She
stared at the scroll as he offered it to her, the sender no stranger to her.
The last time she’d received a letter in this manner, it was her father’s
steward informing her of her mother’s passing, the formality making the reality
of it sting more. He was as familiar to her as the man she’d called Father for
the majority of her life… but both seemed so foreign to her now. It felt a
lifetime ago since she spoke with either, so why send her a letter now? What
could be so important to dredge up such horrible memories?
With
shaking hands and nervous voice, she accepted the parchment scroll, a murmured
“thank you” trembling past her lips. The messenger offered a crude bow as he
stepped back, leaving her alone to her thoughts. She slowly closed the door,
keeping her eyes fixed on him as his form retreated into the night’s shadows.
Turning around, she surveyed the modest furnishings of her home. The fire was
dying down, casting an eerie glow along the walls. How very fitting.
She
grabbed a couple small logs and tossed them into the fire, barely wincing when
sparks and ash flew up. I need… a drink,
she thought while staring at the scroll again. I doubt this is good news. Four shots of whiskey did the trick if
only to calm her enough to go beyond terrified staring.
Tentatively,
she untied the ribbon wrapped around the letter, carelessly discarding it on
the floor. She hesitated, the whiskey within her causing her to falter only a moment,
before unfurling the scroll and revealing the contents. The first thing that
caught her eye was the familiar seal, four identical swords arranged in an x
with their tips pointed at the center, pressed into now dried dark crimson wax.
Four swords for four sons. I ruined that
legacy when I was born, didn't I, Father? she thought before finally reading the letter.
To the Lady Nihrvanah Tarsonath of House
Vaalor:
It is with great regret I write
to you. Your honored father, Lord Vezeret Em’anrus, has passed from the mortal
realm. His heir, your brother, Húrion, has taken his seat as lord of
Wyvernspear and currently works to settle the estate. It is at Lord Húrion’s
request that I write to you, extending an invitation to return to your home and
attend your father’s funeral, though you hold no claim to any holdings.
For Honor, Pride and Glory,
Master Rueld Glabor Vaalor
Steward of Wyvernspear, Loyal servant to
House Em’anrus
She let the parchment slip from her
fingers while sinking into an armchair, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames in
her fire pit. He is dead, she
thought, my lifelong tormentor is dead.
The initial shock was still working its way through her, the whiskey’s effects slowly wearing off. He is dead… dead… dead….
She laughed to herself, a sound of thrilled ecstasy, as reality set in. She had
not called him Father in years but not a day passed that she did not wake
feeling a failure with his insults ringing in her ears… and now he was gone.
She poured herself another shot of whiskey, raised the glass in a mocking
toast, drank, and then climbed into bed.
Verzeret
Em’anrus, a decorated soldier and lower noble, had high expectations for his
youngest son. Senneril Merset Em’anrus Vaalor would complete his line and
legacy that seemed almost traditional in his family. Four sons born to the four
sons before them, 50 years apart, no more… no less. It had been so for five
generations. Vezeret himself was the youngest of his four brothers and had
achieved recognition that earned him a higher right in his family and the
fortress itself. There was little jealousy from his elder brothers for it was
expected that the younger one would constantly attempt to outdo the elders in
some way.
One
would assume with such a large legacy that Ta’Vaalor would be overrun by those
bearing the Em'anrus name, a clan large enough to have their own city and house.
Some were casualties of war. Some did not share the same amount of pride in his
name and heritage as Vezeret did and foolishly ran off with a human or a
half-breed, their sons becoming mongrel offspring. They were disowned, lost
their birthright, shunned and left Ta’Vaalor in shame.
Thus
why only the highest expectations were placed on Vezeret’s children, as he could
say in all his personal lineage, none had shamed the family name. Not his father, nor
his father’s father, and so on. He wished only to see his children prosper and
carry forth the traditions of pride, honor and glory. All these would be passed
to Senneril, his fourth and final son. He awaited the arrival in a separate bed
chamber as instructed by the local medic who claimed that the labor room was no
place for the father to be. Though kept apart by walls of stone, his wife’s
scream pierced deep into his heart and had with every birth prior. He could
barely make out the soothing words in the old language from the healer assisting the medic, but he knew they were there, almost as if he himself were
in the room speaking them.
Several
hours passed, and Vezeret felt as if he had worn a hole into the rug with his
nervous pacing. In his own thoughts, he nearly jumped out of his boots when the
door behind him creaked open.
“She
rests now,” whispered the medic’s assistant. “You may come
with me when you are ready.”
Vezeret
followed the girl through the halls, anxiously breathing as he got closer to
where his wife and son were. Will he
look like me? Will he share his mother’s refined tastes? So many thoughts
swirled through his mind. His three elder sons all shared his features and mannerisms. If his wife were not the one who birthed them, he would have to
wonder who their mother actually was. He finally reached the door, and his breath
stilled for what seemed an eternity.
