L'Organisation politique Fanmi Lavalas dénonce le pouvoir Actuel.
L’Organisation politique Fanmi Lavalas dénonce le pouvoir Actuel.
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Après diverses rencontres avec les militants du parti et d’autres invités, l’organisation Fanmi Lavalas se solidarise encore plus avec la population pour mettre en déroute le système actuel.
Dans une note de presse émise ce mardi 5 février 2019, l’organisation politique Fanmi Lavalas a exprimé ses préoccupations par rapport aux divers problèmes auxquels est confrontée…
Since Mana'Din started wearing the mask to reassure people because Falon'Din spread that rumor that he could kill people by looking at them, have any new rumors about why she wears it come up? I like to imagine people say if you look the Gentle Lady in the face you'll instantly fall in love with her, representing the 'strangely tempting' side of death, and that she wears a mask to keep everyone from falling hopelessly in love with her. ("WELL IF THAT'S WHY IT'S NOT WORKING" -Elalas, probably.)
Elalas hears the rumour for the first time from some of Uthvir’s people.
It is an odd line of speculation for the agents, who are usually encouraged towards a certain degree of pragmatism, and not rumour-mongering. She pays further attention to it, of course, because if that could prove to be a liability. And it may be information that some of her contacts on the other side of the fence would be interested in having. Not necessarily because it holds any water, but they like knowing what the military types and related branches are speculating on.
“I heard,” Lasmami says. “That the reason why Mana’Din wears her mask is because she is so beautiful. It is very dangerous to be beautiful outside of the territories, you know. I went to Arlathan. I will not tell you the kinds of things they do to elves they find appealing there.”
“That is ridiculous,” one of the other young ones, whose name eludes Elalas, replies. “The only elves the imperial-types favour are the pretty ones.”
“You do not know. You have not been to Arlathan. I can believe it. If you ever go, Hedasel, you should wear a mask, too,” Lasmami insists.
It is, indeed, another one of those random hearsay types. And Lasmami is one of the younger agents, and their companion seems to be equally inexperienced. Apprentices do have looser lips than most.
Elalas has seen Mana’Din’s face. Has... interacted with it, to some degree. She shifts a little, thinking about it. It is exceptionally beautiful, although she had not thought it to quite match up with Elvhenan’s standards. Then again, trends tend to shift a good deal in a great hurry as they come out of Arlathan, at times. Perhaps at some point, Mana’Din was considered the height of appeal.
Elalas knows, indeed, what elves often do to those considered pretty.
But surely Mana’Din would be exempt from such treatment...?
It is because of her father. It is a thematic thing. Because people used to fear Falon’Din’s visage, and... Mana’Din did not want them to be afraid. Reminding herself of that is reassuring. But then it also reminds her of Mana’Din’s character, and the warm rush she feels has her shaking her head at herself. It is the middle of the day. There are duties to attend, matters to see to, rumours to listen in on and ramifications to consider, and...
She makes her way over to Mana’Din’s office.
Her lady is, of course, not inside.
Elalas eventually tracks her down to the indoor practice room, where she is going through the motions of a familiar fighting form. Muscles rippling, a light dusting of sweat on her arms and the bared skin of her legs.
Mask still in place.
She makes her way over to where Mana’Din is, and waits until the other woman stops. It does not take long for her to turn curiously towards her.
“Elalas? Has something happened?” she asks.
Elalas lets out a long sigh.
“No,” she says, moving forward. Reaching up, and carefully undoing the ties on Mana’Din’s mask. She pulls it away to reveal her face. Brow furrowed in concern, features as lovely as they ever are. For a moment she simply stands there, trailing her eyes across them. And then she reaches up, and brushes her cheek.
“What is it?” Mana’Din asks. Her own fingers twitching, as she keeps her hands politely at her sides.
Hey can I get a lesbian pregnancy fic?, I don't care who the two are just as long as they would be happy together.
I hope Modern AU Lavalas is okay, then!
Elalas’ wife is pregnant.
Elalas has a wife. Has had a wife, for, like, two years now.Which is good. She likes her wife. A lot. Obviously, she married her. And thenthey talked about it, like a month ago, and, well. Mana’Din wants kids. Elalasknew that before they got married, of course. She knows most things about herwife.
Her pregnant wife.
Who is pregnant now, there have been tests andconfirmations, and obviously Elalas knew this would be a possibility when theygot married. Odds definitely increased when they started actively trying toconceive. And yet, all at once, the reality of the situation just sort of… hitsher.
Elalas’ wife is pregnant.
Mana’Din is pregnant.
With her kid. Because of the beauty and convenience offertility magic. And, fuck, wow, was that ever… fertile, apparently. Theirconsultant had told them to not be discouraged, that it sometimes took a littlelonger for… but… well. Apparently not, because here they were! Married! With ababy! Elalas’ baby. That is in her wife. Her pregnant wife, Mana’Din.
…Oh gods above she is terribleat this. This is step one and she feels like her brain is going to melt outof her ears. She can’t even tell if this is the good, happy kind ofoverwhelmed, or the bad, troubling kind of overwhelmed, or some mix of the two.Mana’Din is on the phone with her evil family – probably her father – and Elalasis slowly trying not to hyperventilate in the bedroom.
Fuck.
Fucking…
Fuck.
Deep breaths. Deeeep breaths. Okay. She can do this. She likeskids, she really does. Granted, she’s usually better with them when they’re atthe ‘walking and talking’ stage, and preferably when they’ve delved right intobeing teenagers. But their own kid will get there, eventually. It’s just awaiting game, now. A waiting game, and a ‘make sure Mana’Din’s evil familydoesn’t ruin it’s life before it even has a fighting chance’ game. There’s areason she agreed to this, after all.
