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sapphireprincesire · 1 year

Text

Maybe I’m The Problem

Aemond x Fem!OC

Part 2

Warnings: noncon/SA. A little bit graphic but not mega. Depression?

Summary: tragedy strikes

14.5

The sun awoke Keynna early the next morning, the rare warm rays caressing her face and brightening her mood. She remembers that morning felt perfect, probably the best morning she’d had. Her dreams had been full of proposals and marriage and beautiful white haired, lilac eyed babes. That was the first time she ever dreamt of such matters, and even though she felt silly, she could not help smiling to herself as her handmaidens readied her for breakfast, knowing she would be seeing Aemond shortly.

They pulled a deep sapphire blue, simple gown over her head and began making her hair presentable. The bubbling feeling in her stomach was mounting with every moment. What if he had left? No surely he would not have, not after how beautiful and meaningful their conversations had been the night before.

She practically ran down the halls to the dining hall, pushing the doors open excitedly. Her eyes scanned the long, oaken table; Mother, Father, Jevan, Darren, Robert, Aeron, Reyanna, little Orwen, Otto, Braddock-

Braddock. Braddock Stackspear- whom Keynna had learnt was the name of her betrothed from Aemond last night- was seated to her fathers right, an empty place next to him. An empty place for her to fill. Where was he? She could not see Prince Aemond seated at the table. His grandfather was there, why was he not there?

She was frozen. She felt she could not move. Did not want to move. Her lady mothers beautiful face was staring at her, a look of expectancy trained over her pale ivory skin. They wanted her to sit next to him, to receive his pleasantries, to welcome them! She could not stomach it, could not do what they expected her to do.

Braddock turned around in his chair, a complacent grin spreading across his features. “Ah! My beloved Lady Flint! You look remarkable on this wonderful morning.” There was something in his tone. Something that sent Keynna running for a second time. She could hear the outcries from her mother, the excuses from her father and siblings. But she could not turn back. The beautiful, hope-filled morning she had been having seemed to be crashing down, crumbling over her head.

It was no surprise she found herself in the Godswood once again. Her legs were aching, burning, from the power she had put behind her strides, attempting to escape her fate. She knew deep down it was futile, she knew she had been rude but there was something inside her, she did not know where it came from- perhaps her heart, perhaps her soul- but it told her that this was not what she should settle for. Keynna deserved love, not force.

A great beating sound broke the silence and whisking her head up, she caught a glimpse of the back end of a giant beast disappearing behind the tree line.

Vaghar.

So that is where he had escaped to.

For a reason unknown to Keynna, her breathing seemed to relax, in fact her whole body did too. Her eyes were glued to the skies, searching for another sighting of the large she-Dragon, knowing it would be impossible to spot the small figure on her back from this distance but hoping to anyway.

Keynna remembers how her skin prickled- almost in warning- as she heard a twig snap behind her. She remembers freezing, how her blood ran cold before she even knew who was there. Whomever it was, she knew she was in big trouble, and she had a lot of grovelling to do. She remembers how her stomach dropped to the floor when she spun around and saw Braddock Stackspear standing a few feet behind her. She remembered at the time she thought she recognised the look in his eye as concern, but now she remembers it different. It was malice.

“My Lord, I apologise greatly for my swift departure, I think I am coming down with something, I did not want our first conversation to be affected.” She was making excuses, she knew it, he knew it.

His tongue farted from his thin lips to moisten them. He did not say anything.

“I did not realise you prayed to the Old Gods?” Why was he here?

His sullen grey eyes seemed to narrow ever so slightly. He did not say anything.

“Perhaps we should head to the stables? I am feeling better and I have a wonderful black stallion I’m sure you will be impressed with!” How did he find her?

He took a slow step towards her, eyes fixed on her like she was his prey. He did not say anything.

She saw the blade in his hand too late.

Keynna tried to forget that day for years, tried to wipe it from her memory. It was no use. Even if her mind did not wander to it when she was conscious, her unconscious state brought it up almost every night.

She remembered how tight his fingers had gripped her face, ensuring she could not make too much noise. She remembered the pain she had felt, even though she had begged and pleaded the Gods to stop this madness. She remembered how he did not say a single word, his face contorted in what looked like rage.

The most bizarre part of it all- the part that puzzled Keynna for years- was once he had spilled his seed inside of her, blood coating the both of them, he had planted a soft, wet kiss onto her forehead.

She was not certain how long she had laid there for. She did not move, make a sound, she did not even cry out. Drops of rain splattered across her exposed skin. She welcomed it. Maybe it could wash away that dirty feeling. Maybe it would dull the ache between her legs. Maybe she could pretend nothing had happened, pretend she had been praying the whole time. Maybe she should get some sleep.

Keynna’s eyes snapped open as two slender but strong arms slid underneath her body. She could smell sandalwood and smoke. She was cold and wet and she could not see. Why couldn’t she see? Everything was blurry. She could hear voices. Shouting. Were they shouting at her? Did they know? The voices followed her into her chambers, she couldn’t understand them. Were they speaking the common tongue? Softer voices and sobs joined the louder ones, filling her chambers. The sun was gone, her room was almost in darkness, candles were being hurriedly lit. She still could not see properly. She was crying. Through the tears Keynna glimpsed that white blonde hair.

