Sword of Ice (A Throne of Glass Fanfiction)

5

5

Rowan Whitethorn peered over the shattered window of his room to gaze down at the river below. The swoshing sounds of rippling waves were gone now, setting the water calm once again. The air even a hundred feet up high was humid, stale with no potential signs of brewing another whirlpool of its own.

He remembered how the girl laid on the surface just last night, completely still and hands clasped together, her blonde hair a sprawl of faint light amidst the darkness. It was the only thing that reminded him of the fire she once possessed, a fire now perhaps squandered to ashes with her disappearance.

He didn't even think of her the moment he saw Lyria. His attention completely drifted away, forgetting her in a split moment just before he was about to dive straight to save her from the still but ravenous water.

He had attempted doing it for thrice now, and yet something kept him from doing so. Perhaps the girl didn't need his saving as much as he needed someone to dive for him. Last he saw, the girl had endured. Despite and in spite all odds.

She was braver than he'd ever be.

Rowan took a sharp intake of breath, shutting his eyes as his fingers circled around the throbbing pain on his temples.

He didn't want to weave an image of Lyria and their son on the same water. But the image kept flashing on its own until it had become clear and real.

Long, luscious brown curls flowing with the surges. Her red dress pooling like endless blood from the gruesome battlefield. Her brown eyes soulless, empty but open in death. The baby wailing his last cry for help as the draft of the wind pulled a big ripple of wave drowning him and pulling him under. The eyes he never got to see, if they were ever truly the same emerald like his.

Both never resurfaced, lost to the abyss of the water below.

His heart plummeted from the dread, and Rowan immediately stepped away from the window, strode to the other end of the room, shutting the door, freeing himself of destruction rooted from wind and ice.

All of his own making.

_______________

There was an assemblage in the city square gathering up the crowd. The usual hustle of the inflated market awoke the city even before dawn, the trundling sounds of carts setting the merchants and patrons to motion, ready to hear a new song of clanking coins. Trinkets rang similar metallic sounds, while the smell of fresh produce combatted the pungent stink of work that dominated the streets.

By then, when Rowan was strolling through the chaos, the air was heavy, curdled with sweat and putrid smell from both bodies and rubble. The sun was high up, hitting through the city with unforgiving heat. Even the smallest drop of sweat dripped off of Rowan's forehead.

But as easily as the market boomed, it deflated, preparing for the assemblage as stalls closed and carts wheeled away from the bedlam. The metallic clanking of both coins and trinkets grew fainter by the minute. Any sign of trade was gone as merchants and patrons scurried to join bigger crowds forming at the main street.

Rowan jostled against the crowd current, letting it sweep him away toward the circle forming around the elevated platform at the center of the square. It was still a few yards away from where he was, but his sight could see as far.