#{ i like the idea of ophelia taking 'dark' instead of 'dusk' in another life }

[duskroine]

immortal.

Born by the stars; she lived a thousand lives. She died a thousand times. She lived. She breathed. She bled. Fought. Spoke. Sung. 

     Her legend told a million times. To children. Adults. Friends. Forrest, Nina, Siegbert... Midori, Kana, Soleil, Mitama...? Myths told to crowds. Gravestones. Her father’s. 

          She lives; her father dies.

                         She died; her father lives.

                                       They both die.

                                                 They both live.

The stars glimmer.

     An Ophelia that follows her father. Everywhere he goes. Anywhere he goes. He goes home -- she goes, too. New faces. New kingdom. New country. 

    Nohr is gone. Hoshido has f a l l e n. 

    There’s a gravestone -- there are hundreds. Her father trades a tome for a sword. She does, too. The blade weighs feather-light in her hand.

The stars are bright.

     An Ophelia that grows and lives and follows a path that she made. Everything is white, her cheeks ache from smiling so much. She’s standing before friends and family. And strangers -- she doesn’t know a few of them. They look familiar, but their smiles don’t ring. Something does, though. 

    Bells...? Soleil... Forrest... Siegbert... who?

         The keys of a piano...? 

    There’s a bouquet in her hands. A blanket wrapped in folds. Around something. There’s crying; she’s crying.

The stars are burning.

     An Ophelia who falls as loud as thunder. Lightning crackles around her fingers, flickering out as easily as the blue flames curling in her irises. The lance tears through her body -- the knight’s armor singes from a single bolt of magic. 

     Her knees hit the ground, a hand curling around steel. Coated in blood and sweat and lightning. Someone’s running at her, an incantation bubbles on her tongue. 

          “ Ophelia! ”

     She coughs and splutters and chokes. A staff is raised in her direction.

         “ Don’t pull it out! Wait! ”

     White begins to pull at the corners of her vision just as her hands shake, yanking the lance from where it rested in her chest.

         “ OPHELIA! ”

The stars are dying.

     An Ophelia who isn’t pulled beneath the tide of a Chosen One. Dusk bleeds through the memory; it isn’t her surname. She’s just Ophelia. Just a girl standing within a meadow. Blades of grass brush against her ankles. The smell of spring hangs in the air -- heavy with rain and rebirth and...

          Rebirth??

               She’s... reborn?

                    A crown is set upon her head, stems of flowers weaved with each other and laced with silk. She sees frills. Pink. White. Forrest smiles at her -- bright, pure. She calls him prince, he gives her a bashful, small smile. A similar crown of flowers is rests on his own head.

          “ Hey! Ophelia, Forrest! ”

               She turns. Nina’s there, a journal in one hand and the other on her hip. 

                   “ Lunch is ready, come on! ”

Her vision shatters, the sky turns dark. The flowers are aflame -- her hands carry fire and not lightning. Blue. Aquamarine. The sky holds no stars. It’s empty. She’s lost. She’s dead. They’re gone. Where are t h e y? The air is cold. NOHR. The flowers, although bright, are fully bloomed and staring at her. HOSHIDO. The stars are gone. DEEPREALMS.

         “ Welcome to Fodlan! May I ask for your name, miss? ”

               She turns, once more. The ground shifts and she’s no longer herself. She’s no longer... her. She watches as someone sits down in a cushioned chair, plush with velvet. Ophelia sits across from him -- wearing clothing unlike her own. The man smiles; this Ophelia does, too.

                   “ Ophelia. ” she sucks in a breath as the other talks, “ The name is Ophelia Dark! The fairest swords-woman in all of... ”