Even after all those times when Mana’Din told her that ‘nokids’ wasn’t necessarily a deal-breaker.
It’s just… it’s real, now. She’s really pregnant. Eitherthey come out of this with a baby or with heartache, and Elalas would ratherthe baby, really. So that’s the outcome she’s pulling for. That’s thedecades-long commitment they’ve just made with their lives. The life Elalasnever really thought she would get to have, because ha ha, a wife. A wife and a baby. That are real, and hers, both of them hers forever, to loseor protect or keep or chase away.
Gods above.
She needs to go pray, she thinks. This is more than she canhandle. She glances one more time at Mana’Din, who is talking with her fatherstill, and then heads out into the back garden.
The back garden of their beautiful home. Which she and Mana’Dinworked for and got themselves, without any of the Evanuris family’s shadyfunds. Well, so far as Elalas knows. But she’s done the numbers, she knowstheir incomes, and she trusts her wife. It’s taken a while, but she wouldn’thave married her if they hadn’t come that far. Their home is their own, all twostory townhouse of it, with its little walled-in Marcher-style garden, and itsfour bedrooms, and proper fireplace, and the shrine to the Hearthkeeper in theback. Which Elalas can pray to, whenever she doesn’t want to hike all the way outto the nearest temple.
She sucks in a breath, and makes her way down onto herknees. Shifting a bit to get more comfortable.
“So,” she says, after a minute. “First of all, thank you forthe success, and all. With the fertility offerings. That was… speedy.”
The shrine remains, of course, serene and quiet. Stillsporting said offerings, as a matter of fact. Elalas glances back towards thehouse, and then leans a little closer.
“I just… are you sure about this? On the whole judgement callof it? I mean, I know I was asking… and I’m happy. I think. I mean, she’s happy, and I want her to be happy,and overall I’m pretty sure this is better than the alternative because I dowant it. But are you really sure I’m going to be any good at it? I mean, babies are tiny. Vulnerable. Impressionable. What are we even goingto have in common? What if it doesn’t like me?”
That’s probably a stupid question to ask. But it flies outanyway, because what if? Elalas is not a terribly likeable person. She knowsthis. The votes have come in and barring weird outliers like her wife, it’salmost a landslide.
The shrine is silent, still. The tiny little water featurethat she put in six months ago runs nearby, water spilling out of stone bowlsin an endless, crystal-clear loop. The creeping vines they came with theproperty have almost taken over the garden wall, now. Eating their way acrossthe whole back of it, and making concerted efforts towards the front. Elalaslikes it. It makes the space feel even more private, even more natural. Shetakes a moment to count the leaves, and clicks her tongue a feel times.Searching for her equilibrium.
It takes her a while. But eventually the soothing scents andsounds, and the gentle shifting of the leaves, help her calm down, until she’smentally reminding herself of the composition of stone in the garden wall, andthe new features to her indoor rock collection, and the updated plans for therock garden out in the front yard. Once they can manage better security wardsto keep people from pilfering her prettiest stones like weird adventurersbraving a dragon’s treasure hoard, anyway.
Those plans are still in play. Along with nurseries andbabysitters, daycares and pregnancy prep.
She turns back to the shrine, and bows.
“I mean, thank you, though,” she says. “I don’t want itundone, or anything. Please safeguard my wife’s pregnancy, and her health. Andour baby’s, too.” She should head to the temple this week, and make offeringsto the hearthkeeper’s shrine there, too. And the moon mother’s. Probably thesun father’s, as well, just – cover all the bases. Pays to be prepared, andall.
By the time Mana’Din comes and finds her, her thoughts aren’trunning themselves into circles anymore.
Her wife’s hand settles onto her shoulder. Warm, and gentle,and just the same as it was when she wasn’t pregnant.
“Nervous?” she asks. Probably because Elalas is praying andclicking and clearly categorizing rocks in her head.
“Yes,” she admits, folding a hand over top of Mana’Din’s.She looks up, and smiles, though. “But I hear that’s normal.”
“Absolutely normal,” Mana’Din confirms.
She settles down onto the grass beside her, then, lettingout a soft sigh. Her arms close around Elalas. Strong. Gods, her wife is sostrong. It’s why it made the most sense for her to be the one who got pregnant.Strong and calm, those are good things for a pregnant person to be, Elalassuspects. She leans into Mana’Din’s warmth, and presses her lips to her cheek.
“I’m nervous, too,” her wife admits.
Elalas feels a rush of consternation.
“Really?” she wonders.
Mana’Din sighs.
“Really,” she says. “ButI hear that’s normal.”
Well, if Mana’Dinis nervous, then it must just be a knee-jerk type thing. She can’t think of asingle person in the whole world who would make for a better parent tosomebody, really.
Elalas pauses, and then leans in, and kisses her again.
“Absolutely normal,” she dutifully repeats.
To her wife.
Who is pregnant.
…This is clearly going to take some time to adjust to.
~
As the weeks turn into months, Elalas finds herselffascinated with the changes in her wife’s body.
Mana’Din has always been fairly firm, and strong, butmorning sickness hits her like a rampaging bull and basically dismantles hermorning routine. Where Elalas’ wife was usually the first person up in themorning, jogging with the sunrise and then coming home and waking up Elalas forbreakfast, once things really seem to settle in, Elalas finds herself having toshake Mana’Din awake so that she isn’t late for work. Her maternity leave doesn’tkick in for a few months, yet. The early mornings are usually reserved for dizzinessand exhaustion, and on weekends, sleeping in becomes the rule of thumb.Evenings are a little better, but their research on safe work-outs for pregnantelves produces mixed results.
With the end of it all being that Mana’Din starts gettingsofter, in more ways than one.
