The winds of Aravellia blew cold, but to its princess, it was as if she was wrapped in burning flames. Not even the expensive down pillows and silk coverlet twisted around her body could comfort her this night. Sweat dripped down her forehead, her brows pressed together in a scowl, lost deep in the nightmare that tormented her mind.
Fires raged all around her, smoke billowed about and choked the air from her lungs, incoherent screams pierced her ears. She was in the Grand Hall, an all too familiar room where countless discussions concerning the future of her country had took place.
Only now, instead of marbled walls and gilded ceilings, a crimson sky sneered at her and the crumbled remnants of the structure surrounded her.
She was on her knees, two Traidorri soldiers restraining her arms behind her, the wicked scimitars on their hips glinting in her peripheral. Before her was her brother, Elmont, mirrored in the same position as she, only with a sword pushed against his throat. The hand wielding the sword belonged to King Ivictus, the ruler of Traidorr. With hatred, he smiled wickedly at her.
In Elmont’s expression was pure terror mixed with anger and hopelessness. Much like the hopelessness Desdemona felt gripping her as well.
Elmont said something, but the words were nonsense, and she couldn’t hear them, but it didn’t matter, because in an instant, his head was rolling on the desecrated floors before them, and there was screaming, horrible, unintelligible screaming.
Her brother’s eyes stared at her in shock from their place where they rolled, just before where she knelt, and the same blood that was dripping from the King’s sword was also pooling at her knees. Red, so dark it looked black for a moment, now coloring her dress the same hue, it seemed to swallow her up, paralyze her.
It was chaos all around, burning buildings and rubble and a black and red sky, and the screaming. Gods, the screaming.
It wasn’t until her vision turned sideways and her head was removed from her shoulders, did she realize she was the one screaming.
With a gasp Desdemona’s eyes shot open, fear gripping her heart. She sat up, eyes adjusting to the dark room with the bit of moonlight shining through the thick curtains.
Her breathing was heavy and ragged like she’d just finished running a race.
It had felt so real. She grabbed at her chest, trying to slow her breathing.
This was the third time this month that she’d had the same nightmare. When would it stop?
“Elmont...” her words were a tiny drop in the bucket of the overflowing silence in her room. She felt small and hopeless. Worthless, even. Not even in her dreams could she save or help her brother in any way.
Some princess. She might as well turn in her crown and take up nunnery. At least then she might find some use for her life.
But not even her self-pity party could dissuade the real fears and worries in her heart. That she felt her brother would die. That they all would die, and soon, her beloved kingdom of Aravellia would be nothing more than burning fires and forgotten rubble, and—
The sound of hurrying footsteps and harsh whispers just outside the door brought Desdemona back to true reality and her spiraling thoughts begrudgingly began to ebb. She slipped out of bed, quickly composed herself and cracked open her chamber’s door.
A few maids ran by, as if anxious to get somewhere, and the guards posted by her door abruptly ceased their hushed conversation.
“My Lady,” they addressed, rigid statures of honor.
“What’s going on?”
The guards exchanged a quick glance between each other, “Another fight broke out at Old March, our northern border.”
Des sucked in a quick breath. Another one? That made twice, and not even a full turning of the moon had passed since the last incident.
Old March was the border between Aravellia and their tentative ally and neighbor, The Republic of Traidorr.
Traidorr and Aravellia had never been true friends, but the two kingdoms had gotten on amicably. That is, until the past thirteen moons. It seemed like every day there was an altercation between the Traidorri and Aravellan soldiers that were assigned watch over the border. In order to make things fair, so no one kingdom could seize power over the only stronghold separating the two, Aravellia and Traidorr had an equal number of men posted at Old March at all times. But with relations being at its lowest, constant disagreements erupted between the nations’ people.
“Who struck the first blow?” the princess dared to ask. She was sure she already knew the answer.
“A Traidorri bastard,” the guard to her left spat, his face a deep scowl. The second guard shot him a sharp look for speaking so uncouth in front of their princess.
