Glossary:
Dribble - flash-fiction of 50 words or less.
Drabble - flash-fiction of 100 words or less.
Drouble - flash-fiction of 200 words or less.
Tribble - flash-fiction of 300 words or less.
Quabble - flash-fiction of 400 words or less.
Quibble - flash-fiction of 500 words or less.
Author's Note: so, thing is, WhenNightmaresWalked is absolutely amazing. She does challenge entries and fanfics for my fanfic, Once Upon a Time. And this one time she sends me a message that says "LA, I have been bad." She says this because instead of doing the challenge I wanted from her, she did these short little one-, two-, and three-liner pieces (some of them are dribbles, some drabbles, some droubles, some tribbles, and a few rare quabbles; we sometimes call these things word-prompts). I guess she thought I'd be mad. Instead, I was very very happy. I was even happier that there were 50.
Since then, she's done TONS more. Now she's on... I think she's done 170 according to a list that I gave her. She agreed to do this list if I did some of the words on it as well. I did her one better - I decided to do all the words on the list (I'm still not done - there are at least 1300 words on the list). I've done... like, 700 or so.
Until then, I'm fiddling with these. Here are 35 (give or take) that take place during Nuada's past. It's called Shadows of the Moon because it's about Nuada and I thought that was a nifty title. Hope you enjoy. Just remember they're short little paragraph-type things, not a typical cohesive narrative. Just a reminder. And as I write more of these (I've got at least 600 left on my list) I'll add them. So check back every now and then for new stuff.
Note:War and Bonds were written by WhenNightmaresWalked.
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Shadows of the Moon
A Once Upon a Time Word-Prompt Collection
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Perfect
Ten tiny fingers.
Ten little toes.
Impossibly soft golden lashes.
A shock of star-blond hair.
An adorable little nose and a small yawning mouth.
Little hands that reached up and tried to grasp the adult-sized fingers in his field of visions.
Balor looked down at his newborn son,
cradled in his wife's arms,
and felt his heart swell in his chest.
Awake
"Shhh," Cethlenn whispers to Balor,
who smiles with more affection and fondness than most of his nobles would ever imagine.
"You'll wake the babies."
But a lusty cry from their son's cradle
informs the king and queen of Bethmoora
that the little prince is not only awake,
but hungry.
Memory
"When I was a boy,
he would hoist me up and put me in front of him on his horse.
He would laugh
and tell me to sit up tall,
because I was a prince.
Because I was his heir.
And we would ride together
and he would tell me tales of magic and adventure
while he surveyed our kingdom.
He wanted our people to see me.
He was proud of me then."
Nap
He remembers waking once as a little boy to a callused hand smoothing back his hair.
There is an impossible wealth of absolute love
in the honey-golden eyes that gaze down at him
from where he peers sleepily up at his father.
The princeling asks,
"Is it time to get up, Athair?"
"Not yet."
That voice is rich and warm and as slow as a summer day.
It is the voice that has always read or told him stories,
the voice that sang him lullabies when his mother was too tired,
the voice that taught him those earliest lessons about honor and courage.
"Go back to sleep, Nuada."
"Yes, Athair,"
Nuada remembers saying to his father,
and falling back asleep,
comforted by the knowledge that his father was there.
Legend
One day,
when he has grown big and strong like his father,
when he is a warrior like Balor,
he will become the Defender of Bethmoora,
the Silver Lance,
his father's heir in truth instead of the heir presumptive,
a champion,
a proud Elf knight.
One day,
when he is grown up,
he will become a legend.
Runaway
He was but a boy then,
terrified and grieving.
A boy who only wanted his father.
Instead he received condemning silence.
Silent condemnation.
Of course he ran;
ran to the last place he'd gone with his mother.
The stones were still stained with her blood.
And when the time came for a father to bring his son home,
it was not Balor who found a sobbing Elven princeling.
It was Wink.
Abandon
Nuada recalls banging on his father's door as a young boy.
Banging with both fists
and calling for Balor to please come out,
to please speak to him,
to please explain.
But the door remains firmly shut.
The latch does not lift.
The knob does not turn.
There aren't even any footsteps on the other side of the oak slab to indicate Balor is near.
Finally,
shoulders slumped in defeat
and his hair in his eyes to hide the tears burning there,
a young princeling walks away,
knowing in his heart that his father is not there to answer him.
Patience
"You must relax and allow the enemy to come to you," Wink says,
keeping one hand on the princeling's shoulder.
"Do not be in such a hurry to attack.
Wait."
Nuada,
a mere boy in this long-ago century,
closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
He can wait.
He can be patient,
and hold himself ready,
and wait for the humans to make their next move.
His father doesn't think they will,
but Nuada remembers his mother.
He remembers her screams,
the blood,
the humans laughing.
He remembers.
He can wait for the enemy to come to him,
because they will come.
When he is older,
when he is grown.
When he is a warrior.
And when they come to him,
he will kill them all.
Diary
"Brother!"
Nuala races after him.
Never mind that it isn't ladylike to run.
Never mind that in her long skirts, she can never hope to catch her infuriating twin.
"Brother, get back here! Come back at once!
Give me back my diary this instant!"
Nuada runs faster and farther than his sister can ever hope to,
with his long coltish legs and his love of speed.
He laughs over his shoulder,
a rare sound since Cethlenn's death,
and calls back to Nuala,
"I want to know what you say about me in here!"
Justice
When Nuada was a boy,
his father often spoke of honor.
Courage.
Nobility.
Nuada remembers this even now.
But it is not from Balor that Bethmoora's Crown Prince learned what it means to be a warrior.
It is not from his father that he learned of bravery,
or pride,
or honor.
