Hawke is young and therefore time, to her, is infinite.
She has no concept of its beginning nor its end; she does not understand that it is but a string threading through her life, a constant presence but a finite one and she would, one day, reach its end. The best that she could hope for was that Time would not snap suddenly, would not break of its own accord.
There is no immortality running through Hawke’s veins nor any Magic to speak of. Nothing to warrant or even encourage this kind of thinking. There is simply the constant shadow of his parent’s protection, the seemingly forever peace of Tephra, the undisturbed depths of a youthful existence.
To her, this life is boring—static, filled with little adventure.
But the truth is that such safety built a cocoon that let her grow up wild and fearless and infinite.
So at first she almost does not notice Time’s pausing. She is rustling through leaves of the Forest, hunting for a scrap of excitement when the world comes grinding to a halt. The air grows stale, the wind dying with a whimper around her. For several moments, she continues to move forward through the mulch and the dying leaves until her head whips upward, hazel eyes widening as she peers out toward the horses.
When she notices them still (although that is not quite the right word, it is too ordinary), her heart begins to race in her chest, her pulse thumping violently in her neck. She almost wishes that Magnus and Ellyse were here, that her parents would step forward and drop their muzzles to reassure her that this was indeed okay (that she would be okay). But they do not come and she admonishes herself for the wish.
She would be brave. She was born of warriors. She would be made of sterner stuff than this.
Straightening her shoulders as she had seen her parents do, she lifts her chin and quells the tremors that run up her spine as she takes a step forward. As if that motion alone shatters the illusion, Time begins to speed forward. The horses leave, the ground dissolves beneath her hooves to be replaced by something new—by snow, by cold, by months that have no business being here just yet. By something wrong.
Her breath catches in her throat and she does her best to batten down the hatches of her own fear.
Her eyes trace the patterns that Time lines out for her, of the progression, and although there is a part of her that wishes to ignore its pull (a part that she is ashamed of), she wills it from existence.
Her parents would not turn away. Neither would she.
So Hawke takes another step forward, the supernatural snow crunching beneath her hooves—making the only sound to ring out around her. Her pace quickens along the path but she does her best to steady her breathing, to keep her eyes wide and observant although every instinct tells her to shut them tight.
When she sees the cave, surrounded by soft golden light, illuminated by the clutches of Autumn, she steps eagerly toward it. The pull toward it is undeniable, a magnet in her belly that drives her forward quicker and quicker until her coltish legs break from long walking strides to the quick staccato beat of a trot.
It is when she is still several feet away, her body warmed by a sun that has peeped outward from beneath a Winter’s cloud, that she hears the scream. It is hoarse and thick and low, so low that she strains to hear it, but the sound is undeniable. Hawke has never heard the scream of another, but her understanding of its origins are primal, and so is her reaction. The fear melts away from her, replaced by something purer, and she pushes forward off her youthful hocks, catapulting her young body into the mouth of the cave.
As she rushes through the dark, damp path of the cave, she comes upon the trident of choices.
Without thinking, without contemplating, she swings her head to the left and races toward the source.
She would be brave. She would be infinite.
hawke
I’m a princess cut from marble
{ smoother than a storm }
Hawke chooses the path to the left. Trait over point, please.
Thank you! <3