Full Summary
In the age before Ages, countless winters ago, when Auger and Wilder shaman and Clayne priest came together to Foretell the return of the Great Dragons to the skies of Thedas, they predicted need of a vessel: an unmarred youth, pure of body and strong of heart, to walk the Bloodied Path and restore dominion to the mightiest and most destructive of the Maker's creations before their wisdom is lost to mystery.

This is not what Bryony Wolfe signs up for when she unintentionally cuts herself on some weird costume jewelry.

In which a modern-day arts student from Earth is tossed unceremoniously into Thedas, bumps into some Witches, learns about destiny, runs away once or twice, and traverses the more dangerous half of this strange new world, all in an effort to fix what someone else broke...before her creepy new tattoos kill her.


she's gonna find another way back home
it's written in her blood, oh, it's written in her bones
she's ripping out the pages, ripping out the pages of your book

#

When the car horn blares, cutting through the birdsong peace of a foggy, Ohio morning, Bryony Wolfe flinches.

Leave it to Nora to conveniently ignore her texts about maybe not making one of her grand entrances at the ass-crack of dawn. In hindsight, the gesture rings of futility. The whole world's a stage, especially to a prodigiously awarded drama student.

Pushing aside the eyelet lace curtains, Bryony spies the glossy, crimson paint of Nora's birthday present—a brand new SUV, because apparently her old sedan was 'looking tired' which Bryony learned was rich kid slang for 'outdated and totally boring'—and audibly grinds her teeth.

Nora Prescott is everything that Bryony's mother pities about the modern world, while Celandine Wolfe leads the kind of life that Nora and her following from MAAS would balk at. No Netflix? No credit cards? Can you even get takeout in the boondocks? Fleetingly, Bryony recalls the moment in Entrepreneurial Arts when she unintentionally let slip that her mom still writes a check at the supermarket and Nora's eyes lit up with impish glee.

That was the moment when Bryony catapulted from 'weird junior transfer student' status straight into the inner circle of the Modern Arts And Sciences prep school. Among the academy elite, crowds parted, lines in the laundry room disappeared, and there were no more solo meals in the library. Bryony wondered if it was curiosity, amusement, or a mix of both that drove the budding starlet's decision to invite her out for lattes after class. Either way, Nora's attachment to Bryony and her 'charming quaintness' was enough for the rest of the group, and the low-income loner from Ohio went from having two friends and a dog to experiencing a constant flurry of activity, a shy moth caught in a butterfly wind.

- texts, hangouts, lunch dates, weekends at the beach, and soon Bryony moves her wallet print of Tahoe to her desk drawer, to make room for her Smoothie Shack loyalty card -

By the end of her first semester, Bryony has not one, but three social media accounts, knows the details on all the important men in Vampire Diaries, and gets regular pedicures. Her mother would wither in horror, and somehow, that only feeds the fire.

But she isn't at MAAS, now. This is summer break, the only vacation long enough to justify flying halfway across the country to come home, and Bryony has spent the three weeks struggling to meld her new habits, her new friends, her new tastes, her whole new life, with the old patterns of her childhood.

And now Nora Prescott is stepping gingerly out of her expensive car, wrinkling her nose at the muggy, manure-on-a-warm-morning smell of the farm, and of course this is the one morning her mom has decided to cleanse in the river behind the garden and of course she would return home, soaking wet, in one of her gypsy dresses and no bra just in time to greet Nora without Bryony to run interference.

This is it: everything Bryony dreads, rolled up into one perfect moment of suck.

Grabbing her purse, she bolts for the stairs, backtracks to snatch a hair elastic off the nightstand, and beelines for the front door.

Tahoe lifts his head at the sound of her rapid descent, his tail thumping enthusiastically against the kitchen floor. "Hey, good boy," she greets breathlessly, fishing through a basket of produce and withdrawing two shiny apples, which the spoiled mutt eyes plaintively. Bryony grins, despite her present panic, and grabs a hunk of squirrel jerky from his jar. She tosses it in the air, and doesn't need to wait and watch to know that he catches it with an effortless snap of his jaws.

Voices drift from the driveway as she pauses against the door frame, shoving the apples in her purse and hastily zipping up her combat boots over her jeans.

Her mother speaks. "Bry didn't mention where you girls were going. Plenty to do, this time of year! Grove Pumpkin Festival is a sight to see."

