AN: I haven't written a fanfic in so long. Hopefully this isn't as awful as it probably is.
Disclaimer: Not only do I not own Throne of Glass, but I also wrote this around two in the morning so forgive me in advance for any errors!
Chapter 1
The little girl was smothered in ashes.
Her body lay bare, save for the sodden garb of once-pure silk that now crested her small frame. The river was swollen with ice and her toes became one with the snow as they bled of all sensation. Numbness swept over her like a thicket of honey on bread, trickling slowly but with a suffocating efficiency. And the trees, the spires of oak as ancient as the land itself, were crying ashes as they burnt to the ground. Heavy smoke clouded the air. Screams of agony and fear. Whips. Knives sheathing. Hope failing.
She knew she would be dead past the hour.
Blinking tears―or was it soot? ―from her eyes, Aelin struggled to drag herself out of the stream. Once the bridge had been cut down she'd lost all consciousness and tumbled into the water like a stag may with an arrow burrowed in its breast. Now that she had awoken somewhat, her first priority was to entangle herself from the water that was bleaching her life with an alarming fervor. But her clothes and hair and skin weighed her down. Her heart was already sunk and her eyelids screamed to follow.
A sound like a branch snapping, or perhaps fire consuming glass, sounded nearby. She was too disoriented to tell from where it emitted. Which is why she had no defense against the calloused hands that clamped down over her shoulders and hoisted her from the riverbank. Curiously, her body never left the Earth. It took a dull moment for her to realize she wasn't being carried away, but rather dragged. Through ash and blood. Through unfamiliar faces of the fallen and sharp objects that could only be weapons of those who'd lost their battle. Aelin's eyes were wide as she let herself be taken.
Then the wind picked up, her heart crackling like wildfire, and her thoughts burst through the dam.
Ripping herself from the hands was a harder task than her nine year old mind had imagined. But she'd somehow succeed, and began scrambling on hands and knees in desperate need of escape.
Laughter behind her, and she found herself being hauled upward off the ground. Her futile efforts all for nothing. And when she did finally stare into the eyes of the man who'd torn her from her impending death, she wondered whether or not he'd give her lifeless face one look and decide to toss her back to the mercy of the water. That was not the case.
"Little one, you seem frightened." It wasn't a question and she didn't bother to answer.
His grey eyes were bloodshot, and Aelin was reminded of a time when she and her cousin had been hunting the Little Folk and she'd stumbled upon a bloodied dove. Its murky silver coat had a splatter of crimson adorning one wing, and its neck was bent unnaturally. Aedion dug a small grave while she'd cleaned its feathers, and together they buried the creature, unbeknownst to the Little Folk that watched the ceremonial from above.
Breathing through her nose, Aelin kept the man's gaze and didn't utter a word. She hoped this act of defiance would come off as just that, an act of fearlessness. For all she knew, this man could have been the one who had slit her parent's throats. She tightened her jaw. The though brutalized her. The wound of the memory was still so fresh that it bled in torrents. Left crusted blood on her nightgown. But her body betrayed her once more, and her limbs shook furiously. Her eyes blurred. His darkened.
"You're lucky I even noticed you down there. Your skin is nearly as pale as the snow. I'd have walked right over you if it weren't for you chattering teeth and gasping."
She hadn't known she was making nose. Didn't know she was capable of such a living thing while on the brink of dying.
He continued. "And you're obviously still alive, so why didn't you try to get up? Surely there are far better places to hide than a river in winter." And he sounded so earnest that it unraveled a bit of her mental stability. Fury the likes of wildfire filled her veins.
Her Ashryver eyes burned, this time not from tears or soot or blood. "Not many places to run when your kingdom is falling to pieces around you."
A falcon cried in the distance. The wind spun a putrid stench wayward and Aelin fought the urge to wretch. Flesh, it seemed, caught flame as tenderly as the pages of a book. She would know. Now she'd seen both.
Those dead dove eyes studied her. Assessing her. From her blue feet to her bloodied lip and wild expression and finally to her eyes. "Your parents―where are they?" A slap would have been kinder. She bit into her lip savagely and shook her head. He nodded. Once. Then he set her back, unsteadily, on her feet. But he didn't let go of her forearm, and she was smart enough to know this was more for his benefit than her balance. It terrified her to be so close to this stranger, knowing he was neither ally nor enemy.
"Come with me, then. I can see that you are smart, despite your seeming lack of self-preservation, and so I will be blunt with you. My name is Arobynn Hammel, head of the Assassins Guild in Adarlan," she choked on air, "and I'd be honored to have you training amongst my ranks. All you have to do is take my hand and never look back upon this place. Then the rest of the world is for your leisure. In exchange for your training, you will owe me a debt. But this can be very easily paid off if you concentrate and excel in your studies. Soon, you might even become the greatest assassin in all of Erilea, and I will grant you whatever sum of gold and glamour you desire. But first, you must agree to never return here."
It was…unthinkable.
Blasphemous.
Never return to Terrasen? How could she not? And yet…if she didn't take his offer, would there even be a home to return to? What would become of her country? Her people? Her throne? The thought chiseled away at another unwanted memory of her father taking her to Oakwald in pursuit of the Lord of the North. The throne had always seemed more like a sentencing than an empowerment. But now there was no throne. She had seen the fractured antlers askew in the grand hall while she'd been running for her life. Brannon had crafted that symbol of royalty and now it lay knocked aside like an unfortunate toy.
Remembering the rest, and perhaps the biggest portion of Arobynn's proposition, she felt her lungs constrict as dread set in. Killing people for gain? She just couldn't do it. No matter how many times she'd pestered her father's men to teach her how to hold a blade, or Aedion to teach her how to knock a bow, she'd never intended to use one to murder. Her parents and uncle would be devastated. Aedion would be furious and, despite his youth, attempt to slaughter Arobynn for even suggesting such a thing. If Aedion wasn't already dead.
Aelin stopped breathing all together.
She wasn't certain what made her do it at first. The aroma of rotting flesh, the shrieking and sobbing of her people being butchered, the ashes billowing in the wind, or the mountain castle crumbling to stones. But there was one thing that stood stark in the darkness. One entity that became her, as if the kindling of a new ember. One thought, and that was all it took to make her comply.
Vengeance.
Perhaps if she trained hard enough, learned to use the weapons and skills she was so intrigued by in her own home, then maybe she'd be able to track down the ones who'd hurt her so dearly. She'd find everyone responsible―whether it be the King of Adarlan or her aunt, Queen Maeve or the village stable boy― and she'd invent such a wrath that it would consume her whole being and turn her into hell incarnate. So Aelin looked up into Arobynn's face, and said with all the conviction of a young girl who'd just arisen from the cinders of her world, "I will go with you."
He smiled grimly and took her by the hand, leading her through the path of broken things. And though the princess kept her promise, she was sure that if she returned, the river would remember her.
AN: Should I continue? Thanks for reading!
