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rufousnmacska · 7 years

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Child of Peace 17 - Unmasked

Manorian adventures post EoS

(Umm, this one is longer than the others. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad?)

full work on AO3

master list of chapters

Manon’s eyes shot open and she jerked upright, gasping for breath. She glanced around anxiously, slowly remembering where she was. In the underground tunnels the Crochans had inhabited for hundreds of years. Not deep within the mountain at the Ferian Gap. Dorian was asleep next to her, unaware of her nightmare. Wiping the sweat from her face, she eased herself off of the bed. As she headed to the washroom, she checked Dorian’s watch. Almost 3:30. Gods, she thought with a heavy sigh. It’s too early and too late at the same time.

After splashing water on her face, Manon studied her reflection in the mirror. She’d lost weight. Not just from the travel rations they’d relied on before finding Berwyn. She’d been under so much stress recently. There had been moments when she thought she would fall apart if one more thing happened. And yet other moments when she’d almost laughed, punch drunk and wondering what fresh hell awaited her the next day. Her lips were slightly chapped. And a little swollen she now noticed, running her finger over them. That made her smile though, realizing the past weeks hadn’t been all bad. She had Dorian. And they’d found the Crochans. A grandmother she never knew existed. A niece...

She was going to meet Rhiannon’s daughter in a few hours. After dinner last night, Dorian had told her about the vision that had prompted her sister’s search. She’d sensed his hope, had seen it in his eyes. He’d thought the revelation would lessen her guilt, but he’d been wrong. If anything, the news had made her feel worse. That Rhiannon had acted upon a vision didn’t change Manon’s role in her death. She’d still killed her sister.

Staring into her own eyes, gold sparkling in the soft, magical light, she tried to forget the images that had awakened her. She’d dreamed of Rhiannon. Dreamed that it had been her own hands, not those of the Yellowlegs, inflicting the horrific wounds her sister had worn that day in the Omega. Manon hadn’t witnessed the beatings, but little had been left to the imagination. The Yellowlegs underlings had been brutal. And thorough.

A thought burst into her head. A question she’d never considered before. What would have happened if she had been ordered to administer the torture? Would things have ended differently if Rhiannon had been able to tell her the truth right away? Would Manon have even believed her? But the question that supplanted the others, quickly taking root in her mind… Would she have obeyed in the first place? The truth, she thought, dropping her head and turning away, unable to look at herself. The truth is… I would have.

Of course you would have obeyed. You killed her. What makes you think you wouldn’t have tortured her? You are a monster.

Manon took a shaky breath then made a split-second decision, returning to the bedroom. Dorian was still asleep but she didn’t hesitate to wake him. He sat up quickly, snapping a light on with his magic. “What? What’s happening?” When he found her face, he understood.

He laid back down and opened up the blankets, nodding for her to join him. “Come here.” When she’d settled against his chest and his arms were wrapped around her, he asked, “What happened? Was it a dream? Or the voice?” Shame washed over her and for a fleeting moment she wished she’d never told him about the voice. Sensing her feelings, he pulled her tighter. “I want to help Witchling.”

“Both,” she said finally. “Rhiannon had been tortured before...” She shook her head, unwilling to end the sentence. “In my dream I was the one who’d done it. And I can’t… I’m not sure…”

“You wonder if you would have followed the orders. If you’d been told to torture her,” he finished.

She nodded. If anyone could understand her doubts, it was Dorian. He had the same uncertainty when it came to his time spent under the control of a valg prince. And while they each felt confident telling the other those actions weren’t entirely their fault, neither could apply that same logic to themselves.

“I know I was in an impossible position. The Matron was threatening me and my coven. In front of the entire clan. But…” She trailed off. Logic and reason never seemed to make a dent in the guilt she felt from killing Rhiannon. Just then, another wave of hate-filled words rang through her head. “I can’t make it stop,” she whispered.

Then listen to me instead, he sent. I love you Manon. You are good, and strong, and loved. Don’t listen to it. Listen to me.

Dorian repeated the words like a mantra, over and over until the other voice eventually faded. It felt like an hour had passed but she had no idea for sure. Twisting around to face him, still in his arms, Manon put her hand on his cheek. “Thank you.”

He smiled and turned his head to kiss the palm of her hand. “Anything you need.” He brushed back her hair and said, “We can’t change our past Manon. But we can use it to draw a line.” He gave her a pointed look as he repeated words she’d once told him. “Use it to move forward. Make changes for the better.”

