Content Warnings: Mentions of blood, death, fire

Word Count: ~ 1.2k

convince me why I should trust you, boy of the woods and boy of the wars. convince me why I should bare down these walls between our people, that have protected us for centuries. these walls that keep my people breathing and laughing and living. convince me why that smile should be my reason to let you in. or is it your eyes? that light, I don’t often see in the darkness of your kind? or is it the gentle of your hands, the same gentle that I can so easily see coated in the blood of your enemies? isn’t that why you revel? isn’t that why you wake ever moment, to bare your teeth and scream into the sky and conqueror? why trust a conqueror?

my hands may be coated in blood, woman of wisdom. that much I cannot deny. but if I had it my way, my hands would be coated not in death, but in the hope for life. pressed hands to a wound, a whisper that the taker must not come for this one yet. there is still a life for us on this earth, and a purpose for us to fulfill. my people are warriors and conquerors, yes, but it’s not for naught. we began as a defense, and I don’t think we’ve ever let our swords fall again. maybe it’s a flaw. but we’re survived and grown, and don’t you think that counts for something?

is ‘counting’ what matters to you, when i’ve seen mothers and children wailing in the dirt of their tents when their husbands and father are sent back as bloodied bones? is that counting to you, killer of the woods?

there is no honor in killing—

you make this about honor—?

let me finish. there is no honor in killing nor in death. what we do now is to protect ourselves and to fight back against those who harm us. otherwise, we are peaceful creatures. like you, really—hunt to provide. we want to laugh, to dream, to grow old and grey with lines on our faces and our children’s children rolling in our laps. we too look up into the stars and wonder if they’re watching us. we too gaze up at the clouds and find deer racing through the wind. we too cry. even if we’ll never tell you. we too curl into the dirt as we watch bones litter the ground, thinking back on every time, every single time, our blade was the cause of another bone. there is no honor in this, even if some say it so. a killer is still a killer, no matter is he bears a crown or a chain. there is power, but no honor. two very different things.

what think you of healing, instead of harming?

healing has always been the way of nature. one way, at least, but not the sole way. in the ebb of the ocean, the curve of the river, the soft give of moss on the tree. nature provides us with the herbs and salves your people hold so dear, and for righteous reason. we were meant to heal and find ourselves in the leaves and ground around us. but even as the earth heals, it kills an takes away in the same breath. there is life in this too. rotting logs in the forest as a growing bay for little mushrooms, the birds of a feather used for a chieftains’ headdress, the skin of a deer we use to coddle a newborn child? if no thing dies, this world would be overrun with creatures from ocean to ocean, and we would have no room to breath and laugh and dream.

so we must have death in order to live, to dream? is that not the way the creator tried to abhor, only for humanity to destroy it in the first place, in the very first garden and growth of nature beloved? the nature would provide. mushrooms can exist on soil without death. mushrooms grown in death are a horrible omen, anyways—why would you take and use what death has already claimed?

because death should have no power on you like that, you are stronger than an omen.

that’s just tempting the spirits. you’re not doing a very good job of convincing me, killer.

maybe it’s you who needs to convince yourself. maybe this nature and your beloved home, your healers, your herbs, have blinded your eyes beyond my control. maybe you are too lost to find your way.

begone, you killer.

come down to the water. wade and wash with me. together we’ll be made anew, in the curve of the waves and the kiss of the sunlight on the water. take a running leap and fly like your beloved owls, soar with the angels, and fall among the stars.

the ocean is a grounding place for misstep and evil. begone.

there is so much you don’t know, daughter. so much you’re still learning. so much your people have not told you. they may have given you stories, told you tales of the ocean swallowing up tribes, of spirits roaming in the early morning mists, of demons crawling and calling rowers to their dooms, form their families and wives and children and tribe. these stories are just tales to scare you. the ocean wants nothing but your love. your breath. come closer to the water and truly breathe. let the salt coat your lips. let the cool waves caress your skin. let the seaweed curl up your ankles. there is nothing here you need to fear, besides your own mind. let the ocean wash away your worries, roll you smooth like the stone beneath the water.

the stones or the bones? 

both. don’t be afraid. they welcomed the breathing, the wonder, the movement, and the peace. you will be no different. find your way with the dolphins and the porpoises, in the tale of those fallen, the whispers, the stories. do you know the story of icarus? did they tell you that too?

he betrayed his father and flew too high, then fell to his death.

no. his father was trying to hold him back, drag him from his dreams, the wonder of the life ahead of him. his father was afraid of change. icarus embraced it. icarus listened to the wonders in the wind and stepped forth on his own, and the sun embraced him, and the ocean kissed him, and he found his way to an everloving home.

death. you paint a pretty picture of death, and that’s a dangerous thing to play with. but you seem to have no fear of death.

why fear death when you can command it? why fear, when you can hold it in the palm of your hand, coddle it like an unruly child? can you imagine that kind of power? to protect your people, perhaps. to give live and heal, removing any instance of death that may have crept upon one of your people. you would be the queen of the ages. you would never die. you could wane back the clock and lead your people to everlasting life and happiness and breathing. wouldn’t you like that, Queen Nasryn?

you seek to lead me to destruction. mine, and of my people, that does not follow the way of your waves, in the ebb and flow of life.

begone.