Chapter Text
رفيق
Rafeeq
A word for a friend in Arabic, someone you can depend on.
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Aretia
Violet Sorrengail
The sound of the tendons in my ankle snapping are never enjoyable, admittedly. Its nearly the same as a twig snapping, except for the rush of pain that envelops me like an old friend.
I stumble, and hit the ground hard, skinning the palms of my hands in the process. I’ve been running for a few days now, and my pack is far too heavy. I’d never make it as a rider if I can’t even handle my pack, I think bitterly. My entire family consists of riders, except for my father.
He was a scribe until the day he died, which was only last week. He was never the same after Brennan died- a rider as well. I haven’t seen my sister Mira in a year, since she joined the Rider’s Quadrant to follow in the esteemed General Lillith Sorrengail’s footsteps.
Some would call her my mother. I hardly know her as such. She hasn’t so much as looked at me in months. So, I left. I grabbed only the essentials- food, water, a change of clothes, and an assortment of necessary books. I have with me a book on Tyrrish history, in Tyrrish of course, my book of poisons, and the last remaining piece of my father that the General didn’t burn- The Fables of the Barren. Okay, admittedly that one is a little sentimental.
That brings us back to the present, me with a sprained ankle somewhere on the outskirts of Tyrrendor. My father was Tyrrish, so I thought I might go and see it for myself before the whispers of war I keep over-hearing from the stairwell I hide under near the General’s office make it impossible to visit.
I probably should have known better than to go off hiking alone, but if my map reading skills are as strong as I think they are then I’m less than a day’s hike from Aretia, the Tyrrish capital city.
I don’t necessarily have a plan for once I arrive, except maybe finding a government building and applying for asylum under a false name. I briefly wonder if anyone in Navarre would notice me taking my father's surname of “Daxton,” before deciding it’s probably too risky.
Of course, that would require my mother noticing that I’m gone. Although, by now my closest friend Dain may have alerted her. I feel a little bad about leaving him behind, but honestly I’m only holding him back from his goals. He’ll be a rider like the rest of them, and I am set to be a scribe. Well, was at any rate. I wonder if Tyrrendor has a Scribe Quadrant.
Grunting, I grab a wrap from my bag and begin the painstaking process of setting my ankle. At this point it’s more tedious than anything else. I’ve been putting my body back together ever since I learned to walk.
Deep breaths. I envision my pain going into the little box in my mind, and then close it and push it into its little corner as I push myself back into a standing position.
Testing my left foot lightly, I find that it holds my weight with only slight pain now. I grit my teeth and continue on, putting one foot in front of the other, albeit with a slight limp.
Normally, I am incredibly observant. I blame the pain turning the edges of my vision to red, and the black spots forming behind my eyes on not noticing the man sitting down near the break in the trees until it's too late.
“Shit” I swear under my breath as I see him, and fail to notice the rock that trips me yet again.
“Woah there, are you okay?” He asks, while rushing up to catch me before I can hit the ground.
I blink the spots from my eyes as I meet his, onyx black with gold flecks. Entrancing, if I’m being honest with myself.
“I’m fine!” I say, pushing off of him and grabbing hold of the small dagger in the pocket of my loose-fitting scribe pants, bringing it out just in case this unfairly gorgeous man means me harm.
“Hey, pointing a knife is a pretty violent way of thanking someone. What are you even doing here? No one ever comes up here.” As I draw back from him, I take in his full appearance.
He’s tall, over 6’ for sure. Broad shoulders, muscles, tawny brown skin, curly black hair that falls to his ears, and a jawline that could cut glass. He looks to be about seventeen or eighteen, and built for battle.
Right, he asked me a question. “Running away from my problems, what about you?”
He laughs lightly, before responding “The same, honestly.” He sounds a little defeated.
“How about you put down that butter knife and we have a conversation, oh strange violent woman of the woods.”
He nods his head back to the place he was sitting on the cliffside that looks over Aretia. My grip tightens on the blade still in my hand, but I nod anyway. This could be stupid, considering he could easily toss me off this cliff. Yet, despite him being get-you-in-trouble level hot, I can’t seem to not trust his intentions.