“We’re
waiting, my love,” called out a tired voice from inside. “And she is
beautiful.”
She?
He must have misheard her. There was no way his son was a she. He walked into
the bed chamber, his breath still catching in his throat. There she laid, his lovely wife, Lareina, and in her arms, his newborn child. Finally calming
himself, he walked over to the bed, and sat on the edge, not saying a word.
“Would
you like to hold her, my sweet?” came the still weak voice of his wife.
Her? So he hadn’t misheard his wife’s words. What am I to do with a daughter? It was
supposed to be another son. Why a girl now?
“Listen…
I know we had agreed on the name, Senneril… but it does not seem right to give
our daughter a male’s name. Perhaps a different one? One more fitting for a
girl than a boy?” His wife spoke slowly. She could clearly see the look of
shock on his face and though he was known to be a man of few words, this was
severely out of character for him. “Have you any ideas?”
All
he could do was shake his head. A
daughter. He had fathered a female heir. Would a daughter be so hard,
really? He had no experience in this matter. No sisters, no female cousins,
only his wife. What sort of curse would take his hopes for continuing tradition
away?
“What
of the name Nihrvanah? It is pleasant enough, right?” He slowly nodded. Was he
even present or was he in a dream? He felt as if his wife’s voice grew more and
more distant, and his eyes stayed on the baby in her arms. A daughter.
Before
he knew what he was doing, he was rushing out of the room and down towards
stables. He could hear his wife’s voice in the background, frantically calling
his name, but he had no response. How was he supposed to act? Was this child
even his? No, his wife would never have affair. He just needed to get away, to
think, to clear his head. What was he to do now? How was he to raise a girl?
Preparations for travel took a
longer, more stressful time than Nihrvanah had originally expected, between
packing and ensuring all her affairs, personal and business related, were in
order. It was an odd thing to tell her peers the reason for such a long absence
as most knew only of her life in the town proper and nothing of the family she
was forced to leave. The hardest of her good-byes were the ones to her adopted father
and her gallant, Hanshayr and Oreh. Both knew the circumstances behind her
dismissal from her family, the years Vezeret broke her down, mentally,
emotionally and physically, and both understood her need for final closure in
this matter. They were her heroes, the rocks upon which she could finally stand
firm, and they offered all the support she needed for this journey.
With farewells said, she climbed
upon her horse, grabbing its reins and those of her packmule, and headed out
the gates. There was no immediate desire to rush there as she still had to face
her brothers, the secondary tormentors. Each had a hand in her misery at some
point and with each step her garron took, dread overcame her.
“Is this really wise?” the bardess
asked aloud with a shaky voice. Realizing she was too far from any sentient
conversable being, she blushed. Only a
quarter of the way there and already I begin to speak to ghosts. Sighing,
she spoke out loud once more. “Really, though… what reason do I have to go
there? I have no inheritance, they took my name from me… They only seek to
further insult and I go there… willingly… to receive it. What sort of fool am
I…?” The only responses she received were rustling leaves from a sudden gust of
wind and quiet whinnying from her horse. Fool
indeed… I continue to beseech the air for answers.
She continued the rest of the ride
in silence, keeping her concerns within lest a random traveler happen upon her
and think her mad. Nihrvanah stopped a few times to allow her animals the much needed rest while she stretched out. She could feel her legs cramping up and
concern over saddle sores grew as well. It had been some time since she’d
traveled this distance on horseback and her lack of practice was taking its
toll on her endurance.
She looked on as the horse and mule
nibbled at the grass while her own stomach growled. Nervous energy flowed
through her, though, and as hungry as she may be, the food would not stay in.
Instead, she opted for her wineskin, taking a few swigs before resting against
the nearest tree. He could have passed
without them telling me. I don’t even carry his name… why tell me? Her eyes
began to tear as her thoughts returned to the man who raised her.
He
watched the child grow before him, her appearance and mannerisms foreign to
him. She giggled, a lot, more than he was accustomed to or comfortable with.
The boys laughed but never giggled. They also understood the difference between
work and play and when each was necessary. This… girl… all she desired was play
and her mother indulged her entirely too much. Today, he put his foot down.
She
was brought before him, escorted by her mother, his wife, wearing an oversized
worn leather jerkin and leggings that hung limply on her legs. The girl was a
skinny little thing, hardly more than flesh and bone, and as he continued to
observe her in her brother’s hand-me-down gear, he wondered again how she could
be his. Her skin was pale, much too pale, and despite all the time she spent
outside with her mother in the rose garden, not a hint of color. Vezeret
himself had a light bronze to his skin, a trait shared by his sons. Lareina’s
tone was lighter, with pinker undertones, but never so white as the girl’s.
