A/N:This story is self-indulgent, but let me know your thoughts/feelings with a review! Also, I am still working on a Dramatis Personae and a Glossary for this fic, but give me time, as life has gotten in the way.
Lyarra
The Beastling Arc
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Camille and her ladies had been woken up in the blue-black dark by Arya and her women. They were dressed in washed-out yellow and orange kirtles, matching flowers in their hair. Most startling of all were the red and white symbols all over their faces, necks, and hands.
When they awoke her, it was something almost out of a nightmare: they stood legion in her bedchamber, even Calluna startled by their appearance, silent and deafening at once with their presence.
With quiet haste, they went to lighting candles, incense, and dressing. Even her cousins were hurried away while the women stripped her naked, put her in a hot bath and put her into a shift and a wool kirtle the color of lemons, plainly embroidered. With a wooden bowl, they brought a paste of red and white cream they wore to her face and gave her the symbols as well.
"The midsummer festival is for more than just praising the gods, my sapling," Mother Arya stated as they left the nursery.
"Lady Melantha's women gave a bare explanation to you," she had continued. They had all walked silently and thickly perfumed with the smoke of the incense, which made her drowsy even in the sharp cold of the castle. Not one soul was in gallery and corridors they walked down, as if she had told them not to be there, or worse, they knew not to come.
"Midsummer is for the prayer to the goddess of the sun for luck in the coming autumn, and the death winter brings."
They exited the keep close to the entrance of the godswood. Just as the corridors, the yard was empty. Held in Ceridwyn's arms, they entered in silent procession as the sky lightened and the day came closer with skies of with hard navy, pink and lavender. The light had not pierced the thickness of this small forest yet.
"It is for energy and vitality in our fields and people we pray," Arya continued, as they all stood in some sort of spiral, Ceridwyn placing her toes on a soft bed of leaves that went between her toes. It was then Camille noticed that none of them wore any shoes, or mantles, nor cloaks, not even hoods. They all seemed focused elsewhere, while she looked around to them all. Ceridwyn simply gave a smile and pressed a finger to her lips.
"Above all, this time of worship is for healing." Arya looked down at her then, towering over her small form. Arya ordered her to repeat the words said to her and Camille did so without hesitation.
"For healing. For strength, for vitality, for safety," Arya sang softly. "You understand me yes, my sapling?" Camille only nodded, earning a smile.
"Lift your hands in greeting to the sun," Mother Arya commanded, "Lift them to the goddess. Let Meyte see you pray, and she will give you the gift needed in the time to come."
They all did as commanded. Camille felt as it thickened into a trance. She felt silly at first, small, overshadowed by Arya as they began to chant and sway. But then, as the sky lightened, so did her arms: no longer heavy, she felt as if she were growing, the cold faded away and she became warm, then hot. Her lungs took more air, and her blood began to rush, and soon behind her eyes, light.
Camille shuddered, feeling as if she were expanding, stretching, lifting from the ground, entirely weightless.
Her tongue felt thick in her mouth as she tried to speak, and her hand shook as if blood were rushing out of her, forcefully.
When the chanting ended, Camille opened her eyes, and looked to her arms. Camille saw that their symbols that were painted were a shining white. It left her breathless when she looked to the adults, glowing, shimmering, like herself.
The sight of Arya was entrapping: she seemed then so unearthly and beautiful and bright. Her eyes burned, but she could not look away.
"It is our gods," Arya laughed. "They reward us first, they who pray at sunrise. And look how the goddess of the sun rewards you, my sapling,"
It felt surreal. Not even shaping water felt this way. Camille's blood roared now, she felt full and sleepy and energized all at once.
As their arms lowered to their sides, the glare of the light died, and so did their voices. As they dimmed, she felt as if she would fall, but noticed that she still was aglow.
"My little Lyarra, how special you are," Arya smiled. Camille was unsure.
It all seemed a dream to her until she awoke in her bed to the sounds of her aunts.
Sitting in her bed in a new nightshift she felt as if she had woken from a good nap. Yadira, Essie, and Ernatta were alarmed at her wakefulness, while Ceridwyn was seemingly high off of the experience like Mother Arya was.
"The morning ceremony on the day of the Midsummer Festival is for healing," Ceridwyn assured them as she wrapped a thick mantle closer. "It is natural she is. After the bogs of the Neck, she has been sluggish. Does she look so now? Is there any illness or malady you can see or smell or hear?"
Essine gave her distrusting eyes, then looked Camille over. She felt so calm, and warm, and peaceful. It was almost like being high.
"Not one day in her life has she been this calm. She looks as if she took too much milk of the poppy. What did you feed her?"
"There was no food or drink, my lady. She is young, and the goddess Meyte took to her very well." Ernatta had mumbled something, worried.
