A Requiem From Winter Past: Chapter 3

AGE WARNING:

This work is one of dark nature. If you're below the age of 16, then you're better off reading something else. I don't profess to follow the rules of my country where only foreigners like G.R.R Martin and Miura Kentaro can write dark fiction.

A Requiem From Winter Past

~The Wolf, Lion, And Maiden Fair~

(Written by Cocteau L'Enfant Naturel)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3: The Maiden Fair And Her Prince

"There are only three princes in this world: The fool, the righteous, and the sellsword."

~Anonymous

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Beneath the morning sun stands a manor, its foundation surrounded by a wall spanning miles. Perched atop a fertile plateau overlooking the region of Saltsea, this is the seat of House Eliaden. Given to its first patriarch Erasmere Gaias Eliaden, Lancershire is a place named after the finest spearmen the Hallenian Empire has ever seen. Despite countless years passing by, these fearsome fighters were never displaced from their home. Like his father and forefathers before him, Leonus Gaias Eliaden is tasked with the duty of overseeing law and order while defending Imperial coastlands against marauders attacking from the Endless Straits. With its back facing the Rock Coast and Eagle's Horn to the south, Fort Caern is ever ready as the watchtower. Despite Histalonia’s claims of being nothing more than a mercantile nation neutral and fair, questions have been asked concerning an alliance forged between Histalonian buccaneers and Yaguryo pirates from the Southern Archipelago of the Furthest East.

“Young Mistress, someone seeks your audience.”

With a formal bow, Treva Fench announces the arrival of a person he’d rather die than acknowledge. His object of reverence is nothing less than a beautiful maiden of eighteen winters, her wavy hair of raven black reaching to the waist. The fairness of her complexion is different from that of a Causacean, facial features belonging to an adopted daughter of Hallenian nobility undeniably proving her a Yaguryo. Dressed in a light blue gown, a shelf full of books faces her with a tome opened before almond-shaped eyes.

“Let me guess,” snickers a portly middle-aged man, his garb one of finery with chainmail shirt underneath. “It’s our brave little lion, no?”

“Yes, you’re right. Happy now, Yiovil Lyos?”

His wiry frame tensing up, Treva took Yiovil’s bait with a snapping reply.

“Let him in, Treva.”

With a tone gentle but firm, Irlia Eliaden rises from a chair of oaken wood.

)0(

“Getting married? Guess we’re at least a couple of years too late.”

Expecting disappointment from the man pledging himself to her as a bond to House Eliaden, Irlia is unable to mask her surprise at Cale Ryvers’ composure. Surely there has to be a sliver of sadness in his words, for this is a lad known for stupidity and foolhardiness than traits worth a maiden's glance.

“I know I should have been disappointed. Acting dumb does have a wonderful effect and that's why boys will become men. What a self-deceiving load of shit.”

The sandy blond betrays a rueful smile. When they were twelve, a promise was made in the name of love. Children will always be children regardless of boys or girls, those are the words his sole family member always says even to this day. Marvas Creek called him a cretin and hopeless loon, such has been an absurd dream of being both hero and Irlia’s wedded beloved. Lukas Broun, on the other hand, encouraged him to take that leap of faith, for this was nothing less than his own life. Choices are defined by the maker, this remains Lukas’ logic after so long. Those were words pleasing to every dreamer's ears, be they for better or worse. Adarl first proposed to him when they were thirteen, Cale had no idea what she's thinking. She was called an ugly little wench by a group of boys, an episode in life told in the form of fisticuffs which Cale unfortunately lost. She disappeared from his view after he mentioned the promise made with Irlia, her father deciding to do something about it afterwards. She worked as a serving girl under Chard's watchful eyes, within that period she blossomed into a beautiful lass. In the words of a children's tale, the ugly duckling has always been a baby swan. And now Cale has to announce a decision, one made with much effort from two fatherly men wanting only the best for their charges.

“You’re not the only one getting married. I and Adarl will be getting married. Next spring to be exact. Which means I'll be sending you off first.”

With a shrug, Cale erects a wall of steel separating fatalistic acceptance from anguished denial. As for the Yaguryo daughter of Causacean nobility, she can only arm herself with an imperturbable facade as her sword. Eyes of hazel never straying from his gaze, Irlia recalls the very day when a person of false nobility first beheld a lion’s cub.

)0(

“Iry…”

“Don’t worry, Ermia. I’m here.”

