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finnofamerica · 4 years

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Black Rose Star - Avaelia Roseguard

Summary: The official backstory for my girl/OC Avaelia.

Word Count: 3,689

Date Posted: 05.28.2020

Warnings: Death, Major injury.

|| Masterlist ||

“Dad!” Avaelia ran up to her father, embracing him in a hug, “Welcome home!”

Haada Roseguard shared his daughter's black hair, and green eyes, though she got her wild curls from her mother. He gave a laugh as he wrapped her up in his arms.

“Hello, my darling star.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“How was your meeting with the Elves of the mainland?” She asked excitedly, unable to keep her smile off of her face.

“Wise counsel, as always. But enough about politics, tell me how did you fare without me?”

Haada linked his arm with hers the both of them flying up to their home hidden in the trees.

“I fared fine, Madam Jotka taught me well, you know.” She gave him a pointed look. The same look her mother used to give him. The two of them sat on the bench on their porch, overlooking the town below.

“And you’re healing lessons?”

“Anahkt is an excellent teacher.”

“I have missed you, my star.”

“I missed you too.” She laid her head on his shoulder.

. . .

“Avaelia!” Haada called, reaching out to his daughter.

“You either give me the hidden location of Rahaa, or I’ll kill her.” The masked rogue threatened, holding a sword and a torch.

“Don’t hurt her, please.”

“Don’t tell him!” Avaelia yelled, groaning as the man’s companion pushed his foot harder against her back. Wings like starlight fluttering helplessly against his weight. “Don’t!”

“I will tell you, just don’t hurt her, please.” Haada took a step forward, “I’ll tell you where Rahaa is.”

“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.” The Rogue opened his arms to welcome the dark-haired Chieftain forward. The two of them spoke in low voices. The companion, with his own torch in hand, pressed harder on Avaelia’s back making her cry out again. In the crowd, she could see Jotka and Anahkt both with worried looks in their eyes.

“I’ve told you what you wanted, now please, let my daughter go,” Haada insisted firmly

The Rogue chuckled, “I don’t think so chieftain. I can’t have you spoiling my plans now can I?”

“No! Think about what you’re doing!”

“Kill them all!”

The companion held his torch to Avaelia’s starlight wings, as the rest of their party rushed the town slaying everyone in sight, starting with Haada.

Avaelia screamed and cried until her throat was sore and she had no more tears. Exhausted from her pain, she blinked her eyes closed and sank into the dirt she was laid on.

. . .

“Oh dear, what happened here?” The voice pulled Avaelia from the darkness that surrounded her. She peaked her eye open, seeing a man dressed in black. He looked nothing like the Rogue that hurt her father. She tried to push herself up off the ground, only to let out a hoarse cry, her throat sore and dry.

“You’re alive!” The man gasped, rushing over to the struggling Fae. He helped Avaelia to her feet, being cautious of the oozing wounds on her back. “What happened here?”

“Rogues,” She rubbed her head, the whole thing throbbing painfully. Her body paint was smeared across her face. “Dad! Please, I have to find my dad!”

“I will help you search, but you must rest.”

Avaelia looked all around, the village had burned to the ground. The thick ash covering the bodies of those who were left forgotten on the ground. Madam Jotka was held protectively in Anahkt’s arms, both of them lifeless with matching chest wounds. The fae cried desperately for her teachers, kneeling helplessly on the ground, her tear tracks leaving clean streaks through the paint and ash.

“We’re never gonna find him in this mess,” She said softly, tears still rolling down her cheeks.

“Come with me, Miss,” The man said kindly, wrapping his arm around her gently holding her to on her feet, “I can give you a place to live and purpose at the monastery.”

“Who are you?”

He gave her a smile through his beard, “I’m Asterion, part of my Order is to find people like you and to help them. Your name, My lady?”

“Avaelia.” She winced.

“Let me take care of your wounds then Avaelia, then we will be on our way.”

Asterion spent three days tending to the wounds on her back, but it was too late for them to heal nicely. He cleaned out any infection and bound her back with care. He was gentle no matter how much she cried, the burnt skin sensitive to the touch.

Finally, they left for the monastery once she was healed enough to travel, her bindings covered with his light cloak.

“Asterion, where are we?” Avaelia asked gently, looking around the deep dark forest they were riding his horse through.

“We are approaching the Monastery. Worry not, my girl, nothing will hurt you here.” The Half-elf assured her. Soon he stopped, in front of a single tree. Cleverly disguised stairs running up its trunk.

“Up you go.” Asterion took Avaelia’s hand, helping her up the trunk. He only followed after she made it to the platform. The young woman was still in a skirt since everything had burned, Asterion wouldn’t forgive himself if he risked her privacy in any way.

Along the trees were several buildings, each being the private living space of the monastery’s residents, hanging bridges connected the trees, all leading to the center where four large oak trees supported the main building. Avaelia assumed that must’ve been their sacred temple.

“I will take you to the elders.” Asterion linked his arm with her, guiding her past the large temple. Just beyond it was another large building, though it was smaller than the temple.

They entered quietly, the four elders sitting on the floor, arranged in a semicircle.

