I can't hear love 'cause we're at war

And revenge is so loud and the drums are so proud

But oh, I'm in a cage and I hear mercy say "I'm here now"

And it's the only way out

 

            The tale of the entangled fates of houses Deracose and Seblire began with the very conception of the fair country of Darion. Many families, chased out of their homelands by the Kicrion invaders of the North came together in solidarity. Twelve noble houses from these families came together to create a government dedicated to the preservation and cooperation of their cultures. For decades, the Pravaci Court, as they came to be called, ruled the fertile region from the capital city of Estonie with a firm and fair hand. Over time, the structure of power shifted and the Deracose and Seblires rose to the top, ruling as a diarchy. All was well. But, there is always an until and that is where we begin our story.

            The Uradavi matriarch tired of watching the houses follow the orders of the ruling families without question and devised a plot to depose of them. In 1054 AE Marielle Deracose was with child, just as Eline Seblire was close to bearing twins. Straivia Uradavi, as the oldest matriarch of the families, has overseen the pregnancies of all Pravaci Court Women for the past 4 decades.

            On the night before the twins were to be born, Straivia gave the young Marielle a sleeping draught mixed with her tea. While Marielle was sleeping, Straivia had her eldest son sacrifice a ram, he watched as she collected its fresh blood and then poured it between the legs of the young queen. When she awoke from her slumber, nauseous and lightheaded from the draught, she could feel that something was not right. Confused her hand went to cup her barely showing belly and came away with blood. Her screams of sorrow washed through the castle, sending the guards and her husband running to her chambers. Even Eline, heavy in her pregnancy tried to go to her friend.

            Jerlorn burst through the doors, sword drawn ready to defend his wife and slaughter any would be assassins, only to find Marielle weeping in bloodstained sheets. He went to her, the angry scowl slipping from his face, replaced by a visage of mourning. He pulled her to him, murmuring that they would try again, that all was not lost. But the raven-haired beauty was broken hearted. She quieted, and all around her could see that this was worse. Jerlorn enveloped her, as if to shield her from the world. With her knees under her chin, she looked like a child, dwarfed by her husband. But there was no mirth, no light, no life in her eyes. She saw nothing and felt nothing. A black hole took root within her heart, sucking away the room that she built for her unborn child. It threatened to devour all of her.

            Straivia, after making sure that Eline Seblire stayed in her bed, went to shoo Marielle’s loved ones from her. Marielle reached out and took Straivia’s wrist with the strength of Death. “Will…” she breathed. Straivia patted her hand and consoled her, “Of course child. The sun will return.” She drew up a bath for the Deracose Queen and bade her to soak in the water while she brushed her hair. Dosing her again with a sleeping draught, Straivia, put the poor woman to bed and instructed no one to disturb her. She then left with her leather bag of herbs and instruments, no one noticing that the Queen’s gilded brush and ceremonial dagger had vanished.

            It was not soon afterwards that Eline went into labor, Straivia ordered the city women under her about with how to proceed as she kept a watchful eye over her charge. After many hours, the Seblire Queen gave birth to two healthy boys, happy to be a part of the world. The women worked quickly to clean up the exhausted queen so that they could hurry back to their own homes and children. King Solin, who had been pacing the chambers anxiously, especially after consoling his friend King Jerlorn. His fears were quickly assuaged when he was able to look at his sons, as radiant as the Sun and Moon, suckling at their mother’s breasts. Straivia soon sent the happy father away, insisting that the queen and her sons rest. Reluctantly, the king and the guards left the shared maternity chambers of the queens.

            Again, they were summoned, this time by the frantic calls of Straivia. Panting, her cheek cut and fresh blood staining her high collar, she pulled them into a nightmare scene. Eline lying prostrate upon her bed, the handle of Marielle’s dagger protruding from her heart, one newborn wailing at her side and the other nowhere to be found. Straivia, frantically waiving her hands about, was only able to say “Marielle” over and over. The guards burst into Marielle’s chambers to find them empty. She seemed to be gone without a trace except for the open windows.