“Yes but that doesn’t help me with what I have to do today.”

“No,” he agreed. ��You can’t make them forgive you. But they don’t really know you. Or what you’ve endured. They don’t know the circumstances of Rhiannon’s death. Maybe that knowledge will hasten their forgiveness, maybe not. Either way, I think talking will help.” He kissed her cheek. “And I think once Annabee gets to know you, the real you and not the reputation, the you behind the mask… That will make a difference.”

Dorian tried to stifle a yawn. “You can shut the light off,” she said. “I’ll be ok.” He raised an eyebrow, not believing her. Mirroring his expression, she said, “It’s late Princeling. I need to sleep. Besides, there’s nothing more to be done about it now.” He still looked skeptical so she closed her eyes and turned around so her back was against him, ending the matter. She heard him yawn again and smiled as he turned out the light.

Within minutes Dorian was sleeping again. Listening to his deep breathing, Manon thought she might actually get some rest too. But, as if that thought was an invitation, the reason she’d been awake in the first place pushed its way back in. The question she hadn’t been able to answer. Would she have tortured Rhiannon if ordered? She knew Dorian was right. She couldn’t change her past. And more importantly, it seemed pointless to speculate about something that had never even happened. Still, fading images from her nightmare continued to float through her head, slowly mixing with real memories of that day in the Omega. The Matron’s veiled threats. The evil glee Manon had seen in her eyes, not realizing at the time what the look had signified. Rhiannon’s bruised and broken body. Her words. Calling Manon a murderer, a monster made from birth. Goading her. The other witches calling for blood. All of them hounding her, pushing her to do it.

She’d always followed orders. Had always tried to please the Matron. To the point of doling out the same twisted forms of punishment the Matron favored. Especially when that bitch was watching. The thought seemed to come out of nowhere, but it made her realize something. She had punished the Thirteen, yes. But it had only ever been when she’d had to. When the threat of something worse loomed overhead. When they were at Blackbeak Keep, or the Omega. When others were present. The Matron or her minions. Shame filled her as she remembered how close she’d come to exiling Asterin. To killing her. I was close, she thought. But I didn’t do it.

Dorian’s arm was still around her and she shifted to lay her hand atop his. Maybe she would have disobeyed. Maybe that would have been the catalyst for her leaving instead of Asterin’s failed execution. If nothing else, maybe Rhiannon would have been able to tell her about their connection… Manon wasn’t sure that she’d have believed her right away. But she was sure it would have given her pause. It would have seeded her mind with doubts. Well, more doubts. With hindsight, she could see that she’d already been on her way to discovering her true self. No, she corrected, acknowledging my true self. The self beneath the mask.

The reputation she’d built wasn’t baseless. Manon knew she wasn’t innocent. Far from it. But… She had to admit it contained its fair share of… exaggerations. She was lethal and fearsome. But also loyal. And... There were times I disobeyed, she thought, remembering Asterin and Abraxos. Her certainty grew as she felt Dorian’s chest rise and fall against her back. Times when it was right for me to disobey. She was not evil. She was not immoral. She was not the Matron. Manon tensed, expecting to hear the dark voice in her head. But before it could surface, she copied what Dorian had done, repeating those words – not the matron – over and over again until she finally lost herself to sleep.

Aven joined them again for breakfast that morning. Upon her arrival, Manon felt odd. She supposed it was nerves, anxiety over knowing, and also not knowing, what was to come. Aven was kind, but thankfully, also blunt, not drawing out what she’d come to talk to them about.

“I’m sure Dorian shared what he and I discussed last night,” she said. Though she maintained her ever present smile, it didn’t reach her eyes. “Rhiannon was a seer. Her visions were often prophetic, but sometimes she saw into the past.” She narrowed her eyes as she continued. “It runs in our family actually. Have you had them Manon?”

“Once. I think.” She glanced towards Dorian. “But I wasn’t aware of what was happening.”

“It wasn’t a vision of the future or past,” Dorian said. “It was more like… You became aware of things you said you had no knowledge of. You fell into a trance, then said we were all connected. We all had a part to play.”

They both turned to Aven, expecting an explanation. But the little old witch merely shrugged. “Well, it can skip generations. If you were a true seer you’d know it. You’d be sure.” Then, as if the topic of Manon’s vision was closed, she began to pour more tea for each of them.

