Taken by the Sky
Part One: The Wilds
BEGINNING
It burns hot, then cold, and then somehow both, before fizzling into an inescapable itch. Remade, a single voice whispers in your head- and there are so many of them, sizzling the synapses of your brain. AWAKE , another says, louder than the rest. Your eyes open. Light filters through yellow leaves, the ground beneath you is wet and you are so, so tired.
Awake. I can't. Then sleep.
The last moment is simply sensory. A pair of arms snaking under your shoulders and around your knees, lifting you up, up and then…
Blood, laimsa, WRONG, dream.
"What is that ?"
"It's a girl, child. Am I to presume you've lost your sight as well as your wits?"
"No, I-" An exasperated scoff. A door shuts and opens and a warm draft sweeps over your skin. The smell of campfire is overwhelming. "Am I allowed to ask why you're bringing this girl into our home?"
"You can. Although I shan't answer." The world tilts as you're lowered, the whispers sinking. "And neither will she."
.
.
.
Awake.
You try to sit up but your bones creak and your body is bound in furs. There is no plastered ceiling above you, merely a layer of worn wooden slats, and the air is mired in a smoky haze. You can hear the crackle and pop of a fire, which strikes you as strange, because your room doesn't have a fireplace.
You're not tired, but you are hurting. Your body feels like it's been pounded into paste and pulled back together with plastic wrap. And your head...
"So, you've decided to rejoin the land of the living. Tell me, did you have pleasant dreams?"
"Who are-" Your head turns and your voice cracks like kindling. By your bedside is an elderly woman with eyes as yellow as a cat. Her clothes are absurd- roughspun garments, dyed in faded russet and forest green, the edges trimmed with leather.
The woman snorts, not very impressed with you, but maybe a little amused. "Not even a day to your name and you're already asking the wrong question. It matters little what you call me, child. The question you should be asking is who are you ?"
You blink slowly, deliberately, trying to parcel out what (and who?) she's talking about. There are no good answers.
"What on-" earth are you talking about? Your breath stops and your mouth won't move for the words. "What- What on-"
A tidal wave of voices rise from your spine and riot between your ears. No. No. You can't. ENAAN DIANA. Keep it in.
The woman's wry smile thins.
Your voice is strained and whisper soft when you ask, "What have you done to me?"
"I have done very little, save for the very beginning. The rest was you."
Your eyes flicker to the cracks and corners of this strange place. A ladder leaning on a loft. The walls, worn and nearly stripped of paint. Animal pelts and herbs strung like garlands around the room. A spindle by the bed, a churn by the only door. That door is hanging open and the night is dark as pitch.
"Where have you brought me?" Your voice gets stronger as you work it, the tone sounding strangely sweet.
"My home."
"Where?"
"Elsewhere. Far away. My home, but not yours. Well, not until now." She chuckles, "There is little I can tell you that you don't already know. The rest you will have to learn for yourself. And trust me, you will learn." Her head twists, smile in place but eyes narrowed. "I see, though, that you are not yet plagued by the fade. I suppose I should let you enjoy it while you still can. I am not without pity, after all."
They are parting words, and you are far from done with her. "Wait!" You cry out, and your voice still sounds so very wrong, but you manage to gasp out one more question. "At least tell me your name?"
"You keep asking questions that you could easily answer yourself. You know me as Flemeth, although I suppose…" She taps a spindly finger to her chin, "Hm. A piece without a puzzle… You have given me much to think about. We shall have to see what becomes of you. Until then-"
Sleep.
.
.
.
Sleeping is quiet, for a time.
Your dream is simple. You're on a rocky beach, standing on broken seashells and slippery stones. There is a looming cliff behind you, and another hanging weightlessly above the sea- perched on it's point is city cloaked in darkness, it's black spires piercing a sunless sky.
Your name is whispered into your ear, but when you swing your head, no one is there.
.
.
.
It's the smell that wakes you at last. Tender and spicy, like a winter stew, alongside the mellow sweetness of cooked vegetables. Your stomach growls in appreciation.
"-but I think your guest has woken up." Someone says with saccharine sweetness.
"She is no more a guest than you are. But you're nearly right. Are you hungry, girl?"
It takes you a moment to realize that you are 'girl'. It isn't that you're still tired, or even that you're scared. You are… thoughtful. Deliberating. Numb. And yes, perhaps you might even be a little afraid. If things really are as they appear, then you are in deep, deep shit.
"Come now, we'll not wait forever."
