Redrawing that one pit fighter Vi scene (I need her biblically)
Okay folks, taking a small break for the next 2 weeks probably, because exams are approaching and I've got to lock in. I promise to get to your art requests once I'm over with that obligation!
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Summary: You were tasked with looking after four members of the King's Guard who stumbled into your Lord's keep in the middle of a stormy night. One of them was the Crown Prince in disguise and badly injured. You helped him, but now there are consequences that you must face alone...
Content Warning: allusions to violence, and descriptions of injuries
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You are brought to the motherhouse in chains and with a black eye. Not the best first impression you've ever made, but to be frank, there have been worse. The guards don't drag you in, but only because you refuse to be reduced to that. So there you stand, in your one still somewhat nice dress, chains on your ankles that clink and ring over the stones forcing you keep your stride short and somewhat awkward. At least it is still extremely early, and there aren't too many people to see the indignity of it all.
In hindsight, trying to escape that first time so far away from Oldtown had been a mistake. Turns out the guards had not been given orders to kill you once out of sight of the keep, Lady Havarn had kept her word that far. But she clearly had told them they did not have to be delicate in their handling of you. You attempted to sneak away under the cover of night, maybe three days out from the Havarn holdings, just far enough away that maybe, just maybe the guards wouldn't care enough to catch you.
Alas, you were incorrect. You don't know what Lady Havarn paid them, but rivers, it must have been something actually decent. They chased you down like hounds on a hunt, and then once they had you, gave you a sound thrashing to keep you from trying that again for a while. That beating they kept mostly perfunctory, all bruises that could be hidden by clothes. They were, after all, still traveling with you through lands where they might be recognized or known. Can't have their charge appear bloodied, that wouldn't do well for their reputation as guards, now would it?
Your second, and last attempt was closer to Oldtown. But unfortunately, an ill timed piss break from one of the guards meant they caught you before you could even get out of the back door of the cheap traveler's rest you'd rented floor space in.
That beating…was less perfunctory. That one, you know they took a little joy in. That's where the black eye, and the cut lip are from. And the chains. They bought those off a blacksmith, with your own money no less. The blacksmith gave you a discount, but refused to look you in the eye while he did it.
When the guards roughly woke you up this morning, you managed to convince them to at least let you have some time to dress presentably. Something, something, make a good impression so they can tell Lady Havarn they left you well in hand. You're not even completely sure what tale you spun. You haven't actually slept more than three or four hours all together in weeks, too frightened to let your guard down completely around these men. What ever it was, it worked. They let you dress in the one dress you had been saving for Oldtown. Lady Allyn gave it to you, and Lady Marissa helped you embellish it. It is the deep, eye catching blue of your house colors, with cream inserts along the bodice and skirts that flash when you move and walk. You and Lady Marissa spent the entire winter last winter covering it in hand embroidery – tea leaves of course done in varying shades of green and white.
This is the last shield you have, a dress that two women who cared enough about you to want you to have something that you could be proud to wear. And if you are going to be forced to give up your entire history, your past, your name – then by the rivers, you'll do it with your house colors on your back at least.
The Starry Sept bells chime seven bells as you are led up the stairs to the motherhouse. The doors have been thrown open, and there are already two lines of people building out and down the portico steps. One line appears to be of people suffering some kind of aliment or illness. There are mother's bouncing screaming, red faced children, beggars wrapped in rags around a bruised and broken limb, little clusters of friends supporting someone who can barely walk. The other line appears to be a food line of some kind, people with empty bowls and rough spun bags quietly lined up waiting their turn.
The guards lead you past both lines and into the cool, dim space of the motherhouse's entry. A statue of The Mother herself looms in the center, she is covered in a stone carved shroud, her features completely hidden, but her hands are outstretched as though offering you something. You have never felt any connection with The Seven, your mother was someone of the rivers, and she raised you to be the same. Your father, who was an adherent of The Faith, never had any issues with it, and never made you go to the Sept with him on the rare occurrences that he went. You almost wish he had, maybe then this wouldn't feel like so much of a betrayal of your home and history.