The next parts of Keynna’s memory are jumbled and disorganised. She remembered hearing hushed voices, and angry ones. She remembers not being able to answer questions, even though she wanted to. Her mind was stuck on a loop, elsewhere, replaying what she wished never happened. She remembers her mother shooing everyone from the room and guiding her to her copper tub, bathing her, washing away the dirt and blood and grime. Washing away his smell, his seed. She remembers drinking a funny tasting tea.

Her mother dressed her, laid her underneath her fur blankets and answered the door. Whoever had been on the other side had been incessantly knocking, desperate to come in.

It was him. Her Prince.

He strode over to her bedside, his face twisted in pain. Was he okay? Was he injured? Before she could part her lips to ask he knelt by her head, hands grasping her own, his eyes searching her face. The adults filled the room, all murmuring and cursing and planning. But Aemond whispered, promising and reassuring. She can not remember much but she remembers his promise.

“He will die. I will make sure of it.”

So they knew. They all knew. There was no hiding it. They knew she was spoiled. They knew she would be hard to marry off. She had wished for more time, she did not mean eternity. Dreams of marrying the prince had always been wishful thinking but there was definitely no chance of marrying a royal now.

He stayed there for as long as he was permitted, and then Otto Hightower entered her chambers and announced what she had been dreading. They had to leave. He did not say why. Keynna knew why. Aemond was growing fond of her and it was showing, and Otto probably already had plans for him to marry a more important, pure Lady.

She could not bare saying goodbye to him, leaning into his embrace. She watched him hurry out after the Hand, and that numb empty feeling began to spread across her body, burying itself inside of her, reaching every orifice and pore. She welcomed it.

#prince aemond #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond x oc

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hoochieblues · 3 years

Text

100 Days of Writing: Day 10

Tell us about ideas you have floating around. Worldbuilding snippets, or ideas for new stories. Just a few bullet points.

for @the-wip-project

ehhh.... making myself accountable and WIP except under the cut.

Things I’m doing/thinking rn may include....

like a totally normal person, reduxing, finishing and getting ready to rerelease the original f!Tabris novelisations that got me into DA fandom in the first place ~800 years ago. Now with screen reader compatibility, sundry tweaks and canon divergence, and about 44% more politics, wet socks, and pickled eggs. My heart will always be Fereldan.

alienage stories that have lived in my head rent-free for ages (so. much. tabris. backstory), plus my hc Adaia needs her own screen time and I don’t want to be cheap and file off her numbers for an original story when this world fits so well.

finishing my hiatus’d DA2 Handers fic, wherein my thoughts on Justice and mage politics have shifted a bit in response to Bioware’s treatment of canon... not saying anymore rn to avoid spoilers, but I have so much more Anders I want to write. Also, my poor Hawke needs to address his issues bc he’s still a hot mess.

I’d love to do a modern AU at some point. I adore how Anders is such a fluid character (in all senses) - there’s not a time period or setting he doesn’t work in bc so many of the character concepts are universal, but I kinda want early 80s London/NYC young Anders burning down Thatcher-era Met policing and growing up to be a mentor to young activists in a world where we never actually had to argue for the repeal of Section 28 or the destruction of a Tory state....

Things involving my poor neglected Adaars, and the DA RPG OCs I’ve been sitting on since treating myself to the handbook at birthday time.

hc explorations of blood magic as more than ‘baaaad!’. C’mon Bioware.

One totally self indulgent thing I’ve been doing to sort out finishing the Great Mass of Unfinished Fic is to let myself write the what ifs and au versions of what might happen at the end of the FoD series (but likely won’t/can’t, at least not then) and just play with them in a loose, fun format.

Not sure if it’s a good thing to be writing the au to your own fic, but somehow it involved ending up with some fun character studies and possibilities. For example... Riordan outranks both Alistair and the Warden. What if he puts his foot down and conscripts Loghain, reasoning that the political symbolism of the Hero of River Dane joining the Wardens outweighs their personal vendetta, but not appreciating the fallout it’s going to cause?

Behold, an excuse for Warden x Alistair fleeing to Rivain. But can you outrun what you become?

On the Verge of a World Profound (WIP)

The pyres will be burning in Denerim by now. The wind is brisk, and coming from the southwest, but it doesn’t carry the sting of ash on it. Out here, in fact, it almost seems as if the world’s normal. The ship skims the waves, sleek and fast, and the water glimmers like molten gold beneath the pool of a rising sun that seems to have burst out of the sea like a jewel. It’s beautiful, and it smells fresh and free, the salty air fringed with the bitter oaken tang of ropes and wood, and the creak of the rigging.