Squeezing her friend’s arm, Irlia could only watch in awe and shock at an unruly boy savaging their tormentor. No one knew where the wild child hailed from, neither could any discern how a smallborne was able to enter a school only for the rich and nobility. Sneaking a glance towards Cressandra Tanias, the Yaguryo realised she’s wearing an expression no different from the rest. Only Ermia Nantes was terrified stiff, yet who could blame her for being the victim instead of a bystander?

The three were close to each other since their eighth winter, Ermia admiring Irlia's honesty while Cressandra wanted a friend who would not judge. It was the untimely death of Eirlania Ulst-Eliaden, beloved wife of Leonus Gaius Eliaden and sole daughter of House Ulst, bringing them closer still, a blessing arrived at an obvious cost. Ermia detested her family watching her every move, the less spoken about Cressandra’s father the better. The gaze Calcos Tibald Tanias directed at Irlia the previous spring during a confrontation with her father remained a nightmare, perhaps this was why gentle Cressandra would have nothing good to say about him.

As for that raging smallborne boy, no one discovered how he could evade the security. What the Yaguryo knew, however, was that the bully had gone too far by ripping off Ermia’s skirt, his arrogance pelting Irlia with lewd slurs and profanities. Where he got his knife from, only the Holy Quintet knew. Then the offensive object was knocked away, a violent fist breaking his wrist.

“Kill you! Kill you, kill you, I’ll kill you!”

Those were the words unleashed from the stranger’s lungs, his voice resembling a lion’s roar. Blessed with an upright soul and wrath against evil, was this how a real man should be like? When she was still alive, Irlia’s only mother brought her to the Imperial Zoo. She remembered two animals captivating her sight, one was a lion and the other a wolf.

“Iry, stop him! We’ll get implicated if Frais dies!”

The Yaguryo stared blankly at Cressandra’s pleading look, Ermia shaking her head vehemently in response.

“No! Let that bastard die!”

“Ermia!”

Promptly interrupting Cressandra's rebuke, a crippled man laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Your father is worse than a snivelling coward but you’re nothing like him, Your Grace. Lady Cressandra of House Tanias, I give you my word that I’ll stop this child. And besides, Cale is always synonymous with trouble.”

Calling out his son’s name, the kindly man with a limp seemed to have fulfilled his promise. A moment more shocking than the violence done arrived, the boy’s question an animal’s growl. His words repeated an obscene boast, each syllable slowly spoken and causing every girl's blushes. As for the boys, they could only remain speechless for whatever reason in each one's head.

“How many whores in this place have you shafted? Ten? Hundred?

“Pilaes Ryvers! Tell your boy to shut up before I terminate your service!”

“No wonder he looks familiar…” sniffled Ermia, her school principal and Pilaes Ryvers engaging in a staring duel. “His vegetable loaf is the best we’ve ever tasted.”

“None…" snivelled Frais Arnter. "Please, no more…”

Without a single word, Pilaes’ son turned his back on a vanquished foe.

“Watch out!”

Irlia’s warning was a fleeting moment too slow, Cressandra and Ermia could only stare with horror seeping out from the heart. A rock smashed across the boy knight’s head, Freis’ look was one of a vicious animal bearing a humane visage.

Cale offered a laugh in reply, he survived a hit that could have killed someone his age. What kind of being is he? More than just a boy, he seemed more like a beast. With a twisted grin, the smallborne picked the rock dropped by a panicking son of nobility. His right hand holding it firmly, Cale licked the blood off a weapon claimed for himself. Spitting it out like a tavern brawler with a leer worn and shoulders dropped like a lion waiting to pounce, a vicious pursuit was now on the cards.

“Hu… huh… hah!”

Frais Arnter ran away as fast as possible, every girl especially Ermia laughing at his plight. The boys, on the other hand, started whispering among themselves, bewilderment clouding their senses. Convinced that one of them was a god, the sight of a smallborne mortal making him wet himself was a revelation. As for Irlia, she kept her eyes on a being of righteous anger, that which made the firstborn son of House Arnter flee like a craven knave.

The saviour’s eyes and smile… nobody noticed his mundane features. The Yaguryo knew another person of a similar bearing, a fateful meeting during that frigid autumn haunting her. Cale Ryvers should have been just one person out of countless souls, his anger reminiscent of a Relentless One she met under that blue full moon a year ago.

Extending her arm, she gripped Cale’s hand. Before she realised it, jewels of sapphire blue made contact with her hazel gaze. For the rest of the day, Irlia Eliaden was as silent as a mute.