The guards take you right up to a random Septa who is in the middle of directing the food line and does not look pleased to be disturbed from her work.
"We've come to deliver this lady to the motherhouse, Septa. Where do we take her for her vows?"
The Septa looks you up and down, and does not miss the chains. She also lingers for just a second on the black eye and split lip.
"My good sir, we are, as you can undoubtedly see, quite busy this morning -"
"Just direct us, madam. We're happy to take her where ever you point us." The guard interrupts, impatient but still somewhat deferential in his tone. The Septa is not impressed.
"If you are here to join the Silent Sisters, my lady -" she tries to direct the conversation to you. The guard interrupts her again.
"She is."
"…I see." The Sept says, and the look she gives you is pure pity. Your raise your chin up just a little bit. You may have to make vows with a spear point in your back, but you can't stand the idea of doing it with this woman's pity pointed at you.
She turns away for a moment, looking about the large room. She than raises one hand just a little, to get someone's attention.
"Septa Monroe, please, attend me," she says quietly, but her voice still somehow carries clearly in this huge and crowded room. A younger woman comes gliding over, after having dropped off a stack of clean linens at the table where several Septas and two Silent Sisters are tending to the sick.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Thank you, my dear. This young lady is here to make her vows to The Stranger. Could you escort her to Sisters?"
Septa Monroe looks you over with the same brisk efficiency as this woman did, but there's no pity in her gaze, just business.
"Of course, ma'am. My lady, if you will follow me?"
You go to pull out of the guard's grasp, a little spark of hope lighting. If you can get away from them, before you swear anything…
"We're to witness her vows," the guard with his hand wrapped around your arm says firmly, shattering that hope.
The Septas trade a look you can't interpret, but both nod in simple acquiescence. Septa Monroe turns and begins to lead you and your escort deeper into the room. The chains drag across the floor and you feel like every eye in the room is watching you leave. The last glimpse the world will have of you: chained, bloodied but unbroken.
Septa Monroe leads you down a series of tall, echoing hallways. There are plenty of women going about their work, and almost none of them take any notice of you and your guards. Deeper into the motherhouse you are led, down a flight of stone stairs, barely lit, making it feel like the earth itself is swallowing you up.
You are led into an enormous windowless room. Candles are lit in carved alcoves that almost look like they could be windows, but instead are filled with carefully painted scenes featuring The Stranger. Another looming carved statue stands at the far end of the room, this one vaguely sinister, where The Mother had been welcoming. There is no beckoning hands here, only the stern faceless shape of someone in a hooded cloak. Silent Sisters work in the room, some are praying, others are cleaning the alcoves, some are working on herbs and other medicines on low tables. They all look up when you enter the room.
Septa Monroe motions for you and your guards to wait at the doorway while she enters the sacred space and speaks to one of the Silent Sisters who comes over to meet her. The Silent Sister of course says nothing, but listens, and then makes a few quick gestures with her hands, some kind of communication. The Sister nods finally, and then comes back over to you with Septa Monroe.
"This is the head of our Silent Sisters, she will hear your vows, my lady. I will speak them and all you must do is agree. Do you understand?"
The guard's grip on your arm turns punishing.
"I understand," you say tightly.
The Silent Sister turns to you, her eyes are a warm dark brown, which is the only feature you can really make out from her vestments and the dimness of the room. She places a hand on her heart, and offers you her other hand. You hold out your hand in kind, but instead of grasping palms, she takes your hand in a warrior's grip which to you seems out of place, and at the same time, a perfect expression of battle that rages in you.
"Do you so swear that you will honor and keep The Stranger while in His house, obey his edicts and live peaceably with his followers?"
It chokes you breathless for a second the rage at being forced here after everything you've been through, everything you've survived. But the guard on your am digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your bicep and you grit out: "I swear."