“Asterion, you’ve brought home a stray.” The woman’s voice was smooth, and she never opened her eyes to him, her long grey hair pooling on the floor around her. How did she knoe? Avaelia thought.

“Herais, you say that as if it wasn’t my job.” Asterion fired back, humor on his lips. Herais opened her eyes to him, a smile breaking out on her face. Her milky eyes seeing nothing, though she seemed to know exactly where Asterion was. She rose to her feet, a simple staff at her side, guiding her way as she walked over to embrace Asterion.

“Welcome home old friend.”

“It is good to be home.”

Herais turned her unseeing eyes to Avaelia, carefully reaching her hand to the girl’s face. Her joyful face twisting into a frown as she did so.

“Oh, my child, you’ve suffered a great tragedy.” Herais tucked some hair behind Avaelia’s ears, wrinkled fingers gently tracing her ear back down to her chin. “You are safe here.”

“Where is here?” Avaelia asked, glancing from Herais to the other three elders sitting on the floor, another woman with grey streaks in her black waves, and two men both fully grey, one bearded one not.

“This is the Black Rose Monastery, come sit with us, tell us your story.” The Elder woman guided Avaelia back to the semicircle, sitting down on her mat and encouraging Avaelia to sit on the floor in front of them. She knelt in front of the elders, all now watching her. After a deep breath, she began to recount the story of her village and the fae that lived there, her father and his work, and finally the rogues that burnt her village to the ground, slaying every Fae that lived there. Every fae but her, the last of her kin.

“You’ve suffered a terrible fate, Avaelia Roseguard,” The man to her left said, his voice like the ocean crashing against the rocky shore, husky and soothing.

“But fate has plans for you yet,” The woman with salt and pepper hair said, eyes so crystal blue Avaelia feared she was enchanted.

“Yes, it is no coincidence Asterion found you when he did,” The bearded man added, “Had he found you any earlier he would have assumed your death, any later and you would’ve died of your wounds. It seems to me you were meant to meet.”

“It seems we are in agreement,” Herais placed her fist over her heart, “The Black Rose welcomes you.”

The two men and the other woman repeated the gesture.

“Asterion will be your master, he shall see to your training after you’ve healed.” The Elder woman continued, “Take her to Warin.”

“Yes, Herais.” Asterion nodded to her before leading Avaelia away from the Elder’s Council.

“Who exactly were those people? I understand they are the elders but-”

“Their names?” Asterion smiled at her. “They do have a habit of forgetting to introduce themselves. The bearded man is Fintan, he came here nearly 80 years ago, though he still looks good for 367. The other man is Theowip, he’s been here for as long as I can remember, same for Leatitia, they arrived together. Herais has been here longer than any of us, and nobody knows how old she is.”

“Herais, she’s blind?”

“Yes, my dear. But she is more attune to the world as it is than any of us seeing people.”

“Is that how she knew you were here?”

“Indeed. Come, let’s see what Warin can do about your wings.”

. . .

“I’m an excellent healer, Asterion,” Warin, a young human hissed to the half-elf quietly, trying his best to not let Avaelia heart. “But I’m not a miracle-worker! You’ve done your best to tend to her wounds, but her skin will be scarred forever, and on the slight chance her wings grow, they will never be strong enough to bear her weight.”

Avaelia laid quietly on the physician’s table, pretending she couldn’t hear what they were saying.

“What can you do for her then?”

“I can suture her wounds and give her an ointment for the pain, but that’s all I can really do. She’ll be living with those burn scars for the rest of her life.”

“Okay,” Asterion sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “Just help her as best you can. I trust you Warin.”

As their footsteps approached again Avaelia turned her head away, gasping as she felt Warin’s soft hands examining her back.

“Take a deep breath, Avaelia, this is going to sting,” Warin warned, before sticking her with the curved needle he held in his hands, gently pulling the skin back together. She held back her pain pricked tears, keeping on a brave face. When he was done he rubbed a numbing ointment over the two long sutures, easing the Fae’s pain.

Asterion knelt at her side, “Rest here, for now. I’m going to go check on your quarters, then I’ll be back with your dinner.”

Avaelia laid there in silence, watching the sunset outside the window, falling into an uneasy sleep.

. . .

“Asterion what are we doing today?” Avaelia asked, curious about what her training would mean. She adjusted her black tunic over her black trousers, similar to Asterion’s own clothing.

“Today,” He grinned, opening the door to the temple, “We meditate.”

There were a few monks in the temple, but not many. Most preferred to meditate in their own quarters. Near a statue of a dragon, Asterion laid out two mats, sitting cross-legged on his. Avaelia followed, matching his position as he guided her through meditation and it’s purpose.

“You must go beyond your mind,” Asterion explained, “Follow your breathing to silence your intellect, connect to the spirit that lives in this tree as it lives inside you.”

Avaelia took a few deep breaths as Asterion told her before letting her breath fall into its natural rhythm.

“Do not be discouraged if you cannot feel it your first time. It takes some monks months before they can feel the tree that cares for them.”

She quieted her mind, focusing her energy on the trees that surrounded her, hoping to feel some sort of energy reaching back, but for hours she could feel nothing but Asterion in front of her and the mat she was sitting on.

