I was younger at the time. Holed up in my bedroom, rain pounding on the window. Flashes of lightning and booms of thunder paused for a second; with a knock at the door. 

What could that be? I wondered to myself while walking down, and peeked out, too late. The source of the knock was gone and all that remained was a parcel, brown paper wrapped in twine.         

 For me? I asked aloud, looking down. The parcel was drenched in the still pouring rain. I took off my sweater and wrapped the parcel with it, walking back inside home. I took my wellies off and placed them on the mat by the door. I walked further inside and put the parcel on my well worn armchair, right next to the blazing fire. 

I turned on the burner and brewed oolong tea, pouring it in my teal mug with the broken handle. Taking the mug, I walked back to the room where the parcel lay and picked it up. Those few minutes by the fire dried it partially and I noticed how carefully and meticulously it had been wrapped; whomever had made this wanted it to be perfect. 

Who was this person? Was it for me? It quite seemed so. Slowly, with care, I untied the twine from around the parcel. I unfolded the paper wrapping, reorienting myself on the chair. Inside the parcel was a carved wooden box, but before I could open it, I noticed an envelope on the floor. It must’ve fallen when I was opening the parcel. rcel.

 I opened the envelope, and pulled out the card. It had an inked drawing of a forest and on the other side, a smiley face. I smiled. It was so queer, but kind. It felt so familiar that I was sorrowful that I couldn’t place the giver in my mind. I put down the card and envelope on the small table beside me.

Afterwards, I looked back at the wooden box, adorned with carved birds and flowers, and finally opened it. Inside were three things: a candle, a box, and a fresh daisy, untouched from the rain. I held up the daisy to the dim light of the fire. It was so delicate, so beautiful. I took in the fragrance of the fresh daisy, and tucked it behind my ear. 

Then, I looked at the candle. It looked handcrafted, vanilla chai scented in an old mason jar. I smiled, but it felt bittersweet. I didn’t want to use the candle quite yet; I just wanted to savour the moment. Slowly, I put it back down at the side table. 

The last thing in the box was a book of faerie tales. I ran my hands over the glossy cover.  It was a large book, with a detailed and beautiful drawing of the fae. It was almost entrancing. 

It hurt that I knew who gave this gift to me. I knew it so well. But I couldn’t grasp a name, couldn’t grasp the memories. I would never know. Sometimes I think perhaps I forgot much of my past long ago. 

So now I sit on that rickety chair, right by the warm fire, and decide to open the book.

You ran into my kitchen, while I sat at my counter in a wooden chair.

It had been raining for a very long time, and so I guess I was feeling a little down. If I could write like Tennyson, or some other poet, I could say precisely how sad I felt. But I don't know much about poems, and I can't write like that, so this is what you get: I felt very sad. 

You had burst in through the door, raging and fuming, drenched down to the bone. You were shaking. I pivoted in my wooden chair, to look at you. I had never seen you in my life. What you were doing in my house, I had no idea. Your eyes were wild and furious, your hair unkempt.

When you saw me, you smiled. It was an easy, casual, small smile. You put me at ease, with your smile. For a moment, you looked absolutely radiant. 

You ran at me, at the wooden chair. You tore it away from me, slamming it into a wall, shattering it. I fell, cracking the tile floor. You gave no indication as to what you wanted, or why you had done this. Instead, you kicked me repeatedly, in the rib. I hissed in quiet pain. You ran out of the door. leaving it open.

I lay there, on the cracked, scum-laden tile floor, listening to myself breathe. Harsh winds and freezing rain pelted me. I was breathing, in, out, in, out, in. I looked up at the pale ceiling. I wondered about you, who you were, why you had done what you had chosen to do. I was a little cold. Turning my head to the side, I saw the extent of the damage to the floor. 

Linoleum, I hear, is coming back in style. 

I look at you from across the living room. It's hot, swelering, uncharacteristically so for the region and the time of year. Flies, each a glittering green color, swarm around my face, buzzing in my matted brown hair.  But the don't touch you, how could they? You're my angel, my darling, etc.  Hunting hounds are gentle in your presence. It makes me mildly ill to contemplate. 

