Reborn ~an Alduin Love Story~

An Ember

A/N: These next chapters tell the story and history of the Dovmonah.

One could liken the sound of wind flowing through leaves as music; and in a way, it is. However its abstract hymn is nothing compared to the song of the firelilies.

Amayra remembered a story the village elders told the clan children once about how the firelilies came to be:

Akaviri. One people, two clans bound in bloody confrontation. Vast fields spreading as far as the eye could see prophesied to be the most fertile in existence. This was the land of their conflict. They fought for generations until finally the first ruler intervened.

As the elders said:

When the first ruler breathed upon the fields they came alive in flame, burning red in color with the life blood of those who had been slain there. And when the winds whisper upon their petals they sing a song of peace.

Regardless of whether the first ruler was the cause or not the fields certainly did sing. And the flowers literally were made of flame, burning any who would try to enter. Any but Amayra that is, who their flame could never touch.

In many ways the fields belong to her and she to them as though their existence was bound to her spirit. Or rather something in her spirit. And because no one but she could enter this is where Amayra spent most of her time. In the wilds, singing with the wind.

A chattering crowd of young girls walked along its edge, stolen forest flowers dipping from the edges of the baskets they balanced ever so carefully atop their blonde heads. Amayra felt the pain of the flowers as they were torn further from their home. She didn't understand how the other villagers couldn't feel it...the pulse of life that existed within every living thing.

But to the akaviri plants were nothing more than tools to be used. Objects to be exploited for their medicinal, poisonous, or decretive appeal. This particular collection was for the latter reason. Those flowers would be used to adorn the altar Amayra was to be sacrificed upon very soon.

Sacrifice may have been a harsh description but Amayra didn't see how it could be considered anything but.

The zahramii was a grand and sacred tradition of the Akaviri people. They occurred only once in a generation and yet everyone in the village seemed to have a story to share about it. Some called it an honor, a great privilege to be a sacrifice for the good of the clan. Others called it a punishment from the new gods to those born under the sign of the old gods. To Amayra it was neither a privilege nor a punishment: it was murder.

Aunt Shreya had told her the night before that she was the chosen one. This came as no surprise to Amayra as she had been different from the day she was born. Every akaviri possessed an inherent talent for magic, but Amayra's power was far greater than the common folks.

When she was a small child a theif stole her from her aunt's cabin. The next day they were found in the woods, Amayra crying amongst her wrapping cloths and the thief burned to death.

The village treated her like some sort of demon spawn since that day. Parents snatched their children away when she would try to speak with them. Merchants shooed her from their stalls even if she possessed tradable wares. Even the priests and priestesses of the old and new gods muttered prayers as they neared her.

When it had come time for Amayra to pick an apprenticeship and become a helpful member of her village's society her aunt had forbidden it. Not moving along with the rest of her age group further ostracized Amayra from the village people. And the rumors her aunt spread of a sickness in Amayra's mind furthing the destruction to her already scarred reputation.

Amayra would be lying if she said it didn't make her angry. If they would only take a moment to see beyond the power she didn't ask to have, they would see she was just a girl. No different from any of them. But Amayra didn't dislike her power, in fact she loved it. However anger was something she disliked greatly so it never ruled her mind for long.

When her aunt Shreya told her she was the village's choice for offering it was the first time Amayra had ever seen the bitter loathing in her aunt's eyes give way to something that could only be described as hope. However it wasn't a well wishing kind of hope for Amayra's future; it was a hope that there would be no further future for her.

Shreya said her sister, Divya, Amayra's mother, had been an offering just as she was to be. They were both monsters to her aunt's opinion. But Amayra didn't believe in monsters. There was far too much beauty in the world for monsters to exist.

Despite her greatest efforts to do everything she could to please the woman, Amayra's aunt had always despised her.

While their family cabin was one of the largest in the village and a belonged namesake to Amayra as much as her aunt, she was forced to sleep outside in a small shack she had built herself.

Handiwork wasn't Amayra's forte so when the windy season set in the leaves which conapied her roof would be blown away and couldn't be repaired until the blossoming time. As the cold winters hit, the walls of the shack would sink beneath the weight of the damp. If it weren't for her supernatural warmth she most certainly would have perished in the cold.

A whistle pulled Amayra from her humming trance, breaking the harmony she achieved with the firelilies song. Another group of people passed by the fields, this time men. One of which Amayra recognised from her age group as a boy named Row Finn.

While much bad had been said about the young Amayra, it was always widely agreed she was the most beautiful girl of the village. Sadly this beauty didn't soften the hearts of those around her but it did attract much unwanted attention from the boys of the town.

Before she became the village outcast she was apart of the younglings lessons alike the rest of her age group. Ten children within the same year were all preached to by the elders about the old ways. And Row was always there to torment her. Even before it became the popular opinion to avoid Amayra, Row seemed to have taken it upon himself to make her miserable.

A series of hurtful insult flew from his lips, echoing amongst the boys who traveled with him and not ceasing until they had passed around the bend of the large hill the village was tucked behind.

Her lips trembled as tears streamed down her cheeks in hot trails that stained her soft, pale skin. She might have asked why she was treated so cruelly by the world, but such a question had always had an answer. She was different and such was the way for those who are different.

She was kind. She was creative. She was powerful. But she was different. And most of all, she was alone. That was...until she met him.