An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“And you’ve still no idea just how long it is you’ll be gone?”
Cichol shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “We’ve had no word from either the emperor or Lycaon in some time. Seiros will not be able to rest easily until we’ve succeeded at reestablishing contact with them, and I…”
Leandra held up a hand, shaking her head. “All would fall to ruin if their force was vanquished. We must know if they yet live, and if they do not…” Drawn as if by gravity towards the abyss, Leandra’s gaze wandered towards the tree line. Where Seiros waited with two wyverns, tension writ large in her mouth pressed tight. “If they do not, we must determine that sooner, rather than later. Better to have more time to figure out what we’re going to do with them gone.”
And that left Leandra waiting at the fort with Cethleann. Hardly a burden. It also left her waiting at the fort with Macuil. Something more of a burden. (But then, they all had their issues.)
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Written for Fictober 2022, prompt: “That was not my intention.”
CN/TW: Disturbing imagery, references to child death, animal death, references to genocide, blood, body horror, war, gore, trauma, references to mutilation, bigotry, references to child soldiers
Excerpt:
“I know,” Leandra said quietly, wishing she could at least stitch tension into her voice, but finding instead only a strange, gentle sadness there instead. “It should not be so, indeed. But we cannot change what has already transpired; there is only this world for us to live in, and no other.” No tension, but her voice hardened, all the same. “If you look ever towards the life you could have had, that is your own affair. But do not endeavor to ensnare my daughter in such a trap. She is as much my daughter as she is Cichol’s. She may have either the company of human children, or she shall have no peers at all. Things are difficult enough for her already without you throwing around the idea that there is no value to even the attempt to befriend her peers. Cethleann has to live in this world, Macuil. Do not take away from her one of the things which makes life most worth living.”
“That was not my intention,” Macuil bit out. He never looked at her. More of his fine hair, darker by far than his kin’s, but still that sharp, sharp green, had fallen loose from the ribbon tied at the base of his neck, and hid his face from view. “But what would you have me do?”
