If any of you have started to read this fanfiction before, you may notice that I have changed it. It basically went through plastic surgery; I changed some of the cosmetic-type aspects, including a rewrite of this chapter and the main character's name, but the core of the story has remained the same. For anyone who liked the previous version, I appreciate you and I hope that you enjoy the new version as much, if not more than the last version. I certainly like it better.
I own nothing.
My world was destroyed with betrayal and fire.
As we travel I can't stop counting the casualties in my head, the names and faces burning into my mind, tearing at my soul.
Ser Gilmore, my childhood companion, begging me to run as he stands to defend me.
My sister-in-law and nephew, bodies carelessly left to rot.
Nan, Mother Malone, servants and guards, all people I had grown up with, all family to me.
Mother and Father…
"Are you alright?" Duncan finally asks. It has been hours, days, and I've been silent. I haven't spoken. I haven't cried. I suppose when the shock wears off it will be much worse… but I can't imagine how I could feel worse.
"A few days and these wounds will heal completely," I say, almost surprised that I could speak. Intentionally misunderstanding his question, I referred to the wounds on my arm. My own voice sounded foreign to me, and I didn't have enough strength for the real answer.
Duncan merely nodded, and I almost sighed in relief. We continued to travel.
As my body ached and my feet protested, I slowly began more accustomed to traveling. At night I tried to convince myself that the pain would eventually go away while I lie awake, wholly unable to let sleep claim my aching body. Sometimes I thought about the life I used to have. The privileged daughter of an Arl, sheltered and pampered. I never had to travel anywhere on foot before. I never had to fight for my life. I had a family, a place where I belonged.
True, my life wasn't simple. At the age of fourteen we realized that my eyes carried a disease that was slowly robbing me of my peripheral and night vision at an unpredictable rate. Proud of learning to sword fight with ease, I was not about to give that up. In fact, the lessons became more necessary for me. I needed to know that I could defend myself, and defend myself well, despite the circumstances. And I needed the freedom that came with the knowledge that I could take care of myself. I threw myself into my lessons with even more steadfastly than before. When my vision got worse, I adapted. I developed a sense of where my opponents were when I could not see them. And so I excelled, and I became known for it. Emmaline Cousland, the half-blind warrior.
And when I tired of stumbling in the dark or staring at the ground while I was walking, Father had a cane made for me. Enchanted somehow beyond my comprehension, it could turn into a sword on my need. Otherwise I held on to it, pointing it out so that it was in front of me. I could then determine the terrain in front of myself.
Clinging desperately to what vision I have left, the fear of seeing nothing but darkness haunts me. For now though, I have enough. Enough to see everything I still want to see.
In the end, sleep finally won over my exhausted body, and with the rest came clarity. None of the pain was gone, but I realized I was able to push it aside, tuck it away from the center of my being. And so with that, when we arrived at Ostagar, I began to pull the broken pieces of myself together out of necessity. It was a hurriedly stitched job, many of the pieces skewed or missing, and the seams threatened to burst, but it was a start nonetheless. I was able to quietly thank Duncan for his understanding.
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