Avaelia let out a sigh as she slouched, exhausted from sitting straight up for several hours.

“Asterion, we’ve been at this for ages, can’t we take a break?”

“Some monk’s meditate for days on end without breaks.”

“What’s the dragon for?” She cocked her head curiously.

“That, my child, you will come to learn in time.”

Avaelia didn’t realize she could become so sore from sitting all day long, but she wasn’t used to sitting like that. Exhaustedly, she sank into her bed, laying on her stomach out of habit. Though her stitches had come out, her back was still sore.

. . .

“Avaelia, tell me what do you think when you think of the Rogues that hurt you?” Asterion asked, standing across from her with a staff in hand.

“I hate them,” Avaelia spat, “They killed everyone I ever loved, who is to say they don’t deserve the same!”

“Watch yourself. You must learn to let go of your anger, or it will consume you as it has consumed so many of this world.”

She let out a sigh, “I’m sorry, Asterion, I will do better.”

“You are still learning, child, be forgiving with yourself as you would for others.”

“Yes, Asterion,” She bowed her head to him.

“Good, do as I do.”

Asterion guided her through the almost dance-like movements of spinning her staff back and forth across her body.

“Let the feeling flow inside you, follow the movements of the staff. Let it guide you into your strike.”

. . .

“Wrist elbow strike!” Asterion called from his seat above the lowered platform. Avaelia let the staff roll over her hand, pulling it in as the staff rolled over her elbow, striking her sparring opponent. Thecla ducked under the knockout strike, swinging her own staff to knock Avaelia off her feet, but Avaelia jumped over the strike, and swung her staff down upon Thecla’s shoulder, stopping just before she hit her.

Sweat dripped from the Fae’s skin, a serious look in her pale green eyes, freckles across her skin glowing in the sunlight. She stood now before her master a woman when she had arrived at the Monastery a child.

“Very good. Thecla dismissed.” Asterion said, causing Avaelia to stand back at attention, the staff at her side. Thecla nodded respectfully to Asterion before returning to her own master.

Asterion shed his cloak, his grey hair braided down his back, save for a few hairs that were too short, and framed his face. He held his staff at the ready, feet grounded.

“You’ve trained well all these years, do you think you are ready to face me?” Asterion asked, a hinting taunt.

“We shall find out won’t we?” Avaelia found her ready stance with ease. The young monks gathered above the platform, excited to see the face-off between student and master.

Asterion struck first, aiming for the Fae’s stomach though she swiftly blocked the blow. The two of them practically dancing in their fight, exchanging blocked blow after blocked blow. Though occasionally a blow missed and knocked the other back; both the Fae and the Half-elf were swift on their feet, age not yet touching Asterion’s bones.

“You’ve taught me all you’re tricks master,” Avaelia said through a grunt as she stuck at her master.

“Not all of them,” He ducked her strike, extending his leg to sweep her off of her feet. She landed painfully on her back before she had time to process he was fully upright in a rooted stance, his bow staff held vertically above her chest. After a few tense moments, both of them laughed, Asterion reached down the help the fae to her feet.

“I concede, you are well versed Master Asterion.” Avaelia bowed her head to him. He just laughed.

“Go get cleaned up, I want to speak with you after dinner.”

“Yes, master.”

Avaelia picked up her staff, heading off to the bathhouse. The collected rainwater was still warm from the sun as it washed the sweat and dirt from her skin, purple scars curling around her shoulder blades and sides. The wounds no longer ached like they used to, but she could still feel them in her nightmares.

She let the water wash the pain from her mind, and once clean she headed to the temple. Her wet curls sticking to her skin and soaking her black tunic. She sat in front of the statue, legs crossed and arms resting in her lap. She took a few deep breaths, letting her mind settle as she fell into a steady rhythm. Extending her awareness to the tree around her, cradling her safely in its arms. The statue in front of her thrummed with energy. At times when she was seeking wisdom, she could almost feel the statue speaking to her.

“I heard of your spare today, congratulations Avaelia.” A kind voice drew her out of her relaxed focus, feeling like her soul was returning to her body. “I only wished to have seen it myself.”

“Thank you, Herais.”

“Take a walk with me, let me impart an old woman’s wisdom on you.” She extended Avaelia her arm, though both of the women knew that she didn’t need it. The two women walking towards the dining hall as Herais spoke her next words.

“There will come a day when you leave this place and you will venture into the world a grown woman. Never lose sight of your connection to the world, let your meditation be your guide. There is a lot of evil out there and you must not give in, as you release your worries through your meditation, your meditation will protect you from the evil that seeks to corrupt the best of us.”

Avaelia listened to her words, feeling them settle deep into her stomach. It didn’t feel like wisdom, it felt like a warning. Avaelia guided Herais to the elder’s table before returning to her own table, filled with her peers.

She ate her meal in silence, a focused look on her face as she tried to detangle the mess of words in her stomach, too focused to notice Asterion approaching the table.

“Avaelia, if you’ll come with me.” The older half-elf extended his hand to her. Still quiet, she nodded, taking his weathered hand and letting him lead her out of the dining hall. He lead her through the dusk light to a building she’d never been in through her six years at the monastery.