"Do you swear to shed all earthly titles, names and holdings while in His house, understanding that before him we are all equal, because one day we will all be made equal under his blade?"
You are shaking, trembling with your anger, and pain, and horror, and hurt of more than ten years, you want to scream, you want to turn and savage the guard who still has his hands on you. Claw out his eyes, and rip out his throat with your teeth.
"I swear," you say and it is practically spat, like poison.
"Do you so swear that while in His house, to aid the helpless, comfort the lonely, and gentle the dying?"
"I swear," you answer, and you wonder if these are really to be the last words you utter aloud. Maybe when you are alone, maybe when there is no one around except the eyes of gods you don't believe in, maybe you will be able to whisper comfort to yourself, to sing the songs your mother and grandmother taught you. It will be such a lonely comfort, but maybe it will be enough.
"Then the Silent Sisters welcome you into the house of The Stranger. May his blade find the heart of those who are untrue."
The Septa finishes, and the Silent Sister keeps your arm grasped in her grip, but takes the hand that was on her chest over her heart and places it on yours, pressing down, hard.
The guards let you go. You stand statue still under the Sister's hand, your ears are ringing.
"It is done," Septa Monroe states. "Gentlemen, may I show you out." She asks but doesn't really ask it like a question. Instead she gestures back to the doors and the way you had come.
One of the guards, the one that gave you the black eye, looks you over with a sneer.
"Good riddance." He mutters at you, drops your bag on the floor and then leaves, the other men following him out. None of them give you so much as a backwards glance. You briefly imagine picking up one of the smaller stone effigies in the window alcoves and beating him to death with it.
And then, without pause, they are gone. You listen to their stomping steps on the stairs for a handful of seconds and then silence returns. You are alone, in a room with your new Sisters. The one that took your vow very carefully pulls her hand back from your chest, and lets go of your arm. You try to focus on her, but everything around you feels like its underwater.
She bends down and picks up your bag, and then she gently, oh so gently, takes you by the hand again, this time grasping your fingers with hers and leads you towards the statue of The Stranger. But rather than making you kneel, or do some other kind of ritual, she leads you around it, and then through a small door set in the wall so far that it's almost nothing but a shadow.
Silently, she brings you down a short hallway, then up a steep set of stairs, until you are back on the ground floor, with light coming in through high windows. You can glimpse what appears to be one of the Starry Sept's inner courtyards, with plenty of maesters and Septas crossing to and fro, all of them with their hands full, clearly working.
You're distracted for a moment by the light, so you almost miss it when the Silent Sister opens a plain wooden door off the hallway and pulls you in.
The room is small, but well lit by more high windows. It has a large desk pressed up against one wall and then absolutely surrounded by shelves filled with scrolls, books, papers, tomes, and all manner of writing implements. In the middle of the chaos sits an elderly Septa, someone you'd guess at being close to 70 or 80 years sitting perched like a thin, old bird in her chair writing in a tidy hand.
She looks up when you come in, her eyes are a piercing bright blue set into deep sunk eyes.
"Ah, hello Sister, who do we have here?"
The Silent Sister puts your bag down, and does something quick with her hand again, and the Septa nods.
"I understand. Please return to your duties, thank you." The Silent Sister squeezes the hand she is still holding, and then lets you go and withdraws, shutting the door behind her.
"Welcome to the motherhouse of the Starry Sept, my lady. I am sorry your journey here has been so difficult."
You say nothing, but still faintly tremble holding back angry tears. She looks at you calmly, no pity, just a clear eyed patient gaze.
"You can speak, my lady." She says simply. You shake your head sadly, pointing uselessly at the door the Silent Sister just left through.
"My lady, take a moment and think about the vows you just made. Did any of them include silence?"
Well…no. None of them did, but…you just swore to the Silent Sisters, and as far as you know those vows include silence and chastity.
"No…" you whisper carefully, half expecting to be chastised for it.
