of names & truths – a drabble
They had been en route to Farthen Dûr when Arya first acknowledged the change in herself. Many leagues lay behind them still, though they had yet left the comfort of Du Weldenvarden. Reports of increased activity near the Hadarac had forced them to give the desert and its small surrounding villages a wider berth than they would have liked. The detour left her feeling a touch uneasy though she had not known why at first. She said nothing of it to her companions, though she knew they could sense a tension in her, and they made no attempt to pry.
One evening found them outside of Ília Fëon, an elven city located within the southernmost part of Du Weldenvarden. They had stopped to let their mounts graze and rest, for none wished to do the horses harm by pushing them too hard. Arya murmured an affectionate word to her own mount and left him to drink from the cool, sweet water of the brook near their camp. Fäolin was unrolling his pack when she approached him and he looked up at her with an expression of missed affection and uncertainty. He had clearly seen something in her face, even through the calm, cool mask she normally adorned. It was an uncommon ability, even for those who claimed to know her well.
“You would do well to rest, drottningu.” He told her, his dark eyes meeting hers and never once glancing away.
“I have asked you not to call me that,” she reminded him, though she gave little strength to the scold. Before he could make a second remark, she unfastened the satchel she’d been wearing for the duration of their ride and handed it to him. A sliver of brilliant blue was visible through a gap in the opening, the egg’s hard shell shining bright even in the dim moonlight. “I am going to scout ahead for the nonce. Guard it well.”
Fäolin looked as they he was going to argue with her but he only inclined his head and took the bag, cradling the egg protectively in his arms. “Always.”
She walked slowly from their camp until the trees had obscured the others and the horses from her sight. Then, she broke into a run. There was nothing urgent about her pace, though she still felt the need to put some distance between herself and her party. All the while, she listened to the forest—both the sounds its inhabitants made and the countless colors and emotions of their simplistic minds. She ran and ran until the forest began to thin, allowing the light of the moon to penetrate the trees’ canopy and illuminate the grass-covered floor beneath her feet. Arya slowed quite suddenly, stopping at the very edge of the forest.
Before her was a vast plain, the green of the tall grasses almost blue beneath the moon. A light breeze rippled through the grass, making it look as though it were the gentle swells and falls of an ocean at calm. She had every intention of moving on, to scout the forest to west, but instead she lowered herself to the ground and sat on the very edge of the tree line. One step more and she would have left the safety and familiarity of Du Weldenvarden. Years and years ago, the prospect of leaving her home had been both frightening and exciting but she had experienced much and more since. The homesickness that had once plagued her had long since faded and she no longer wished for the comforts that Ellesméra once offered. Yet, that very fact had begun to bother her. The elven capital no longer had a hold on her as it did for many of her race. Her induction into the Varden had created a disconnect that she did not like to acknowledge. And yet, she knew that she must acknowledge the change. She was no longer just Arya Drottningu, daughter of Islanzadí and she found that she did not wish to be. Something of note had changed within her and she knew that she would never be able to live out her life in Ellesméra as her mother wished.
The words came to her then, almost unbidden and with a force the knocked the breath from her. Even unspoken, she could feel their strength resonate within her, like a chorus of bells perfectly in tune. She shuddered, the feeling not unpleasant but powerful enough to affect every ounce of her being. When she felt she could, Arya whispered the name to herself and was all at once overwhelmed by the feelings and images associated with it. Tears filled her eyes and streamed down her cheeks and for a moment, she felt afraid. The name told of her family, her losses and victories, her sense of duty, and something new—a loneliness that would have brought her to her knees had she not already been sitting. The home of her childhood was no longer her place nor were the secluded halls within Farthen Dûr. Her place was somewhere in between which is fact not a place at all. It was the roads and trails and villages and fields and sands and mountains through which she traveled with the dragon egg. Yet, somehow this knowledge did not leave her despondent. Though she was effectively without a true home, she had a sense of purpose that gave her strength in a way nothing ever had before. Just as before, there were parts of her name she did not like—truths that almost that she was almost ashamed of—but she found that she was somehow more content than before, lonely though she felt. She sat alone in silence for a long time, opening her mind to night and sharing her new sense of self with creatures great and small.
Fäolin was still awake whenever she returned to camp, werelight floating a few feet from where he sat with the egg. He seemed to not have moved since she departed, his eyes focused on the patterns of blue within the egg’s surface. His eyes found her when she entered the small clearing, though she knew he had sensed her long before. “Is all well?”
Arya nodded, almost smiling.
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