#2k words of nyra fic

[i-mybrunettelady]

Chaos by any other name

Preface: This is a rewrite of a very old Nyra fic from 2021. You can read it here, but I’m sure this version’s much better because it’s 2023 and we evolve over time! This started as a writing exercise for me but I grew invested, somehow was unable to write anything else before I finished this, so I decided to make it a birthday gift for Nyra! Now with upgraded screenshot I haven’t had a chance to post yet. I ended up quite liking the results too. Thusly, I hope you like them too <3

TW: brief mentions of childbirth & death

– 1314 AE 

There’s been talk at the parties. There’s always talk at parties, she’s gathered, but it’s never things that interest her. Her mom’s good at it, talking about uninteresting things, especially when they have other nobles over in their estate. Thankfully, they bring their children so Nyra isn’t alone. 

Now those are interesting conversations. But one question comes up more often than others - the question of Gods. They’re almost eight, which means one of the Gods will bless them officially. Their gifts are all starting to show. Nyra feels a little out of place sometimes. Hers aren’t here yet and neither is her magic. It’s okay for the magic - it usually comes later, but the gifts? Nyra purses her lips every time her friends ask her about it. She tells them she doesn’t know, because she doesn’t and it makes her skin itch. 

Sometimes, she dreams she’s blessed by Balthazar. His war blessings will surely go well with being a soldier and she’s Ascalonian, she will fight. Sometimes, she wishes she could whisper to the trees and find her way around nature more easily than others. And sometimes, only sometimes, she dreams of Lyssa and illusions. 

It feels right when she dreams of illusions. But she doesn’t think she has any to make. 

One day, they’re walking home from the temple when her mom asks: “Which god do you think blessed you most, Alyssa?”

Nyra turns her head. She’s walking in front of everyone else, tapping her lacy shoes against the pavement. They still don’t ring as hard as her grandfather’s cane. Somehow, the answer’s easy on her lips, very natural, “Lyssa.” 

“But you’re no mesmer,” her dad says. He says the word mesmer really funnily in Ascalonian. Maybe she does too, governed by the way her parents speak. “We don’t know what magic you have, if you even have it.” She thinks it sounds a little sad, that last part. 

Nyra frowns. “I do,” she says, angrily, “Nobody I know has magic yet!” 

Mom walks over and places a gentle hand on Nyra’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s one of Lyssa’s blessings, hiding itself in plain sight,” she muses. “It’ll show itself when the time is right. My little acolyte of Lyssa.”

– 1316 AE 

She’s wearing a dress, and an ugly one at that. To be more precise, it’s not that the dress itself is ugly. Its purple ruffles and black lace would look good on someone else, but on her, it seems out of place. Tell that to her mom, though, who looks very good in such fashionable styles and insists her daughters play the part. Even poor Leyiton was roped into dressing up, though he doesn’t have much say in the matter. He’s a small child. 

Deborah is also dressed in a fashionable gown, but she wears it more naturally than Alysannyra ever will. It’s only right, after all. She’s third in line for the title. Boring adult talks are in her future. Her sister’s, however, is war. Even at the age of 10, Alysannyra knows she can’t go to war in delicate ruffles. 

Besides, she thinks darkly, her name’s too sharp for a dress like this. Alysannyra, a true Ascalonian name. There’s a namesake, a cousin back in Ebonhawke she hasn’t seen yet. She’s never been to Ebonhawke before, let alone the rest of Ascalon. They’re still fighting the charr. Nyra doesn’t feel particularly fitted to have that name. She wants to be like the Krytan kids, to not have the accent someone pointed out that she has recently. Nay-ruh. Simple, easy on the tongue. Deborah says it differently, however: Nee-ra. She’s bothered when they call her Nay-ruh, but she doesn’t feel like Nee-ra either. 

She doesn’t feel like Lady Ainsaph, either. That’s what she’s introduced as and that’s what adults use to refer to her. It’s too general, too similar to her mom and sister. Every time she hears it, she swears she feels something in her chest tighten and release. Minister Eldon’s granddaughter is more precise, but there’s also Deborah, so it’s also not her own. Nyra shifts on her feet. Her dress is too big, her name’s too Ascalonian. She doesn’t know what she wants to be called, and her ministerial grandfather towers over her like ruins of Rin. 

Nyra uselessly taps her small heels against the Krytan, marble floors.

— 1321 AE 

Wind screams on the day of Deborah’s funeral. Its sad wails threaten to overshadow the priest’s voice, even against their best attempts to be louder. Nyra blinks, her eyes are wet with unshed tears and she’s not sure she can blame it on the foul weather. 

Her parents cry, voiceless, beside her. Leyiton is stunned into silence. Eldon looks at the empty grave, stone-faced. They’re all short-haired now. As per Ascalonian mourning customs, they all cut their hair off. Nyra, though - or Alysannyra, in its pure, unadulterated, Ascalonian form - isn’t. She’s cut some, but only half. Eldon threatened to cut it all off before the funeral, Nyra refused. She even chose to not tie it back, but allowed it to fall on her shoulders, simple, unadorned, just like the black clothes she’s wearing. Not fully Krytan, with its long, mourning hairstyles, not fully Ascalonian in its scarcity. Caught between two worlds, she chooses her own. 

“My sister isn’t dead,” she shouted back at her grandfather. “I won’t mourn for someone who’s not dead!” Still, it didn’t stop her from crying so hard her eyes are now bloodshot. Wind weeps in her ears. 