I feel the familiar venom building in my chest again. I breathe in deeply, a mistake. Hot, tepid air is sucked into my lungs.  You're lying on the thick shag carpet, muttering nonsense to yourself in some invented language. You haven't slept in over a week now. First you had confessed secrets, weeping over a variety of transgressions, at least half of which were invented in your fevered state. Now you don't have anything to say at all. Nothing of meaning anyway. Not that it stops you.  

I love you, but you're like a child, clinging to one security blanket or another. I love you, but I wish that someone else visited once in a while to dilute the constant, aching, you-ness. I love you, but if I look at you for one more second I'll do something one of us will regret. 

I do love you. But it's been four years, and things have gotten stagnant. 

I genuinely can't stand this anymore, so I walk up the stairs and onto our balcony. There's a faint breeze, not enough to make me comfortable, but enough to cool the endless sweat rolling down my pallid face. I imagine what you'd say if you were here with me. Probably nothing. You'd stare, and I'd watch the vein in your neck throb, irritated by the same poison running through my veins. I hear you chanting endless syllable beneath me, screaming in fevered,sleep-deprived mania, an almost religious state of knowing reaching every corner of your neglected mind.

I do love you. But we never leave the house anymore. 

We have a swimming pool. Nobody would expect us to, we don't have the money. We dug a hole one day, filled it with concrete. It's deep, very deep. Like a well. Scum floats atop it like a swamp. Insects breed and fight and feed in it. It's a little microcosm. We don't swim in it, of course. We just bask in the knowledge that we have contributed positively to the local ecosystem.

I love you. I try saying the words. They feel hollow. But I mean them. I love you. More than the bugs breeding and killing in equal measure in every corner of our house. More than the plasma television we watch endless episodes of banal sitcoms on. More than the sound of the crickets singing all the earth to sleep more than the wild rushing shriek of passing cars more than the neon wasteland just beyond the slim cropping of trees the developers left behind our yard.

More than the salt you pack into my wounds, with your gentle disappointment. More than the weeks of all-nighters you pull, just for fun. More than you could ask for. Or hope for. Or even imagine.

I love you, or why would I be here, why would I have stayed here for so long? 

I have you. And you, as a consolation prize, have me.

And then I look out at my surroundings. And I think, Nothing ever happens here. And you could interpret that as meaning that nothing happens in this town, or that nothing happens in this house. Or, I could be thinking about us. 

Yes, nothing happens, and I, desperately, want to change that. I want to do something.

I climb the railing of the balcony. I gaze at the disgusting pool below. I jump in. Wind rushes around me, and then I am under the water. Muck surrounds me. It's warmer than it ought to be. It touches every part of me. I breathe in, unintentionally, and the muck coats my lungs, filling me, moving within me. I am suspended in warm, filthy darkness, like a sleeping, unborn child.

I push myself up, out of the water, dragging myself out of the pool. I cough the "water" up. You run out the back door, running toward me, an expression on your face not unlike that of a little boy running into his parent's room late at night.

You hold me in your arms, and carry me inside. I'm unsure what to say to you.

When I do speak, it is in the most hateful rasp I can muster.

I tell you that I love you. 

Prologue:

The cold ache of the ocean twisted and slithered through Mariano’s veins, infiltrating every crevice of his body as the current pulled him down, rendering his limbs numb, stiff and ultimately useless. This wasn’t supposed to have been what happened. ‘That doesn’t matter anymore, though.’ he thought, the darkness of the ever-deepening water colouring him a deep blue, then black, until he was no more. He couldn’t fight any longer. It was over. The saltwater stung his nose and throat, heart beating desperately, bleeding energy into the abyss until the tides lulled it into a barely-present thrum. Mariano stopped struggling. It was all over.