            It seemed to all the land that Marielle, distraught at the loss of her unborn child and driven mad with jealousy for the Queen who had produced two sons, strove to take back what fate had robbed of her. King Solin mobilized his personal guard from Eline’s bed, giving whispered orders to bring back the Mad Queen dead or alive. He lay there for hours, his own queen’s head in his lap, stroking her blond hair and memorizing her face. A terrified nursemaid sat in the corner with the remaining newborn, his father refusing to let him out of his sight. Calling him Strisen after his pale hair and the loss that brought him into the world. On the other side of the ruling castle, King Jerlorn was distraught with the loss of his own child and wife. Knowing his wife to be a docile creature, he was bewildered at the allegations against the Queen. So he sent out his own personal guard to search for her. She was found floating in the river seven months later, her throat slit. Those months pulled at the once unbreakable bond between the two families, the two kings once as close as brothers could not bear to be in the same room. Jerlorn had hoped and prayed that his wife would be found and that she would be able to explain what happened the night Strisen was born. Solin however sunk deeper into himself, a vengeful rage boiling beneath the surface that was only lessened by happy coos of his remaining son. The tension gnawed at the both of them.

            When news came back of her death, Jerlorn drew his sword on Solin, roaring about the injustice brought on his beloved wife. Solin wielded his own blade with deadly and heartbroken silence. Both rational men, knowledgeable of the law, fought not for justice, but out of vengeance. That day in the palace square, they fought until they were both bloody and bruised, matched in their skill and talents in combat. They were both dragged off the field, exhausted and permanently scarred.

            This sent the two houses and their alliances at each other’s throats – turning the closest of houses into the bitterest of enemies, and thus tearing the city of Estonie apart. Straivia Uradavi, held an emergency meeting with the Pravaci Court urging the families, who had grown content to let the Deracose and Seblire houses rule (so long as they were able to keep their wealth), to elect a regent monarch until the feud could be resolved. She proposed that the remaining ten families put forth a single member so that a vote could be called to determine who would be best suited to guide Estonie out of danger. Of course, when it came to a vote, each family voted for its own representative. All except for house Uradavi. House Uradavi voted for the frail and bookish Lord Reviante of house Bestolin, a man that Straivia had mentored since his birth, another that she herself had overseen. Lord Reviante, a man that would be completely out of his depth and would rely heavily upon her council.

            All had gone according to her plan, all except for the loyalties that she placed in her youngest son. Erion was Straivia’s pride and joy. A handsome man, his hands rough from endlessly training with a blade and his mind sharp and witty, far clever than all of his four brothers. He alone was a match for her cunning mind, so she gave him the task of disposing of poor Marielle. She had no idea that the village girl, who had caught the eye of then Prince Jerlorn, had first befriended Erion. In callously asking her son to get rid of his childhood friend and first love, Straivia brought about her own demise. Erion whisked Marielle away from the Maternity Chambers of the castle and took her far into the countryside, to where he had a cottage on a remote wheat farm waiting for them. Rightly so, for when the queen awoke, her screams would have revived the dead. When Erion was finally able to calm her down, he told her everything. In shock, her hands slowly cradled her unborn child, still alive, its small heartbeat masked by its mother’s. Erion swore there and then that he would give his life to protect Marielle and her unborn child. Marielle came to understand that her life had changed forever and the best course of action was to trust him and hope that one day she could return to her husband. Six months later Marielle gave birth to a beautiful baby girl in that cottage by the river. A girl with hair darker than her mother’s, a shade so deep it seemed to rival the vastness of a starless night. They named her Natiselle, hoping that it would bring her luck and courage.

            Three weeks later, Erion and rode out to the nearest village a day’s ride away, in search of a wet nurse. He searched for several days and was about to return empty handed to the tired Marielle when he heard a commotion coming from a rundown inn.

A huge brute of a man was terrorizing a young waif of a woman, her eyes gaunt, and her cheeks sallow. He yelled obscenities and threw dishes in front of her, the glass flying towards her face. “Again, you worthless woman! You eat my food, take my shelter, and yet cannot keep your duties! I have no use for you if you can’t keep a damn thing alive!”

Erion burst through the door, thinking only of protecting the woman. He drew his sword on the man ready to run him through. The man took one look at Erion and said “Take her; I have no use for a defective woman. May you have better luck.” and threw her at Erion.

