Silk

I could only think how foreign the feel of satin was against my skin as I secured the ribbons on the back of the bodice, and of how quickly my heart seemed to race as I gazed, with acute disbelief, at the folds of silk and lace that made up the gown. It was heartbreakingly beautiful, and I still didn't know why.

The petite girl stood before the window in her lounge, gazing at her reflection in the clear glass. I must remember to breathe, she thought, one dainty hand pressed against the crimson silk of the bodice. She recognized herself in a way she hadn't in years; the well-bred young lady that had once taken these rich fabrics for granted. The daughter of a Baron, the betrothed of another. Were those years spent in the slums a dream?, the words echoed somewhere in the back of her mind. One foot snuck from beneath the heavy silk, the stiff, white satin shoes glinting in the warm firelight. Cienwyn, dizzy with disbelief, forced herself to clear thoughts. That woman; Samhain, wasn't it? She gave them to him, along with some other things. Surely it's only because he has no use for them himself. I couldn't wear them in public, unless it were to a Ball. Small hands felt around to the nape of her neck, searching for the spill of her heavy, raven curls, soft and gleaming as always, A child in a woman's clothes; Rachelle wears these sorts of things, not me. Her hair felt strong, unbreakable; a reminder of who she was. What would Rachelle say- or Vigo for that matter? The girl knew even before she finished the thought. Her brother, she knew wryly, would tell her to be careful. Silently, Cienwyn cursed his absence. Over the sea, where the ships cannot penetrate during Darkfall. Rachelle... who knows?

The silk had again transported her to another, now-forbidden world. Is it odd that I feel like an intruder in a world I once thought was my own? I never knew my father, though; he could have been a king or a beggar. Perhaps I always was. 

But why? Cienwyn repeated again to herself, inexorably, What will a man do with satin dresses and purses and shoes?

With precarious resolve, Cienwyn repeated the statement to herself once, then twice, then three times, until she began to find it more likely than the alternative. 

Odyssey

A clouded dream on an earthly night hangs upon the crescent moon/A voiceless song in an ageless light sings at the coming dawn.

A breath of wind picked up, icy-cold, salty, probing as it teased at the young girl's loose, raven curls, sending a shiver down her spine. Cienwyn lifted her chin slightly, her snowy, ivory skin shining softly against the starlight, scarlet lips parting and rounding to draw in a long, almost sensual breath of ocean air, her head dropping back and her eyes closing. This must be what it feels like to enter Anwnn. A sheet of water, and the cold, and the darkness. The girl's deep blue eyes watched the horizon tersely, as if searching for the first sight of towers, buildings, spires- anything, to mark an end to the long journey from her homeland.

Home. Cienwyn shivered in the black fur that enclosed delicate shoulders. How long had they been at sea? Two, three weeks? She could hardly count the passage of days, for the sickness that had assailed her once her feet left dry land. She knew he had been there, though, constant, silent, strong. What was his name? Cienwyn struggled to remember, until it suddenly encroached upon her: Derrik. She knew so little about him, despite that he was one of her father's men. Three weeks. A month since she had met him, Cienwyn realised in silence as she thought back to that night.

"You're Lord Aeldra's daughter. Cienwyn Aeldra", the sound of his voice was almost drowned by the noise of the tavern. The heady smells of rum and vomit and smoke clung to their clothes, their hair, and for a brief moment, Cienwyn felt her body tensing in the memory. She had looked a mess, her frayed dress and dirty fingernails a far cry from the young noble girl she had been a scant six months before. "Don't call me that. Who the hell are you?", she hissed her reply, dragging him into a quiet corner, "Derrik, miss. Look-", one rough, calloused hand went into his blue tunic, producing a folded parchment. Cienwyn snatched it out of his hand, opening the torn seal to read its contents. Instantly, her throat caught, and she shot one hand out to the wall beside her to steady herself, "He asked that I escort you out of the city. Left enough money for your passage and mine. There's a ship bound for Seahaven in three days, Lady". "I don't want to go to Seahaven. It's a dump", Cienwyn's small, heart-shaped face twisted in distaste, "You should have taken the money for my passage and left. Why didn't you?", her eyes were all suspicion as she looked at the young soldier. Derrik bowed his head, then softer, "I couldn't, Lady. Not Lord Aeldra's girl. Three days, Cienwyn. You don't have a choice. Until then-", he glanced about himself, the distaste at their surroundings obvious, "You'll stay in my apartment. It's small, and nothing fine compared to what you're used to, but-", he broke off and shook his head, "Damnit, come on, girl, this is no place for you. Take this-", he quickly produced a tiny, plain copper ring from his bag, "If anyone asks, tell them you're my wife. They won't ask any questiongs then".