"Ama," she mumbled for her nurse, and Ernatta seemed aggrieved of her state, hugging her close in bed. Ceridwyn would only give smiles.
"She seems high and low at once, my lady," Odall had commented from the wall. Camille could only giggle at that.
Yadira seemed foreboding, not moving. "What shall we do for the morning feast?"
"She shall recover. You told me yourself, had you not, Lady Yadira? Her mother, she called her hallowborn?" Ceridwyn's accent emphasized the wrong sounds in Dornish. Essine only blinked in response.
"We call her a weirn, a gate of the gods. Because of that, she is of the Kindred. As I am, as my Lady Arya is, and her sister. As Lady Stark once was. Though we are all under the Gods' eyes, Lyarra has finally opened herself to them. Fear not. The goddess wants her healed. She stayed with her long after our prayers ended. You shall see," Her aunts looked angry.
"Have no fear. The Stark will not hold the first meal after mid-morning, which is time for her to rest. I shall gather the girls for them to play before they dress."
At Ceridwyn's departure, Yadira sent Odall to follow her.
"Oh, thank the seven," Ernatta cried when the door closed. Her face was blotchy and eyes red.
"Ama, I am well," Camille wanted to convince her milk mother. She looked wretched. And so did Ypolita and Essine.
"Will I still go to the celebrations?" With no northern woman in her bedchamber, Camille did not bother struggling in the Old tongue.
"Word has already been sent by your father, Arra," Essine said, coming to her bed. "You must eat a bit, pray, and play with your cousins, and everything will start after that."
As predicted, her father had allowed her brighter clothes: her kirtle of apricot, her overgown of lemon, and yellow citrines netted in her hair. Jon had clothes to match, but Robb wore the same vivid orange that her father and Uncle Benjen wore. When they had entered the great hall, her father entered with Catelyn, then Melantha with her Her Great-great Uncle, and Melantha with another Stark blooded man. Berena entered alone, and Mother Arya did the same. It was only then they entered. She had gone first and went into her curtsey, and she could see Catelyn's lips thin, as well as the old she-wolves. With Jon in her arms, Yadira curtsied, and they were to sit at the table to the right, with her Uncle Benjen and Mother Arya.
The feasting went on for hours: first, the food for breaking the fast, which she sampled every dish between her uncle and Arya, who kept her entertained, with bards and musicians playing after Brena led a great prayer for all in the hall. It lasted hours, with only a momentary respite with a walk outside around the lush glass gardens and a nap; they repeated all of this for dinner, which lasted even longer.
It was then she was laid to sleep, taken out of her clothes, to prepare for the bonfire: outside was a great fair between Wintertown and Winterfell. She watched from the birds, not willing to risk getting trampled on in the crowd. The smell of the food sold was rich, and hoods and mantles were offered, as well as men who participated in a melee, bloody and brutal. The champion of the event got cheers all around as he took a reward of a god cup from her uncle Benjen, her father sitting on a high seat in a great tent upon the dais. He had not smiled, and nor did Catelyn, who had earned a quiet chide from Melantha.
To the next field was a great heap of wood, a great space given between it and the encircling tents of cloth and the people that swarmed in them. At their departure, and the melee's fights way to the physicians, she returned to herself, relieved that no one had tried to wake her while she was gone. At the sight of moving in bed, Ypolita had promptly called for Essine, who ordered Ernatta to dress her.
Her entrance to the tent was given by the herald, but only her father, Benjen, and Arya looked to her, the others in the tent feigning polite disinterest.
Benjen and her father had then left for the pyre alone. Handed the torch and began to light it. Her uncle was as thin as her father, and boyish, and nothing worth swooning over. He did look nice in his grey furs, which matched his father's, though lacking in all the extra jewelry and embroidery.
Serena, Arya's sister, said something about starting the fire of birth, she believed, nodding to the maids by Catelyn's side. They were all covered in so much fur Camille could only see the red of their cheeks. Arya only nodded, smiling.
Eddard was grim-faced receiving the torch, whatever words he said lost in the breeze of the evening.
Another of the Kindred, a heavily tattooed about the face, stood to the side began to chant, and sing, along with others of his ilk that formed a ring around the pyre. As her father lit the pyre, everyone said the words, chanting, and hard to understand. The flames grew, and grew, and grew, and consumed the wood. Everyone then cheered, and for a moment, even her father gave a brief smile.
"An auspicious sign," Melantha had called out to those who were near. "The Pyre caught quick despite the wind. It shall hold the night."
Marna was not to be outdone. "Eddard's reign will be long, and good, indeed."