“Asterion, what is this place?” She furrowed her brows as she entered the dark humid hut. Glowing stones littered around the room, nests on pedestals.

“Six years ago you asked me about the dragon statue in the temple, it is time that I tell you the story.” He began, his blue eyes staring far off into a distance past the hut wall. “Long ago the very first of our order was traveling when he came across a baby dragon being tortured by a group of raiders. He jumped in and stopped them, barely escaping with the dragon and his life. He began to nurse the dragon back to health, and as it slept, he was visited by a great god older than time itself. The great creator.

The Creator told him that he was chosen to serve him in the protection of these magnificent creatures and that if he committed to this work, he and his successors would be greatly rewarded. The First of our order told the Creator that he didn’t need to be rewarded, serving him in this righteous task was reward enough.

Since then, The Creator has chosen someone to serve him in this task. I believe he has chosen you.”

“I can’t possibly be chosen for this, Asterion. When you found me I was just a child with no knowledge of the world, I haven’t been anywhere but my village and here.” Avaelia denied, taking a step back from her master.

“When you meditate before the statue, does it speak to you?”

“Yeah, but that’s just my-”

“It’s the creator speaking to you his wisdom, guiding you.”

“Asterion, I’m not ready for some life-long holey quest.”

“You are ready.” He insisted, clasping her hands in his, staring deep into her green eyes, “For years I have overseen so many trained to become the servant to The Creator and but none have had your fighting spirit. A dragon spirit guides you. You are the protector of dragons, Avaelia Roseguard.”

Fire stirred in her soul at her title, her eyes were fierce.

“And if I accept?”

“You will set out into the world, from there your instinct and inner self will guide you.”

“I accept my service to The Creator.”

An egg at the back of the hut began rattling, it’s shell cracking and splitting. The baby inside chittered, sticking its little snout out of the hole.

“Go on Avaelia. Treat him well and he will bond for life.” Asterion urged. She moved forward cautiously, approaching the egg. The dragon chittered again, biting the edge of the egg to break it. Peacock colored scales peaked out from the egg, purple eyes blinking at her.

“How will I know his name?” She asked over her shoulder.

“He will tell you.”

Avaelia took a deep breath as she gently grabbed the egg, a single word coming to mind: Egan. The little dragon sneezed, smoke coming from his nostrils.

. . .

It was early the next morning when the monastery gathered on the ground below their tree community. Avaelia stood, bag packed, bo staff in hand, Egan nestled into a special pouch at her side. She wore her black outfit with pride, the material deceptively breezy. Herais gave Avaelia a smile and bowed her head in respect. Her milky white eyes were something Avaelia would always remember.

Asterion, her mentor for the past six years stood with her in front of the crowd, pride filling him to his brim.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Black Rose Monastery,” He addressed the crowd, “Today we have the great honor of seeing off Avaelia Roseguard, Protector of Dragons!”

#Avaelia Roseguard #Finn writes #OC #personal #not fanfiction

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goforwardgreenwriter-blog · 6 years

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The Worm Reads: The Assassin’s Blade, Ch 23-24

Sorry this took so long but this book is fucking exhausting

Celaena and Ansel knew their little escapade with the Asterion horses would have consequences. Celaena had at least expected to have enough time to tell a decent lie about how they acquired the horses. But when they returned to the fortress and found Mikhail waiting, along with three other assassins, she knew that word of their stunt had somehow already reached the Master.

But how? Who told him? Who the hell saw them steal the horses and somehow got back to the fortress before them?

So, get this. The Mute Master has them alone in his chambers, no doubt about to get furious at them for pulling such a stunt, right? And then Celery pulls this fucking shit.

And suddenly, as the memory of that day echoed through her, she remembered the words Sam kept screaming at Arobynn as the King of the Assassins beat her, the words that she somehow had forgotten in the fog of pain: I’ll kill you!

You’re about to be possibly kicked out of a training fortress that you need to receive a letter of approval from in order to be allowed home and now you’re suddenly splooging over a guy because he... didn’t want you to be hurt? Like any decent fucking human being? God I fucking hate you, Celery, you stupid piece of shit.

After Celery finishes drooling over Sammy wanting to kill Arobynn for hurting her, she at least has the good sense to take the fall for the idea since this is Ansel’s home and getting in trouble would extremely affect her.

Apparently the Mute Master is fairly chill with them stealing horses and Ansel tells Celery she can go tomorrow for her first private lesson. Jesus Christ, finally, this story is going somewhere.

Their punishment next morning is cleaning animal shit out of the pens.

Another benefit was that they didn’t have to go running. Though after four hours of shoveling animal droppings, Celaena would have begged to take the six-mile run instead.

Not really a benefit then, is it?

Celery goes to the Master’s hangout on the roof for her first lesson.

Celaena cleared her throat again, and the Master finally turned. She bowed, which, strangely, was something she felt he actually deserved, rather than something she ought to do.

Celery learning that diplomacy is a thing?? She really does grow stupider as the books go on, since in E0S she threatens and attempts to stab the people in a political meeting that don’t agree with her viewpoint.

The Mute Master gives her a basket with a snake inside and tells her to observe its movements, so she spends the lesson moving with the snake and copying its movements. It’s actually really cool and more interesting than generic swords training.