He shed his coat and draped it around her shoulders, to which she took gratefully. Bowing, she said “Thank you m’lord. If I had stayed any longer I am sure he would have killed me.”

Erion could not help but ask, “Why did he call you defective? You look to be of sound health, maybe in need of a rest, but otherwise healthy.”

She looked down at her feet as they walked to his horse, “In two years of marriage, I have killed five of his heirs.” She shifted her skirts, “Tonight was the latest.”

Somewhat ashamed at the notion, but desperate to bring home someone who could help Marielle he asked “Forgive me, I have yet to even ask your name and I must ask you the grandest of favors. My wife gave birth a few weeks ago and we had need of a wet nurse. Er… would you be able to help us?” while rubbing at the nape of his neck.

Surprisingly to Erion, the woman broke into a sweet smile that seemed to lift 10 years off her. “I would be most happy to. And my name is Onell.”

            Onell, climbed on the back of the stallion that was much to fine for a simple flour miller to have. And they rode the entire day’s journey. On the way, Onell filled the silence with her voice; sometimes singing, other time telling the stories of her homeland: tales of splendor and wise men and women. They did not, however, talk of their pasts. It seemed to be an unspoken rule among them. The words would come when they needed to.

            Marielle appeared at the door as soon as she heard them coming, and Onell could not help but be in awe of her. As exhausted as she was, Marille had managed to plait her hair so that it becomingly framed her face while it kept itself out of the way. She moved softly and sweetly, like a spider dancing on her web, precise and graceful. “Oh, thank you. My Starling, as sweet as she is, is insatiable.” She whispered gratefully as she moved aside to let them in. The baby was fast asleep, having just been fed, in her cradle, lovingly made for her by Erion. Smells of a stew wafted through the house from the hearth and worked to welcome in the weary travelers.

            Against Marielle’s wishes, for she wanted to start on the laundry in the river, she joined them for dinner. The party of three, merrily, but quietly ate to their heart’s content. Finally, with a basket under her arm the exiled queen made her way to the river. She had no thoughts of the court she had left behind; her mind was only on how good the gentle breeze felt as it caressed her face. The sun shone bright and kissed her cheeks with warmth, for a moment she seemed to panic that she did not have a hat to keep her skin fair and unblemished. Then she realized there was no court here to dissect and criticize her every move. A silver lining… let the sun shine, I am free of the harpies. She thought to herself.

            She smiled softly at the possibilities of returning to her humble roots as she began to wash the clothes. Remembering her mother, she hummed a lullaby from her childhood, the words long forgotten, and the melody seemed to float all around her. Marielle was so consumed with her task that she did not hear the soft rustling of footsteps behind her. But Erion saw the figure. He had just finished cleaning after the meal and helping Onell get settled, when he looked out the window to watch Marielle. By the time he grabbed his sword it was too late.

            The man wasted no time in the act. He grabbed her braid tightly and gave a mighty yank. He looked down at her blue eyes, as blue as the Strician Ocean, wide with terror and drew his cursed dagger across her exposed neck without a word. A low gurgle replaced the song in her throat, barely audible over the rush of the river as she crumpled into it.

            Blind with rage, Erion leapt upon the man as if he had been sent by the gods, full of their wrath and all of their might. But the man was skilled with a blade and was not an easy foe. They fought to the cusp of dusk before the man’s hood fell from his face, revealing Caiusen Uradavi, Erion’s oldest brother.

Throwing off the guise of a stranger entirely, Caiusen attacked his brother with words along with his sword. “You would betray your own mother for that whore? You would betray our family? Traitor!”

Erion had intended to let his mother rule Estonie. He knew of her wisdom and her brutality, she would lead Estonie and its people into an age of prosperity. He had told himself that by saving Marille from her clutches; that would be enough. But in this moment, he realized that his mother had twisted the truth in her own son so badly that Caiusen could no longer see his actions for what they were. That maybe Straivia herself thought her actions were pure, that the death of an innocent was required to bring about the greater good.

