ELYSIAN ▸ peter pevensie

━ [𝟬𝟭] the weight of the world

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chapter 1
the weight of the world
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She is quiet, but not peaceful – an important distinction to make about Andromeda Hood, who comes either by force or by choice, but never by chance. No, she is not on fate's side and she is a nonbeliever of predetermined outcomes.

The will of the universe is nothing next to her own volition, but some things stay firmly out of her control and this unfortunately forces her to join the crowd's belief in gods that may never arrive, in monarchs that are lost to a prophecy she has buried in the trenches of her own memory.

There is that burden as well – of remembering everything, because the cost of near-immortality is the scars that cannot be erased by time. She thinks it's a smaller price to pay compared to all the crueller expenses of her own life: of watching friends grow old and die, accepting that nature will work its course but she will always be the toughest thing to kill, stubborn with her death just as she is stubborn with every other decision, just as she is with every moment of her life. She has said far more goodbyes than she can handle; at some point, grief itself tired of her and left her empty to exist as a vortex.

The blood moon is high in the sky and the stars are nowhere to be seen. It is just a sliver of red light that reaches the ground through the thick rolling clouds. Lightning snaps, a whip of electricity thrashing on the horizon, and a snarl of thunder rips through the sky. The night is writhing with anticipation for some reason, the trees are whispering to each other, and the shadows are dancing a waltz.

It is almost prophetic, almost beautiful – if Andy believed in good or bad omens. No, there is no such thing as silent warnings.

Snow crunches under her boots as she inches through the woods. The wind teases her, leaving frostbite on her fingers and on the back of her neck. It is otherwise soundless, save for the drip, drip, drip of blood down the blades of her scimitars and the beating of her heart in her throat.

She allows herself a deep inhale, ignoring the way the cold burns, and focuses on the overwhelming scent of bloodstained breath – she can't tell if it's hers or the wolves'. The darkness moves, or it's just her own shadow. She suppresses a frustrated growl and moves towards a tree.

Her hand, still sticky from a kill, leaves stains on the trunk, the roughness of its bark cutting effortlessly through her haze and pulling her back into the present. "Please, friend," She dares to whisper as she presses her forehead to the tree. "I need your help."

It is getting progressively difficult with each passing day to know which tree to trust and which to not, but it is only in moments of desperation that Andy dares to practise blind faith like this.

The tree responds and Andy swings her scimitar just as a wolf lunges at her from the dark. She catches it in the leg, sending a fresh spray of blood staining the snow. The ground beneath her is already spotting with the stuff and the night air is heavy with the scent of death already. She watches the wolf writhe and struggle to stand, just long enough for another to emerge from the darkness, teeth bared, breath misting in front of its maw. Its eyes catch a sickle of red moonlight.

"You're fighting on the wrong side, girl," The wolf says as it circles around her. Andy's blades follow it; she is vaguely aware of his injured companion stirring behind her. "You wait for saviours that will not come, and you needlessly prolong your own suffering – after so many centuries of it, do you not tire of its pointlessness? Just pledge your allegiance, and you will be pardoned for your crimes."

The same song she hears every time they hunt her down, but Andy has outgrown bribery. She does not fight for anything, and she wants for nothing so she is not easily enchanted by promises, however true they may ring.