"I'm sure," Nora says, in the same dismissive way she rejects last season's clearance rack, "but I think Bry was going to show us the renaissance fair? It just looked so cute in her photo collage."

The surprise and hurt in her mother's voice is like an arrow of hot guilt, straight to the gut. "The Faire?"

Steeling herself, Bryony slings her purse strap across her shoulder and pushes open the screen door.

Nora spies her instantly and flashes a wide, pristine smile. Her brunette hair is cut in a stylish bob around her fox-like face, offset by sleek sunglasses and plum lipstick that matches the splashy flowers on her sundress. She reminds Bryony of a statue, or perhaps a robot: manufactured to be perfect, phased by nothing, underwhelmed by all. It hurts, how much Bryony missed that, in the riotous chaos of the farm.

"What's up, buttercup!" Nora calls, opening one arm to embrace. Eagerly Bryony half-jogs the last few yards and slips into the hug, purposefully avoiding her mother's gaze.

But Celandine Wolfe is not easy to avoid. "Bry, you didn't say you were going to the Faire! We could have met your friends at the gate, spared them the extra driving time." Bryony hears the sharp intake of breath and knows her mother has noticed her purposefully contemporary wardrobe choices. "You're not going in garb?"

Nora chokes back a peal of laughter. "What's garb?"

Celandine raises an eyebrow. "Period-specific costume. All the regulars wear it. It's half the fun of going. You're about the same size; I'm sure Bry wouldn't mind lending you something from our stash."

Sensing that would be the point of no return – Nora would never allow her to live down the entire closet on the second floor, devoted to costume storage – Bryony rapidly shakes her head, pulling her lips into a tight smile. "No, mom, we don't have time. We have to go."

Right on cue, the car horn honks again. Bryony glances back to see Helene, an exchange student from Greece, resting her sandaled foot on the edge of the steering wheel, wiggling her toes as though threatening to press the horn again. "Are we going to stand around or are we going to see this carnival?"

Another bright laugh escapes from Nora, who pulls open the driver's side door, and begins to arrange the layers of her dress on the seat. Bryony grips her purse strap and flashes her mom a weak, false smile.

Celandine's voice hits her like a slap.

"I don't recognize this girl. If my Bryony is still in there, somewhere, tell her that I miss her." Her tone is even and honest, her words not spoken in spite, to guilt or to embarrass, just to deliver what Celandine Wolfe has always valued over anything else: the truth.

It stirs a longing in Bryony's stomach, and she almost considers abandoning Nora, hugging her mom and offering to rub almond oil through her hair, and make plans to spend the hot day in the shade of the sun porch, drinking iced tea, painting their toe nails, and daring each other to speak in riddles, until one person runs out of rhymes and they wake the foster kittens with their laughter –

But Nora makes an impatient noise, and Bryony sighs sharply. "Whatever, mom."

Helene fiddles with the stereo, and by the time Bryony clicks her seat belt and the shiny SUV rumbles out of the driveway, Elle King's raspy voice fills the cabin. Bryony sings along despite herself. She fiddles with the buckles on her purse and avoids looking in the rearview mirror. As if shame were a shadow that might vanish if she shifts her gaze away.

#

It only takes ten minutes with Nora and Helene, strolling along the sprawling, shaded grounds of the Grove County Renaissance Faire, for Bryony to realize that, despite Nora's assurances over the phone as they finalized plans, neither of her MAAS classmates had any interest in experiencing this charming tradition. Not unless that was secret code for feign interest in the quirky locals and then snigger behind their hands.

Bryony feels her teeth clench tighter and tighter, until her jaw aches from clenching it too hard. It is easy to strip away your old skin and pretend to be someone else when your one thousand miles from home. Here, walking along the familiar dirt paths, past all the same old-fashioned shops, with the smell of lemonade and roast turkey thick in the air, she feels false. As though when she woke up, instead of fumbling with the wrong pants, she stepped into the wrong skin. Worse, the confused stares of the other regulars, the kind though often raunchy Faire enthusiasts who have colored the pages of Bryony's childhood, are difficult to process. One pained, apologetic wave from Bryony, along with a hasty shake of her head, a silent plea to ignore her, and the troupe stays away, their frowns settling on her skin like dust.

Helene and Nora show little interest in the live shows or exhibitions, raise their eyebrows at most of the food. However, the lane of market stalls and Ye Olde Shoppes encircling the grounds quickly draws their attention. Halfheartedly, Bryony trails in their wake as they drift between businesses, surveying handcrafted jewelry and thumbing through racks of bright, specially dyed clothes.