“Apologies, Princess,” the guard quickly said, his head bowed in shame.
But it didn’t matter. Desdemona didn’t hear them anymore. She was miles away, tethered only by the feeling of dread twisting in her gut.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Princess! Princess, please, see reason!”
Desdemona strode through the corridor, hiking her dress up so it wouldn’t get in her way. Her lady in-waiting was hot on her heels, though her pleas fell just short of Desdemona’s ears.
Who did her brother think she was? A common maid? Should he have no respect for her status in the kingdom, to not extend a Council invitation to her as well?
“Who does he think he is?” She spat, feeling fueled by her anger.
“The King of Aravellia, my princess!” Llewellyn cried.
Desdemona rolled her eyes. Sure, he was the King of Aravellia! But he was also her brother, and a total ass!
“Please don’t do this, Princess,” Llewellyn pleaded, her breaths ragged from keeping up with her high-spirited charge, “You’ll make a fool of yourself! The Councilmembers nor the King will look upon this kindly!”
“I don’t care.” Desdemona pushed through the great doors of the Grand Council Room, surprising all in attendance. The room was well-decorated, with its main feature being a large golden table in the middle that nearly spanned the entirety of the space.
There were many Aravellan advisors, a few faces she did not recognize, but many who she did. At the head of the table was her brother, Elmont, sat in a much more ornamental chair than the rest of the seats. His face looked strained, as though his crown was too heavy and was beginning to press on his temples.
Desdemona almost felt the collective groan from the members in the room, though they dare not vocalize it. She was their Princess, after all.
“What is the meaning of this?” Desdemona snapped, “Are you really considering ending our alliance with Traidorr? This is madness, Elmont!”
One of the advisors, Geoffrey—whom Desdemona had known practically all her life, as he had been apart of her parents’ Council—stood to his feet, his chair scraping across the floors.
“Princess, please. We are discussing serious matters here—”
Desdemona strode further into the room, coming to slam her hands onto the table these twenty or so men sat at.
“And why hasn’t an invitation to this meeting been extended to me? Let me guess. We’re short on messenger pigeons?” Desdemona’s gaze burned into Elmont, but he did not back down.
Even she had to admit, he looked rather kingly in his deep indigo colored tunic, accentuated with elaborate gold embroidery along the neckline and sleeves. Over it, he wore a shining gold mantle with black edging and stars all along, which complimented the golden crown atop his head, laden with purple and red glittering jewels.
He looked the part, at least. But looking the part and actually doing it well were not mutually exclusive.
The young king sighed, with slight notes of disappointment, “I apologize for the Little Princess.” He made an apologetic gesture towards the rest of the Councilmembers, before gesturing to one of the nearby guards. A few barely stifled chuckles worked their way around the room.
Desdemona’s cheeks burned furiously, feeling her whole body flood with embarrassment, disrespect and shame. The Little Princess! He was doing this deliberately to publicly put her in her place, to discredit her authority in front of everyone. Like she was some infant with no knowledge of the world.
She couldn’t help but feel the sting of hot tears as a royal guard approached her, touching a hesitant hand to her shoulder, wanting to follow the orders of his King but not wanting his princess to feel she was being disrespected or manhandled.
Desdemona shrugged the guard’s hand off and made a swift exit from the room before she could feel any worse.
“I can’t believe he would treat me that way, in front of everyone!” Desdemona cried, her only witness the thick Grimoire in her hands. She had found herself in the one place she always gravitated to: The Royal Librarium. It had been her favorite spot when her father was alive, as they spent countless hours pouring over the many books together, sharing recommendations and regaling each other of their favorites. Her father’s love for literature was almost as great as his love for his wife, and especially his two children.
Even after her parents’ death, Desdemona’s love for the Librarium never wavered, but took on a new form, now existing as her place of comfort amidst her overwhelming grief.
