There’s a quiet sadness I’ve been sitting with lately, both as a writer and a reader.
It feels like there’s a schism, a vast canyon between what some of us are desperately searching for and where we’re forced to look for it.
As a reader, I find myself lost in the in-between. I long for stories with the emotional depth and careful prose of literary fiction, but wrapped in the wonder and metaphor of fantasy. I want slow burns that truly smolder, where the stakes aren’t about saving the world in the first act, but about saving a character’s soul over the course of a journey. Where the "payoff" isn't a level-up, but a quiet moment of heartbreaking understanding between two people.
But the landscape feels so binary. On one side, the familiar, fast-paced Chosen One narratives, fun in their way but often leaving me emotionally hungry. On the other, dense, politically intricate fantasies that are masterfully built but can sometimes feel like examining a beautiful, cold clockwork mechanism - astonishing, but without a warm, beating heart at its center.
Where is the space for the rest of us? For those who want to live in the intimate, painful, and beautiful moments that happen to take place in a world with wings and magic?
As a writer, the sadness is echoed. You create something to fill that very void you feel as a reader. You pour care into the quiet moments, the glances that hold centuries of weight, the trauma that isn't a plot device but a ghost that haunts every decision. You offer it freely, not for profit, but for connection. Just for the hope that someone else who feels this same hunger will find it and feel less alone.
But the platforms aren’t built for this. The algorithms don’t promote patience. They promote the immediate hook, the familiar trope, the explosive first chapter. It creates a cruel irony: the readers who want what you’re making can’t find it, and you can’t find them. We’re all just wandering the same digital bazaar, holding out our different kinds of lanterns, hoping to see a familiar glow in the darkness.
Maybe that’s all we can do. Keep holding our lanterns up.
—
From my work-in-progress, Earthborn.
He hid the tempest inside him behind the practiced Ilari mask. He only lowered his fingers so they would not see them shake.
“I will read them,” he said evenly, as though asked for a trifle, not the reopening of old wounds. “Tonight. When it is quiet and warm.”
...The bundle lay in his palm light as a feather, heavy as stone. He knew the hand at once—the slanted, stubborn script that crossed its own lines. In his chest, something trembled, rattled, and tightened into a painful knot.
“If you are reading this, it means you've found her. I know you will. Someday. That thought gives me strength to endure until the end.
You once asked me if what we had was real. If I loved you. What could I answer then that you would believe? Nothing. Or worse—that you would believe me, and where would that lead you? To ruin. So I kept silent.
Now that neither of us has anything left to lose, now I can say: yes. I loved you. I loved you enough to let you hate me.”
For those who want to read more:
Winged empire; father–daughter bond; political & military intrigue; no LitRPG
The Lord of the Flame has returned to collect Sophia's part of their pact.
I posted a long excerpt from the new chapter below.
The full chapter is available on my Patreon
TAUNUS CHAPTER 4
WOOD TO EMBERS
“Have you grown tired of being my guest already?”
I froze.
Like a desert wind, his aura pressed against my back. Seconds trickled by before I finally dared to turn.
Wearing the same airy clothes as last time, his face covered by the dark hood, he looked strangely at home and at the same time out of place in the luxurious suite.
A flutter grabbed my heart: fear, and something else—a sense of familiarity like the smell of your house when you return after a long journey. I almost took a step toward him, almost wanted to sink into his arms, but caught myself just in time and pressed my back into the door instead.
All my senses focused entirely on him, as if they were following his unspoken command. At least my memories were sharp again—he obviously didn’t need the foggy enchantment of the entry area to keep me trapped anymore, now that he was here in person.
“It’s kind of unpleasant to be a guest of a host you never get to see.” It felt weird to order my thoughts into words, and my voice sounded croaky from not speaking for days.
The dim light of the only burning lamp reflected off his sharp canines when he smiled. “So you missed me.”
THE EXCERPT ENDS HERE. The full chapter is available on my Patreon
Myren encounters a little hitch with the tenuously-allied guards he's supposed to pass through
I am striding forward towards the wide-open gate, almost about to pass through, when the Arallian legionnaires posted there stir. One steps in front of me.