"Who wears this? Like, on a regular basis?" Helene asks with a sneer, holding up a long skirt, falling in gauzy purple flutters from waist to ankle, with silver suns painstakingly stitched along the hem, diamonds for stars, and bits of mirror for the moon. A beautiful piece, one Bryony knows would take weeks to finish.

Nora checks the price tag and snorts. "Hopefully no one, for that price."

"I have one," Bryony cuts in, and immediately regrets it, the judgmental pierce as two sets of eye swing towards her enough to raise a flush on her neck. Despite her brain's protests, her mouth continues. "Mine is green, though, with apple blossoms."

What Bryony had mistaken in the past as delighted interest she now recognizes as incredulous glee. Without letting the opportunity die, Nora snakes an arm around her shoulder and steers her towards a makeshift changing room in the back of the stall.

"You must be in need of another one. If you have space with the rest of your costumes, that is. Besides, this one goes with your eyes."

Before she can protest, she finds herself alone in the back stall as Nora tugs the curtain back across the opening with a decisive snap.

Bryony fingers the fabric, digging the pad of her thumb across the ridged elastic waistband, and wishes desperately to disappear. Hot shame creeps up her neck and sets the back of her ears aflame. How did she spend an entire year acting so foolishly? Had she honestly thought that she belonged with their crowd? How many times had the polished clique laughed at her when she assumed they were laughing with her?

Miserably, she finds her memories of the last year tainted now, recalling the subtle and rapid way they would text and realizing they must have been texting one another, even within the same room. Bryony doesn't know what an eyelash curler is. Bryony's never had espresso. Never been kissed. Never gotten drunk. Never smoked weed. Never had sex.

Inhaling deep and slow, she clenches her eyes shut and tries to shove the heavy knot of tears working its way up her throat. This is such a stupid thing to get worked up over. She's supposed to be above this, this inane peer pressure nonsense. Who cares? Who cares what they think? Who needs to be liked?

You do, an unkind inner voice reminds her.

Outside the changing room, Helene laughs loudly at something, and Bryony grits her teeth. The only way out is straight ahead, she reminds herself, and focuses on the task of trying on the skirt. Unzipping her boots, she peels off her jeans, leaving her in underwear, bra, socks, and a grey fashion tank top with six crisscrossing spaghetti straps that create triangular patterns on her freckled shoulders. The skirt fabric is soft and light against her legs as she wiggles it over her hips.

On principle, she wants to hate it, to see the garment as something to scoff at, the way that Nora and Helene do. But she cannot stop herself from stroking the breezy layers, relishing the brush of the linen lining against her bare thighs. The hem falls two inches too long, pooling on the top of her feet, but with her boots, maybe…

Fighting off a smile, she sits on the changing room stool, folding the skirt around her thighs as she shoves her feet back into her boots, tugging her socks up around her knees and zipping the boot shaft snuggly around her legs. She catches her reflection in the mirror: pale-skinned and freckled, her coarse cinnamon waves swollen with humidity and fighting against her hasty braid. She has always felt awkward in her own body: her mother's long limbs but without her height, an unremarkable chest and soft baby fat that lingers on her thighs, butt, and upper arms. Combined with a nose that must have been her father's and a full bottom lip, she most often feels like a malformed gazelle. The one who cannot figure out how to lope across the plains as gracefully as her kin, tripping over her own limbs.

My eyes, she realizes. She likes the skirt because it does, to Nora's credit, compliment the one physical feature Bryony adores. The violet skirt makes her eyes—normally a bright azure—seem richer, more indigo.

Helene's voice makes her jump. "Are you alive in there?"

"Yes," Bryony responds, folding her jeans into a tight ball and stuffing them into her purse. She slides back the curtain and steps back into the shop proper.

Nora appraises her from the back counter, where she taps her foot as though waiting for something. "I like it," she states, then quickly adds, "on you, of course. It works."

Snickering against the back of her hand, Helene adds, "Yes, it's very festive."

"Do you like it?" Nora asks, and when Bryony nods, rewards her with a winsome smile. "Good. I've already paid for it. I wanted you to have something to remember our adventure by."

Warmth and lightness flood her chest, and Bryony cannot stop the pleased grin that lights up her features. "Thanks, Nor."