She knows more than she’s letting on, Dorian sent her. Any time she can’t change the subject, she claims ignorance.

Manon agreed, and told him so. But she didn’t think Aven was acting out of malice. She doesn’t want to scare us off, she thought, sharing it with Dorian. She’s giving us bits and pieces when she thinks we can handle it. She caught Dorian’s nod from the corner of her eye, but before she could think on it more, Aven continued.

“She spared me many details of what she saw, but Rhiannon knew what would happen if she searched for you. She knew she would not return. She said she would die by your hand…”

Manon stopped listening, stopped hearing anything. She was back in the Omega, crouching above Rhiannon, dagger in her hand, dripping with blue blood, the room ringing with cries of death and bloodlust-

“Manon. Look at me.”

Aven’s voice was firm and commanding, pulling her back to the here and now. “Rhiannon knew you would be the one to end her suffering. Those were the words she used.”

Manon stared into Aven’s dark brown eyes. “Suffering,” she muttered. “She’d been… beaten. Before… Before my grandmother…“ Manon stopped and looked away. She felt Dorian’s hand on her back. Heard him speaking to Aven. She only caught a few words. Matron. Punishment. Petrah. Closing her eyes, she shut them out, fixating on the many questions that came rushing through her mind. How could Rhiannon have left her family, willingly going to her death? Had she let herself be captured? What possible reason could have led her to do it? Why?

Noticing the silence around her, Manon looked up to find Dorian and Aven watching her. She had so many questions but could only ask, “Why?”

“Oh witchling,” Aven said softly, tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. She reached across the table and took Manon’s hands into her own. “I wish I had a good answer to that. Something that would take away all of your pain and guilt. Something that would have granted me a life with both of my granddaughters. Together.”

Dorian straightened and said, “Nehemiah.” He turned to Manon. “The gods sent Rhiannon the vision, like Nehemiah…” He kept his face neutral but Manon heard the hint of disgust in his voice. “She was told she needed to sacrifice herself to get you to act.”

Manon remembered the lovely, regal woman from the witch mirror. Elena had given her instructions to do whatever was necessary to push Dorian or Aelin into action against Erawan. As a result, the Eyllwe princess had arranged her own death to provoke Aelin.

Aven nodded to Dorian. “That sounds likely. As I said, Rhiannon did not share all of the details. But she went convinced that it was the only way to bring Manon home.” Then, to Manon directly, she said, “To prepare you for what is to come.”

No longer able to mask his anger, Dorian asked, “And what the hell does that mean? ‘What’s to come’?”

But Manon thought she knew. “The wyrdkey. We are all connected,” she whispered. Dorian turned abruptly to look at her. “It is here.”

“Yes,” Aven said simply.

She and Dorian had both suspected it was here, hoped it was here. Gambled everything that it was here. And though Aven had all but confirmed it by things she’d said, for some reason, hearing it spoken aloud, so matter-of-fact… Manon felt a strange chill creep over her and she glanced at Dorian. He was trying to contain his anger, and subsequently his magic. She took hold of his hand and he seemed to calm.

“We all have a part,” Manon said, squeezing his hand. She turned to Aven, giving her a hard but not unfriendly look. “But I suspect this is not the time to learn what our roles are. Yes?”

Aven smiled, dipping her head in confirmation.

Manon felt the air around them get slightly colder. It’s ok Dorian. I trust her. And she’s right. Annabee is waiting for us. He turned to face her, staring into her eyes, as if trying to decide if things were in fact ok. She smiled and nodded once. He released a breath and pulled her hand to his lips. Her smile had felt fake. Had been fake, a brave front she was putting on for the benefit of all of them. But with his kiss, she felt a surge of love, and admiration, and respect. And strength. As he pulled away, she touched Dorian’s cheek, returning her love for him.

Then, turning back to Aven, Manon said, “I think I should meet Annabee.”

Minutes later, they were in Aven’s sitting room. She’d gone down the hall to fetch Annabee, leaving Manon and Dorian alone. Silently, they both studied the space around them. A large desk, overflowing with books and papers, dominated a corner of the room. Sketches of landscapes and people covered the walls to either side of it. The stone wall opposite the desk was lined with wooden book shelves, filled with volumes of varying ages, as made obvious by their state of disrepair. Dorian was doing his best to remain seated next to her. But his eyes kept moving back to the shelves, his head tilting to one side in order to read any titles that were visible.

