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 my country's rules where only foreigners like G.R.R Martin and Miura Kentaro can write dark fiction. At the same time, my responsibility to restrain myself doesn't mean sensitive people won't be offended. I'm a storyteller, but I'm not an activist. For every Meghan Markle, there is a Dazai Osamu.
A Requiem From Winter Past
The Wolf, Lion, And Maiden Fair
(Written by Cocteau L'Enfant Naturel)
Chapter 3-Of Gods And Princes
"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 miles-long wall. Perched atop a fertile plateau overlooking the region of Saltsea, this is the seat of House Eliaden. Gifted to its first patriarch, Erasmere Gaias Eliaden, Lefk is a place known for the finest spearmen the Hallenian Empire has ever seen. Despite countless years passing by, these fearsome fighters remained as bodyguards in times of peace and shock troops in days of war. Like his father and forefathers, Leonus Gaias Eliaden oversees 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 Calyd is ever ready as the watchtower. Despite Histalonia's claims of being nothing more than a mercantile nation neutral and fair, sceptics fired questions involving 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, wavy locks of raven black reaching 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 a chainmail shirt underneath. "It's our brave little lion, no?"
"Yes, you're right. Happy now, Yiovil Lyos?"
Treva took Yiovil's bait with a snapping reply, his wiry frame tensing up. Yiovil is another person he dislikes, a smallborn like that sandy blonde. If one earned his ire through antics of deeds, the other did so via words. If one is nothing short of a buffoon, the other is a master of goading.
"An audience he shall have, Treva."
Irlia Eliaden rises from an oaken wood chair with a gentle yet firm tone. It is time for the truth to be said, the moment when reality exposes the lie perpetuated by childhood dreams.
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"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 cannot mask her surprise at Cairos Ryvers' composure. He has always been synonymous with stupidity and foolhardiness rather than traits worth a maiden's glance.
"I know I should have been disappointed. Acting dumb does have a wonderful effect. But boys will become men. We have to, you see. What a self-deceiving load of shit I put myself in."
Such are the words spoken from resignation and fatalism. Childhood is a place free from reality. Adulthood is one tampered by thereof.
"Cairos, can I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead."
"How long have your acting deceived others?"
"You remember the day you held me back? When I was certain to slaughter that arsehole of a noble? I told myself I could not continue living like that. Your eyes told me I must not become a monster. But you. What about you? You're never talking like a noble before me. Why?"
"Because some things are tiring. Even before those I call friends, I must maintain this facade."
The sandy blond betrays a rueful smile. When the two were twelve, a commoner and noble made a promise in the name of love. Children will always be children regardless of whether they are boys or girls. Even today, those are the words his sole family member always says. Marvus Creek called him a cretin and hopeless loon, an absurd dreamer of being both hero and Irlia's wedded beloved.
On the other hand, Lukas Broun encouraged him to take that leap of faith, for this was nothing less than his own life. The maker defines the choices made, not the other way around. Otherwise, he would be nothing more than a victim trapped in a lie. Lukas' logic remains ever so clear despite all those years, the words pleasing every dreamer's ears for better or worse. That includes Adarl, who first proposed to him when they were thirteen. Back then, Cairos had no idea what she was thinking. Called an ugly little wench by a group of boys, her ordeal culminated in 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 to Irlia, an event her father dealt with afterwards. She worked as a serving girl under Chard's watchful eyes, a period in which 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 Cairos has to announce a decision made with much effort by two fatherly men desiring 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, Cairos 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 a mask of calm as her sword. Eyes of hazel never straying from his gaze, Irlia recalls that fateful day when a person of false nobility first beheld a lion's cub.
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"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, nor could anyone discern how a smallborn could enter a school only for the rich and nobility. Sneaking a glance towards Cressandra Tanias, the Yaguryo realised she was 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 had been close to each other since their eighth winter. Ermia admired Irlia's honesty, while Cressandra wanted a friend who would not judge her for her father's reputation. Ermia detested her family watching her every move, while the less spoken about Cressandra's father, the better. The gaze Calcos Tibald Tanias directed at Irlia during a confrontation with her father the previous spring remained a nightmare. Perhaps this was why gentle Cressandra would have nothing good to say about him. The untimely death of Eirlania Ulst-Eliaden, beloved wife of Leonus Gaius Eliaden and sole daughter of House Ulst, brought them closer. Alas, it was a blessing that arrived at an obvious cost, for it was a cruelty to have people dying in their prime.