And
her eyes… he’d never seen such a hue. The boys shared the same color with
Vezeret, a blue-grey hazel, and his wife, a ghostly blue. The girl’s eyes were
such a deep blue, it was as if looking into the depths of the sea, and violet
haloed that. Her hair was no less alien in traits, a rich golden yellow at the
roots that ended in a blazing red. It was unnatural, as if some mystic placed a
spell upon her, and even when cut, it was only a moment before the red crept
back into the tips.
He
watched as Lareina gathered the girl in her arms and kissed her forehead after
whispering what could be assumed were reassuring words. Nihrvanah nodded and
turned to face him as her mother left, leaving them to each other. Both were
silent, letting moments pass before Vezeret spoke.
“Do
you know why you are here?”
“Y-yes,
F-father,” she stuttered out.
“Tell
me.”
“I…
I am t-to t-train, F-father.”
“For
what reason?”
“Y-you
s-said s-so.”
He
twitched in response, putting forth effort to not grow so irritated with her or
her answers. He reached for a dulled spear and tossed it in her direction,
watching as she fumbled to catch the weapon. It landed in the dirt with a small
thud. He clenched his jaw as she stood there, unwilling to retrieve it, while
avoiding his judgmental gaze. “Pick it up!” he commanded.
Nihrvanah’s
bottom lip trembled and she sniffed in response.
“Are
you crying?”
She
quickly shook her head.
“Then
pick it up!” he said louder, irritation coming through his tone. She whined and
did as told, her body trembling. The child held the spear awkwardly away from
herself but at least she held it. He could build on that.
He
began the day’s lesson with a speech about the pride of her heritage, their
role in the military, and what was expected of her. She listened intently or
appeared to try. He continued onto what her training would consist of; today
they would start with defense. Vezeret reviewed a few defensive stances and
watched as she clumsily mimicked them, patiently offering pointers here and
there.
But
practice stances only went so far in battle and he had to instruct her to
defend against active attacks. He lunged at her with his own spear with a
fraction of his strength while she feebly moved aside from the blow. He lunged
again, this time hitting her in the arm. She cried out, dropping her spear,
though he knew it was just a tap. He pointed at the spear, giving no verbal
instruction, and she picked it back up, resuming a defensive posture.
The
day continued on, much with the same results: a gently blow landed followed by the
dropping of arms accompanied by an overdramatic cry. His patience grew thinner
and thinner and each incident caused his following attacks to be stronger than
the prior. By the end of their session, NIhrvanah’s body was covered in welts
and bruises while she pointlessly fought not to cry.
Vezeret,
past his breaking point, grabbed the girl by her arm and shook, thinking to
bring some sense back to her. Instead, her sobs grew more hysterical, crying
out that she couldn’t, that she was too weak, that she wanted to go back to the
gardens, that she wanted her mother. He shook her again, longer and harder,
blinded with anger at her words. He hated quitters, he hated weakness, and he
would not have his child, male or female, be either.
He
heard a snap followed by a pained scream and he released his grip on her while
she collapsed to the dirt. She cradled her left arm against her chest and he
realized what he’d done. It’d already begun to swell around the oddly bent
forearm and her fingers were visibly limp. Her cries were louder than before,
agonized in sound and mixed with the pounding in his head. I am a monster, was all he heard over and over until the sound of
Lareina’s voice interrupted.
She
knelt beside Nihrvanah, cuddling the girl to calm the screams. When her eyes
met his, the ghostly blue shade seemed paler, colder, her expression matching.
Without hesitation, she scooped the child up in her arms and carried her inside
while Vezeret looked on in horrified shock.
The sky was just beginning to
darken when she finally reached Wyvernspear, lending the old manor an even more
intimidating appearance. To her right, she saw her mother’s once lush rose
garden, now overgrown and untended, and to her left the stables, another place
she’d enjoyed time in. She smiled to herself as she turned to the left,
remembering the long rides she and her mother used to take.
She arrived and dismounted, handing
off the reins to the new stableboy who looked at her curiously and not without
reason. Hers was an unfamiliar face to anyone who had not been around eight years ago and she doubted those who had would speak of her often. She unloaded
her belongings from the packmule and after giving very specific care
instructions for her garron, headed to the manor itself.
Nihrvanah marveled at how familiar
her old home felt, and yet how very different. Nothing had changed and yet
everything had. Her gaze returned to the garden once more, her place of
sanctuary when trouble came her way. She paused, contemplating its neglect and
was tempted to hide away there as she had when she was a child, trying to spot
the faeries her mother so often told her stories of. With tears welling up, she
turned away and continued her walk to the front door.
She was greeted by yet another new
face, but at least this one was better prepared for her arrival. The servant
took her cloak and her bags, and escorted her to her old room. It was pleasant
enough, though entirely unnecessary. The house and its halls hadn’t changed at all
in her absence, not the tapestries hanging on the walls, nor the rugs on the
stone floors. The steps they climbed still bore the scars of long over matches
between her brothers wielding wooden swords.