I decide to sit down next to him. The view is beautiful, honestly. “Fine, but one move towards me and this knife is going in your eye.”
He actually laughs then, as though the mere idea of me causing him harm is hilarious. “Duly noted.”
“It’s peaceful up here.” I venture.
“Yeah, this is my favorite place in Tyrrendor honestly. Though I have no idea why I’m admitting this to some random stranger that just appeared from the woods.” He looks at me again, raising an eyebrow in my direction.
“My name is Violet. I left my home a few days ago and was hoping to make a new life for myself here.” I wait for his introduction expectantly.
“Xaden, at your service. I might be able to help you out with that, actually. And where was home?” He responds as though speaking to someone else is a chore, but I do appreciate the effort.
“Navarre” I wince. Tensions have been growing between Tyrrendor and Navarre recently, if the whisperings I’ve heard are accurate.
“Well, that isn’t necessarily ideal but we have taken in a few Navarrians recently. I can bring you to the assembly to make your case in the morning, if you want.”
“Really? Thank you. Do you know of any cheap hotels in town I can stay at? I don’t have any money but I can wash dishes or something.”
He takes in my appearance then, slowly from top to bottom. From the blood staining the silver tips of my otherwise brown hair, to the bruises on my face and the cuts on my hands. Then his eyes trail down to my swelling wrapped left ankle, and his eyes narrow. “How old are you, Violet? And did you walk here from Navarre!?”
“I’m sixteen, and technically I walked from near the Athebyne outpost. I had to get away from my family.” It's not technically a lie, I went with the General to check on the cadets doing a training exercise at Athebyne, and slipped away once she forgot about me. It was easy, really.
Xaden sighs, long-sufferingly, then gets up. Pushing his hands against his thighs and rising way too gracefully for someone his size, he reaches out a hand to me. “I know a place, can you walk? We should get going before the sun fully sets.”
I blink at his outstretched hand, and don’t take it. I get up slowly, stumbling slightly on my sprained ankle.
He quickly reaches out to stabilize me before I go tumbling off this cliffside, and he looks into my eyes with an intensity I don’t quite understand. The haze over my vision has come back. I blink, trying to clear the black spots. “Um, I think so. Could you maybe help me though? I don’t know how long this walk is going to be, and I’ve been walking for three days at least.”
He raises his eyebrows yet again, but says nothing. He sidles up next to me, putting an arm around my shoulders to support me. It’s a touch awkward, considering I barely reach his shoulders, and he could probably rest his elbow on mine, but I lean into him slightly and sling my left arm around his waist for more support.
I don’t protest when he slings my bag over his shoulders. “Damn, this thing is heavy. You carried this for how long?”
I don’t answer.
We begin to make the journey slowly, and after a minute he speaks again. “We’re going to Riorson house. It’s where the government assembly meets, and where we have a mender employed that can help fix you up. There’s also a ton of spare rooms, and I’m sure I can talk the man of the house into lending you a room seeing as you appear to be a runaway from some kind of abuse case.” It’s a statement, but he says the last bit like a question.
“And just how do you plan to talk him into that?” I ask, ignoring his unasked question and refusing to confirm or deny his statement.
“Easily enough, considering the fact that he’s my father.”
Well shit, I’m essentially cuddled into the side of Xaden fucking Riorson, son of the freaking Duke of Tyrrendor. More importantly, the son of the man who according to field reports murdered my older brother in cold blood.
Not to mention the possible plans to secede from Navarre. Also, I’m the daughter of the general hell bent on making sure he pays for his crimes.
These people absolutely cannot figure out my identity under any circumstances. Whether I want to enact revenge for Brennan or not, I do still need asylum.
We don’t talk the rest of the walk back to the … fortress? Palace? I’m not quite sure how to describe Riorson House honestly. There’s a reason it’s never been breached during its hundreds of years. I’ve just decided to take the name “Violet Daxton” when we enter the massive house, and Xaden leads me into the healer’s wing.
“Sit down on this cot, and I’ll go find the mender. Captain Aisereigh is never too far from here.” He’s just finished helping me onto the raised cot, when I hear a voice that shouldn’t exist anymore.
“Violet?!”
“Brennan?!”