#oc: aeka

[morgottbathwater]

✶ Family Portrait

SFW. A bit canon divergent. "Ansbach attempts to strike a conversation with his new compatriot, but he just can't get a good read on her." Word count — 676

The rancid amalgamation of dried blood and damp soil pestered Aeka’s nostrils, although she stayed within the Dynasty for a considerable time after her knighting; she couldn’t rid her mind of the putrid odor. Her swollen eyelids ground against her dry eyes with each blink. Before her, a ravaging fire, yet skillfully maintained; she lost herself in the cinder. Briefly her thoughts escaped through the grasps of her fingers.

“Aeka,” a gentle voice snapped her back into consciousness. “You are a Reedlander, correct?”

“Did your rat of an accomplice mention something?”

Ansbach remained silent, he looked remorseful for his comment. He doesn’t harbor sinister intentions, or so Aeka rationalized to remain on jovial terms.

“I was,” her response was blunt, though Aeka didn’t speak in lies nor fools. 

Despite her obstinate and defiant nature, she was frank. Aeka didn’t pick sides, she worked on her own volition, for all Ansbach knew; she could abandon her post and be gone by sunrise. Ansbach prodded at the fire, embers gleamed as the sticks made space for each other. He stalled, uncertain how to continue.

“You are Tarnished, are you not?” queried Aeka.

“No, I am not.”

“Do tell, why does the Palace humour Tarnished?”

“I am not our anointer, I am merely a knight serving Lord Mohg.”

“Then what is your companion’s purpose, to lead us astray, away from the Erdtree?”

“I cannot tell you, he took the duty upon himself. Neither Mohg nor I had any involvement, I’m here to protect my Lord.”

Aeka glanced at Ansbach, though they were seated far apart, she caught his heavy sigh punctuating his sentence. Ansbach spoke with high regard, not dubbed responsibility. Sight still latched onto Ansbach, she saw the opportunity to selfishly encroach. 

“What is Lord Mohg to you?”

Ansbach’s head turned, “Pardon?”

“Your Lord has fallen, and he fell many moons ago. It’s clear you are not bound by duty anymore. What is your purpose here?”

“I wait for his return; I do not need to fight for him, not yet. The time will come, Aeka.”

“You’re not a young man, so set your sights elsewhere,” she huffed.

She leaned forward to cup her head on her palms, resting it as she interrogated her senior. Ansbach gave her a lighthearted chuckle at her comment, for once, she didn’t mind. 

“I fear that is my predicament, my calves ache when I move, and my scythe doesn’t swing as high as it used to. I would be of no use for another Lord.”

“Yet you serve a purpose here, among the rubble of what once was?”

“I’m inclined to believe so.”

Aeka offered half a shrug, she couldn’t wrap her mind around the sentimentality of Ansbach’s tie to Mohg, though she couldn’t condemn the honor Ansbach had sworn when he was a younger man. Despite the trials, and losses, he was tethered to the Mohgwyn Dynasty; to his own volition. 

“Do you have anyone you care for, Aeka?” asked the older man, though the inquiry was innocuous, something wrung in Aeka’s guts.

A boxy, aged face, worn from combat and extensive labor. Each graying strand tells a story of bloodshed and warfare. His features had blended together into a bloodied stew, though his eyes, the color of brine with a vacant stare. He looked at Aeka with repugnance and rage. She saw him so clearly before her.

“A girl I encountered in Liurnia,” she answered softly. “She begged for help, a thief had stolen something precious. Something in the back of my head told me I should help.”

A tale Ansbach had heard tell of before, a descendant of a powerful family. The serpent girl, bless her heart, was unaware of the role she truthfully played. Ansbach didn’t have the heart to tell Aeka, he begrudgingly chose to pledge ignorance to honor her naivete. God willing the girl escapes the Dynasty to make a name of her own. 

“I’m pleased to hear,” conceded Ansbach as he faced the smoldering fire.

“Why?” she questioned with a snap.

“Everyone needs someone important.”