They arrived at her room and the
servant entered first to ensure it was ready to receive its guest. Satisfied
with his brief inspection, he bid her enter and left, closing the door
behind him. Alone in her room, she looked around and took note of how little it
had changed as well. A little girl’s room,
she thought as her eyes wandered over the pink sheets on her bed and the lacy
décor. Above her vanity hung the painting her mother had commissioned of a
faerie much like the one tattooed on her back. I am glad you are still here. She removed the artwork from the wall
and carefully stowed it away in one of her bags. She wouldn’t leave that behind
again.
On the vanity itself was a
filigreed silver platter containing a decanter of chilled white wine, a single
accompanying glass and a pale pink envelope set between them. She moved the
envelope long enough to pour a glass of wine, then took both to sit at the bay
window that overlooked her mother’s rose garden.
Though night had settled in by now,
the moon offered enough illumination for her to view the true state of the
garden… utterly decrepit. The bushes were choked with weeds, only a few blooms
visible here or there and even those appeared frail and lifeless. No hands
tended the gardens since her mother grew ill, more like than not by his
command. She would have seen to its care had she not been removed, but there
was no way to change the past. Instead, she turned her attention to the pink
envelope, and just as she broke the seal, she heard a knock at her door.
“…and
each morning, the faeries dance upon the petals’ dew, their tiny toes helping
the roses bloom,” he overheard Lareina tell the girl, perhaps for the
thousandth time. He found them wandering in the garden, as they always did this
time of day. Nihrvanah’s left arm was still splinted and in a sling, but she
did not appear to be in the pain she suffered through days before. Still, his
heart sank as he watched this frail thing walking to her mother’s left, hand in
hand. He’d done this to her and the sharp pangs of guilt were as fresh today as
they were before.
Vezeret
did not move to join his wife and daughter, opting to stay in the shadows of
the garden’s entryway. It was not his place to interrupt their time together,
especially not after what he’d done. Instead, he waited and listened to the
faerie tales Lareina recited. The child would constantly interrupt and giggle,
a sound he welcomed now. For a time, all he’d heard were her cries and painful
screams. He would have given anything to hear the giggles again.
It
was some time before they noticed his presence and it was Nihrvanah who saw him
first. Her happy expression melted to dread and she quickly hid behind her
mother, whimpering as she did so. Lareina looked up then and her own warm
expression faded while she offered the girl a reassuring squeeze. He grew
nervous suddenly, even more than he had going into any battle. He was a proud
elf and not prone to apologies. It was far past the time he should, though.
They approached him with caution, not that he could blame them. He saw the girl peek
at him from behind her mother’s skirt, feeling another pang of guilt as he saw
the terror in her eyes. His wife held no such gaze, only cold anger. She was
protective of Nihrvanah, now more than ever, and he had incited the mother’s
wrath. He flinched away from the gaze he’d earned and did the only thing he
could think to do. He knelt.
“I
am surprised to see you here, my lord,” his wife spoke, her tone even.
He
bowed his head, offering as much humility as one such as himself could. It was
too late to turn back now. “My lady, I have come to beg forgiveness from both
of you. I allowed my anger to blind me and caused grievous wound.” He kept his
head bowed, uncertain as to their response. Concern grew as silence was all he
received.
He
felt the child’s hand on his shoulder and he looked up, his face even with
hers. In her eyes, he saw a sad forgiveness replacing the fear and for the
first time, he embraced her. And he cried. Father and daughter held each other
for some time as Vezeret whispered over and over his regret. When they finally
separated, he pulled a pink envelope from his jacket and handed it to her.
Nihrvanah tore into it with childish delight and squealed at its contents.
Within, she discovered a niello rose locket dangling from a twisted vaalin
chain. He chuckled while her fingers struggled to undo the clasp and ultimately
put it on her himself. Carefully picking at the latch, she opened the locket
and hugged her father again when she saw his picture inside. He looked over her
shoulder to see his wife smiling as well, though it never reached her eyes.
“Run
along inside, Nihrvanah, dear. It is time for your music lessons,” Lareina said
at last. The child nodded and skipped inside. Once sure she was out of earshot,
Lareina refocused on Vezeret who’d stood once more. The smile was gone from her
lips, her expression matching the coldness in her eyes. “She may’ve forgiven
you, but know that I will not.”
Dinner was a modest affair: roast
pheasant with a honey sage glaze, a couple side dishes, and no dessert. There
was little small talk amongst the siblings, only a few phrases followed by long
pauses and awkward silences. Her brothers kept their conversations in whispers
with their significant others but she could feel everyone’s eyes upon her,
almost hearing their judgmental thoughts.
The dinner service was cleared and
a shy servant girl brought out a tea set decorated with cherry blossoms while
stealing glances at Haedirn, the youngest of her elder brothers. His wife
caught her and shooed the servant away, blushing and stammering out apologies
as she left. Silence fell upon them again, each little sound exaggerated, until
at last, their father’s eldest spoke.