SJM describes some more cool training in passing about how Celery has to study the movements of other animals like bats and rabbits. So let me get this straight; a whole page in the market scene was dedicated to Celery crying because she wanted new shoes, and that’s plot important, but you skip over her training which was the whole point of her coming to this place.

I’m.... speechless. Utterly speechless. It isn’t often you see someone fail so badly at all aspects of writing, but SJM has done it. She has officially failed at a basic component of storytelling. And her books are New York bestsellers. Truly, the world isn’t a fair place.

And every day, Celaena went to sleep after lunch and dozed until the sun went down, her dreams full of snakes and rabbits and chirping desert beetles. Sometimes she spotted Mikhail training the acolytes, or found Ilias meditating in an empty training room, but she rarely got the chance to spend time with them.

Ilias I kinda get, but you’ve spoken what, five words to Mikhail? You have no relationship with him lmfao.

There were quiet moments also, when she wasn’t training or toiling with Ansel. Moments when her thoughts drifted back to Sam, to what he’d said. He’d threatened to kill Arobynn. For hurting her.

Ask me if I give a fuck. Seriously, I don’t. I don’t feel this chemistry at all and I’m dreading when we return to Arobynn’s assassin joint and we have to read multiple paragraphs of Celery splooging over how hot Sammy is.

Next chapter opens up with Celery putting make up on Ansel because it’s apparently her birthday.

“What?” Ansel said. Celaena shook her head. “You’re going to have to wash it all off.” “Why?” “Because you look better than I do.” Ansel pinched Celaena’s arm. Celaena pinched her back, laughter on her lips.

Girls being friends? Pure and wholesome. Too bad SJM ruins it immediately after with this.

She hadn’t even dared ask the Master for her letter yet. But more than that … Well, she’d never had a female friend—never really had any friends—and somehow, the thought of returning to Rifthold without Ansel was a tad unbearable.

Hmm... it does raise the eyebrows a little that Ansel is super masculine and a “stronk female character’ like Celery and she is the only girl Celery has ever considered as a friend.......almost as if... it’s sexist towards girls who aren’t masculine like Celery.....hm...

At the party people are dancing with no music, which is whack af to Celery.

Though she loved, loved, loved parties, Celaena would have rather spent the night training with the Master. (...) But he’d insisted she go to the party—if only because he wanted to go to the party. The old man danced to a rhythm Celaena could not hear or make out, and looked more like someone’s benevolent, clumsy grandfather than the master of some of the world’s greatest assassins.

Hey, you leave him alone. He’s one of the few good characters in this shitty ass story, and if he wants to dance like an old grandpa, then let him.

Celery sees Ansel dancing with Mikhail and makes it all about her own feefees for Sammy, as usual.She gushes over how Sammy is totally in love with her and how she totally busts a nut every time he looks at her or some stupid shit like that.

Someone touched her shoulder, and Celaena looked up from her empty wine goblet to find Ilias standing behind her. She hadn’t seen much of him in the past few days, aside from at dinner, where he still glanced at her and gave her those lovely smiles. He offered his hand.

Poor Ilias, man. Obviously Celery doesn’t owe him anything, but.... you deserve someone so much better, Ilias. Imagine if it were Sammy here instead of Celery. I want that fanfic, someone write it.

Ilias and Celery eventually ditch the party since Celery’s feet hurt from dancing.

What would he say—that is, if he could speak—if he knew that Adarlan’s Assassin had never been kissed? She’d killed men, freed slaves, stolen horses, but she’d never kissed anyone.

God, we’re really going there, aren’t we... god I’m so tired....

First off, good job on shaming any older teenagers because they’ve never kissed someone before, as if that makes them weirdos. Makes me feel fucking amazing as an 18 y/o who hasn’t kissed anyone yet. Thanks, SJM.

Second, who gives a shit?? In fact, Celery, you have a good excuse for not kissing anyone; you’re an assassin. If you told Ilias, he’s probably just assume you’re too busy with work to settle down with someone. Like, do you think he’s really gonna make fun of you for not having kissed anyone before? Does SJM know how human beings function????

Anyways, Ilias does try to kiss Celery, but immediately stops when she backs away. Man, a male character who respects boundaries?? In MY SJM book?? Never thought I’d see the day.

“I—I can’t. I mean, I’m leaving in a week. And … and you live here. And I’m in Rifthold, so …” She was babbling. She should stop. Actually, she should just stop talking. Forever.

You really should. Sadly, Celery doesn’t take her own advice.

Ilias is just like, “whatever, that’s cool fam,” and goes to his room. I can’t believe SJM is making me praise a character for respecting personal boundaries but holy shit, that’s how low the bar is with her characters.

Alone in the hallway, Celaena watched the shadows cast by the torches. It hadn’t been the mere impossibility of a relationship with Ilias that had made her pull away. No; it was the memory of Sam’s face that had stopped her from kissing him.

First off, that semicolon is making me wince when a comma would’ve sufficed better, so jot that down. Second, unghhhh I don’t care, I don’t give a shit about Celery’s sudden crush on Sammy! He deserves someone who will treat him right!

Ansel arrives late next morning to shoveling shit duty because she slept with Mikhail. Again, ask me if I give a fuck.