Alysannyra is 15 years old. 

At least she knows who she attends as. In the days leading up to the funeral, in the midst of her parents’ pain and her grandfather’s quiet stoicism, she made up her mind to correct anyone who says her name wrong from now on. She’s Nee-ra, the same way Debs said it when she was around. A last remnant of her sister, if she’s truly dead, which Nyra doubts. Hair beats against her face and she blinks again. 

It’s only when the priest finishes their rite that Nyra allows herself a sob. Logan Thackeray, her Ascalonian mentor, presses a hand against her shoulder.

– 1325 AE 

“Lyss, a question, if I may.” 

The night’s quiet and cool. Nyra feels warm, though, even if Trahearne isn’t, thanks to his sylvari body; she’s had a lot of fun exploring it just an hour ago, she can’t really complain. It feels a lot like a good workout, with even residue soreness, and she’s decided to forego the thin blanket on their bed. She rather likes the way he’s looking at her. 

“You may. I permit a single question and no more.” She raises her head from the pillow and rests it on her palm. Her elbow digs into the softness of the mattress, shaking gently with her laughter. From up here, he looks very exquisite. 

“Is your name deliberate? Is it a purposeful invocation of the goddess or a happy accident?” There’s a note of barely contained excitement in his voice, like he’s been dying to ask her this question for ages now. Of course he’d ask. Not that she minds - they’ve spoken at length about each other’s cultures and customs. He’s answered her many questions (alongside ones about his plant body, which made him laugh and her frown in flustered embarrassment) so now it’s her turn. 

In truth, she’s never felt this safe with someone before. Not like this. There’s been Renira and their one aimless hookup, but Nyra’s never let herself forget that Renira is a spy. There’s been Mirka, but she wasn’t quite in love with her. This time, Nyra feels warmth settle in her chest and knows, deep down in her heart, that she now has a soft place to land when it gets tough. 

(And it does get tough, battling with your own head. She can tell him and they can sort it out, however. It feels so natural, as if it had always been there.) 

“Choose a question to answer,” she replies cheekily, “I said only one!” 

“No,” Trahearne says, wiggling on the bed until he too is leaning on his elbow and looking in her eyes. He’s using that scholar voice of his that she finds incredibly endearing. “One is an additional explanation to the other. See, same question, asked twice.” 

Nyra stares at him for a moment and then breaks into a wide grin. “Alas, I am beaten!” She says it in the most melodramatic voice known to man and he giggles. 

“For my prize,” he begins, feigning consideration, "I demand an answer to my single question.” 

“And not the lady? I’m offended. You’re such a scholar!” She shakes her head fondly. “But no, it's not deliberate. I was named after my mother’s cousin, who died in childbirth a year or so before I was born. But maybe her parents named her after the goddess?”

“Is it sacrilegious? To bear the gods’ names?”

“It’s not a usual practice, admittedly. And to tell you honestly, I wouldn’t say it is. But the strangeness of it just somehow feels like a premonition to some people. Like I’m destined to do things they won’t like.”

Suddenly he gets all serious and gently guides her down on the bed. Her breath hitches a little, surprised by the gesture. He then leans down to softly kiss her and she melts against the mattress. She could kiss him all day and not get tired of it. “One Kormir is enough,” he says against her lips and strokes her hair. “You’re not a goddess. You’re my Lyss, no matter how godly your name is.”

Nyra can only kiss him in response. 

�� 1334 AE 

Elandrin refuses to use anything beside her full name, Alysannyra. Not even her surname, as some are wont to do; her name, directly, as if he wants no doubt as to who he’s referring to. She appreciates it, in a weird way. At least he says it with a very accented Ascalonian pronunciation and doesn’t alter it to make it easier to say.  

If you hate someone, hate them right, she supposes. That sentiment is why her eyebrows shoot up when she sees him approach, glowing softly in the dying light of day, and why her battle-sore muscles tense. That voice, borderline a shout, gives him away. Elandrin’s always shouting. 

“I told Trahearne you’d be back,” he says. “Repeatedly.” 

It takes her a moment to register the convoluted compliment. Still, she doesn’t lower her guard. “Thank you, Elandrin,” she replies, trying to be as casual as possible. Elandrin Aien doesn’t just give compliments for no reason.

Maybe she’s not used to being off the battlefield yet, though. It always takes her a moment to regain awareness of that fact. She straightens her back, feeling decidedly off kilter. 

“I was just stating the obvious. No need to puff your chest like that, not to me. I know someone who’d be over the moon if you did it, though.” He cackles, grinning at his own joke. 

Nyra squints. “That’s between me and him,” she reminds him sharply. “I don’t need you commenting on the state of my and Trahearne’s relationship.” 

People pass by, intrigued by the exchange. Many pairs of eyes land on them and Nyra imagines this is somehow a duel in the noble halls of her childhood, but much more personal and a lot less trivial. An audience, she thinks. Great. 

“Stop me if you can,” he says and it sounds like a challenge. It’s not something she can turn down, not with this many eyes on them. Then, unexpectedly, his voice loses some of its edge. “Alysannyra.” 

Her shoulders relax. “I may just take you up on that,” she replies, surprised by the languid casualness of her tone, “Elandrin.” 

Something’s shifted in that exchange of names. Not a syllable mispronounced, not a letter cut short, but a world different to the vitriol her name had on his lips just a year ago, or the aggravation his name held on hers. She doesn’t have the time to inspect that thought, however, because the crowd gathers to greet their hero and they all shout one name, her own.