She didn't sleep for long, but it was the usual nowadays. Her sleeping patterns hadn't exactly been the best since she was at the mercy of Maeve. In spite of that, she had hoped that the unfamiliarity of everything would tire her body, which it did, but apparently not enough to improve her sleeping habits.
These days ... she didn't know what more she needed. What she wanted. If she felt like admitting it, she actually didn't have the faintest clue who the hell she was anymore. All she knew was that whatever and whoever climbed out of that abyss of despair and grief would not be the same person who had plummeted in. And maybe that was a good thing.
Slowly, her eyes turned to the ticking clock on her nightstand. The golden hour hand was minutes away from pointing directly at three. Four hours. She had slept for four consecutive hours. Good. This time she hadn't been tossing and turning in her sleep. This time nightmares had not haunted her dreamland. This time she had not woken up in the middle of the night with a cold sweat on her brow. She was content.
Today. Today she would research ways to regain the full extent of her fire, but in truth, she had no idea where to start. The library would deem to be a good option, but she wasn't even sure if there was a library at this place. Perhaps the books she brought with her about wyrdmarks, an ancient runic language used to perform magic and cast spells - usually in blood - would be of use. The origin of the wyrdmarks is vastly unknown, other than that they are an incredibly old form of magic, more powerful than the wyrdkeys.
She was currently on the balcony, allowing the chilly air to touch her exposed arms and legs, as it lightly blew her hair. Recollections from the past began filling her mind as the wind's pace quickened, leaving her at the mercy of something beyond her, her only defense being the arms that wrapped around her torso for warmth.
Everything she knew about the wyrdmarks – she had learned from Nehemia. The Princess of Eyllwe. And her friend.
[Name] leaned against the thick stone balustrade of the balcony, her eyes gazing up at the sky as small streaks of orange and yellow began fighting away the darkness of the night with each passing second, indicating a new day, a new beginning. A vivid memory played in her mind at the sight of a black bird in the sky, wounded, but still flapping its wings. It would have plummeted to its death if it were not for the white bird beneath it, carrying her friend's entire weight at times when her wings failed her.
But she was dead now.
She grimaced as she watched the black bird increasingly leaning on her friend, relying solely on the white bird to save both of their lives. She subconsciously touched her brow, almost feeling the lines and contrasts of the invisible mark that had decided her entire life. The same wyrdmark she had inherited from her ancestor, the Fae King Brannon, the man who had founded Terrasen.
The king was originally a bastard born in Wendlyn, hence why the wyrdmark displayed the words 'nameless' in the forgotten runic language. Because he was born as a nobody.
Her eyes remained on the birds, not widening when the white bird, in a last attempt to save her friend, dove down, and then came flying back up, crashing into her friend, giving her enough momentum to soar the skies while she fell to her doom. She watched as their already determined fates played out, her expression remaining passive.
Nehemia had died because of her.
[Name] stared at the pool of blood colouring the stone pavement of the gardens. A bloodied white feather landed on the balustrade, just next to her. She took it, staring intensely at the red, thick liquid running down her hand while small droplets hit the floor beneath her.
.
.
.
"I think that even if we just met on the street, even if I just saw you on the street, I'd know what you are."
[Name] cocked her head to the side. "An assassin?"
Nehemia's dark eyes were bright as she shook her head. "The sister of my heart."
.
"You bear many names, and so I shall name you as well." Her hand rose to [Name]'s forehead, and she drew an invisible mark. "I name you Elentiya." She kissed the assassin's brow. "I give you this name to use with honour, to use when other names grow too heavy. I name you Elentiya, 'Spirit That Could Not Be Broken'."
.
.
.
She hated that. She hated that Nehemia had given her such a beautiful name. She hated that she did not deserve it. She hated that sometimes when the role of queen became too overbearing, she called herself that name.
Elentiya, Spirit That Could Not Be Broken.
But she had broken. Many times. Sometimes she believed that she never had truly healed from them.
[Name] had long dropped the feather from the balcony, making it fall and join the remains of the white bird. The black bird was long gone, alive thanks to the sacrifice of her friend. Her eyes turned to look at the clock once again. The hour hand was currently pointing between three and four. Half an hour. That is how much time she had spent reminiscing about her old friend. She did not have the time for this. As quickly as possible, she had taken a bath and changed into comfortable, yet practical clothes that hid her daggers well. Hastily, she grabbed two of her books about wyrdmarks, and shoved them in her bag, not as much as taking a second glance at the clock or the bird just below her balcony, before exiting the room.