All this He saw, from his place on the railing. Derrik watched her standing in the prow, tiny, dainty, but nevertheless straight-backed, proud, silent. She has Lord Aeldra's bearing, he thought, calloused hands curling in on themselves. Faintly, he registered the sound of a drum beat in the distance, deep, rolling, constant, One, Two, One, Two, the sailors chanted as their oars dipped through the calm surface of the ocean, carving their path with a steady practise, She could be a goddess of the sea, he thought then, almost proudly of her. As if mirroring the soldier's thoughts, another man piped up, grey eyes watching the young girl, "She's a beauty, 'aint she? Not yer wife, fer all I kin see that. Too fine t'be nething bar noble".

There that my heart is longing for, all for the love of you.

"Lady Cienwyn Aeldra", is his gruff reply, scanning his line of sight over the age-worn, dirty linen of the girl's black dress, her worn shoes and the length of twine that binds her hair from her face, "Just delivering her to Seahaven. M'lord's last orders before he passed. Keep the girl safe. That's all". The man grunted, "Wouldna fink she were 'igh-bern, lookin' as she. Nobles th'are-", he jerks his head with a motion towards the aft of the ship, "Silk and jewels, the lot of um. Iffin she 'aint noble no more, merry her". "If the girl had half the sense in her head, she'd use that fine education of hers to find a noble, and get back her father's wealth", Derrik responds moodily, eyes narrowing on Cienwyn's figure, "'Sides, she's only fourteen. Too young to be married, and she wouldn't want me anyway". The man shrugged, "Better 'un leavin' the poor fing to rot, 'aint it?", as he made his departure, preying eyes still fixed on the girl.

A quick gasp drew Derrik's attention, and quickly he crossed the wooden floors to Cienwyn, on the other side of the rail, "Derrik!", she exclaimed, her voice low as she pointed to the horizon, "Look!". The soldier squinted, gaze attempting to cross the distance in the near-darkness. After a moment, he nodded, "There's your new home, Cienwyn. Seahaven".

Cages

Freedom. She felt it course through every vein, every muscle, every living corner of her slender, delicate frame as she ran, a wild thing in an even wilder place, smooth, ivory skin sleek with sweat, night-dark hair unfurled in the wind like a beacon, a war banner. Her muscles bunched and stretched as she dodged a upturned root here, lept accross a hidden ditch there- she stalked her prey relentlessly, entranced, its black blood clouding her senses and the call of Balor in her ears, feral and incessant. Blue eyes flashed a reflection in her bright blades, their sharp edges glinting cruelly and hungrily in anticipation of what was to come. She rolled them in her grip as she lept, again, her body nimble and light as it navigated the dark northern forests, blue eyes fixed in determination on the bloody-clotted, hulking figure as it fled before her.

Faster with your blades, Quicker on your feet, Stronger to strike. Cienwyn repeated Amazon's mantra in her head as she kept pace, Don't give up. There it is. A little more.

She didn't have time to think about Him, or Doraster, as she stalked after the great creature, although neither of them were far from her thoughts. "Does it vex you that I love her?", Doraster had asked. Of course not, Cienwyn snorted derisively, tensing her muscles for another jump. "You know how I feel about such things", she had responded with a nonchalant shrug, and again they had settled back into comfortable, mutual understanding. Was that true? Yes, she breathed to herself, her heart pulsing. She dropped back slightly, and immediately chided herself for it. Stupid girl- focus, Amazon's voice rang in her ears. Yesssss, there it was.