[morgottbathwater]

✶ Freezing Night

SFW. Suicide and child abuse. Tarnished Aeka's origin. Word count — ~769

The Roige Reda family had gathered in their cramped dining hall, tying their kitchen and low set cedar chabudai. The head of the family, the patriarch, was seated on the floor among his blood kin. Despite his aging body and tender joints, he sat with crossed legs and arms; unmoving, only his chest puffing with each deep breath. On his right, his wife, youthful in contrast to her mate. Across from her sat her twins, two boys joking with glee; despite the jovial chattering, their banter dissipated like smoke in the gloomy air. They had gathered as a family at the request of their youngest adoptee, which the patriarch had granted.

As the room's door slid open, a thin figure stepped through the darkness. Her skin illuminated by the faint cinder of a lantern. She bore a long tunic, stained from days long of work. Her hair was ungroomed and dripping down her forehead, stray strands of hair stuck to her damp face. She closed the door with her heel, at the displeasure of her mother clicking her teeth with furrowed brows. The girl stepped forth, the carpet soiled with traces of her muddy feet. 

“Greetings, my family,” she turned her gaze to her father, the samurai who never taught her to duel, though granted her the privilege to tend to his katana. “You have my gratitude, father, for allowing us to converge as true family.”

“Ichabod, why do you call upon us?” he questioned without debate.

“I wished to see my kin once more, assembled in the room we briefly meet in at noon, we’re hardly entertained,” she turned her head to the table, locking eyes with one of the twins. “You agree, right?” 

“I’m uncertain,” her brother answered with a mumble, jaw pushing against his palm.

“Ichabod, cease your inanity,” her father demanded. “You may leave,” he sighed, waving his hand and letting his sons stand.

“Sit down.”

Blank stares shifted to Ichabod, standing boldly before them. A subtle hint of a grin was seen, despite that, her gaze remained hollow. 

“You impudent child, how dare you speak of my sons–” her mother snapped, as she attempted to stand, her husband grabbed hold of her arm. She shot a glare and seated once more, begrudgingly with gritted teeth.

“I want to leave my thanks to my family before I continue my journey, you have taught me much. Sowing seeds, rinsing our dishes, sewing my brother's torn clothes and sharpening fathers blade,” she moved her hand from behind her, revealing her father’s wakizashi. The blade was as reflective as a still lake, carefully tended to and sharpened like a needle. 

“Ichabod–” her father began. 

“Thank you, my mother, for guiding me to become what you are not. You are but an uncouth, undignified woman. You are, truly, no better than the sheep we eat.”

She turned, pointing the short blade to her siblings, “and you bunch, you are forlorn and devoid of burden. You, both, are destined to fall, and you may thank your mother. My sole regret before my departure is I didn’t snuff you at nightfall years ago, so thank your father.”

Ichabod grabbed her blade, both of her hands wrapped tightly around the handle, the tip of the blade pointing towards her toes. With trembling wrists, she looked at her father. 

“Father,” she declared. “Your home will carry the bane of my curse till the day its wood rot.”

Her white gown bore a deep red hue as the blade of the sword twisted within. Her abdomen spilled buckets of blood onto the bald spots of the floor lacking tatami mats. Blood dripped down her thighs, down her leg, through the crevices of the house. She howled, neck twisted downwards as she watched her stomach consume the blade through her black hair. Her family watched, no one intervened. An audience watching a show unfold before them, their youngest killing herself in their very home, a sight they’ll never blot out. As Ichabod tumbled to the floor, uneven breaths, blade still lodged in her guts; they watched. They talked, they ate, they slept. 

Until her body had been labeled an obstacle, her father demanded her sons carry her outside. “Doesn’t matter where you put her, as long as she’s off the property.” So they did, leaving in a creek, no less than a kilometer walk from their residence. “Leave the wakizashi.” He said. 

Although nature reclaimed Ichabod once more, her presence remained in the Roige Reda home. Not long after, the patriarch informed the family of their move north. Ichabod, graceless, rotting Tarnished, was left behind.