“Halt!” He calls out, and I do. In the moonlight, I can see his frown as he looks me up and down. “What is your business… foreigner?” He says the last word after a delay, now clearly recognizing the silvery gleam of my Steel Drake pendant.
I flash my triskelion insignia at the legionnaire’s face. “High Lord Elduin wants to see me.” I say irritably. “Important business, soldier. I need not be delayed any further.” The faint sounds of clashing steel and the screams of dying men ringing around the city, alongside the dusty plumes of smoke rising at various points in the sky punctuate my statement.
He gives me and the medallion a dubious look, stroking his beard as he does so. Finally, with a harrumph, he relents and steps aside. “Very well then. Suit yourself, Olvensterner.”
I thank him graciously and walk through the Arallian barricade into the Yareguan Quarter proper. Suit yourself? I shake my head. I had thought that Arallians were a relatively humble, withdrawn people from my time in Larralin some while ago, but clearly that didn’t extend over to their legionnaires. These men have more pomposity than Meldrene herself! And she was- is the daughter of Arallia’s High Lord!
Thinking about Meldrene creates a sudden lump in my throat. I didn’t know it, but I miss her so damn much. Her and her sunny smiles and warm, tender embrace. I try to shove that thought down. I am here with her father for her. Best to have my head in full clarity during the full extent of the fighting.
Anyone feel like reading an excerpt between an immortal and the person who is gonna be her human best friend??
The immortal used to be human, but trapped her own soul in a book so she wouldnt die. Now anyone who wants to access her magic simply needs to take the book and step into their own mind to talk to her. That's no easy task though, so when you get a successful human who seems to have good intentions, might as well spend the little time said human has left with them no?
---
Michiko sighed. She layed on the ground, spreading her arms, her hands passing over the blades of grass. She couldnt actually feel them of course. It was as if her whole body had gone numb; she was aware of the grass under her, but she had no sense of touch. It didnt bother her as much as it used to.
Beside her, sat Umeko, kneeling on the ground. Long blonde hair draped down her back, every so often flickering to short hair barely reaching the cape of her neck. Her clothes seemed to shift more subtly, sometimes puffy sleeves covering her arms, while other times her skin showed, several scratches and bruises thoroughout.
The only constant in her aspect was the bangs kept long over the left side of her face and her pensive expression as she tortured a blade of grass under her fingers. Michiko wondered absentmindedly why that gesture felt so familiar.
"Can you feel it?"
Umeko turned towards her, snapping put of her thoughts. She gave her a confused look.
"The grass," Michiko clarified, "can you feel it?"
"Uh, well..."
Ripping a patch of grass and passing her thumb over it, Umeko furrowed her brows, then tilted her head in a so-so gesture. "It feels kinda like, a memory? Like I remember what it's supposed to feel like, so it feels like that. But Im not sure."
Michiko hummed in response. She had expected as much.
"It's normal. It's not really real grass. In a very simplified way, it is a memory of it." She gestured vaguely to the environment surrounding them. The grass extended way past the horizon, a few trees scattered around and slowly thickening into a forest, while the sky was a clear blue devoid of clouds. It wasnt very accurate. Or at least, Umeko might not remember it that well, because the lighting seemed to softly change every so often, and the trees kept getting taller, by just enough for Michiko to notice the inconsistencies.
"Your mind is piecing together memories to create this place. So it's the best it can do. Unless you want to imagine a whole new way for grass to feel."
Umeko smiled feebly, then returned her attention to the ground. Michiko was pretty sure the grass had been a subtler green before.
"What about your mind?" Umeko asked after a few moments. "What's that like?"
Michiko stared at the sky. It was a pretty light blue, sort of warm, that gave her a funny feeling. It was still strange to think that that was the closest she had ever gotten to seeing Saem herself.
Her reply was a noncommital shrug. "It's not an interesting subject."
"Oh come on, you can't expect me to reveal stuff about myself and not even explain properly where we are."
"You know where we are. We're inside your mindscape, made up of all your experiences. If you want to be precise, we're fairly far from your soul, so the amount of variation of, well, everything, here is pretty negligible. Id say we're probably in one of the more constant and ever present places in your memories, the valleys of Saem."
