The Ascension

Not much later

By the time Aster was seventeen, she had rearranged her memories into a more sequential pattern: A government man had taken her from her parents when she was younger. Maybe they had beaten her, and that's why she had blocked out all memories of them. The man had taken her away from the house- a place she never remembered beyond the grass plain that had to have been her backyard- and walked her to the city. To an orphanage. To her new father.

There were many problems with this analysis, and it irritated her. Her old father had worn clothes she could have sworn were Svedian, loose and layered brown cloth. Except she had a long and clear memory of walking for an hour and arriving in Baased, a city on the other side of the continent.

Other things didn't match up either. She remembered mountains from above and eyes without pupils. And once or twice, strange monsters haunted her mind, chasing her footfalls like ducklings, but with jaws like demons.

Aster was logical, and these muddled memories were the bane of her schoolwork's margins. Instead of classes on history and war, all she could think of was how wrong her mind was. She found the only way she could really disappear into nothing but the lines of facts she defined herself as was if she drew pictures in class and relived memories in her dreams.

"We live in a time of peace..." A teacher was saying, though the thought was left unfinished in Aster's mind. She wrote 'peace' down on her notes, then erased it a moment later. She didn't need notes on things everyone knew.

She was sitting by the window, and it was raining out. The dull sound at least carried the blessed scent of pavement through the screen. Rain was her favorite thing- a presence she still unused to, missing from her memories. Sved was a country of desert and plain. But she couldn't have been Svedian. Most ethnicities were separated by borders of war and she- with her black hair and scrawny body- didn't match the dusty and steady features most typical in Sved.

She didn't really look Renen either. The fishers of Renen were strong and callused, often with skin ranging from from old wood to literal blackness. Aster had dark olive skin, close enough that she did not stand out, but there was something off about her- her jawline, maybe, or her thin shoulders- that brought on second glances. Baased was a large city, but there were few children.

Today had been a relatively typical day, though Aster did have the opportunity to call it 'slightly noteworthy'. One of her good friends was being exalted today, a boy named Wren, and the class had taken a somewhat somber view of the event. Most of Aster's classmates had been together as a single group since they were twelve, and it was rare for anyone to leave.

The school didn't take time to acknowledge it though, meaning Aster had to sit through all her usual courses- mostly on frivolous things like music and dancing- before having a chance to speak to Wren at the end of the school day.

"You don't seem the type to quest anywhere. I wouldn't trust you to make it to your front door on your own." Aster was joking around, but she was a quiet sort of girl, and had yet to master the light-hearted tone needed to convey this well.

Wren understood, of course, as they were good friends and both rather withdrawn. He was a tremendous artist, but that was rarely a favorite trait for boys "It's my parents. They already have my older brother."

"You should write me." Aster suggested. She had intended to say goodbye to him, but found herself unable to pronounce the needed words.

"I'll be dead." Wren said, shaking his head slightly. His hair, once a pale violet, had long dark roots down to his ears. Likely he had given up on dyeing once he realized he was going to die.

"I mean. Not right away, you'll be dead. You have to journey first."

"You said I wouldn't make it to the front door of my house. Trust me, I will fail to scale a mountain any day."

It was somber to walk with her moribund friend to the gates of the school with his hand sweaty and tight in hers, but typical. Most parents sent their kids on this sort of quest when they were twelve. Most of the kids left, the only children and the dearly loved, had had to say goodbye many times before.

Aster had as well. But she had never been close to the kids who were leaving, and often her involvement had been a card, with something like 'I didn't know you very well, but I am sure you were nice' written inside.

At the gate, Wren had two bodyguards waiting for him. They would walk him the rest of the way. Before he left, Wren signed out with his hands 'Pray for me.'

Aster did not pray, but she did not explain that to him. 'I will', she signed back.

Her father was waiting at the gates for her as well. She did not actually know his name, or much about him besides his appearance. She did know he was the sort of man that would never exalt his daughter, primarily because he was the sort of man who never would have to. He was the head of the committee of exaltation, or at least, Aster vaguely believed he was. She did not know much about his job besides the fact that he often traveled and left her home alone.

"How was school today?" He asked. Despite the existence of automobiles, and his apparent wealth, he walked everywhere. Aster's feet hurt.

"Wren's leaving."

"He is?" Her father looked over to judge her expression. "He'll be-"

He wasn't going to be fine, and Aster's father knew it. Aster knew it. Anyone who was over the age of five knew it. But Aster's father, though a seemingly distant man, could read his daughter's untelling facial expressions better than anyone.

"He will be hurt. But if we're lucky, he'll only be hurt. And then someone might find him, and he might come home, and if we're very lucky he'll only have gone deaf and lost a limb or two. You two learned sign language for this exact reason, didn't you?"

The school had required the course, actually. There were a number of times exalted children had come back alive, but often they were so damaged it was like they hadn't come home at all- and indeed, their parents would many times lock them away from society in shame of their failure. But the luckiest ones were the children who simply went deaf, and were allowed to returned home with familial shame but unharmed.

"I have to pray for him."

"He'll... maybe be fine, Aster. But prayer won't change that."

They arrived at their house, a large three story building entirely empty besides them. It was in the center of the city, away from the docks where the poorer families lived.

"I said I would." While her father walked through the door, Aster stood still. Then she turned and continued down the street in the direction of the nearest altar.