.
.
.
Despite the grey colours draping the sky, the sun had yet to emerge behind the steep hills of the greenery land as she walked through the hallway. She knew of the risk of bringing the books with her, but it was safer than leaving them behind in an unprotected room. The lack of knowledge others possessed about the wyrdmarks only furthered her belief that she made the right decision. She highly doubted the humans would know anything about it, but perhaps carrying books no one understood would raise even more suspicion, in hindsight.
However, she did not carry the same assurance when it came to the gods. Despite their limited knowledge about her world, it would not surprise her if they possessed some knowledge about the wyrdmarks - considering that the ancient language exists throughout the entirety of the universe.
However, that could be to her advantage. And if luck was on her side, that knowledge would be written down somewhere. That is why she so desperately needed to find a library. Libraries were full of ideas - perhaps the most dangerous and powerful of all weapons. It was because of that reason that many libraries were destroyed during the war.
She had considered using the shadows and muting her steps to not risk getting followed, but if she was caught, it'd be very hard for her to explain why she had done it. So, she decided to continue walking leisurely in the middle of the dim hallway, keeping a steady pace. It was not like she was doing anything wrong. If someone asked, she would simply say that she had trouble sleeping and wanted to indulge herself in one of her many interests - reading.
Usually, she would have hidden in the shadows, in a manner so silent, that one could not even detect her breath, no matter how close the proximity may be between the two. But she got the hunch that it would not be in vain when dealing with the person coming closer to her by the second. Not when she could feel darkness emitting from the figure. No, the shadows would have done nothing to mask her form. So, she continued walking, making sure to put on a lost expression on her face. Fourteen steps. She began seeing the outline of the man's face and body. Six steps. Now she could see all of him clearly, despite the lack of light the lines on the sky posed.
A man of average height, clad in all black looking like death himself with his unkempt, messy dark hair and deep black eyes stood before her. He watched her, but at the same time not, almost seeming distant. She recognized that look all too well, the regret and the self-loathing clear as day in his eyes. And judging by his neutral expression, it was his everyday face. She related to this total stranger, somehow. They were so alike, yet so different. As if sharing the same burden but expressing it differently. While she hid it, he did not seem to bother trying. Who could tell which one of them was the most pitiful? She honestly didn't know.
The man had now turned all his attention to her. He had expected her to hide, or run away, perhaps ignore him, but not just remain still. He had seen some people freeze on the spot from his mere presence, some cowering in fear, but she simply stood there, observing him, her eyes not carrying an ounce of fear, but... pity. The only thing he hated more than invoking fear in people was to be looked upon with sympathetic eyes. It rarely occurred, but when it did, he made sure to remind them of why his name was whispered, and not spoken out loud.
"Do you perhaps know where the library is? If there is any," her voice did not falter. The compassion she once held in her eyes was gone, replaced with apathy. Still not a single sign of fear.
"Continue down the same path until you reach the end of the hallway and then turn to the right. You will see a set of huge golden double doors. They are impossible to miss."
The woman simply nodded her head in thanks, as she strode past him, relieved to feel a bit less lost. She could feel how his eyes bore into her back, but she did not turn, giving the man any indication of wanting to continue their conversation. She did not need another reason to feel down.
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.
.
The god had spoken the truth. The doors were impossible to miss. Not when they almost reached all the way up to the unnecessarily high roof. She pushed one of the doors open. Unexpectedly light, she mentally noted as she made her way into the library. And then she stopped. Her eyes were almost near tears at the sight before her. She had seen huge libraries in her life, but this one was tremendously big with its rows upon rows of shelves brimming with books and the elaborate, bifurcated stairs that led to floors upon floors with more shelves and books and scrolls. It should have discouraged her to know that finding the information she desired would take nearly a lifetime in this place out of fairy tales, but somehow her love for books had brought her the opposite reaction.
And so, she began. First trying to understand the layout of the library that was not sectioned after genre, but rather events and information, it seemed like. It contained all the universe's knowledge, and yet there was nothing about the Wyrd whatsoever.
