#vindeliar

dwalia is really funny

(i am still reading tfatft so please do not leave insane spoilers in the tags for me to read on accident i beg of you. thank you for your kindness 🙏🏼) done now, spoil away fellas

Skill Fight

I had known that for days now, but even more, I had known it for every long night that came between those days. During the days when both Dwalia and Vindeliar were awake, I had no time to dwell on it. I was too busy defending my thoughts from Vindeliar while grovelling to Dwalia and impressing on her how cowed and subservient I was now. During those hours, my father's abandonment of me was a constant humming pain, as permanent as the restless water that surrounded us. During the days, my survival floated on that sea of hurt.

At night, I sank beneath it and drowned in it. My loneliness had become absolute when I had touched minds with my father and he had pushed me away. I had tried to make it less of a rejection in any way I could, but it was like trying to put the pieces of a cup together so it made a teapot. There had been those other voices. One had been my sister's perhaps, but I was not certain. There had been a chorus of others, including one who shouted and roared. I didn't know how I had reached them, but I knew my father had been aware of me. "Flee," he had bidden me, as if there were danger, but he did not flee with me. He had not caught me up and kept me safe. He had stayed in the middle of that storm of voices. He had paid attention to them, pushing me to one side. When I had dared to call out to him again, he had shoved me roughly away. He had pushed me so hard that I had not been able to hold onto him. I'd fallen away from him, away from my hope of rescue and a return to a life that had some kindness in it. I'd tumbled back into myself, into my lonely small self, and found Vindeliar already sniffing around my boundaries. I had not even dared to weep aloud.

I'd slammed my walls tight, tight, tight. Wolf Father had warned me. To hold my walls that tight meant that no one could reach me. At that moment, I hoped no one would ever touch my thoughts again. I never wanted anyone to like me again, let alone love me. And I was never, ever going to like anyone else.

I drew a great breath and wondered if that were true. Then I lay back on my bed and stared at the stone lacework of the wall. I thought of all he had said. "If I just stay here in my cell, they will kill me, I think."

"So I have dreamed. A harsh breath, a candle goes out."

I let the tiny edge of my plan creep into my mind. How much had his dreams told him of me? Did he know my intentions? "You think I should stay in my cell?"

He heaved a great sigh. "I only say to you that it is a possibility you may not have considered. Perhaps you should try to see where that decision might lead." In a very quiet voice he added, "For us, it is not always about our own survival. It is about the path we believe is best for the world."

"Vindeliar told me he could feel when he was on the true Path. Well, I feel mine now. It feels right, Prilkop."

"So many things do when they are the things we want to do."

"What did you dream me doing?"

There was a smile in his voice. "I dreamed many different paths for you. Some more likely than others." He whispered the words to me again, that peculiarly familiar rhyme: "A piebald bird, a silver ship, oh what are you awaking? One shall be two and two be one before the future's breaking."

Instead I recalled with horror the searing glimpse of torch-lit stone walls lined with elevated benches, and a bloody creature chained to a table who screamed piteously as Dwalia offered a delicate knife to an impassive man. Pen, ink and paper waited on a tall stand near her. When the person screamed out a recognizable word, she stepped aside to jot it down, and to add notes, perhaps on what pain had torn words from him. She seemed cheery and efficient, her hair neatly braided in a crown around her head. A canvas smock protected her pastel blue garments.

Vindeliar stood at the edge of the theatre, a despised outcast who averted his eyes and trembled at each screech wrung from the victim. He'd understood little of the reasons for tormenting the writhing creature. Some of the seated onlookers were watching with mouths ajar and eyes wide, and others laughed into their hands, with strange shame blushing their cheeks. Some were pale of skin, hair and eyes, and others were as dark-haired and warm-skinned as my parents. There were old people, and people of working age, and four children who looked younger than me. And they all watched the torture as if it were an entertainment.

And then, to my horror, the poor creature on the table stiffened. His blood-tipped fingers strained wide against his restraints and his head thrashed wildly for a moment. Then he was still. The panting sounds he had made ceased and I thought he had died. Then, in a terrible exhalation of breath, he screamed a name. "FitzChivalry! Fitz! Help me, oh help me! Fitz! Please, Fitz!"

Dwalia was transfigured. She lifted her head as if she had heard the voice of a god calling her and a terrible smile came over her face! Whatever she wrote in the book, she did with a flourish. And then she paused, pen lifted, and made a request. "Again," she said to the tormentor. "Again, please. I wish to be certain!"