Sense of powerlessness Prose in Melyria | World Anvil

Sense of powerlessness

She gently climbed up a few steps on the staircase, then checked that father was occupied. With a girlish, sly smile she hurried her steps to reach the second floor and hurried towards the windows on the front. There, she could see the crystal bridge and the distancing form of Izil'Daerryn Frozenheart, joined by the guards guiding him.

Miazall giggled to herself as she sensed the vanity and pride of the figure, swollen to this joyful self-confidence, that made the diamond-like edges that only her visions could see glimmering as the gently glowing globes of light floated on the sides of the bridge, giving some visibility to the darkness of the caverns. The man was almost as old as her father, yet the skip on his feet and the energy radiating from him was so boyish that it made the young prophet smile.

Yes. She didn't know how this was supposed to go, but she knew she would want to keep him around, at least a little bit longer. Though at this point there was more to it than curiosity and the guidance she was sensing. Under her sweet smile, there was a sting of guilt and worry. If this fiendish beast that had terrorized her city was truly what the signs pointed towards, that was to be a great risk to her people - and now, more personally, to master Frozenheart that had been on the case.

Her smile had a hint of sadness, as the guilt sunk in. How she hated that feeling, feeling her mother had gently reminded she would need to get used to. This was the part given to her by birth: to guide those in the dark but to guide you need to trust others to do your bidding, so you are always there when needed.

Once, that might have been comforting thought. When she was little, she had sat at the stand of the colosseum, seeing fighters fight for glory. As they would get injured she felt each cut as an echo on her skin, she hid behind her mother's sleeve. There and then it felt comforting, that she was not there to hurt another, to not wield her sword on the actual battlefield but for dance and rare self-defence. But as she grew older, and learned more, as she had learned to let go of people and pets, as her experiences shaped her she had learned the truth about this blessing. As much as it was a relief at first, the burden of guilt and the sense of powerlessness would inevitably raise their head and feel just as soul-crushing, maybe even more so.

It was for common good, mother had sworn. That it would make her better for the part she was born to fill. That those emotions were part where her wisdom would lie. But even after a hundred years, these moments of doubt crept to her, nagging at her. You are not doing enough, they said. This is not right, they said. You are a coward, they said. And she would raise her eyes, to see the paintings on the palace halls, depicting the Dark Dancer, depicting her moon, and she would ask if this is what she really meant her to be.

Miazall sighed. Her fingertips where eerily glowing, her hair floating on the whims of a wind that did not exist. She closed her eyes, trying to find her centre. No. This was not the time to get upset.


Prophet turned to see her father, joined by some of the servants. He looked concerned.

"Yes, father", she told and straightened herself up. She tried to cover her hand behind her back.

Father did not look convinced, his regal features in a frown. "It's been a long day, your grace." He bowed, turning his tone to a more polite one.

Miazall sighed, irritated. "I know, I know", she answered to the actual, unanswered question in the air. "I will take my meditation now." She stormed off with quick steps, trying to gather herself.

In the shadows, the scarred figure of Xanva'droia Darkspawn followed her with her eyes, as the lost assassin was in deep thought. Unsure of her fate, she looked at the girl whose mercy kept her alive, pondering what the future will look like, one laying on the hands of the young prophet.


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