Helene makes a coughing noise that might be a suppressed laugh, but before Bryony's smile can falter, Nora collects her credit card from the returned shopkeeper, signs the receipt, and slides her arm through Bryony's, leading her back to the main causeway. "You can thank me by pointing out a decent jeweler. I've seen too many girls wandering around with those wire elf ear things and I must investigate. Cathy thinks that Mr. Hudson favors Midsummer for the fall opener, and if Louise thinks she'll get Hermia over me, she's nuts."

Nodding understandingly, Bryony allows Nora to regale her with the latest gossip from the MAAS drama department as they meander down the thoroughfare. Scanning the banners and old-fashioned wooden signs, creaking gently in the breeze, Bryony scouts out a specific shop—Spun Starlight—that carries a variety of accessories, all hand-crafted, both antique and modern. As Faire shops go, Spun Starlight was newer, only appearing two or three summers ago. Out of all the jewelers peddling their wares, Bryony guesses that Nora will appreciate this specific collection.

"Here," she points, having found the sleek black sign with an artful glittering star painted in the center. "This one has nice stuff."

They approach the stall, and immediately Helene appears on Nora's far side, grabbing her hand and pointing at a display, front and center, of the wired ear cuffs Nora sought. The two make a beeline, examining each pair with a critical eye. Bryony hovers, when they begin to debate which pink metal flowers or delicate pearls make better character accents for Nora's audition, Bryony excuses herself to browse.

The stall is long and deep, extending from the main street back into a grove of trees. It has no walls, only wide counters on three sides, all artfully covered with arrangements of jewelry. Necklaces, rings, bracelets, hairpieces, brooches, pins, cuffs, cufflinks, and beyond. Delicate string lights, discreetly arranged along the ceiling beams, wash everything not touched by the sun in a soft white glow.

At first Bryony looks for a necklace, and then thinks it would be nice to find a hair comb to match her skirt. She wanders towards the back wall, where faceless mannequins with impeccable hair model a variety of glittering pieces. Each option is beautifully made, almost otherworldly and fey-like in their delicate construction, but nothing strikes her fancy.

It is the necklace in the corner that catches her eye. Unlike the shop's other ornaments, this piece is not displayed on a velvet cushion nor dangled from an iron jewelry tree. It hangs, almost forgotten, on a small nail, hammered into the post, just below eye level. The chain is fine as spider silk but lacks the same iridescence. Instead it almost vanishes; wearing it would attract no great attention.

The pendant itself seems unremarkable at first glance: nothing more than a thick, smooth cylinder about the length of her middle finger and curved like a parenthesis. The end tapers to a delicate point, not unlike a tooth, but then the piece would be made of bone, wouldn't it? Yet this oddity seems more crystalline, its texture reminiscent of dark water rippling atop endless depths. Sunlight gathers, so subtly, around its graceful edges, stroking the surface like a lover's caress. The not-tooth sips the light and for a moment Bryony believes that it glows.

Blinking, she shoves her wispy flyaways back from her face. No, it can't be glowing, but yes, it almost is: a stirring within the pendant, a hum beneath the sigh of the wind, an unsettling reddish glimmer from the inner facets. It begins to feel as though the necklace is drinking in the light and the air and the sound, siphoning off life so slowly that the world doesn't notice, and Bryony finds herself stepping closer, reaching out her hand –

"Bry! Have you ever seen earrings like these?" Nora calls.

Whipping around, Bryony jerks her hand back to her side and her heart skips in surprise when something brushes against her wrist. The chain of the strange necklace – the pendant is clutched in her hand. Blood thumps faster through her pulse point. When had she picked it up?

From the front of the stall, Nora holds up something intricate and tinkling that Bryony can't make out against the brightness of the sun. It's high noon, or nearly there, and the breeze has died, leaving a humid thickness to the air.

"What?" Bryony says, the sound catching in her throat. She cannot make her heart calm down, nor her arms stop shaking.

Helene appears from around a standing rack of brooches. "I'm parched. Is there somewhere we can eat? Preferably in the shade?"

"One hopes," Nora commiserates, lifting a manicured hand to shield her eyes from the sun, peering back into the shade of the booth. "Bry? What's up?"