For one guilty moment, Alistair realises he’s thinking of Redcliffe. It smells the same, almost. He recalls the lake, the fishing dories, and scrambling up onto the castle’s parapets to watch the boats come in and the people gut and pack the catch on the quayside in the village below. He used to get into trouble for climbing across the roof of the kennels… but he used to get into trouble for pretty much everything, so there was nothing new there. Lake Calenhad was fresh water, though. There was never such a sharp smell on the breeze, and it didn’t have the rough lolling of the ocean waves about it.

Speaking of which, he glances at Merien, and she’s still got a death grip on the wooden rail that runs along the side of the ship’s deck, although at least she’s standing up now. She looks thin and sick, and her knuckles are clenched peaks against the wood as she stares at a fixed point on the horizon, her mouth a tightly folded line. They’ve been up here all night, not because Isabela didn’t offer them a cabin, but because Meri can’t handle going below, and he wasn’t about to leave her on her own. She isn’t one of nature’s seafarers, but there’s something else that’s weighing heavier on both of them than that.

It wasn’t meant to be like this. Everything about this is just plain wrong. They were supposed to fix things, not steal out into the dark like they were the ones who’d done something to be ashamed of.

Oh, yes, they’re running away. That’s essentially what this is. It’s the act of a pair of cowards, which is almost sort of funny—in a darkly ironic, not-at-all-funny-in-the-slightest kind of way—because Alistair could have sworn it was the opposite of cowardice that got them into this mess. It was that whole thing where you stand up for what’s right, and what you believe in and know to be just… and he thought that was what Grey Wardens were meant to do. Except he was wrong. Apparently. He sees that now, and he sees what a fool he is, and how stupid he’s been this whole time. Huh. Maybe he should have listened more to all the people who kept calling him that.

The only real consolation is that he’s not alone, which both is a consolation, and also makes everything so much worse, because he knows this is all his fault.

#100daysofwriting #writeblurble #cries gently #inveterate scribbler #idk if i should run w this but at least i had fun

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clad-in-sunshine · 4 years

Audio

[ID: A picture of my character, Mey. The left half is a woman with long hair and a neutral expression drawn in pencil. Her right side is split into three rectangular blocks that are bolder, drawn with pen, showing the right side of animals: the first is a lion; the second an owl; and the third a wolf. Around them are hawthorn flowers. End ID]

[ID: A drawing of my character Fearn. On the left side a fern, and on the right of it emerges the right side of a cat's face. From the side of that are three profiles, getting darker, and moving towards a more human shape.]

[ID: A digitally sketched outline of a woman in white lines. She's smiling a little, has long hair, and is holding a bow. Behind her is a photograph of a sunset. End ID]

My friend, @shaheenarnitipsyart (Instagram link here) drew all this incredible art of my OCs from a narrative poem I wrote just under a year ago. I plan to write more about them, but for now I’ve edited and rewritten bits of the poem itself, to improve on it. It’s fun noticing where I’ve improved. Also thought to record myself reading it, for accessibility.

Wandering Kind

Ellen, she was a wandering kind her spirit aching to be freed from duties that would her confine and now, she thought she’d found the key

So she journeyed, through the trees to the dwelling of a faerie gay Who could set her from her duties free that she might travel the world, away

Into the dark, she raced ahead over leaves that snapped like jaws The plants they swiped her as she fled, gripping tight to her chestnut horse

Eventually she came unto a twisted house: abandoned, torn Yet a sign of life - it lay in view: a fishing line that clothes adorned

Rolling fog around her drew; all sound banished from the night Thoughts, it seemed, were muffled too, then a figure bounded into sight

It landed softly on the ground - a lithe young cat; then bigger still until as a bear it turned around Its eyes were heavy, anger filled

From its mouth a voice did roar: Cracked the air with every word “How come you to my front door? “Are you here, by hatred stirred?”

Boldly then young Ellen moved; from reeling horse did swiftly leap “Fear not, by me you are not loathed- I met one who does your secrets keep

“He told me an exchange to make: for they would have me married be - to one whom I ne'r love nor like, but with your help, that I might flee”

The bear stepped back; it lifted high ‘til on it’s own hind quarters held Then ‘tween two breaths he gave a sigh; him now a man: the bear dispelled

A solid face like oaken bark, and hair like weeping willow worn Upon his chest he bore a mark like a bow; string tightly drawn

He turned and pulled some linen down, wrapping ‘round his torso bare Without a tie or buckle bound, holding tight as he stepped near

“You know my Jack?” he asked of her “then a friend to you I’ll surely be, but I don’t see him with you here, did he not guide you to me?”

His voice rang out as if a song: it danced and moved the air between, to fall then gently, ears upon, warmer than the sun at e'en

Warmed, she took from her waistband: a letter writ from Jack to him She pressed it in the faerie’s hand and his face did soften then

Once he’d read, with gentle eyes he smiled, then broader to a grin “To help you out I can devise, a plan of sorts, but then again -

"I can’t control those human whims such as to wish you to be wed Unless you ask a task so grim: I’ll hunt them down and leave them dead.”

