manorian oneshots and hcs

3 - rememberence

A/N: all I listened to when writing this was cigarettes after sex so you know... keep that in mind!!

☆Summary☆
Manon remembers The Thirteen.

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･''･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*

Some days the pain was so bad that Manon felt she couldn't get out of bed. Those, naturally, were the worst days, for two reasons. Experiencing that grief, that hit her so hard she was completely incapacitated, as if she could just disappear completely. Then, along with that grief, the fact that she couldn't just say in bed. As queen, she couldn't. It wasn't even an option. So she'd sit there, through meetings that only ever seemed to detail the destruction that had been done to the Witch Kingdom, and feel herself break, over and over again.

Then, on other days, her grief would manifest in other horrific ways. On certain days she felt like the only way she could make it through the day without killing someone was by flying up through the clouds with Abraxos, far away from her kingdom, from her crown, and from any reminder of the twelve witches she had lost. And yet, as if part of some cruel joke, even up there she couldn't escape her crushing pain. She would be flying, finally forgetting those days on the battlefield, and then she'd turn to speak to a Second who was never there. Who would never be there.

She hated it. She hated it. She hated how sometimes she'd forget - only to remember, and to experience that unending realisation again. She hated how she couldn't talk to anyone about it, knowing that if she did, there was a chance she would completely shatter, and never be remade again. And, most of all, she hated that the only person she knew who could ever possibly understand was half way across the world, leading his own kingdom, and shouldering his own grief.

And now, even now, Manon could feel that unending ocean of grief building up, stretching into the distance and preparing to drown her in waves that would never let up. The feeling only got worse as the queen approached the Terrasen border.

Every year a vigil was held in Terrasen, on the anniversary of the end of the war. The memorial was an event where whoever any of the attendees were, it didn't matter. After it had been announced that something that would happen, Aelin had made it clear that anyone was welcome, no matter what their experience in the war had been. Naturally, people came from all across the continent, including various leaders. Nesryn and Sartaq had promised that a similar vigil would be held in the Southern Continent, and when the distances were still too far for people to travel, they would light a fire in their home which would burn throughout the night, as a symbol for everyone who had been lost.

As the rolling hills of Terrasen appeared below, Manon turned her thoughts to her kingdom. The destruction from it being abandoned for so long was widespread and catastrophic. As soon as they had made it home after the end of the war, Manon had sent out a group of scouts to survey the damage, and, whilst the news had been bad, there were still glimmers of hope. The witches reported temples which still seemed to be miraculously standing, entire villages which could, if need be, still hold people, and appearing everywhere were areas of greenery, a sign of the queen finally returning home.

However even with these small pieces of good information, she still faced further issues. The war had only served to further divide the Crochans and the other clans, highlighting how different they were. Everywhere she turned, Manon faced opposition. The Yellowlegs saw her as a witch-killer, the Blackbeaks saw her as a traitor, and the Crochans viewed her as unworthy of the crown she wore. Only a few weeks after they had made it home, Bronwen had been bringing in reports of rebels, somehow already trying to take Manon's crown.

Manon pulled her hands away from the reigns to press them to her temples, trying to soothe the ache that had seemed to come with taking the throne. She sat there, the only sound breaking through the nighttime silence the boom of Abraxos' wings. She leant down to pet her loyal mount, and as she sat back up she caught site of the towers of Orynth appearing on the horizon.

Soon enough, the Plain of Theralis came into view, the Florian River a streak of silver as it reflected the moonlight. She brought Abraxos down slowly, not wanting to wake the entire city with the sound of a wyvern landing outside the city walls, and as she dismounted he nudged her with his snout.

"You can accompany me if you wish," Manon said to him, staring into your eyes, "or you can stay here. It's your choice." She remembered Narene, Abraxos' beautiful mate who had died when... who had died in the Yielding. Abraxos nudged her agin, and as she began to walk to the centre of the plain, he followed her closely.

Manon could feel her heart growing heavier as they got closer to that blasted bit of earth. They had built a memorial, an act which Manon would always be grateful for, and Aelin had ensured that whatever was built wouldn't cover that one part of the plain - the lasting sign of The Thirteen's sacrifice. And indeed, the queen of Terrasen had stayed true to her word. The memorial resembled a sun, with a central circular band of stone surrounding the blasted earth, and rays of stone of varying length branching out from it. On the central band, the names of Manon's Thirteen were written, inscribed in iron. On each of the rays were the names of every witch who had died protecting Orynth, their sacrifice memorialised forever in metal.

Softly, quietly, Manon walked between one of those rays, not ignoring the names written there. Abraxos stayed behind her, curling up and pressing his snout into the ground where his mate had once stood. Manon carefully made her way towards the centre of the memorial, even as it felt like that with each step her heart cracked further.

Silently, Manon dropped to her knees. And for hours she kneeled in silence. The wind and the occasional rustle of Abraxos' wings were all that accompanied the queen, and yet as her shoulders bowed inwards, she imagined she could feel her Thirteen around her, their talking and laughing filling the air as it had for over a hundred years.

She remembered Asterin's wild laugh, Sorrel's kind eyes, and Vesta's smile. She remembered Ghislaine's excitement, the twins' understanding quiet, and Thea and Kaya's silent moments of happiness. She remembered Imogen's wise words, her Shadows' beauty, and Linnea's voice. She remembered it all. And there, on that broken, scorched, scarred piece of earth, the Queen of Witches fell apart.

Her sobs shattered the peaceful quiet, holding her face in her hands as she broke underneath the memories of her sisters. She looked at the ground through her tears, then at the sky, where the stars stared back at her.

"I can't do it." Manon let out. A broken admittance of her weakness, which she had known for a while now. "I can't do it without you." She continued, still looking up at the sky. "I don't know how to do any of it, and I'm so scared of failing. I don't want to fail you." The unspoken end of the statement hung in the air: because then your sacrifice will have been for nothing.

The queen kneeled there, looking up at the sky, as no one responded to her words. A breeze flowed over the plain, bringing with it sounds of the city and the river, but no one responded to Manon's words. She let herself fold inwards again, returning her eyes to that barren bit of earth. Where her gaze remained for hours.

It was only when the first few signs of dawn were showing on the horizon that he joined her. The scent of books and ice reached her before he did, but even as he knelt next to her, she couldn't find the energy to look up at Dorian.

However, when he lowered himself down further, she allowed her head to rest on his shoulder. Showing him the weight of her crown and her grief, something which only he could understand. Dorian didn't say anything. He knew her so well, and he knew that now there was nothing he could say. Nothing he could do other than stay there with Manon, allowing her to rest on his shoulder and for him to hold her hand in his.

So there they stayed, for hours, remembering the twelve beautiful witches who had given their lives so that forces for good in this world could survive. And as the city of Orynth woke on the day of the vigil, guards on the city walls saw two figures kneeling on the Plain of Theralis, the rising sun behind the two monarchs bathing them in golden light.

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･''･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*

1502 words!!
Hahaha I love being sad
Sorry updates have been slow as hell, I getting absolutely annihilated with exams rn so I have quite a lot going on, but I promise I am writing when I can
Thanks for reading!