The sharp wind passes through the shabby construction of the lean-to stable easily, as if there are no walls at all. Altria, no older than four, huddles in the middle of it, hoping against hope that doing so will somehow keep her away from the worst of the wind. Instead, she's buffeted on all sides, and the threadbare and worn cloak she's wearing is not near enough to cover all of her.
She tugs it tighter around herself anyway, ducking her head as another gust of winter air leaves her shivering. There's nothing to be done about it, though. Outside will be even colder than this sorry excuse for shelter, and she knows the other faeries of Tintagel would never allow her inside their own homes.
The other villages will never find out about her if we say we're raising a horse!
We can keep the Child of Prophecy all for ourselves!
Altria huffs out the faintest of breaths, watching it crystalize in front of her blearily. Right. All that matters to them is that she doesn't die. And she probably won't from this. Still...
"It'd be... n-n-nice if it w-w-was a lit-little warm-m-mer..."
She talks to herself for a lack of any other option; nobody else is out in this weather, and they wouldn't talk to her anyway even if they were. But the chattering of her teeth makes that difficult too, and in the end, she gives up on it, huddling deeper down into her cloak, arms wrapped around herself, trying to make herself as small as she possibly can.
Eventually, she sinks into a bleary, hazy sort of reverie. She doesn't have the energy for anything else, and everything feels far too difficult at the moment anyway. It's in this reverie that she notices that she can see a few of her toes poking out of her boots on one foot, thin and holey as they are. Huh. She's pretty sure they shouldn't be that color, but what can she do? She's already fitting as many body parts as possible into her cloak.
She watches in that same drowsy reverie as they get worse, and she watches as she loses them. She's much, much too tired to panic about it--much, much too exhausted.
She stands in front of the villagers of her hometown solemnly as they pretend that she is not there, talking about her right in front of her.
"I can't believe she still can't do anything impressive. I'm worried," one says, and Altria sees resentment behind her words. That faerie is only worried about the value of a Child of Prophecy that cannot even do any magic.
"We need to be harder on her. Methodical with her." Another faerie nods to himself firmly, arms crossed. Altria hears "methodical", and reads "ruthless".
"We can't even give her time to sleep."
"Forgive us, Caster. This is all for your own good."
"The way you are now, you can't even dream of being the Child of Prophecy."
Altria does not dream of being the Child of Prophecy regardless. It is not something she's ever wanted. She knows that that does not matter, and knows better than to say it.
"And we don't have any time for dreams."
Instead, she nods. She nods because she always nods--because these faeries hate her, and loathe her, and fear her, and even so, she does not wish to disappoint them. She nods and the faeries beam at her. "Now that's a good girl, Caster," one says, and behind her words she hears worthless creature.
"Come with me," another says, beaming. "I'll help you toughen up for your journey!"
Altria looks at the fairy, and nods, and does not say that she can see that what he truly means is, Ah, finally, I can take out some of this frustration on that creature.
It would be better, she thinks, as she follows the fairy silently, if she could just stop seeing completely.
When she steps into the smithy again, she has to duck a hammer flung straight at her head.
Altria does so with quick reflexes and, for some reason, has to fight the urge to laugh. It's just so honest, as is the way that Ector scowls at her from behind his work bench.
"Didn't I tell you to stay away from here, girl?"
Altria shuffles in place sheepishly, but lifts her chin anyway. "Can I look? I really, really want to look at what you're working on!"
She doesn't wait for a response. Instead, she's immediately drifting over to one of his work benches, reaching out to touch one of his tools.
Ector startles, hastily. "Don't touch that! That's processed iron. It'll give any faerie who touches it awful hiv--"
Altria already has it in her hands, and he blinks at her, and the huffs out a breath. "Looks like you're fine. You must actually be from the Demon Boar Clan."
She fights the urge to stick her tongue out at him. There's no such thing! She already knows that!
"What, you got an interest in iron and the forge?"
Altria nods eagerly, but Ector just looks away, crossing his arms. "I see."
A long pause, and he looks back at her, heaving a long sigh. And once again, quiet but with the weight of the world in his voice, he says, "I see."
