—
16th September
Dear Diary,
I am new at this. I've made attempts to keep diaries before, but they ended in almost immediate failure. I am not very good at finishing anything that I start. I have undertaken many lofty tasks (from alphabetizing the books in father's study to translating the royal charter of Ayortha into Elfian), and I am shamed to say that I have carried through in none. I do mean to finish things, of course, but my mind is flighty and I often find my interest in one thing waning whenever some new, more exciting undertaking springs to mind. Mother smiles sagely and wishes me the best of luck when I proudly inform her of some intricate new venture. Father simply tells me (with that deadpan expression on his face) that I am too capricious and I would do better to focus on something more practical.
I hate him, I think.
It is not because he is mean to me, or for something as silly as calling me capricious. (I am capricious; I know this.) I despise him because he is so--- dull. Everything about him is vapid and spiritless: his plain face, his gray eyes, his mouth that remains in that permanent, sullen frown at all times... I think that I could list a thousand ways that he is overall lacking in anyand all appealing characteristics. He is insipidly dreary. No, no- he is far worse than that. He is insipidly, drearily tedious. Insipidly, drearily, tediously dull! That is perhaps the most apt description that one can formulate with mere words. He is a vortex into which all enthusiasm and happiness in those around him is drawn and stifled. I am miserable when he calls me to sit with him in his study. I think he feels obligated, as my father, to spend time with me. I really wish he did not.
I hide in the stables so that none of the servants can find me and make me go to him. Mother—who must have some instinctual way of locating me—comes along and scolds me for being thankless.
"Well, I'd rather be a thankless wretch than a dullard!" I tell her, feeling a little guilty if only for her sake. Poor Mother tries so hard to incite some fondness in me for Father. I feel bad that she will not admit defeat, despite my adamant declarations of loathing. How she manages to remain so bright and optimistic all the time is beyond me. I suppose she is just of that altruistic stock that strain to see the best in any situation.
I will never be that way. I will not settle for a monotonous life and try to make it seem better than it is.
With that said, I suppose some sort of introduction is in order. I am Adareia, daughter of Lady Euthalie and Sir Dougal of Onofro, Ayortha. My father—as his dreadful name bespeaks—is Kyrrian by birth, and so he insists upon calling me 'Daria' in accordance to the pronunciation of his homeland. (Another reason that I can hardly tolerate him.) I am sixteen years of age, reasonably tall (though not as tall as I would like to be), tan and freckled, and moderately pretty. Mother tells me that I am beautiful, but she is both biasedand generous in general so there is really no believing a word she says. I am pleased to be 'just pretty', anyways. I am passionate about music and poetry (they are very closely related, after all), and Iadore the Elfian language (it is rather poetic, don't you think?).
My dislikes are many, so I shall spare you of having to listen to them all. (Though you are my diary and I can bore you all I please.) I do not like when it is sunny for too long. I adore rain; the sound of it as it falls, the way that it looks as it falls in sheets, the smell the flowers and trees afterwards, etc. I am quite fond of swimming, but inexplicably fearful of fish. (Not a dislike... I guess they are harder to think of than I'd thought!) I don't like competitions unless I'm certain that I can win. Subsequently, I hate losing. I detest when people are impolite just to prove that they can be. And I hate quills, for they are terribly bothersome to work with.
I've spilled my ink. All over father's papers, no less. Will write later after cleaning this mess.
–Adareia
17th September
Dear Diary,
You did not think you'd see me again, did you? But I am back again, eager to continue this new little avocation of mine.
It followed that father scolded me humorlessly for the ink-spilling incident; it turned out that I stained more than his papers. His desk, which is some heirloom handed down for seven generations, was 'irreparably marked'. I apologized profusely, for I really did feel bad, but Father (actually showing signs of personality for once) was rather cross with me and didn't want to listen to any of it. Iwas glad to have an excuse to slip away for an afternoon, though.
I went into Onofro for a diversion. It is only a small village and all who live there are tenants of my father. Father is despised rather passionately by nearly everyone who resides there. (For a man as dull as a piece of wood he certainly loves his money.) I would find that refreshing if not for the fact that they despise me, too. (Rather unjustly, I might add!) I used to pilfer artifacts from around the house to bring to the villagers in almsgiving, but they only thought me arrogant and boastful. (Which was hardly my intent at all, as you must know.) I have since given up any efforts of winning their favor and have resigned myself to the fate of being hated for my father's hefty taxation.
The only person who will even give me the time of day in Onofro is Eirene, the village spinster. If you beheld her, you would wonder in awe how and why she never married. Though she is old and gray now, there is no mistaking that she must have been gorgeous as a girl. Her eyes are a jewel-toned green, bright and lively despite her advanced years. She has a heart-shaped face that is reminiscent of the sprites and nymphs of storybooks: impish and sportive.
