The harvesters bent in the marsh. The burning swamp was an inferno of primordial hues―caustic orange sky; billowing and sickly purple smoke gathering in frightening and evil shapes in the near horizon; trees silhouetted in a pitchy, raven-feather black. It was close to mid-morning, but in the swamp the only light came from the delicate ember-flowers and deep holes of flame. Still, the harvesters toiled on, ignorant of the smell their hair emitted as it burned quietly, ignorant of the pillars of fire that would erupt from the demon-pits periodically, ignorant of everything but the precious flowers. The ember-flowers glowed gentle yellow, so faint their light was almost white. The harvesters scavenged for these blooms as though possessed, grabbing them by their stalks in mad handfuls, ripping the flowers from the fiery earth. They acted in a collective. Not a soul bent for a flower out of time with her sisters, and none dared to take a break from their labor. This was partly out of pride, but mainly out of necessity: even to stand up and stretch the back, wipe the brow was to invite the fear, fear of fire and brimstone, the murky and ancient hell that was the burning swamps. The women toiled on, grasping at the ember-flowers for dear life.

Aester knew the lore well enough. As it was spoken, 'the fire fields do not a dance-ring make.' Still, she couldn't help the slight spring in her step, or the vigor in her actions (so devoid in the mechanical movements of the other harvesters) as she bent down and up, again and again in the harvest. Of course, in the back of her mind were all the horror stories of moon-minded maids who were lost to the fire fields, in their singed, smoked, charred glory. Presently, she was too happy to care.

But moon-minded as she was, Aester was of the stoic sort that was, beneath everything else, keenly intent on self-preservation. As much as she wanted to leave the harvest as soon as possible, she was careful to stay in the moment, lest she never leave at all. She had no intention of being one of the burned she-ghosts that were sometimes seen over demon pits. As benevolent as they were, she doubted they ever got the chance to consort with---and at this thought she blushed and almost set her foot down in a demon pit---boys. More importantly, boys of the garrison. Certainly, the elders of Durmmick bitterly "advised" against even talking to the Belis soldiers of Fort Calys. The soldiers were cruel masters, demanding a monthly quota of ember-flowers for their forges down south.

Cruel masters to the elders, that was. The generation that had been born under the guard-tower of Fort Calys found nothing wrong with the way things were. The garrison regularly held dances and parties, with goblets of sweet heronberry wine that Aester's aunt never let her drink. Durmish boys were regular boys of dun and tan coloring, with nut-brown hair that echoed in the trees and soil. In short, they were entirely of Aester's world, while the Belis soldiers were creatures fantastical and romantic in their uniforms, in their pale skins and bright eyes. More importantly, Belis soldiers never had to bother with stuffy Durmish traditions. Aester turned those thoughts over in her head, meager entertainment to most but a wealth of it to her, and continued her harvest.

At long last, the mid-morning bell was sounded, signaling that the harvesting for today was over. Aester yanked at one last clump of ember-flowers, and, stretching like a cat, reared skyward, her hands reaching far above her head. Her back ached from the day's harvest, as did her arms. It hurt even to drop the flowers into the collecting basket strapped to her back, but these were all pains she was used to. There was something to be said about the Durmish peasantry's hardiness and resilience; they were generally considered the most backwards and loutish denizens of the great Belis Empire, never as masterful or elegant as the Belis themselves, nor as enterprising or clever as the Corbits, not even as courageous and fierce as the rebellious Ratterlese. But they had endurance, and the Durmish were of the belief that they would outlast their oppressors---the world even. What troubled the Belis of Fort Calys was that the Durmish seemed to be right. Certainly, the soldiers of the garrison had swords, magic, fancy attack formations, and the musings of a thousand battle-philosophers on their side. But the biting and cold wind, the treacherous cliffs, even the burning swamp---the terrors of the mountains never seemed to hurt the Durmish. Certainly a high-bred Belis woman wouldn't last a day in the fire-swamps, but Aester and generations before her had toiled for years among the smoke and fire.

After relinquishing the fruits of her harvest, Aester left the fire fields with the other women. The harvest could not continue after mid-morning: as bitterly cold Durmmick was, the strength of the later-day sun made the burning swamp unbearable. Aester had been up before dawn working at the fields, and even then she had been lucid enough to have her mind wander to the garrison, but there was still much to do before she could have her fun. The crowd of women thinned as each took different paths to their lodges. Though Durmmick had been dedicated a town under the decree of the King, its natives lived much as they had before the occupation---and that was very, very far apart from one another. Aester diverted from what women remained to traipse lightly down a hillside. She followed a small path, indiscernible to all except those who knew what to look for. It took her past rounded tree stumps, stubborn purple bursts of heronberries, scraggly trees growing out of clumps of weeds. Here, away from the burning swamp, the sky was a cheery blue, and the mountain took on a kinder face.

There were no demon pits here, but though the natural world was smiling, there were still dangers of which to be wary. Shining ghosts (or Crata, her Belis schooling corrected her) wandered the hillsides. She had never seen one before, and had no intention now. Pulling her shawl tighter around her, Aester increased her pace, feeling (despite herself) eyes on her back.

