*Book One of the Amor Fati Series*
Prince Calanthe Ámarent, once the child of a beloved queen regnant and now a disgraced prince, goes on a journey to re-discover his identity after experiencing tragedy, loss, and abuse at the hands of his Aunt, Qu...
**my inner creativity comes out when I can find songs that convey my characters' feelings. Hrafn is an underrated character in this series (always has been) and I'd like to do his character justice in my rewrite, he deserves more love**
Trigger Warning: mentions of abuse (mental and verbal)
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War, decay, and ruin. Where was the beauty and life in them? A flower could bloom from the ash of a burnt forest, but the scar on the land would never be forgotten.
That was what Hrafn pondered as he stood on the outskirts of the Tarynian encampment, body sore and exhausted. The breeze brought scents of the doused fields and the dead yet to be gathered. Between him and the castle of Eglantine had once been fields of soybeans and wheat and a few small farms, now what remained was but a shell of that. The farms and fields were abandoned, laden with corpses, blood, discarded weapons, and the destruction of battle.
Sixteen years Hrafn had stood beside Sindri, his husband and the king of Taryn, but for the first time in his life, he found himself missing the simplicity of their life before Sindri's demise.
If only there was a simple cure for man's insatiable hunger for power.
Hrafn dropped his gaze away as he headed back into camp, going to his and Sindri's tent. Hrafn had retired there earlier, stripping away his heavy armor and bathing in private. The water had turned crimson from the blood he had washed away. He couldn't get the blood from his thoughts. It brought back memories that gripped him with such fear that his mind only knew to fight or die. It was why he desired to go home to Taryn, but Sindri wanted Hrafn by his side and Hrafn was willing to oblige for as long as he could.
Upon Hrafn's arrival to the tent, he found Sindri sitting in a chair beside the firepit. He lifted his gaze to meet Hrafn's, the two regarded one another with mutual respect. Sindri looked rugged, his beard had missed trimmings and his hair had to be pulled back out of his face. Several scratches, cuts, and bruises littered his cheeks, chin, neck, and other various places. His shirt was draped over his thigh, revealing the hardened and bulky muscles that were hidden beneath. The dirt and filth of battle clung to him like a leech, and underneath it all, Hrafn still saw the man he had fallen in love with: a dreamer and a king with ambition.
Sindri raised an eyebrow, studying Hrafn for a mere fraction of a minute before he blurted out, "You're grim. What bothers you?"
Hrafn sighed long and approached the middle of the tent. "The same as the day before and the day before that. My views have not changed."
"We will be home soon enough," he replied bluntly, the same response as the last time Hrafn had spoken to him. It wasn't the response he wanted.
Hrafn quieted as he stood before the fire pit, only dead embers and burnt wood remained. During the day, fires were not needed but the nights brought a chill that the tent couldn't keep out. The cold wasn't going to go away either. It would only get worse over time. It was what had him worried, knowing that their people were waiting for their return before the harsh weather set in. The mountains of Folki, the treacherous peaks and cliffs that comprised the kingdom of Taryn, were unforgiving during the freezing period. He frowned and peered at Sindri on his left. Sindri clenched his jaw and broke gazes with Hrafn, staring at his tunic on his leg. It felt as if Sindri's care for their people had diminished over the past sixteen years, as if all he cared for was spitting in Aegar's face and marching around the East. It was petty foolery and childish of Sindri.
