#hetaliawriter'sdiscord week

[flyingsassysaddles]

Day 3, Winter

Notes: One day late, but here’s the April 10th prompt, “Winter,” for the female characters week at @hetaliawritersdiscord ! A few historical notes here: in some parts of Tibet, it was common practice for a family of brothers to marry the same woman, in a form of polygamy. It could be from 2 to any number of men, but all children produced in the marriage were treated as brother and sisters, and since the mother kept secret on who the father is, every husband acted as the father to all children. Even if its a bit obvious who the father is (Dad #1 leaves for Lhasa for a month leaving Dad #2 alone with the wife, comes back a months later and then a baby comes 9 months sorta situation) all children were treated equally, no favoritism was allowed. This form of polygamy is still practiced in some places in Tibet, since it was a good way to keep all the land in the family! This involves Nyo!Tibet, and the rest are just eh characters

Summary: Dehen is traveling up a mountain to see if the shrine and the spirits can answer her moral dilemma of gaining a new husband, her other 3 husband’s brother, despite the fact he’s 15 and she’s 7 years older then him. 

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It was cold on the mountain, her feet complained. Her shoes were worn and old, passed down from Dehen’s mother, but they fulfilled their jobs just the same, with a bit of creaking here and there. Up, up the mountain she continued, her dress brushing with a mash of snow and dirt and her apron becoming stained from the offering she was holding in her hands. What depraved man thought that putting a shrine on the top of a hill was a good idea?! The Tibetan mother grumbled, wishing her children were old enough to carry the offering for her and lift the load off her back, but the daughters and one, beautiful son were still only 7 years of age at most. At least she got some peace in quiet, Dehen grumbled. Her husbands should be able to handle them. After her mind touches the memory of her three husbands, all brothers, she jerked it to a stop. The reason she was climbing this mountain with the blasted cold offering in her hands was to avoid thinking about that. To receive one blessing or other from the mountain. If she had to hear one more word about the new marriage from her mother in law, she would scream. It shouldn’t have troubled her. She and her first husband, her childhood sweetheart no less, had gotten married when they were 15, the same age as her new groom to be. Sure, it had been 7 years ago, but it wasn't all that different, was it? Her friend had gotten married to a younger man a few years ago, this was no different. It was the tradition that the brothers of the family all take the same wife, lest the land be split up amongst a bunch of sons and competing wives. Her mother in law was simply following that tradition; now that her youngest son was of marriageable age, he should go the same way as his 3 brothers and marry Dehen. It started to snow, breathes of frozen water falling onto the mountain path and making it a bit slicker. The mountain was quiet, foreboding. Dehen’s felt that its mind as well was stumbling with the problems of the earthly realms, an overbearing mother in the sky and screaming children in the boulders. She promised to bring the mountain spirit an offering on her way down. Tenzin, her 2nd husband, had been the one to suggest she go to the shrine. He seemed to sense that she was unsettled, off in a way a silent newborn was off, or a new taste in a familiar dish. He was always the kind one, taking care of her, bringing her tea. It didn’t take long for him to win her heart, though she loved all of them. Her first husband, Niyama,  was off these days as well. He scowled more, yelled at the children and scoffed at the notion he was behaving incorrectly. His ego had taken a toll when each of his brothers started living in his house and raising all of their collective children, but it was never this terrible. Perhaps the thought of his little brother with his wife was troubling to him as well. The third, and often, last man, was silent. Dolma was always silent. During their wedding, the night after. He was a strong figure, yes, but he studied everyone and never made a sound beyond “pass me the food.” He was the most unnerving to marry so far, but he wasn’t terrible. She knew that one of the daughters was his, but she would ever tell which. It struck her that he wouldn't be a very doting father. Who knows what that frustrating man thought of his brother entering his marriage. She’d probably find out when the sky fell down. In the beginning, she had taken his silence as a challenge. The hard shell was to be broke, she had sworn, and she spent day after day and night after night trying to break his silence. It was fun, in a way. She spent more time with Dolma than all of the others, watched him do chores, asked for his advice on her cooking and grinned at him often. Yet all she got for her efforts was a few smiles and a daughter. By now she had given up, and then he seemed to fade into the background behind Niyama’s charm and Tenzin’s kind smile. She left her mind in those memories as the snow flew down, the ice mountain slick and the shrine ringing its bells in the wind once she dragged her feet to the top. Come to me, it seemed to ring. Dehen sighed and followed its order, dropping her offering in the prescribed bowl and muttering a quick prayer.  With a few words describing her predicament, she waited for the skies and boulders and mountains to offer advice, but little came. A look at the sky showed a mix of wind and snarls, thundering down. She blinked. When did it get this bad? Her hands were shaking now, her body still a bit frail from the baby a year ago, and her sandals felt oiled as she started to walk down. The storm grew fiercer and fiercer, and mountain spiriting narrowing its eyes at is forgotten gift left at the shrine. She should have given it to it at the foot of the mountain, the wind whispered. Dehen couldn’t listen as she was focusing on not losing her step. Down, down the mountain she walked, mind now clear in the face of possible danger. She remembered the question she left at the shrine as she fled.