Elalas is a big fan of her wife’s muscles. But there’ssomething incredibly mesmerizing about watching some of the firm edge come offof her, and go all… cuddly. Weekend mornings are swiftly becoming one of herfavourite times ever, as she usually wakes up with her beautiful, pregnant,snuggly wife all wrapped up around her. Coasting lazy, adoring hands over her,and accepting the same treatment in return.
The first trimester isn’t all the eventful, otherwise. There’sa week where Mana’Din’s ‘morning sickness’ gets a lot worse, and their doctorrefers her to a healing magic specialist, who helps address some issues. Butthe whole ‘scare’ only lasts about a day, and then the nausea eases up a lot and so does a good deal of theexhaustion, too. Mana’Din’s stomach gets bigger, and Elalas observes theprocess with undiluted fascination.
She can’t stop touching her wife.
It’s not even sexual. Or, well, not totally sexual. They still have sex; cuddly, snuggly sex, for themost part, but there’s an intimacy to this fascination that’s more simply aboutseeing things change. Their lives arechanging, and Mana’Din’s body is changing, and it’s all very different. It’svery frightening, in a lot of ways. But it’s beautiful, too, and enthralling.Elalas plays music for the baby, and fills their pantry up with emergency foodand vitamins for her wife, and buys an air filter for the nursery and visitsthe temple every weekend with as many offerings as she can manage.
Mana’Din talks about names, and Elalas thinks she’d be finewith anything her wife picked, as long as this baby is okay. As long as they are okay. The more it goes on forthe more it draws her in, and she wants this. She wants this to turn out. Shewants to not be terrible at it, and she wants them to get their happily everafter. Even though bad things happen to people. Maybe enough bad things havehappened to Elalas that it’s like… she’s got the backlog done with, now. She’ssoaked up all the bad points, and the baby doesn’t need to get any. Mamae’staken care of it all, she did their suffering as well as hers, and they canjust be happy and perfect, even if it means they never really understand oneanother.
One bright, brittle autumn evening, when Mana’Din’s gettinginto her third trimester, she comes out into the garden while Elalas ispraying. She sits with her, in that quiet way she has. Spiritual, watchful, butvery still and silent. When the prayers are done, she’s leaning against Elalas’shoulder.
“Are you happy?” she asks.
Elalas almost startles.
Her beautiful, pregnant, loving wife is sitting in theirsecluded garden, asking her if she’s happy. It’s almost ridiculous. Of courseshe’s happy, this is literally her dream come true. More than her dream cometrue. Sometimes she would get so far as the garden, or maybe the wife, butnever a baby, and the whole combination just seems almost surreal.
That thought gives her pause. Makes her actually considerthe question.
“I’m happy,” she says. “I’m so happy I keep worrying I’mgoing to wake up. I keep waiting for the bad things to happen, now. I don’tthink I really believe that I’m allowedto be this happy.”
Mana’Din reaches over, and carefully threads their fingerstogether.
“I know it’s not really reasonable,” Elalas offers.
“I get it,” Mana’Din assures her, exhaling deeply. “I’m gladyou’re so happy that you’re questioning reality.”
Elalas snorts. Her wife waggles her eyebrows, and nuzzlesher cheek.
“Want to come inside for more mind-blowing awesomeness?” sheasks. “I have to pee for the ninety billionth time, and I feel like a beachedwhale, and I think my ankles are swelling again. But if you want you can rubmore lotion into them and watch a documentary on volcanoes with me, until weboth pass out in a snoring heap, and then I wake you up in the middle of thenight because my back’s too sore for me to sleep and I’m bored again.”
Mana’Din laughs.
But Elalas thinks that actually sounds pretty good. Shetilts her face so she can kiss her wife’s nose, and watch it scrunch up.
“Seductress,” she accuses.
“Mm. Well. Just for that, I’ll wear my frumpiest nightshirt,”Mana’Din promises.
“The soft grey one?” Elalas asks. “I love that one. It makesyour boobs feel extra squishy.”
Mana’Din laughs again, this time breaking out into a fit ofendearing snickers, and makes a dozen off-colour comments about breasts untilElalas has to help her up again. They head back inside, where the house lightsare on, and filling everything with a soft amber glow. The stars are out. Themoon is high.
Elalas steps across the threshold, and pauses to hug herwife from behind. Resting her hands over the curve of her stomach, and feeling forthe telltale flutter of a kick. There isn’t one, right now. Baby’s probablysleeping. But Mana’Din is warm and soft, and for once, she doesn’t let herselflaunch into worries that something has gone horribly wrong.
“I love you,” she says.
“Hmm. I know,” Mana’Din replies, full of smug satisfaction.She leans back, and twists around, and manages to steal a kiss. “Must be contagious.I love you, too.”
I got a few prompts for ‘shrine reveals’ so here is - finally - the fruit of that!
Elalas builds a shrine to the Guide in Mana’Din’s territory.
There is a small city, called Irassalas, that was utterly devastated in the initial onslaught of Falon’Din’s massacres. The monster had set a half dozen of his corrupted spirits upon it. The place had been built of white stone, similar to the kind used in Arlathan; and the blood spilling across it had stained, irremovably. Nowhere as thoroughly as in the city center, where the massive altar had stood. The first time Elalas saw it, she thought it had been painted.
Mana’Din has the blood-soaked stone torn up, and buried, with a monument to the dead place atop it. But the region is rife with strange energies and pitfalls, and though the farmland around it cannot be spared, the roads to and from it are treacherous. The spirits in the area are addled and disquieted, haunted by memories of the city’s death.
Elalas considers building a shrine to the true Friend of the Dead. But she thinks, in such an atmosphere, her intentions could be misconstrued by the spirits and people in the worst possible way. So she decides upon the Guide instead. She builds it outside of the city, near one of the roads. Not visible from it; her shrines are tolerated by Mana’Din, but the peacekeepers still tend to ‘accidentally’ damage them whenever possible. But near enough that she can feel that any stray spirits, confused travellers, or lost souls might find a path by it.
