Thank you to everyone that read the first Chapter/prologue! I honestly didn't such a swift response!
The angst has not yet appeared as of this chapter (and the way my mind is having the story progress, may not for another four chapters). I'm going to attempt an update everyday, wish me luck! And beware the perspective shift!
CHAPTER ONE: NOBLE
Taking the shemlen throne was deceptively simple at first; we forced acknowledgement from self-loving humans then killed any whom stood in our way. Simple, animalistic. Well suited to me, if not my love.
We soon found that keeping the throne was harder than taking it. The dangers of a poisoned blade or a hidden archer were simple enough, but far more dangerous were the whispers that passed through the court as if some kind of particularly horrible disease.
It is far more difficult to kill a rumor than it is to kill a man.
Noble, Rinya decides as she contemplates the blackberry juice staining her fingertips. Noble is a deliciously ironic word. She sucks her fingers into her mouth, fighting for every last drop of that delicious purple juice, disregarding all thirty-nine pairs of incredulous eyes that are firmly fixed on her. Shemlens are funny that way. Defying the lie everyone already knows by giving out ridiculous titles. Her fingers dip back into the pilfered bowl and raises another small treasure to her lips. Blood doesn't make a man "noble." A burst of laughter, stifled as swiftly as it began draws her attention to the far side of the stone courtyard. Well, with a few notable exceptions. The admittance trudges sulkily from her mind as her eyes devour the man is golden armor, his movements languid as he tells some sort of story to courtiers that are trying very hard not to reveal their horror: a king, with a sense of humor?!?!? Oh dear Maker, no!
The faintest vibration scuttles up her finger bones as she scrapes the bottom of the empty bow. Out of berries, damn. She swings a leg over the stone, the warm spring air kissing her bare thighs with care that rivals the touch of her lover. As she slips past the immortalized griffon, she lays a comforting hand upon its stylized neck. How fantastical would it be to fly into the night, wings of an eagle spread beneath your feet as your arms reach to brush reverent fingertips against stars? Rinya sighs; shame the foolishness of man has led to the death of such great beasts. Now, where are the berries…
"Rinya, come over here for a moment, if you would." The sibilant voice caresses her skin, drifts down the curve of her neck. Alistair is calling her.
She makes her way over to the man and the flock of doubtful parasites that surround him with dancing feet. The day has been wonderful thus far: friendship and foolish shems and love and fresh berries. She can scarce wait for the next moment. "Yes, human lord?" A smirk twists her lips as distaste curls those of the courtiers.
"Gentlemen and gentle ladies, may I present to you the Hero of Ferelden?" Warmth creeps through her lungs and veins with cinnamon spice and the sweetness of clouds as his eyes turn on her. She knows that the shems are watching the adoration creeping up to paint itself over her cheekbones, but she couldn't care less for their worries and scandals. Nothing matters but for what she feels here and now; the moment that weaves its subtle threads about them both, ensnaring their eternity.
"This is she that slew the archdemon?! An elf child? Where were you?" A voice rich with incredulous indignation severs the ethereal ties, corrupts the moment with an outsider's disbelief. Rinya coils, prepares to pounce and rend the flesh from the fool's bones with naught but words and murderous intent.
A loud chuckle from the king is the fool's salvation. "My dear, I do believe my honor has been challenged!" He intends his words to be teasing, gentile. Rinya sees a hidden opportunity.
She tsks, barely containing the vicious joy laughing it's way up her spine. "Well, now. That will not do." She wheels on the noble, the feral spirit haunting the angles of her face promising pain. "I, Rinya Mahariel, champion of King Alistair, challenge you to a duel for calling into question the honor of your liege."
The horror that races through the pack of shems' eyes is a delightful compliment to the shocked amusement echoing within Alistair's smile. She is well pleased.
Words are slung back and forth, apologies uttered, and then screamed. In the end, Mahariel is denied her chance to play with knives and human flesh, but there will always be other times. The celebration was a success. Mahariel is pleased with the stifling of cowardly whispers and Alistair is pleased with the lack of corpses littering the flagstones. The night rings with hushed laughter and assertions of love. None fits them like one another, no one elses soul sings in harmony but for each other. Nothing can ever separate them.
The next day the courier from Orlais arrives.
Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoyed! If you didn't, feel free to tell me why. Suggestions are always welcome. Thank you for your support, I could't do this without my readers!