You open your eyes and turn your head towards the light. There is Flemeth, sitting in a rickety chair with a wooden bowl in her hands, and standing beside her is her young, beautiful daughter.
"Does she know how to speak?" Morrigan asks.
"Better than you cook." Flemeth replies.
Morrigan folds her arms and glares, her fingers wrapped around a ladle like she'd rather it was a dagger. Your eyes roam down the curve of her cheek towards the thin span of her waist. You're not sure how old Morrigan was meant to be during the… events, but you think this girl looks too young for adventure. She wouldn't look out of place in a high school bathroom, applying too much eyeliner into a murky mirror.
"Why do I even bother? Perhaps our extended guest will be more forthright... Not that that's hard. Now," Morrigan's attention flutters back to you, "Do you know any Common?" She speaks another language then, guttural and foreign, and yet the right words echo in your ears, "Are you Chasind then? Avvari?"
Your mouth opens, closes, shuts. The whispers are quieter than they first were, but they are no less present, pulsing and pushing until you are left with nothing but lies.
"She has nothing to say to you." Flemeth says. Her eyes cut to you and there's a calculating shine in them that you don't like the look of. "Bring her a bowl of broth."
"Lovely. Am I now to be a nursemaid?" Morrigan grumbles, but she turns around anyways and begins to rifle through the shelves for cutlery. Quite scathingly, she says, "I'd heard tales of you stealing young girl's from their beds. I never thought that they were true."
Flemeth snorts, "What you know about me could fit in a thimble."
She spoons the broth into the bowl, thinner than the stew from your imagination, but no less appealing to your shrivelled stomach. You wonder, briefly, if you should worry about being poisoned, but the thought leaves as soon as it arrives. You can hardly believe you're here, there's no room in your mind to ponder repercussions and implications. What matters is that you are hungry now. As you untangle yourself from the mess of furs and quilts you realize that you're completely bare, but by the time you've sat up Morrigan has brought you a bowl. You grab it with one hand, the other holding a quilt to your chest in needless modesty and-
-the bowl slips from your fingers, the broth sloshing over furs. Morrigan curses, but you hardly notice because something is so very wrong.
New . DIFFERENT .
No. No, no, no.
These hands are wrong. Your chest is- it isn't meant to look like this, so small and, and… You scramble from the bed, your legs lifting out, sliding over soup and sopping pelts. You fingers bracelet your knees, your ankles. They're so very small, small in a way a woman's body just isn't, and you let out a great cry once you can no longer deny the… the childishness of it all.
This isn't your body. This isn't your body, this isn't your house, and everything is wrong .
"Mother!" Morrigan shouts over your keens, "What is wrong with her!? Ugh, she's gotten it everywhere!"
She steps back when you start to scream, lips curled in distaste. Flemeth ignores her and walks deliberately to your side. She slides something from the pocket of her apron and lifts your face from the clasp of your hands with surprising gentleness. Your eyes are wide, pupils blown, and your cheeks are glossed with tears.
"Take this, child." She places a leaf upon your tongue. "Now chew." You do.
It doesn't take long for the world to get quieter. Your whimpers fade and everything softens. The fire becomes hazy, faces a feather soft blur. Even the whispers seem to fade away. It takes no effort at all for Flemeth to lean your heavy body against the wall. When she places a bowl to your mouth your lips part without protest.
"Here, child. You'll need something to settle your stomach."
"Surely she has a name." Morrigan is still rooted to her spot with morbid fascination, "Or did you not bother to ask before stealing away with her into the night?"
Flemeth wipes a trail that dribbles to your chin. The warmth is hypnotic. "We'll call her Rhiannon."
"'We'll call her? ' Mother, she is not a pet. You cannot just- name a stray child. She's not so young that she wouldn't remember her own, she won't answer to it."
"And why not? You need not answer to Morrigan, and yet you do, just as I answer to Flemeth, mother or old hag. Names are pretty, but mean little in the grand scheme of things. She will adjust. Now, wash these furs before they dry. I don't want the smell to stick to them."
They talk more, bickering and nagging, but your tongue tastes like thyme and you are floating. You don't remember anything more from that night.
Did we need another modern-girl-in-Thedas story? No. Am I going to write one anyways? Ohhhh yes.
Hahaha. I'm trash. This is trash. But hey, if you like the taste of garbage...? Let me know what you think, and what you'd like to see in the future. I've got a good idea of where this is going, but there's lots of room to grow.