The shrine is wood, carved by her hand with the winding patterns of old roads, that once marked the pathways to safe campsites.
She considers, for a moment. And then she adds another map, to the Unmarked Village. Marks it with the symbol of clanless be safe, that was once passed between those nomads who lived without the added protection of Keepers or kinsmen. Then she sets out tributes; two filled water flasks, and cured meat, and some feathers she strung up on a necklace the day before. She thinks that might be wrong; that the feathers are only for the Huntress, but some part of her insists that it is acceptable, as well, and she recalls precious little of the Guide’s intended tributes. So she hopes it will suffice.
She offers a prayer, flooding the grove with intent; for a journey that ends well. Then she heads back to the city, and her tasks.
It makes her feel lighter, building the shrines. Peppering this region with tiny pieces of home. To try and make it… something more than what it is. Maybe it is a fool’s hope, but it is the hope she has. Irassalas is a hard place to be in. Most cities and towns and settlements have seen a lot of death, of course, but in many cases people were at least dragged out to fields and mass graves and ritual sites, vaults and prisons before being culled to feed the pointless hunger of a mad tyrant. Here, people died in their beds. Bodies turned to ash, blood turned to power, and streets and walls left only with red stains and silence.
Mana’Din does not ask the would-be farmers who are willing to still come, to work the soil, to fill up the city again; as would be most convenient. Instead, labourers are brought in to further renovate the whole of the grounds, and camps are set up. Bright aravels arrayed at the edges of fields. Shirev, a former slave, has been tasked with overseeing the crafting and distribution of aravels throughout the territory. It is a craft that has fallen into disuse, since the empire put an end to the clans. Elalas does not even know if the Nameless still keep with the craft, but Shirev once built them for his own clan. It makes something in her go quiet, to see them again. Makes her think of the one her nanae had built, that had been their travelling home for so long. The colour-shifting fabrics, and chimes that would drift in breezes, and warn of impending storms.
Even if it is only temporary, she wonders if Mana’Din would ever let people wander her territory, as they used to. Elalas would like to make a case for that, she thinks. It would be safer than sending out scouts, to simply have some sort of survey party, living together and covering ground across the region in a group that was better equipped to map out good locations for eluvians, and spot problem regions, and even set up barriers to warn away unwary travellers.
Or would she consider that too old-fashioned, as the imperial elves tend to say? Regressive and barbaric, they call it. As if barbarism is not plentiful in their own society; as if the aravels set up around the farmlands do not exist because such barbarism painted a city’s streets red.
Thinking of the Guide makes her think of all the paths that have been closed.
And that might open again.
Still. She squares her shoulders, and tends to her duties. Helps Mana’Din anticipate the special problems that certain demographics will have, or will not. Helps organize those who are needed to try and recover corrupted spirits, and cleanse tainted ground, and encourage fresh growth over the region. The fields are alright, at least. Some new fences have to be set up, and some encroaching growth from the wilderness cleared away, but that is – at least – simple work. The city has decent aquaducts, which is a pleasant surprise.
Elalas knows people who will be interested in some of the hidden chambers beneath the city. She secrets away some maps, and forwards them to relevant parties. Escape routes, hiding places, and potential safehouses are always important, these days.
By the time evening rolls around, she is exhausted. One of the overseers for the city renovations is a high-ranking elf who was ‘gifted’ to Mana’Din by her grandmother. The woman is tiresome, and haughty, and even Mana’Din seems to struggle with her ‘advice’ and her lingering connections to other parts of the empire. As much as their illustrious leader-slash-tyrant might have her questionable connections, Elalas finds she distrusts the high-ranking servants from other leaders even more. At least Mana’Din’s agenda seems to involve getting the territory back in order. The relatives her advisors send her seem a little less convinced that this is a good expenditure of her time.
Which makes them incredibly tiresome to argue with. This one had kept trying to put forward the idea of gathering up all the disoriented spirits in the region, and sacrificing them to use their energy to help balance the anomalies in the area. Why waste time fruitlessly trying to restore them when we could halve our problems in one fell swoop?
Mana’Din had held firm to her unexpected stances on the subject, however. No sacrifices. Corrupted spirits that could not be restored would be considered, but otherwise, she maintained that enough death had taken place to last the region a millennia.
Elalas is inclined to agree. It takes a special kind of evil to look at blood-soaked earth and think it needs some shattered spirits to bleach away the colour.
She does not make it back out to the shrine again that evening, nor for several more afterwards. Which is bad, because she needs to strengthen the newly-build area so that it can resist being overgrown, and hold some energy even after she is gone. But, it is still only by the end of the week that she actually makes it out to the roads again; safely free of witnesses, as she veers off and makes her way towards the shrine.
It is in better shape than she had hoped.
The plants have not overgrown it. She needs clear only some stray leaves and few ambitious vines away, and the magic thrumming still feels strong, as if she had last visited just yesterday. She wonders if a spirit or two had come by. A heartening thought. They used to help tend the remote shrines back in the old days; if some are still around who remember that, then maybe there is more hope for the region than she had surmised.
She refreshes the water in the flasks, and sets out some travel bread she snagged from the dining tent that morning, and then she notices the carving.
Set in with her feather necklace. It is sandstone, by the looks of it. Polished but simple, and elegantly done. A tiny hart. Elalas brushes a finger over it, and glances around. But of course, she is the only person present. Even if, it seems, someone else has discovered her shrine.
Judging by the carving, it is another elf who has frequently been discovering her shrines, and making efforts to pay proper tributes to them. Sometimes odd, but always, it seems, sincere. She lets herself smile, and wonders if it was Shirev, as she does her part to pray and restore the little space, before leaving once more.