Feint, slash, dodge- Cienwyn spun, then drove her boot into the beast's belly. It howled with pain, rolling backwards as it lost balance. Him. Her blood raced as she grunted in response to the sudden image that invaded itself into her thoughts. His lips on hers; his hands on her hips; his breath warm on her neck. She shivered slightly in the memory. Blood spurted against her cheek, marring the smoothness of her pale skin. Almost. She spun again, using the momentum to bring her blades down at the beast's neck, her battle-cry ringing in her ears. Yessss. Keep moving.

It lay in a heap on the ground before her, its wounds leaking, oozing, a steady stream of black blood. She crouched infront of it, mud- and blood-smeared, breathing laboured, eyes narrowed. Love? She tensed her muscles, then moved forward to stare down at the pitifully mess that was the demon beneath her. She saw only one thing as she drove her boot firmly into its face in a final attempt to end its life: freedom.

Foreign Land

This is a foreign land.

I sit at the limits of Our world, spear set against my thigh, dug straight into the ground, a lone figure of defiance against the swirling mass of darkness that bars the way north. A lock of raven-dark hair falls before a blue gaze, unheeded, as I watch the heaving, churning ink-black image before me, searching, trying to understand, entranced. Here and there, I think I can see the ones I have loved and lost since I first arrived in Seahaven. My step-father appears before me, his hardened, scarred face full of affection for his "little girl"- once, twice, three times I start towards him, and three times he fluttered out of my hands like a shadow or a dream, and sorrow sharpens the heart within me.

"Come here, Cien", my stepfather says to me from my memory. He sits in his armchair by the fireplace, his hand held outwards to the little, sweet-natured girl dressed in pale blue and ribbons, all brightness. "Yes, papa?", I stumbled on little, uncertain legs, crossing the opulent lounge faithfully, like a puppy ready to play. My step-father was home from one of his trade missions, and my world was once again complete, for he had become the light in the centre of my life, and I his,"I have a present for you. Were you a good girl for your mother while I was away? You know how she gets upset when you disobey her". Yes, I knew. Now that her belly was swollen and her feet ached more with each passing day, I knew. "Always, papa", I respond as I crawl into his lap, his legs a insurmountable height but for his big hands that lift me safely, faithfully. "Good girl- now, close your eyes", he orders me. Ofcourse I do- what else should, or would I do? He holds my weight like a feather- his little song-bird, barely heavy enough to tip a scale, and I put my hands out, palms upward, my tiny mouth parted slightly in anticipation. Something is placed in my palms- heavy, cold, too big for me yet. I open my eyes. A little copper hairclip is there, patterned with spirals, its dainty curve reflecting the light of the fire. "It's too big for you now, song-bird, but one day soon enough you'll be able to wear it. Don't lose it now, before then, like your other", he chuckles, pushing a heavy lock of raven hair behind my ear. We sit on the armchair before the fireplace, and my talk is of an exuberant five-year-old's: about pretty dresses, and shopping trips, and my favourite dolls, all joy and light in what will become a dark world.

Here and now, my small hand touches that same clip which fastens my hair, fingernails tracing along the spirals. I remember. But now another image forms in the darkness: a face that mirrors my own, delicate, sweet, with ivory skin and blue eyes that remind me of deep water- my mother. I sit back, and look closer at her face, that men used to call beautiful. Beautiful, until you look closer, and see the vicious spark in her eyes, the coldness that hardens her delicate jawline, her wine-dark, curving lips that purse cruelly as she gazes back at me from the Otherworld.

