DIV-176: Nebula

Nebula was Wolf’s lover. She fell in love with him and they had two children, a boy and a girl, but they were both corrupted. She could see his guilt for causing the birth of two beings that would only live in suffering, and that made her feel guilty as well. Why couldn’t she have stronger magic that would overwrite the corruption? But as soon as she got those thoughts she would shake them away. “Don’t be selfish! You see him suffer and you can’t bear the guilt so you try to find a reason to suffer as well. But there’s nothing you could have done. You just wanna give up the fight, when you should be strong for him!”

And so she was, strong. Nothing could bring her down, she never shed no tear for anything. But one day he left, consumed by guilt. She thought: “should I let him go, and live a life without him, like he wanted to?” But all that fighting would’ve been for nothing, then. She could not let go. She went after him, she fought his screams when he saw her, she kept running but she ran too fast. She could not see anything but him, but she should have, for the gap was there, waiting for her to loose sight of it all. It’s always been there, but she walked that narrowed path, avoiding the fell for all of her life, yet it found her when her loved ones needed her the most.

She fell. She tried to flap her wings, but they did not respond. They knew it was the end, they knew she shouldn’t fly back up. And so she crushed, and so the end came.

The two went down to her body. They buried her near a cave and carved a tombstone. They did not leave. They drew her face on the walls of the cave, to keep her story alive. He died, but his body went prey to the eagles. His son found a lover in the old village and brought them to her tomb. Generations came and left. Generations looked at the walls of the cave, telling her story. When the rain and wind would erase the paintings, they would paint them back. Her image changed with the paintings, her memory changed with the years. Her name was forgotten, they called her Mother. Stories about her came to be. Who was she? Even her soul lost track of itself. She did not know who she once was, but she wasn’t forgotten. A new self for every new painting. Perhaps they knew better them her who she was.