With an irritated huff, Umeko turned towards her, narrowing her eyes. "But why are we in my mind? Why arent we in yours?"
Michiko started to deflect the question again but Umeko interrupted her.
"I wasn't always here. What did all this look like before I arrived?"
Her tone was demanding, but Michiko couldnt blame her for being curious. She had been curious as well once. In a way, it reminded of her of her own younger self, except without... well. She couldnt really say that, could she?
"Blank."
Umeko's gaze lingered on her face. "What?"
"It was blank," Michiko exhaled, like she didnt really believe she was saying it either. But what harm could that knowledge do? Plus, they had a deal Umeko couldnt back out of.
And Michiko had spent so long waiting for someone to talk to.
"It was all white, in every direction. There was nothing. Except maybe my own soul."
It was jarring, how clear she remembered it. Waking up with nothing around her but a vague sense of what had happened, had left her with a piercing feeling of emptiness. There was supposed to be something, she was sure, but for some reason she couldnt for the life of her remember what it was.
"Wait, there was nothing? Like, at all? You were just... alone?" Asked Umeko, her voice wavering. Michiko looked up at her, meeting her eyes. She seemed strangely dejected.
"Hey, it wasnt that bad. Slowly, uh, my memories came around, and then there was the library. And of course, every time someone took the book, a bit of their magic was added and the outside changed again. Never boring!"
It did not seem to reassure Umeko as much as Michiko had hoped.
"But you couldnt talk to them right? The people who came?"
Michiko made a unsure noise, folding her hands under her head. The answer wasnt no. She was able to talk to them, provided they had enough magic to resist entering the place at all. Most didnt. Those who did quickly ran out of magic.
That is to say, they died. No soul can survive without magic, and meeting Michiko meant gradually letting your magic be absorbed until... Well. Until there was nothing left to take.
Of course, there was an easy solution to stop a book from depriving you of your magic. Stop holding it. Michiko had quickly realized there was even less common sense left than when she had been alive. That, included Umeko. No matter how genuinely Michiko liked finally talking to someone, finally meeting someone with good intentions, she couldn't help but think it was incredibly dumb of her to be there. She wasnt going to survive. No one did.
Which was why, in the end, it didnt even really matter how much Michiko revealed.
Umeko layed down beside her, hands crossed over her stomach, her image flickering so the strands of her short her curled up.
"Didn't you ever feel alone?" She whispered, now looking at the sky. Michiko noticed a few stray clouds appearing in the corner of her eye. She said nothing.
It was an unfair situation really. Michiko couldnt lie, not there, in her mind. In a way, Umeko couldnt lie either. She wasnt as good as controlling her mindscape as a khaleije wouldve been; it just reflected her emotions exactly as they were. Maybe that was normal for avasja.
But being unable to lie didnt mean Michiko couldnt avoid answering. You dont get raised by mindreaders who have a strict code against lying and not learn a couple ways to twist your words.
"Im not like you Umeko. I dont need to have people around. Who I- who Michiko was, a long time ago, when she was alive, isnt me right now. Im merely the conscience, the mindself left behind to protect her soul."
She felt Umeko stir to look at her, her head laying on her arm. Michiko pretended not to notice how Umeko was squinting at her, as if trying to decide if she was telling the truth. Or maybe trying to decide if that was good enough reason for Michiko not to feel lonely.
Michiko herself wasnt sure.
"But you are her. You lived her life. I mean, your life. Why do you act as if you're different people?"
"Im not a different person," Michiko said patiently, as if it was obvious, "I am her mindself. I am the collection of experiences and memories that she made. I have the entirity of her knowledge, her attitude, her capabilities. But it would be silly to treat me as if I was alive. Im just a- Im like a representation of her soul, get it? Nothing more."
Something about Umeko's expression changed. Her eyes widened of a fraction, then her whole face softened.
"Would she have felt alone?"
Michiko opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again.
"Yeah," she sighed.
"Im sorry."
Now Michiko turned to look at her properly, noticing the way Umeko's eyes looked slightly shimmery when hit by the patches of light filtering through the shadow of a huge cloud above them.
"It's okay." Michiko offered a faint smile. "I have memories of how her life was, of the people around her. I can see them anytime."