“I give you permission to go look at them,” she said, hoping to distract herself while they waited.

He quickly turned back to her, a sheepish expression flashing across his face. “No, no. I’m just…,” he trailed off. “You give me permission?”

With a sharp tone and sharper grin, she asked, “Am I not your Queen?”

He watched her through narrowed eyes, a satisfied smirk spreading across his face. He leaned closer to her and opened his mouth to say something when the door opened. They both flinched, having forgotten their surroundings and the reason they were here.

Manon rose, unsure of how to act in this moment, forcing her hands to remain still at her sides. She hated feeling this way. So uncertain, so unlike herself. But as Aven slowly came inside, Manon made the decision to let it go. She needed them to see the real her. Wanted them to see the real her. If that meant seeing her vulnerable and exposed... So be it. She didn’t like it. But she could get through it. Sensing Dorian standing behind her, she slipped her hand around her back and he grasped it tightly.

Aven stepped aside, revealing a tall, slender witchling, her hair the same brilliant shade of white as Manon’s. Dorian had been right. The witchling looked like her, in the way close relatives often do. But what she hadn’t expected, what caused her to gasp in disbelief, was that the witchling looked familiar for reasons other than their relatedness.

Manon reached for the chair to steady herself, suddenly overcome by an urge to flee. Or fight. Something, anything, to use up the adrenaline coursing through her. It took what felt like minutes for her to remember the Matron was not here. Did not know what she had done. Was not going to punish her. Dorian moved to stand next to her but all of her attention was on the witchling. Annabee, she thought shaking her head, understanding building inside her. Little Bee.

She must have said it aloud. The witchling’s steely expression vanished, replaced by confusion. “You… You remember me?” she asked softly.

Dorian and Aven looked rapidly back and forth between them. “You know each other?” Dorian asked.

Manon sat down, no longer able to stand. How was this possible? This witchling was her niece. What were the chances?! They continued to stare at each other.

When she didn’t answer him, Dorian turned to Annabee. “What is going on?”

Annabee looked at Aven. “I didn’t think she’d remember… She was there Grandmother. The day my father was killed.” All eyes fell on Manon. “She was the one who helped me escape.”

The room fell deathly silent. Manon looked at Dorian and almost laughed. Almost sobbed. These fucking gods, she thought. I don’t know how much more I can take Dorian. Her hand was shaking and he grabbed it.

Manon. You’re the strongest person I know.

He held her gaze for several moments, long enough for her to regain some semblance of control, then he asked, “Can you tell us what happened?”

Manon turned back to look at Annabee. She was met with gorgeous, coppery brown eyes. Wary, but not hateful. Not accusatory. Not what she’d expected. The young witch seemed genuinely surprised that Manon had remembered her. Manon shook her head in wonder. How could she not remember the witchling? It had been over thirty years ago, but Manon remembered as if it were yesterday. She’d been assigned to the southern corner of Terrasen, near Perranth, sent to hunt Crochans.

Annabee didn’t look as though she was going to speak about it, so Manon cleared her throat and began.

Each day was the same. Manon woke early, trained with her sword or knives, decided on a section of the territory to search, and then returned to camp empty-handed. She didn’t expect to find any Crochans here. In fact, they were getting harder and harder to find, regardless of where the Blackbeaks were sent. Mother Blackbeak was becoming increasingly irate at the lack of trophies brought back by the coven. Manon wasn’t terribly concerned. Her previous six month mission had yielded two Crochan kills. Old witches who looked as though they wouldn’t last much longer. Some Crochans seemed to let themselves age after a certain point. She suspected it had more to do with the eventual disenchantment of immortality than a desire to blend in amongst the humans. While it had technically been a successful hunt, it had done nothing to distinguish Manon in her grandmother’s eyes. It had bought her time though. If she found no Crochans here, she could return home without too many questions. Without severe punishment at least.

Oakwald had never intrigued Manon the way it did some of her coven. But, the newly crowned King of Adarlan was making advances on the forest, threatening the remaining Fae and other magical creatures. He was very young, having gained the throne after the short illness that took his father. Mother Blackbeak hadn’t spared much thought for him though, saying he was nothing for them to worry about. Manon had held her tongue, not offering her reasons to disagree with the decision to ignore the King. It wasn’t her place. Yet. When the title of Matron was passed to her, she would revisit the Blackbeak stance on Adarlan.