Before she knew it, the young princess had come face to face with an intimidatingly large portrait of her parents hung from the wall in the Librarium’s main room. In it, King Alfus sat atop his throne, dressed in the most stunning black and gold coat, complimented by the polished golden orb scepter he held. His short, greying curls peeked out from underneath his crown, and his deepset brown eyes crinkled just at the corners, as if he was hiding a secret smile.
Next to him, looking as poised and beautiful as always, was her mother, Queen Ernestine. She wore a deep purple silk dress that started below her shoulders, exposing her smooth brown skin and drawing attention to the weighty gold and red pendant she wore around her neck. Her hair was done in an elaborate braided style with her pretty black curls sitting atop her head. Her own crown rivaled her husband’s in beauty—maybe even more so, with the delicate dew drop jewels of ruby, amethysts, and emeralds.
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Queen Ernestine was perfect, regal, and intelligent. She never had a hair out of place or a harsh word for anyone, at least not in public. She never treated anyone unkindly and was known for her smarts, poise, and grace.
Desdemona felt she herself was nothing of the sort. Ungraceful, useless, and the complete opposite of regality. She had just made herself look like a complete ogre in front of people who were supposed to be her subordinates! Could she ever do anything right? It seemed as though everyday she was becoming more and more of Aravellia’s biggest disappointment. She was supposed to be the shining star, the one who gave everyone hope after the tragedy that snatched her parents’ away.
Now, here she was, fighting back tears as she gazed at her parents, wishing they were real instead of colors on fabric.
Through her tears, she might have missed it. Only, it was fairly hard to miss, despite the fact that it had only just now caught her attention.
On a stone shelf just behind her parents' portrait, the silver sparkle of a rather large book's spine beckoned Des closer. It was almost as if it were speaking to her, and she found herself in a trance-like state, floating to the book and sliding it from its perch. She felt its dense weight and traced her fingers over the silver tendrils that snaked all along its cover, the ovate amaranthine jewel nestled in the center sparkling almost forebodingly.
"The Ashuraith... Covenant of Rebirth?" she whispered, fingers tracing the title.
She moved to a small reading table nearby, a nauseous feeling rising deep in her gut as she flipped through the pages. Something about the way the word Rebirth was etched into the cover made her chest tighten and her palms moisten. The air around her felt heavy and dreadful, and suddenly smelt faintly of wet soil, only wrong and sour. It seemed as though the book trembled in her grasp. Or was that her hands? The unidentified quaking intensified as Desdemona came to rest at a particular page at the book's halfway point.
She read. Passages of revival, of impossible return and the magic it took to make such a thing happen. The book spilled its secrets, weaving depraved images into her mind as she read on, terrified. Hungrily. Apparently, this ritual had been done before on the first king of Aravellia—King Alistair—after his untimely death just ten years into his reign. The King was benevolent and beloved, having many loyal supporters and retainers. As far as she and all Aravellan history buffs knew, King Alistair passed away in his sleep and the cause was never divulged.
But this book told a different story, one of gruesome murder, sacrifice and revenge.
His most loyal subjects performed the Covenant, a ritual meant to raise a person's very bones from the soil they were buried under.
Water had eaten away most of the book's bottom half, but the words just above it were just visible enough.
The Last of the Old Ones, keeper of what was, what could have been, and what never will be. Seek past the waters of the Deep North, to Wilwilout. The Old One knows all, does all, is all. Source of sources, well of magic, catalyst for the Covenant.
Desdemona slammed the book shut, her head suddenly pounding and her vision blurring. She must have only just begun to feel unwell; she supposed with her rapt attention to the book, she hadn't noticed. Now however, she felt the strength leaving her, little bumps appearing along her arms as an invisible chill blew through her chest.
All at once the library doubled in size, and the young princess felt so very small, like it could take her ages to make her way out. Still, she couldn't bring herself to part with the book—not yet—and summoned just enough strength to carry her to her chambers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dinner that night between the Cepage siblings was quiet, to say the least.