She went quiet, then for some reason she added: "I rewatch them every now and then, just, to not forget, what it was like."
She didnt need to say that. There was no use for Umeko having that information. Why had she said that?
And why did it seem to make the clouds in the sky slightly more sparse and white?
"I cant even imagine, how you must miss them. I havent been with my sisters for-" Umeko faltered, inhaling sharply. When she spoke again, her voice seemed to wobble like the leaves of the trees behind her in the breeze. "A while. But you've spent so long in here, without your family."
Michiko spied as behind Umeko, a few figures appeared in a fuzzy golden glow. Two younger children, one with braids reaching her shoulders and a shawl, and the other with a delicate knee lenght dress embroidered with little fish and a wide grin. Each of them held the hand of a taller girl, long hair and bangs longer on the left side of her face, smiling down at them.
The children giggled, and the wind carried away their image, leaving the valley so quiet Michiko could hear Umeko's breath tremble.
There was guilt on her face. Michiko felt a sudden urge to reach out, to tell her it wasnt her fault, but she didnt move. She knew that kind of guilt, and a couple of words werent going to send it away. The best Michiko could do for her was uphold her end of the deal.
But maybe, after Umeko had told her (and unwillingly shown her) so much about herself, maybe it was somewhat fair for Michiko to do the same.
"I think- I dont know if I miss them, but there are a few memories I replay more than the rest," she took a breath, bracing herself under Umeko's careful gaze. "There's one with ope, er, my dad. His name was Yanric. He reads me a story and something about it makes him laugh too hard to continue. I dont remember why he was laughing but, I like remembering how that sounded. I think I was laughing too."
She ignored how her voice lowered into a soft whisper as she spoke.
"There's Anier and Zlata. I used to call them nini and tata, they took care of me alongside ope. They were kinda always there, always busy teaching me something new, so they completed our family in a way. I dont think Zlata was very happy with me calling her tata when she started training me. Something about not taking my education seriously. Which, when you're around khaleije, is mostly learning to fight. She was a general, so not exactly the most soft parent I could've had, but her husband balanced it out," she muttered with a chuckle.
"Anier took care of the more 'theoretical' side of knowledge, which, was basically everything from the science of magic, to the main languages, to history. Oh and battle strategies. He was surprisingly good at those. I think it was thanks to both of them that Yanric was even alive, not like he was reckless or anything but uh, he tended not to change his mind easily."
This time it was her breath to shake. "Which, is why I was even alive in the first place."
"Yanric didnt have to raise me. Probably any sane person wouldnt have. But-" and Michiko couldnt help but smile," he did, and dragged his two best friends into it. I have memories of Yanric running after me outside the castle, Zlata playfully fighting and letting me win, Anier preparing tea for me to bribe me into studying. And they feel close to me."
Umeko sensed a change in her voice and carefully offered: "But...?"
"But they also feel so so distant. Sure, it happened, but it was so long ago. Everything feels fuzzy and blurry, and sometimes, even unreal. And I know they're gone now. You told me how much time has gone by while I was here. It just feels like there isnt really a point anymore, in remembering. It's all past anyway."
"That's not how it works," said Umeko. Her voice sounded steadier now. "It was real. They were your family. They loved you, and you loved them."
She shook her head lightly and the corners of her lips curled up, long strands of hair flowing over her shoulders and chest and entertwining with the grass around them.
"You should always remember that you were loved. And they were part of your life, which, okay, maybe it's not you, but it makes up the memories that made you. They're always with you, that way."
"That's childish," muttered Michiko halfheartedly, but Umeko grinned harder.
"May be, but is that so bad?"
Michiko stared at her. There was something hopeful in her voice that she hadnt felt in a long time.
Unveiling Magic: An Exclusive Glimpse into "The Prisoner’s Throne"!
Dive into the enchantment with this mesmerizing excerpt from Holly Black's forthcoming epic, "The Prisoner’s Throne." ✨🧝♂️ Imprisoned princes, vengeful queens, and a destiny teetering on the edge – the Stolen Heir duology reaches its climax in a tale of love, betrayal, and the fight for Elfhame's future. 🌌💔
Read on for a sneak peek into the spellbinding world Holly Black has woven:
"He pulls the hood of the cloak down over his face and heads toward the Great Hall. Getting a glimpse of her feels more like a compulsion than a decision.