Her 'flaw' (as the villagers see it) is only that she is rather...unique. Eirene has convinced herself that she can see the future just as well as any gnome can, and proceeds to parade around town announcing her predictions to the wary townspeople. They think her mad, but I just believe her to be a colorful soul. It worries Mother that I go to see her, for she thinks that Eirene is dangerous just because she is eccentric. I think that is hogwash. Eirene is as harmless as a fly. More harmless! Flies occasionally bite, and Eirene is nothing if not a delightful, albeit misunderstood, woman. And besides, she is the only distraction that boring Onofro has to offer. I tell Mother that if I had a brother or sister to amuse me I would have no need to visit Eirene. Mother always becomes very flustered and simply tells me, quite sheepishly, that I can do whatever I please. (I don't know why, but that gets her every time.)
But all that is besides the point of this story.
I went to see Eirene that day in her tiny little cottage on the outskirts of the village, an establishment so dilapidated that it looks to be rotting at its very foundation. (Note to self- remind Father that he should remedy that situation.) As always she ushered me in happily, prattling on about such pleasantries as the weather and the approaching sing-around. I informed her of the latest occurrences in my own life, which consisted of composing mediocre songs and knocking over inkwells. (My life is as uneventful as my father is dull... extremely.)
"I think I have some news that shall cheer you!" She sang out happily, gesturing for me to sit upon a mildew-covered wooden chair beside the dingy fireplace.
"Oh?"
"I've had a vision about your future, Adareia!" Eirene announced, smiling brightly and eagerly in anticipation of some exhilarated outburst on my part.
Usually the alleged predictions are about Oleandro's second oldest son or Aella's pig and such random people and things, so I was surprised and diverted to hear my name. Even if every single word was going to be made up on a whim, it would still be fun to hear what zany tale Eirene could concoct. You must understand, diary, that Eirene refuses to believe that she doesn't truly know the future. I play along for her sake. Mostly for her sake. That is not so terrible, is it?
"That's marvelous! What have you seen?" I asked, clasping my hands together.
She proceeded to tell me, in detail, the contents of her 'vision'. She said it began with a persistent cacophony that sounded like the rumbling of carts and clatter of metal. I was standing in the middle of this noise, crying profusely and announcing (to no one in particular) that I would never be my mother.
And that was it.
I didn't know what to make of any of it. I smiled and nodded my head, acting as if I had some idea of what she meant. I was disappointed. It wasn't half as funny as the prediction about Aella's pig growing wings and flying off to live with the giants. It wasn't funny at all, to be honest.
"Thank you very much," I said reverently, unable not to furrow my brows in confusion. But Eirene seemed pleased enough in even that feeble show of gratitude, and went on to talk about how she wished very much that my mother would come to sing in the festival. I agreed, though we both knew our mutual wish was futile. We continued to talk of singing and music for some time (after all, no Ayorthaian ever tires of the subject). We were talking of the Amaffa Udensiu, a classic aria, when a din arose from the people of Onofro.
Forgetting about Eirene and all decorum, I sprang to my feet and ran outside to see what was going on. Villagers had congregated to either side of the dusty road that runs through town, staring in awe at a gilded carriage that was passing at an incredibly slow pace. It almost seemed that the people within the carriage—pleased with the attention they were receiving—had ordered the driver to go slow enough so that all could sufficiently admire their expensive means of transportation. I pushed my way through the crowd, straining to see who exactly was heading towards my estate.
I recognized the haughtily smiling woman within in a second's time. It was Ahtia, my mother's sister. Duchess and veritable ogre-in-disguise. She is nothing if not an attention-monger, preening herself on a self-satisfied awareness of her own incredible wealth. I hate her, diary, more than I could ever hate my father. She is so... You cannot possibly understand. I've had to suppress—innumerable times—the impulse to strangle her with my own two hands.
Gah! She brought with her Uncle Unatu, if only for the purpose of pointing out to everyone—several times in every conversation—that he is a Duke. She is the most shamelessly arrogant— Oh. She's come in the room. And is expressing an interest in what I'm doing. More later. I promise.
–Adareia
20th September; Midnight
Diary,
You wouldn't believe the nerve of this woman! From the moment she arrived (uninvited, I might add), she has insulted everything and everyone in her underhanded way. She is rather skillful, I must say. You can't confront her about her rudeness because she isn't saying anything outright, but you can tell what her intent is in saying what she says. These three days with her have been three days too long.
It is just my luck that I, in particular, am under Aunt Ahtia's constant scrutiny. 'Euthalie, Adareia is rather untamed, is she not?','Euthalie, shouldn't you get the girl a governess?','Euthalie, don't you discipline the dear thing?'. She badgers my poor mother night and day about me and my appearance and my behavior. And it isn't as if I'm running about the manor with unkempt hair and dress, acting like a barbarian. I dress nicely and plait my hair! I'm being perfectly amiable! More amiable than that ogre deserves!
