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11-23-2016, 02:34 AM
AISLING
my friend makes rings, she swirls and sings
she’s a mystic in the sense that she’s still mystified by things
my friend makes rings, she swirls and sings
she’s a mystic in the sense that she’s still mystified by things
Aisling had never thought to become what she was this night. On entering Helovia she’d been the mild, sweet thing she’d always been, captive to her own dreams and foolish fancies that built her up to be nothing but a flighty damsel waiting to be rescued. She had floated from one song to another, and even the friends she met had catered to her stagnation as a silly, empty-headed nitwit. And then they had gone, and she’d been left alone to forge her path anew; somehow that path had led her here. And what was she now? A lover, a mother, a Thief, and now painted like a druid or a warrior of the old Picts. Her imagination had always been a powerful thing, but did she just imagine herself to be brave now and trust that would become a reality.
This wasn’t a fantasy. This wasn’t a scene from a song her illusion had crafted, and yet Aisling stood where she was and did not even take time to consider how she had come to be there. She had changed so much without even noting the power of that change and here, finally, was the test of it. Thief…enchantress…whatever she called herself mattered little compared to the service she could give to her family. It was their need that gave her strength untold and a purpose greater than she could have imagined for herself. It was this explosion of need of pain that steeled the virtues in Aisling: to have Alice an an ally gave her courage, to have Sorcha to protect gave her temperance, to have her kingdom to serve gave her generosity, to see her queen in this state gave her mercy. She was not a knight, but she could be a lionheart.
The little mare had called to her Queen in the grip of fear and bless all the gods, the bloody storm-bringer seemed to hear her. She saw Horatru snap back from the reverie and though she felt the winds subside and move away she did not take her gaze from the Valkyrie. There was hope then, a tenuous flicker of it that Aisling could pull Hotaru back from whatever ledge she was on but the little enchantress moved with caution and care. She could not know what had set the queen off but when Hotaru’s voice broke through the howling winds, it was broken and confused. Aisling responded in a mother’s voice, a low soothing sing-song to draw the Queen further from the wildness. “Aye, and I am here. Come now, Hotaru. Come and quiet yourself, come and be still.”
Little hooves pick up, stepping forward to meet the staggered path of the other and the Thief met her blood-soaked lady in the wake of the retreating storm. She reached out in more ways than one: with her soul to the dragon that clung to her withers, comforting and praising the brave little creature (”Easy Sorcha, the worst is gone, a stór. Good lass, brave lass, all is well.); and with her muzzle down to the hellhound’s shoulder to reassure and to ask for help. Aisling can feel at least that the dragon is well, silly resilient little thing she is, and takes permission from the gentle purring sound to focus on Hotaru.
Grey eyes had never left the mare, trying to hold the sea-foam splashed gaze and keep Hotaru from losing control again. An ache blossomed in her tender heart for the pain she saw in the tearful Lady. There was sadness tinged with what she though might be confusion that made the bloody figure (quite tall, to Aisling) seem small and childlike, and all the more so when a babbled apology spills from her lips and doesn’t seem to stop. ”Tá sé ceart go leor, Hotaru. I am alright. Don’t go worrying your heart over a little scratch.” She soothed, in truth she only knew of the cut on her lip from the tell-tale metallic taste in her mouth. Compared to Hotaru’s injuries it really was nothing. Here now, shhh..” She would have liked to be be tall, to be able to envelop the mare in an embrace, but little Aisling did what she could. Not caring a bit for the blood, she tucked her blue-painted white neck under Hotaru’s (Sorcha having already slid deftly down the little mare’s braid and gone to wrap her long body around Alice’s front paw).
She just held there for a while, held on and held up the crying mare, murmuring little comforts in her native language that were meant more for the soothing tone than any meaning of the words she spoke and soon her words turned from comforts to prayer, prayer to quiet chant. Somewhere along the way the words began to hum with power.
Máthair ar neamh, bandia le linn
Máthair ar neamh, bandia liom
An ghealach, an ghrian, an ghaoth, an domhain
moladh duit, bandia.
Móraim thú, ó lá go lá.
Móraim thú ó oích 'go hóich’.
She would never be able to tell how she knew to reach for the magic, how she knew what price she would have to pay; the Goddess must have given her that knowledge without words, just as she had given the power. Though she knew what she faced, Aisling held fast to her Queen and she took what pain she could, concentrated on the physical marks on the body she held up with her sturdy little self.
When she started her second recitation of the verse it began. One by one, in searing bands of light and swirling shadow the deep cuts that marred Hotaru’s form began to knit themselves together at the same moment as an identical mark cut it’s mirrored replacement in Aisling’s flesh. The invisible blades of wind made their ghosts known as their memories were cut again with the same pain into a white canvas this time instead of a pink one. At the first slice, her chant almost faltered with a stunned little gasp of pain but she held herself to what she had begun and did not stop her chant until every single mark on her Lady's body had been pulled from it and set upon Aisling's.
When it was finished, tears were streaming from the little enchantress shut eyes and she clamped her jaw tight to hold back the cry she wanted to give. She had never felt pain like this, never had an injury worse than busted lip the shard of ice had given her and yet she paid the price for healing and would pay it again if she could. Perhaps she should have started small, tested her healing on minor things until she knew what kind of exhaustion it would cause. Her knees buckled and she gave way, lowering herself to the ground as she labored for breath. The snow and ice of the Steppe was a blessing and she let her head fall to the ground to rest on the lovely numbing chill.
Immediately, Sorcha was upon her. By virtue of the Goddess's magic, she was insulated from the pain that Aisling pulled from others, but the young dragon still knew what it was. She snaked her long weasel-shaped body over to lay along the little mare's white nose, resting her red-crested head on Aisling's brow. She trilled a song of her own, a strange dragon-chant of chittering whistles and high pitched growls and Aisling took comfort in the sound even as her borrowed wounds began to knit themselves together in a torturously slow manner, sealing as little bits of that swirling light and shadow cauterized them and left behind no scars, only the blood that had been spilled.
Translations
"Tá sé ceart go leor-" - It is alright
Her healing chant:
Heavenly Mother, Goddess is with us
Heavenly Mother, Goddess is with me
The moon, the sun, the wind, the earth
praise you, Goddess.
I praise you from day to day.
I glorify you night after night.
[now come the days of the dreamer and they are filled with wonder and light ]
:: permission given for use of magic and force :: please tag Aisling in all posts ::