And then, much to her surprise, he beckons her over. "C'mon," he says, casually, as if he wasn't ready to send her packing just a few moments ago. "I'll show you how to use that tool."
Altria beams, bright and pleased, happier than she can ever remember being. Ector's heart is filled to the brim with hatred and loathing for faeries--and conversely, that makes her feel safe. After all... she hates them too.
So she comes closer, offering him the tool, and settles in to learn.
Altria runs to the fields as quickly as her legs will carry her, short as they are.
Much to her chagrin, despite hitting six years old, she is still quite small; when she'll get taller, she doesn't know, but the faeries of the village never stop reminding her that she's small and fragile and useless.
She'll show them one day, she thinks with a sigh as she hurries to the field, her staff clutches in one hand. It towers over her, twice her size and then some. One day, she's going to be so tall.
Once she's far enough in the field that she's sure none of the other faeries will hear her, she flops into the grass, staff next to her.
"Ugh, those faeries, I swear! They're all horrible!" her staff says to her.
Altria just laughs a little, shaking her head. "You've said that before, Merlin. It's okay, it hardly hurts."
She lifts her fingers to trace the bruising across her face, knowing full well that she's likely to end up with a black eye out of it.
"Hey, you wouldn't happen to know a spell to heal all of this up?"
Merlin--the staff--sounds regretful in response. "It'll take me a few days to work something up."
Altria just hums, shrugging. "I figured it'd be something like that. It's okay! Like I said, it barely hurts."
The staff is silent for a long moment, and then Merlin huffs. "But I do have a lesson prepared for you on camouflaging objects."
Altria sits up quickly, beaming. "Yay, yayyy! I'm ready to learn! Please, teach me!"
They've only just begun the lesson when Altria freezes, as off in the distance, there's a shout. "There she is! I saw her laughing in the field, just like I said!"
The village elder strides towards her through the field, and Altria backs away despite herself, eyes wide, staff clutched in trembling fingers. He doesn't care, though. If anything, he moves faster, reaching for the staff, trying to yank it away from her sharply.
"Caster, you do not need anything like this. It will only distract you from your training."
That is what he says. She knows, immediately, that he means, You are not allowed to have the things that bring you joy.
She has gone her whole life doing exactly as the faeries of Tintagel tell her. But this is Merlin, the one bright point in her entire life. So she clutches the staff with all of her strength, shaking her head.
"N-no, please, I--!"
She's on the ground a moment later, head spinning. Ah. Of course. The staff is gone, the village elder taking it away from her. Of course, of course. She's always been weaker than the other faeries. There was never any chance she would be able to keep it. Why had she even tried?
... Altria lies there, staring at the red sky, for a long time--until another faerie fetches her for further training, and then, mutely, she stands up and follows.
The soldier sneers at her from the gates of the grand city.
Getting into Salisbury, it turns out, was much harder than she anticipated. He scoffs at her, looking her over up and down. "Which hole in the woods did you crawl out of? Your clothes are a mess, and you've got almost no magical energy."
Altria wilts a little, cringes inwardly at the words that she knows have to come out of her mouth, and tries to spit them out anyway.
"I'm--the Child of Prophecy!"
The moment she says it, she knows it won't make a difference. Really, she'd known it wouldn't from the start. But he laughs at her nonetheless, and she shrinks down a little despite herself, cheeks red.
"R-really!"
He waves her off after a moment, rolling his eyes. "We don't need the Child of Prophecy here anyway, girlie. Nobody actually wants or believes in the Child of Prophecy."
The truth behind his words hits like a death knell. She doesn't even want to do this stupid thing, and nobody else wants her too either. What is she even doing here? Why is she even trying?
Silently, she turns on her heel to leave, his jeering voice calling after her, "I don't know how many centuries it'll take you, but hey, good luck saving Britain!"
Once she's out of his line of sight, Altria kicks the nearest log along the road that she can find, furiously--but all she accomplishes is stubbing her own toe, and with a groan, she sinks down to sit on it instead, head in her hands.
this is the dumb option aka Altria Shittalk Hours. also heads up that the image link is pretty nsfw
Altria stands on what looks to be a grand stage, ringed by seats filled with people.
Across from her, there is a faerie. She cackles, gratingly, sneering.