For minutes she had just walked around – unsure of what she was looking for. Whatever it was, it did not seem easily accessible. She let out a sigh, running her fingers against book spines as her eyes quickly read their titles. Medicine. Interesting – but not relevant to her search.
Now, it hit her how difficult this mission might be.
[Name] was missing something. Something in this library must have escaped her eye. She glanced around her – at the shelves, the books – searching for ledges or buttons or anything out of the ordinary. Then her eyes stopped. It was strange. There were tall, oak shelves flanking every wall of the library – except the windows and desks, of course – yet, there was one space between two shelves that had nothing against it. It was all but a burgundy wall with streaks of gold to it – no different from the interior of the rest of the library.
She paced toward it, the wood beneath her feet not creaking as she balanced on her tows and began feeling the tapestry. It was plain. She let her hand lower, feeling for something. Until she found it. A miniature hole was hidden behind the tapestry.
A secret passage.
She could use a dagger to enter through the hole. She was skilled enough to not cause too much damage. But why do that when she could use wyrdmagic?
First, she waited. Waited for any trace of life to show itself behind the shelves, and for any noise to echo through the vicinity. Nothing.
[Name] palmed a dagger to her hand, and sliced her palm, watching as blood filled her curved hand until it was on the verge of dropping. Dipping two fingers into the pool of blood, she began scribbling the dense liquid on the wall before her. She murmured a spell, and a faint light overtook the drawings on the wall – making them dance and whirl – until they stopped. And a thud could be heard on the other side.
Once again, a hand rested on the wall. And she gave it a push. With a slight creak, the door slowly opened, revealing the abyss on the other side. She stepped into it. The wall creaked once more, before it shut behind her. She only panicked for a second, but regained her composure with a couple of deep breaths before she whispered a spell that would make the wyrdmarks invisible.
With a flicker of her finger, a small flame was formed – enough to lighten up the otherwise dark room.
Her hand was aflame, the small fire lighting up the otherwise dark and small room. At least she could see now. Oh, and she saw. It was hard to miss the dark old, brown bookshelf in front of her, stacked with what looked to be centuries-old – if not millennia - ancient books. There was an old desk and a chair on the left side of the corner of the small room, that looked to be on the verge of breaking. Judging by the dust on the furniture this place had not been used for quite a while. It looked to be years, maybe more.
She dropped her bag on the wooden floor, hearing it creak with the thud. Her hand went into the breast pocket of her tunic and pulled out a handkerchief, which she used to wipe off the dust from the furniture. To her glee – a pack of unlit candles laid on the desk. [Name] grabbed one and lit it with the flame on her finger. Finally, she could start her research.
.
.
.
These books... all these books were about Erilea to some degree. Even those about wyrdmarks had mentioned her world - only her world - and no other. It gave her an eerie feeling.
[Name] tried her best trying to decipher the wyrdmarks, but some... she didn't recognize, which made the rest hard to understand. Maybe, the princess would have had more use of these books than her. But Nehemia was not here. And she would never be. And so, her futile search for anything helpful continued. Her eyes had started to droop from looking at symbols for so long, and just as she was about to put the book down, she came across something that made them widen.
Without wasting a second, she took out the same bloodied dagger and cut her hand where her wound was. That may leave a scar. But she did not care. Not when she had already drawn the wyrdmarks on the desk, the thought of a scar on her body long forgotten. Then she said the spell and waited.
Ten seconds had passed...
and nothing had happened.
'Did it work?'
'I don't know. You tell me.'
She was speechless. She could not believe it. This was all she ever wished for. For the chance to apologize. For the chance to make things right between them. For the chance to simply hear her voice again so she could utter one last goodbye. She was crying at this point. Crying because she blamed herself for her friend's tragic death. Crying because she could hear the name she had given her echo through her head.
Crying because the voice had belonged to Nehemia.
'We meet once again,' the princess had said with the same tranquillity her voice always carried, 'old friend.'
Affection - Love interests
Beelzebub 0% —> 7%
Your meeting may have been brief, but it was enough for the god to gain the slightest interest in you. After all, he is used to being met with fear and contempt. Interest may not be the right word to describe how he feels about you. Fascination, on the other hand, is a better one. Because the god did not take liking to the pity that reflected in your eyes when you had looked at him. But that did not mean he wasn't intrigued by your ability to easily see through him.
He did not think much about you using the library at this time. He just assumed you couldn't sleep and wanted something to do.