Days did not pass on Uranus the way they did on Earth--like everything else here, they were quick, fleeting things, ephemeral like the cactus flowers after rain. The weather was likewise just as turbulent, disobedient and unruly as the people that lived there, by choice, providence, or curse. Kestrel could never quite place which of these had led her to the steps of Zoji La. She'd come as a fledgling with no knowledge of the opinions of the winds, but she supposed that in her years of service, she'd become like everything else, too, volatile and impermanent and ever changing.

Some days, it was a gift to bear witness to the ever-changing tides of the world and the surprises they brought. Other days, the ones Kestrel felt in her bones, gave her the impression that thirty-two years were too many, that they weighed on layer after layer until such a time that she broke and gave herself back to the Cauldron.

She could not afford to stay grounded, not today, not when there was work to be done.

It had been months since her feet had brushed the smooth cobble of the sanded steps of Zoji La, but such was the way of its knight--she came and went like the moons, inconstant but warm and radiant when she made an appearance. Eight months was hardly an absence when the seasons lasted years, hardly an abandonment of her post when the winds had yet to whisper of a single trial-goer to find the first steps. Such was the way of it with darkness on the horizon--no one had time for games when there were ugly whispers of war, even worlds away. Kestrel didn't mind, in truth: it gave her the space to breathe, to procure, to research and to live, a luxury many of her station were denied. In the time since she'd last ran the sands she'd been to three planets and seven moons and seen a thousand faces. None of it served to cure the ache between her ribs, but that was the way things went, she supposed.

She made it to the second gate before the winds found her, nipping at her ankles and her hair until she drew them to her and wove them into the rough-spun fabrics of a cloak embroidered with symbols, constellations and glyphs. There was something nostalgic to running the trials as Kestrel, but Zoji knew the ways in her veins, they pulled her to the thrumming heart of the oasis at the top of the mountain where her starseed sang. It was not enough to summon the knight from the depths of the girl, however--the breeze tugged her arms and the bag that she held, eager for the contents she snatched to her chest. "Not for you," she chuckled, and was spun into the air for her efforts, and then with a whiff of lavender on the air she felt herself gently placed back on the ground.

The wind knew, and for once it relented. There was work to be done.

As Zoji La, the matter of climbing the mountain was a trivial thing, a dance with the terrain. The further she climbed, the lighter she felt, and by the time she reached the fifth gate it was hard not to leave the ground. It was rumored that a fully fledged Knight of the Trials could fly the entire length of the wonder, sands to shore, but the only thing this Zoji had learned to do was float, here at the seat of her power. Sometimes she wondered if it was all the weight in her bones, the years that wouldn't fall off.

She forced her ankles to touch the ground the same way she forced down the hesitation in her throat. Twenty seven steps it was, from the fifth gate to the courtyard opening to the gentle slope of the basin that held the lifeblood of the wonder, a small lake fed by the mountain-top and colored like the sky that gave permission for the ground to keep grasses and shrubs and fruit-bearing trees. On pillars cast in stone were the flags of hundreds of supplicants and trial-goers, those with the endurance and courage to finish the trek and partake of the waters. It was a rite of passage for any who completed the tasks laid before them, a symbol of their achievement to last through the ages and a cause for celebration. Zoji had a mind for another such rite, but one performed less often and with little pomp.

It had taken her years and many trips from her wonder, to replicate the particular shade of purple dye she remembered. The secret, funnily enough, had been a pinch of dust from Saturn's silent hall, which she supposed was appropriate given the occasion. She'd made the dye herself, out of countless batches of fresh lavender, ground chalcedony, and an ink from Neptune harvested by sea snails. She'd dyed the kerchief herself as well, staining her nails like bruises with every attempt. But without the dust, it lacked the weight she felt in her bones, and so it wasn't perfect. It had to be perfect.

Zoji opened her bag and pulled out a small square of deep purple fabric, turning it over in her hands. Pockmarked on its surface were symbols and constellations, embroidered by a novice hand in a thread that was yellow and bright, like the moons, like too-clever eyes that crinkled easily to smile. She'd given it no symbol of Saturn--it was one he wouldn't wear anyway--but instead populated the light cotton with a map of a dozen places, all distant but beloved more than a cold castle filled with ghosts. The oasis itself was featured as a small triangle in the lower left hand corner, surrounded by wind squiggles. Even now, it felt too incidental a part in his story, even one told from her perspective.

She knelt at the water's edge, and reached for the rest of her treasures; a candle for light and warmth, a bell to chase away silence, a roll of vellum that would never be seen by intended eyes. They fit neatly in the belly of an almond shaped bowl carved of lightweight wood, which fit neatly between her hands until she nestled it between the sand and the gentle lapping of the oasis water. She made space among the baubles and planted a thinly carved rod in its center, tilting it so that the forked prongs waved upwards.

"The waters may be taken by any who complete the trials," Zoji La began, "But only its Knight may give, so as not to spoil the oasis." She set to tying the square of fabric down, once on each prong and once on the base of what appeared to be a miniature boat. Was it blasphemy, to give her oasis the color of Saturn when it lived on in such defiance of death's grip? She shook her head, banishing the doubts that nested between her ears. For what it was worth, the waters were still, impassive and waiting, like glass except in the ripples where she'd half docked the boat.

She drew the hood of her cloak up, taken by a chill in the air. "I know before, I only ever gave of myself, but--hear me out. This," she reached out, touching the edges of the boat, "All of this, it may not be of me but it is from me, and it's--it's heavy, I can't carry it alone anymore." Even now she felt the weight in her bones, a grinding sensation that pressed her to the sands and further down. "I didn't mean to find this, this--pain, but it's here and it's real and I need your help or I--don't know. I remember pieces of before, but nothing like this."

"So please, take it. I want to be your knight, the way I'm supposed to be, I want to fly. But...I think about him and I can't--" The words caught in her throat, and she buckled inwards, the only sound to leave her lips a long whimper that faded to softer, rattling hiccups. For all that the aches raged in her lungs and threatened to tear her chest to ribbons, the waters remained cool and still, as they always had. She would get no audience here, even having completed the trials a hundred times.

But between her hands, the wind rustled like a sigh, and a bell chimed, banishing the silence. Zoji froze, thought it to be something she'd moved, but the wind came again, rolling the bell so it softly rang in the bottom of the hull. Lifting herself from the guarded posture, Zoji stared at little wisps of air, tugging at the tied corners of the kerchief and drawing it towards the water's edge. "You'll...do it?" she asked, half a question and half disbelief, her hands reluctant to leave her crafted memorial. But the winds coiled around her and they pulled at the boat, until it bobbed in the shallows of clear water just out of reach.

"...He doesn't have a marked grave, on Saturn," she explained to the water, straining to get one last glimpse of a name carved onto the hull. "But maybe here he'll be remembered. Maybe next time I'll know, and then--it'll be different, maybe." Zoji's mouth smiled but her eyes winced, and the wind made no comment except to fill the perfectly purple sails.

She watched the boat drift away, rubbing the sting from her eyes. It wasn't until it reached the pagoda that she realized her knees were off the ground.