Author: lionesswinged

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Flavour text & Background scenes

9 years old

You try so hard to focus on the book your mother has handed you but it was Nire’atar. She couldn’t expect you to pay attention to some mythology book when Auntie Seafoam would be here any minute so you could all light the lanterns together. While the Bright Festival in a couple of weeks would be fun, full of games and treats, Nire-atar is your favourite. The lights on the water always send sparks through your blood, and you don’t feel like such an outsider then, your rounded ears always marking your half-human side less visible. Nothing brought the village together quite like Nire-atar.

You spy a flash of white down the cliff, and you toss the book aside. Nire’atar meant all sailors were home, which in turn meant that for the next twelve hours your mother would laugh more than she did the entire rest of the year combined as she and Aunt Junonia catch up.

23 years old

CW: implied sexual assault (to others), domestic violence (to others), and really just talking about a sociopath.

“Janette! Darling, the dressmaker is here!”

Your stepmother’s voice floats up the stairs, and your body freezes at the sound. Darling? Lady Detra calling for you herself? Something was wrong, had to be.

Not that she’s been anything but publicly civil, even “sweet”, since your father found you ten years ago but she’s never ever called you by a pet name. Ever.

You do some mental math as you grabbed for clothes at random. The rainy season was about two months out, so the dressmaker could only be here to prep for the Harvest Ball at Dragonhold. You try to quiet the unease her tone had set off in you as you exited your room. Why in Bahamut’s name is she-

“-haven’t his affairs always ended badly?” The maid’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“Whatever you do mean, Matilda?” Detra’s wheedling voice grates down your spine. “Ferlis is a distinguished young man, from a good House. He’s handsome and his family’s estate, while quite removed, is even larger than ours. Any partner would be lucky to have such a match, and Janette even more than most.”

“But milady the rumours about the bod-”

“Enough. Go assist the dressmaker in the foyer.”

It takes until the footsteps fade for your muscles to unfreeze. You know of Ferlis alright. You knew about the brothels that banned him after pleasure workers went missing, the servants whose scarves slipped, showing bruises on their necks…

If Detra is trying to marry you off to that bastard then she is most certainly trying to kill you. The discomfort at her sweet tone earlier faded. This is something much more familiar. You wrangle the grin forming on your face into a more appropriate expression as you round the corner. Your stepmother’s simpering smile doesn’t reach her cold brown eyes. She tosses her long dark hair over a shoulder before reaching for you with her manicured fingertips.

As you match her enthusiasm, your mind begins cataloguing the goods you’ll take on your way out, your smile genuine as you imagine her outrage once you’ve taken off with her best jewels…

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45 years old

Your sister’s voice carries down from the crow’s nest to where you’re securing the front sail, the melody a balm on your sore hands. You can’t help but chuckle when her voice cracks though, and almost immediately after a wave splashes over the deck directly into your face. You turn, sputtering, to see Lalanen down on the deck again, smirking at you with one hand on her hip.

“Steady as we go,” the captain calls out. Judging by the stoic gruffness in his tone, he’s definitely used to her antics.

Your excitement at finally being in the Ciryan alongside your older sister overshadows the desire to retaliate as a gull lands on the rail. The sea stretches before you, waves sparkling as they crest and a flock of gulls calling to each other overhead.

***

210 years old

The moonless sky hangs over the beach like a shroud. Nire’atar. Your first without Lalanen. It’s been a few months since she’d saved the village, and sacrificed herself, but the wound felt raw and oozing again. Your cousins and friends all have an extra lantern this year, so the sea is almost ablaze by the time you help Norhana push hers into the current. A lantern for each love gone, and one more to guide their way.

Your niece’s fingers brush against your hand, and you watch her smaller, smooth fingers entwine between your calloused ones. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears. At thirteen, she feels more like a toddler to your years, but as the lights make the trip out of the cove, you suddenly feel a hundred years younger, standing beside Lalanen the first time you sent off your parents’ lanterns. The memory washes through you and you allow yourself to be sink into the sorrow left in its wake. For now, for this Nire’atar, you can grieve.