Business in Irassalas sweeps her up again in short order, anyway. She manages to steal a few minutes to ask Shirev about the shrine, but though he approves of her choice in making it, he admits that he had no idea it even existed. And he has even less time than her, these days, as Mana’Din is contemplating building a second aravel workshop in the region, and wants him to put forward an apprentice to promote into managing the place.
“I cannot imagine it will last for more than a few decades,” Shirev says, with a wistful sigh, as he looks out over all the bright tarps and magic-ladened surfaces that are the fruits of his labours. Mana’Din’s vallaslin is faint across his features. “Sooner or later everything will be sufficiently repaired, and then all of these will likely be taken apart. Thrown away. I feel as though whoever I ‘promote’ will find themselves reassigned almost as soon as they have fallen in love with their task.”
Elalas does not know what to say to that. He is probably correct; but at least a workshop generally always has some used. Even if they are not building aravels; the skills to make them can apply elsewhere. But that is not the point, she knows, and so she keeps her peace, before she is hurried back to her own tasks and matters that run late into the night. Keeping her awake by lantern light, as she reads reports, and listens to the wind chime through old bells, and thinks of the lagoon where her mother taught her to swim.
In the morning, she leaves early for her shrine.
She needs it, she thinks. Her dreams have been wistful and wandering, and she is not certain if that is good or bad. But perhaps the Guide can help her see a way to make all of this better. So she goes, just before dawn, when she can spare a few scraps of an hour. The air is cool, and thick with morning mist. A few distant spirits drift down the road. None of them unfriendly, although most of them seem distracted by their purpose. There is an odd sense of anticipation to the air. As if something has been stirred.
Elalas gets to the shrine, and halts dead in her tracks.
The air is full.
Full of a weighty, but sorrowful wish. Coloured with hope. More than abundant enough to fill the space, as a white-clad figure kneels in front of her shrine. And for a moment, Elalas is filled with denial. Even though she knows the outline of this figure perfectly well. She cannot believe it, until she spies the familiar mask lying propped against the base of the offering board.
Mana’Din.
For one incongruous moment, the image is so ill-fitting, that Elalas almost expects the woman to stand up and lift her hand, and burn the whole of the shrine to ash. That is what one of these blasphemous, imperial elves should do. And yet, almost as soon as the image comes to mind, she finds it utterly incongruous.
Almost as incongruous as Mana’Din praying to the Guide.
Or at least, mediating at her shrine. Elalas’ heart twists, and she is so confused. This never makes sense. Why does she never make sense? Why can she never just be the creature she should be? What is she doing? Elalas cannot take this. She cannot be wrong about these people, these so-called leaders. They put her in those camps. Her and so many others. They burned their shrines, and killed their clans, and forced everyone to either kneel to them or to become livestock in their vicious regime.
Worthless, worthless, the old overseer’s voice whispers in her memories. It is by the grace of our lady that you are even permitted to live. It is a mercy. You are a wretch; a fool. You and everyone like you would destroy all progress we have made. You are barely better than beasts, barely worth the food we spare to keep you alive. Savage filth. Heretic. Beast, beast, beast. Worth less than your blood.
It is not true. It was never true. It was not foolishness that kept her in the camps. It was weakness that brought her into the service of one of them. Because they killed her parents. Because they would have demanded her subjugation; because they would not let her keep her gods.
And one of them kneels before her shrine.
Mana’Din turns, and Elalas thinks of screaming at her. It would be so foolish; but she wants her to go. Wants this intruder to leave this place that she has stolen for herself. Because she had to. She had to steal it. She could not have kept it all along.
But then the other woman’s gaze meets hers, and she stills.
It is soft. Worried. Open, without the mask to act as a barrier between them.
Mana’Din is not the whole of her family. She is not her grandmother or grandfather, not even her father. She is a soul born within the empire; and Elalas does not know who she could have been, elsewhere. What she could have been.
She lets out a breath, that comes as more of a strangled sob, and all the strength leaves her.
It makes no sense.
It is awful, and makes no sense, and she does not know what to do with it. She does not know what to do with this woman. She sags against a nearby tree, and then slumps down. Falling to her knees, crushing soft fronds and leaves, as the mist clings to her clothes, and wisps glow faintly in the distance.
“Elalas?” Mana’Din asks, and ventures closer.
“It was you?” she asks. And she means the tending to this shrine; but then she also thinks of so many others. So many others she had built, and found little offerings left at. Her mysterious stranger; her unexpected fellow in trying to restore a little bit of what has been lost.
Mana’Din.
The woman moves closer, still. Coming to a stop in front of her, and then kneeling down.
“I am sorry,” she says. “I did not mean any harm. I just…”
She trails off, and there is such sorrow to her, as well. Such sorrow that it makes Elalas feel angry once more, because why should she be sorrowful? She is one of them. Why should she be allowed to come to this place, to mourn for what her own monstrous forebears tore asunder?
“How dare you?” she snaps. “You have no right to be here! No right! You are one of them. Do you have any idea what it was like, for all those years? All those years, barely surviving. Locked away and worked to the bone, beaten and raped and starved and broken, because of them. And all I had was this. Was just these fragments. It is all I have; how dare you come here.”
Mana’Din’s eyes shine, and her sorrow withdraws; clutched close, as she looks away.
“I am sorry,” she says, again. “I am so sorry, I did not mean… you are right. I will go. Please, please do not worry. I will go, right now.”
She moves to stand, and Elalas’ hand seems to act of its own accord. To reach out, and grasp her wrist.
“Why?” she demands.
Why would you come here? Why would you do this? Why do you keep doing this?