"That's right, because there wasn't one. All you swore was to keep the peace while in His house, to treat all people as equals, and to aid and help those that need it. While in His house. You made no promises about what you'll be doing outside of his House, now did you?"
Your mouth drops open just a little. That's…by all the rivers in the known and unknown world. That's…brilliant. You reach out and catch yourself on the back of the lone chair in front of the Septa's desk. You heart hasn't stopped racing this whole time, but now it's like you can feel its exertion.
"It's alright, my dear. Take your time."
"I…I'm not…I'm not a Silent Sister?" you ask.
"No, you are not. The vows Silent Sisters take are a rite that is done by them alone, in their own ways, by their own traditions. And men are forbidden from witnessing it. What you just went through was a bit of theater that many motherhouses do for…well, let's say more complicated cases, like yours."
"Forced cases," you say, wanting desperately for someone to speak to you plainly. The Septa hears it in your voice and smoothly adapts.
"Yes, just so. We are not in the habit of accepting members into our orders under duress, my lady. But that is a secret that I trust you will keep for us. Many women rely on our discretion."
You nod your head rapidly. Believer or not, you will happily take this secret to your crossing and beyond. You think you'd keep it a secret even if the Mother of Rivers herself asked you about it.
"Sit down, my lady, before you fall down." The Septa says firmly, and you move around the chair so you can drop into it. You press your hands against your face and breathe. Just breathe, you tell yourself. The weight of the past three weeks, shudders and clings to your shoulders, your mind spins and spins, chasing itself around and around, settling no where. You're alright, but you're still alone. You're not trapped in a new cage, but rather have found that it has no bars at all.
The woman gets up from her desk and shuffles over to a slim sideboard where a pitcher and several horn cups sit. She pours you some water and hands it to you. You gulp it down and it's the finest thing you've ever tasted.
"I don't mean to overwhelm you further, but I need to ask you a couple of questions, just to determine what we next do," the Septa says as she eases herself back into her seat.
You are still sharp enough to be wary, but you nod nonetheless.
"Will they come back to check on you?" she asks simply.
"I don't think so, they were very ready to be rid of me. I imagine they're already back on the road to home."
"That's good, makes things easier. Do you need healing of any kind?"
"I wouldn't say no to some ointment for the lip, it keeps cracking when I try to eat."
"Anything else? Anything you'd want only another woman to help you with?" she asks gentler now.
"Oh, no, I'm alright, thank you." And you are, the guards were vindictive, especially towards then end when their patience was thin, but they didn't hurt you like that.
"Very well. I will not ask you your name, nor will I ask what your circumstances are. The less we know, the safer you are, do you understand?"
"Yes," you reply. You don't point out that this also keeps them safe too. They can swear all kinds of things under oaths if they know nothing after all.
"Good. You are welcome to spend the day and night here in our dorms. We have spaces for female travelers that are not lavish, but are safe. You will be provided a bed, access to our laundry and baths, some time with one of our healers, and a meal this evening. The only thing we ask in return is that you adhere to the oaths you did make earlier, and that you do not ask questions of any of the other women here. You are free to leave whenever you like, if you stay for longer than one night we will assign you chores in exchange for your lodgings and food. We do not accept coin for this, do you understand? You will work along side us all, or you will leave."
"I understand, ma'am. I'm not unused to work, and have some skill in herb craft myself. I would be happy to help in your stillroom, or wherever you see fit to assign me." You say sincerely. You had no idea that motherhouses did this kind of thing, but you are so incredibly relieved that they do. You'll do whatever they ask of you, happily.
"Then I think you will do well in your time here, however long you choose that to be." She reaches over behind her, and you see there's a pull chain hidden amongst the books shelves. She pulls it sharply.
"Go in the light of The Seven, my dear. Someone will come along to take you to our blacksmith to deal with the chains, and then will direct you to the dorms. No offense meant, but you look like you're about to drop."
