Tremors.

[MercyAzalea 405]

 

[a snapshot of Dame Ivona, not a public missive; do not metagame.]

 

 

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Tremors.

They were not unheard of in the heart of battle; the burden of a war’s lament. The relentless echo of warcries, so piercing and all-consuming, an infernal weight that even the mighty Warchief herself could not escape in dread’s scornful embrace. The shriek of arrows cutting through the air, the thunderous clash of hooves reverberating through the very walls she had sworn to protect, the stones that had borne the weight of her vows for half a century now trembling beneath the weight of war’s relentless tide.

For a brief, disorienting second, Ivona found herself back in the gatehouse, the air thick with the tension of battle. Unable to flee, cornered by the forces of the Church; oh, the wretched dispersion of her hope as she learnt the doors surrounding her were locked and she held no time to break them. The walls, once so sturdy beneath her hands, now seemed fragile, shuddering as the storm of war crashed against them. Most assuredly, she would fall in the name of the boy she held so dear—such is the nature of the Reinmaren; the Dame; the Warchief; the Mother. If it meant furthering his chance at a life of sanctuary, then fall she would. She could almost feel the splatter of blood licking at the stone, the heat of fury upon her face, hear the cries of her soldiers, and see the glint of steel beneath her perception of that woefully blood-red sky.
 

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But then, the tremor passed.

The Mephistophelian grasp upon her soul vaulted from her at the tearing of a stark, guttural cry. The stones of the gatehouse walls shifted, familiar but altered. The soft glow of the hearth warmed the cold grey stones of the Ritter Tower, her ice-blue eyes blinking thrice in an effort to ground herself, to remind her where she truly was. Seated in a simple rocking chair, her heart still raced, the weight of battle not yet shaken off, as the warm hearth finally reached her senses—the source, she realized. It was not fury that kissed her skin, but the steady embrace of fire. Baby Ludwig von Ostturm shifted unsettled in her arms, her hold on him gentle, as though he were made of porcelain, too fragile to bear any but the softest touch. Gently did her rough, worn hands shift the babe closer to herself, her thumb gingerly brushing over his cheek as she sought to soothe him. The innocent cry of he who could not know the weight of the world, and oh; how she envied that innocence. The cry she wished she could expunge from her soul yet forever intertwined was that sorrow, the weight of the Warchief’s spear evermore burdened across her back.

Her appearance, too, spoke of her return. A rare sight indeed, for the veil she never parted with now lay forgotten in some corner, as though it had never belonged to her. Her armour, usually a second skin, abandoned for this brief reprieve, left her more exposed than she cared to be. Her curls, once neatly bound and framed to perfection, now lay in wild disarray about her face, the untamed strands falling across her features like the very chaos she had endured. The braid-bordered shaved side of her head remained, pristine and sharp, a symbol of the discipline she never allowed herself to abandon. Yet here, in this quiet moment with her son, her appearance seemed to reflect the fracture within her—a Warchief, stripped of the entrapment of the prisoner of war, but still burdened with its weight. 

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  But what was a tremor that did not return?

 

Hoisted upon a steed not of her own, wrists bound in cruel rope and dread, Ivona felt the world narrow to a suffocating stillness. The weight of captivity hung heavy upon her shoulders, the cold sting of unrelenting ropes digging deep into her pale skin, the friction of her shackles binding her skin in a malevolent shade of red. Her gaze, sharp but distant, flickered with a thousand unspoken thoughts as she was dragged through familiar lands not of her own, the cruel wind cutting through her exposed skin. A woman with hair of rose, seated upon a horse near herself. She knew not of her nation, a Knight unknown, but only that she too was caught in the blaze of war—an ally fallen alongside her, sharing the same grim fate. The Knight Katherina, with whom she now sat, awaiting the uncertain fate that awaited them both, as they were lined up in the throne room before the Tar of Numendil. 

The throne room pressed down on Ivona, cold and heavy. Every breath felt like it might be her last, but there was one thing Ivona had to do before it ended. Her eyes locked with Auris Vourkehardt’s, silently pleading. She mouthed, please, desperate for a moment to ensure her affairs were in order. Her heart pounded; Ludwig, Rafael, the very reasons she fought with a spirit unshaken, were all left at the mercy of the Tar if she couldn’t secure them now.