Today, in need of supplies, she made her way into Perranth. Not wanting to attract too much attention, she left her broom hidden back in camp, walking the few miles to the village. Her red cloak would draw eyes of course. Perhaps even lure in a Crochan. But the walk would do her good.

She arrived at the town square around mid-morning. It was a market day, vendors lining the main streets selling food, crafts, clothing, all manner of goods. While making her way through the crowds, Manon kept her senses attuned for signs of any witches. But it was mostly just habit. Instinct. As she started down a row that included a blacksmith selling knives, she decided to take her time and enjoy a break from the past few weeks of fruitless searching.

Annabee pulled her father through the streets, anxious to see everything. She was finally old enough to accompany him to Perranth for medicines and other healing supplies. And after a journey that took two days, she wasn’t going to miss a thing.

They’d arrived the evening before, too late to go into the town. So, they’d gone straight to Auntie Silene’s house, her father’s great aunt who lived just outside of Perranth. Annabee had never met Silene before, but she’d heard all kinds of stories about her. The little old witch had hair almost as white as her own. But unlike hers, Silene’s had strands of gray, marking it as a sign of age. Still, it was the closest thing to her hair that Annabee had ever seen.

Father had spent the morning buying everything he needed to take back to Berwyn. He’d promised they could take the rest of the day doing whatever she wanted. First, she wanted to go see the animals for sale. Kittens and puppies, but also chickens and goats and pigs. She knew she couldn’t take any back home. And they had all those animals in Berwyn. But she wanted to check if there were different breeds here, ones she’d never seen before. After that, she wanted to get pastries from the bakery they’d passed. The chocolate cupcakes in the front window had made her mouth water. Then, she wanted to watch the puppet show that was setting up in the main square. Father had laughed, saying he couldn’t have planned a better day.

As they waited in line at the bakery, Annabee kept staring out the window, watching all the people go by. Perranth was a lot bigger than Berwyn. She wondered if any passersby were witches. Auntie Silene said there were some Crochans in this part of Terrasen, but they stayed well hidden. The King of Terrasen was a friend to the Crochans. But the Ironteeth clans weren’t. And they didn’t adhere to borders. Which was why they had the Maze on the other side of the mountains. The farther Crochans lived from the Wastes, the greater the risk of being found. But Grandmother had said each witch had to choose. They couldn’t be forced to live in the Maze or the topside villages nearest the Wastes.

A couple stood from a little table just outside the bakery so Annabee ran out to claim it, making sure Father saw her. As she sat, a flash of bright red caught her eye. She turned to see a tall woman walking down the street, her red cape fluttering behind her as she moved. Annabee knew it was a Crochan cape and almost ran after the witch. But she held back, curious about why the witch would wear it so brazenly. When she stopped at a food vendor, the witch pushed back her hood and Annabee gasped. A pure white braid was piled in the fallen fabric. The witch pulled it around to fall down her chest. Annabee watched, breathless and wide eyed, as the beautiful witch made her way down the street, disappearing around a corner.

When her father came out, he surprised her with a cup of hot chocolate to go with her cupcake. Annabee told him about the witch in the red cape and he stood and looked around, but she was gone. Biting into the cupcake and getting frosting on her nose, she forgot about the witch, too intent on the delicious sweet.

After the bakery, they made their way to the square. Kids were running from all directions, jostling to get seats close to the stage. But Annabee stayed still, holding Father’s hand. They found a bench towards the back, and he made sure she was able to see.

As they waited for the puppet show to begin, she felt Father stiffen next to her and he took hold of her hand. She looked up to see him staring over her head. He looked like he was trying very hard not to react, but she could tell something was very wrong. Annabee turned slowly to see what was there, but Father squeezed her hand hard, making her jump and look back to him.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I need for you to go back to Auntie Silene’s house sweetheart. Can you remember the way?”

She nodded, terror flooding her little body, tears filling her eyes.

“It’s ok Little Bee,” he said, rubbing her back. “I think there might be an Ironteeth witch nearby. I need you to go back to Auntie Silene’s. I will too but I’ll take a different road. Just like we talked about. Ok?”

She nodded again. The certainty in his voice made her fear subside a little. He kissed the top of her head as she stood and she began walking out of the square. Annabee knew not to run, not to call attention to herself. But it took all of her courage not to do it anyway. She hadn’t seen an Ironteeth witch in the square, so she hoped Father was mistaken.