            “No brother, you are the traitor. You took an oath and it lies broken. This is not something that my love for you can abide.” Erion murmured with a deadly and empty heart. “You took the life of an innocent. You and Mother both. Many more will fall at her hand; it is my fault for permitting it. That is my burden. But, I will not allow you to take anymore.”

“Allow me?” Caiusen roared, predictably enraged. “You do not –”

            Erion took his brother’s sloppy indignation as an opportunity to drive his sword hilt deep into his brother’s heart. “Yes, brother, this is my battle now. It’s a pity that you were the first to fall.”  With a face twisted in rage, Caiusen was able to growl, “Curse you. The blood of brothers will be my vengeance.” before his last breath escaped him.

            With the blanket of night upon him, Erion knew there was no way he could hope to find Marille; the river’s current was much too strong for her be within reach. And so, drained of energy, he slowly began to build the pyre for his brother. He was halfway done before he heard the cries of a baby. Suddenly snapped out of the fog of grief for his brother and Marielle, he ran towards the sound. He expected to reach the cottage and find a terrifying scene of more attackers. But the path was different and he came upon a roan mare without a rider, calmly grazing with a screaming saddlebag. He gently opened the bag and found a baby boy almost seven months old with hair as bright as the moon. “Oh Caiusen.” He murmured as he took the missing Seblire boy into his arms.

            Erion held the baby close and rode the mare to the cottage. Without thinking of Onell, he opened the door. What he found terrified him first, and then filled him with comfort. She stood in front of Natiselle’s cradle, trying to make herself as large as possible with an axe in her arms. “I saw everything.” She sobbed. “I am so sorry. I, I –.” He gave the baby to Onell. “I will explain everything when I return.”

            “Return?” She asked, fear permeating every syllable. “I must go burn my brother.”

            When he returned, he tried to peel the now blood encrusted clothes from himself. Onell appeared with a warmed bucket of water and a rag, all of her fear seemingly replaced with steel. “Sit.” He had no energy to argue and was truthfully grateful to forgo through the pain of peeling away his shirt. She began with his hands and slowly worked the shirt away from him, gently removing as much of his brother’s blood as possible. She washed his face and Erion stared blankly through her. But soon the bucket’s water was closer to red than clear. “Get into the bath.” He followed her every demand with compliant silence. She was unabashed with his body as she washed him. They were silent for a bit while she worked, until finally she could not hold back any longer. “Tell me everything. Spare no detail.”

            Erion paused for a moment, listening intently to the splash of the water against him. “Marille and I have been close for a long time. I was eleven when we first met; she was carrying water from the well to her house. It should have been much too heavy for her, but she pressed on, refusing to admit that she needed help. I almost had to beg her to let me take it.” His head slumped forward as he looked at his empty hands, worn and callused.

“I do not recall why, but I brought her into the palace soon afterwards. Perhaps, I wanted to show off. She met Jerlorn then and it was a sight, seeing her so shy around him. She was usually a spitfire if there ever was one, free and stubborn to a fault. Marielle was so nervous that she tripped over the hem of her skirt and tumbled down some stairs. Jerlorn ran over to her expecting her to be a bawling mess, he had a kerchief ready for tears but found her laughing instead. He told me later that that was when he knew. He loved that she did not need to be perfect, she can find – ah, found joy in everything.”

            Onell listened intently as he went on, turning away as he dressed but otherwise, keeping a rapt attention on him. He went on describing happier times up to the joy he had felt when they asked him to be godsfather to their first-born, before Marielle had even begun to show. Then to the utter devastation, he felt when his mother told him of her plan. The blood drained from Onell’s cheeks as she began to grasp the weight of Erion’s tale. She could feel its oppressive hand clawing at her heart. No detail was spared; he told her everything to him walking through the door.

“She was the ‘Mad Queen’?” Onell breathed.

 

“Yes, my mother’s doing.” He sunk into himself. “I should have had the courage to turn her in before all of this. Marille would have been better off if I had just left her to struggle that day by the well.”

 

            Onell took his hands into hers. “Breathe not a word against yourself. You were forced into an impossible position between friendship and family. No mother should ask that of her child, and I feel that if you had spoken out, she would not have hesitated to place the blame on you. And you gave Marielle what sounds like a beautiful life. No one can shoulder all the world’s weight, not even you.”