But Ellen asked a different thing, and happily he would comply But to kill the Faerie king - he charged her then, at least to try

Then from his chest the mark he pulled and like a shadow so it formed 'til it could manifest so bold: A wooden bow of body born

She took the wondrous bow in hand and on her fell a strange unease. It seemed to shift, and move around, despite the absence of a breeze

He gave no arrows with the bow, and before she could breathe her thought he reached behind him, bending low and from his back a quiver brought

“This bow of mine is strong and true; the arrows made from mine own heart And when the arrow pierces through, my heart, through his, shall play its part

"You should not afear his wrath, though he can strike a mighty blow If you eat nought along your path - his power wanes, and yours will grow”

It’s then her fingers to her lips, and she aloud did whistle high To her side her horse came thus and she mounted up, away to ride

The bow behind her led the way 'Twas as the faerie by her side And there was nought led her astray ‘til beyond the woods the tower spied

But before the tower was a town: the dwellings there both strange and quaint A sumptuous feast spread out around, and at her heart clawed hunger, want

The bow it morphed to fiddle fine, and with a song it graced the air It sang of trees and summertime; of fae folk joined in mirth and cheer

Then in song did Ellen join as so she went, the food untouched The singing kept her spirit warmed: her fortitude remained unmatched

Then at the tower’s base did stand and from her travelling pack she took, some rope, as woven by her hand; turned her head to upwards look

The tower dwarfed her, tall and dark, bleak though sunlight drenched the stone Below it, Ellen surveyed her task before the fortress, stood alone

Then from the quiver an arrow brought which to the rope she firmly tied And the looming tower, she feared it not, despite the king that lay inside

The bow she raised, and arrow drew: Pulled tight and strong before she loosed And through the air the arrow flew; like a dragonfly, the window chased

It whirled and spun, cut through the air until its destination found It turned and lodged in firmly there: rope hung and swayed above the ground

Then Ellen in her hands did hold the rope that waved before her face And forcefully, with courage bold she tugged it thrice; it held its place

“Wait here, friend” she bid her horse as she upon the tower stepped Began her climb with barest pause- in hand the rope so tightly gripped

Hand and foot were moved with ease She made her way, 'til with a start a bird did fly out from the trees: It dived at her, her hands to part

Then suddenly, without a sound the bow it stretched from on her back it spread and curved out, all around, ‘til the bird’s own snapping beak did break

The bird repelled, she did resume shoulders straining with the force And soon she climbed into a room more comfortable than her own house

All around were colours bright Blinding 'gainst the darker stone She noticed then, within her sight a forlorn figure: curled; alone

“That’s my brother’s bow you bear, have you been sent to set me free? I feared that he had left me here, it’s been so long since him I’ve seen.”

Her voice it murmured, barely reached to fall upon young Ellen’s ears Yet a familiar pattern to her speech, it brought Elinor’s eyes to tears

For where the brother’s voice was warm Hers it strained, retreated, fell She found she reached out with her arms, and this young woman within them held.

A careful moment passed, then two. and leaning back, she spoke betwixt “Your brother’s quest led me to you: I must slay the king, my life to fix”

Reaching hands caressed the bow; and a smile to her face was brought “Come quick, the king lies down below but first to beat him - here’s a thought.

"A curse 'pon me, in prison high that I should ne'er my powers see But if we go where the spell does lie, from aching binds I might be freed”

The bow drawn back; the door then struck It splintered, cracked and fell with ease Through they stepped, and down did look- a dreary light; an upwards breeze

The two then turned; ahead they crept - as fast as foot could fall, step, by step, by step, by step, ‘til they stood before a door.

Ellen turned the handle then thrust it open, and she saw. A room. Far darker than she’d seen before.

There lay a light, all in the centre: the smallest glow, bathed in the black Says the girl “this place, I cannot enter, You must traverse it for my sake”

So striding forward, Ellen went the darkness all around her sealed The air was heavy, burned and bent and twisted all that she did feel.

Until the glowing light did reach her body barely brought her breath but then she moved - the glow to breach and with her blade she broke it. Swift.

From the shards erupted out a spectral shape, then winding through Until the doorway it did meet Unto the sister, shadow flew.

It entered there upon her brow, stained and stirred her unmarred head and from that point a shape did grow till her form into the air it bled

It coalesced 'fore Ellen’s eyes Gathered to an unknown shape And then it jumped, began to fly Above her head: an owl grey

“Come, let us go” she called out then, landing soft on Ellen’s arm, but she had barely spoken, when: A sound did ring out loud and clear;

A voice that set their hearts to fear;

A discordant hum drew ever near;

An echo that did lock them here-

'Til sudden did the king appear.

Him past the door - in anger flew, then from his thigh a hammer drew the room he lit and traveled through as the space about, around them grew it spread and swelled, 'til they could view…

A quiet clearing laid with dew.

