pact of fortune.

CW: MENTIONS OF DROWNING/BEING DROWNED.

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aristea is thirteen, young and sweet and positively blooming with life when she is tragically drowned in the lake. something unexpectedly grabs her leg and pulls her down, deep beneath the surface, away from her sisters, away from the life she knows.

she struggles in the water, kicking out, trying desperately to swim back to the surface, but it is no use. whatever has grabbed hold of her is much stronger, and much more determined.

her last thought, in a moment of pure, splendid serenity as she releases her hold on life, is, “father is going to be so upset with me.”

it feels like a hundred years pass in between that final thought and the horrible aching gasp that rattles her lungs and brings her back into her body, trembling against the first hard thud of her heart as it begins to beat again.

she doesn’t know who pulled her out of the water.

she doesn’t know how she got up to her room.

at first, she doesn’t know anything. the first thing she feels is a wetness on her lips. there is nothing in her mind yet but the deafening sound of her heart starting to beat again. but then, out of the din, voices begin to rise, one soaring above the rest - clear, consuming.

“come here, darling,” the pleasant voice coaxes her. she is reminded of warm apple cider on a chilly harvest night. she’s sitting up suddenly, but she has no memory of doing so, and slowly she brings her fingers to her temples as they begin to throb. 

“aristea!” someone gasps, and she lifts her head in a haze of recognition. papa?

her eyes won’t seem to focus no matter how many times she blinks and she feels them begin to burn with tears. what’s happening? why does everything hurt?

she opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out.

“hush, now,” that voice says again, soft, and she feels a hand upon her chin, tilting it ever so gently. “drink.”

she does as she’s told when a cup presses against her lips. she’s suddenly so parched she can think of nothing else, feeling heat and awareness spreading throughout her body with every desperate swallow. the taste is heady but sweet, warmer than the cherry wine she’d rebelliously sampled earlier in the year with evalynne but it makes her head swim just the same.

she tilts her head, looking for more as the cup empties, even as it’s pulled away, and this time when she opens her eyes, she sees. 

she sees the man holding the cup — high cheekbones, raven hair, crooked smile. he’s rather handsome, she thinks without meaning to. blurry memories of giggling over the stable boy with similar features with her sisters surface, and she feels heat rise to her cheeks at his attention, quickly looking away. 

she sees her papa in the corner of the room, held in the arms of her father. they’re crying, consoling each other. she doesn’t understand, is it her fault they’re crying? she feels guilty, even though she isn’t sure what she’s done.

finally, she croaks, “what … happened …?”

her temples throb again, this time so fiercely her ears ring, and a small sound of pain escapes her as she cradles her head in her hands.

the rest of the interaction is a bit of a blur. the man says something to her, but she doesn’t understand — is he speaking another language? she feels his words like a rock in her chest regardless, feels his cold eyes piercing her to her very soul. she doesn’t know why, but she’s suddenly very scared of him, and feels like she has a reason to be.

her parents say something to him, and they appear to have a conversation - are they thanking him? thanking him for what? 

grace alive, it hurts! 

her head is throbbing all over now, and her stomach feels sick. her parents embrace her, but she barely feels it, doesn’t have the strength to reciprocate, and she’s grateful when her papa lies her back down.

it takes a few days for consciousness to really resume for aristea. she spends a lot of time in the feverish in-between place of nightmares. she dreams of clawed, scaly hands grabbing at her legs in the darkness. she tries to scream but she can’t, tries to grab onto anything to anchor her but there is nothing there to hold onto.

she dreams of the strange man, whose image she recalls clearly and fills her with dread. he tells her things in that soft voice, terrible things that she doesn’t remember when she wakes. he makes her drink something, black and warm. he forces her to keep drinking it, until she can’t swallow any more and it pours over her face, fills her nose until she’s choking on it and suddenly she’s drowning all over again. she wakes up covered in cold sweat, crying, hearing whispers that aren’t her own.

she can’t eat. she stops sleeping for fear of nightmares. she’s cold all the time, can never seem to get warm no matter how many blankets she’s under. she lashes out any time someone asks her how she’s doing - can’t they tell? why don’t they call the healer? every time she cries, drinks, washes or bathes, those terrible whispers come back to her, insidious little cockroaches that threaten to drive her mad.

what are they? what do they mean?

why won’t they just leave her alone?

papa doesn’t know, but he frowns deep when she tells him, and looks sad. she reaches for his hand, but he pulls away, and she feels tears prick her eyes. is he upset with her? did she do something wrong? she didn’t want this, she didn’t ask for this! 

and then, a thought comes to her. /she/ didn’t ask for this … but that man did something to her … and who had brought that man into her room?