When she turned down a side street that they’d taken on their way into the town, she heard a faint commotion from the square. Annabee froze, not sure if she should run, or turn to see where Father was. She decided to go back, but she did it quietly, peeking around the corner of a building to look into the square.

At the far end of the space, she saw Father disappear down a narrow street, a fearsome looking woman following closely behind. Annabee could just barely make out a yellow band around the witch’s head. She shrank back, feeling like she might be sick. A Yellowlegs witch. After Father. And then she would come after her.

She turned and ran back down the street, veering off between two buildings to vomit. She fell to her knees, landing in the mess, her hands shaking. What was she going to do? Father told her to run but what if he needed help?

The witch in the red cape.

Where had she gone? Annabee wiped the tears from her face and stood, turning in a circle trying to think of where to go, where to look. She ran, taking side streets that skirted the square but would get her to where Father had disappeared.

It felt like forever, but minutes later, after racing though crowds and not seeing the red cape, Annabee reached the street she’d seen her Father run down. She glanced down an alley as she ran past and then skidded to a stop. Turning back, she peered around the corner to see the Yellowlegs witch kneeling over a body. The witch raised her arm, a short sword shining in her hand. As the sword came down, Annabee opened her mouth. But a hand came from behind and covered her face, pulling her back before she could scream.

Manon had seen the Yellowlegs bitch skulking around the market and decided to steer clear of her. She thought the witch’s name was Iskra. But she wasn’t sure. She never put much effort into learning the names of the Yellowlegs. They were so far beneath her and the Thirteen that she simply didn’t want to waste her time on them. So, she’d chosen to ignore the witch. She had all she needed and was ready to head back to her camp in Oakwald.

But as she turned to go, she heard something coming from the direction of the Yellowlegs. Shit, she thought. If that bitch found a Crochan and Mother Blackbeak found out… Manon would get a beating like nothing she’d received for a long time. Pissed at the possibility of having to fight a Crochan and a Yellowlegs, Manon turned around and headed back towards the center of the town.

As she followed the sounds and scents, Manon noticed a small girl running ahead of her. She stood out for two reasons. First, the girl’s hair was as white as Manon’s. She’d only ever seen that color on her Shadows, before they’d started dying it black to better conceal themselves. But stranger than that, the girl seemed to be headed to the same place Manon was.

When the girl stopped and looked down a small alley, Manon slowed, quietly sneaking up behind her. Without making her presence known, Manon stretched to look around the corner. Shit! From the looks of things, Iskra was about to take the head off of a Crochan.

Manon glanced down at the girl, realizing at that instant what was happening. She was no girl. She was a witchling. A Crochan. How Manon had not noticed that earlier…she must have been too distracted by Iskra to sense it.

As Iskra’s arm came down, Manon saw the witchling tense, as if about to run and try to stop the witch. But if that happened, she would be dead before she knew what hit her. Acting on pure instinct, Manon grabbed the witchling, covered her mouth to keep her from screaming, turned, and ran.

The witchling squirmed in her arms, struggling to get free to run back to whoever was in that alley. It must have been her mother, Manon thought. She’d seen the Crochan’s bare arm, the deep brown color of her skin similar to that of the witchling. Bile rose in her throat at the thought. She had no love for the Crochans. But the idea of a young witchling left without a mother… She thought that was a worse fate than her own. She’d never known her mother and had always told herself that not knowing her had been a blessing. It had left her with no one to properly miss. No reason to dredge up emotions that would only weaken her.

After a few turns, the witchling stopped trying to wriggle free. Probably too shocked to fight back. No one gave Manon a second look as she carried her out of the town, towards Oakwald. Manon didn’t have time to think about what she was doing or why, she only knew she needed to get far away from Iskra.

Once she was more than a mile into the forest, Manon stopped, setting the little witch against a tree. Her face was wet from tears and she was gasping for breath.

“What’s your name?” she asked. She tried to keep her voice light, not wanting to scare her.

Manon had to repeat her question several times before the witchling whispered, “Little Bee.” Her eyes were glazed over, focused on nothing.

“Bee? I think you should have some water. Are you hungry?”

