into the still, shallow pools that make up what’s left of me. I am no longer the guide or usher of dreams.

Even my tears lack moisture. They squeeze from my eyes in granular crystals as I kneel, breathless, on the dehydrated ground. There is nothing I want more than to give the Earth what she begs for, but I am no longer able to do so.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the forest’s dry floor, allowing some of her dust to sift through my fingers.

I feel the forest heave a great sigh from beneath me.

“Why do you forsake me, Railyňdrä?” She asks.

Her question leads me to slump into a bundle of immeasurable guilt.

“Because I took everything for granted,” I weep, “and because I abused my power. I was foolish with my gift.”

It is true. I made irrevocable, uneducated mistakes. Now, I’m being punished for my decisions. What’s even worse is that everyone I care for will now suffer along with me.

The only option I have left is to pray.

It takes every ounce of strength I have left to push my chest from the earth and position myself on my knees. Then, with my hands fanned across my heart—with my eyes fixed deep in the hallow, black sky—I pray to the Grand Empyrean that I am granted my power back. I center in on the Enhedǔännian gods—beseeching the spirits of our great ancestors—that I may seep into the sentiment, then emerge, unscathed, from underground aquifers at the end of this nightmare. I pray long and hard. I pray that the water spirits of Enhedǔannä will return to me. I pray that I will be restored with the gift of wave, condensation, and storm—with the ability to nurture and support life. I pray that the powers I’ve worked so diligently to harness will flood back to the heart of me, where I still believe they belong. I pray that they sweep my weakness away in unfaltering, firm currents.

But any glimmer of hope I have fades, for the grandmothers and grandfathers of the Grand Empyrean stay silent. My words are small teardrops that lift toward the sky. They vanish, like ghosts, unworthy of materializing into the rainfall that was once my twin nature—that was once my sorcery. It’s more clear than ever that the molecules of my essence reject me. A heavy, inexplicable feeling throttles my spirit as I realize I’m shunned—disgraced not only from the Empyrean itself, but from the great atmospheric rivers and the highest convergence of Enhedǔännian rainclouds that were my thaumatergy. All bodies of water that once answered to me now deliberately leave my prayers hanging in the hollows of what was.

And my assailants won’t stop until they’ve hunted me down. Their world has run dry, and they blame it on me. Rightfully so, I suppose. I am Railyňdrä, Queen of Rain, and rivers, and snowmelt—of all the freshwater that makes up our world—and yes, I restricted their district’s water access.

Why did I do it? I badger myself. The question is a phantom that obliterates any sense of peace still existing in my mind.

“Because you had to,” the forest whispers.

I choke on my breath. How could it be that this gentle spirit still loves me? I reach out to grab a willow’s curtain-like branch, bringing it close to my lips. It's an instinctual motion that once bedewed desiccated souls.

She’s right. I had to. When it became apparent there was nothing I could do to stop the Näephyrîans from abusing the sacred nature of water to breed the dräeğğalans, I abused my power to ensure they could obtain only the water they needed to survive. I resorted to these extreme measures to keep them from gaining power over us, ignoring the advice of the elders and the word of the Empyrean Scriptures. Now, because of my idiocy, the Näephyrîans are insurrecting. Now, they’re after the last possible sip that their newly-born, abominable creations—the dräeğğalans—can drain from me.

And they’re enjoying the pursuit. This is about more than power to them— it’s a game. They could’ve easily killed me off back at the Imperial Court, when they had me cornered in the Magnolia Chamber and had a clear, open chance. Instead, they took out my army with their bloodthirsty beasts and slaughtered my bodyguards, giving me a day’s headstart so they could savor the chase. So they could track the scent of my fear.

I can hear their footsteps growing nearer. Their wrath has manifested into the unstoppable power of the forty—perhaps fifty—dräeğğalans. Their weight has the ground tremble and quake beneath them. The sound of boulders pulverizing in their wake is a reminder that I cannot stop running.

“You mustn’t give up,” pleads the forest.

Her kindness revives something within me. It takes every last bit of strength I have within me to barrel forward—to hone in on my will to survive.

Earth, despite my betrayal of her, does what she can to help me. Juniper trees twist in unnatural positions. Their silhouettes become hieroglyphic whispers against the waned moonlight, pointing toward refuge. Fireflies coalesce in tight clusters, becoming streetlamps that illuminate the forest’s alleyways.

For reasons I do not understand, and in complete disregard of the damage I’ve caused them, the elements of my surroundings work in tandem, attempting to give me time so that I might drift into the night like a cloud.

But my blood has become syrup, and I cling to the moonflowers like dewdrops. I’m nectar for the Näephyrîans’—and the dräeğğalans’—taking.

“Run,” urges the forest, “and use everything you have within you to leave signs for Fîrä. She is much stronger than anyone could have imagined. She will come looking.”

“Ok,” I whisper back, “but this is the last of what I have to give.”

And, though it’s unspeakably painful at this point, I find the currents and swell within me. They begin in my core: a sensation of sharp pains—of white-capped crests rocking back and forth. They grow gradually, expanding my internal walls—pushing and pulling—until I feel I’m going to be sick. Then, the release comes. Brackish waves sweep up and out of me, lifting a dry, rotted log high into the branches of a neighboring tree.

I beg the Great Empyrean that Fîrä will understand it was I that did this.

Just as I collapse to the ground, showers begin to fall around me. The Earth sighs in relief while my own breaths grow labored and slow.

I'm nearly gone when two beastly arms grab me and throw me over a shoulder. As my world fades to black, I accept that I am no longer water. I am now prey.

"Come find me, Fîrä," I pray, "follow the signs I've left for you."

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Author's Note: I wrote two versions of this chapter. If you are interested in reading this chapter from a different character's perspective, check this one out: