#I’ll try to update frequently whether that be with chapters or filler content

[rekindled-rqau]

Rekindled RQAU

Chapter 1 - Maven’s perspective

Chapter Summary• Maven wakes in a strange quiet cell. He doesn’t know where he is or how he’s even alive. He doesn’t get any answers until after guards drag him out into an unfamiliar room where he is faced with an unfamiliar face that he’s going to have to get used to. Notes/Warnings• strong emotions ig and maybe some strong language? imprisonment? I don’t plan on having too many triggering concepts anytime soon, but let me know if there’s anything I should cw/tw! [Also if anyone has tips for formatting!! It’d be welcome!!

I am alive. In spite of all impossibility, I am alive. Confusion gives way to disappointment as I sit up, finding that I am in fact not in any sort of afterlife, but rather what seems to be a cell with silent stone. Some might argue that this would be a fitting punishment for the life I led, but I hold no such beliefs. I somehow escaped the wrath of Mare Barrow.

Mare.

A chill runs down my spine as the image of light fading from her eyes and my hands wrapped around her throat flickers through my mind. There is no way anyone would leave me breathing if she were dead— before I can stop myself, I a twinge of relief twists in my gut and sends a light wave of nausea over me. weak— weak— my mother’s voice is feeble, muffled by the silence of the cell, but neither her voice nor it being muffled are much comfort.

I’m not given much time to process or recover as the door to the cell opens, two guards entering in solemn silence. They don’t say a word as they hoist me up from where I was sitting, dragging me out into the hallway ahead. I don’t let myself hope for even a flicker: I know better than that.

Silences. The guards are silences, and judging by their undertones, they’re red blooded— newbloods. They’re merciless, their ability slamming into me and effectively snuffing out any control of flame I may have had and with it any thoughts of escape. Still, I hold my head high and sneer at them as they take a turn into a different passage. The cells —rooms— here don’t have observation windows, and when they open the door at the end of the hall I’m surprised to find that it seems to be a plain room, all neutrally colored and dimly lit. As they release me both physically and ability wise, I note the complete absence of fire for me to try and latch onto.

“Go get cleaned up, there is a change of clothes in the bathroom for you,” the taller of the guards instructs in a low voice.

With a better grip on my bearings, I survey them as they turn away, looking to see exactly who I’m dealing with. No insignia, no symbol— not even a defining color. Their uniforms are simple and neutral-toned. I don’t bother to speak to them, not as they close the door behind them, locking it with a light click.

In spite of the situation, I can’t help but straighten my spine and lean into my returning strength. No silent stone. I need to look presentable, so I must be seeing someone soon. Whether it be my brother or Mare or some faceless executioner, I do not know.

It has been well over an hour now, and I’ve since searched the small room. Nothing of use, just an empty bookshelf, simple bed, and some plain seating arrangement with a sofa, cushioned chair, and small table. The lingering voice of my mother has gone quiet with or without the work of silence to dull it, as it seems that even she doesn’t have a solution. So I wait, idling on the couch. For a moment, I ponder if no one is coming, if I’m just to live out the remainder of my life in simplicity, the mercy of my loving brother.

Click.

I straighten, but don’t tense. I prepare myself for my brother, to berate him for keeping me alive. Mare, to instigate her into striking me down, lightning and all. Hell, even that Farley woman, someone that’d relish in getting to put an end to my life. But not this.

A fairly young looking girl with tan skin and dark brown, short, curled hair steps into the room. Like the guards, she is dressed in neutral tones— albeit more casual with a white sweater and black-brown skirt rather than a proper uniform. Like the guards, her skin betrays her red blood. She can’t hardly be older than me. Instead of a weapon, she carries with her a tray with a cup of water and sandwiches.

She visibly starts as she feels my gaze on her, but she recovers quickly by clearing her throat and fixing her big, round glasses.

“Hello, you must be Maven— you may call me Celemence.”

Maven. Clemence. “Surely first names are a tad bit casual,” I drawl lazily. It’s clear to me that this Clemence is not who I’m supposed to be seeing— perhaps just someone to bring me a final meal.

I don’t bother to track her movements as she sits down in the cushioned chair opposite of me, setting the tray down on the small table. When I still don’t look at her or the food she brought, she gives the tray a push in my direction. I glance over at her and the simple but well-made sandwiches. I refrain from taking a page out of Mare’s book and spitting at her.

“It’s casual because you don’t have authority here and neither do I.”

If I were any other noble I’d blubber and blanch at such a notion, but I school my features into neutrality. you are not on even ground with her, you are above her, my mother’s voice finally speaks clearly for once since I’ve woken up, her familiar hand of guidance keeping me level.

“My brother may have stolen my throne from me, but I am still a prince born and raised,” I reply icily.

Clemence flicks her brown eyes over me before shaking her head. “Norta is no longer a monarchy and is in the process of redeveloping a government of blood-equality. In other words, you and your kin have been stripped of any nobility.”

