Fic: Childish Things (1/1, PG-13, Azkadellia-centric)
Title: Childish Things
Author: saathi1013
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "When I was a child I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I grew up, I put away childish things" (1 Corinthians, 13:11). Young Azkadellia, after the cave and before the Northern Palace.
Pairings/Warnings: None, really, just dark. Passing reference to Azkadellia/OMC (unspecified, so you can read it as whoever you like).
Word Count: ~940
Disclaimer: Not it! (i.e., I do not own the characters, settings, or storylines contained/referenced herein, and am making no profit from this.)
Author's Notes: This is a remix of Vashti's How Fragile, a lovely, haunting story about Azkadellia facing reminders of her past. Thanks to kseda , who was kind enough to beta for me and provide reassurance when I was getting anxious. Also, Naomi? Sorry for being a pest about the remix details. :D This is my first fic exchange of any kind, and I kept getting worried I'd missed something.
***
She hasn’t felt right since Finaqua.
It’s more than that, of course, but it’s a jumble of headaches and unease creeping along her nerve endings and things she thinks she sees out of the corner of her eyes. Things with wings and feral eyes and teeth that aren’t there when she gets the nerve to turn and look at them.
D.G.’s been keeping her distance, lately. Just once, she crept to Az’s rooms in the night and started talking about a cave, of all silly things, and a witch, until Azkadellia snaps at her and shoves her out of the room. After, her heart had hammered in her chest and her hands had been shaking. She couldn’t say why she’s just dumped her sister, her best friend in all of the O.Z., out in the hallway with a rough twist of one arm and anger simmering behind her eyes.
Azkadellia’s skin feels wrong, stretched tight and always humming with too much sensitivity. She tries talking about it to her mother, but her tongue trips over the words. Whatever she manages to mumble only has her mother’s expression soften in sympathy and understanding. She gets the Babies Talk, even though Tutor already told them about reproduction in a biology lesson gone awry because of one of D.G’s too-clever questions.
Whatever this is, it’s not a normal, natural, beautiful part of ‘becoming a woman.’ She doesn’t know what it is, but it’s not any of those things.
Azkadellia sleepwalks at night.
She’ll go to bed, but hours later she’ll find herself wandering the halls, the secret passages, weaving patterns across the tiled courtyards. It’s like she’s looking for something, but doesn’t know what, or why. She’s learned to go along with wherever her feet take her - it’s easier, and she’s discovered whole hallways she’s never seen before, and the palace is lovely and strange in the moonlight.
Once, she’d tucked herself in a corner of the lab, drifting off to the sound of the engineers excitedly discussing a new machine that will help extend the growing season. She’d been woken by Ambrose’s surprised “Hello there! Azkadellia?” He’d gathered her up in his arms and brought her back to her rooms, the braid of his jacket scratching against her cheek. She always seems to find herself back in her bed, even if she can’t remember how she got there. It gets so strange and surreal she thinks she’s dreaming about these late-night wanderings.
But then, there are times like this. The hallway is velvet-dark, shadows curling around her in welcome, and she can hear her breaths and her heartbeat in the hushed night air.
Azkadellia is in the wing reserved for ambassadors and guests, and she’s looking for someone. A troupe of dancers had come, earlier in the week, to pay their respects to the Royal Family before moving on. They’d refused an official request to stay on longer, to dance and play at her birthday.
Her lip curls in contempt, and the shadows press closer to her skin, almost tangible. Almost audible, in the back of her mind.
She slips into the first room and sees the lead dancer combing out her hair, ribbons loose and trailing over her shoulders. The dancer sees her in the mirror and scrambles into a curtsy, graceful and lithe even in her surprise.
Azkadellia repeats her request, feeling foolish as she stares at the woman folded to her knees before her, but she does not make the motion that permits her to rise. Something about the submission warms her, and she bites her lip.
The dancer says no. She has excuses, about a schedule to keep, and other appearances elsewhere, but the pressure at the back of Azkadelia’s head is insistent, drowning out the words and obscuring her vision in a haze of anger. The dancer said no. To her.
And her magic is there, crackling at her fingertips, wrapping around the dancer, who lifts her face without permission, but it’s too late, too much. The shadows are whispering, goading her fury, growls and hisses and a single clear, approving voice that leads the chorus.
The woman is shrinking away, dwindling, mouth open to scream in terror but the magic silences that even as it’s changing her into something else. Something small, and biddable, that fits into Azkadellia’s hands when she reaches out into the maelstrom of energy. Yes, the whispers say. Good.
This could be a dream, a nightmare, but the wrench of her stomach is real, and she fights back tears and bile when her lips curve in something like a smile.
The dancer is only the first. She knows this already, with a sickening certainty.
So, months later, she’s almost used to the nausea and terror when her hands move of their own accord to crush her sister’s windpipe.
***
Years later, Azkadellia will be purged of the Witch, courtesy of the strong, trusting clasp of her sister’s hand. She’ll have done what she can to redeem herself and find some small measure of happiness, in the aftermath.
She’ll have a husband, and a daughter.
And her daughter will find a small, dusty doll in one of the storage rooms, and bring it to her, unknowing and unwitting. Azkadellia’s stomach will lurch, her skin will prickle, and the shadows will creep close again, as if they’ve been waiting for her to reclaim them. The doll dances at her command, at the touch of her magic.
“I’m so sorry,” Azkadellia will say later, when she’s alone in the dark. She will throw the doll into the fire, the flames will flare, and the shadows will scurry away again, denied.