He can feel the gaze of courtiers drift toward him— covering one’s face in a hood is unusual, at the very least. He keeps his own eyes unfocused and his shoulders back, though his every instinct screams to meet their looks. But he is dressed like a soldier, and a soldier would not turn."
🔗✨ Read the full excerpt here: https://enchantedlivingmagazine.com/holly-black-the-prisoners-throne-excerpt/
Prepare to be captivated by Holly Black's unparalleled gift for weaving magic into words!
“There’s no need for violence,” Dr. Von Stromm says, his voice calm and steady. He rests his hand on his stand of tools, straightening his head. His hair doesn’t obscure his bandages well enough; blood soaks through them in an odd circular shape, as though there’s a gaping hole beneath them.
“Valor, how do you know—”
“Because I’m a child of the gods,” Valor says, louder than necessary.
a little bit nervous about actually putting this out there, but this is a writeblr after all, so here’s an excerpt of the opening of Night’s Daughter. :)
taglist (feel free to request to be added!): @elhuei , @writingbyjillian , @wildswrites , @mel-writes-with-her-dragons , @zmlorenz , @crowewritesstuff , @cream-and-tea , @chazzawrites
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Sometimes, I dream of my parents.
The dreams are rare; I only have them a handful of times in a year. But when they do happen, they are so vivid, so powerful, so real, they haunt my mind for ages after I’ve woken.
I don’t know how my mind conjures up these dreams—how it manages to make them so vibrant and visceral, like they are close enough to touch. Aren’t dreams made of memories, at their core? How can you build something from nothing?
All I know is, every few months, I spend a night as a little girl—nestled in my mother’s lap, my father’s hand stroking through my hair. The moments that were stolen from me.
I wish the dreams would let me see my parents’ faces. I’d like to glimpse what they look like, even if it were for just a split second; to see which of their features I bear on my own face. But they never make an appearance.
I know that I have been dreaming of them the moment my eyes blink open. Fleeting images and sensations tumble through my head—a tiny, delicate hand that must be my own, wrapped in a larger one sporting a gleaming ring. The feeling of gentle fingers softly brushing my scalp, weaving braids into my hair. The whisper of a page being turned and a soft, wordless voice reading aloud.
The voices are always the worst. I can hear them now; my mind humming with them, loud enough to chase away any remnants of sleep, loud enough to keep me from immediately noticing the biting chill on my skin.
I shake my head, and my hair resists the movement, caught on something. That’s when I hear, over the voices, the air abuzz with the icy chirping of night insects.
I begin to notice what should have been obvious before. The damp cold. The lumpy ground beneath my back. The mingling scents of pine needles, fallen leaves, and earth thick in my nose. The arc of tree branches reaching up into the inky blue sky over my head.
I sit up quickly, wincing when my hair, snagged on a sharp stone, tears with the movement. The crescent moon on the chain around my neck knocks against my collarbone, warm from the heat of my body, although my skin is cool and faintly damp. I’m barefoot and in my nightgown, the thin white fabric now torn along the hem and streaked in places with dirt. One arm is thrust through the sleeve of a coat while the other sleeve dangles behind me like a broken wing. It seems as though I must have had some presence of mind when I left home, then, although clearly not enough.
I shrug the coat on properly and rise gingerly to my feet, grimacing at the ache in my back, shaking twigs out of my hair. It’s been years since I last sleepwalked. I thought I’d grown out of my days of waking up in inexplicable places and startling anyone who happened upon me stumbling about, trancelike, in the dead of night. It is unsettling to think that it might be starting again.
Fog hangs heavily in the air all around me, a damp silver-grey blanket swallowing up the trees. Fireflies flicker here and there, emerging through the gloom like a hundred tiny lanterns suspended in midair. It’s the kind of weather that always sets the rest of the village folk grumbling, about how it bothers their livestock and causes accidents because you couldn’t see your hand in front of your own face, but I don’t mind it. I’ve always loved the kinds of days the others curse: the fog, the hail, the storms. They seem to spark something to life inside my soul.