"I mean, can you imagine anything more hilarious than a pathetic low-class faerie being paraded around as the Child of Prophecy, of all things!?"
Altria stands there, face bright red, clearly trying not to hyperventilate. But she straightens slowly, eyes shut as she focuses, brow furrowing.
"R-right... Okay. Deep breaths. Deep breaths..."
The other faerie--Tristan--arches an eyebrow at Altria, hand on her hip, all confidence.
Altria opens her eyes, scowls, and snaps immediately, "Well, you've said your bit, Tristan. But what's with that totally obscene outfit!?"
Tristan blinks, but Altria's on a roll now, gaining steam with every word. "I am Altria, the Child of Prophecy! And on my honor as a Caster, I'm going to ring the Bell of Pilgrimage whether you like it or not! Try to get in my way, and I'll cut you AND those tastefully expensive heels down to size!"
Tristan laughs, then. "All this big talk is going to make losing muuuch more embarrassing. I feel sorry for you, sure, but that doesn't mean I'm going to spare you."
Altria tilts her head to one side. "Huh? Wait, you actually think you're stronger than me? Oh, now I actually feel kinda bad."
Tristan's face freezes in shock at that, lips parted and eyes wide, and Altria spits, "You've had plenty of practice running home and crying to Mommy, right? I mean, I'd think so, since this'll be your second crack at it!"
Tristan fumbles over words in response in her rage, teeth grit together so tightly that their grinding can be heard across the stage--and Altria lifts her staff, ready to fight.
There is a beautiful cathedral filled with people, watching what is clearly a coronation take place.
The new Queen-to-be is stunning, carrying herself with poise and elegance and power. But they are not far into the coronation before a few faeries speak up, throwing insults and slander her way. She is a false queen, they decry. She is a tyrant, she has no right to rule over the faeries in place of the former queen.
She loses her patience.
"Fine, if you want to know the truth so badly, I'll tell you!"
With the crown freshly on her head, Cnoc na Riabh turns to face the crowd properly. "I'll tell you the reason British faeries are still alive today after being wiped out once before. I'll tell you the truth behind the Britain we inherited from Queen Mor--Ghh!"
Her words are interrupted by a nasty, hacking cough. Cnoc na Riabh lifts a hand to her lips, and her gloved fingertips come back covered in red. She stares at it in shock, face pale.
"There!" one of the faeries says, reaching for a weapon. "Now's our chance! Don't let the false queen get away with this!"
Altria skids forward, a snarl on her face, staff lifted and eyes feral. "What the hell do you all think you're doing!?"
The fight is one-sided. Any of the faeries Altria faces she takes down, her companions just as fierce and unrelenting. As soon as a proper path is clear, Altria loses interest in the others--enemy and friend--and skids over to where Cnoc na Riabh has collapsed in a pool of her own blood, hitting her knees by her side. She reaches out to gently lift her head, eyes wide.
"No, no... Come on, Cnoc na Riabh, don't give up on me!"
There's no response, and Altria shakes her a little bit, desperate.
"You're going to be queen, right? That's what you've been working towards all this time, right!?"
Slowly, her eyes flutter open, and she squints at Altria with vague recollection. "Um... Huh, that's weird. I kn-kn-know your face."
Altria's breath hitches.
"I always remembered it...when things were hard... You're my r-r-rival. Y-yeah..." Cnoc na Riabh smiles to herself, distantly. "But...I'm sorry. It's strange. I know I know you... But, I don't...know your name..."
Altria doesn't realize she's crying until the tears hit Cnoc na Riabh's face, watering down the blood on her cheek.
"Wait... Hold on, Cnoc na Riabh. Don't disappear on me. I told you! You can't give up now! If I lose you too, I don't--"
She laughs weakly at that, barely a breathed out breath of air. "Liar. You'd never...give up...that easily. You're too...stubborn..."
Cnoc na Riabh reaches up, brushes at the tears on Altria's cheek. "Even if...you're all alone... I'm sure...you'll find...your star..."
And then her hand falls to the cold tile of the cathedral, and Altria is alone again.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cw: child abuse, frostbite, loss of digits (toes)
It's so cold.