"Where is he?", I shriek, combs and silk skirts and books hurling about the room in a rage at her, who stands calmly beside my bedroom door, gazing at my teenage self with a quiet amusement. There is a leather satchel beside her, resting against her skirts, and she smirks at me, a smirk I'd tear from her face if I could, "What have you done with him?", propelled by my blind fury. "That's quite enough, Cienwyn", my mother snaps, shoving the satchel into my hands, "I told you, he's dead. Gone. I have enough to worry about without a sulking brat ruining it for me now". I stand beside my bed, my satchel helplessly in my arms, as I stare at her. Then, vicious, I spit at her, "So what? Throw me out, mother, if you'd like- that's all you were after, weren't you? Tell me, did you only start fucking the Duke after I left, when you knew father or I wouldn't find out?". My cheek stings with a slap before my mothers taller form grasps my wrist, inexorably, her voice raising to a shriek, "Stupid girl- you don't even know who your father is", she taunts me, "Curse you- get out, Cienwyn- never come back here again, do you hear me? OUT".

I flee the House, that night the last I will ever see Her.

Crossing the limen

I had a dream last night.

I was standing before a loom, watching a woman as she wove a great web, a red folding robe. Her small, delicate hands worked with a steady practise... over, under, loop, rest. Repeat. She worked into her emerging web the numerous struggles of men, struggles they had endured for her sake at the hands of the war god. I focus back on myself, feel where I am standing. My feet roll at the heels- my toes curl inside my boots, sensing the hardness of the floor beneath me. I know I am wearing my hunting gear, for as the movement courses up into ankles, I feel the leather sheath strapped to my skin, the heaviness of my dagger. A soft wind brushes at the base of my throat, my hair- teasing it into life, curling into the air in a solemn dance. No. Something is wrong- the woman finishes her web, and then moves to unpick it, slowly, unravelling all her work. Something doesn't feel right, and so I walk around her to stare into her face. Something is definately wrong.

The image changes, and suddenly I stand on a battlefield. I am standing within the web, watching the threads being unpicked before my eyes. The woman stands above and beyond us- I turn my eyes to watch the drama unfold, from the web's centre.

There Death stands before me: green and pale, dirty-dry, fallen in on herself with hunger, knee-swollen. Her nails are grown long on her hands, and from her nostrils the drip kept running, and off her cheeks the blood dribbled to the ground. She stood there, grinning forever, and the dust that lay gathered in heaps on her shoulders was muddy with tears. The spirits of Death, dark-coloured, and clattering their white teeth, deadly-faced, grim-glaring, bloody and unapproachable... all of them rushing forward to drink of the black blood. They would hook their claws about a dead man's body, while his soul went down to Anwnn. When the spirits had sated their senses on the blood of men's slaughter, they would throw what was left behind them and go storming back into the battle-clamour and the struggle...

I sleep alone, and so I dream.

The shadows and the darkness still scare me. Biddy would have told me, many years ago, that demons were a myth- that the Six guard our dreams, that She can't touch us as we venture over the limen between reality and illusion. My sense of reality has changed since I last saw her, and illusion has become nought but another useful weapon in my artillery. Sharpen your tongue and keep your wits cold, I used to think, and that will put food in your mouth. Survive the next turn of the suns, and maybe you will need them less.

I still don't quite understand about demons, but I'm fast learning.

Running

I ran through the night.

I ran blindly, madly, the sleet and rain whipping at my skin and skirts, my hair unfurling like a flag as I plunged into the darkness beyond Seahaven.

I ran as if I had all the demons of Aagos chasing the hem of my cloak.

"I'll pour Darkness into you, turn your body into a creche for demons... put you in a cave where no one will hear your screams as your body bloats, twisting and deformed, eventually splitting open like an overfilled wineskin..."

He had grinned with his awful, sharpened teeth and cruel lips, and added, "And while we wait for you to get to that point I'll feed on your limbs, chewing the living flesh from your bones".

I felt as if I wanted to crawl out of my own skin, when I felt his breath on my neck- Morhiag's assassin- a man Amazon named as "Malavel". Something has driven me, since that meeting. The Dark Ones finally had a shape, a face, a name. I wove through the fields with a new viciousness, a ferocity that surprised even me. I had a new goal: demon hunter.

In truth, though, I ran from that cave, that fate, and I still do.