Catelyn only blushed with no words to say when the courtiers looked to her; Arya and all others nodded. To her, she kissed the side of her head. "A Stark must always keep such warmth in the North. It is summer now, but in winter, all shall look for his fire for warmth. Your father is a blessed man, in these cursed days."
She could only smile at Eddard when he approached, whose face softened at the sight of her. "You are not too tired are you little babe? Did your brothers leave you alone?" Robb and Jon had been whisked off soon as the cheers had come. She was not a sleepy babe like they were, Camille assured him, and with a little chuckle kissed Arya and Serena upon the cheek, and left to speak with others.
Camille tucked her small hands into Arya's large soft ones, rubbing the traces of faded runes on her skin, and contented herself to watch all who offered to dance and sing and recite poetry in the Stark's tent.
The night had gone by easily; most of it was spent in Arya's lap. At the sight of her sleepy eyes, Lady Ceridwyn had then begun to take her back on her father's orders. Instead, revitalized by her third nap, she ran around the crowds to see everyone and thing to Ceri's despair.
They all gave her the smiles that you gave children who didn't know any better: How pretty my little lady was, how well mannered. Had she done all her prayers this morning? The servants were just the same, offering lemon cakes, orange slices, and other pastries that she happily took, to her lady's dismay, watching her as she ate every treat, though warned of sickness.
I'm three. I have the right to eat myself sick.
Camille was soon enough out of her sight, and free to see the stars, bright and white against a black sky.
It was then, at the other side of the encampment around the bonfire, that she felt the singular thrill that frightened her: it went from her spine and soaked into her ribs and lungs and made her throat tight. It was then she was plucked into the air by no one other than Berena, which made her call for her aunt, shrill and high.
"Lady Berena,"
Ceridwyn's form came from near nowhere, guarded at the sight of Berena. And she did not blame her. Every moment with Berena set her on edge. She looked normal for a woman of her age, yet even the oddest of the Kindred covered in runes were nothing compared to her stare.
"My lady. My little Lady Lyarra. You are far from the Stark," Her voices seemed almost dead, far different from the merry tones she had in the crowd near the she-wolves and her father. She tried to yank herself away.
"My Lady Lyarra likes to meet the court."
"Such a curious nature, for a child so young,"
"All children are curious," Ceridwyn had countered curtly. She gave a good day and reached for her, but Berena had not moved.
"Her namesake was equally curious as a child." The words had made Ceridwyn stiffer.
"My grandmother was…curious…like me?" No one spoke of her namesake. Not even her mother.
"I am told it is a trait from her mother, the Lady Ashara." Ceridwyn's word overcame her question.
"Most children do not know their mothers truly," Berena had said, looking at Camille in the eye. A great gust had come, rippling the flame, and then causing great cheer at the sight.
"Yes, you are much like her," Berena smiled. "Arya kept my niece high in the mountains. Though that trait had not left her as a maid of eight and ten,"
"The mountains are a safe place," Ceridwyn said, edging to the woman slowly, to demand her charge. "There is no place like it."
"Yes, indeed. All sorts of queer things happen in the mountains that we in the plains cannot always explain as sensible," Berena had moved away then, but her eyes were upon her lady now.
"Trees see. Animals who talk. Bastards who become trueborn. From the gift to the Sea dragon point, the ways of old still stand, do they not, Lady Ceridwyn?" The air kept rising, whisking everyone's cloaks to and fro.
"The Lady Lyarra, Berena," Ceridwyn called through the wind. "Your arms must be tired. I will take my charge now."
"Only your charge?" Berena's grip grew tighter.
Now the wind blew forcefully, the bonfire snapping, rising.
"Put me down!" she demanded in Dornish. "Down! Put me down!" but the words were just harsh wind now, as it cycled around them. Camille was afraid and felt as if she would stop breathing.
"Calm yourself girl," Hissed the woman. Camille looked to Ceri and cried. The winds were now so strong as to flip tents and raise skirts. Around her, she felt it on her legs, her arms, but not where Berena held her tightly. And the more she yelled, the less she could hear—she could feel her voice—but not hear it. Soon screams had started as a tent flew into the bonfire.
"Down," Camille shrieked, and then with a great gust, she fell to the ground as Berena lost footing. The older woman toppled over as the tents lifted in the air. She could not help but scream and cry at the sight of people running, screaming, and bleeding.
"Enough Arra, enough my little one. Please," Ceri begged. Under her cloak, the tightness lifted, and she watched as men seemed to fight the fire. Ceri lifts her and struggles to her feet as the wind becomes so forceful even a horse falls.
Ceridwyn looked over her and with quickness, snatched her away, not bothering to look back at Berena. Begging calm from her, she tucked her face into her neck and wished for her mother.
Far away and safe. Camille looked over her aunt's shoulder. She could see a figure that stared at her. Berena.