The sharp wind passes through the shabby construction of the lean-to stable easily, as if there are no walls at all. Altria, no older than four, huddles in the middle of it, hoping against hope that doing so will somehow keep her away from the worst of the wind. Instead, she's buffeted on all sides, and the threadbare and worn cloak she's wearing is not near enough to cover all of her.
She tugs it tighter around herself anyway, ducking her head as another gust of winter air leaves her shivering. There's nothing to be done about it, though. Outside will be even colder than this sorry excuse for shelter, and she knows the other faeries of Tintagel would never allow her inside their own homes.
The other villages will never find out about her if we say we're raising a horse!
We can keep the Child of Prophecy all for ourselves!
Altria huffs out the faintest of breaths, watching it crystalize in front of her blearily. Right. All that matters to them is that she doesn't die. And she probably won't from this. Still...
"It'd be... n-n-nice if it w-w-was a lit-little warm-m-mer..."
She talks to herself for a lack of any other option; nobody else is out in this weather, and they wouldn't talk to her anyway even if they were. But the chattering of her teeth makes that difficult too, and in the end, she gives up on it, huddling deeper down into her cloak, arms wrapped around herself, trying to make herself as small as she possibly can.
Eventually, she sinks into a bleary, hazy sort of reverie. She doesn't have the energy for anything else, and everything feels far too difficult at the moment anyway. It's in this reverie that she notices that she can see a few of her toes poking out of her boots on one foot, thin and holey as they are. Huh. She's pretty sure they shouldn't be that color, but what can she do? She's already fitting as many body parts as possible into her cloak.
She watches in that same drowsy reverie as they get worse, and she watches as she loses them. She's much, much too tired to panic about it--much, much too exhausted.
The pain only sinks in later anyway.
cw: child abuse
Altria is a little over three years old.
She stands in front of the villagers of her hometown solemnly as they pretend that she is not there, talking about her right in front of her.
"I can't believe she still can't do anything impressive. I'm worried," one says, and Altria sees resentment behind her words. That faerie is only worried about the value of a Child of Prophecy that cannot even do any magic.
"We need to be harder on her. Methodical with her." Another faerie nods to himself firmly, arms crossed. Altria hears "methodical", and reads "ruthless".
"We can't even give her time to sleep."
"Forgive us, Caster. This is all for your own good."
"The way you are now, you can't even dream of being the Child of Prophecy."
Altria does not dream of being the Child of Prophecy regardless. It is not something she's ever wanted. She knows that that does not matter, and knows better than to say it.
"And we don't have any time for dreams."
Instead, she nods. She nods because she always nods--because these faeries hate her, and loathe her, and fear her, and even so, she does not wish to disappoint them. She nods and the faeries beam at her. "Now that's a good girl, Caster," one says, and behind her words she hears worthless creature.
"Come with me," another says, beaming. "I'll help you toughen up for your journey!"
Altria looks at the fairy, and nods, and does not say that she can see that what he truly means is, Ah, finally, I can take out some of this frustration on that creature.
It would be better, she thinks, as she follows the fairy silently, if she could just stop seeing completely.
shockingly no cws here wow
When she steps into the smithy again, she has to duck a hammer flung straight at her head.
Altria does so with quick reflexes and, for some reason, has to fight the urge to laugh. It's just so honest, as is the way that Ector scowls at her from behind his work bench.
"Didn't I tell you to stay away from here, girl?"
Altria shuffles in place sheepishly, but lifts her chin anyway. "Can I look? I really, really want to look at what you're working on!"
She doesn't wait for a response. Instead, she's immediately drifting over to one of his work benches, reaching out to touch one of his tools.
Ector startles, hastily. "Don't touch that! That's processed iron. It'll give any faerie who touches it awful hiv--"
Altria already has it in her hands, and he blinks at her, and the huffs out a breath. "Looks like you're fine. You must actually be from the Demon Boar Clan."
She fights the urge to stick her tongue out at him. There's no such thing! She already knows that!
"What, you got an interest in iron and the forge?"
Altria nods eagerly, but Ector just looks away, crossing his arms. "I see."
A long pause, and he looks back at her, heaving a long sigh. And once again, quiet but with the weight of the world in his voice, he says, "I see."
