.:Princess Eloryn:.
No one is supposed to like magicians. Papa says magicians are the lowest lifeforms in the world, lower than the trolls that live in the marshlands. My brother never told why the magicians are hated in my father's kingdom, for my uncle worships the magic folk with gold and power in the land of Igorance. My father, King Oren of Tirrius, gives few such power, and many others he has burned for treason. But I think I know.
As King, my father always needed an heir. He married the youngest daughter of the king of Igorance, who bore him eight children. Out those eight, only three survived infancy. Two of those survived into adolescence. They were Prince Harte and Princess Eloryn – me. I was the last child of my parents'. The Queen died, passing life onto me. My lady's maid always said how my father would boast of my mother's beauty, and pray every night for the birth of a daughter as beautiful as her that he could use in a political marriage, to bring more power and wealth to our land. He got his wish in the end, but at the expense of his wife's own life. Her life for mine – and the magician who had assisted my mother in labour got the blame.
I do not know what happened to him. The man tried all he could to save the Queen but it didn't help. The Queen died, the magician was arrested, and he his heart was cut from his chest – the only way to kill a magician.
For a princess, you must think my life is charmed. Perfume, parties, suitors is probably part of my daily life, I hear you think. But my life is not charmed: I am hated by my father. He hates me. If I wasn't his daughter, the King would probably have me executed for the Queen's death. That's how much he hates me. The royal court shares that hate, save for my thirteen-year older brother, Prince Harte.
Worse than that, the magicians hate me. They see me as the girl whose birth started the chain reaction that led to thousands of magicians being attacked in streets, banned from taverns and, worse of all, magicians are being killed because of me. And the guilt I feel is ruining my life.
I remember screaming at my father that I was sorry for my life, I was sorry for being a disappointment, and I was sorry for not being as beautiful as my mother! He did not comfort me, as I thought he would. Instead he said, in his gruff way: "Not as sorry as I am, Eloryn."
When I heard him say that, I wanted to end it all. My life, my guilt, my father's misery. Most of all, my father might see my death as my one triumph. Burying me might enable him to final love the child in death, who he hated so much during her life.
I was only six at the time.
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