Bee didn’t respond, but when Manon held her canteen up to the witchling’s mouth, she drank it down in a few gulps. Uncertain of what to do next, Manon sat down beside her. She was a sweet little thing. Her bright hair was done in small braids, each with a different colored string twisted in. Manon reached into a small bag and pulled out a caramel, handing it to Bee. The water and sugar seemed to help. Her ashen face gained back some of its color and her breathing evened out.

Watching her, Manon frowned, the full realization of what she’d done finally hitting her. What did I just do? What am I supposed to do with her now?

Manon flinched as Bee leaned against her shoulder, reaching up to take Manon’s braid into her small hand.

“I saw you in the market,” she said softly. “I came looking for you. For help.”

Manon swallowed. Gods. She thought I was a Crochan.

“I… I didn’t know what was happening,” Manon said. Without thinking, she added, “I’m sorry I didn’t get there in time.”

Sorry?! Was she sorry? She’d gone intending to make the kill herself. Why was she lying? Why was she even helping this witchling? The Blackbeaks had a rule against killing children, human or witch. But that didn’t mean she’d had to save this one.

Bee gasped suddenly and stood. “I need to go. The Yellowlegs might find my Auntie! I need to get to her. Warn her!”

“Wait. Calm down,” Manon said, taking hold of her arm to keep her from running off. “You have an aunt who lives around here?”

Fresh tears were running down Bee’s cheeks. “Yes, please! Can you help us? She’s old. I don’t think she can fight an Ironteeth.”

Manon's chest ached at the desperation in the witchling’s voice. She was beginning to panic. “Here, take some deep breaths. If you know where she lives, I will take you there.”

Following Manon’s lead, the little witch breathed in, then blew out, her cheeks bulging from the effort. Manon couldn’t help a small smile. “You’re awfully brave.” The witchling returned her smile, though it was a sad smile. “And we’ll get to your aunt. I promise.” She looked around, realizing Bee likely wouldn’t be able to find her way from the forest. “Shall we go back towards the town? Then you can point me in the direction of your aunt’s house.”

Bee nodded, taking Manon’s hand in her own. Manon tensed at the touch, not sure how to respond to such overt affection. But looking into the witchling’s eyes, seeing the trust there, the faith that Manon would deliver her to safety… She smiled again and squeezed the little hand. “Let’s go.”

Annabee didn’t remember much about their walk to Auntie Silene’s. She’d known the way from the town, it hadn’t been difficult. But she’d made herself focus on the red cloak. The strong hand that held hers. The silky braid that was the same color as hers. The glittering gold eyes that seemed to steady her. Anything to forget the image of her father lying in that alley. The Yellowlegs witch standing over him. Her sword as it arced through the air. No, don’t think about it, she told herself.

She felt a squeeze of her hand and looked up. The beautiful witch smiled down at her and she forgot about the sights that had just run through her head. “It’s just over this hill,” Annabee said.

When they reached the crest, the witch stopped. “Maybe you should go the rest of the way. I need to get back to my camp.”

“There might be Ironteeth,” Annabee said, suddenly scared again.

“I don’t sense any,” the witch said. “Only your Crochan aunt.” But after she looked back down and saw Annabee’s worry, she gave in, pulling her hood over her head as they continued towards the house.

“If she’s ok, I’m sure she’ll cook you dinner. As a thanks for helping me,” Annabee said, trying to think of an excuse to keep the witch around. But she didn’t answer, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

When they reached the door, the witch hesitated, then knocked. Auntie Silene peeked through the window. The door was opened seconds later. Annabee dropped the witch’s hand and ran to her aunt, crying. Auntie Silene hugged her and looked to the other witch in confusion. When their eyes met, Annabee felt her aunt freeze. And then before she knew what was happening she was pulled inside and forced behind her aunt. Annabee tried to move around her towards the Crochan, but her aunt blocked her. She felt magic ring through the air, but she wasn’t sure who it was coming from.

“I found your niece in Perranth. Her mother was killed by Iskra Yellowlegs. She may still be in the area. If you have some place to hide, I suggest you go there. Now.”

Annabee frowned, wondering why the witch’s voice was so much harsher than it had been with her. She was about to tell her it had been her father who died when Auntie Silene asked, “And what of you?” Annabee flinched at the hate in her voice. She peeked around, worried that the Crochan might be offended by her aunt’s behavior.

The witch tilted her head to look at Annabee, offering her a small smile. Then, to Auntie Silene, the smile disappearing, she said, “What of me? I was never here.” She turned her back on them and left.