)0(

Summer enters its final portion, the bluebirds performing a symphony of joy and hope. A garden resembling the most captivating meadow surrounds the seat of House Eliaden, grand is the building made with stones of alabaster and granite. Six lions stand erect, statues of dwarven craft a head taller than the average Causacean male. Three on each side flank the porch, the reach ten spans in length. Such is a father's love given to a daughter, one who is neither his own nor his deceased wife's.

“Hey, wake up. Wake up, Iry.”

A bleary-eyed Irlia wakes up to Ermia’s incessant calls, her fingers running through slightly tangled locks. How long has the slumber lasted, she doesn't care. The sole daughter of House Nantes chooses not to share her best friend’s sentiments, a peeress wearing a pout and sun-kissed complexion pointing a thumb at the evening sky.

“Guess how long you’ve been enjoying life, sleeping beauty?”

“I desire not to know, Ermia,” responds Irlia, her giggling goading a fellow noblewoman whom she knows since they were no older than seven.

“By the Holy Quintet and Seven Hells, Irlia of House Eliaden never fails to annoy Ermia of House Nantes. And please cut out that language. We're not at some dumb ballroom full of finely dressed cretins.”

The two good friends indulge themselves in a bout of laughter. Never the kind which members of the nobility are known for, this is of joyful children running about. The last time they enjoyed such a moment was before Ermia’s marriage to Lysas Gloreas, a day before she was to be called Lady Ermia Nantes-Gloreas. To think both Ermia and Cressandra were convinced Irlia would be the first to get married, Yaguryo or no Yaguryo.

“One beautiful lady off the rack like the finest wine, two more to go,” grins a prideful Ermia.

“But it's still unthinkable you're the first to enter a chapel’s gates.”

Putting up a mock frown, Ermia taunts Cressandra with an impudent gesture. The daughter of House Tanias has no choice, she can only shake her head and laugh. A year of married life matters not, Lysas can’t contain his wife's belligerence. It is often quoted time changes people, for the natural flow of things travels along a single path. From the past to the present, after which the future awaits. But not to someone whose behaviour mirrors a daring boy, a lady clearly less than a demure girl.

“Hey, Iry and Cress. Don’t you wish we’re smallborne rather than the highborne?”

“How amazing to hear Ermia Nantes-Gloreas using an obscenity to end her question.”

“Shut up, Cress. You should be getting married earlier than me given your looks and… well, pretty arse.”

Left speechless by Ermia’s vulgar praise, Cressandra can only afford an embarrassed lady’s frown while an amused Irlia looks on. Cressandra Tanias may be an eloquent speaker, yet comments on her most prominent body part would always force her to a corner. Ermia knows it much to her delight, a knowledge always giving her a gambit and victory in any argument.

“Word came to me that Cale Ryvers paid you a visit.”

Cressandra’s attempt to put her embarrassment to the sword results in greater awkwardness, for Cale’s relationship with Irlia is information never privy to a chosen few. Eternity journeys past the three ladies fair, Irlia setting her sight on two butterflies fluttering by.

“If only one can prove the existence of gods so that their blessings are shown to be true.”

Cressandra and Ermia leave themselves stupefied, Irlia’s answer revealing the melancholic truth. They know she is about to be married, just that Cale Ryvers is not the groom. Why would a highborne desire ridicule by marrying herself down, an act proving as if she is nothing more than a harlot? Nevertheless, the cold hard truth sinks its blade into each listener’s heart, Irlia’s inner world bleeding inside. They say it is a blessing to be a highborne, but those who curse such a life are the ones living it. A commoner's daughter is given more freedom to choose her lot in life, a woman of the peerage would be lucky if it takes eighteen winters to cage her in. Fifteen, if not sixteen, has always been the favourite age for every patriarch of nobility when it comes to producing a male heir, Leonus' decision to delay two more years is a blessing. She was allowed to ride a horse at thirteen, never mind it was a pony rather than a mare. She was given the free will to learn swordplay come her sixteenth winter, her skill nothing more than fanciful strokes bereft of function. Many are those of senior status calling her beyond control, few are those her age admiring the false noble for that inner fire revealed.

“You’re scaring me, Iry. Can you tell us plainly what in the Holy Quintet and Seven Hells actually happened?”

“Cale is getting married. To Adarl Tayne.”

“Well, there goes the happy ending. Those minstrels should be hanged, drawn, and quartered for singing out their lies. So what about the bond that idiot swore before the Holy Quintet? Are you going to release him from that oath?”