And then, much to her surprise, he beckons her over. "C'mon," he says, casually, as if he wasn't ready to send her packing just a few moments ago. "I'll show you how to use that tool."
Altria beams, bright and pleased, happier than she can ever remember being. Ector's heart is filled to the brim with hatred and loathing for faeries--and conversely, that makes her feel safe. After all... she hates them too.
So she comes closer, offering him the tool, and settles in to learn.
cw: child abuse...
Altria runs to the fields as quickly as her legs will carry her, short as they are.
Much to her chagrin, despite hitting six years old, she is still quite small; when she'll get taller, she doesn't know, but the faeries of the village never stop reminding her that she's small and fragile and useless.
She'll show them one day, she thinks with a sigh as she hurries to the field, her staff clutches in one hand. It towers over her, twice her size and then some. One day, she's going to be so tall.
Once she's far enough in the field that she's sure none of the other faeries will hear her, she flops into the grass, staff next to her.
"Ugh, those faeries, I swear! They're all horrible!" her staff says to her.
Altria just laughs a little, shaking her head. "You've said that before, Merlin. It's okay, it hardly hurts."
She lifts her fingers to trace the bruising across her face, knowing full well that she's likely to end up with a black eye out of it.
"Hey, you wouldn't happen to know a spell to heal all of this up?"
Merlin--the staff--sounds regretful in response. "It'll take me a few days to work something up."
Altria just hums, shrugging. "I figured it'd be something like that. It's okay! Like I said, it barely hurts."
The staff is silent for a long moment, and then Merlin huffs. "But I do have a lesson prepared for you on camouflaging objects."
Altria sits up quickly, beaming. "Yay, yayyy! I'm ready to learn! Please, teach me!"
They've only just begun the lesson when Altria freezes, as off in the distance, there's a shout. "There she is! I saw her laughing in the field, just like I said!"
The village elder strides towards her through the field, and Altria backs away despite herself, eyes wide, staff clutched in trembling fingers. He doesn't care, though. If anything, he moves faster, reaching for the staff, trying to yank it away from her sharply.
"Caster, you do not need anything like this. It will only distract you from your training."
That is what he says. She knows, immediately, that he means, You are not allowed to have the things that bring you joy.
She has gone her whole life doing exactly as the faeries of Tintagel tell her. But this is Merlin, the one bright point in her entire life. So she clutches the staff with all of her strength, shaking her head.
"N-no, please, I--!"
She's on the ground a moment later, head spinning. Ah. Of course. The staff is gone, the village elder taking it away from her. Of course, of course. She's always been weaker than the other faeries. There was never any chance she would be able to keep it. Why had she even tried?
... Altria lies there, staring at the red sky, for a long time--until another faerie fetches her for further training, and then, mutely, she stands up and follows.
no subject
The soldier sneers at her from the gates of the grand city.
Getting into Salisbury, it turns out, was much harder than she anticipated. He scoffs at her, looking her over up and down. "Which hole in the woods did you crawl out of? Your clothes are a mess, and you've got almost no magical energy."
Altria wilts a little, cringes inwardly at the words that she knows have to come out of her mouth, and tries to spit them out anyway.
"I'm--the Child of Prophecy!"
The moment she says it, she knows it won't make a difference. Really, she'd known it wouldn't from the start. But he laughs at her nonetheless, and she shrinks down a little despite herself, cheeks red.
"R-really!"
He waves her off after a moment, rolling his eyes. "We don't need the Child of Prophecy here anyway, girlie. Nobody actually wants or believes in the Child of Prophecy."
The truth behind his words hits like a death knell. She doesn't even want to do this stupid thing, and nobody else wants her too either. What is she even doing here? Why is she even trying?
Silently, she turns on her heel to leave, his jeering voice calling after her, "I don't know how many centuries it'll take you, but hey, good luck saving Britain!"
Once she's out of his line of sight, Altria kicks the nearest log along the road that she can find, furiously--but all she accomplishes is stubbing her own toe, and with a groan, she sinks down to sit on it instead, head in her hands.
this is the dumb option aka Altria Shittalk Hours. also heads up that the image link is pretty nsfw
Altria stands on what looks to be a grand stage, ringed by seats filled with people.