Mountain spirit, I’m marrying a boy named Gyatso by the next full moon. He’s 15, and I’m 23 years. I’ve helped him learn how to handle a cow and run through fields.

The wind grew heavier now, her hair blocking her face and her messy apron far from the mushy gray snow, up in the air.

He’s like a brother to me. I love him very much, he’s an adorable child. Very hard working dedicated, innocent.

Her sandals were slipping, and she stumbled upon a shard of ice. Her breaths were shorter now, and her legs burned. Her children needed dinner.

But he’s like my brother. He’s a child. I can’t marry him. It feels...wrong. I know tradition says I must.

Dinner, she thought when her toe was stubbed and her hair blew in front of her face, Her children needed dinner. And Tenzin needed her, and Niyama wanted her help to decide the crops next year. Dolma was helping her with the finances today.

But I can’t. There has to be another way. I can’t lay with him.

She was halfway down the mountain when she fell over a scratchy branch, the rocks jabbing into her skull and itchy plants burying into her dress. She tasted blood.

His mother wants me to lay with him, she wants another grandson. My husbands I fear grow jealous of him, and I don’t know what they might do. There would be blood on the streets if I said no, with her temper.

She lied on the path, nails digging into her skins and tears leaking out. She must have angered the spirits somehow, god, why would they do this to her?! She had to see her children! She stumbled to her feet and tried to continue walking, but her leg was bleeding and her breaths were shallow. The wind pushed her down, to lean against a tree. Still, she got up again and walked down the path, determined to make it home, determined to make it though, She would see her husbands again, she would see her children again. She wasn’t going to die here. 

I hate this situation. I don’t know what to do. I tried convincing her to let him become a monk but she won’t listen.

A flash later, and she was thrown against the boulders, heat fizzling where the light left. Rain sleeted down along with the snow. She sat in near the boulders, blood flowing faster from her leg and her apron red. She hid beside the rocks, hands over her head, waiting for the storm to pass as the world started to grow hazy. In those last few moments, she couldn’t her husbands’ names.

Please, find a way to fix my problem. Make it go away.

The rocks no longer felt hard, but like a bed to rest on. Dehen went to sleep in the storm.

Please, just make the whole thing go away.

The world went dark as the mountain completed her wish.

[flyingsassysaddles]

Day 4, Star Crossed

Notes: This is for April 11th for @hetaliawritersdiscord ‘s female character week! This one is with Both Nyo!Tibet and Nyo!Mongolia, a bit short this time cause I ran out of ideas :P a bit of a historical note, it was common for assassins to sneak into gers to kill people in the dead of night, cause, you know, no doors. This is why a ton of mongols had guard dogs and Genghis Khan’s personal guard was ordered, if they see someone that did not have express permission to be near his ger, to kill them on sight. Tibmongol, One shot, maybe. A bit of nsfw??

Summary: It was when the assassin came that Khulan knew they were cursed.

