Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER ONE. ━━━━━━━━━ Without a family, man, alone in the world, trembles with the cold.
ANDRÉ MAUROIS, FORTUNE ━━━━━━━━━
THEY DANCE FROM ONE POOL of sunshine to the next, the light peering through the lazy branches of the tall palm trees that hang overhead like a canopy, one that smells of fresh, growing things, and it is easy to believe that they will be young and happy forever.
Mariah keeps her hand wound through her sister's, pulling her along, and Elia holds her skirts with her free hand and follows. She is used to her sister being a step behind, she is used to being the one to lead, the bold one, the brave one; Elia cannot leave her chambers some days so it is as natural as being, for them.
She has always been a sickly child.
Oberyn flings himself from cliffs, returns to Sunspear wearing a grin and bruises he can't explain. Even nine year old Mariah makes friends with travelling merchants and desert-dwelling salamanders and all the while, Elia is confined to a bed and a room with only a window to let in the light. Her siblings tell her all their stories, of course, but Elia does not care for stories. She is hungry, so hungry, for life, for baked sand beneath her feet, for adventures of her own.
"Will I ever be able to go out with them?" she asks her mother one day when they are seated in the shade of orange trees in the Water Gardens and the air is sticky with a citric heat.
"Perhaps," her mother replies, stroking the wealth of dark hair, "One day."
In her mind, she is already there: veil at a jaunty angle, hands on skinny hips, brandishing a sickle spear, conqueror not conquered. Weak, the maesters call her but she knows, somewhere deep in her heart, that they cannot be speaking of her, no, must mean some other girl. She is strong and vital and pulsing with life and the only sound that she can hear is the thud-thud of her own heart.
She is still young, Elia thinks as her sister falls after running ahead, carefree and without a second thought, and she has time to learn her duty. Oberyn and her both, for how alike they are.
Dry-eyed, Elia kneels next to her sister, gently drawing her towards her so that Mariah falls against Elia's lap instead, her arms around her sister's waist and she winds her fingers through the dark locks that match her own. Her sister is small, still, her arms bony with the slenderness of first youth and her hair softer than the feathers in her pillow.
"It's alright," she soothes with a gentle voice that she remembers her mother using before she grew ill and visits grew infrequent. "Don't cry. You must be a lady."