“who was that man, papa?” she asks, her voice low.

“a healer,” he answers, too quickly.

he didn’t look like any healer she’d seen before.

“why was he here?”

her papa doesn’t answer.

“papa, why was he here?” she asks again, this time insistent, but he abandons her bedside.

he leaves her like that, clutching her questions to her chest, a frightened child begging for him not to go, not to leave her.

she cries until she has no more tears left in her, until her sadness has turned to a dull ache in her small chest, and finally sinks into a dreamless sleep.

her hair begins to fall out the next day, ribbons of honey-hued tresses littering the floor by the vanity as she tries in vain to brush it. she’s wants to scream, but all she can muster is some weak, shaking sobs. she’s so tired, her head hurts, and her life just won’t stop getting worse.

all her hair is gone when papa visits her that night, and he looks even sadder. she asks to see her sisters, but he says they’re away at aunty’s cottage. 

more than anything, she wishes for the warm embrace of her sisters, or even her dearest friend lasair, but she doesn’t even try to ask papa if he will let her see lasair. part of her doesn’t want lasair to see her like this - weak, useless, filled with days of regurgitated pain and unspeakably ugly. it’s best if she waits until she’s better.

aristea asks her papa to stay and he does this time, but something is wrong. she can feel it in his sweating palm, and the whispers … the whispers tell her what he’s thinking.

not only is he scared of what’s happening to her …

he’s scared of her.

aristea’s hair grows back overnight, but it is not her hair. waves of iridescent ebony that seem to hold their own sense of gravity have replaced her soft honey locks. this hair glitters like stars in the soft candlelight, and it frightens her.

it frightens papa, too.

he puts a bolt on her door that locks from the outside. “it’s for you own good, aristea,” he says, but his voice shakes. “to keep you safe …”

something is wrong with her, she knows it, and he knows it, and he doesn’t have to say it because she feels it in his tears when she kisses him goodnight. she hates this, hates what she’s doing to her parents, who are obviously struggling. 

she hears them argue for hours, something they have never, ever done, and she feels the weight of their argument as if it is hers to bear, as if it is her fault. it is, isn’t it? if she weren’t like this, if she was just herself, before they went to the lake, before that strange man woke her up …

she doesn’t know how much time has passed, but eventually, as sunlight begins trickling in through her window, her parents come to her. they have a large trunk with them, and instruct her to pack her belongings. 

“are we going on a trip?” she asks, trying to seem hopeful, but they look grim, and she ducks her head, doing as she’s told and keeping her mouth shut.

she’s going to the order in namarast, she finds out, once she’s been loaded into the carriage. her papa tells her he’ll write.

“but the order is for mages!” she cries, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. “i’m not a mage!”

“aristea, they can help you with … whatever you’re going through,” her father says dismissively, and she feels his disgust for her through her tears. she’s never been hit in her life, but she thinks this sudden broken feeling in her chest, this ache of betrayal and anger, must be how it feels.

“they’re going to help you, my love,” her papa says. he isn’t disgusted - he’s just sorry. guilty. shameful.

“don’t do this,” she pleads, desperately reaching for him, but her father pulls him away, gently pushes her back. “please don’t send me away!”

“don’t make this harder on him, aristea,” her father scolds her. “sit down and behave. don’t cause a fuss. if it goes well, they can fix you and send you back by next harvest.”

“what if it doesn’t?!”

neither of them answer her for a very long time. she holds a hand to her mouth to muffle her cries. her papa turns away, shielding his eyes. she knows without him telling her that he is hiding his tears from her. her father nods once to her.

“be good,” he says, and closes the cab door, gesturing for the driver to get moving.

she tucks her knees up to her chest and weeps.

she doesn’t see them again.