“Is it true?” asked Húrion.
“That depends on what it is,” was Nihrvanah’s response, her
voice coming out harsher and more guarded than she’d intended. The brothers
exchanged a glance between them.
“We had heard you stood vigil when
the King’s body was displayed publicly,” Adasser, the second oldest,
hesistantly asked. “It seemed odd that… well, you would be chosen to do it.”
Not
exactly the most tactful way to ask. Taking care to ensure any hint of
annoyance did not come through her tone, she answered, “I wasn’t chosen. I
volunteered.” The brothers exchanged looks again, each seeming more confused
than the other. She tipped her head down slightly, a smirk playing across her
lips that was left unnoticed by her brothers. You didn’t expect that…. “There was a strong possibility that there
were more than a few visitors who intended to defile our King’s viewing sight.
Besides… having caught his attention once, I felt it only right that I stand
guard.” Silence. None of you expected
that, either.
Húrion’s wife spoke up now. “You
held His Grace’s attention?” she asked, her voice a mix of awe and envy. They
all looked at her now, awaiting a response as if her saying it again would give
the original statement final confirmation in their minds. Nihrvanah just
nodded. “What was it like?”
“His Grace spoke rather highly of
me.” They don’t need to know he referred
to me as a tart. “And when I danced with him at the ball held in Ta’Illistim
last year, His Grace was very light on his feet for one of his age and quite
charming.” And a Faendryl and another…
but they don’t need to know that either.
It was the women’s turn to exchange
glances, theirs more excited than confused. Nihrvanah bowed her head and
smirked to herself again. You would think
I was some sort of celebrity the way they carry on. Her head jerked up, the
smirk gone, when the next question was asked.
“Is Lord Relarem as charming as His
Grace?” The voice belonged to Haedirn’s wife, Alyana, though Nihrvanah
suspected the query was more his than her own. She felt a deep blush creep
across her skin as she averted her eyes. They
did not hear about a dance with the King, but they hear about this. Odd which
rumors make their way here. Alyana continued when her previous question
went unanswered, “You are being
courted by the Champion’s cousin, yes?”
Clearing her throat and shifting
uncomfortably in her seat, Nihrvanah nervously stammered out her reply. “Well…
yes, Oreh… er, Lord Relarem, he is quite charming and…” She wasn’t prepared for
them to ask about him, at least not yet, and they had blindsided her
completely. Don’t give them too much
information. She coughed, recomposed herself, and spoke again. “Yes, we are
in a courtship.”
“How long has this courtship taken
place,” Haedirn asked, his eyes shrewdly staring her down.
Keep
calm, speak little. “A few months,” Nihrvanah answered offhandedly while
sipping her tea. She could tell by their looks they did not approve of her less
than informative answer. She was okay with that.
“Ladies, would you please excuse
us? We have not seen or spoken with our sister in quite a bit of time and
perhaps it is best we speak among ourselves for the moment.” Húrion was
sending Nihrvanah’s barrier away and would now attempt to back her into a
corner. She furrowed her brow and said nothing as the other women stood. Each
curtsied in her direction and kissed their husbands lightly on their cheeks
before exiting. Another moment of awkward silence fell until Húrion spoke
again, his voice weary and reluctant. “We are not your enemies, Nihrvanah. I
wish you would stop acting like we are.”
She tilted her head down again,
though her expression remained neutral. She kept quiet, unsure how to respond
or if she even should. For a time, they would allow this and give up with the
questions. They always had and she hoped they would now.
They didn’t. “How long has Lord
Relarem been courting you?” Haedirn asked again, only to be met with silence.
“Damnit, Nihrvanah! Will you stop acting like a child in trouble?” He slammed
his fist on the table, causing her to jump. She was in the corner.
“Officially, a few months,” she
blurted out as she stood while keeping her eyes down. That familiar blush
colored her skin again. “Officially, he asked my father f-.”
“You mean Hanshayr?” Adasser
interrupted, despite the obvious answer.
She snapped in response, her
defenses rising much higher than they had at the beginning of the dinner.
“Hanshayr is my only father, yes. And now you will excuse me as my trip was long and I am too tired to even begin
to want to speak with any of you on this subject!” She turned away and stormed
from the dining hall, leaving the brothers before they had a chance to stop
her.
“Always so difficult,” was all
Adasser could muster.
“Mother did that to her,” Húrion
replied.
His
wife saw to everything for the girl, almost obsessively. Food, lessons, battle
training, all of it. Every detail pertaining to her life, her mother
controlled.
She
wouldn’t allow him time alone with her, either, not that he could blame
her. Vezeret had done something horrid, and not only did he beat himself over
it, Lareina would as well. She also reminded Nihrvanah of that event as often
as she could with small, subtle gestures or words.