You get up and feel every mile of bad road hit you all at once. It is a short struggle to find your balance, but the water she gave you has helped, the freedom she so easily handed you even more. You pick up your bag, which is nothing more than a large sack really, with two dresses, some under layers, your sewing kit, and whatever from your herbal stores that the cook and you could fit. Your money, and the debt voucher that Lady Havarn had given you with a glare was sewn hastily into the bodice of your red gown. You know its still there from the weight of the bag.
"Thank you, ma'am," you say and try to convey every ounce of your gratefulness into it. She just nods at you, and goes back to her accounts.
"Please shut the door on your way out, my dear."
You shuffle out, and do so, leaning against it once it clicks shut. Someone comes jogging up the hallway, you look up to see a woman, maybe five or six years younger than you. She's dressed in plain but serviceable clothes, not like a Septa or a Silent Sister. She gives you a quick once over, and by that same female alchemy that you all share, accurately manages to sum up your situation in that glance.
"My lady, are you who the Septa rang us for?" she asks, dropping into a pretty good curtsy.
"Within these walls, I think we'd best drop the titles, don't you?" you say, exhausted, but aware of the vows you made. Honoring them is no burden now. The young woman smiles brightly at you, pleased.
"As you say, then. Where to first?"
"Blacksmith."
"Yes, that's where I'd want to go first to. Come on."
Your guide is quick witted and sweet. She doesn't tell you much and you don't ask, but you glean that she was brought here by her father and left. She's not sure if she wants to take orders, but knows she doesn't have many other options available to her. She's biding her time for now, content to help at the motherhouse with chores in exchange for a place to sleep.
The blacksmith is an older gentleman who takes his work seriously. He has the chains off you in no time, and you let him have them for scrap metal. Good riddance, indeed. Your guide takes you to the dorms next. It's still early in the morning, but all the beds are empty and neatly made. She brings you to one that has an empty chest that can be locked at the foot of it, a bowl and pitcher on top already filled with clean water, and extra blankets on the bed.
"This can be you. We'll wake you for the evening meal."
"Don't I have chores assigned?"
"Not on your first day. Your first day is for sleeping."
You choke back tears, the younger woman just gives you a warm smile. "Rest. You're safe here." And with that, she leaves you.
You're truly, properly alone for the first time in weeks, no guards hovering near by. No men leering at you while you try to change carefully in a corner or behind a bush. No sounds of chains rattling with every move you make.
The room echoes with your rushed gasping breaths as you drop your bag and sink to the floor next to it. There's no grace to you, there's no elegance, your legs sprawl, your skirts twist and you cry. You cry, and cry, and cry in a way you haven't let yourself do so in years. There is no quieting this, there is no hiding it, there is no trying to escape the sounds of your sorrow. Because this isn't only sorrow. It's relief. It's the clean, uncomplicated feeling of relief. You're safe here. What a concept. What a thing you have not known in thirteen years. You're safe here.
You cry until you can't any more. You drink half the water in the pitcher, and use the other half to clean your face. You press your cool hands against your eyes and breathe, and breathe, and breathe. No one disturbs you. No one comes in. You are safe here.
You put your things in the trunk, strip off your favorite gown and put it inside as well. You tuck the key to the trunk in your hose, kick off your shoes, and climb into the bed, pulling all the blankets over you so you are weighed down with the feeling of safety. The linens are perfumed with lavender.
You are asleep in an instant.
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You spend three days at the motherhouse. And by the end of those three days your lip has finally stopped cracking when you smile, your bruises have faded to green, and you've managed to wash all your clothing, and had a hot bath. In short, you actually feel half way human again.
You've also bought five sheets of parchment from one of the Septas, along with ink and two pens. You spend your last sunny afternoon in a quiet corner of the inner most courtyard and carefully write out every single word of the overheard conversation you spent the whole trip to Oldtown reciting to yourself in coded language. It takes up every bit of four of those sheets, front and back, but you get it all down.