Wink is the one who instilled a code of honor in Nuada's heart,
who explained to an Elven princeling what it meant to fight for love,
for justice.
This is one of the many reasons why,
when Nuada thinks of his father,
while he thinks of Balor,
he often thinks also of a massive silver cave troll with a bronze arm and countless battle-scars.
Scar
The blood still runs freely down the Elven prince's pale face,
dripping from his temples and trickling into his mouth,
but he ignores the pain
and looks into his father's eyes.
His sister,
who bore the wounds with him,
stands beside their father's throne.
Though she feels the pain as well,
she smiles at Nuada.
Now he is considered a man grown.
Now he is considered a warrior.
Now he can take up the Silver Lance as his weapon and become his father's true heir.
War
"What is it, Father?"
Nuada breathes as his gaze sweeps over the creature before him.
All fire and metal and clockwork,
heartless and unfeeling,
standing obedient before his father.
It is magnificent.
"A weapon, my son," his father says softly,
regarding the creature before him.
"Forged for us by the goblin smith, Sigri."
Nuada circles the creature,
noting every detail.
Size, probable weight, equipped weaponry, structural integrity.
He knows clockwork,
and this piece is of the very finest goblin craftsmanship.
"Is it loyal to you?" he asks. "Does it fight for Bethmoora alone?"
Balor nods.
"It answers only to he who wears the Órga Na Corónach," the king replies.
"The smithy claims that it may repair itself when injured,
and will never tire nor disobey.
It feels neither fear nor pain.
It is nigh indestructible."
A grim smile touches Nuada's lips at the thought.
"We could use this warrior, then, in battle.
The mortals would fall as wheat beneath a scythe if we met them in battle with this creature at our backs."
He pauses and glances back at his father.
"Are there more?"
Balor sounds strangely uncertain as he answers, "Thousands."
Nuada's smile stretches into a grin as he gazes back up at the metal monster.
"Unleash them all, Father."
Carnage
Nuada stares at the charred and broken ruins of the human village.
'Kill the humans,' Balor had said.
He'd meant the mortal army,
but all the Elf king had commanded the Golden Army was to 'kill the humans.'
Well, and so they have.
So they have,
decimating the army itself
and then razing the village to the ground,
butchering every man, woman and child.
He stares at the wreck of it,
stares with horror and revulsion churning in his belly
at the corpses of women and children and the elderly.
Is this what it takes to defeat the humans and keep the fae safe?
Is this the price?
All of this... death?
Vicious
His father's words are sharp as a razor and just as cutting when he condemns Nuada -
murderer, monster, coward.
His father's face is cut from glass or ice.
His father's voice is frosted with disgust and fury.
Nuada fights not to shatter under the onslaught of Balor's contempt.
Fights, and is not sure he can win.
Birthright
He watched his father -
his captain, his king, his hero -
break the Golden Crown asunder
and set one piece in the wide leather belt that girded his royal robes.
The second piece,
Balor handed to Nuala,
and that was fitting.
His sister was wise, though her heart was too soft.
Then Nuada watched his father -
his last hope, his betrayer, his shame -
hand the third piece,
the piece that should have been Nuada's own,
to the chieftain of the Niall clan,
the leader of the humans.
At this last oathbreaking,
this last treachery,
the Elf prince turned on his heel and took his first step into exile.
Light
Where he is darkness,
his twin is light.
He is haunted,
and she is free.
He is strong and dark and cold.
She is weak and light and warm.
Everything she is,
he can never be.
Everything she is,
he can never have.
And that truth weighs him down like iron chains around his heart.
Bonds
Once a blessing,
to know always if the other was safe,
or hurt,
or in need of the other.
Now a curse,
to only feel pain,
or betrayal,
or worsec
resignation.
Checkmate
Dark lips pursed in annoyance as firegold eyes studied the chessboard.
This was ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
He was a move away from losing the match.
Losing,
to none other than-
"Don't be a sore loser, puppy,"
Wink said,
and moved the black castle to capture the white king.
"Mate."
Son
He is brave,
he is strong,
he is skilled and swift.
But he is also reckless,
brutal, ruthless,
and cunning.
He is a warrior,
but he is also a killer.
He was once a kind boy,
always laughing.
Now
he is a stern and unforgiving man
who rarely smiles.
He is Balor's son...
but he is also the king's shame.
Balor
He is aging,
but still strong in ways that the kingdom needs.
He is tired,
but he still stands as the anchor and the strength of the kingdom.
He is distant,
his heart far away and borne down by old sorrows,
but he is still Father.
He is still the man who helped to forge Nuada Silverlance into the warrior he is now.
Princeling
The massive silver cave troll watches the Silver Lance
as the prince moves through swift and vicious fighting forms.
In combat,
Nuada Silverlance is lethal and ruthless.
In battle he has never been felled.
But when Wink watches him practice,
watches the Elven warrior throw himself into the training,
it is not always the legendary Silverlance that the troll sees.
Sometimes
it is a little boy crouched on the ground
holding a stone stained with amber blood,
tears running down his pale cheeks as he mourns for his dead mother.
Toy
The king recalls that his son used to enjoy playing with toy soldiers.
The princeling would wage furious campaigns against his twin sister's dolls.
Sometimes he would win,
and other times he would lose
(Nuala was, to some degree, a tactician as well).
When it was time to stop playing,
sometimes the prince would obey his father's command to retreat,
to fall back.
Other times the king would have to court-martial the young royal general.
Now it is not toy soldiers,
but massive goblin constructs that the crown prince wishes to "play" with.
And this time,
no measly court-martial of being sent to bed without supper will stop him.
This time,
the king's only option may well be one that will cost him everything.