Out of the blue, Ansel gets all pissy and jealous of Celery training with the Mute Master. It’s so literally out of nowhere and so obviously shoehorned in just so there can be conflict. SJM looking up basic writing tips and was like, ‘Oh shit, my story has no conflict and I need a falling out before the final climax! Uhhh Ansel is mad at Celery, yeah okay.”

Celaena’s throat tightened, and she cursed herself for feeling so hurt by the words. She didn’t think the Master felt that way at all, but she still hissed, “Yes, my glorious fate. Shoveling dung in a barn. A worthy task for me.” “But certainly a worthy task for a girl from the Flatlands?” “I didn’t say that,” Celaena said through her teeth. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Jesus Christ, Ansel, I think I hate you almost as much as I hate Celery. Ansel is one of those fucking assholes who twists around words of others and reblogs someones post with a shitty “So you’re basically saying you hate all of (x) people, are you OP?” guilt trip.

Celery is like ‘whatever, nobody cares about you reclaiming your shitty homeland even though it has nothing to do with our conversation and I only brought it up because the author wants us to hate each other now” and Ansel stomps off. Riveting Drama, this is, these characters are so well developed! I totally care about how this conflict will resolve itself!

#the worm reads: tab #the worm talks #anti sjm #anti targaryen #anti tog

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sparkleywonderful · 6 years

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The Prince of Ice: Ch. 20

Part 20 of The Prince of Ice series, a retelling of Heir of Fire from Rowan’s point of view.

Parts [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ] [ 5 ] [ 6 ] [ 7 ] [ 8 ] [ 9 ] [ 10 ] [ 11 ] [ 12 ] [ 13 ] [ 14 ] [ 14.5 ] [ 15 ] [ 16 ] [ 17 ] [ 18 ] [ 19 ]

AO3

I wrote this listening to “Rise Up” by Andra Day. One thing you have to remember about grief is that there are good days and bad days, but mostly bad days. The bad days there is little hope in your life, you mostly just go through the motions. The thing about grief is the people in your life will ask how you are doing, and you will tell them that they are fine. Not because you are, but because you know that if you are honest that your people will try to help. That attempt will hurt you worse than the lie that you are fine.

Then one day, you will wake up and want to move forward, but you will have little idea how to take that step. Once you start making those steps you will feel guilty. Survivor's guilt is one of the hardest road blocks you will overcome. I am trying to capture that mental battle Rowan is going through.

- - - - - - -

He laid across his bed, trying to lie as far away from her as he could. He wanted to lie to himself. Gods be damned it would be so easy to lie to himself. He had no right to uncover the feelings he was starting to feel. Not after Lyria. Not after he had failed her so thoroughly. Not after he had almost failed Aelin. Her burn out, her almost burn out had caused the territorial portion of his soul to reawaken.

He had selected her room based on his assumption of the spoiled bratty girl he believed her to be. The rag of a blanket left in the small room was more than that she would have been given. He has selected her chores based on the same thought. No wonder she did not argue about becoming a scullery maid, compared to being a slave it was nothing. The hours she chopped wood, an effective motivational punishment he had used for centuries, was nothing after spending a year swinging a pickaxe.

“You’re staying with me from now on.” He did not know what made him say that, there were spare rooms, better rooms. Deep down something in him was calling to him to keep her close.

“The bed is for tonight. Tomorrow, you’ll get a cot. You’ll clean up after yourself or you’ll be back in that room.”

He watched as she nestled into her pillow, like it was the first comfort she had felt in months. The thought that this princess felt gratitude and appreciation for a simple pillow— he chased that very thought away.

“Very well.”

Silence enveloped them, and he welcomed it. He needed time to sort through the last hours, to retrospectively look at the last few months.

She pulled him from the welcomed silence, “I don’t want your pity.”

He did not know if he had the strength for this. He was trying to reach out to her, to take a step out of the darkness. His kindness was not selfless, no quite the opposite. It was far from pity.

“This is not pity. Maeve decided not to tell me what happened to you. You have to know that I—I wasn’t aware you had—”

He was the strongest fae male in existence. The closest to him was Lorcan and really a fight between them would come down to who wanted it more. He had nothing to fight for, nothing but the peace that his death would bring. But here was this girl, this lost queen, with the power to break him so thoroughly that he would not even put up a fight to any killing blow.

He allowed his arrogance and pride, he allowed the ice that covered his heart to treat her—

He almost crumbled when he felt her arm slide across the bed. She was reaching for him, with everything he had done to her, she was reaching out to him to comfort him.

“I knew. At first, I was afraid you’d mock me if I told you, and I would kill you for it. Then I didn’t want you to pity me. And more than any of that, I didn’t want you to think it was ever an excuse.”

She was right, he would have treated her differently if he had known. Maybe they would not have wasted these past months. Or maybe it would not have changed a thing. Sometimes he felt like he was awakening from a very long nightmare.

“Like a good soldier,” he watched as she look away for a moment.

He took a long breath that made his broad chest expand. Together. He had promised her together. She was the first person to reach him, the first person that made him want to leave the dark abyss of frozen ice he had surrounded himself with. The first person he wanted to reach towards. He knew he had a long way to go, in these centuries he was past the grieving, but he had not made it further. He was surviving and did not know how to live without her. Without them.