Meanwhile, it was a big day for Angelique. She was to be officially recognised as heir to the katash¹ of all of Merouge, the sole ruler and master of the waves. Despite her characteristically calm demeanour, nothing could  hide the spark of excitement within her. All the angri² of hard training and constant studying and navigating treacherous mind-games would finally pay off. Her younger brother Charles-Danté peered around the corner into her vahtor³ and leaned against the vadishe⁴, smiling affectionately. The makayavri⁵ had been meticulous in encrusting her scales in the finest of gemstones and draping her in expensive fabrics interwoven with rare plants, even painting her in katyavima⁶ befitting of the First Katarva⁷. She was beautiful; even more beautiful than usual, but petite compared to Charles-Danté, although she was a full angri and a half older than him. The Makakatyiva⁸ was finishing up the final touches with her when she noticed her brother had sauntered into the room.

“Brother!” She exclaimed, waving away the Makakatyiva.

“Angelique,” he then smoothly added, “Your Majesty, first heir and Katarva to the katash of Merouge” with a bow.

“Charle, you know that’s not true yet! Do you mean to jinx my coronation?” She laughingly teased. He shrugged sheepishly, seemingly embarrassed. 

“I would never. And it may as well be true by now, after all the effort you’ve poured into it. I-” He paused, overcome with emotion, “I’m truly proud of you, sister.”

Angelique smiled softly, placing a fin over his shoulders.

“Thank you, brother.” Charles-Danté nodded, squeezing her fin meaningfully.

“I wish you the best, Angelique. As I always have. Please lead our dear Merouge well.” His voice dropped down to a whisper; “I will always serve you and these people, to the very best of my ability.”

“As will I.” 

Charles-Danté laughed, “But dear sister, do put the people and yourself before me. Has one ever heard of a Katarva whose brother was to sit upon the katash? Not in this lifetime will I ever.”

Angelique shook her head, amused. “Very well then, brother. I will take your wishes into consideration.”

And so it was, Angelique declared the next Katarva. However, little did she suspect that within the very first mesham⁹ of her rule, a dire threat to the Katarvarate¹⁰ would be encountered.

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

¹ - Comparable to the concept of a throne

² - Comparable to a year, 12 moon-cycles

³ - A chamber, particularly of an underwater structure

⁴ - The “doorway”/opening of a chamber leading into the rest of the structure. Similar to doorposts or a doorframe

⁵ - Comparable to maids/servants of the royal family, particularly the ruler

⁶ - A special ceremonial type of pigment, most often used in ‘coronation’ ceremonies

⁷ - Comparable to a King/Emperor, usually female though

⁸ - Similar to a Royal Advisor/Chief Vizier, performs the katyavima ritual

⁹ - Comparable to a month, a twelfth of an angri, 48 tide reversals each

¹⁰ - Like a Caliphate or triumvirate (Calif → Caliphate; triumvir → triumvirate; Katarva → Katarvarate)

Chapter 1:

It was early in the farijaba¹ when they found* it — the strange thing with no gills or blowhole or fins or hardscales. Too large to be a fish or seal, too small to be a Merlasian or baby whale, with smooth skin, two sets of bending arms, and a tuft of strangely-shrivelled baleen on the wrong side of its head. They figured it must have been a discarded malformed infant of a Sorovinyat species or a badly tortured individual. Either way, they pitied the poor thing and cautiously carried it from the Depths, where the sun never reached, to the Makashtika²(Imperiale) where the makavyarush³ could inspect it. It was not in good shape. Indeed, perhaps it was no longer alive at all.

Everything felt cold and dark and grey when Mariano came to. He found his back catching on something prickly when he tried to sit up. His lungs still burnt, throat and chest achy, and a dull ringing throbbed through his head. The pain made him want to curl in on himself and vanish from the vodish⁴-forsaken place. He reached up to rub his bleary eyes and winced at the pain in his arms, all scratched up and sore. Eyes stinging, he closed them again, inhaling deeply, trying to force air into lungs. All he ended up doing was choking harshly on water, bubbles bursting from his lips and making his vision darken once more. For a moment he struggled to breathe, until he heard something — a low din vibrated against his skull, coming from close by. He instinctively flinched, pressing himself flat as possible upon the head of coral he lay across, prepared for a conflict with whoever, or whatever, was approaching. A large group of flippered-people burst through the vadishe and spilled into the dim vahtor, graceful necks tilted and mouths wide open in inquisitiveness. They circled about him like a hoard of sharks around a wounded creature. He traced their dull forms with his eyes until another group slipped in, grabbing his attention. Indeed, despite appearing bland in colour from afar, now that they were closer up he could see their bright colours⁵. Particularly one figure in the front-centre was adorned in stones and blazing white fabric that flashed in the low light of the chamber. She was mostly a soft light blue with deeper purple and red patches, as well as luminescent and gold patterns woven through her tail. It was Angelique and her entourage of makavyarush, makayavri and makasavrana⁶. They looked thrilled when the specimen stirred. Mariano still felt like a wet noodle and could not even prop himself up, on the other hand. He still was struggling to breath, could hardly see and it felt like his head was going to explode. The situation hardly made any sense, either. Merpeople? And a whole court full of them? Simply put, it did not make much sense at all.