He
knew the girl desired his attention; he could see it in her eyes when she
watched him with his sons. It stung at him over and over, a thousand needles
attacking his heart, knowing it was his own doing. With all repentive efforts
ignored, he merely stopped trying. Lareina’s intent since that day was to turn
the girl against him and she was more than succeeding.
Their
marriage had slowly grown cold several years before Nihrvanah’s conception, but they
played the expected part: loving husband and devoted wife. It was difficult
keeping their issues secret, but separation was not an option. A failed
marriage was a shameful thing, something he would not curse his name or house
with. Their chambers remained together and they still slept in the same bed.
There was, however, a great abyss between them, an abyss that Lareina had
created.
She’d
grown increasingly withdrawn, her talks with him short and curt. Their lovemaking
was dutiful, expected, and fully lacking of the passion they’d once held in
each other. Vezeret could not understand this ever growing change in demeanor
and felt helpless when it came to her emotional wellbeing. Her moods shifted as
night and day as well, often angered by the smallest things: a pot being out of
place, a torn sheet left unmended. All in the household walked on eggshells,
and he felt the worst of it.
When
Nihrvanah was born, most of the issues resolved themselves. She was elated
having a girl to dote on, one she’d spend a significant amount of silvers on
just in clothing alone. The distance between his wife and him was even starting
to close, a development Vezeret embraced. He’d found desire in her expression
again instead of the vacant indifference he’d seen for years.
It
was more frigid now, the progress made shattered by his mistake. They slept in
separate rooms, had been since that day, and she tolerated his presence only so
long. He knew the servants spoke and rumors were flying all over the place. His
bed was empty without his wife, his love, so he took one of the maids for those
few nights he just needed a release.
He
knew his wife and daughter knew of this indiscretion; Lareina was far from
stupid, and Nihrvanah was now too old to be so naïve. He didn’t care by this
point. His wife held no more love in her heart for him and he’d given up with
the girl she had such a tight hold on.
Despite
her mother’s attempts, Nihrvanah did not give up on him, at least not yet. When
her brothers returned home, she could be seen picking fights with them just to
gain Vezeret’s attention. It worked, for a small time, but never the way she
wished. In order to prove herself strong in his eyes, she felt she had to
defeat someone stronger. Who better than her brothers? Victory was never
achieved and instead of his approval, she gained her brothers’ laughter and
scorn.
She is trying so hard and there
is nothing I can do. His wife
hated when she went to spar with their sons and made it a point to speak against
such folly. She knew her daughter was only doing it to please him and would
fail horribly over and over again. Vezeret knew she used this against him as
well. I will never win this.
Much
to his surprise, when Nihrvanah came of age, she joined the King’s army to
serve her hundred years. He’d expected at least two decades before she would
and despite his hidden pride, he sensed she was ill-prepared for it. Lareina
had taken it easy with their daughter’s training and overindulging the girl had
made her soft. His suspicions held ground as all reports sent to him by both
his sons and her commanding officers were negative. She was confrontational,
spoiled, entitled and the list went on and on. Had he been allowed the time
he’d desired to build her up as a soldier, it would have been different.
With
all four offspring out of the house, he found verbal arguments with his wife
occurring more often than not, especially about the girl. She defended her
choice in raising Nihrvanah, he yelled that it wasn’t enough, and it would all
explode when she’d bring up the incident. Tempers flared to an all-time high
one night between them with an angry match of heated words flying back and
forth.
Five
words she ultimately blurted out, five words that destroyed him inside.
They watched as the funeral pyre
was lit, some voices louder in their grief than others. Many had come to pay
their respects to the fallen hero: aunts, uncles, cousins, friends,
acquaintances. The ceremony was simple and each brother delivered a piece of
the eulogy while she looked on silently. She could feel the spectator’s eyes
upon her from time to time, but it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered now.
Her brothers, Húrion specifically,
insisted she sit with them at the front, their wives placed in the audience
with the other mourners. So close they were to her, Húrion to her right and
Haedirn and Adasser to her left, but Nihrvanah felt distanced from them and the
scene entirely. Clutched in her hand was the pale pink envelope she’d found in
her room the night she arrived, the contents undisturbed until moments before
the crowds began arriving. She held onto it, the seal quite obviously torn
open, when she walked into the area, and her brothers exchanged glances as they
often did. Each moved to embrace her in turn while she stood there,
expressionless and unmoving, her demeanor then as it remained now. They knew.
The first pink envelope she’d
received held the locket Vezeret had given her years ago and nothing else. That
one had been delivered by his own hands, though the ones that followed each
year were left for her to find on her pillow after her music lessons. Though
never as intricate or expensive as the locket, the trinkets she found hidden
within made her think fondly of her absent father.
This one held no bauble, only a
letter written recently, before his passing. Over and over, she read it, each
word shocking her to the core. All she knew, all she believed, had been a lie,
and in place of the bitterness and anger she’d felt for so many years was an
empty numbness. Despite not being in his hand, the letter was genuine as was
the seal in the wax, though one of the swords appeared disfigured and made to
look like another weapon entirely.