There they stood, in clearing then as the sun it blazed so high and 'twas as though trees knelt for him their branches dipped and bowed close by

And all about the air was still: made room for frenzied king to cry He yelled and into silence spilled, as his body strained and writhed

The twisting hammer in his hand it snaked its way unto his chest it sank beneath his writhing skin and from it then a glow did spread

Then the king he shifted in the space - all as a dragon he did roar And Ellen then her legs did brace as dragon’s breath, it blew a storm

Upon his breath these words did sound: “Mey, my heart! How dare you leave?! I gave you the finest things around! What must I do to win your love?”

As the words slipped from his tongue boldly then the owl proclaimed “I am Mey, and you’re undone - for from your lips I take my name!”

And she has flown, above the field changed to hawthorn: razor sharp And to his scaled body dropped; drove her branches; wrapped him up

The dragon changed beneath her binds, and Ellen now in anger flew She in her hand the bow did find: and against the string an arrow drew

The arrow carved through shifting limb and embedded in the soft green earth but all his limbs did vanish then into a body now of slimmer girth

Not dragon, but a serpent large - it slipped away, and fangs did bare With striking speed the snake did charge to Ellen’s arm, it fastened there

Then Mey became a lion fierce She pounced upon the biting thing and from the teeth that held in place The viper tore: split mouth and fang

The bow then changed all in her grip It twisted, wrapped her arm around An arrow then, as sword did flow from palm, prepared to strike him down

'Tween Mey’s teeth the snake did shrink 'til he fell to ground beneath And raised again; as man did smirk Naught but blood where had lain teeth

Then his feet began to swell His skin did stretch, his bones did too His lips they curled; the blood it fell - hit the grass, to stain the dew

Then Mey she grew, and matched for size and strange enough, did Ellen too 'Til all of them as giants rise and none of them the ground could view

The fight then shook the very air - as giants struck, blow for blow, Until but two were standing there and the King he fell to ground below

He fell so slow that it did seem that time had ceased to do its work Until he landed, as if a dream then from the fall the world did quake

Panting, bleeding they did crouch and shrunk unto their normal size Until so close that they could touch the whites around the giant’s eyes

They walked across him, to his chest as the king did bellows make Holding the bow, now as it was Ellen offered it for Mey to take

But Mey, away the bow did turn - Says “You cannot this offer give, for the faerie king is only slain by a mortal with a faerie gift”

Then Ellen, passion in her eyes did turn unto his beating breast And held the bow; drawn and poised Pulled tighter still, then arrow leased

From the wound dug in his heart, a sound like thunderstorm did draw The arrow where the skin did part, then changed to block the gaping maw

Still the clouds fell all around, and like a hurricane, wind flew They held on tight until they found no corpse beneath - they fell below

Now on the ground, young Ellen ‘mazed as all about - the walls they came Then in the tower found they laid, where they’d started, once again

'Twas with a sigh of bending wood, the arrows to her quiver went They passed her arm, wet with blood and as they did the wound did mend

Looking up to Mey’s own face she noticed then that it had changed Where human 'guise had been in place now features like her brother’s shaped

“Now come, you stranger, tell your name; for you know mine, and I not yours As I my life do owe to thee, although my brother was your cause”

“My name it is Elinor, but your life I do not need - It seems we had a common goal: From love’s cruel clutches to be freed”

To an owl again, then Mey did shift- of a size to let young Ellen ride And joyously held them aloft 'til down below her horse they spied

She mounted up, and rode for home While Mey, as wolf, ran by her side Upon the twisted house they came Saw the cat, with Jack beside

And there as these two friends did speak a smile broke out on wolfish face For Mey into a run did break: on her two feet approached the place

“Fearn!” She cried - to her he leapt, changing quick from cat to man Before her then Fearn almost wept lips spread wide by glowing grin

He threw her clothing from the line, wrapped some more about his waist then to each of them did turn and for each introductions made

Mirth and joy around them grew: it filled the air, and in them welled The siblings - reunited, now stood by two friends, their wants fulfilled

One final task before them lay 'twas of Fearn for Ellen’s wish As such his hand upon her placed whereupon her skin did shift

She felt a buzzing through her bones and there in place did shake and lift 'til in another form she rose Now as a lively horse most swift

She danced and sprung in great delight Changed her form again, again Until as a human bright once more did she appear to them

“And of your other wish,” said he, “that much was done 'fore you returned, When I felt you slay the king, for me - had gold and jewels sent to your home”

Elinor felt her word at ease now all her problems, they were solved She would - to wealth - ne'er wedded be yet family would not want for gold

And though the prince could her confine, she would ne'er as captive lie For she would make the world her home: Content to swim, to bound, or fly. *

Ellen, she is a wandering kind, and her spirit cried out to be freed from duties that would her confine That was, until she found the key

For she sought out Fearn, beyond the trees and when she helped his sister, Mey He set her from her duties free And now she travels the world,

Away.

#Writeblr #Poetry #Fantasy #Narrative poetry #Epic poetry #Aromantic characters #Aplatonic character #Art #me #my voice #audio #Original writing #My writing

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paimon-more-like-paime · 3 years

Photo

My oc, Niamh Nic Daibheid, dreamer and bandrui aspirant

Backstory below (warning: a lot of words).