I tip my head back to the sky as I begin to walk, trying to judge the time. Above, an endless expanse of stars are scattered between snatches of clouds. I make out the shape of the Virgo constellation amongst them, observing us from the heavens in the final week of its watch before the Libra constellation rises to replace it. According to Ayeran myth, the twelve zodiac constellations are the guardians of our world, each bade by the sky goddess Naeva to protect us for a period of time each year before passing the mantle to the next one—an endless cycle that has existed for eons before I was born and will endure long after I am dead.
A gleam of light in the corner of my eye tugs at my attention. High above, the wispy clouds have parted to reveal the moon, a shimmering pearl hanging in the sky. It’s just shy of full, making it look as though something has bitten a piece of it clean off. By some strange magic, the fog weaving between the trees has trapped the brilliant moonlight; the woods all around me have been set dreamily aglow. I stretch out a hand, palm upturned, as if I could catch a thread of light between my fingers. The mist kisses my skin.
That explains all the murmuring in my head—the voices that aren’t my own. Usually, I only hear them in my sleep, accompanied by strange images that I can’t understand. But around the time of the full moon, they spill over into my waking life, a soft but persistent whispering in the back of my mind that fades as soon as the moon begins to wane. It’s been happening for as long as I can remember, but, like most things about me, I don’t understand why.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly lonely, I like to think that it’s the moon itself, speaking to me in the language of the sky.
I remember once overhearing a girl in the schoolyard telling her friend she’d heard that I came from the woods—that I’d sprung up from the loamy black earth like a seedling. Like the myths of Faline, the Lady of the Wild, daughter of the earth. Then she walked right out of the trees into the village, she’d said, in the spooky whisper of firelit ghost stories, and she’s been here ever since. They both jumped when they realized I’d been listening.
Over the droning of night insects comes another sound, faint but familiar: the soft trickling of distant water. I pause, surveying my surroundings. It’s difficult to see, between the low light and the fog, but it doesn’t matter much to me. I could walk these woods blindfolded. Sometimes it feels as though it is a part of me, pulsing like a second heart. Like some kind of sixth sense. I know it as surely as I can see my hands when I hold them up before my face, as surely as I can feel the cold dirt between my toes. More surely than I know myself.
To my left, although I can’t make it out, is a thin path, worn into the forest floor by the tread of human feet. It leads back to the village, and to my cottage on the hill just beyond. The sound of water comes from my right, where the glowing mist hides how the land drops sharply into a gorge.
Logically, I should turn back toward home. Should trek up the hill to the cottage, strip off my ruined nightgown, wash the dirt from my feet, and climb back into bed. But… something in the night seems to be calling me. I think of my empty, silent house, then look around at the misty forest, alight with moonglow, like something from another world. Overhead, a nocturnal bird lets out a low, melodic trill.
Look at that moonlight, a voice inside me says wistfully. The stream will look beautiful tonight.
My mind, already reluctant to return home, is made up in a flash.
“How much longer?” Jaime signed, raising an eyebrow towards the mountain peak the pair were now faced with just across the valley.
Jace turned away for a moment, eyes filtering over the trees and the path that would lead them to the hidden mountain city. “A week,” ey said, turning back to eir travel companion so they could see the words eir hands spoke as well as hear em. “Maybe more.”
“So long?” they questioned, hands fluttering through the movements. “We can see it.”
Jace shook eir head, frowning a little as ey took in the valley. Flat land and a road that lead straight to the queen’s doorstep and the lower villages nestled at the mountains feet. And then to the cliff face they stood atop of. An obstacle that required more equipment to try and cross than either of them had. “You’re used to ocean travel... It’d be shorter if we could cut through the valley—but I doubt either of us wants to attempt that cliff. So it’s around the range. Luckily there’s enough towns between here and there that we shouldn’t have to sleep on the ground for a while.”
Jace made a short little decisive nod before turning eir feet back towards the path before them both. Too many miles lay between them and their destination. And far too few lay between em and the life ey’d left behind.
It wasn’t long before Jace heard a series of clicks that stilled eir feet on the path once more. The clicks sounded from a small device Jaime kept in their pocket, a sure sign that the siren needed to get your attention. Jace wasn’t exactly sure how it worked, whether by magic or something else, but ey’d grown accustomed to it and it’s meaning over the last few weeks.
