Title: what we are is not all we may be
Characters: OFC, OMC
Author's Note: Chain response, two double drabbles. The words from the song come from here
Summary: Sometimes, what we are given is not enough. Only then do we strive.
Her father takes her on his knee, with that smile she will one day learn to miss, and weaves the tales to her, magick lacing with his words, his melody, and she closes her eyes and feels the bravery, the adrenaline pump of the battlefield.
The knife in her hands trembles, and she breathes in deeply, and takes her hair in her other hand. She remembers the words of his favorite song—her favorite song—and she stops shaking, and stands tall and strong, shoulders squared against the world.
“I only remember the past and its brightness,
the dear ones I mourn for again gather here.”
She remembers his face, that rapture of song, that joy, that smile, and smiles herself. Her hair falls to the ground as she mouths the words to the songs, and the power is not there, yet, but it will be.
“Ah, my daughter,” he’d smiled sadly at her. “Your path is not mine; my way is not yours. The path of Bard is closed to you, my daughter.”
With that gentle kindness, he had brushed aside her tears.
They will not take this from her—she will follow his footsteps and become a Bard. Whatever it takes.
The other children laugh at him, at the way he twirls and moves, at his smile and fleet-footedness. “You look like a girl,” they mock, and laugh harder when he cries.
He’s older now—forgotten how to cry (he hopes, dreams)—and he looks idly at the squire uniform they’ve given him. That speed, that flight, he’ll bring with him to training, to weapons. The sword lies on his bed, glinting, and he swallows. His hands are soft—un-callused—and he will have to be strong if he continues on this path.
His hands shake; the streamers in them are muddy and torn. With a frustrated growl, his eldest brother tears them from his hands again. “You are a noble, boy,” he says, emphasis on the last word, “It’s time you acted like it.”
Carefully, he puts the headband into his long hair, and pulls it from his face. He glances again at the sword, and gives a brittle smile. Oh, he knows how to use it—has had it beaten into him. But he yearns for the feel of silk against his fingertips.
“A Dancer?” his mother laughed. “Boy, bring your head from the clouds. Go play.”
But he’ll show them. They’ll see.