21, with recently dead otohan and the raven queen
From the prompt "of course i liked you.” This @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt was the perfect reminder of this half-written ficlet from a long time ago, so here's a snippet that will undoubtedly make it into my birth a curse, my blood a covenant at some point.
Critical Role; Otohan Thull (deceased) & The Matron of Ravens
The edge of a cloak materializes right in front of them, and Otohan represses a flinch through sheer force. They square their shoulders as they sit up, though they don’t stand from their kneeling position as they drag their gaze up the frame of the woman before them—towering unnaturally tall, cloaked in shadow, face covered by a golden mask that comes to a sharp point.
“Why didn’t you expect me?” Otohan asks more levelly, though they still cannot repress the curl to their lip as they tack on, “Do you not see the the skein of all fates?”
“I barred your fate from my sight long ago.”
That takes Otohan aback, scorn fading beneath a cold surge of dread. “What do you mean?”
“I sensed a glimpse of the end the first time you prayed to me. Your devotion would be my downfall, and so I acted to prevent it.”
The Duskmaven—the distant monolith of a deity that Otohan had foolishly devoted the majority of their life to—kneels. She reaches out, and Otohan braces themself, but the goddess does not need to touch them in order to pluck a shining thread directly from their chest. It follows her fingers like the lead of a loyal dog, the length of it glowing a bloody crimson right up until it reaches Otohan’s sternum, where it remains pure gold.
Then she promptly stands, pulling the thread taut as she draws it up close to her masked face. Otohan arches their back to appease the pressure, gritting their teeth as they submit to the scrutiny of a god said to see all with but a glance.
“What has your life been?” the Duskmaven asks softly—almost coaxing, strangely gentle.
The memories hauled from Otohan’s mind do not go gently.
Otohan sees their own life flash behind their clenched-shut eyes, from this moment back to the very beginning. A goal to kill the gods, a meaningless stretch of mercenary work, a war they couldn’t win, countless lives slain in the name of the goddess.
A stutter in the tidal wave of memory as the Duskmaven shrewdly studies that shred of Otohan’s life. A war with no winners. Bodies like prayer beads, impaled on Otohan’s blade rather than strung along the cord around their neck. Each enemy soldier’s life contemplated with the clarity of focus only gained in battle. The soul parted from the body—the blood spilled sanctifying the ground that the body then feeds, the soul shepherded into the afterlife by Otohan’s steady hand. An offering (a false justification). Countless offerings to the Duskmaven, made in the hope of hearing something after a lifetime of prayers met only by silence.
It is a dizzying array of fury, frustration, determination, pain, fear, and it all comes to an abrupt halt on a memory tinged by a far more frivolous emotion: hope. The Duskmaven lingers on this memory—the last memory she saw, Otohan somehow knows. A tiny child, fearful but so hopeful, pricking her own finger far too hard, tasting iron on her tongue as she swipes it across her lips, blessing a prayer poorly recited.
Otohan expects the same look of pity that the priestesses aimed their way for weeks after they had been abandoned, and they bristle at the very notion.
It is not pity that the goddess meets them with—though Otohan can sense in the very shadows surrounding them that whatever the Matron feels, it is profound, masked though the feeling may be.
“So stubborn,” the Duskmaven says, twirling the thread around a slender finger in idle contemplation. “I wonder… At one point did the blood you spilt as blasphemous offerings in my name become merely sacrifices on the altar of your own frustrations?”
“Frustration?” Otohan snarls. “I was furious!”
And with that admittance, the wave of memory that had just settled simply feeds the surge of anger Otohan aims at the goddess. “I sacrificed everything for you! I was raised in your temple, under your teachings. I served you unerringly. I trained to become one of your spies. I wanted to be your champion.” Otohan is saying too much but they can’t bring themself to stop, not when they finally have the Duskmaven’s full attention, even if they are simply venting a lifetime of rage. “I prayed to you every day! I attended the ceremonies, I took part in the rituals, I walked the fucking pilgrimages and not once—not once—did you deign to give me even a sign! My life ended and began again the day I was left on your doorstep and yet you abandoned me just as my mother did.” Otohan spits the accusation with righteous anger, for they had long ago purged any notion of sorrow from their soul. Sorrow couldn’t grant one the will to fight, and no one ever won a war in mourning.
“I was a child.” They know the goddess sees beneath the fury to the pathetic weakness hiding beneath. “And you, what, turned your gaze from me the first time I made myself bleed for you? Do you care so little for those who exalt–”
“I cared for you,” the Duskmaven says, and even though she says it softly, it hits Otohan squarely in the chest with a force that leaves them speechless.
turnnoffyourmind
snowghoul
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