Mana’Din hesitates. And if Elalas thought the hesitation was to buy time to manufacture some lie, they would be done here. They would be done perhaps everywhere, in all ways. But instead it seems to her that the other woman is searching for a means to explain something that is difficult to articulate. She swallows, and a tear escapes down her own cheek, as she turns and glances back towards the shrine.
“Because I do not want to lose myself,” she says, at last. “When I come to your shrines, I feel like I am transported to somewhere that was lost. And I know it can never really back, but I want to feel connected to it. I did not mean to take anything from you, I swear it. I only… I wanted to feel that. Again.”
Elalas feels her face fall. Feels all the wind come out of her, as she stares at Mana’Din. As her limbs tremble, and another tear makes its way down the other woman’s face, and a wave of something not quite like defeat crashes over her.
Oh no.
Her grip shifts, and in a move that surprises even herself, she pulls Mana’Din forward. That is all it takes, it seems, for the leader’s restraint to break and reverse in on itself; and sorrow and remorse wash over her, and Mana’Din folds her strong arms around her and pulls her close. Elalas grips the back of her pale tunic, in turn. She buries her face against her neck, and squeezes her eyes shut.
“I am sorry,” Mana’Din repeats. “I am sorry I am one of them, I know I am. I thought of killing them, when Falon’Din fell. I think I could have done it, then. But it is so hard. They raised me. Part of me cannot help but love them and know them, even though I know they are corrupt, too. They do horrible things, and every moment they carry on doing them, I know I am to blame. But I wanted to save them. I always want… I always make that mistake, but… but I cannot…”
She bursts into sobs, and Elalas feels a rush of horror and sorrow and grief, and does not know if it is her own, or Mana’Din’s, or both.
Oh no, she thinks again.
This is so much harder than she ever thought it would be, when she thought she could simply hate this woman.
Damn fucking imperial bastards, she thinks.
“Shhh,” is what comes out of her mouth, as she settles a hand against Mana’Din’s back.
In a day… or several. Or possibly in a few decades, she might know what to do with all of this. But for now, all she can feel is that twist inside of her, and old voices vying for dominance. The particulars are all confused, but she knows hurt. She knows great and grave pains, and whatever her supposed history, Mana’Din has suffered something. And so has Elalas.
In some ways, perhaps it can be that simple.
She slumps, as all the conflicting poison that has accumulated in her seems to settle in her stomach. As the warmth of the woman in her arms grounds her, and old scars ache, and her shrine glows like a beacon over Mana’Din’s shoulders.
Fuck you, Guide, she thinks. Could you not have led me to something simpler?
Mana’Din rests her cheek against her shoulder, and Elalas sighs, and then clicks her tongue gently.
Got a little more amnesia fic done! This was gonna be longer but I’m indecisive about the next segment, so I figured I’d share this bit anyway while I still work on that.
Elalas has no idea what she is supposed to do with this.
Mana’Din is is holding her hand, radiating bewilderment and perplexity, along with the kind of desperate resolve that makes Elalas think of… not tyrannical elvhen leaders. Or leaders in general, really. It actually makes her think of the younger slaves she had known, back when the camps had first started to fill up. Ages and ages ago, now, when there were often still slaves who hadn’t gotten past their first hundred years.
Mana’Din – Lavellan – feels… young.
And lost.
And, yes, she has no idea what the fuck to do with it. It is pissing her off, in fact. It is infuriating, and not just because she has to babysit her former overlord to keep people from killing her with much, much higher odds of success. She knows Mana’Din’s history. She didn’t at first, but she looked into it, of course. Just as much as she could. Born and raised to Dirthamen in his lands, about a thousand years ago. Darling baby of the evanuris family. Despised by her uncle, with whom she had little contact until he put some sincere effort into trying to kill her, well into her adulthood. There’s no reason she should be… like this. Even if somehow her mind has regressed, her memories have been lost, she should just be some haughty young heiress.
Not a confused youth babbling about Keepers and clans and hiding from her father’s minions.
Elalas lets out a breath, and leads Mana’Din carefully into the room that Felenaste had commandeered for herself. Supplies from the summer palace had arrived with haste an hour ago, along with Felenaste’s most trustworthy apprentice.
The house they’re in is one of a handful of ‘spare’ lodgings in the village. The settlement was originally home to a much larger population of elves than the unmarked tribe currently occupying it, though not by too wide of a margin. Slaves slept in crowded barracks, though, and many of the village’s residents still cleave to the comfort of sharing a small space, even as others revel in the freedom to have their own again. It had taken some doing to convince Bellan to ask no questions. But she doesn’t think anyone actually saw Mana’Din, at least.
Who calls herself Lavellan, now.
“How old are you?” she finds herself asking. Mana’Din blinks at her, and she asks the question again, differently. Trying not to feel frustrated. Reminding herself that the woman is not being purposefully obtuse.
“Two tens,” Mana’Din finally manages to tell her.
Elalas is sure that is wrong, though. The only sense she can make of that number would be twenty, and Mana’Din cannot be just twenty.
Even if she was, presumably, at one point in her life just twenty.
After a few moments, Elalas gives up, and pulls her illustrious-and-baffled leader into the room with Sulhamin and Felenaste waiting.
The both of them stare at Fear. Sulhamin with a note of relief.
Felenaste with… something less easily identified.
After a moment, though, the healer beckons Mana’Din closer, as Sulhamin bows to Dirthamen’s raven and begins speaking with it. Elalas stays by the door, dividing her attention between both interactions. Or at least, she means to, until Lavellan glances back at her; radiating so much uncertainty that Elalas takes a step forward, and someone ends up roped into helping Felenaste make sense of Lavellan’s patchy understanding of language, as she casts more spells.
She still keeps one ear on Sulhamin, however.
“She has lost her memories,” Fear confirms. “They will be retrieved for her. In the meanwhile, we will keep her safe from harm.”