As for that raging smallborn 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. Only the Holy Quintet knew where he got his knife, for Frans' parents never cared whether he would go to the Five Heavens or Seven Infernos. The offensive object was then knocked away, a violent fist breaking his wrist.
"Kill you! Kill you, kill you, I'll kill you!"
The stranger's lungs unleashed those words of fury, his voice resembling a lion's roar. Blessed with an upright soul and wrath against evil, was this how a real man should be? Irlia's mother brought her to the Imperial Zoo when she was still alive. She remembered two animals captivating her sight: a lion and a wolf. The latter reminded her of someone from the past, while the former is an image of another in the present.
"Iry, stop him! We'll get implicated if Frans 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 promise I'll stop this child. And besides, Cairos 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 committed suddenly arrived, the boy's question an animal's growl. His words repeated an obscene boast, each syllable slowly spoken, causing every girl to blush. 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? A thousand, maybe?"
"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 locked in a staring duel. "His pickled herring sandwiches are the best we've ever tasted."
“None…" snivelled Frans 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 late as Cressandra and Ermia could only stare with horror seeping out from their hearts. A rock smashed across the boy knight's head, Frans wearing the look of a vicious animal bearing a humane visage.
Cairos offered a laugh in reply, an unimaginable feat managed by surviving a hit that could have killed someone his age. What kind of being is he? More than just a boy, he resembled more of a beast. With a twisted grin, the smallborn picked up the bloodied weapon, for panic had seized a son of nobility and dropped the rock. His right hand holding it firmly, Cairos licked the blood off a tool claimed for himself. Spitting it out like a tavern brawler with a leer worn and shoulders dropped, he was akin to a lion waiting to pounce as a vicious pursuit was now on the cards.
"Hu… huh… hah!"
Frans Arnter ran away as fast as possible, every girl, especially Ermia, mocking his plight. On the other hand, the boys started whispering among themselves, bewilderment clouding their senses. Convinced that one of them was a god, the sight of a smallborn mortal making him wet himself was a revelation. As for Irlia, she kept her eyes on a being of righteous anger, a visage which made the firstborn son of House Arnter flee like the craven knave he was.
Nobody noticed his mundane features, but the Yaguryo knew her saviour's eyes and smile. There was another person of a similar bearing, a fateful meeting during that frigid autumn haunting her. Before the world, Cairos Ryvers should have merely been one person out of countless souls. Before Irlia Eliaden, however, his anger was reminiscent of a Relentless One she met under that blue full moon a year ago.
Extending her arm, she gripped Cairos' 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.
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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 a building made with stones of alabaster and granite. Six lions stand erect, statues of the finest craft a head taller than the average Causacean male. Three on each side flank the porch, its 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 constant calls, her fingers running through slightly tangled locks. How long has the slumber lasted? The answer to it is that she does not 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 points 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 had known since they were no older than seven.
"By the Holy Quintet and Seven Infernos, 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 round of laughter. Never the kind which members of the nobility are known for, the situation is akin to joyful children running about. The last time they enjoyed such a moment was before Ermia's marriage to Lysas Gloreas, a day before she would be called Lady Ermia Nantes-Gloreas by servants and smallborn alike. Not so long ago, 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 a rude gesture. The daughter of House Tanias has no choice. Shaking her head and laughing was her only response. A year of married life does not matter, for Lysas can't contain his wife's temperament. It is often said time changes people and that the natural flow of things travels in a single direction. From the past to the present, after which the future awaits. But this is not so for someone whose behaviour mirrors a daring boy, a lady less than a demure girl.
"Hey, Iry and Cress. Don't you wish we're smallborn rather than the highborn?"
"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 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 Cairos Ryvers paid you a visit."
Cressandra's attempt to put her embarrassment to the sword results in more significant 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 proven true."