One by one, the guests departed the
area as the smell of charred flesh became unbearable. Nihrvanah remained, her
eyes fixed on the slowly dying fire. Still, no tears fell for him. She didn’t
know what to feel or how to feel it. She questioned everything about herself,
her life. All details that seemed insignificant suddenly deserved a second
look. So many questions ran through her mind, but two stood out the most. Who am I? Who is my real father?
Húrion stayed with her while
Haedirn and Adasser guided the guests into the manor. They stood silent while
watching the flames dance with embers flying up and away. He could tell she was
hurting, though she remained stone-faced. As the last of the fire died away, he
turned to her, his words breaking through the wall built around her.
“Blood be damned, Nihrvanah. You
are still his child and our sister.”
He’d
watch his wife die from this same illness, empaths clueless to a cure. He knew
it was only a matter of time before it would claim his life as well. It was
spreading, shutting his body down, leaving him unable to do much of anything but
wait.
Bedridden,
Vezeret thought back through the years, to his prouder moments and the things
he greatly regretted. His wife, his daughter, his sons, his legacy, nothing was
safe from the scrutiny of a dying elf. Each moment was subject to detailed dissection.
Nihrvanah was on the forefront of this and it was time she learned the truth.
With
great effort, he pulled at the chain by his bed, ringing a bell that summoned
his steward. Rueld entered, parchment and quill in hand, his balding head
bobbing oddly up and down. Grabbing a nearby chair, he sat next to Vezeret’s
bed and spoke in a soft, hoarse voice.
“Yes,
my lord?”
“Rueld,
old friend,” Vezeret murmured, too weak to speak at full volume. “Have you a
moment to take a letter?”
“Of
course, my lord,” answered the aging steward, his quill readied and pressed
against the parchment.
“My
dearest daughter,” the dying lord began dictating as Rueld started writing. “I
wish there was something, anything, that could make up for what troubled you
throughout your years. I know this will not, but perhaps it will shed a bit of
light on your situation.
“I
want you to know that I never once stopped loving you, even when you hated me.
You are my little girl and despite all that has happened, I still can’t help
but see you as such. I tried, Nihrvanah, oh gods, how I tried, to be the father
you wanted, the father you needed. Had I had a stronger will, perhaps I could
have been. After I recklessly hurt you, your mother would not allow it. Under
the guise of protecting you, she purposely kept you from me and my own guilt
held me from pushing the issue.
“Your
dismissal was not a decision made lightly in any sense. You had grown overly
willful and defiant, traits I attribute to your mother’s influence. The issue
with the sylvan spell slinger aside, your behavior was fitting more for a human
than an elf bearing our family’s name. That was then and times so often change.
“As
have you. It truly warmed my heart to hear the stride forward you had taken.
Hanshayr has done for you everything I could not and you have blossomed into
the young lady I always knew you could be. As a father, I could not be more
proud of you than I am now.
“There
is something you need to know now, something unknown to me until recent years.
Please, just know everything I write is true and it does not change how I feel
about you, though for most, it would. You were never mine by blood. I learned
this shortly after you settling in the Fortress, during a rather heated
argument with your mother. When tempers calmed, she told me of her affair and
of ending it when you were conceived.
“I
am dying, Nihrvanah, and slowly. I could not go to my grave and beyond the
Gates without telling you the truth behind the veil over your eyes. All I can
do now is pray you will forgive me for failing you all these years.”
With
a heavy, hacking cough, he finished speaking and Rueld placed the parchment on
the nightstand. With the steward’s aid, Vezeret hastily scribbled out his
signature, then embossed the family seal into the melted crimson wax. Before it
solidified, he pressed his thumbnail into the wax at the tip of one of the
swords, creating a crude looking scythe, his daughter’s preferred weapon.
“Put
it in one of the pink envelopes,” instructed Vezeret, his breath staggered.
“Yes,
my lord,” the steward replied, bowing, before taking his leave.
That
night, he dreamt of Lareina, not as she was in her final years, but as the elf
he’d fallen in love with. She smiled at him, her eyes warm and sparkling. They
danced together as they had at their wedding and shortly after, came together
as husband and wife.
The
servants found Vezeret’s body cold the next morning, a content and peaceful expression
on his face.
She grabbed at a weed growing at
the base of one of the rose bushes then jerked her hand back with the sudden
unexpected prick. A deep red bead was already forming on her thumb as she
raised it for inspection. With all the callouses and scratches her hands had
developed, it was a wonder she still felt the annoying thorns. Sighing, she went
back to work, pausing again when flesh met point.
The garden was finally looking as
it had in days past. The weeds that once tangled through the beautiful flora
were being pulled out and discarded; that alone offered vast improvement to the
area’s appearance. As the bushes were weeded, each was given specialized care
tailored to rebuild their health and strength. Thus far, only four of the fifty
plants required full uprooting, their health too far gone.