Anyhow, Mariano looked up at the lavishly-dressed one and slowly opened his mouth. All that came out was a choked gurgle. The merpeople seemed taken aback, and Angelique’s face furrowed in perplexion. She quickly waved forward a pair of makavyarush³ who gaped at Mariano for a moment before whipping out a slab of stone each and hurriedly carving symbols into them. Angelique finally spoke: 

“Hello strange traveller. It is a pleasure to meet you.

^^^^^

*  found with sasraki, or the “second sight” that many Merlasians and even some Sorovinyat races have. It can function without the presence of light, meaning that an entirely dark environment can be easily parsed by individuals with this ability, and some have even lost their sight due to such a heavy reliance sasraki.

¹ - first tide-reversal of the day

² - Comparable to a Castle/Royal City; a palace surrounded by a self-sufficient community of people important to the welfare of the Katarvarate

³ - Royal Scientists/Researchers (often reside or work within the Makashtika)

⁴ - Comparable to a god(ess)/deity

⁵ - This is actually a real phenomenon where water particles ‘diffuse’ colours, making an object far away look plain greyish-blue when it could actually be very colourful 

⁶ - Armed guards of the royal family, particularly the Katarva; similar to worker-bees in function

Gonna start posting parts of a story I wrote recently called Dragon's Blood (while CB was down) :)

A glistening vial of thick, dark red liquid rested in my hand, a thin label on it reading Dragon’s Blood. This was the very thing that was keeping the world alive, as it was the only known cure to dracosis, a deadly disease that had been formed by an alchemist by accident and had escaped to the rest of the world. Luckily, dragon’s blood was plentiful—or at least, it once was.

“Saige! Are you done placing the vials on the cart? We’re going off to the market soon,” my father yelled. 

I nodded and quickly set down the vial and began pushing the cart towards the door. For three days a week my father and I went out onto the market to sell the blood as a cure. It was our only way of making an income to support our family: my father, my younger sister Aria, and me. 

My father walked over to the cart and scanned the vials with slight disdain. “That’s all we managed to get? Twenty-five vials? That will barely give us food to eat, let alone payment.”

“The Lux Ignes could only find a young dragonet,” I explained, shaking my head. The Lux Ignes were a small group of knights who went out to slay dragons to collect blood and distribute it to market sellers in exchange for payment.

My father heaved a big sigh and said, “Fine, that will have to do for now. Better than last time, at least. Last time, the Lux Ignes couldn’t even find a single scale. What a disgrace! Much too humiliating to show my face at the market that time, without a single vial.”

I nodded and put my hand on the slightly rusted handle of the door, which was made of stripped spruce. I swung it open, taking care not to hit the cart, then pulled the cart behind me and onto the stone path. I followed the stone path, my father close behind me, and walked for a while before seeing the familiar color, bustle and scents of the market ahead. I pulled the cart up to our market stall—made of dark oak and a slightly tattered white tarp with stripes of red tacked on top for shade. My father went behind the stall while I began setting the vials onto the counter to sell.

“Alaric!” A voice exclaimed. I turned my head around to see a portly man in a brown tunic waving a hand at my father.

My father glanced up at the man and greeted him. “Ah, how great to see you, Orvyn! I haven’t seen you at all last week!”