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Red moons hang low in the sky above a great forest. Its edges stretch from the vast and empty moorlands of the north to the cobalt sea to the south. The inside of the forest, though, stretches much further; they call it Foraois an Phuca, the Puca’s Wood, for a reason. And within it, crossing through bramble and thorn, over hill and brook is a woman carrying a little girl. There are cuts and scrapes along her skin, and her dress has been torn to rags. It has been years since she’s been in this forest, but she remembers every tree and stone. For years she has been dreaming of this night, dreaming of freedom. Her eyes wander towards the moons watching over her. She frowns and hugs her daughter closer; she knows what portents they give.

Her ears, sharp as knives, no longer pick up the howling and barking of the hunting dogs and so she slows her pace and continues trudging forward. Her heart may be thunder and her lungs on fire but she’s keen to give her daughter the freedom she deserves. At this moment, there is few stronger than her.

Breathing heavy and ragged, she finally finds the clearing she was looking for just as day breaks. Her tree by the stream, her home, has long since been cut down. She knew what had happened, but it still hurt to find it so. In its place are flowers, some planted, some placed. She sat down on the stump and set her daughter on her feet. Her blonde hair and pale skin may be her father’s, but her yellow eyes and her freckles were hers. Her smile had all the warmth of the gentle sun. She hugged and held her daughter close, feeling her heartbeat. She felt tired and she felt heavy, but she didn’t regret what she did. She was at peace.

The girl hugged her mother tight, long after she realized her death. So many words she wanted to say, but they all fell like lead when they came out. She didn’t know what to do or where to go so she stayed like that for a long while.

Her eyes were red and dry by the time her half-elf ears caught the sound of some large bird landing. When she looked, it wasn’t a bird, it was a man, tall as oak and thin as aspen. Beneath his feet were plucked flowers, as if he was carrying them that way. He paid the flowers no mind as he slowly walked over to the body. The girl could see his face more clearly then, it was freckled with a nose like a hawk’s and yellow eyes.

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The last amber rays of the sun stretched and crawled along the verdant forest until it met the closed eye of a sleeping girl resting against a tree. She yawnes and rubs her eyes as she sit ups. Her hair, long and blonde and unruly, sticks up at strange angles, but she doesn’t bother fixing it. Looking up at the sky, she scratches her head and wonders how long she’s been asleep. Based on the sun, she’d say she missed all her classes. Normally that would make her a bad student, but the druids here specialize in dreams. No, what apparently made her a bad student was something else.

She stands up, preparing to go home to her uncle, when two voices call out to her. They belong to the grandsons of The Eldest, and rarely, the girl considers, do they ever anything of worth to say. They walk up to her, blocking off her path. They tell her they can have fun together. One awkwardly flexes in place, the other tries to reach for her hand, she yanks it back. They try to shower her with compliments, call her ears cute even if they’re short, call her pretty for a half-elf, call her exotic like she wasn’t a person. It’s nothing she hasn’t heard before. She ignores them, tries to walk past them and keep on going home, when she hears them call her ‘the word’.

She stops dead in her tracks. She clenches her hands tight till her knuckles turn white. It’s not even just the meaning of the word that gets to her, it’s how they use it; casually. To them, it’s even an insult, it’s just fact. She lets fire burn and build up inside her, and then she remembers what her uncle told her, what her uncle taught her. She takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets all that anger pass, lets the fire subside as she exhales. She takes not even three steps forward when one of the boys, the one with small antlers, pulls her hair.

She lets that fire burn back up and spits it right out as acid. She bites down. Hard. There’s blood. Crying and screaming ensue.

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The largest of the Corpse Moons is at its zenith, staring down at the grove and the scene it holds alongside the other remains in the sky. A crowd, dressed in fine stark white robes, has assembled near the sprawling roots of some great and acnient tree. In the center and near the base are two men. The one standing, hairy like a dog, has one clawed hand on his oaken staff, and the other on the shoulder of the man sitting, ready to whisper in his ear. The one sitting is old, perhaps even more ancient than the tree he’s become a part of. Wrinkles lines his dark skin, and its uncertain if what crowns his head are antlers or branches.

A warm breeze carrying the sound of ringing bells sweeps through the crowd. The aspirants have arrived and the druids part themselves to let them through. A woman with yellow eyes and short pointed ears is among them at the very back of the line. One by one, the aspirants walk up to and kneel before The Eldest. They’re being given their final task, their final hunt to prove their cunning, their skill, their worth as a druid.

When it’s the woman’s turn, she can feel the eyes of the crowd burning holes in her back, she can feel their judgement. They pass their whispers amongst each other, thinking or simply pretending that she can’t hear them, as she walks up.

“Niamh Nic Daibheid.” The man standing stares daggers at her. If her uncle was a hawk, this man was a wolf. And a cunt, Niamh quietly adds to herself.

The Eldest opens his eyes. They hold countless stars and nebulae in their blindness. Hoarsely, he asks “Which one is that again?”

