One needs something to believe in, something for which one can have whole-hearted enthusiasm. One needs to feel that one's life has meaning, that one is needed in this world. —Hannah Senesh (or Chana Szenes) (1921-1944)
Summary: By no means is the Bhaalspawn the only one concerned with the divine. Branwen of Tempus has a fate of her own to choose and to seek. Four-part Branwen backstory. :)
A/N: Occasional liberties taken with Realmslore. Originally written for a Dreamwidth challenge.
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"Go away, Gwen," Vidar called down to her. Her brother and his friend Njall clung to the very highest branches of the tall tree, most of its lower limbs stripped; Branwen's hands could not reach halfway to the lowest of them.
She clambered up along the ash bark anyway. The roughness of it opened scrapes along her arms and thighs, and she would climb some distance only to feel herself slipping back; but she did not give in.
"Go away, Gwen," Vidar repeated. "It's our secret business."
Branwen dared a glance to see how far their faces lurked above hers. They were closer; she would not give in. From all the sagas she had heard told, Eilinn the Eagle clambering the cliff face while black arrows pelted at him and fires roared above— She was child of Seawolf, isle of mighty warriors. She struggled upward; she felt a line of blood falling from her thigh, a sharp part of the trunk cutting her.
"Go away, mamma's-girl," Njall called. "You can't get up here."
She was near to the first of the branches she could hold. Vidar and Njall were cruel; when they ran she followed them and never cried, no matter how many gorse-scratches lingered on her skin.
Her brother reached for part of the tree, and she heard a stick snap off in his hands.
"Stop it, Vidar!" she cried. "I can get up, I will!" Branwen pushed herself on. Her hands clutched at a thick branch just above her; the bark twisted and buckled upon it, but she gripped more tightly. She did not care that it tore her fingers. Then she saw her older brother holding the stick like the boys were taught to throw small darts as a part of their warrior training. She watched them from a distance when she could hide from her mother, and secretly she practised herself when she tended the family's sheep; she had a sling and stones that shepherd boys used to keep away wolves. She was closer to Njall and her brother now, The bark gave way in her right hand and her grip was slipping, but she held with her knees and grasped another branch with her hand.
Vidar flung down the stick and it hit her forehead with a sharp end. She blinked at the pain. "I'm coming!" she called again, and struggled another step up.
"Go away!" Njall plucked his own stick, which missed when he flung it down at her. "Stupid girl!"
Branwen stretched out her left hand for the branch above. It was high above her, but it seemed strong to carry her up. A thin trail of wet blood had started to fall down her forehead. She strained her legs and arms against the bark, clinging and reaching. She was growing every day and she had to reach it. She could see the bottom of Vidar's foot; then her brother swung himself down and closer to her, kicking out. She felt herself lose her grip.
"Vidar!" For a moment Branwen glanced at the gorse and stony ground below. It suddenly seemed like a long fall. "Stop it! I'll fall—"
"We don't want girls up here anyway," Njall said; and it was now a stone from his pockets instead of a stick that he drew to fling.
"That's right," Vidar said; and she felt the tree-bark slipping in her grip. It was not her strength that failed but the silly tree, she thought, dizzy. Something had hit her head. The bark twisted as if it had turned into the hand of a troll in a saga, plunging her away from it. She saw Vidar's hand then reaching for her. Her brother's face was oddly pale.
"Gwen! Branwen, we didn't mean..."
She fell, and the first of her dreams came.
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