“Tell me how you were sent there—and how you got out.”

He had expected a short answer, but it seemed like he had gained enough of her trust for her to tell him her story, at least parts of it.

He listened as she told him about her time in Rifthold, about the dance and music lessons she would have had even if the fates had not been cruel to her. As a crowned princess, she would have had to suffer through the same dance lessons he did as a child.

Instead of training with poisons and torture, would her father or her King’s captain still trained her in combat?

As she told him about stealing Asterion horses and racing across the desert, he wondered what his life would have been if he had not been in the market that day. If that fateful day had not happened to Aelin, if instead of stealing an Asterion horse, would there be story of her running off with her cousin Aedion on their Asterion horses.

Her story about Sam, made him wonder if he was the male he had tasted on her blood or if there was yet another loss she was about to tell him about. She had almost escaped the fate of an assassin, almost found a piece of happiness. Almost.

And when she spoke of Endovier and how she had snapped and sprinted for her own death. He understood that desire, that need to just end the pain.

In all of her stories, what surprised him was that he was waiting to be told of an escape and instead he was told of a bargain. That she had bargained her soul to the same tyrant that killed her family, her kingdom. Four years of her life serving a man that killed her family and set in motion a fate that seemed to want to keep her down. What did not surprise him was that she won the competition.

Aelin yawned, and he rubbed his eyes with a single hand, his other hand still in hers. But he didn’t let go. Instead he watched her sleep. In his near three centuries he had experienced much more than most. In a short span of eight years she had transverse a life from princess to assassin to slave and then champion for her enemy.

What he saw and what she could not is, that her life experience groomed her to be a better queen. He had given her a hard time for turning her back on her people, but had she really? The last ten years she had learned more about the world through her trials and tribulations than any lesson a tutor could teach her. A small part of him wondered if the fates had a plan. He could not help but remember all the pushes he had received from Mala. What were the fate’s grooming for him? Was there a life lesson in Lyria’s death and his stupid pride?

He held her hand as he drifted towards his own sleep. He promised her that they would find a way together. Deep down under all her masks, she was just a girl that dreamed of a better world. And he was a boy that dreamed of the very same thing.

He kept her hand pressed to his chest, whether she knew it or he would admit to it, that hand was melting the ice surrounding his heart. Warmth rushed through him, trying to find the cracks in the ice. Not to hurt or mar—but to thaw. To free.

He rubbed his eyes, letting his brain catch up to the rays of morning light. Two hundred three years, forty-one nights filled with the threat of screaming darkness. Two hundred three years, forty-two mornings where if he fell asleep, he would have awaken covered in sweat so thick it felt as if his body was covered in blood, her blood, their blood. So many mornings where the echoes would still scream at his heart reminding him of his failure.

But this morning he awoke at dawn warm, rested and holding a small scarred hand to his chest. Two hundred three years, forty-two days he had been drowning in darkness, his heart encased in solid ice.

Fifteen days ago his darkness didn’t seem as dark as he learned of her darkness. He had no idea what this was, but one thing was certain, she had chased his eternal nightmare away. He had no idea what was left of the boy he had once been. Because that was what he was then, a boy, and over two hundred years had passed.

He walked the familiar hall leading towards the kitchen to assemble a breakfast tray for Aelin. He had almost failed her, but he did not, his magic pulled against every push of hers. Their magic sung a song so old and so rare, if he had a doubt that they were Carranam the doubt washed away in that bath house. What it meant to be bonded would just be another thing for them to figure out as they crawled from the darkness that surrounded their beings.

Last night he meant every word, he had every intention of procuring a cot. This morning he knew that her soul was made of fire and that fire kept the darkness that always crept in at bay. If he allowed it, if he let go, she could melt the ice protecting heart. Maybe a cot would not be the answer that either of them needed.

- - - - - -

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@awesomebooksuniverse @queen-elain @rowan-buzzard-whitethorn

#rowan whitethorn pov #rowaelin #heir of fire #rowan whitethorn #tog #the prince of ice #prince of ice #sparkleywonderful

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falsealchemist-blog · 6 years

Text

Chapter 2.1 - Highway to Hell

Six months after Argent knocks on ash’s door.

“You’re fucking CRAZY,” Ash half screamed, clinging desperately to the safety handle in Argent’s car. In response, Argent started cackling, then stuck his head out of his window. The reason for Ash’s distress was quite apparent- They were currently speeding down a freeway at upwards of 90 miles an hour, with several vehicles in pursuit. oh, and they were going against the flow.