Cressandra and Ermia leave themselves stupefied, Irlia's answer revealing the melancholy truth. They know she is about to be married, but it's just that Cairos Ryvers is not the groom. Why would a highborn desire ridicule by marrying herself down, an act proving as if she is nothing more than a harlot? Nevertheless, the cold truth sinks its blade into each listener's heart, Irlia's inner world bleeding inside. They say it is a blessing to be a highborn, but those who curse such a life are the ones living it. A commoner's daughter has more freedom to choose her lot, while 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 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 the fact that it was a pony rather than a mare. She was able to learn swordplay come her sixteenth winter, her skill nothing more than fanciful strokes bereft of function. Many of those of senior status call her beyond control, while few are those her age admiring the false noble for that inner fire revealed.
"You're scaring me, Iry. Can you tell us what in the Holy Quintet and Seven Infernos happened?"
"Cairos 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."
"Cairos was my shield against insults, the sword against scoundrels, a knight when 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, a trembling tone showing cracks across a wall separating the heart from the mind. The only thing left undone is the shedding of tears, for she promised herself she would never cry. Neither in front of Cairos nor anyone else, this is her only way to send him off and the best farewell present. Two years ago, she believed he was her prince. Two years later, she has no choice but to accept the actual princess is never her. Has the boy ever noticed a girl's feelings for him? She doubted his stupidity despite reactions of buffoonery reciprocating her feelings, her instincts whispering he was 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 mischievous smile. She tries to snatch it back, but Ermia's back faces her instead. Understanding her good friend's personality fails to clear her senses, Irlia wrestles Ermia Nantes onto the ground. As they roll over the grass, 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 seizing her, Cressandra walks over to 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 an abruptly released snappish attitude, 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 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."
"What 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 less brooding man."
"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 grit 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 in a trance, yet there is something about him pulling her into a vortex of want. Darkness conquers her senses, and the last thing discerned is Ermia's booming voice and Cressandra's hand covering her mouth in shock.
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I watch my past seven years ago unfolding, myself seated as the lone audience. Everything is surreal. Where I am 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 men would want to commit their lust unto a girl of eleven winters is a question I will never know the answer to. Ermia pointed out that outlaws like them only desire money and ransom, and Cressandra asked why both. This conversation was two years ago, but 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, yet said gold was nothing to these ravenous animals. They aimed to get two things: 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 ask myself this question occasionally. There must be a difference between man and beast. Is no one ever safe from evil 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. Her words are why I loathe such a life. What purpose does the promise of power serve if your soul does not know 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. Without being cursed with the luck to see them, this is how I know certain things. My mother instructed me not to follow gods I do not know, while my father echoed her sentiments. They say husband and wife are the greatest minds that think alike, but there were moments when I wondered whether she did love her husband despite his unreservedly-given love.
Then, he entered the act abruptly. Chaos Incarnate are the only words my inner self can conjure. Hacked down were twenty bandits bereft of remorse, 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, recalling my saviour weaving to and fro still robs me of my breath. Those living my life shunned me, and they correctly claimed a Yaguryo is not Causacean. As for him, his eyes betrayed a life ten times worse whenever I remember them. I know not how, but I know for sure.
Like a monster in children's tales, his eyes were crimson red. Unlike children before a beast, I felt no fear.
Was he a demon many smallborn have whispered about in terror?
Or perhaps this was someone forced to be an avatar of death?
Could this man be chaos itself in the flesh? After all, the heart and head proclaimed the exact words: Chaos Incarnate.
Questions without answers I force away as I know with no doubt that 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. I trust my mother. She used to say true indeed are instincts born from a woman. He is not the type Ermia or Cressandra would fancy, but is he handsome?
He is the rugged type who is comfortable with charming smallborn 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, as a stinging slap and equally harsh words ensured that history would not repeat itself.
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. Something tells me he has to be someone from that enigmatic race called the Relentless Ones, beings who mysteriously fascinated my mother. Silent acknowledgement greets the hooded figure as he turns around after a pause, his back the most poignant portrait. Mother spoke before how fair and mighty they are, their hair of wintry snow setting themselves apart from the elves.
A violent gale assaults both the stage and below. It is the kind of frigid blast that arrives every eleventh month at autumn's end. Its force resembles a blizzard during 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. Our 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 I've ever seen, he pulled his left hand away from my 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.
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