Nir Mir Flor

Noun

Translation: Kiss

Definition: "Flor" directly translates to "kiss", representing a simple yet profound expression of affection, typically involving a light touch or press of the lips to another person or object. Nir Mir Flor means the first kiss.

The word Ulencia still evoked Mediah a bittersweet memory.

As the Magi strolled through the camp, the tense prelude to battle hummed through the air, carried on the breeze that rustled through the tents. His gaze swept across the organized chaos: groups of mages honed their elemental skills, their movements perfectly synchronized with their Ulencia's swords.

Meanwhile, Jaer moved among them, offering guidance and correction with a patience Mediah knew was born from hard-won wisdom, learned side by side with Yeso. Elsewhere, a cluster of mages packed their belongings. It was a strategic withdrawal designed to protect them from the impending assault. Those who weren't ready yet and were far away to be. And he wondered if those who stayed were actually ready. The answer was simple: they were because they had to be. There was no other choice.

The sight of Zora emerging from the shadowy fringes of the camp snapped Mediah back to the present. She approached with a firm nod, "Fishbait."

Mediah's attention shifted as Zora spoke, catching the sight of Shuri mounting a horse and leaving.

He turned to acknowledge Zora's report with a nod, "Good," he replied, "Let's make sure they don't live another day to regret taking that bait."

As Mediah walked away from Zora, he moved mechanically, his body attuned to the needs of the camp, but his mind wandered down paths lined with maybe regret. Would Ulencia be proud of him, or would she dissect his actions, revealing all his flaws? Her name hung in his thoughts, a constant reminder of love not fully realized yet not fully there.

Jaer's words from Winters's past echoed in his mind, "She would never be enough for you," the tiefling once said.

Yet, as the Winters had piled one upon the other since Ulencia's death, Mediah had found himself alone, never quite able to look for that so-called perfect one Jaer had mentioned. The idea of someone else filling the space Ulencia left was unthinkable, almost a betrayal of what they had shared. But he knew, he could understand it was never that kind of love. So why?

Instead, he threw himself into his duties, into protecting his mages and his camp, letting the pain of her absence dull over time into a constant ache, a hollow space that no victory could fill.

Media's contemplations were abruptly halted when he stumbled upon Jericho. Who was secluded among some crates, tears streaming down his face, away from the watchful eyes of the camp. Given his reputation for being nosy, Mediah figured delving into the human's troubles wouldn't much alter how he was perceived.

"Ollo," Mediah greeted softly, peering into Jericho's makeshift refuge.

"Please leave me, Master," he muttered, not looking up.

"Why are you crying?"

"Why does it matter to you?"

"We're friends, right?"

Jericho let out a bitter laugh. "Friends?"

"We're not?"

"I suppose we are," he conceded, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand.

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Mediah squeezed into the space beside Jericho and tenderly bumped his shoulder with his. "Talk to me. What's bothering you?"

"It's nothing," he insisted. "I'm just being stupid."

"I'm here to listen. Really, I am."

Jericho took a deep, steadying breath. "Can you imagine us winning if tomorrow or... maybe, after tomorrow, we were invaded by a thousand-strong Lamias army?"

"That's a heavy question," Mediah mused, pausing briefly to consider. He was having a deja vu. "I don't know."

"So what should we do? Flee?"

"It would be the wisest choice," Mediah replied and finally chuckled. "But that is not a choice, is it?"

Accepting the reality of their situation, Jericho leaned in, resting his head on Mediah's shoulder. The human found comfort in his unique scent, an intriguing blend of sand and iodine that always lingered around him.

Mediah realized he had never delved into Jericho's past and had never asked about his origins or his family. Jericho was not one to volunteer much about himself.

Mediah's gaze sharpened as he caught sight of the unusual markings on Jericho's neck. He reached out, a hesitant hand gently pulling at the collar of Jericho's shirt, careful not to startle him. "What's this?" he asked.

Jericho, initially surprised by the sudden interest, instinctively reached up to rub his neck, where the edge of the marking peeked out. "Oh, it's a giant birthmark on my back. It goes from my neck down my spine," he explained mundanely, though his hand lingered self-consciously at his neck.

"Can I see?" Mediah asked.

He was aware that his request was unusually personal, but the markings piqued his interest beyond mere curiosity.

Without any sign of complaint, Jericho obliged, turning slightly away from Mediah as he lifted his shirt. The reveal exposed a swath of skin marked by sprawling, red lesions that traced down his spine in an intricate, almost deliberate pattern. Mediah observed quietly, his eyes tracing the lines and shapes that seemed too coherent, too structured to be mere random formations.

The sight was striking. The markings were not just extensive but beautiful in a way, their vivid colour stark against Jericho's pale skin. Mediah's fingers hovered just above the patterns, not touching yet, almost feeling the heat they seemed to emanate.

"Interesting," Mediah murmured. "Does it ever cause you pain or feel different?"

"No, never. It's just there. Always has been." He seemed almost dismissive of it, perhaps used to it to the point of indifference.

The intricate pattern of red stains etched into Jericho's skin resembled a work of art of pressed roses and thorns, vivid and almost artistic in their detail. The markings ran deep and wide across his back as if he had indeed slept atop a nest of blossoming roses.

"That's..." Mediah began, his voice trailing off as he searched for the right words.

"Yeah, my mum would say it's a blessing of the Saint," Jericho responded, pulling his shirt back down as if closing the chapter on a story too personal to dwell upon.

"A Saint?"

"Saint Ulencia. She was said to be found sleeping, I mean dead, over a bush of roses, and her child survived miraculously. She's quite a holy figure among humans."

"That is how she died?" Mediah's question was soft, almost hesitant. In all these past Winters, he never knew what had happened to Ulencia.

Jericho nodded just as the camp's relative calm shattered with a sudden shout, jarring them both from their conversation.

"THEY ARE COMING!"

As a scholar primarily entrenched in the empirical, the complex weave of religious ideology often presents itself as a boring labyrinthine puzzle of fantasy, one that I, along with many of my fellow non-human and non-elf colleagues, find particularly vexing. I must admit, discussions of faith and dogma are typically unwelcome in my classroom; I shut down such debates with no mercy, as they often lack a foundation in the logical and empirical evidence I hold dear. Yet, as with all things in life, exceptions persist. Saint Ulencia is one such exception. Historical records and people I hold dead confirm her existence—she was indeed a figure of some renown, married to Xendix Kaspian the First, though she never bore the title of Queen. Her reign, brief as it was, ends not in obscurity but in the embrace of legend. Ulencia's purported demise is as dramatic as it is mystifying: jumping from her bedroom window in the mid-stage of pregnancy, only to supposedly land amidst a bush of roses, where she remained in a state of tranquil dormancy until her child was born. Following this miraculous event, her body vanished, never to be found. Such tales fuel the veneration of Ulencia among humans and elves, who invoke her name for protection during pregnancy and as a guide through the transition from life to whatever realms may lie beyond. Despite my usual reservations about such stories, curiosity gnaws at me—how could any being survive such a fall, even briefly? The theory was that she was a halfling, blue-blooded, possibly possessing a saatgut—the seed that might have shielded her from the worst. While my academic rigor leaves little room for the acceptance of miracles uncritically, the enigma of Ulencia's fate remains a captivating exception to my general disdain for the mystical and unverifiable. Who knows? Maybe this is the real Ulencia's miracle, making me wonder beyond what I can comprehend. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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