-End-
Author: saathi1013
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "When I was a child I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I grew up, I put away childish things" (1 Corinthians, 13:11). Young Azkadellia, after the cave and before the Northern Palace.
Pairings/Warnings: None, really, just dark. Passing reference to Azkadellia/OMC (unspecified, so you can read it as whoever you like).
Word Count: ~940
Disclaimer: Not it! (i.e., I do not own the characters, settings, or storylines contained/referenced herein, and am making no profit from this.)
Author's Notes: This is a remix of Vashti's How Fragile, a lovely, haunting story about Azkadellia facing reminders of her past. Thanks to kseda , who was kind enough to beta for me and provide reassurance when I was getting anxious. Also, Naomi? Sorry for being a pest about the remix details. :D This is my first fic exchange of any kind, and I kept getting worried I'd missed something.
***
She hasn’t felt right since Finaqua.
It’s more than that, of course, but it’s a jumble of headaches and unease creeping along her nerve endings and things she thinks she sees out of the corner of her eyes. Things with wings and feral eyes and teeth that aren’t there when she gets the nerve to turn and look at them.
D.G.’s been keeping her distance, lately. Just once, she crept to Az’s rooms in the night and started talking about a cave, of all silly things, and a witch, until Azkadellia snaps at her and shoves her out of the room. After, her heart had hammered in her chest and her hands had been shaking. She couldn’t say why she’s just dumped her sister, her best friend in all of the O.Z., out in the hallway with a rough twist of one arm and anger simmering behind her eyes.
Azkadellia’s skin feels wrong, stretched tight and always humming with too much sensitivity. She tries talking about it to her mother, but her tongue trips over the words. Whatever she manages to mumble only has her mother’s expression soften in sympathy and understanding. She gets the Babies Talk, even though Tutor already told them about reproduction in a biology lesson gone awry because of one of D.G’s too-clever questions.
Whatever this is, it’s not a normal, natural, beautiful part of ‘becoming a woman.’ She doesn’t know what it is, but it’s not any of those things.
Azkadellia sleepwalks at night.
She’ll go to bed, but hours later she’ll find herself wandering the halls, the secret passages, weaving patterns across the tiled courtyards. It’s like she’s looking for something, but doesn’t know what, or why. She’s learned to go along with wherever her feet take her - it’s easier, and she’s discovered whole hallways she’s never seen before, and the palace is lovely and strange in the moonlight.
Once, she’d tucked herself in a corner of the lab, drifting off to the sound of the engineers excitedly discussing a new machine that will help extend the growing season. She’d been woken by Ambrose’s surprised “Hello there! Azkadellia?” He’d gathered her up in his arms and brought her back to her rooms, the braid of his jacket scratching against her cheek. She always seems to find herself back in her bed, even if she can’t remember how she got there. It gets so strange and surreal she thinks she’s dreaming about these late-night wanderings.
But then, there are times like this. The hallway is velvet-dark, shadows curling around her in welcome, and she can hear her breaths and her heartbeat in the hushed night air.
Azkadellia is in the wing reserved for ambassadors and guests, and she’s looking for someone. A troupe of dancers had come, earlier in the week, to pay their respects to the Royal Family before moving on. They’d refused an official request to stay on longer, to dance and play at her birthday.
Her lip curls in contempt, and the shadows press closer to her skin, almost tangible. Almost audible, in the back of her mind.
She slips into the first room and sees the lead dancer combing out her hair, ribbons loose and trailing over her shoulders. The dancer sees her in the mirror and scrambles into a curtsy, graceful and lithe even in her surprise.
Azkadellia repeats her request, feeling foolish as she stares at the woman folded to her knees before her, but she does not make the motion that permits her to rise. Something about the submission warms her, and she bites her lip.
The dancer says no. She has excuses, about a schedule to keep, and other appearances elsewhere, but the pressure at the back of Azkadelia’s head is insistent, drowning out the words and obscuring her vision in a haze of anger. The dancer said no. To her.
And her magic is there, crackling at her fingertips, wrapping around the dancer, who lifts her face without permission, but it’s too late, too much. The shadows are whispering, goading her fury, growls and hisses and a single clear, approving voice that leads the chorus.
The woman is shrinking away, dwindling, mouth open to scream in terror but the magic silences that even as it’s changing her into something else. Something small, and biddable, that fits into Azkadellia’s hands when she reaches out into the maelstrom of energy. Yes, the whispers say. Good.
This could be a dream, a nightmare, but the wrench of her stomach is real, and she fights back tears and bile when her lips curve in something like a smile.
The dancer is only the first. She knows this already, with a sickening certainty.
So, months later, she’s almost used to the nausea and terror when her hands move of their own accord to crush her sister’s windpipe.
***
Years later, Azkadellia will be purged of the Witch, courtesy of the strong, trusting clasp of her sister’s hand. She’ll have done what she can to redeem herself and find some small measure of happiness, in the aftermath.
She’ll have a husband, and a daughter.
And her daughter will find a small, dusty doll in one of the storage rooms, and bring it to her, unknowing and unwitting. Azkadellia’s stomach will lurch, her skin will prickle, and the shadows will creep close again, as if they’ve been waiting for her to reclaim them. The doll dances at her command, at the touch of her magic.
“I’m so sorry,” Azkadellia will say later, when she’s alone in the dark. She will throw the doll into the fire, the flames will flare, and the shadows will scurry away again, denied.
-End-