Nothing Lasts (Vale)

I'm a little hesitant about this, as it isn't the best story I've ever written; emotion is a difficult topic. Here are some recent developments in Vale's life, though, that I hope will be of interest! Since I'm rather serious about writing, please lay on the criticism if you have any, and I'll be grateful <3

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Nothing Lasts

'Fear is what holds you back.' The words raged through her head, borne on the voice of the storm.

Vale stumbled back against the cliff-face as a gust of wind tore at her, needles of ice lashing her face. 'A Caan is never afraid,' she whispered.

'I think that you knew what it was to love once, and to be loved in return, and that you lost it.' They were his words, and she could not shake them while the very mountain echoed them, but she could argue... for he was wrong, he had been wrong.

'I have never loved. What I lost... wasn't love. It was only a shadow.' She gasped for breath.

She was knee deep in snow, but she knew the snow would not steady her if the gale ripped her from the mountainside and so she dug her fingers into the crevices in the frozen rock. The pass was so narrow here, a mere ribbon of ground winding upward around the side of the mountain, and the storm never ceased.

'Yet you fear that if you cling to something you'll lose it as you did before.'The wind rose, shrieking like an eagle on the wing. 'You fear the pain of loss.'

She had had ten years to grow used to loss. The clan, whose deaths brought her a cold satisfaction and yet who had been the only world she had ever known; Ledgic, who had slipped away from her first, but who had never been hers. And when she found him again, he belonged to someone else.

The idea of being afraid of losing love... she wanted to laugh through the cold that constricted her lungs, to tear down the glaciers around her with her mockery.

Love was a prison, a state of emotion; one that, for the innocent, might carry the sweetness of a mirage for a time before the sands shifted beneath their feet and shoved them, sprawling, into the desert of reality; but a state that for most was an open wound, a sore that festered and cankered and drove men mad. It was those who had the strength to withstand the temporary madness, who rose above the desire to make foolish promises, those who remembered that time changes all things and that all joys come to short and jagged ends: it was these who survived, and these who prospered.

She had managed so far, had scraped her way through more than one situation in the knowledge that the flames that leapt and danced around her would die with the coming dawn. And yet it was so hard to withstand the beating of one's own heart.

'Nothing lasts!' she screamed, lifting her head as the voices howled around her. The furious snow stole the words from her lips, dashing them away into the abyss below, but still her voice rose– 'Nothing but the blood running in our veins!'

This time it was the mountain that laughed, and the storm whirled around her, lashing at her as she struggled to pull herself from the cliff-face and step forward, driving her back into a heap against the rock. The mountain laughed until even the glaciers rumbled with mockery.

**

Vale awoke shivering beneath the woollen blankets. She lay there for a few moments as her heartbeat slowed its wild dance, turning her head toward the slumbering form beside her. He lay on his side curled away from her, and she could hear his shallow breathing. She was glad then, at least, that her shouting hadn't entered the waking world.

Her nights had been difficult, lately, as her dreams had grown so much more frequent; on a few occasions she had woken to either a concerned or an irritable shake and had had to murmur reassurances and apologies. Nightmares were awkward in matters of business.

Of course, Garthen was different; they had tumbled into bed in their clothes the night before, wine-drunk and suddenly weary of talking about weighty things, and she had known but the embrace of sleep until the howling snows had stirred around her. Yet regardless, the moment of waking from a dream, of finding oneself entirely vulnerable, was surely a very private thing.

She took a deep breath and slipped from beneath the blankets. It was only September and the nights in Elwynn were mild, but the floorboards seemed icy to her touch. Another shiver wound itself around her spine and she drew a hand across her shoulder where the neckline of her dress fell away, leaving her skin bare, and crept through the shadows toward the stairs.

The dark had never been a realm of terror for Vale; rather the opposite, for often it had covered and sheltered her when she hadn't wanted to be found. Even in the village, where things grasping and poisonous did often lurk in the tangled undergrowth of the forest, she had welcomed the night, for it had been the only time when she was safe. Yet now the darkness seemed to be alive with whispers, and she could almost hear the distorted, baying laughter echoing from her dream; the shadows reached out to wrap around her ankles and catch at her skirts, lurking beside the grey patches of moonlight that streamed in from the windows. She hurried through the kitchen, the whispers swirling in her wake.

The harp rested near the hearth where they had left it the night before, its graceful shape outlined in the wavering light from the kitchen windows. Vale knelt gently, taking the instrument in the arms and sitting back against the hearthstones. It was of beautiful workmanship, the handsome sandalwood carved and fitted together with precision; it had been crafted for elegance as well as for sound, though its song also was sweet. And it had been made for her.

She traced a finger across the high curve of the instrument and down the side, where the artist had carved figure of a woman; seated, as slender as the wood itself, and in her arms she held a harp.

'The smallest things bring the greatest joy,' Garthen had said to her last night, repeating to her the words of the harp-maker.

She had laughed, then, but perhaps the harp-maker was right. Joy, like love, like freedom, was a fleeting thing; silvery and distant and fey, dancing outside one's reach and yet on rare occasions leaning to wrap a few wondrous moments in her vibrant embrace.

'Nothing lasts,' Vale whispered, holding the instrument to her chest and dropping her head to rest her cheek against the smooth wood. And for the first time in very many months, her face was damp with tears.

Poor Vale, she is.. rather troubled of late. It is however very good and personally I cannot fault it. It's new territory for her so I understand your apprehension in writing.

Enjoyed reading as always!

Indeed a very well writen a touching piece, I enjoyed reading it; from the metaphor with the wind that included the conversation to the scene in the kitchen afterwards. Its good to see what goes on around her mind, even if its rather sad like this! MOAR PLOX!

Thank you -- it's really nice to know that the inside of her head is of interest to more people than me! I am grateful to you both <3

In hindsight... I think I may've gone overboard with the emotion. I mean yes everyone has moments of breakdown, but perhaps they're better left hinted at than described. But, well, something to think on for next time!