01-13-2016, 01:12 PM
Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies
She is growing fond of the playground. It’s a good respite from being Princess of the Chamber. Perhaps it is a meaningless title, without power or any real responsibility. At least, that’s what it seems like it should be. But that’s not true at all, at least for anyone that loves his or her kingdom. And oh, her mother loves the Chamber, though Weaver herself is not yet sure.
Every day is a learning experience. Every day is another lesson, another diplomatic meeting. Soon there will be spars with the army as she learns to fight, to protect herself and her kingdom. She’s a hair young still, and small, to fight against the full grown horses of the Chamber army. But soon, Mother says. Because Mother doesn’t coddle. Children should get bruises and scrapes. It makes them stronger, after all.
Weaver loves the Chamber to a point, sure. But she also rather loves just being her, holding her own court in the playground with Lilin. Hardly a court at all, but she’ll pretend.
The raven caws from the tree nearby where it’s perched, watching the black and white girl play. She’s never on her own, not completely anyway. Mother has an army of babysitters. Though Weaver has grown fond of her personal babysitter. Perhaps the raven is a good thing. Mother never stops her from doing whatever she wants. Weaver can come and go as she pleases. The price is just a watchful pair of beady, black eyes.
At first, she doesn’t hear the bells. The chimes are too quiet. Weaver is too used to ignoring the surrounding sounds (she gets tired of the cawing of her raven). Perhaps she registers the sound somewhere in the back of her mind, but it doesn't catch her attention. It could just be the sound of laughter on the wind. There are plenty of children around, after all.
But then the raven caws again, and the sounds comes to her from far away. She turns to look for it, blinking, and the world swims around her. She blinks again, trying to clear her head, thinking maybe she turned too fast. Blood rush to the head or something. Until silence falls. Lilin’s voice is gone. The sound of the wind in the trees and the cawing of her raven. Gone. Just like that.
“Raven?” she says, just a hint of panic rising in her voice, but she tamps it down as best a child can. Mother would tell her not to panic. Mother would tell her to think.
Finally, she hears the bells. They ring in the stark silence, startling her. A mess of too-long legs, she scrambles backward, trying to get away. Away from what? And to where? Think Weaver, think. she reminds herself. She looks around. Lifeless leaves hang from the trees without a breeze to stir them. Lilin is gone. Her raven is nowhere in the trees above her. And that is how she knows something is wrong. Her raven never leaves her side.
But the bells are calling to her. Despite the fear that pumps her heart just a little too fast, curiosity has also taken hold. So she follows. Leaves behind the comfort of her playground that’s not quite the playground anymore. Leaves behind the raven that she’s never once been without. Not that she’d know how to get back to that world anyway. Not now. She has no choice. The bells are right. She must come.
She doesn’t want to turn back, anyway.
There are others that follow the bells as well. A black winged mare with a blue sheen is already there, and Weaver follows her gaze to the lamb on the ground. The black and white girl takes a step forward, and then another, peering at the seven eyes and seven horns. "Oh," she breathes. She takes another step forward but makes the mistake of blinking, and then the lamb is gone.
Come back, she wants to say, fascinated by the creature. But the bells are too loud for her to be heard, and she doubts such a creature would ever listen to her anyway. If it had even been there in the first place.
The thought crosses her mind that she should be afraid of the lamb. But she’s not afraid. The day she was born, her undead grandfather and color changing Uncle came to greet her. Strange, unual things are normal to her. Death is normal to her.
Then silence falls, more deafening than the bells and yet merciful to her now ringing ears. The girl looks up at the sound of the voice, as if she can see where it might come from. It comes from everywhere though. After a moment, she turns her head to the others, trying to gauge their reactions. Are they afraid? Should she be afraid?
There’s a tiny bit of fear gnawing on the back of her mind, but still her curiosity wins. When she hears the words “chosen ones”, a grin spreads on her small face. Of course she’s among the chosen ones. How could she not be? It never crosses her mind that she’s just a child, that this is wrong, that she shouldn’t be here at the end of the world.