An example: This morning, I struck up a perfectly polite conversation about life in the capital. I inquired after her home and expressed interest in her reply, even though I would have much preferred eating my own foot(!). I smiled and laughed when the situation called, nodded thoughtfully... And I did it all with perfect grace! What more could she want?
I have the suspicion that this has nothing at all to do with me and everything to do with my mother. Aunt Ahtia derives some sort of sordid pleasure at making my mother nervous and uncomfortable. And I see them talking sometimes, off away from Father and Uncle Unatu. There is this horrible, menacing look on my aunt's face, and poor Mother looks close to tears and seems to be apologizing profusely. Iwould tell Ahtia my exact thoughts of her—excluding none of the expletives—if I didn't know that Mother would absolutelydie.
If my aunt were hideous or plain, even, I would account her belligerence to jealousy. But she is more beautiful than my mother, if anything, and richer and more celebrated in society. Ahtia persists, whatever her motive may be, to be intolerable. This evening was the worst one yet. She decided to wage a full-fledged war against me.
It all started innocently enough. Mother had gently asked Uncle Unatu what he liked to do when he not engaged by his business, smiling sweetly at her oafish brother-in-law. The poor man (he is plain and unintelligent, but forgivably so) was just starting to answer when Ahtia interrupted superciliously.
"Unatu is always caught up in his business ventures! He has not gotten so prosperous from lolling about-" She sent Father a meaningful look and proceeded with a glib smile. "-and when he is not dealing with his work, he is very popular with all the courtiers. He is a particular favorite of-" Again she paused, this time looking straight at Mother. "- the king."
My mother grew red and smiled nervously. "That's very nice, Unatu."
My uncle just nodded, more interested in his food than anything else. He is a rather rotund fellow with a ruddy face and beady black eyes, and is by no stretch of the imagination attractive. At all. I am glad of that, at least; he is no more than Ahtia deserves. I only wish that he were larger and uglier, so much so that he could snap her in half with a single embrace. That would be marvelous!
A-hem...Where was I, again? Oh yes...
So then Father tried his hand at prompting the conversation. "So, how are the children, Unatu?"
Again my aunt took the liberty of answering the question.
"Ourson Enile is now seven and is very athletic. And Astraea is extremely accomplished now," she gushed, delicately taking a bite of food. "She is only fourteen, but she is excelling in every aspect of her training."
She sounds like a horse, I thought, snickering to myself. Ahtia must have heard or seen, because she grew suddenly frenetic.
"You are sixteen, are you not, Adareia?" She demanded, glaring daggers from her olive eyes. She tented her fingers and tilted her head to the side as she studied me raptly.
I knew that I was an idiot to have made any sound. "Yes?"
"Do you embroider?" Ahtia asked sneeringly.
"Not particularl-"
"Do you draw?" She smirked.
"A littl-"
"Oh my! In that case, you must be very good at dancing," she quipped, smiling a calculated smile.
"Umm... not really?" I don't know why I didn't just lie. I wanted to conjure some brilliant insult, but I found myself dumbstruck and defenseless. I saw my mother out of the corner of my eye; she was near to tears and her expression was furious.
"Adareia is brilliant! She is extremely advanced in speaking both Kyrrian and Elfian, and her tutor tells me that she is quickly learning Abdegi. And besides that, she has an enchanting voice!" Mother sputtered, springing to her feet in a fervor. "She doesn't need to draw and dance and embroider to be wonderful!"
We all stared at her in shock. I was beaming with pride at Mother's out-of-character forwardness. Father was horrified.
"That's enough, Euthalie," he scolded laconically, a little dazed looking. He was probably completely ignorant of the fact that Ahtia had insulted me to begin with. I wanted to slap him.
Mother nodded obediently and sat down, looking to her lap shamefully. "I'm sorry everyone; Ahtia."
Why she allows herself to be pushed around by Father and Ahtia is beyond me. Perhaps there is some truth in Eirene's prediction after all.
The rest of the meal passed with a restive silence, with the exception of a few scolds from my aunt. She had the nerve to say 'You're eating with the wrong fork, Adareia' after EVERYTHING. She is the most persistent, unbearable... UGH! I wish the ogres she resembles (in behavior) would take it upon themselves to eat her!
I'm exhausted. And ill-tempered. I saw Mother and Aunt Ahtia talking in whispers again after dinner tonight, but I could not catch a word of it. It's driving me mad. But I suppose I can do nothing to remedy that.
I wrote a song for Aunt Ahtia. I think I shall slip it into her carriage before she departs. It's aptly entitled 'Ibensi Otebo Usaccu' ('My Undying Hatred for You'). I'll copy the lyrics in here later. For now, sleep.
– Adareia