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It was after the assassin came that Khulan knew that they were cursed. She cradled Dehen closer to her, fingers digging into the dying woman’s skin as she sobbed. The assassin stood to the side, blood pooling out of his gut and onto the floor, forgotten. He was simply a messenger from the Yuen clan, a sign that she had ventured to close, that her uncles and father had killed too many a soldier, had stepped too far over the line. They couldn’t send the assassin to her father and his hundreds of guards and dogs outside his ger. No, they sent the assassin to his daughter, to attack her best friend, her lover. And with her father’s emblem on the felt walls of her ger, she watched Dehen smile, reaching for her face. “I have to say, I’m starting to wish I became a nun in Lhasa,” she croaked, the Tibetan flinching as the pain pulsed through her again. She clutched Khulan’s deel, bleeding for her father’s mistakes. “I-idiot,” Khulan trembled, burying herself into the Tibetan’s chest and feeling the week pulse of her friend's heart. The pulse sang a song Khulan had been listening to for 13 years, from the first time she met the crying girl who had fallen off her horse, to the first time they held hands when playing in the snow, to when the girl trailed behind her as she brought the hunt back home, smiling when Khulan returned to her day and night. It was the song she chose to sing at night, confessing to her under a rare, barren tree and kissing the composer and let their harmonies ring together. They played the tune together at night, sharing a bed when Khulan’s husband was away, and added their own note, in harmony with the soft neighs of horses and half asleep dog barks. And it was that song that Khulan love so dearly, whey she held the smiling, dying composer even closer. “P-please, don’t leave me,” she sobbed. Why had she ever thought they would have lived together, that they would play their song for all of eternity? She was a khan’s daughter, she was always surrounded by assassins that slit throats in the dead of night, her father always told her. But she had looked away and played with Dehen, no assassin could hurt them when it was so bright, right? Why, oh why hadn’t she listened? She was vaguely aware of the guards outside of her door screaming, slashing the last life out of the messenger, but the only thing in the world was Dehen’s struggling eyes. “Khulan, I, I love you,” she whispered into her ear, and Khulan mouthed, “me too,” tears biting her eyes and heart twisted. She was a khan’s daughter, one of the greatest men of the steppe, and her friend lied dead in her arms. The stars above the ger sparkled contently as screams rose from the large ger near the center of camp, and the stars crossed over a pair of women who lost the musician for their song. ___ Khulan’s father studied the map, trying to figure out a way to attack the enemy Yuen, to deliver the skies justice upon them and eliminate their family once and for all. Now if only he could find that pesky child heir.   “Sir!” his general said, bowing deep below him though the Khan was sitting on the floor in bed garments. “Yes, what is it?” His eyes flicked from the map to the serious scarred general. “The assassin has completed his duty. Khulan is furious and ready to complete her role to slaughter the Yuen.” The general swallowed, finally making eye contact with the khan who ordered him to find the assassin. The Khan smiled. “Good.”

[flyingsassysaddles]

Day 4, Supernatural

Notes: A day, technically two days late, but it’s been a busy week. If I miss last few, they’ll prob be uploaded Sunday. This is day 4 for @hetaliawritersdiscord female character week! Characters are Nyo!Tibet and Nyo!Mongolia, not terribly long, oneshot.

Summary: The temple ghost was acting weird, so Dehen decided to check up on her to make sure she was okay. Memories run rampant, and soon she finally understand’s the ghost’s pain.

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The ghost in the temple was unusually quiet today. Dehen raised her eyebrows when she saw the forgotten warrior woman picking at the stones in the shrine, right above her supposed burial place. Her two braids billowed in nonexistent wind, and her bloody armor was still torn and roughed up by her final battle. She kept scratching a blood spot over her heart, where an arrow had hit hit. The fatal blow.

Dehen looked away, returning to her mediocre task of gathering used candles and snuffing them out. On a normal day the ghost would be loud and keep her company, but today, well, the woman would rather pick at the ground.

Determined to start a conversation, the bored nun said, “So how has your day been?” Her back was turned as she waited for the answer, picking up a gooey candle and blowing out the fire, smoke snaking in the air.

Dehen peeked over her shoulder to see the warrior woman’s reply. The ghost turned her head from the question and stared intently at the ground, eyes never leaving a small spot. The Tibetan frowned. “Now that’s just rude.”

The ghost finally turned to her, wide eyed and gesturing to the small hole. She opened her mouth and closed it, mouth forming the words, but Dehen heard nothing. Realizing she was silent, the ghost simply mouthed, “Please.”

The nun walked over to the place the ghost knelt, brow furrowed. Was this some sort of joke?The Mongol ghost was always pulling pranks, making her presence known by knocking over vases and tripping feet, but she had never been malicious or looked like the haunter she truly was.

When she came to the temple, they had told her that all off pure will and strong minds that only comes with meditation could see the ghost, as she made herself known so easily. Yet, with the braided woman looking at her so desperately, she now felt it was only her in the entire kingdom of earth who could help her. “What is it?” she asked softly, concern in her eyes.

Now that Dehen was closer, she could hear the words on the Mongol’s tongue. “My bed. It’s so bloody.” She pointed to the ground, to the spot her whispering fingers faded through, leaving no mark for her hour’s work. After an intense look at the spot marked by a small rock, indistinguishable from any other part of the stone floor, the setting sun did seem to cast a rather long shadow there. The shadows were almost red. “I’m bleeding,” the prankster croaked, grabbing her heart wound as if grasping a source of pain.