Mother’s low hiss bounces around my skull as the revelation settles in. The monarchy of Norta is over. Although irked, I find this to be an explanation as to why this newblood shows no nerves in my presence. What a fool. Royal or not, surely she should know what I’ve done to her kind.

I sweep my gaze over her again, intending to spark discomfort in her. She doesn’t even flinch. “Since you’re being so transparent about that, I take it there are no secrets? Then tell me, where am I and what am I doing here? If you’ve nothing useful to tell me, I’m going to have to excuse you as I am expecting someone.”

Her eyes widened. And then she put a hand to her mouth. And stifles a bark of laughter. It’s a blatant insult. “Oh! Oho, nono. You misunderstand, I’m the only visitor permitted to be scheduled at the moment,” she explains, straightening her back and remastering her composure. “We’re on Tuck Island in a secure bunker, and all you’re here to do is to— how do I put— recover.”

It’s my turn to laugh now, a harsh, horse sound coming from me —damned dry throat— but as her pleasant, patient smile remains, I still. That was not a poor-taste joke. I am a prisoner and this floundering little thing is my jailer— or worse, someone to “fix me” as she sees fit. Again, my mother has nothing to say, a theme that’s becoming common in this situation.

As if she can sense my unease without picking apart my face, her smile falls into something smaller, softer. “I am not here to control you, nor am I a jailer. I am here with a single task: to help you.”

The pity does nothing to soothe me as my mask further slips.

“What are you,” I demand in a low, hissing voice. And then I feel it. I feel the gentle hands reaching within me, lightly brushing over the rising anxiety, smoothing over my nerves, leaving warm calm in their wake. If it weren’t for the caress of her ability, I’d be mortified. She must know it, because she pulls back enough for me to be able to shake off her hold on my emotions.

“I cannot look into your mind and I cannot control it. I am a tuner, and all I can do is attune myself to your emotions, past and present. What I just did only scratches the surface as to what I can do with my ability.” She must be able to see what little this does to put me at ease —of course she can, it’s within her damnable red ability— because she elaborates further, “I only affected your emotions then because the tension within you was palpable and I thought it would be a decent demonstration.”

If it weren’t so intrusive as is, I might find comfort in knowing that no one else would be pawing around in my head to take control. If it weren’t something I was unfamiliar with, I might welcome it. “So? What, your ability is supposed to let you help me? If the strongest whispers couldn’t fix me, I doubt you’ll be able to do much,” I scoff, piecing together the last pieces of the picture. Cal sent her to try and bring back whatever brother he foolishly still loves.

Clemence tuts softly. “Your mo —Elara’s— work is impressive if not monstrous, but it is imperfect,” she pauses for a moment before continuing, “at least, as I was told. I still needed to confirm it, and from what I've gathered it holds true. Yes, she cut apart your mind, but there are roots that remain. If I were to guess, she likely used methods of suppression to keep you or anyone else from properly feeling out such flaws in her schemes.”

I don’t know if it’s mother’s shriek or mine that rings in my mind, but it quiets as I feel a sliding hand gripping it, rendering it silent as the calm pours in. It’s a small action, but it helps quiet my mind better than most forms of silence have managed. I’d be appreciative if it weren’t completely incredulous and beyond what I’ve earned in my lifetime.

“My brother is a fool and so are you. Whatever you may be able to sense, you’re mistaken. There us nothing left of—“ the lie dies in my throat as my voice becomes choked and breathing turns ragged in my chest, a wave crashing over me as I feel myself being enveloped. And it pours out. Rage, Misery, Fear, Long Forgotten Warmth And Love, Imagination— it assaults my senses so much so I stagger, my hands fumbling to brace myself against the sofa. I realize why my throat closed up as fat tears prick the corners of my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. I can’t remember the last time I cried without it being on my command or my mother’s.

And then it stops. The overwhelming cacophony of emotions dribble away into soothing hands caressing my nerves once again. I don’t have time to process as my tears are dabbed by a soft cloth. I lean heavily into the couch, my breathing taking more time to ease than the emotions that were pulled out of whatever roots remain. I stare up into Clemence’s eyes, boring into her as I search for any explanation. She obliges.

“Like I said, acting as a means of stress relief only scratches the surface. I was contacted to help you because attuning myself to your emotions allows me to draw them out. Past and present. I cannot remove what has been implemented, but that was never the problem.” Her voice is as soft as the cloth that she presses against my silver flushed face as she continues on, “puzzles cannot be completed with damaged pieces. I am here to help you regrow your emotions from the root by drawing them out enough for you to take them back. Everything that we are doing is going to be all you with a nudge from me, but I can’t do that if you’re not willing to work with me. Please, consider this a chance to be more than what your mother made you. Consider this a chance to be you.”

The hands of her ability linger even as she pulls back, tucking the damp cloth into a pocket in her skirt before dipping her head to me, turning to leave. “If you need more water or food, all you need to do is call— I’ll be responsible for serving meals at decent times.”

I don’t have a response as Clemence leaves, the door locking behind her. My mother has no response either, no. What response could either of us come up with for what should be impossible. What response could either of us muster for what I don’t deserve.

chapter 1 • chapter 2