Desdemona had barely managed to drag herself from her room after nearly fainting from sudden exhaustion in the library that afternoon. She didn't know why she even bothered to exert this much energy just to break bread with her brother. After he humiliated her like that?
Des pushed her lamb around her plate, refusing to give Elmont the satisfaction of her attention.
It was just the two of them in the dining hall, a large space that seemed to swallow them whole without their parents there to fill the room.
Elmont sat at the head as his father once did, and Desdemona on the opposite end of the long mahogany table. It was decorated rather nicely, she thought, considering the fresh soy wax candles sitting pretty and tall in their shining gold holders, the perfectly draped lavender cloth that hung off the sides, and the tastefully placed bouquets of baby's breath, white roses, and purple hydrangeas. The effort was wasted on the two of them.
Elmont cleared his throat. Desdemona chose to ignore him.
"The lamb is rather tender," he offered.
"Yes." Her tone was terse and uninviting.
Another silence stretched between them, and Elmont considered leaving it alone. With a sigh, he threw his napkin down on the table.
"Honestly Des, what did you expect? Barging into the room like that while serious matters were being discussed?"
He was staring across at her now, frustration a blanket over his features.
Des looked up through her lashes, not feeling well enough to argue with him but unable to let things continue now that he had brought it up.
She heaved a sigh of her own, dropping her utensils and meeting his gaze, intensity matched.
"I expect to be invited to these things. I expect to be treated like I matter. I expect my own brother to not shut me out and pretend like we're not in this together!"
"We're not! I am the King, and you're just...the princess."
Desdemona felt his words stab through her heart, the echoes lingering in the air above them, heavy, unyielding. That wasn't what they agreed on, not after their parents died. When they were broken and afraid, neither of them knowing how to run a kingdom, and still reeling from losing their mother and father. She promised she would help him, that they would figure it out together. He was no stronger than she at the time, and they leaned on one another for support. Sure, Elmont was king in title, but Desdemona felt that they had only made it this far by depending on each other, with full transparency.
Well, she supposed he felt he could stand on his own now.
"Just the princess..." she scoffed and looked away, feeling weakness seeping back into her bones with a vengeance. "Mother and Father were a team. You can't do this alone, Elmont...you're not right for it."
Elmont's face darkened then, and Desdemona knew she was trodding on thin ice. The air was fat with tension, but she pressed on, turning a glare on him.
"You refuse to get married, and now you're trying to shut me out. Traidorr has always been an uncertain threat at our borders, and now you've gone and spit in the mad king's face! I mean, really, Elmont—damn it!" She slammed her fist into the table, passion overtaking.
"What do you think will happen if you sever ties with Traidorr? With the rest of the kingdoms? Do you even care? Everything Mother and Father worked for, you’re—"
Elmont stood abruptly, causing his sister to fall into a momentary silence. He pointed a finger across at her, a scowl marring his usually handsome and youthful features. In this moment, he looked aged and hardened.
"You," he spat, his dark eyes sparkling dangerously; challengingly, "will perform your duties as princess. You will go down to the abbey, spend time with the sick and give them hope for the future, hope in their King. You will focus on your studies, and attend your defense classes. You will focus on living a good life and being happy. Find a suitable man, get married, birth children if you wish. But you will allow me to do my job, as our parents entrusted to me, and do not question my decisions. You are not King, nor are you Queen."
The bite in his voice was enough to make Desdemona's lip quiver just slightly.
Brother and sister locked eyes for what seemed like ages, neither one of them uttering a single word for some time.
"I keep having these nightmares, El," she lowered her gaze to the window off to the side. The midnight sky was lit by the full moon raised high. Suddenly crimson bled through the black, just like in her dream, and she swore she could smell the smoke and charcoal of burning flesh, "that you're going to die, and all of this," she gestured around the room, "will be nothing more than rubble." She returned her gaze to his.
"Mother and Father would never willingly choose to go down a path like this."
Elmont only sighed and turned away from his sister.
