A/N: This started out as something vaguely poetic, then quickly evolved into dramatic prose. More than anything, this is an outpouring of my emotions after reading "Heir of Fire," which was absolutely incredible. I'm not entirely sure what I just wrote, but I like this... thing... all the same.
As "Heir of Fire" established, Celaena's is not a story of darkness; but there is still darkness in her history, and I wanted to explore that here. She might be a heroine, but she has left a trail of blood in the past, and she has to move forward in the knowledge of her sins.
I don't usually put a disclaimer in my author's notes because they seem self-evident, but seeing as Sarah J. Maas began this series on FictionPress (which is affiliated with Fanfiction,) I feel that it's only respectful to say: I do not own "Throne of Glass," and everything in this one-shot is merely inspired by the greatness of Maas' fantastic series.
SPOILER WARNING for "The Assassin's Blade," "Throne of Glass," and "Crown of Midnight." If you haven't read those books and don't want to be spoiled, please do not read this work of fanfic. And if you do want to be spoiled, change your mind and run while you can. The series' surprises are lovely.
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SONG OF ASHES
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This is your hero, this is your queen, oh child of Terrasen.
Oh child, why do you tremble? They say her throne is of glass, poised to shatter at once — and her crown is of midnight, dark and gleaming — and her heritage is of fire, of things loved and lost, of sorrow and passion and pain. They say she is broken, like Terrasen's sacred stags, like its people that stumble in ragged, huddled masses through the streets. They say she is broken, and beyond repair. (In this, they are not wrong.)
This is your hero, this is your queen, oh child of Terrasen.
Oh child, why do you cry? Did you expect a porcelain princess, a shining beacon astride an Asterion steed? Are you frightened, oh child, by the cracks along her skin, the dark lashes where old, old wounds were inflicted? Your queen runs barefoot, oh child of Terrasen; runs shoeless through the shattered streets, her footsteps scarlet as they fall.
They say she grips Gavin's blade with calloused palms; they say she traces its lethal edge with broken, dirt-encrusted nails. They say she wields Damaris — that sword of time-worn legend — like an avenging angel, like a firestorm against the dawn. They say she is strong, stronger than Fae or mortal alike. (In this, they are not wrong, either.)
This is your hero, this is your queen, oh child of Terrasen.
Oh child, why do you rage? They say that the strong must always be broken, for only at the end can a new beginning be written. They say the tale of Terrasen shall be revised, its shame absolved and its glory reborn.
Listen — the battle cry sounds, high and fierce — the strangled shout of the abandoned daughter, that this cannot be how the story ends. And she takes a blade to the pages of history and destiny, defies the indelible ink that decries she is alone, and her people are not free.
And shall they not be free, oh child? Shall they not take up arms against the darkness, burning bright in the shadow of oppression? Shall their queen of glass not fight — though her secrets should be exposed, though her enemies should see through her armor and into her battered, bleeding heart?
This is your hero, this is your queen, oh child of Terrasen.
Oh child, why do you shut your eyes? Behold — in the ebony heavens, the stars are shaken, and below, the unholy realms are exposed. They say the lost princess lives; they say she died in a frozen river, dripping saltwater and blood. And they are not wrong; alas, they are not wrong.
Did you expect a gentle woman, oh child, a warrior of words and not of blades? Did you expect a daughter of the court, draped in silver and green? Do not fear the crimson on her hands, trickling from her fingertips. Look, oh child, and see her eyes are oceans, rimmed with gold; see the tumult in their restless waves. This is truly your lost princess, and truly she has died — has died every day for years upon fractured years — and truly, oh child, she will fight.
Oh child, why do you cry out?
This is your hero, this is your queen, oh child of Terrasen. Born of lashes from the whip, and of caresses from a captain — born of biting death-camp winds, and of the sweet chill of a northern breeze — born of Endovier, and of Terrasen — born of man and of Fae — carved from glass, enveloped in midnight, forged through flames.
They say she is a savior; they say she is a coward. (They are not wrong.) Oh child, this is the haunt of your nightmares, an enigma of blood and bone and shadow. Oh child, this is your stag of the north, your unfading beacon as you journey home. And her light will not go out.
This is your hero, this is your queen, oh child of Terrasen.
Be not afraid, for she rattles the stars.