But Auris remained unmoving, her cold resolve unyielding. The Vourkehardt’s allegiances were firm, and Ivona knew this, though the sting of betrayal still lingered. How could I expect otherwise? Her thoughts shifted to Ludwig—his safety, his future. The knowledge that the Vourkehardts, among others, knew of her rank as Warchief twisted her insides. Would they unmask me? That fear gnawed at her, but she pushed it aside. Only her family’s safety mattered now.

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Again, the tremor passed.

Her trembling hands stilled, her gaze returning to the babe in her arms, finally at peace. Oh, how she envied that peace. To be settled. Her grip softened as the baby settled against her. His quiet breaths seemed to soften the air around her, soothing the sharp edges of her restless heart. The weight of the world, for a fleeting moment, felt bearable, as though she could settle—if only for a breath. But even in the warmth of the hearth, the ache lingered, a yearning for something she could not quite grasp.

Her gaze fell to the door, where Rafael’s presence awaited her, steadfast as always. The thought of his comfort; of the safe embrace he offered, so familiar stirred her into motion. Her gaze momentarily cast to the hearth before she rose, cradling Ludwig in her arms, each step toward the door heavier than the last as she departed from the warmth of the flame. The cold stone floor beneath her feet seemed to pull her toward it, the path uncertain yet ever so necessary. When she reached the door, her fingers hovered over the handle, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. For a heartbeat, she paused, hesitation grasping her tightly. The returning chill of a land colder than hers. Not fear of Rafael, no—this was something different. The frost in the room seemed to deepen, creeping through the walls, threading its icy fingers through her thoughts. She shivered.

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Perhaps it was simply a part of her now.
 

The land of Norland lay under an eternal shroud of ice, the biting wind slicing through the air like a knife. The horizon stretched wide and barren, a desolate expanse that seemed untouched by warmth. Yet amidst this frozen wasteland stood a tree, ancient and resolute, its flames never ceasing. The fire consumed it endlessly, sending a relentless stream of ash into the air, a grim reminder of the land’s unyielding nature. The Norlandic ash clung to the earth, a pale blanket that covered everything in a spectral stillness, as though time itself had been frozen beneath the ever-burning tree. It was thought difficult to differentiate the ash from snow. It was here that Ivona found herself, withdrawn from the crushing weight of battle and bound in the cold embrace of captivity. Beneath the tree’s eerie glow, she was led to the Hearth temple.. The flickering flames within its walls cast long shadows, dancing across the cold stone floors as if mocking the warmth she longed for. The King of Norland had shown mercy, though his eyes betrayed little of the pity he claimed to hold for her. This mercy he bestowed wrought a cost, one of prayer forevermore.

Ægir Edvardsson, a figure both unyielding and merciful, had spared a moment to send word to Reinmar, a fleeting hope for a distant answer. And when the reply came, it was a brief but blessed relief. She retrieved it at the first touch of Norlandic soil, the message from the aviary bringing her a momentary comfort amidst the biting cold. But the respite was brief, for she was soon taken back to the Hearth temple, her fate still uncertain, her heart heavy with the weight of her past and her future. The King had spoken little, his pity a cold thing that did nothing to ease the frost in her veins. Yet she knew he had been taken here not for justice, but for mercy, however distant it seemed.

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Once more, the tremor passed.

Ivona remained frozen before the door, her hand hovering just inches from the cold wood, hesitant. The faint light from within Rafael’s chambers flickered under the crack, a quiet promise of warmth. Yet she found herself rooted in place, the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts pressing against her chest. Could she truly seek his comfort now, when so many doubts had become her constant companions? The cold seeped into her bones, and yet it was not the chill of the night that held her captive, but the uncertainty that gripped her heart. She stared at the door, her breath shallow and uneven, caught between longing and restraint. Would he understand her need? Or would the silence between them stretch too far, too deep to bridge?

The door remained just within reach, its surface cool beneath her fingertips. Her chest tightened, breath shallow, her mind a whirlwind of doubts, of futures unknown. One step forward. One step back. Yet Ivona stood there, in a fortitude as still as the world around her. The woman who waited, ceased in her pursuit of her husband once more by none other than her very own mind. The decision would not come, not yet. It was as if time itself had paused, waiting for the moment that might never arrive.

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Tremors.

 

 

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[Mayios 542]

LUDWIG MENTION!! LUDWIG!!!! W ANGST W POST W CHARACTER MENTION

[Yeetboy0206 1574]

Spoiler

Beautifully heartbreaking post.