“Yes.”

“A hard decision, Irlia,” says Cressandra, her visage sombre. “One akin to sending a loved one into exile without other choices.”

“Cale was my shield against insults, the sword against scoundrels, a knight when it comes to defending my honour. Even my father has nothing but good words to say about him. It was his duty as my bond and I have discharged him from his oath complete with my blessing.”

The sorrow in Irlia’s reply is evident, trembling tone showing cracks across a wall separating the heart from the mind. The only thing left undone is the shedding of tears, she promised herself she would never cry. Neither in front of Cale nor anyone else, this is her only way to send him off and the best farewell present. Two years ago, she was convinced he was her prince. Two years later, she has no choice but to accept the real princess is never destined to be her. Has the boy ever noticed a girl’s feelings for him? There are times when she doubted his stupidity despite reactions of buffoonery reciprocating her feelings, her instincts whispering he's more intelligent than he appeared to be.

Then a hand seizes the book held tightly in her grip, Irlia’s wide-eyed shock greeted by Ermia’s impish smile. She tries to snatch it back, Ermia’s back facing her instead. Understanding her good friend’s personality fails to clear her senses, Irlia manages to wrestle Ermia Nantes onto the ground. Rolling over with the grass tickling her face, there is no way Irlia Eliaden can secure victory. She can only afford to let Ermia have her way, one more attempt to retrieve the book by force and the risk of ripped pages would be too real to be dismissed.

“Fine, Ermia. I declare you the victor.”

Laughing loudly at victory rightfully and vigorously earned, the strawberry blonde peeress begins flipping through the pages. Her eyes soon widened in amazement, the occasional glance towards her Yaguryo friend betraying incredulity. Curiosity overtaking her, Cressandra walks over to have a look at what Irlia wrote. Twirling her straight locks around the finger, Cressandra can only fixate her eyes on a blushing Irlia, wavy hair of raven black dancing along a tune whistled by the wind.

“Unbelievable!” exclaims Ermia, her tone booming in Cressandra’s ears. “I know you can draw, Iry. But this good? You might as well draw for little children!”

“I hope you will fall over senseless, Ermia.”

Surprised by a snappish attitude abruptly released, Irlia is not the only one taken aback. Why did she feel annoyed moments ago? The images drawn belong to the past, there is no way she will meet him again, that very him. Why did she lose herself in this situation, a scenario mockingly beyond her control?

“Well, he’s handsome. A right shame not as handsome as my beloved husband Lysas Gloreas.”

“Always boasting of the only man insane enough to sleep beside you every night? You never change even for a single day, Ermia.”

“So how about you, Cressandra? Lys may not be that right in his head, but are you crazy enough to swoon over Iry’s comely elven prince?”

“Well… I prefer a man who is less brooding.”

“You mean as bright as the dawn and not as dark as the night?”

“If you want to say it this way, then I have no choice but to agree.”

Baffled and utterly flustered, Irlia musters every bit of fortitude to suppress a storm inside her. Struggling to subjugate a revolt staged by emotions, the authority of her mind struggles to contain a raging force refusing to be chained. Then her lungs suddenly empty themselves, starvation of air too much for her to bear. It is not as if she drew him while under a trance, yet there is something about him pulling her into a maelstrom of want. Darkness conquers her senses, the last thing discerned being Ermia’s incredibly loud voice and Cressandra’s hand covering her mouth in shock.

)0(

I watch my past seven years ago unfolding, myself seated as the lone audience. Everything is surreal, this is not the way to spend one's eighteenth birthday. Leers exposing my fears back then, my kidnappers spared no effort unmasking their hopeless lives. Why would men want to commit their lust unto a girl of eleven winters is a question I will never know the answer to. Ermia pointed out outlaws like them only desire money and ransom, Cressandra asking why both. This was two years ago, I still remember a sombre Cressandra nodding in response to Ermia’s answer.

“Only ransom if you’re a son. If you’re a daughter, then ransom exacted plus getting sold to a bordello.”

They claimed to be after my father's gold, said gold was nothing to these ravenous animals. Two things they aimed to get: To take their undeserved reward and my body. One end was all they wanted: To renege on their word and sell me like what Ermia mentioned. I knew what they were thinking, for each man spoke aloud out his mind.

Should sins and all things evil from the heart hold a higher authority than the simplest dignity everyone deserves?

I asked myself this question every now and then, there has to be a difference between man and beast. Is no one is ever safe regardless of birth and status?