The nun continued to see nothing. The ghost beside her began wailing softly, rocking herself back and forth, face becoming dirtier and bloody, her armor now more used than before, like she was in the thick of battle. The sun cast blood over the walls as the ghost mourned for her life. This was so unlike her, this broken human that was hugging her shoulders. Yet the blood on the walls became redder, and Dehen grasped her candles tighter. The sun was almost set, and the har rose on the back of her head. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and there were chills on her spine as the stone floor become grass like the ground outside. The world was changing, caught in the memory of a buried body and her lingering spirit. Afraid to blink, afraid to move, she slowly reached out to the ghost, to the see through woman with the fun smile, but touched emptiness.

She jerked her head around, trying to find the woman, but saw nothing but empty fields. She got up, brushing dirt from her robes, only to find none. Her robes were clean. She reached to pick a piece of grass, but it slipped through her fingers untouched. The floor was the only touchable thing in the world, but even that felt unsteady. She looked down at her hands, and saw that she could see the grass underneath them. She grabbed her robe, but found she could not remove it. Whipping around to find some resemblance of life and to stop the bubbling panic arising in her, The wind did not disturb the cloth on her shoulders. As a no one, a ghost in a memory, she watched a battle unfold.

It started with the drums, the drums of horse feet against the ground as warriors threw themselves across the plane, one wearing the clothing of the ghost, and another riding the animals of the men she often seen in paintings, but she knew not who they were, or why these men were throwing death and shooting slices of danger from their bows. She watched a knife plunge through her without a sound, no disturbing the winkled of cloth as a man died before her. As she peer closer to the man who would have murdered her if she had been touchable, she saw he had no face.

A furious check of nearby soldiers concluded the same. They all had no faces.

No faces.

No souls.

Which means the dreamer must be someone with their own face, alive unlike these soulless bodies.

The nun looked around, wading silently through the blood and gore and war that surrounded her. Every time an arrow came close to her face, she flinched, every time a spear slipped past her organs she doubled over, expecting pain. The roar remained constant, blood soaking the ground and the air thick with action, screams, and she wanted to cuddle in a ball and hide, far away from conflicting, far away from blood, far away from the throwing spears she had been sheltered from her whole life. Yet she slipped through dying horses and faceless men aimlessly, looking for whoever held this dream, and if they could take her back to the temple. God, Dehen missed the stone floors already.

A a rock sailed through her head, she noticed a pair of eyes close to her. Eyes. A face. The face of the ghost woman buried underneath the temple. She walked over cautiously, but the ghost woman never acknowledged her existence. It was odd. In human form, with her striking black hair and sleek form, she looked kinda pretty. Enough of those thoughts, they served no purpose and- oh my god someone just threw a rock at her.

The ghost woman flinched as the rock bounced off her armor, face contorted in rage as she nocked an arrow and prepared to shoot. But it was there, with the woman off balance and crooked aim, that the world began to slow down. The edges became gray as the arrow hurtled towards her in slow motion. Dehen saw her eyes widened. She tried to reach out, to save the broken spirit on the temple floor, but the arrow ripped through her heart, her blood spot, accessible by a rip in her armor. She fell off her horse and onto the ground, and the world went darker and darker as the woman died.

Pressing darkness tore Dehen’s vision, panic bubbling in her throat as her arms became less real, she couldn’t remember her name, everything was empty and then-

Stone. Merciless, knee bruising stone. She opened her eyes, or perhaps they were already open and she was seeing for the first time. Her mind blanked, looking around the building she was in, and it wasn’t until she looked down at her hands and saw it grasping candles that she remembered. She was in the temple. She was real. She had a pet chicken when she was 7 years old, and her favorite color was yellow. Dehen lived again, sighing the death out, and then she looked beside her. The ghost wasn’t there.

She was no longer clawing on her death spot, where she was hit by that arrow and it tore through her heart, as she remembered so vidly. Without thinking her fingers started to move, poking at a small hole in the stone, and eventually she saw a glimpse of what was underneath, what they built the temple over. It was one of those markers they made for dead soldiers, to honor where they fell. She honestly didn't know of any others who did the practice, but when she looked down, she knew her fellow nuns had made it. Did they go through the same experience too?

On the marker was written the date. Spring, March 14th, year of the dragon. As the sun rose over the horizon and casted light again into the temple she realized. Wasn’t the past night March 14th?

“Hey silly goose!” a voice chirped, and Dehen jumped, jerking around to see the grinning ghost, back to her normal, prankster self, like usual. Now that it was March 15h. The previously broken individual grinned like a schoolgirl and looked at her, expecting a one liner or remark to leave her alone.

Like usual.

Like she didn't see the woman die.

Like she didn’t die with her.

And when the ghost skipped away, kicking some candles across the room with a giggle, Dehen was left alone in the stone temple, on top of a warrior woman’s forgotten grave.