It was done. Over. She was now defined by a single word- Outcast.
Amaraithia pushed herself up from the sand where she had been cast down, the wind stinging her eyes as it whipped past, bringing with it rain, and the salt spray of the sea. Her fingers, her hands, dug into the rough sand as she bent her head against the storm.
She did not weep. She may now be outcast, but never would she show that weakness. She still had her pride, it was, besides the clothing she wore and the small pack beside her, all she had.
Rising, despite the wind and rain- or because of it, she reached down and gathered up the scant belongings the Court had allowed by customs long unused and mostly forgotten. Not many were cast down from the Court, and none of those few had fallen so far. The gleam of silver shone at her wrist as the hem of her sleeve shifted. She lifted her arm, exposing the band of metal to the light. Black script ringed the metal, and she did not read it aloud. There was a twin to the silver cuff on her opposite arm. She was fortunate. They didn't actually use her skin to engrave the runes. It offered hope, although slender, but it was not a promise- never that. She was bound, and there was only one way she could convince them to remove the binding. That was now her life's purpose, it was something she could focus on, something that would keep her alive when she did not have anything else to live for.
She looked up at the sky. The stars seemed so much farther away, here. At least, she thought, they seemed familiar. The sea shone under two moons, but to her eyes, the size and color were off. Dimmer, smaller somehow. A world away from the Court she had known. And that had been, in truth, the only world she had known. This world, now, was larger and stranger than what she had called her own. She glanced at the silver bracelet. The binding made it even more so.
After a moment, she turned her back to the sea, with its sky full of stars and these strange moons, turning instead to the darkness of trees beyond the stretch of sand. She gripped the pack in her hands, worked at the knots with fingers that were slow to respond. Inside, she found a knife, with a sheath, a skin of water, dry rations. She pulled out the weapon, and strung it on the simple belt at her waist. The food and water, for now, she ignored. Reaching in again, her fingers brushed something cool inside the pack, wedged into a small inner pocket, its sides round and smooth. When she pulled it out, she did react then- a single, sharp inhalation. A crystal sphere that fit into the palm of her hand. It caught the starlight and held it.
She wanted to throw it into the sea. She wanted to clutch it to her chest. She did neither, but held it in her hand, this unexpected gift, this kindness, when none was sought after nor looked for. Her eyes stung. Perhaps only from wind. She shook her head and tucked the crystal away into the pack which was then swung over her shoulder. She drew the dagger. Although of fine craftsmanship- the court did not produce anything that was not- it was a meagre weapon, but it was better than none. With her head held high, she began to walk towards the trees, and towards her new life.
Amaraithia pushed herself up from the sand where she had been cast down, the wind stinging her eyes as it whipped past, bringing with it rain, and the salt spray of the sea. Her fingers, her hands, dug into the rough sand as she bent her head against the storm.
She did not weep. She may now be outcast, but never would she show that weakness. She still had her pride, it was, besides the clothing she wore and the small pack beside her, all she had.
Rising, despite the wind and rain- or because of it, she reached down and gathered up the scant belongings the Court had allowed by customs long unused and mostly forgotten. Not many were cast down from the Court, and none of those few had fallen so far. The gleam of silver shone at her wrist as the hem of her sleeve shifted. She lifted her arm, exposing the band of metal to the light. Black script ringed the metal, and she did not read it aloud. There was a twin to the silver cuff on her opposite arm. She was fortunate. They didn't actually use her skin to engrave the runes. It offered hope, although slender, but it was not a promise- never that. She was bound, and there was only one way she could convince them to remove the binding. That was now her life's purpose, it was something she could focus on, something that would keep her alive when she did not have anything else to live for.
She looked up at the sky. The stars seemed so much farther away, here. At least, she thought, they seemed familiar. The sea shone under two moons, but to her eyes, the size and color were off. Dimmer, smaller somehow. A world away from the Court she had known. And that had been, in truth, the only world she had known. This world, now, was larger and stranger than what she had called her own. She glanced at the silver bracelet. The binding made it even more so.
After a moment, she turned her back to the sea, with its sky full of stars and these strange moons, turning instead to the darkness of trees beyond the stretch of sand. She gripped the pack in her hands, worked at the knots with fingers that were slow to respond. Inside, she found a knife, with a sheath, a skin of water, dry rations. She pulled out the weapon, and strung it on the simple belt at her waist. The food and water, for now, she ignored. Reaching in again, her fingers brushed something cool inside the pack, wedged into a small inner pocket, its sides round and smooth. When she pulled it out, she did react then- a single, sharp inhalation. A crystal sphere that fit into the palm of her hand. It caught the starlight and held it.
She wanted to throw it into the sea. She wanted to clutch it to her chest. She did neither, but held it in her hand, this unexpected gift, this kindness, when none was sought after nor looked for. Her eyes stung. Perhaps only from wind. She shook her head and tucked the crystal away into the pack which was then swung over her shoulder. She drew the dagger. Although of fine craftsmanship- the court did not produce anything that was not- it was a meagre weapon, but it was better than none. With her head held high, she began to walk towards the trees, and towards her new life.