The young woman who has been your guide since that first hour sits in the sun near you, close enough that she can use the ink bottle as well. You have written out an alphabet sampler for her, and she is carefully practicing writing each letter as small as she can trying to make the parchment last as long as possible. You don't mind spending your afternoons teaching her to read. She helped you, treated you no different than any other woman despite knowing about the state you were in when you arrived.
You are folding the parchments up into the ridiculous letter lock that the Bloodraven requires his reports to be in (and struggling with it, four sheets is turning out to be rather unwieldy, you might have to split it up into two separate packets), when you speak up.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," you tell her. Neither of you have exchanged names, none of the women who stay here, in this tucked away dorm and courtyard do. Still, you wish you knew hers. If only so that when you pray to the rivers, you have a name to give them for their blessings.
She looks up from her sampler, eyes troubled. "You are?"
"Yes. I've decided what I'm going to do next, and I need to be on my way."
"Where are you going to go?" She doesn't know much about your situation, just the broad outlines that you'd been taken from your home, and after a great deal of time, suddenly left here.
"I'm going to go home," you say simply. You have already included that tidbit in your report. There is nothing left for you in the Dornish Marshes, or the Reach. There isn't anything left for you anywhere, except maybe Dorne. The Yronwoods told you your keep burned, but they never said anything about the town. Besides, despite the pain you know awaits you there, you also know in your bones you have to go back. You need to walk barefoot in The Scourge again, and let it wash you clean. You need to sew the funerary streamers for your mother and your siblings to put in the waters so they can find their crossings. You need to light a candle in the Sept, if it still stands, for your father. You need to know what happened to your lands in a real way, not just what you've been told on paper. You need to know what happened to the people there. You will not feel like you have a future you can build if you do not do these things.
"Dorne?" she asks. You haven't given her specifics, but well, it isn't as if time can take the Dornish look away from you.
"Yes," you answer simply. The parchments in your hands spring back from the fold you've tried to force them into. With an annoyed sigh, you split them into two packets and try that. It goes a little easier, but they are still putting up a fight.
"The people that took you, they won't look for you there, right?" she asks.
"No, the people that originally took me were stripped of their titles and lands, they're not there anymore. And anyone else is too far away."
Your friend doesn't look reassured, in fact she looks more worried. "Still sounds dangerous."
"Most things are, at least at little bit," you point out gently.
"Is there anyone waiting for you there?" she asks. You unthinkingly press two fingers to your father's ring. She catches it, but says nothing.
You look down at the report in your hands. It reads like a long, rambling missive about beer production. It's near incoherent on the surface. Only the Bloodraven, who has the key that you have memorized will be able to decode it.
Is there anyone waiting for you?
You suppose that once you have done your duty to the past, you could reach out to Bloodraven again. He probably would assign you something, somewhere. Between the two of you, you could come up with some kind of plausible backstory and a letter of introduction from someone that owes the Bloodraven a favor. It would probably be as a lady in waiting again, or, if you weren't able to keep your noble birth as a part of the backstory, working in a kitchen or stillroom somewhere.
It would be many more years of what you've been doing, but it could work. You are good at it you know.
Unbidden, from a corner of your heart, you see a flash of warm, mismatched eyes, crinkled at the edges as he teases you over the rim of his mug.
There has been no news circulating around about Prince Baelor. Nary a whisper about him being injured, or healing. You have heard some strange tales about the tourney, but nothing specific. It seems that this far away from Ashford, all anyone can agree on for sure is that a trial of the seven took place. Every day that passes though, the stories grow.
You haven't heard any word about him dying, at least. So you hope that he is healing. You hope he is well. You hope he isn't in pain. You hope he is smiling.
"There is someone," your friend says, breaking into your thoughts. You look over and she's got a conspiratorial sort of smile on. You shake your head.
"No, there isn't. Maybe a few people will remember me, enough to maybe offer me a room to sleep in for a few nights. But other than that, there's no one."