Bryony coughs, trying to clear the scratchy feeling from her throat. She turns back to the corner, making a deliberate effort to put the freaky necklace back on its nail. The pendant slips from her hand, the chain wound around her fingers. Her gaze snags on the unexplained glow, which despite the faint insistence of her rational mind, seems to have grown stronger. Curious to a fault, Bryony lifts the pendant closer, twirling it between her fingers, searching it from every angle for some kind of light source, or jeweler's stamp, or –

"Bry," Nora snaps, impatiently. "What are you even looking at?"

It's an innocent motion, turning to show Nora the necklace, to ask if she sees the weird light, to cajole her into ridiculing it so it loses its enthralling qualities. So they can toss it aside and go gorge on cheese pastries and stuffed peppers and sausages made from ox. So that by the time the afternoon joust rolls around, the necklace will be a forgotten thing once more.

She turns and her boot snags on the fluttering hem of her new skirt, yanking her off balance to the right. On reflex her hand shoots out to stop her fall on the edge of the center island – the hand which grasps the necklace, and Bryony is not quite nimble enough to drop the necklace first –

Her half-open palm smashes into the counter's edge, and her own weight forces the tip of the not-tooth into her flesh hard enough for three drops of blood to drip down the curve.

Bryony has less than a second to register that pain before the world shatters.

Beneath her, the ground bucks and heaves hard enough to splinter the stall's roof, sending Bryony to her knees in a shower of splinters and dust. She screams but can't hear it over the roar of the air as it rushes upwards. Leaves, twigs, and bits of gravel fly past, nicking her arms and neck. Her eyes follow the current and find the wrongness: a jagged void, bleeding ghastly green light, too bright to stare at directly, and a rush of dizziness warns Bryony that she has clenched her fists in terror. Looking down, she finds the not-tooth has lodged deeper into flesh and muscle, blood like a waterfall down her wrist, splattering the ground, dripping on her thighs.

All in a matter of seconds, precious seconds that terror extends –

The last thing Bryony Wolfe hears is a voice she has known since birth, shouting against the thunder of the void. She tries to call back—Mom, Mom, Mommy, help, please!—but the green light surrounds her, and it feels so much like burning alive that her cries turn to raw screams and she blacks out as the fire pours down her throat.

#

By the time Celandine fights against the flood of panicked Faire-goers and reaches the site of the rift, the hole in the Veil has vanished, leaving a stall in shambles, the causeway scattered with trinkets and trash, the grass shredded with the roots of upturned trees. In the heart of the destruction is a blackened circle, a scorch mark on the earth, and little else.

By the time the local authorities arrive and wrap the scene in caution tape, advising the Faire grounds to close, scratching their heads and phoning for the bomb squad, Celandine is back in her truck, zooming down the country road as fast as she can stomach. She lifts her bag onto her lap and fumbles through its contents, pulling out a small planner. She flips open to a paper-clipped page, with the current year's calendar, and double-checks the date of the approaching solstice.

By the time Celandine unlocks the door to the garden shed and steps into her stillroom, she has an idea, or at least, a chance. Pulling a worn leather sketchbook from its shelf, she opens to a diagram of an intricate ritual circle, with meticulous instructions crammed into the margins. She does not—cannot—think of futility, or what her own teachers will say, or the danger of using her full magic after decades of little cantrips.

She thinks only of Bryony, of her sunny-haired bright-eyed sticky-fingered child, thrown into the Fade –

No.

Not thrown.

Yanked.

#

In a mountain clearing far, far away, in a place not quite here and not quite there, a young witch catches the burn of ozone on the evening breeze and spies flickers of green edging the thunderheads in the distance. Gold eyes narrow, and she slides off her rocky perch, leaving the giant, ornate mirror quiet and liquid dark in the shadows of sunset.

Her son meets her at the cottage door. He is perceptive enough, at seven years, to recognize the signs as they appear. The willful set of his mouth reminds the witch unexpectedly of the boy's father, and memories have her fingers tracing the crest of Highever stamped onto her metal bracelet.

"What comes?" asks the boy.

"Nothing good," mutters the witch as she motions the boy inside and turns to bar the door.


A/N: I have no explanation for this.

Grease up the wheels on your Feels Machines, kids! It's gonna be a bumpy ride!

The lyrics at the chapter beginning as well as the title of this story are taken from the song "Wilderwoman" by Lucius. I claim no ownership, I don't profit, I'm not worthy, etc.

Cross-posted on AO3 under the same s/n. Go there for the even more mature version!

Peace and love, readers.