“Will Lord Dirthamen be coming to collect her?” Sulhamin wonders. “We can manage a brief absence. I suppose we will have to. But, we were scheduled to be investigating the vault for some time still. Anything more than a few months will require a better explanation, however.”
“This depends on how long it takes to recover her lost pieces from the Dreaming,” Fear asserts.
Elalas does not think Felenaste is listening, until she breaks in.
“Her equilibrium is badly upset, and she did not take well to the crossroads. I would not recommend she travel much like this. It is bad enough if she has left part of her senses in the Dreaming. Pushing her and pulling her through additional layers of existence can only make things worse.”
Fear cocks its head, and then looks at Lavellan. Who is focusing on a blank segment of wall, and obviously not listening to much of anything as the diagnostic spells prod at her again. Elalas grabs up a cool cloth from one of the side tables, and presses it carefully over her eyes. Lavellan swiftly takes up holding it herself, and lets out a breath of relief as the cool and the dark ease some of the tension in the room. Healing chambers are always replete with magic.
“We have ways of easing such things,” Fear says. But softly. Its feathers rustle, and Sulhamin lets out a sigh.
“Why is she like this?” Elalas asks.
Her voice breaks through a lull in the conversations, and even Lavellan turns towards her.
“Lord Fear has said; her mind is fractured,” Sulhamin impatiently tells her.
“The bird claims she lost memories,” Elalas counters. “But she has lost more than that. Even a young elf should be able to speak the language. And she knows of things that a young elf should not, by contrast. Why has she been asking after Keepers and clans? Those are matters well before her time. Supposedly.”
There is silence.
“Renewal,” Felenaste suggests. “And those spirit shards. Some of those could have pre-dated Arlathan. Perhaps they attempted to fill the loss, and only made things worse. Fragmented memories and perceptions from however many dead spirits… that would addle the senses, no doubt.”
Elalas feels a pang. However grim the camps had been, the vaults imprisoning spirits could not have been better. To be sundered from the Dreaming like that… it must have felt as though they were being cut in half. She swallows, and then glances at Lavellan; who is holding the cloth to her face, and seems confused again.
“I will see if I can ease her,” Felenaste decides, after a moment. “That might explain her strange over-sensitivity as well.”
“No, I think… I think she had that, before,” Elalas interjects.
It earns her a few curious glances.
But then Fear nods.
“Our daughter suffers from a degree of magical sensitivity,” it confirms. “It is not normally this severe, but under the circumstances, it makes sense that it would be worse.”
Felenaste sighs.
“I can still try and help with it,” she concludes.
And after a few moments she chases everyone but Lavellan from the room. Elalas finds herself wholly reluctant to leave. But she does, slipping from the room and then resting against the wall outside of it, as her mind races. Something about Felenaste’s theory just does not sit right in her. And she is most assuredly not looking forward to the prospect of handing Lavellan over to Dirthamen, should he turn up on their doorstep. Probably marching through the village as disdainfully as Elgar’nan’s peacekeepers do, before imperiously reclaiming his child.
There are no records on Mana’Din having another parent, apart from him. Elalas had always assumed he had forced himself onto some pretty servant or other when he decided he wanted a child, and then simply denied them any rights or access after the fact. Not unheard of for high-ranking elves, and so definitely not beyond the purview of their masters.
But this… this does not fit.
What if there is more to it, than that? Dirthamen is renowned for his strange arts and practices. Fear itself, and its twin, are more than ample evidence of his peculiarities.
In fact, now that she thinks of it, perhaps it is laughable to assume that the man would ever gain a child by normal means. What if he – what if he had an infant’s body made? By the likes of that Ghilan’nain, perhaps. What is he shoved some poor spirit into it, fragmented and confused? Gods, that would explain so much. Mana’Din’s peculiar mercies and sorrows. Her strange attachment towards and interest in things from the days before the empire. How she looks, sometimes, when Elalas speaks of the gods.
Tell me more. Please. About the old ways.
If it is even possible for Dirthamen to have done such a thing. A dozen other ugly notions fly through her perceptions. What if he trapped some poor child in uthenera, during the days of his conquest? Some twenty-year-old girl he just flung into sleep, until a stray impulse had him waking her up again? But no. Accounts are fairly clear that Dirthamen had Mana’Din as an infant.
Would Dirthamen experiment upon his own child? A chilling thought, but one Elalas does not struggle to imagine. Dragging straw memories and thoughts, images and dreams through her malleable mind. Perhaps just to see what would happen. Why would a man like Dirthamen even want to have a child, if not for some nefarious purpose? His mother used her own children as pawns in her armies and schemes in her conquests, after all. Theirs is a family that uses people and discards them, and Mana’Din has seemed the only exception to everything Elalas thought she knew about them.
Maybe that difference does not reflect any kind of misjudgement on Elalas’ part. Maybe it is because, by the time Mana’Din came around, her family had already degenerated to the point of treating their own in much the same fashion as they treated everyone else.
Dirthamen had written slave markings on his daughter’s face, once.
Falon’Din had tried to kill his niece.
Elalas does not realize she has tightened her hand into a fist until her nails bite into her palm with enough force to break the skin. But as it burns, rather than putting it down, she smacks it against the wall beside her.
And now Dirthamen is going to come and fetch his child, and do the gods only know what to her all over again.
She lets out a breath that is as much snarl as anything, and turns and stalks all the way out of the safehouse, and into the village proper. The sun beats down on smooth, painted blue rooftops, and she can hear some of the river boats swaying in the docks. Most of the villagers are at work, or else at the guarded trading outpost just outside of the village. Elalas turns and makes her way down past the docks, past the hilltop sanctuary where a hundred elves once lay sleeping, before Falon’Din preyed upon them like a snake stumbling onto a bird’s nest. She takes to one of the dirt trails beyond it, her steps clipped, a low breeze kicking around her ankles.
