The seas lap upon the glistening rocks, bringing new game to the fishing season, and life moves on. You watch the hills and valleys dress themselves with lilies from afar as it does. The clouds ebb and the sun graces the peoples inhabiting the kingdom on the cliffs with bountiful rays of warmth. Crops spring up and the times of harvest, of merriment, of feasts, and good drink begins.
Yes, life moves on.
And you move with it.
You are twelve now and the days of childhood are close to passing. You'll be a woman soon—if not for a few years still to come. It is time to quiet the once free spirit that spent their days searching for trolls beneath stones and fairies out in the meadows or even— ...yes, these are the trivial nonsensical past times of girlhood. And you are to be a woman—soon enough. A feeling light and fluttering runs up your limbs.
These thoughts are true enough.
Your gaze no longer wanders to the tall enchanting trees that lie beyond your city's keep—looking for a secret world hidden and enthralling. You gave up searching for such things long ago.
Now, creatures strange and miraculous exist solely within stories you hear often told by the elders and you are content for it to be.
Sometimes you wish you did not know better.
How much sweeter lies can be...
Yet, life moves on.
Your mother teaches you the trade of the women of the seaside peoples—a woman you one day will be. You will never wander far from home, you think. Life is good here. In the morning you wash the linens and beat the dough, and in the afternoon you hang the laundry to dry while the bread sizzles in the oven. There is always a mess to be swept after the cooking, and as the straw bristles pick up crumbs and flour and broken shells the chickens wander in the open door—the cat shoos them away and you sweep up the feathers.
In the lull, you often find yourself sitting with the Matriarchs of the city, on baskets woven out of twine placed high up on the peer. The elders welcome warmly the blooming generation of society's next women to learn of their craft. They give freely of their wisdom and lavish the still-burning lights of their souls into flames of encouragement and faith. Watching the women who have grown so elegantly into the fine lines of their faces and the silver hairs of their heads cements pride in your femininity.
As they weave blankets and string beads and sew dresses, the tides bring in the cool rolling winds and hair tickles your face.
The women sing.
There is a land, that lies beyond, farther than my eyes can see,
In the winds and in the songs, so often I hear the oceans call,
They look a lost and so I sing, that their tides might ever be free,
They wash across, shores of sand, of that land, my feet would walk...
You stare down at the beads in your lap, fiddling with strings of gold. You bow your head and close your eyes and the cords twist. No—you say to yourself. No...
Shame swells within your stomach in the presence of these aging women whom the world could not turn bitter.
At twelve the feeling already eats at you.
Oh alas! The moments pass and still I linger on,
A windy note, a chiming glass, a longing soul I'll ever have...
The cords pull taunt, snap, and beads are scattering off your lap, hitting the floor and rolling across smooth stone and getting lost in loose fabrics. Their lilting tunes break, and the Matriarchs turn to you. They perceive a girl flustered by her first attempts at a braid—eyes cast down and fingers shake. Smiles grace you, and a woman settles herself beside you to begin the instruction again.
Life moves on—you remind yourself.
And you... you try your best to move with it.
On days you do not sit with the Matriarchs, you bury your nose in books that tickle your heart, and instead of exploring outside the city gates, you take up brushes and paints and get lost in a world all of your own.
It does not quite quiet the restless nature of your soul, but it soothes it for a little while.
And you long for those days that your heart might cease to ache.
In the evening chores are few, bringing rest from weary long days. After supper, your family prays and then parts till morning. Lying in the dark space, softly tucked in and still awake, you watch the twilight catch and glisten off the beads freshly strung around your arms.
—Thinking nothing as your eyes finally close and sleep.
This chapter was pushing past 2,000 words and I felt like it was just going to keep going, so to save you all from having to read through that, I've decided to split chapter 4 up into three parts. Which sadly means no Atem this chapter like you originally would have gotten... But don't worry! He's coming.
In part three...
But hey, their reunion will be all the sweeter for the waiting, right?
Who knows! I'm not telling.
But feel free to let me hear your guesses!
YOU ARE READING
Atem x Reader ☆ In the Twilight
Fanfiction[Fantasy AU] Elf!Atem x Reader Writing prompt inspired: She knew hearing music in the woods at night was usually a bad sign, but it was such a pretty tune.