The wolf-man bends down to answer. “Fiadh’s daughter and Bran’s niece.” He glances at Niamh for a second before adding, “The mongrel.”

Niamh takes a deep breath and then sharply exhales. “What is my quarry? What am I hunting?”

“I wonder. Are you up for the task, half-human? You could be hunting anything, you know, and we know about your-” He pauses, hanging onto his thoughts before he finds the right word. “-limitations.” He finishes, smiling.

She returns the gesture and bares her teeth. They’re like knives. In the crowd, two men shudder as old pain resurfaces. Another sighs and buries his face in his hand; he knows exactly what his niece is prepared to do. “You know as well as I do what ‘limits’ I have. I’ll do what it takes.”

“Will y-”

“Dara, enough.”

“Sir? I-”

“Daughter of Fiadh, from what I’ve heard, you work twice as hard for half the praise. You may only be a half-elf, but you’ve done more than enough to prove your potential. Now, I ask, are you ready to prove your place among us?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Ok then. What do you know about your father?”

#paime's ocs #paime's art #tldr: her life has largely been dictated by assholes #and now she's told that to be accepted by the only community she's really ever known #she has to follow their terms #she has four fingers cause i was watching The Dragon Prince when I first drew her

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merry-agaeti-blodhren · 5 years

Text

Agaethi Blodhren - Part 5

The Knucklebones (for @anhufflepuffhobbit from @problematic-maverick)

Word Count: 1673

Rating: Probably G, check the warnings in case

Characters: Angela, OFC (Angela’s mother), OMC (Angela’s father, briefly), OMC (Oromis’ father, briefly), Oromis (briefly), Glaedr (briefly), Solembum (briefly), Vrael (mentioned), Evandar (mentioned)

Warnings: OC Death, slight angst

Summary: Angela’s early life (up to about age twenty). I would like to maybe expand on this in the future, if @anhufflepuffhobbit is amenable to it.

It was her mother who taught her to use the knucklebones.

She was four, maybe five when she first stumbled into her mother’s study while she was reading a future. As usual, her mother was sitting behind the desk, with a small smile veiled behind a more serious expression, hiding in the crinkles round her eyes. What was unusual was the tall man with long silver-white hair sitting in front of her.

“You are still willing?” she asked the man.

He gave only a gentle incline of his head, but that seemed to be enough for her, as she dropped something- several things, actually- from her hand. Three words slipped from her mother’s lips, each landing heavily. The power around them was clear, yet as she watched, she could still hear the gentle tinkling as seven pale objects settled on the hard wood of the desk.

Her soft gasp drew her mother’s gaze, and she frantically gestured to her to leave.

She hurried out and sat leaning against the corridor wall, her thoughts still tangled, the clink of the items still echoing in her mind. She was only interrupted by the creaking door opening to let the man and her mother out.

Leaping up, she looked straight into the man’s eyes and solemnly declared, “I like your hair.”

His eyes twinkled and he smiled, and replied just as seriously. “I like yours too. My name is Glídrin. May I ask yours?”

“Angela,” she stated. “My name is Angela.”

When she was eleven, her mother called her up to the study. Apprehension stirred in her gut, she had no idea what she’d done this time, but it had to be something big.

She climbed the smooth, polished steps up to the third floor slowly, dreading the scolding undoubtedly waiting at their top. But when she opened the hefty oaken door, she was greeted with one of her mother’s rare, openly soft smiles.

“You’ve always been interested in my knucklebones, haven’t you?” she started, and her eyes were pulled to the seven creamy-white cuboids arrayed on the desk. The smile widened. “Do you want to know how to use them?”

Of course she did. She sat down opposite her mother, and watched, enthralled, as her mother gathered the bones, closed her eyes. The shadows on her lips flickered slightly, before opening and, once again, freeing the three words. This time she concentrated on them.

Manin, Wyrda, Hugin. Memory, Fate, Thought.

The words remained in the air, even as it was fragmented by the chimes of the bones.

Her mother’s eyes met hers, even as she swept the bones off the table, concealing their predictions. “The words represent the past, the future, and the present. By taking the advice of the past, we can understand the possible paths of the future, and the bones channel these, so that we can know now what will happen later.” She must have seen the confusion in her eyes, because she offered the bones to her. “You will understand better when you try.”

She took them and summoned the words to her mind, envisioned them tumbling from her lips as the dice tumbled from her hands. “Manin, Wyrda, Hugin.”

There was no power behind them, and the bones clunked heavily on the surface. Something had gone wrong.

Her mother shook her head. “These words are your links to time, not just trinkets with little significance. Use them like they meansomething.”

She tried again, pouring all her concentration into the six syllables. “Manin! Wyrda! Hugin!”

Still nothing. The bones did not sing like they were meant to.

“You do not yet understand the passage of magic. Maybe I was wrong, and you are too young.” There was not despair or disappointment in her mother’s voice, only a calm acceptance.

“No, give me one last chance.”