Across from her, there is a faerie. She cackles, gratingly, sneering.
"I mean, can you imagine anything more hilarious than a pathetic low-class faerie being paraded around as the Child of Prophecy, of all things!?"
Altria stands there, face bright red, clearly trying not to hyperventilate. But she straightens slowly, eyes shut as she focuses, brow furrowing.
"R-right... Okay. Deep breaths. Deep breaths..."
The other faerie--Tristan--arches an eyebrow at Altria, hand on her hip, all confidence.
Altria opens her eyes, scowls, and snaps immediately, "Well, you've said your bit, Tristan. But what's with that totally obscene outfit!?"
Tristan blinks, but Altria's on a roll now, gaining steam with every word. "I am Altria, the Child of Prophecy! And on my honor as a Caster, I'm going to ring the Bell of Pilgrimage whether you like it or not! Try to get in my way, and I'll cut you AND those tastefully expensive heels down to size!"
Tristan laughs, then. "All this big talk is going to make losing muuuch more embarrassing. I feel sorry for you, sure, but that doesn't mean I'm going to spare you."
Altria tilts her head to one side. "Huh? Wait, you actually think you're stronger than me? Oh, now I actually feel kinda bad."
Tristan's face freezes in shock at that, lips parted and eyes wide, and Altria spits, "You've had plenty of practice running home and crying to Mommy, right? I mean, I'd think so, since this'll be your second crack at it!"
Tristan fumbles over words in response in her rage, teeth grit together so tightly that their grinding can be heard across the stage--and Altria lifts her staff, ready to fight.
cw: character death (poison)
There is a beautiful cathedral filled with people, watching what is clearly a coronation take place.
The new Queen-to-be is stunning, carrying herself with poise and elegance and power. But they are not far into the coronation before a few faeries speak up, throwing insults and slander her way. She is a false queen, they decry. She is a tyrant, she has no right to rule over the faeries in place of the former queen.
She loses her patience.
"Fine, if you want to know the truth so badly, I'll tell you!"
With the crown freshly on her head, Cnoc na Riabh turns to face the crowd properly. "I'll tell you the reason British faeries are still alive today after being wiped out once before. I'll tell you the truth behind the Britain we inherited from Queen Mor--Ghh!"
Her words are interrupted by a nasty, hacking cough. Cnoc na Riabh lifts a hand to her lips, and her gloved fingertips come back covered in red. She stares at it in shock, face pale.
"There!" one of the faeries says, reaching for a weapon. "Now's our chance! Don't let the false queen get away with this!"
Altria skids forward, a snarl on her face, staff lifted and eyes feral. "What the hell do you all think you're doing!?"
The fight is one-sided. Any of the faeries Altria faces she takes down, her companions just as fierce and unrelenting. As soon as a proper path is clear, Altria loses interest in the others--enemy and friend--and skids over to where Cnoc na Riabh has collapsed in a pool of her own blood, hitting her knees by her side. She reaches out to gently lift her head, eyes wide.
"No, no... Come on, Cnoc na Riabh, don't give up on me!"
There's no response, and Altria shakes her a little bit, desperate.
"You're going to be queen, right? That's what you've been working towards all this time, right!?"
Slowly, her eyes flutter open, and she squints at Altria with vague recollection. "Um... Huh, that's weird. I kn-kn-know your face."
Altria's breath hitches.
"I always remembered it...when things were hard... You're my r-r-rival. Y-yeah..." Cnoc na Riabh smiles to herself, distantly. "But...I'm sorry. It's strange. I know I know you... But, I don't...know your name..."
Altria doesn't realize she's crying until the tears hit Cnoc na Riabh's face, watering down the blood on her cheek.
"Wait... Hold on, Cnoc na Riabh. Don't disappear on me. I told you! You can't give up now! If I lose you too, I don't--"
She laughs weakly at that, barely a breathed out breath of air. "Liar. You'd never...give up...that easily. You're too...stubborn..."
Cnoc na Riabh reaches up, brushes at the tears on Altria's cheek. "Even if...you're all alone... I'm sure...you'll find...your star..."
And then her hand falls to the cold tile of the cathedral, and Altria is alone again.