Her dearest Isobel had perished decades ago–she had no way of knowing how long now, no method of marking her mourning with every little anniversary, as though she would grieve less deeply on every other night without her. Even her mother, with all her power, could not reach her in this wretched place. No one but servants of villainy, cultists and that terrible necromancer, could reach her here. Not even Isobel’s father dared visit her after that first time, the coward.
And now, not even her own wings. Not content to harvest her very life, no, Balthazar had to take even that from her.
She roared and pulled at her chains, but try as she might, they held fast. Dark wizardry designed to snuff out her light. Blood trickled down her back from weeping wounds at every movement, the pain of it only fueling her rage.
Aylin would kill them. She would slaughter them all.
But when she finally sat down to rest, there were no feathers to wrap around herself as she wallowed, and she knew not whether hours or centuries awaited before she could fulfill her vow.
“Aylin?”
A gentle hand shook her shoulder, and Aylin’s eyes snapped open in a flash of silver.
“Aylin, it’s only me. You were crying while you slept.” Isobel’s voice, the one she’d yearned to hear for so long. Aylin tried to relax at its tone, but she found she could not.
“Damn it all.” Aylin sat upright. Her hands shook still. She had slain Ketheric Thorm; her hands should not be yet shaking. She should not weep beside her beloved.
Isobel rose as well. She huddled close, her hand going to Aylin’s back to stroke softly. “It’s alright, you know. It’s not a failing.”
“They do not deserve my tears.” The words came out angrier than she intended. She curled her hands to fists, but did nothing with them.
“There is a flower named after Selûne’s tears, you know,” Isobel went on. “Called just that, a beautiful midnight-blue blossom. If your mother could cry enough for a flower to be named after the event, you’re certainly allowed.”
Aylin hated it when Isobel had a point. Though at the same time, she could never hate anything about Isobel at all.
“I dreamed of your return to me so often that sometimes, I’m unsure which one is the dream and which is reality,” she admitted.
It felt as though she were admitting defeat, utterly infuriating. Balthazar was dead. Ketheric was dead. She alone had risen from Shadowfell, glowing and glorious.
How could it then feel like defeat?
She summoned her wings, flapped them once, then dismissed them just as fast, just to prove to herself that she could.
“This is real. I am real, and I am here,” Isobel assured her, as if it were perfectly natural to have to assure such a thing. She stole a quick kiss, an attempt to prove her point. “I am not going anywhere.”
Aylin knew that was not true. Isobel may have been revived, but she was still mortal. But she had long made her peace with that, so long as she was able to live out her days to their natural end this time.
“And I am ever grateful for it,” she said instead.
“Come, lay down. I know an enchantment good for fright.” Isobel patted the bed.
Aylin laid as directed. “Hah. I am not frightened.” Yet, she did not protest.
“Of course not, my darling. Te absolvo.”
With that, Isobel’s hands glowed sky-blue but for a moment, and Aylin felt as though her heart were wrapped in a warm embrace, the fear and unease and even rage driven straight out of it for the time being. It would not last, she knew, and she would not like it to–she was not one to run from her problems, even when said problems could not be cut down with a sword.
But she would not turn down a single night’s undisturbed rest, either.
“Better?” Isobel asked, wiping the tears from her cheeks now that they’d stopped, her fingers running painlessly along the scars traversing Aylin’s face.
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FILL: TEAM OC MOON
Date: 2024-06-23 07:05 am (UTC)Ship: Aylin/Isobel
Words: 706
Aylin was alone.
Her dearest Isobel had perished decades ago–she had no way of knowing how long now, no method of marking her mourning with every little anniversary, as though she would grieve less deeply on every other night without her. Even her mother, with all her power, could not reach her in this wretched place. No one but servants of villainy, cultists and that terrible necromancer, could reach her here. Not even Isobel’s father dared visit her after that first time, the coward.
And now, not even her own wings. Not content to harvest her very life, no, Balthazar had to take even that from her.
She roared and pulled at her chains, but try as she might, they held fast. Dark wizardry designed to snuff out her light. Blood trickled down her back from weeping wounds at every movement, the pain of it only fueling her rage.
Aylin would kill them. She would slaughter them all.
But when she finally sat down to rest, there were no feathers to wrap around herself as she wallowed, and she knew not whether hours or centuries awaited before she could fulfill her vow.
“Aylin?”
A gentle hand shook her shoulder, and Aylin’s eyes snapped open in a flash of silver.
“Aylin, it’s only me. You were crying while you slept.” Isobel’s voice, the one she’d yearned to hear for so long. Aylin tried to relax at its tone, but she found she could not.
“Damn it all.” Aylin sat upright. Her hands shook still. She had slain Ketheric Thorm; her hands should not be yet shaking. She should not weep beside her beloved.
Isobel rose as well. She huddled close, her hand going to Aylin’s back to stroke softly. “It’s alright, you know. It’s not a failing.”
“They do not deserve my tears.” The words came out angrier than she intended. She curled her hands to fists, but did nothing with them.
“There is a flower named after Selûne’s tears, you know,” Isobel went on. “Called just that, a beautiful midnight-blue blossom. If your mother could cry enough for a flower to be named after the event, you’re certainly allowed.”
Aylin hated it when Isobel had a point. Though at the same time, she could never hate anything about Isobel at all.
“I dreamed of your return to me so often that sometimes, I’m unsure which one is the dream and which is reality,” she admitted.
It felt as though she were admitting defeat, utterly infuriating. Balthazar was dead. Ketheric was dead. She alone had risen from Shadowfell, glowing and glorious.
How could it then feel like defeat?
She summoned her wings, flapped them once, then dismissed them just as fast, just to prove to herself that she could.
“This is real. I am real, and I am here,” Isobel assured her, as if it were perfectly natural to have to assure such a thing. She stole a quick kiss, an attempt to prove her point. “I am not going anywhere.”
Aylin knew that was not true. Isobel may have been revived, but she was still mortal. But she had long made her peace with that, so long as she was able to live out her days to their natural end this time.
“And I am ever grateful for it,” she said instead.
“Come, lay down. I know an enchantment good for fright.” Isobel patted the bed.
Aylin laid as directed. “Hah. I am not frightened.” Yet, she did not protest.
“Of course not, my darling. Te absolvo.”
With that, Isobel’s hands glowed sky-blue but for a moment, and Aylin felt as though her heart were wrapped in a warm embrace, the fear and unease and even rage driven straight out of it for the time being. It would not last, she knew, and she would not like it to–she was not one to run from her problems, even when said problems could not be cut down with a sword.
But she would not turn down a single night’s undisturbed rest, either.
“Better?” Isobel asked, wiping the tears from her cheeks now that they’d stopped, her fingers running painlessly along the scars traversing Aylin’s face.
One night of peace. She would face it tomorrow.
“Always.”