She could picture the taken-aback look on her mother’s fine features- it had not been a question, but a statement- but she knew she could do this. Third time was the charmed, after all.

This time she did not concentrate on the words as she said them, but on them as a whole. On their meanings together.

Together they were Time, the essence of all things. She drew them together.

A burning heat built in her palms, and she let go of the dice in a panic. As her eyes flew open, - when had she closed them? – she noticed that their movements seemed slow and lazy, a relaxed, spiralling movement. A whole future was spread before her thoughts, in shards of fire and ice and soft-coloured light, ashes and stars and blood-red sunsets. The bones were her medium, and they followed her vision.

Clinking broke through the images, and she returned to the present. Both she and her mother stared at the bones.

“What do they mean?” she asked. Her mother did not answer.

They sat in silence.

“Angela!” called her father from below. Both started, and her mother shook her head.

“I do not like that name.”

“Why?”

“It is not the truth. It is not the name I gave to you.”

Suddenly angered, she stood up. “But it is still my name.”

“You are the last of your kind! You must take up the mantle.”

“No, I am not,” she snarled. “I am the only one of my kind. Your blood runs through me, but not just yours. Why should I not take the name that seems right to me?”

Angela walked out of the room.

“You have grown up too fast,” murmured her mother, but she could not hear her.

Smoke wound its way through the house, so thick Angela could not even gather the breath to scream. She knocked into several pieces of furniture, lurched into the door, fumbled with its handle, staggered outside. As soon as she was clear of the swirling, smouldering wreckage, she fell to her knees, gasping frenziedly for the thin air.

Seconds, minutes- hours? days?- later, a slender, soot-stained hand laid itself on her shoulder.

“Where is father?” she asked.

Her mother said nothing.

Tears streamed down her face, half from the smoke, half from the sorrow.

She cursed the fire that had taken half her heart.

The pair, mother and daughter, fled the burning carcass. Every time the younger stopped, the elder urged her on. They cannot catch us. They cannot catch us.

One week later, a week of aching feet and empty tear ducts, they stopped. The golden dragon eyed them curiously, a young elf with silver hair tied back mirroring his expression.

“Eka aí fricai,” said her mother, trying not to let exhaustion enter her voice. She presented a ring for the man to see. He nodded mutely, then turned to Angela.

“She is my daughter, she means you no harm.” assured her mother, almost frantically, but he did not heed her words.

A sharp blade poked at her mind.

No, she thought.

The elf swayed back, clearly shocked.

“My mind is mine alone,” Angela asserted. “Do not try it.”

Another presence brushed gently against her barriers, and for a second she thought he had disregarded her advice, but it was a different signature. Tentatively, she let it in.

Forgive my Rider,thought the dragon. Oromis is rash, and, dare I say it, a little overprotective of me. He refuses to trust anyone without proof of their loyalty to peace. I am Glaedr.

It is… a pleasure to meet you, Glaedr.

Oromis was scowling at her. She smiled back. “I wouldn’t keep on like that. If you frown too much, your face gets frozen like that. Forever.”

He raised an eyebrow, but attempted to quickly and subtly rearrange his face into something more amenable. Angela tried to hide a laugh. Glaedr didn’t bother disguising his.

He sighed. “I suppose I have to take you to Vrael and Evandar now.”

“That would be best,” replied her mother. Both valiantly tried to ignore the giggling girl and dragon.

That was the first time Angela flew on a dragon. When she next did, several hundred years later, she remembered an old friend and, though she did not cry for him, she thought of him with sadness in her heart.

Her mother left Du Weldenvarden in the middle of the night, after four years of she and Angela staying there.

She did not take Angela with her.

Something cold buried itself in her heart then. In one desperate attempt to warm herself, she took the knucklebones left (accidentally or on purpose, she did not know) on the dresser and thought of Time.

Her hands blazed, and she looked into a pair of violet eyes. Scenes of flames and death reflected in the orbs. She thought she heard a scream.

When the scene cleared, the bones were still in her hands. A black cat with too-large canines and the same purple eyes as in the vision was sat in front of her.

Hello.

Hello. Who are you?

Solembum. I heard you were leaving.

She hadn’t realised it before, but yes, she had been meaning to leave.

Are you coming with me?

Perhaps.

She shrugged, and left the treehouse, tucking the bones into her pocket.

It was rare for Ellesméra to be as empty as it was, even at night, but Angela used it to her advantage, wondering if she really could leave without anybody noticing.

Of course, her luck wasn’t that good.

An elf stepped into her path, one with silvery-white hair and twinkling grey eyes. He held a dagger out toward her.

“Glídrin?”

“I had a dream,” he replied. “One day I am sure you will need this.”

She took the knife. It gleamed a soft red, even in the dark night.

“I’m afraid it only has one use left.”

She smiled up at him. “It only takes one stab to kill someone.”

He smiled back, but it quickly melted off his face. “Oromis will miss you.”

“I will miss him too. But perhaps we’ll meet again one day.”

He nodded.

She left.

#inheritance cycle #eragon #eragon-exchange-2018 #angela #submission