"That is not the look you just had on your face."
You huff, "What look did I have then?"
"For just a second? Hope."
Well, you suppose that is true. You do have hopes for him, after all. You try pressing two sheets down into the letter lock, but they refuse to fold cleanly. Annoyed you unfold all the sheets and smooth them flat again. There is just one bare centimeter of space at the bottom of the fourth page. You could fit one more line of text if you wanted.
If you can get word to me, I will come for you, he had said. No matter where you are.
He promised.
You look at your hands, ink stained, and with callouses where you've used a needle for years without a thimble, and where you have used kitchen tools to make tisanes and tinctures. Your nails are ragged still, from biting them on the journey here, when the stress wouldn't let you rest much less sleep. They are the same hands that cradled his face, passed through his hair, held his hand, held him against you. He didn't mean it. There's no way he could have.
"Do you believe in second chances?" you ask your friend. She hasn't looked away from you, but rather sat patiently for you to finish sorting through your thoughts.
"Of course I do, I'm here, aren't I?" she gestures around the courtyard and to the motherhouse. "We're living, breathing examples of second chances. We all are."
There is one clear way you could get a message to the Prince. You have a direct line to the crown through The Bloodraven. But it would mean Prince Baelor would know. He'd know the truth about you, about what you are, what you've done, and how you lied. He will find out anyway, you think to yourself. The Bloodraven is sure to make the connection once Tarly and the other Kings Guards make their own reports.
You have put nothing of the Prince in your report, you don't fully trust that information to paper, even encoded. Details of an insurrectionist meeting are important of course but if they go astray, well, that will be terrible, but it isn't going to harm the crown over much. It's also not going to do you any harm since you're not there anymore. But information about the location, health and well being of the heir to the Iron Throne? Even if it is weeks old? No, you can't put that down.
At least with Tarly, Bloodraven will have his precious verification. The man loves having verifiable information.
Putting something down here though, even obliquely, it would mean trusting the Bloodraven. You've trusted that mysterious man with your life for eleven years, but do you trust him with the fate of your heart? He could decide to never mention it. He could not even realize the significance of whatever you decide to say. He might not even get this report.
You think for a brief moment, of when the Prince offered you a favor. Back at almost the beginning, when you had entertained the idea of telling him everything and letting the pieces of the game fall where they may. You had thought to yourself, under different circumstances, in different weather, at a different table – maybe you would have done it.
The spring weather is so fine today, the trees are blooming overhead. You and your friend are writing atop wooden tablets held in your laps. You are, for the first time in your entire life, beholden to no one. Second changes, indeed.
Call for me, he whispered against your skin. Believe me, he had begged.
The gods do not play games of chance, a voice that sounds like your mother whispers from the depths of your memory. You can almost hear her for true, you think. On the eddies of grief that run through you always and every day, she hums a tune, one she used to sing to you and your siblings when you were small.
I will meet you by the river / If I go before you do…
Before the more rational part of you can second guess any of it further, you wet the tip of your pen and scratch in plain Common at the bottom of the fourth sheet a message for the Bloodraven. It mentions no one by name. It mentions no where specific. It will be understood by exactly one person in all the world, if it manages to find its way into his hands.
This time, when you fold up the parchment, it does so obligingly, like it had never known any other shape. You take that for the sign it maybe is, and let yourself hope.
From the little 100 panel nsft comic of @valeriarts (on their ao3) go read it, please, it is genuinely delicious Ghoulcy-
I'm so obsessed with them. Look at them, please! They are just so darling! I don't know what it is about this panel that is so soft and sweet and makes me-
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Finished reading and also got to watch project hail mary today, i love this story so much, it is so funny and cool and I just absolutely love it 100000/10 would definitely recommend
you all probably know this already but i'm studying anatomy with the morpho books and some things i've been trying to hint at or plainly avoided drawing are so simple now 😭😭 i really rawdogged this for nothing it could have been this easy the whole time
