#ᴏʜ ᴀ ꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜ ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ꜰᴜʟꜰɪʟʟ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ɢᴜɪᴅᴇ ᴍᴇ. ( drabbles )

[duskroine]

identity.

Who are you?

     “ I am Ophelia Dusk! A heroine of legacy and virtue -- a follower of the stars! ”

And who are you?

    “ You haven’t heard of my name? It is I, Ophelia Dark! The greatest swords-woman in all of ᖇ E ᗪ ᗩ ᑕ T E ᗪ! ”

Then... who are you?

    “ Princess Ophelia Dawn, fairest in all the land no matter where my legend takes the ears of the curious! ”

         Y o u   a r e   n o b o d y.          

. . .

The throne is cold beneath her. Frigid against silk and frills and lace. Her cape is longer -- uniform replaced for a gown. Her circlet crown is tight around her head. The shield to her empty, empty mind. 

     Protection.

               Footsteps echo off the pristine walls. Windows tinted and glass stained with gold ( It’s the gold around her wrist ) and blood ( It’s the blood she coughed up earlier that morning ).

                         Security.

                                   The person stops before her -- a cloak pulled over their head but their lips quiver behind the shadow cast over their face. She can see the way their cheeks hollow and cave in -- as if they didn’t fit their face. Their wrists are small, barely caught in the shackles around them. 

                                             Trust.

                                                       Everything she couldn’t give her people.

. . .

Huh... her people?

    “ Is that all I am to you? ”

She shakes her head -- her body nods instead.

     A scoff falls from their lips. It’s sunken ( like their cheeks ). As if the life had not only been sucked from their body, but their mind, too. Soulless and without shelter. This kingdom isn’t their home. It isn’t hers either.

              “ All you royals are the same... ”

She plants her feet on the ground -- her body forces her to rise. Lightning dances over her palm, fingers, and wrist. She knows the dance before it’s even carried out. Before the curtains, velvet and silk, are pulled back. She knows the song before it’s sung. Pages and pages of blank lyrics -- the incantation burns her throat as it crawls up into her mouth.

    “ A bunch of sick, twisted bastards. ”

               Her hand rises from her side.

                        “ How does the power taste, Princess? Is it fresh, served off a-- ”

                                   Silver platter. She knows their words before they speak them; maybe that’s why the lightning travels so easily through their body. She knows them, and they must know her. They do know her. ( The real her? Or this her? ) Her finger touches their forehead -- it was a mistake to bow to a fake, wasn’t it?

They makes too much noise when they die.

     Tyrant. Tyrant. Tyrant.

               The circlet crown tightens around her head just as her fingers press harder against theirs.

                         Tyrant. Tyrant. TYRANT.

                                   Dusk colors the sky and strikes the stained glass of the throne room’s windows. The person’s eyes glow; Ophelia’s torture is open for all to see. The people see her through the walls of her castle. Through her hundreds of soldiers. Through her own eyes. Through her skin and decisions and her. 

                                             Tyrant. TYRANT. TYRANT.

                                                       She’s a tyrant. Maybe... maybe in another life, she isn’t. The knowledge of royalty will remain a secret to that young, eccentric Ophelia. She’ll be able to practice magic and serve someone -- no more ruling for a dead princess. She’ll die a tyrant.

                                                                 CURSED TYRANT!!

She pulls her hand away when the person stops shaking, almost abruptly. They’re eyes flutter, crimson irises now shine a bright aquamarine. She stares, harder. Stares through him and at the entrance of the throne room. Maybe even farther. Maybe to a new home, one that she could have lived in.

     Her hand is heavy; black stains the back of it. 

               Ophelia does not remember this mark. Tyranny. She does not remember whether she should be afraid or pleased. She does not remember if it is the bane of her existence.

. . .

Her circlet is loose, pressed underneath a headband.

     ...Nina’s.

Lysithea’s fingers weave into her own, hands pressed together as the smaller of the two girls shuffle closer to the other. Ophelia’s exhale sticks in her mouth. Afraid but courageous. Alone but in the company of others. Sensitive to colors but aquamarine continues to glow in the corners of her vision. Here but her body feels light, as if she’ll float out of this reality and into a different one. Maybe her real one.

     Ophelia remembers the mark on her hand. Tyranny. She remembers tears and screaming and hands reaching out for her. She remembers a throne and a meadow and a lost battlefield. She remembers a wedding...

               She remembers that none of those memories are truly hers.

[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... ”

[duskroine]

the stars.

The voice is loud but faint. Gentle but grating. Bright but bleak. There but not. 

“Do not fear this mark,”

Yet she fears it. She can’t run from it -- slamming the palms of her hands against her ears do nothing. The voice doesn’t muffle; in fact, it gets louder. Chanting the words. Over and over again. Taunting her. It’s taunting her. She tries talking -- maybe her voice will drown out the other. It doesn’t. Instead, she’s left with a mix of two voices. One incoherent, and the other, strong. Louder.

Why is it getting louder?

Her nails dig into skin, her forehead connects with the floor of her room, her words no longer have the chance to become coherent. She doesn’t have the energy to; the voice doesn’t allow her to.

Ophelia notices the mark a moment too late...

Tyranny.

The voice mocks her -- the stars laugh. She can’t move, her own voice crumbles in her throat as her vision blurs. Pitifully. The mark on her hand bleeds black, shrouding her mind in darkness. It’s familiar. All too familiar. Is it the sense of being lost? Alone? Cold. Is it the mark? ( impossible, she’s never had one before ). The voice chants louder, and she tries to match its volume. To stop it. To actually have her voice be proof of her power.

Tyranny.

She refuses to believe the word.

She isn’t a... a tyrant. She doesn’t lead with brutality and unfairness. She doesn’t... she doesn’t lead anyone. Only the stars can guide. She’s merely a lost child who follows. Only the stars... only they can lead. The same stars that laugh at her now. 

Ophelia gathers enough strength to stagger to her feet, fingers curling around the opposite wrist ( that of her utterly tainted hand ), but she merely crumbles back to the floor after witnessing the way that moonlight shone over the mark. Casting it in a glow, yet it still remained dark. Still black. 

She’s not a tyrant. A heroine is loved by everyone! For her... for her natural leadership and kindness. She’s kind. She’s gracious. She who knows grief. She who has known misery. She’s a leader of people and a follower of the stars -- no, no, NO! She doesn’t lead people, she’s a follower. She’s not a tyrant. She’s nice. Thankful. She’s been a victim to darkness; a doll tangled in strings. She’s bled the same as her friends -- no, she bleeds gold. They do not. She’s not a tyrant. She’s passionate and a friend. She’s not a tyrant. She’s not a tyrant. She’s not a tyrant. She’s not a tyrant. 

The stars have betrayed her -- this much, she knows. Yet... the greatest question she has... she doesn’t know.

Is she a tyrant?

Tyrants are sick royals -- she isn’t a princess or a queen ( why do those words feel disgusting on her tongue? why do they taste like a lie? ). She isn’t a royal; she fakes herself as one. She fakes it all! Tyrants deceive others -- hasn’t she done so by lying? Conjuring up tales of dragons and fated blood? She’s a fake! She’s a fake!! Maybe... maybe she could be a tyrant. Maybe she is. Maybe... the Chosen One is a tyrant. 

But here... with tears falling down her face and her wrist in her hand... she’s only her. Here, she’s only Ophelia.

The stars aren’t the only ones who have lied tonight.