Eventually she comes to what she is looking for. A shaded copse, dappled in sunlight, and hosting a small stone shrine. The moon is carved into it, and offerings have been placed out in front of it. Smooth river stones, and rings, and bowls of honeyed water. A few fat bees drink happily from those, as speckled flowers bloom around the roots of nearby trees. Elalas reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a small wooden dragon she had carved a few days ago. She settles it between the water bowls, and then rests on her knees in front of the shrine.
The lady of the sea and moon. The true Mythal, who had once promised the people such great retribution against those that would mistreat them. Subjugate them.
“Oh, Mythal,” Elalas whispers. “I have lived so long in the dark, I fear that I have forgotten how to see the truth anymore. I pray for the still light of the moon. I know your strength is not what it once was, Moon Mother. Your children are scattered, and heretics have burned your shrines and stolen your name. But if you can help bring wisdom to those who seek it, and retribution to those that deserve it, I would beg of you to do so.”
Elalas breathes her intent into the tiny clearing, and the markings on the shrine glow, softly, as her emotions rush across them. Bellan built this one very well. She traces a finger over the shape of the moon, and bows, and meditates until her mood has calmed. Until the sounds of the river have seemed to sink into her bones, and the light spilling through the trees has shifted.
There is a woman, Moon Mother. There is a woman, and I… I do not want to lose her.
She turns, and heads back towards the village again.
The kiss on the inside of the wrist is such a nice gesture. The softest and most vulnerable places are the most satisfying to plant sweet little butterfly kisses on, and kissing someones throat or belly or inner thighs is obv unacceptable in public, and unlike the wrist these areas could be viewed as inherently sexual. Prompt for sweet little kisses?
Ireth’s wrists have scales on them. Tiny green ones, today, like emeralds that shine in the dappled forest sunlight. Haninan smiles as she walks towards him, and June babbles a greeting from his arms; and when Ireth is near, he lifts her hand up to his mouth, and presses his lips to her pulse.
Pride feels at once bold and tender as he demonstrates the gesture. He moves in close, and lifts her hand; resisting the urge to threat their fingers together as he instead bows his head over her wrist, and kisses it. Her thumb brushes against him, and her breath stills, and he wonders how he could ever have taken her for unemotional.
Thenvunin is dancing with an elf whose name Uthvir cannot recall. She is very lovely, though; tall and broad shouldered and uncommonly friendly with him, as she meets him step for step across the dance floor. They do not think themselves a jealous type. But as Thenvunin smiles at her - genuinely pleased, it seems - they look away, and remind themselves of the feel of his pulse against their lips.
Desire knows Glory’s body is its prison. But it is still gentle as it can be with it, as it slips out of the Dreaming. As it brushes the manifestation of it’s less corporeal form across Glory’s arms, and face, until finally they look up. And they whisper of gestures, of feelings; of hearts that come in all forms, as they lift an approximation of Desire’s wrist to their mouth, and press their lips to it.
Elgar’nan scoops Andruil into his arms. His tiny daughter is covered in sticky tree sap, hollering excitedly about some rabbit she had successfully chased, as he breathes a sigh of relief and checks her over for scratches. Andruil’s eyes are bright and her voice unrepentant, pleased with her escapades until the first tear falls from Elgar’nan’s eyes, and he kisses her sticky, sap-covered little hands and wrists. Then his daughter does apologize for running off, at least.
Vena applies Tasallir’s oils to his arms last. His touch drawing carefully across his forearms, and wrists, and hands. Lifting them so that Tasallir does not even realize that he has odd intentions, until Vena leans down and presses a kiss to his pulse.
Dirthamen sees the gesture several times, and surmises what it means before he bids his brother hold a moment, and takes his wrist, and offer it to him. Because Falon’Din’s life is precious to him. His brother endures it, and is pleased with it, and sometimes even invites it; but he never returns it, either.
Sylaise is a breathtaking bride. June does not think there has ever been anyone comparable. He does not think there ever will be again. He is more splendidly attired than he has ever been before, and yet, she eclipses him utterly. He reaches for her; and is surprised when she catches his hand, instead, and draws it to her own lips.
Ghilan’nain never just kisses one wrist. Never just takes one hand. When she offers this gesture to her wife, even centuries after they have bonded, she takes both of her hands. And she lifts first the right, and then the left, before moving in to steal the breath from her lips as well.
Elalas runs her thumb over the thin, delicate skin of Mana’Din’s wrist. She contemplates the woman resting beside her for a long, long moment. The arm curled around her shoulders. The steady breath at her temple. And then she pulls her wrist up, and kisses her there.
Curiosity puts an arm around Pride as he weeps through all the layers of his grief and self-loathing. He has always feared being a calamity; and now he knows, in intimate detail, just how badly things can go wrong. She does not know what to offer him, to say that his life still matters to her. That she does not think he is a bad or unduly dangerous person. But there are gestures for it. And so after a moment, she only lifts his wrist to her lips, and kisses him there.
Solas thinks of the old gesture, after he has taken the anchor from her. After the remaining energy has eaten through the flesh of her arm. He thinks of what his power has destroyed, what he once would have felt compelled to press only the gentlest of touches to, and a rush of pain surges through his chest.
L'organisation « Fòs Delmas » base de Fanmi Lavalas, a annoncée 2 journées de manifestation le lundi 20 et le mardi 21 Juin 2016, afin de mettre en garde les mal élus de la 50ème législature contre toute velléité d'avancer dans la logique de la tentative du coup d'état du PHTK et alliés. Rappelons que « Fòs Delmas » soutien le maintien du Président Jocelerme Privert au pouvoir pour l'aboutissement du processus électoral de 2015