“No honour there is in feeding the fire of evil with waters of wickedness, 'tis why the gods are also sinners if they truly live. For we are their image in the same way they are of ours.”

My mother not from birth taught me this much when she reasoned with an arrogant preacher, this is why I abhor such a life. What purpose does the promise of power serve if your soul knows not what it is living for? What gods are appeased by heinous people committing heinous acts?

My father is no stranger to people performing deplorable deeds, this is how I know certain things without being cursed with the luck to see them. My mother instructed me not to follow gods I do not know, my father echoed her sentiments. They say husband and wife are the greatest minds that think alike, but there were moments where I was left wondering whether she did love her husband despite his love unreservedly given.

Then he entered the act abruptly, the only words my inner self can conjure Chaos Incarnate. Twenty bandits bereft of remorse were hacked down, no reprieve and mercy shown. His movements were alluring, beauty beheld in the form of flitting images and flashes of steel. It remains so whenever I think about it, seeing my saviour weaving to and fro robbed me of my breath,. Those living my life shunned me, they correctly claimed a Yaguryo is no Causacean. As for him, his eyes betrayed a life ten times worse whenever I look back at them. I know not how, but I know for sure.

His eyes of crimson red... should I be fearing him?

Was he a demon many smallborne have whispered about in fear?

Or mayhap this was someone forced to be an avatar of death?

Could this man be chaos itself assuming flesh? After all, both the heart and head did proclaim the same words: Chaos Incarnate.

Questions without answers I force away, I know with nary a doubt this dream is not the end. It is but only the beginning of something I cannot foresee. My heart reaches out to the hero brandishing a bloodstained sword, I stand up from my seat with a hand extending towards the stage. Intuition tells me he is a living symbol of conflict, my mother used to say true indeed are a woman's instincts. He is not the type Ermia or Cressandra would fancy but is he handsome?

He is the rugged type comfortable with charming smallborne girls serving in taverns or even in a bordello, Treva once commented such men were only good enough for whores. My father was unimpressed by this bluntest jest, a stinging slap and words equally harsh ensured history would not repeat itself again.

I see the full moon gradually laying down its cards, the lunar sky invaded by a captivating sea of blue. The resultant clarity ensnares my soul, this has to be someone from that enigmatic race called the Relentless Ones. Silent acknowledgement greets the hooded figure as he turns around after a pause, his back the most poignant portrait. Mother has spoken before beings fair and powerful, their long ears and hair of wintry snow setting themselves apart from the elves.

A violent gale assaults both the stage and below, this is the kind of frigid blast arriving every eleventh month at autumn's end. Its force resembles a blizzard during the month of winter, his cloak billows wildly left and right. With his hood blown off, the wind directs the course according to its whims.

I never expected a complexion bronzed like a Tamurian, but I would never call his stark white hair and distinct features a lie. Eyes met each other for the first time, that of a little girl and an enigmatic prince. Burning jewels of crimson red supplanted by the most beautiful blue never seen before, he pulled his left hand away from her longing grasp.

It belonged to an azure moon hanging above, the never-ending blanket of clearest blue…

There is no difference between the past and present, may the future be like this as well.

Why am I having such a thought?

If only I could tell him that night my name is Irlia Eliaden.

)0(

Glossary

Saltsea: A port city serving as the main economic hub for Teslaide.

Rock Coast: A rocky coastal strip serving as a buffer zone against any marine invasion against the northern regions.

Lancershire: One of the three major cities of Teslaide, the other two being Saltsea and Lindel. Also the regional capital of Teslaide.

Histalonia: An island state northeast of the Hallenian Empire.

Endless Straits: A narrow strip of sea separating Histalonia from the northern continent of Caucasea. Imagine it as a slight curve between an island and its mainland counterpart.

Furthest East: The story's equivalent of East Asia.

Southern Archipelago: The Causacean's way of referring to the cluster of islands south of the Furthest East mainland. Shaped like a ball and named Nanshu by the Yaguryo. Inspired by the Ryukyu Kingdom and Japanese piracy.

Yaguryo: The story's equivalent of East Asian.

Causacean: The story's equivalent of Caucasian.

Seven Hells: Hell according to the doctrine of the Holy Quintet faith, the predominant religion in the continent of Causacea.

Highborne: Members of the nobility or the nobility in its entirety. Also loosely associated with the rich.

Smallborne: The social opposite of highborne.

Bond: A willing bondservant to any member of the nobility who swore an oath to do so in the name of the Holy Quintet.