Ey’d ignored it at first. Certain that the sound was coming from some sort of animal, or the woods trying to play a trick on em. But Jaime had explained it. Had shown em the device and told how it had been fashioned. As a way for them to draw attention when others weren’t looking. When words signed would be missed by turned backs and absent gazes.
How it was simpler than having to tap someone’s shoulder if they wanted to talk.
And Jace had since made a point to keep an ear out for it. The pairs travels didn’t easily allow Jaime to remain in eir sight, ey welcomed the clicking. Especially since it didn’t result in a startled ex guard captain reaching for the blade sheathed at eir side.
Jaime immediately began signing as soon as Jace’s gaze was upon them. “Why again are we going to see the queen of the mountains?”
“To beg a boon,” was eir short reply, mouth twisting into a small frown with the words. “Assuming,” ey continued, “that she’ll even hold an audience with us. News of my... betrayal has reached her already I’m sure.”
“Of course.” Blue eyes rolled and Jaime’s features took on one of indignation. And should Jaime have not needed their hands to speak Jace imagined they would’ve been carefully crossed over the sirens chest as they leaned against a tree at the edge of the path. Ankles crossed as they prepared to argue. “You’re great betrayal of existing—“
Jace let out a breath, eir own arms crossing over eir chest. “Of lying. Of keeping secrets. Of hiding who—no what I am.”
“You would’ve been killed.”
“I don’t blame them for not trusting me,” Jace countered. “I can fool and lie to them too easily, how are they supposed to know I haven’t? That I’m not? How is anyone?”
“You haven’t betrayed anyone, not for simply existing. And if they can’t look past years of your friendship, your loyalty... and see that. Well it speaks more of them than it does you."
"Things aren't that simple."
Jaime pushed thmself off of the tree, their expression turned somber. "They never are. I know what it's like, Jace. To not be someone people believe is worthy of their trust. To be the object of everyone's suspicion. Simply because of an ability we didn't choose."
A silence settled over the clearing where they stood. An understanding as Jaime faced em with far too much knowing in their expression. They understood. And as Jace's own gaze flicked to the silver scar that stretched wide across their neck, ey knew why.
As a siren, Jaime had the ability to control people just with the sound of their voice. Or... they had had the ability.
Jace hadn't asked what had happened. How they had gotten the scar across their neck. But ey had learned enough over the course of their journey together. Picked up bits and pieces of the full tale as Jaime had carefully explained to a curious boy why they couldn't speak.
They had kept most of the details quiet, only telling enough to sate a young ones curiousity; but it had been enough for em to figure out that thier throat had been slit. Whether an atempt to rend them powerless as what had been done, or if it was to kill them... Jace wasn't entirely sure. Ey supposed it didn't really matter.
Either way. It had been done out of fear. fear for what they were. For the power they controlled.
And Jace knew that fear all to well. Had seen it eir entire life as eir kind had been hunted and slaughtered merely for the act of existing. And it was a fear that would follow em still.
Even if Castor had called for a stop of the killings as soon as he'd been placed on the throne.
Even if shapeshifters were no longer to be hunted and slain.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Never enough for the fear to stop. The pointless cruelty all because a few might use their gifts for wrong.
Sirens and their song aren't the evil of the world to be feared. Nor are shifters and their changing skins. But such was the way of the world.
And maybe it was too late for anyone to change that.
"You're not a monster," Jaime signed, breaking the earie stillness that had fallen over them both. "Just because you can wear others skin... doesn't make you something to fear."
"I know."
"Others will see that. You left your friends before they could prove their hearts in the face of your truth, not that you should've had to wait for the shock to fade." A pause as Jaime's hands stilled and they seemed to be gathering the rest of thier words. Shuffling them together with a frown before their brown furrowed and they continued on. Offering a bit of hope with the smallest of smiles. "You don't know if they would have turned on you, all of them. Perhaps you never will. But their inacceptance doesn't mean you won't find it with others. I refuse to believe that you and I are alone in this world, and that we can only find company amongst other supposed monsters."