“You can let Bronwe take over at
any point. You don’t have to do this alone,” came a voice from behind her. She
jumped in response and turned to find her brother, Húrion, behind her with his
wife. Both looked slightly amused.
Nihrvanah pulled at another weed
before answering, “She could, yes… but this was mother’s garden and has been
too long neglected. I will see to its tending.” Her brother looked to Bronwe
who only offered a slight shrug, and turned his gaze back to Nihrvanah. His expression
said it all. “Oh, alright!”
Húrion nodded and Bronwe stepped
forward to take over. He watched as his sister gave clear, detailed
instructions on gardening basics before standing. “Walk with me. We have a bit
to discuss.” Nihrvanah simply nodded. Whatever this was about had to be
important. They walked in silence down the various rows of bushes until he was
certain Bronwe was out of earshot. Surveying the area with a smile, he turned
his attention to his sister. “You’ve done an excellent job here. The gardens
haven’t looked this splendid in years.”
“It had to be done,” she responded.
“Had to… because you’re hiding and
you often hid here.” Right to the point, as he always was; there was no use
trying to mince words with him. Nihrvanah sighed and looked away.
“And if I am?”
“If you are, the question becomes
why…” He chuckled when she looked back at him, her expression seeming to say you know why. “You haven’t spoken much
on it since Father’s funeral so I can only assume not only are you hiding, but
you’re trying to drown out your own thoughts. Again, the question is why?” She
said nothing. “Would it help if I told you that you knew your father?”
“I’ve known plenty of fathers, Húrion,
enough for three lifetimes,” she answered, her tone less than genial.
“The one who sired you, Nihrvanah.”
She cocked her head at him, now curious about the topic. “You knew him… we all
did. We just didn’t know about this aspect until much, much later.” He paused
while she clearly tried to think about it. “Do you remember your music
teacher?”
It took her a moment to process the
question, her eyes widening as it all sunk in. “You mean… but that means… but I
thought-“
“Yes, he was Sylvan, yes he taught
you to sing and play and yes, Mother secreted him into the house.”
She stared at him, confused. She
didn’t expect to learn who her mother had had her affair with, let alone that
he’d been there all along. Biting her lip nervously, she finally asked, “But
how?”
Húrion shrugged and continued, “We
weren’t privy to such details… we just figured it all out when that one piece
presented it.” He paused while waiting for a response. “For one, you shared his
features: eyes, face, even your hair. Though… you quite obviously got a bit of Mother’s golden tresses, too. You were also quite musically inclined while…
none of us had such talents.”
“And you all knew… but said
nothing.”
“It was not our place. Father
didn’t even want us knowing at first, to save face, but it was a family matter.
He told us after he’d disowned you.”
“So then who was he… my father…?”
“A traveling minstrel who seduced
Mother with drink and song. We never understood why she would hire a Sylvan
loremaster to teach you music, but then… it was quite a bold move on her part,
all things considered. After we learned the truth, we just assumed they wanted
him in your life in some sense.”
“In essence, I am… the bastard
half-blood child of a nomadic forest singer, then…” Her voice cracked as she
spoke, her eyes brimming with tears. Húrion embraced her, holding her close and
comforting her.
“You are more than that, much more.
Sylvans are our cousins, though distant, so put thought of soiled blood from
your mind. It is not as if you have not been courted by them before so why act
as if their difference matters now.” She tilted her head up and he held her
gaze for emphasis. “You are out father’s daughter still. He raised you. Such relations cannot be so
easily dismissed. And you are the consort to a member of a fairly prominent
family… not to mention beguiler of kings.” He winked and she couldn’t help but
giggle. “How long did you intend to hide?
Nihrvanah furrowed her brow. “I…”
“You can’t keep running and hiding
every time you have a problem. You know this. You’ve built a home and name for
yourself in Ta’Vaalor proper.”
“But here-“
“We will always be here, whether
you are or not.”
“Mother’s garden-“
“Will be well-tended in your
absence and you can visit anytime.”
“But Oreh-“
“Will still care about you despite
all this, if he’s a respectable elf. If not… well, Lord Tarsonath will not be
the only one he has to contend with.”
“He hates being called ‘lord.’”
“Regardless, I am sure your
relationship will weather a great many things and this is just a little shower.
Based on how guarded you are about him and all subjects pertaining to him, I
can assume he means a great deal to you. If that is so, you need to let him
know.” Nihrvanah nodded. “It is settled then.”
She whispered a thank you as she
kissed his cheek. That night, Nihrvanah began packing her things and prepared
for the trip home. Her hand brushed against the painting stowed away in her bag
and she pulled it out, her fingers running over the canvas. She looked at the
wall above the vanity and smiled at the empty space. After a moment of
hesitation, she walked over and rehung the painting, adjusting it as needed.
“You belong here… but I’ll be back
to admire you again.”
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