“I’ve been away, out for adventure, as some might say,” Orvyn said, smiling.

“Do tell me,” my father said. He turned to me and said, “Saige, watch over the stall while I take a leave for a bit, will you?”

I nodded, biting my bottom lip. “Of course, Father.” This happened every time we came. Whenever someone came by who my father knew, which seemed to be everyone, he would take this excuse to leave. At this point, I had pretty much perfected selling these vials by myself. I had no need of help.

My father ruffled my short dark brown hair, before leaving, gesturing to Orvyn. Together, the two of them disappeared into the bustle of the market.

Early one winter morning, Jack Frost visited. 

Painting elaborate designs on the windows, giving sparkling white  coats to leaves and grass, he made sure that any warm breath would cloud in the air. When the sun rose, it sparkled on the frost like jewels, and Jack Frost knew that he did his job well. He’d return every morning, skipping up the path and making snow flowers in the garden, until one day he did not come. The Snow Fairy came instead.

Tall and willowy, the Snow Fairy had pale white skin and long, black hair. Her eyes were the palest of blue, and her lips had a heart like purse to them. Her long lashes collected small flakes of snow on them, snow also shining white against her ebony hair. She wore a dress of ice, gently clinking like windchimes when she walked, her bare feet hovering above the ground. She has a pair of wings upon her back, feathered like snow, and spanning far beyond her arms spread wide. 

She rode the north wind, just upon his back. She harnessed the north wind, which transformed into a pure white deer with silver antlers and intelligent eyes. She would ride the wind, flying high over fields and forests, gathering gray clouds and settling the sun into a lazy slumber before letting loose a flurry of white feathers from her wings. With each flap, she would rise off of the white deer, shaking cold feathers down to the earth below. 

Soon, the ground below turned white as the Snow Fairy’s wings, and she alighted on the earth, calling to her helpers. Soon, all around, small, little fairies with impish faces and tiny wings swept through the air, nipping cheeks and noses of human children, causing flurries of snow to go up from the ground, and shaping icicles to sharp points. The little fairies swooped around trees, knocking snow off of the branches that were too heavy for the tree, waking the sleeping animals briefly with a whisper and a brush of snow, and walking over water, freezing it in their wake. The Snow Fairy nodded in satisfaction at all this, before flying on, shaking her wings and guiding the northern wind. She went to the south, shaking just a few small feathers to the ground, but making sure the northern wind danced plenty here. Up back to the far north, where everything seemed to be buried under white, where everyone stayed in their warm dens or houses. 

All winter long, Jack Frost would go to the parts where snow had melted and he would play tricks on the trees and animals before stern Snow Fairy and her small snowflake helpers would chase him further south, leaving feathery snow and harsh winds behind them. They did this until one day, a small flower grew through whiteness, brightening the world with its little petals. And slowly, life crept back over the earth, gently pushing Jack Frost and the Snow Fairy back to their realms in the south, and in the far north, promising that they would return once the fire of autumn went out.

Next part from previous:

“Hey, Saige!” A familiar voice caught my attention. It was Eira, a girl around my age with silver-blonde hair that fell down in waves just beneath her shoulders. She was also my good friend who always stopped by whenever I came to the market.

“Eira!” I replied, a smile breaking my face. “How nice of you to join me! Or…” My voice took a professional tone as I said, “Perhaps you are interested in our vials of dragon’s blood? They are 100% pure, I repeat, pure dragon’s blood valiantly harvested by the Lux Ignes. Care to take a bottle home for your medicinal stores in case you ever need one? You never know when dracosis will strike.”

Eira laughed, and in a similarly clipped tone, she replied, “Of course I would like a vial. I live and breathe dragon’s blood!”

I laughed and laughed, nearly toppling a couple of vials from the stall. When I at last composed myself, I beckoned Eira behind the stall. “Come on, be my moral support while I advertise ridiculously in order to catch my customers’ attention.”

Eira smiled, trying not to laugh, while she went over to me behind the counter. After a few moments of silence, she said, “You know Daegal’s Best Medicinal Remedies and Cures?” She nodded to the stall across from us.