"Mother and Father aren't here anymore. They're nothing but bones and rot under the soil. And dreams...are just dreams."
Desdemona watched her brother's back as he pushed his way through the large doors, never sparing her a second glance.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Desdemona paced the length of her room, fully dark save for a single flickering candle by her bedside. She was unable to find rest in the night, though she tried persistently. However something haunted her.
An apprehensive glance on the far side of the room near her window revealed a large crystal jewel whose shine seemed to mock her.
That damned book.
She wanted to resume her reading of it, but every time she tried, she was plagued by uncontrollable trembling and her heart began to race. She felt ill at just the thought of it. Not to mention how she had been nearly brought to death’s door after just a few minutes of reading it prior.
And yet, she found herself moving towards it anyway.
This time, she sat on her bed, the solid weight of the tome resting on her lap, and her heart.
If I faint, at least I won’t hit my head, she thought, though it gave little comfort.
Bile already churning in her gut, Desdemona flipped open to her last read section of the book.
The page was covered in what looked like gibberish scribbles, black in color and lacking uniformity.
In the center of the page read the phrase, “Vaesir en Thaal.”
The next few pages were the same, each having a distinct scribble surrounding the same phrase. It looked like the ramblings of a madman, but Des knew better. She continued flipping through the pages until she reached one depicting a man rising from a deep grave surrounded by faceless men in long white robes.
The corners of Desdemona’s vision were beginning to darken, her head feeling like it was being swung around on a stick. She licked the dryness from her lips and focused on the text accompanying the unsettling scene.
‘To Wilwilout, the Path laid bare
To Wilwilout, be freed from Death’s Snare
The Last of the Old Ones, ‘tis took refuge there
The Old One, whose Might is just and fair
That thou may come back from Death’s Snare’
Beneath the poem depicted a towering, faceless figure who looked to be embracing a fearsome four-legged beast. It had spiked horns like a dragon, and scales, yet feathered wings and a spiny tail, with the face of a bear, and—
Well, it didn’t matter what she was looking at in the book anymore, because now she was looking at the contents of her stomach splattered at her feet. Yellow and orange chunks stained the purple hem of her dress, turning it brown.
“Damn it...” she muttered, before promptly falling unconscious.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For once, the princess had only pleasant dreams through the night. She dreamt of her parents, of wonderful days spent as a family, just before they’d boarded a ship headed to the far northern lands of Crezia.
They had gone to negotiate terms of an alliance with the foreign country, as Aravellia was a kingdom who prided itself on good-faith relationships with all the powerful nations, neighboring or not. King Alfus and Queen Ernestine only wanted peace.
Desdemona remembered not wanting them to go, but she never was a fan of her parents being away for too long. And Crezia was so, so far away. Many full moons would pass on a ship’s ride from Aravellia to Crezia.
She dreamt of the last time she’d seen her mother. She still felt the warmth of their final hug, of her father’s lips on her forehead, a last kiss goodbye.
Desdemona awoke to tears spilling from her eyes. It seemed she was doing a lot of that these days. The early morning sun began peeking through her curtains, signaling the start of the morning.
The Ashuraith sat innocently on the bed next to her, looking as though completely blameless for the ragged state of the princess who dared to read it.
The full strength of her body had not yet returned, and so she lay there, passing in and out of consciousness as she continued to dream, but this time, of going to Wilwilout, and of bringing her parents back to life, and of them fixing everything going wrong in Aravellia. After all, that’s what the book all but told her, that an ancient being in a land no one believed was real, had the power to do anything.
The book could be pure fantasy, just make believe. Besides, it’d been decades since the people of Cerridia wielded the power of the Alyd, old magic. It was rare, yet it was well-known that some races still practiced, and kept the ways strong, like the Elves In the East.
So why couldn’t Wilwilout be real? Why shouldn’t she try? In her heart, she knew Aravellia was on the brink of destruction. And she knew, no matter the cost, she had to act.