Auntie Silene slammed the door, locked it, and took Annabee into a back room. She pulled up a rug, opened a small door in the floor, and sent Annabee down a ladder.

“What about my things? Fathers things?” She didn’t want to cry again but the thought of leaving his clothes behind seemed too much.

As she came down the ladder, Auntie Silene said, “It’s not important dear. We need to leave. Get you back to your mother. That’s important.” Then, she went back up the ladder and sealed the door with her magic.

They made their way through a long, dark tunnel. Annabee lost track of time. Which made her think about Father. But each time she saw him in the alley, she tried to think about the white-haired Crochan who’d saved her instead. Eventually, she noticed a faint light ahead. As they neared it, Annabee realized it was moonlight. They came out into the forest near a little hamlet. Barely more than a few houses and a tiny inn. Auntie Silene went to one of the houses and knocked. They were ushered in by an old male Crochan, who fed them and let them spend the night. His daughter would take Annabee to Berwyn. It was too hard a trip for Auntie Silene to make, but she’d stay with Annabee until the next day.

Annabee cried herself to sleep that night, trying hard to think about the white-haired Crochan instead of her father. She didn’t want to ignore him, forget him. But it hurt too much to think about him. Despite her best efforts though, his face took over and replaced the witch in her mind. As she began to nod off, Annabee realized she’d never asked the witch her name.

“You never told anyone,” Dorian said in amazement. Manon wasn’t sure if he meant it for her or Annabee.

The witchling answered, but she addressed Manon. “I didn’t know who you were, who you really were, until years later. And when I’d been brought back home and my mother found out what had happened...” She trailed off, frowning. “If I did describe you to her... Well, I suppose it got lost in everything else that we were going through. The loss of my father was very hard on her. Well, both of us.” It took her a moment to continue. “And Aunt Silene was the only person who’d known. She hadn’t known my mother. Why she never sent a message… I don’t know.”

“And when you did realize?” Dorian asked.

Annabee glanced away, and Manon thought she saw an apology in the expression. “I overheard some of my friends talking about the White Demon. How she wore a Crochan cloak and used it to lure witchlings into her clutches.” She let out a derisive laugh. “How she had white hair like me. They actually wondered if we were related. Teased me about it. Asked if I was evil too because of my hair.”

Under her breath, Aven said, “Little bastards.”

“It’s ok Grandmother,” Annabee said with a smirk. “Their teasing didn’t last long.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow and said, “Gods. You three are definitely related. Remind me not to piss any of you off.”

Manon turned abruptly, eyes wide in horror at his flippant remark. But Dorian just smiled and she realized Aven and Annabee were laughing quietly.

“I thought you’d already learned that lesson Dorian,” Annabee said, still smiling. When she looked at Manon however, her smile faded.

Manon felt very uncomfortable. Partly because she didn’t understand how they could all be joking right now. But most of her unease came from the question she desperately wanted to ask. The question that had been bothering her for a very long time. Since that day at the Omega. She didn’t think she deserved an answer. And she worried that it was unfair of her to ask it of Annabee. But...

She looked at each of them before settling on Annabee, then asked, “Would you tell me about her? Your mother?” Manon didn’t bother to cover the way her voice had broken with the question. She didn’t try to hide the pain she felt. The remorse. She laid herself bare to Annabee, her mask gone, useless. Not with the expectation that it would bring forgiveness. But with hope. With the simple desire that these two witches, the grandmother and niece she’d been denied her entire life, might see her for who she really was. Not the reputation she’d created to survive. Not the monster she’d been forced to be. But the person she was trying to be. The person she wanted to be.

Annabee stared at her for a long while, seeming to struggle with her answer. Finally, she nodded and simply said, “Ok.”

She noticed Aven wave a hand at Dorian and gesture towards the door. He sent her a silent question and she nodded, smiling as he kissed her forehead. She heard Aven mention a nearby library to Dorian as they left. His reaction made both Manon and Annabee snort in laughter.

Once they were gone, Manon turned her attention back to Annabee, who asked, “So, what would you like to know?”

Manon smiled. “Everything.”

To be continued...

(As always, thank you to @itach-i and @propshophannah for writing help and their brilliant character analyses!)

#manorian #manon blackbeak #dorian havilliard #manon x dorian #manorian fanfiction #child of peace #my writing #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfiction #tog fanfiction #sarah j maas #crochan witches #blackbeak witches

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