“huh” Argent remarked, half to himself. “Ya know, Usually the Elswain family doesn’t chase alchemists this far away from there territory. I wonder why...” Ash fixed his mentor with a steely glare. “Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you broke into their estate and stole a fucking briefcase! You said you were going to teach me how to gather pure Vermilion Ore! Not rob a freaking crime syndicate!” He let out a high pitched squeak as Argent cut across three lanes, barely missing an oncoming semi. Argent didn’t break from watching his pursuers. “that’s what I’m doing right now. and don’t call the Elswains a crime syndicate- They get touchy about that.” Ash stared at him incredulously. “Touchy? You STOLE something from them, I don’t think they’ll care whether or not we used the proper terminology when they break our kneecaps.” Argent frowned, thinking, then made an ‘ahh’ sound of realization as he maneuvered through a narrow gap between a minivan and a sports car.. “oops. I forgot to explain. Ash, this IS how to harvest vermilion ore- the only way, in fact.” “Right.” Ash said, fixing argent with the patented ‘you must think i’m stupid’ look of his that he’d spent his entire life practicing. “theft is the ONLY way to get the ore. And I’m Gandhi.” Argent squinted at his mirror, worried. why hadn’t the Elswain broken off pursuit yet? “ha, ha. Jokes aside, yes, theft is the only way to obtain vermilion ore from the source... kinda.” He took a moment, dragging his thoughts in order. “Right, so you asked that one time how alchemists could get away with harvesting specific materials from creatures considered sentient, and that had signed onto the Escalation treaties, yeah?” “yeah, but what does that have to-” Ash cut off with a panicked yelp as argent swerved off to the side to avoid a pack of bikers, kicking up a cloud of dirt from the shoulder of the road. “This. This is the workaround.” He gestured back at the pursuing vehicles. “Alchemists can harvest from any sentient species on the list, provided that they obtain prior permission, follow proper protocol, and if needed, provide reparations, usually healing and regeneration elixirs.”

Seeing Ash’s confusion, he continued. “The Elswain family is the only producer of vermilion ore, and are a distant to relation to dragons. I called ahead to obtain permission- this is proper protocol to obtain it.” “Wait” Ash said, thinking. “They wanted you to steal it?” Argent nodded. “Yes. well, technically, they want us to earn it. Many of the Escalation species, as we call the treaty signers, follow a similar line of thought, and challenge ingredient gatherers to various types of trials. ours was a simpler one- if you can grab it and get away, you can have it.” He looked at his rear-view mirror. “Though, they should have pulled off by now.” He frowned, concerned. “Check the briefcase, would you? make sure It has my name on it. I might’ve grabbed the wrong one.” Ash gave him a startled look, but then shrugged and glanced at the road. seeing that they were finally clear of oncoming traffic, he unclipped his seat belt and clambered into the backseat.

There, he found the source of today's troubles- A gleaming silver briefcase, about the size of a large laptop and only and inch or two thick. seeing nothing marking the front, he flipped it over. “Found it!” he called up. “there’s a small plate of metal, upper right corner, initialed A.C.” “Those are my initials alright. Although, the metal plate is fancier than I’m used too.” He mused out loud. “they usually just slap on a strip of duct tape with my info on it.” “why’s that” asked ash, clambering back into the passenger seat and buckling his seat-belt, case on his lap. “A sign of casual contempt.” remarked argent. He sighed in relief when he saw the pursuing vehicles fade out of sight. Turning, he looked at ash’s shocked face. “what?”

“Casual contempt? And you’re okay with that? You want everyone to like you!” Argent gave him a droll look. “I don’t want EVERYONE to like me, just those that I personally like. And I’m informed that their dislike of me is a thing to be proud of. It means they like me enough to hate me, if that makes sense. which, know that I think about it, kinda does. they usually treat everyone politely, but impersonally.” He nodded to himself, proud. Ash just shook his head. People are weird, he thought to himself. At that moment, the car gave off a small series of clicking noises. Argent chuckled, snapping out of his reviere, and patted the dash board. “Thirsty? Don’t worry girl, I’ll fill you up when we get back.” Ash shook his head again. And Argent's the weirdest of the lot, he thought to himself. As he drifted off to sleep, a small corner of his mind noted that the seats of the car, which had at first seemed to be uncomfortable pleather, on second glance was actually real leather, soft and supple. before he could ponder that further, however, sleep took him. ******************************************************************************************* A- Well, that was a wild ride. M- Really Asterion? Puns? A- While I didn’t actually mean to make that pun, I will gladly take the credit for it. However, I’ve got to ask- Why the skip? There was a whole six months of of shenanigans that you just... glossed over! M- While a lot of interesting things did happen then, Argent and Ash didn’t really start bonding until around this point. sure, they opened up to each other a bit, but not in any real way. they both are still hiding behind their shells. Also, the whole six months thing is honestly better suited for a series of short stories, not the main novel. and finally, This is where events start to click into place, and where fate begins to reveal his plots. A- Yeah, yeah. You make a lot of points, but I know your true reason- Captialism!!! M- Asterion! *the sound of something being thrown echos* A- Ack! Sorry, I was joking! .... please don’t make me sleep on the couch. M- Your puppy dog eyes don’t work on me, Asterion. And don’t joke about the book. I don’t know why, but it’s gotta be this way, and nitpicking at it is gonna make me feel bad about it. A- ... technically, they’re little bulls eyes. M- *chuckles quietly*

A- Sorry boo. I forgot that this is your first book out in the open, and that i’m kinda forcing you into it. M- Hey, saving another Reality to set events in motion to protect my own is one hell of a way to get over writers block... and I forgive you. A- No couch? M- No couch.

#thefalsealchemist #fantasy #webnovel

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