Shadows and Flame (Rewrite)

The Nightmares

Every night. Every goddamn night.

Ilias woke up screaming, the noise silent. What little could be heard was strangled, more like she had to take in a gasping breath.

Her silver hair was drenched in sweat, her hands were shaking.

She stared at the pale, unmarked skin of her palms. Remembering the scars from in her dreams, crisscrossing all of the skin.

Remembering shadows and agonizing screams.

Hands too small to belong to her now, as a teenager- as a new adult in mortal years.

Hands too tan to be hers, even if she were to sit in the sun for days on end.

Ilias always woke up from the nightmare in the same way- her head so full of clutter and screams she felt trapped- everything about her did.

Those mornings always started with sobbing. Knees pulled to her chest, head buried into her hands, to relieve some do the pressure.

Sometimes, when the pressure was too much, she would vomit onto her floor- needing to call for a servant to clean up after she calmed herself.

Inner turmoil and all, as was her mother's daughter.

The second she calmed she would always stand up, wipe her face as though the tears were just dirt from the ground and not pain from inside, and make her way to her closet.

To an array of gowns in more colours than the rainbow had. To tunics with the most carefully embroidered patterns.

Clothes fit not just for a princess, but for the princess of Terrasen, Daughter of Aelin Whitethorn Ashvyer Galanthinyus.

Though despite the clothes, she was also her father's daughter. She reached into the far back, and pulled out a tunic so worn and raggedy her mother would sooner light it on fire than let Ilias wear it out.

But it was her favorite. And she would not part with it.

So they had a deal- and that deal was Ilias didn't let her mother see her in it, and her mother didn't make her throw it out.

The tunic always comforted her after her nightmares- not in the way a child is comforted by a small blanket. But in the way it always smelled like the training ring outside, the same dust that was on all the weapons woven into the fabric.

In the way she couldn't think about someone else's scars when she was so terrified of the ones she would get if her mom knew that she wore garments that fell apart when you so little as looked at them.

She slipped carefully from her night gown, letting the loose- but in her stress and panic, too tight feeling- fabric fall and gather around her ankles.

The lean muscles of her body felt coiled, and tight.

She still felt trapped, even with her skin bared. Even with the cool breeze filtering in through the open window.

Her body felt taut. As though she were a cat about to pounce.

Ilias herself had always wanted a cat- her mom had Fleetfoot. She wanted a companion of her own. And her aunt lysandra had always helped advocate on her side (Though she was on the side of animals like snow leopards- which was her favorite- and Ilias was more interested in a simple house cat to chase the birds in the trees and curl up on her lap while she read).

The thought of a cat calmed her just slightly. She could imagine herself running her hands through it's thick fur. Or Herself sparring while her cat did its own hunting.

Then the thought of a cat she didn't have fluttered away.

And she was back to feeling sick to her stomach. Back to having shaky hands that she wasn't sure could hold a sword if she wanted to.

Back to being all too aware of not just what touched her skin but that she had skin at all.

Swallowing her nausea, and slipped carefully into her worn tunic. Thankful that it was loose around her body.

And then she slipped out the door.

She was careful to stay quiet as she took servants paths to the back of the court yard.

Still with a pit in her stomach.

Still a tremor in her hand she'd be embarrassed for anyone to see.

Ilias did what she did every morning following the nightmares.

She picked up he favourite sword, let the familiarity of it sit in her palm.

The weight of it comforting, the shine of the blade a sign only of the care she'd put into it. The pommel almost ordinary, if you didn't look to closely to see the hawk and flame so carefully etched into it.

She'd gotten the sword as a baby. A sign of her parents relations.

She'd grown up on it. Trained on it. Nothing in the world felt more comfortable to her than that blade.

She didn't even need to swing it feel it's familiarity seep into her bones. Travelling through her veins to find all the spots of her that stayed scared and frayed. Hushing their worries. Ridding them of their fears.

"Come inside, Ilias. It's awfully cold today. Winter's coming."

She didn't want to turn, to see the owner of the familiar deep voice.

But she did, almost certain that the tears had faded. And in the case that they weren't- prayed that her father wouldn't notice them.

"It's barely more than a chill." She said. Hoping that quiet refusal would turn him away, when she knew that outright refusal would do no such thing. And she didn't want to go inside.

"Celebrate your birthday. The cooks made an excellent breakfast for you and your mother."

Ilias looked at her father- Rowan Whitethorn, famous for first degree murder with a table and so many similar stories- and didn't say anything.

His hair was her hair. His nose shape was her nose shape. His stance was her stance.

He was all pale silver hair, pine green eyes, and stark black tattoos.

All a warrior. With nothing of the tenderness she'd heard should be in a father.

She bowed her head in a nod.

Not for him. But for her mother.

He was right, even if it wasn't what he said. It was her mother's birthday, and she had run out into the cold, rather than spend it with her.

It was always their birthday, together.

They spent it together, every year.

Sometimes her mother would say that Ilias was the best birthday gift she could ask for, and the fact that they celebrated together every year felt on its own like a whole different gift.

Ilias followed her father back inside.

The walls moving closer too fast as soon as they reached the halls.

But she didn't let that show.

Ilias straightened her spine. Tried to smooth down her long silver hair that she hadn't bothered to brush in her morning's haze.

She tried to look presentable even when she was a mess- half the servants in the castle more appealing to look at than her in that moment.