Archive of Our Own ^beta

i.

Sorsha was four the first time the armsmaster puts a wooden sword in her hands. It was sized for her, just a little heavier than is comfortable. That set the tone for how she will train for the rest of her life.

Master Baerne showed her how to stand and hold the sword in her right hand, how to support it with her left. Made her hold it steady as she took a step forward with her right foot, then back. Step forward with her left foot, then back. Over and over and over, one foot after another, until her legs hurt and her arms shook.

“Stand still,” he told her. “Keep your guard up.”

Tears burned her eyes. Sorsha blinked and blinked and blinked. She refused to cry. None of her mother’s warriors cried. She would not be the first.

“Good,” Master Baerne said after a year or two. “Lower your sword.”

She tried, but it her fingers clenched and released; her sword fell into the dirt.

“Pick it up!”

She scrambled for it, got both hands on the hilt, managed to stand in front of him without falling over and without crying.

“Good,” he said again, and it felt like the sun.

ii.

Sorsha was twelve the first time her mother sent her out with a hunting party.

Master Baerne said she was too young to go out with grown men. Mother disagreed, and her mother was queen. What the queen said, the men did. Master Baerne armed her, armored her, and instructed the men to treat her with respect.

That might have been the worst thing he could do.

Sorsha didn’t know it at the time. She expected respect. Master Baerne respected her even when he beat her into the dirt. The castle staff respected her, bowed their heads when she passed, let her sneak treats from the kitchens after she’d finished her training and her lessons.

The hunters did not respect her.

They didn’t speak to her the entire first day of riding. She didn’t mind that. She could listen to what they said and learn from it. That’s exactly what she did with her mother. She lingered in the corners of rooms when her mother met with her advisors and her generals.

They didn’t stop riding until nightfall. She wasn’t used to be astride for so long. Her rear end hurt, and her thighs from squeezing.

The men gave her no time to rest.

“Princess,” their captain said, a sly smile twisting his expression, “you’re not in your sweet castle. We all pull our own weight. You’ll build the fire tonight, put out your own bedroll. No featherbeds out here.”

Sorsha raised her chin imperiously and looked at them. He laughed at her outright, straight into her face, and she heard snickering from the others.

It took her three tries to get the fire set right, at least to the captain’s standards. She had sword calluses already, but her hands were rubbed raw in places from the reins and gathering so much wood.

Her bedroll had rocks under it no matter where she put it. The men snored, and she couldn’t fall asleep for hearing them. She’d never slept outside like this, no tent, no guards, no rope bed to hold her comfortable.

In the morning, the captain kicked her awake. Nudged her thigh with his boot, but it felt closer to a kick than something gentle.

“Wake up, princess,” he snarled. “No one’s gonna wait for you.”

She dragged herself to her feet. Rolled her bedroll tight, saddled her horse, tied down her gear. Ate hard bread and dried meat, drank water, hauled herself onto her horse.

Didn’t complain, not once, even when her bottom ached and her thighs burned and blisters broke on her fingers.

They called her princess the entire time. She kept her chin up, her expression calm, her eyes cold.

She hated them a little more every time they called her princess, but she listened, and she learned.

iii.

When she was younger, Sorsha thought her mother had two sides: Queen Bavmorda, cold because she had to be cold to be respected and strong with her magic; Mother, who was a little cool because she was under scrutiny even when she was with her family but who loved her, who would stroke her hair and tell her of all the powerful women who had come before them. Tell her of the magic that burned through her blood.

No magic burned within Sorsha, only the song of battle.

Her mother turned from her then. She said nothing, but Sorsha could hear the words whispering around her: powerless girl, silly child, useless daughter.

She took up her sword more often, added hours of training. Master Baerne was old now and had three apprentices. She fought each of them into the dirt every time she trained with them.

They sneered at her when they first came to the castle. They didn’t sneer at her long.

iv.

Sorsha was nineteen the first time the queen sent her out to squash a minor uprising. The village was four days riding. Sorsha let her men talk amongst themselves, laughed at bawdy jokes they told, sparred with them when they stopped. She set up camp with them each night. Took the worst hours for watch.

They whispered, sometimes, when they thought she could not hear them.

She lurked in the shadows to listen. Looked for insubordination. There was none, not really. They spoke of the queen in oblique words, nothing that sounded like actual treason.

The men feared the queen.

Such was the price of power, Sorsha learned. Such was the reward of power, too.

Sorsha led her men straight into the fight. Bloodied her sword more than the others. Forced the villagers to kneel, to swear fealty to the queen, to her mother’s crown.

The men whispered about her after that. They feared her, a little, perhaps, but mostly they respected all that she’d done.

v.

Sorsha was too old to believe in fairy tales and love stories when she rode at the head of the queen’s armies.

Only Kael sat as her equal. She hated him because her mother thought him special. He carried no magic, either, but he was a man, and in a man, magic was a travesty.

They took a castle, and then another. Each time, Sorsha proclaimed them conquered in the name of Her Majesty Bavmorda, Sovereign of Nockmaar, Sorceress Magnific, Primal Priestess of Cults and Covens.

It had been years since she called her queen mother and meant it with affection.

Sorsha loved her mother, but even more she loved her sword and the song of battle and the high of victory.

She would never fight for a queen who wanted her love, but Sorsha didn’t need that, not when she wore her sword at her hip and led her men to victory after victory after victory.

0.

Elora Danan was a warm weight in her arms, a sweet smell, a dear smile -- a queen who loved and was loved, and Sorsha burned with the need to serve her and protect her and adore her always.