The blue tinted mare accepts first, hoof in the air. Weaver nods to the mare, still with that small, intrigued smile on her face. Besides, what choice did they have anyway? They were here now, and there was no turning back. So Weaver raises her head, addressing the muted world around her. "I accept."
Every day is a learning experience. Every day is another lesson, another diplomatic meeting. Soon there will be spars with the army as she learns to fight, to protect herself and her kingdom. She’s a hair young still, and small, to fight against the full grown horses of the Chamber army. But soon, Mother says. Because Mother doesn’t coddle. Children should get bruises and scrapes. It makes them stronger, after all.
Weaver loves the Chamber to a point, sure. But she also rather loves just being her, holding her own court in the playground with Lilin. Hardly a court at all, but she’ll pretend.
The raven caws from the tree nearby where it’s perched, watching the black and white girl play. She’s never on her own, not completely anyway. Mother has an army of babysitters. Though Weaver has grown fond of her personal babysitter. Perhaps the raven is a good thing. Mother never stops her from doing whatever she wants. Weaver can come and go as she pleases. The price is just a watchful pair of beady, black eyes.
At first, she doesn’t hear the bells. The chimes are too quiet. Weaver is too used to ignoring the surrounding sounds (she gets tired of the cawing of her raven). Perhaps she registers the sound somewhere in the back of her mind, but it doesn't catch her attention. It could just be the sound of laughter on the wind. There are plenty of children around, after all.
But then the raven caws again, and the sounds comes to her from far away. She turns to look for it, blinking, and the world swims around her. She blinks again, trying to clear her head, thinking maybe she turned too fast. Blood rush to the head or something. Until silence falls. Lilin’s voice is gone. The sound of the wind in the trees and the cawing of her raven. Gone. Just like that.
“Raven?” she says, just a hint of panic rising in her voice, but she tamps it down as best a child can. Mother would tell her not to panic. Mother would tell her to think.
Finally, she hears the bells. They ring in the stark silence, startling her. A mess of too-long legs, she scrambles backward, trying to get away. Away from what? And to where? Think Weaver, think. she reminds herself. She looks around. Lifeless leaves hang from the trees without a breeze to stir them. Lilin is gone. Her raven is nowhere in the trees above her. And that is how she knows something is wrong. Her raven never leaves her side.
But the bells are calling to her. Despite the fear that pumps her heart just a little too fast, curiosity has also taken hold. So she follows. Leaves behind the comfort of her playground that’s not quite the playground anymore. Leaves behind the raven that she’s never once been without. Not that she’d know how to get back to that world anyway. Not now. She has no choice. The bells are right. She must come.
She doesn’t want to turn back, anyway.
There are others that follow the bells as well. A black winged mare with a blue sheen is already there, and Weaver follows her gaze to the lamb on the ground. The black and white girl takes a step forward, and then another, peering at the seven eyes and seven horns. "Oh," she breathes. She takes another step forward but makes the mistake of blinking, and then the lamb is gone.
Come back, she wants to say, fascinated by the creature. But the bells are too loud for her to be heard, and she doubts such a creature would ever listen to her anyway. If it had even been there in the first place.
The thought crosses her mind that she should be afraid of the lamb. But she’s not afraid. The day she was born, her undead grandfather and color changing Uncle came to greet her. Strange, unual things are normal to her. Death is normal to her.
Then silence falls, more deafening than the bells and yet merciful to her now ringing ears. The girl looks up at the sound of the voice, as if she can see where it might come from. It comes from everywhere though. After a moment, she turns her head to the others, trying to gauge their reactions. Are they afraid? Should she be afraid?
There’s a tiny bit of fear gnawing on the back of her mind, but still her curiosity wins. When she hears the words “chosen ones”, a grin spreads on her small face. Of course she’s among the chosen ones. How could she not be? It never crosses her mind that she’s just a child, that this is wrong, that she shouldn’t be here at the end of the world.
The blue tinted mare accepts first, hoof in the air. Weaver nods to the mare, still with that small, intrigued smile on her face. Besides, what choice did they have anyway? They were here now, and there was no turning back. So Weaver raises her head, addressing the muted world around her. "I accept."
weaver
weed and straia's chamber princess