“Indeed, they get their dragon’s blood from the same knights: Lux Ignes,” I responded.

“Well, this time, they got hundreds of vials,” Eira said, her voice a sarcastic tone.

“Ha! And we all know that dragon’s blood is only a quarter actual dragon’s blood and the rest is red currant wine,” I scoffed. 

“Good thing they have other remedies as well,” Eira added. “Otherwise, if we called them out, they’d have nothing to sell!”

“Excuse me, but may I purchase a vial?” It was a thin middle-aged lady in a faded orange gown.

“Of course,” I said, as we both quickly composed ourselves.  

A prologue to a book idea I have

PROLOGUE

1846

It was a dark, stormy night, but every window of the mansion was full of light.

If you strain your ears past the rolling thunder and pounding rain, you will be able to hear the cheerful sounds of music and laughter joining in with nature’s wet orchestra. If you march over to a window and peer inside, you will see a sea of spinning silk dresses and bobbing top hats dancing to the sounds of the four person band. The room is large and elegant, with polished floors and two story high ceilings where chandeliers hang, full of burning candles. A grand staircase leads up to a walkway splitting into two directions at the top, doors lining the walls. On the edges of the room, pastries and other treats were laid out on long, wooden tables. Back up on the walkway, small children in their nightclothes secretly watched the dancers between the bars, a few bolder children had snuck to the ground floor, and hid beneath the tables, occasionally sneaking a snack or two. They were all sure to be noticed and sent back to bed, even though the noises both inside and out would make it impossible for sleep to come.

Before the dancing adults could catch sight of the young partycrashers, lightning flashed. Outside, the sudden brightness revealed four tall white pillars, red brick, and a shadowy figure on the front steps. Thunder boomed its loudest, and the front doors opened with a big bang, and the figure cooly stepped inside. A moment later, the doors to the room were flung ajar and the music faltered, dancers stopping to stare at the unexpected visitor. The children stopped their tricks, and even the rain ceased for a moment before it came back at full force. The figure, a man, surveyed the room, talking in the appearances of the well dressed people, hiding children, and the bright chandeliers.

He smiled coldly.

The man was extremely tall, and obviously quite lean. His skinny frame was obscured by a long black leather trench coat that brushed the tops of polished boots. The long arms covered by large sleeves disappeared inside the coats pockets, though the left hand was briefly shown so the stranger could smooth back his dark hair and straighten his thin mustache. His skin was white as milk.

Though his coat was sleek and his locks luxurious, the man was not handsome. His small, blank eyes were too close together, his nose too broad for the long face, and his lips were a thin pink line over a jutted chin. His voice, though, was both soothing and melodic, as well as commanding and unforgiving. And even though he had evidently come from outside where a storm was raging, he was completely dry,

“Greetings,” he began, and even though he spoke quietly, his voice seemed to fill the gigantic room. “I have come to claim what is mine.”

The crowd stirred, and a stately man with his wife at his side stepped forward. “And what, exactly, is yours?”

“Ah, are you the lord here? Wonderful. All I require is my house.”

The lord frowned. “What house?”

The stranger waved his hand around lazily, gesturing to the large room. “This house, this mansion. I designed and built it, and I need to retain it now.”

“Impossible,” the lord narrowed his eyes. “This mansion was built a long time ago. Anyone who might’ve taken any part in creating this should be extremely old- or extremely dead. You look neither.:

“Well, looks aren’t everything,” the man said pleasantly. “Now, the house…?”

The lord straightened. “This mansion AND its grounds were fully paid for by my father. The place is now mine, and you can’t take it from me.”

“You will be paid twice as much if you ALL leave now,” the man countered. “And never come back.”

The crowd murmured uneasily, but nobody moved. Well, almost. Nobody noticed a boy and a girl sneak out of the room through the servant’s entrance. 

“No,” the lord refused. 

The man waited patiently for a moment, then smiled grimly. “Very well. If you all refuse to leave, then here you will always stay.”

The man inclined his head. All the candles in the mansion went out as another explosive sounding thunder crashed, and all the people collapsed as the echo of thunder remained.