Time to Rise Up || Writing Challenge
Rye Hawthorne
Neutral Good
True Names were something of pride, or so Rye thought when he grew up. Some had True Names similar to those of their families, or their stations in life. Others’, he was told, made little sense to the fae until well into their lives.
For his part, Rye never knew his growing up. He didn’t learn it during his training as a knight, or during the war. What he had always thought would be the most defining event of his life—and in terms of his self, his True Name, it meant nothing. He still didn’t know his Name.
His father had told him that when he learned his True Name, he would know who he was.
His mother had told him that when he knew who he was, he would learn his True Name.
He should’ve known then that his mother would be the one who was right. Still, it had been years since Rye thought much about it. When he had been knighted, he asked the King to not ask it of him in front of the rest of the knights. He didn’t want to admit to them that he didn’t know it. It had still been a source of shame for him back then.
But that was many moons ago, and Rye hadn’t concerned himself with finding his True Name for some time. Now, he wonders if it had only bothered him so much back then, because he had hoped that his True Name would give him some kind of standing. Some sense of belonging in the Court that always held him to the outside, despite the King’s best efforts. But a Name couldn’t do that, and he knew that now.
It became even less important the further he distanced himself from his noble family. Or rather, the further distance he felt from them. He acted the part of the dutiful brother, but without the illusion of himself, of trying to convince himself that that was who he should be. He wasn’t, and he would never be. He never wanted to be. The day Oberon took it upon himself to slaughter dozens of people Rye held dear, was the day he lost his half-brother’s loyalty. The little of it that had remained, in any case. Keeping his head down and following orders hadn’t been an option since that day.
Now, as he stood facing Damira, ready to go out on assignment for his first mission with the Nighthawks, he felt at peace for the first time in as long as he could remember. Since before the war. He felt like he belonged somewhere, and it wasn’t even a definitive place; it was a place between places, and that worked for him just fine. There were times he felt like he belonged, just momentarily, with the Unseelie Court, or with the Wolf Clan, even in Wisteria on a rare occasion. But here, with the Nighthawks, or by Robin’s side, were the only places that he knew without any doubt that he belonged.
Even so, Rye had turned down Damira’s request to ask Robin to come along on this mission. He knew Robin would push, that he would join them eventually, but Rye wanted to put off the inevitability as long as possible. It wasn’t safe. Which was probably a useless argument because Robin could easily throw it back at him. Nevertheless, he cast an invisibility glamour as he made to follow Damira, only able to see glimpses of her cloak fluttering momentarily outside of her over invisible glamour as she led him to the Shambles.
“Why haven’t you begun training them sooner, if you thought it so important?” Rye asked quietly as they approached an old inn.
“The Nighthawks that are qualified to train an army haven’t earned the trust of those in the Shambles. And those that have earned their trust, aren’t qualified to train. We needed someone with both qualities,” Damira said, dropping her glamour as they reached a darkened alleyway just inside the Shambles.
“And that’s me,” Rye said, not a question, but more an understanding as he dropped his glamour as well.
“And that’s you,” Damira agreed. “Robin as well, if he’ll join you in training our recruits.” She paused a moment, as if considering her words before she spoke again. “They speak of him, you know. The fallen knight. The bird whose wings were clipped. The captive that humiliated the King with his escape. He’s practically a folk hero,” she added with an amused smile.
Rye smiled a bit. Robin a folk hero. Rye wanted to laugh at the idea if only because he knew Robin would. But it fit, didn’t it? He escaped the castle. He survived the King. He did what few ever had. He deserved the title of hero. He was one. Even if the title of knight had been stripped from him, that couldn’t be taken.
“I’ll speak with him about it,” Rye promised, already certain that Robin would jump at the opportunity. “We’re just meeting with them today, correct?”
“And assessing their abilities, if you’d like,” Damira added. “I told them you may want to pair them off to spar, or spar with a few yourself to judge their abilities. Of course, you don’t have to do any of that. I just wanted to weed out those that have the heart of a rebel, but not one of a fighter.”
“Fair enough,” Rye said. He gestured for her to go on ahead so they could find these future Nighthawks he was intended to train.
Damira nodded before stepping out of the alleyway, and leading the way towards the far end of the Shambles, furthest away from the roads that led back into town. “Please don’t tell me we’re meeting them by Oberon’s Oak,” Rye muttered under his breath.
She laughed and shook her head. “We do love poetry, but not foolish poetry. No, we’re meeting them on the far end of the Shambles, just before we reach the forest.”
Rye breathed a little easier, A less well known place would be safer, and he was glad she had taken that into account. When they arrived, there were more hob fae gathered than Rye had anticipated. The din of subdued chatter quieted a little when Damira cleared her throat, and was silenced entirely when the fae began to turn and see Rye standing beside her.
“Wonderful to see all of your faces again,” Damira said. Rye noticed that she paused, her eyes scanning to ensure she did recognize every face in the crowd before she continued. Rye didn’t hear a word she said after that though. He heard, what almost sounded like a gust of wind, but there was a whisper to it. A voice. Perhaps he imaged it, but the voice almost sounded like his mother’s.
Tugann Zalman Ashaant. Bringer of Peace in Turbulence.
The voice, the words, they sounded like comfort, and felt like home and belonging. What a strange feeling. Rye felt both like his breath was swept form him in a single breath, and like he could breathe for the first time since before the war.
“Pardon?” Damira’s voice broke through the softer one, and he turned to look at her, watching the concerned look on her face as she approached, close enough to speak quietly without any of the recruits overhearing. “Did you say something?”
Rye only just then realized he’d spoken the name aloud. The name. His True Name.
“No, sorry,” he muttered quickly.
“Are you alright?” She asked.
“Yeah,” Rye answered, and for the first time in a while, he meant it. A small smile pulled at the corner of his lips as he looked out over the new recruits, all standing tall and facing the pair as though waiting for either an execution or the answer to the universe. Probably both.
“You all know why you’re here. Let’s stop wasting time, and see what we’re working with,” he said, taking a few steps towards the gathered crowd. There was a confidence and sureness in his step that hadn’t been there a moment ago. He knew where he was, and that where was, he was meant to be. He knew who he was, and while it wasn’t a revelation, it was it’s own sort of confirmation. Forsaking a blind adherence to law and tradition, for something else, for something for the betterment of humans and fae alike, was worth it. It was what he was meant for.
His eyes found a young boy, a few years from the birthday that would name him an aspen. Rye had seen him when he attempted to join the ranks of the Unseelie Knights. He had been belittled and ridiculed by the saplings of noble and wealthy families, as well as even the knight assigned to train them pushed and bullied until they broke him. Until he resigned himself to the life his parents had; of starvation and struggle, of tireless work and endless days.
Rye beckoned the boy forward. “Colin, you’re up first. Let’s begin.”
