ā all the fear and the fire of the end of the world ā
( multiple x fem!oc)
(mature themes!)
(doesn't really follow the HBO show
or the books, but has elements)
...
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" we are made of all those who have built and broken us "
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MEGARA SLEPT LIKE A STONE SUNK to the bottom of the Shivering Sea, not a peaceful slumber, but a leaden weight upon her. The rhythmic groan of the ship, a constant companion these past weary days, was no lullaby, but a relentless dirge that hammered against her skull. Dreams, if they came at all, were a tangled mess of faces she couldn't place and whispers that dissolved into the salty spray clinging to her tongue like a premonition of doom. Then, a sound. A metallic clang that echoed through the cramped hold, sharp and discordant, shattering the fragile hold she had on oblivion.
Her eyes snapped open, heavy-lidded and gritty with sleep. Moonlight, pale as a drowned corpse, filtered through a crack in the weathered timbers overhead, casting an ethereal glow on the tableau of misery before her. Bodies sprawled like discarded puppets, some rasping snores escaping their lips, others staring vacantly into the oppressive gloom. Megara pushed herself up from the damp wood, a bone-deep chill seeping through her thin cloak. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest, stiff from days crammed into this human cattle car.
The rhythmic groan of the ship had morphed into an unsettling silence, broken only by the rasp of the captain's boots pacing on the deck above. Silence, except for the unnerving creak of the ship settling in the water, a lullaby of sorts for this new disquiet that gnawed at her insides. Megara inched towards a tattered fishing net, carelessly tossed beside the captives. A sliver of something else caught her eye – a glint of metal half-buried in the grime and caked with algae. Scooping it up, she discovered it was a shard of a broken mirror, the surface dulled and clouded with salt spray. It caught the weak moonlight, offering a distorted reflection of her own face.
But the woman staring back was a stranger. Her hair, usually the color of moonlight itself, was now a dull, tangled mess. The relentless sea had leeched the color from her face, leaving her ashen and drawn. Her eyes, once bright with defiance, were hollowed sockets rimmed with red. Yet, even in this distorted reflection, a spark of defiance flickered. Megara, the daughter of a shunned woman from a forgotten village, stolen from her life and tossed onto this wretched ship, was not yet broken.