In the meantime, the hem of her dress, already blackened with soot from the morning's work, grew heavy and damp as her trek through the tall and dew-flecked stag grass progressed. The grade of the path varied, sometimes going down, sometimes taking on such a sharp incline it would have necessitated a less-practiced person to cling to the stag-grass as they ascended. Yet navigating the mountains and hills was something that came easily to all Durmish, and in no time at all Aester crested a hill and found herself looking at her family's lodge.

The wooden building was perched on a bare face of gray rock, a bit too close to the edge of cliff for most other people's comfort, but it was fine for her family, though perhaps that was more a testament to how off they were compared to others. She barely remembered life in her father's lodge, back when he had been alive. She didn't even know where it was, and doubted it's existence at times. After the death of Aester's father, her mother had taken her to live with her older brother and sister. Tarn and Ila were good folk at heart. They prided themselves on being members of the elder's counsel---Tarn for whimsical, sentimental reasons, Ila for the very vigilant purpose of preserving the only way of life she knew.

When Aester's mother had taken up with a soldier of the garrison, they had very nearly kicked her out (Aester remembered bursting into tears when Auntie Ila suggested that she would be her new mother), but the birth of Ranna had so touched them they agreed to let the fallen woman stay. For that reason, Ranna was a charmed girl. She had fine Belis coloring, all winter sun, frozen water, and snow---none of the earthy and various shades of brown was Aester. But Aester bore no hard feelings against Ranna, at least no permanent ones. When Yarrel was born, third child to their poor mother (this time to a father she would never remember) Ranna felt her role being threatened. It was Asta who comforted her, and later, their brother. Ranna had reveled in her own uniqueness and beauty, but in terms of those traits, Yarrel, with his nearly white hair and summer-blue eyes, perhaps surpassed her. (It didn't hurt that Yarrel was completely oblivious to his own good looks, whereas Ranna worried the issue to death.) Yarrel and Ranna still bickered constantly, and Auntie Ila still screamed at them all.

She padded closer to the lodge, increasing her pace in anticipation of the meal that she was sure was waiting for her. She slowed deferentially at the grave of her mother, bowing her head to the vivid growth of yellow mountain flowers that blossomed over the mound, but then moved on as quickly (perhaps even quicker) than before. As she neared home, she could hear the voices of Ranna and Yarrel rising above the mountain wind. By the sound of Uncle Tarn's laughter, they were probably fighting over food yet again. Aester couldn't help but laugh too, as, right on time, Auntie Ila lent her loud and reedy voice to the mix. Aester burst through the doorway mid-scream, startling Ila into silence. They were all hunched over the fire pit, Yarrel in his customary squat, Ranna on her knees with her fists planted at her sides. They blinked at Aester for a few seconds, Yarrel and Ranna both sliding over to make room for their older sister, and then fell back into the argument.

"You got the marrow bone last time," Yarrel whined, his hands darting out for the small clay bowl that Ranna was holding. Sure enough, Aester could see the top of a bone floating in the thick gray mixture. Ignoring the tantalizing smell, she bent over the water trough by the door, rinsing the soot from her face.

"I'm not doing it on purpose," Ranna snapped back. "Honestly, I'm getting very tired of this. It doesn't matter who gets what. The marrow has probably fallen out of the bone anyway."

"You two---stop this immediately! Ranna, stop teasing your brother. You know you were looking for it, and you keep taking it just to spite him! Yarrel, you need to stop being so petty. It's only food, by the ghosts!" Auntie Ila flushed with the strength of expletive, but it went unnoticed by her bickering kin. She looked to her brother for support, but at that exact moment Tarn chose to busy himself with his own bowl of stew.

It always surprised Aester how unhappy her siblings made themselves. They were perhaps the two best-looking youths in all of Durmmick, a fact that didn't matter much regarding Yarrel's endeavors (he was 16, yet affected a studied disinterest in girls) but it was almost a matter of life and death to Aester whenever Ranna elected to accompany her to the garrison or to town proper. Nor did her siblings have to work, she added, more than a bit bitterly as she scrubbed. Still, she supposed having sooty hands was better than playing a common whore to the more base soldiers of the garrison. Or having to sit around all day listening to Ila, Yarrel, and Ranna fight.

At that thought she glanced over to Uncle Tarn, who, despite the fact that both his legs had recently been severed at the knee, seemed to be coping well. Uncle Tarn used to provide for their family as the care-taker of Fort Calys' bell tower, but he couldn't climb the stairs anymore, let alone walk. They had been crushed one night as he was making his way home---he was one of the few to have a run-in with a shining ghost and live to tell the tale. Mainly, Aester was glad her uncle was still alive, but she wished something could have been done about his legs. At 18 years old, she was the youngest girl working in the fire fields. Most of her peers, like Ranna, spent their day engrossed in more carefree past times.

"You've got the soot off," said Ranna, breaking Aester's reverie. "You're hurting yourself," she added quietly, getting up from her place at the hearth to stand by her sister, grabbing her hand and bringing it up to what little light filtered in. "Stop scrubbing."

Aester blinked. She had lost track of herself, and now her hands were red. Ranna had a way about her that made it impossible to ever stay mad at her for long. As self-centered she could be at times, Ranna had the odd habit of knowing just when to show how much she truly cared. Ranna lowered Aester's hands back into the cool water once, and then lead her to the hearth. "We don't have much time to eat. Today is a reading," she explained, guiding Aester to sit down next to her.

Yarrel, like a little bird, hopped closer to his older sister, offering the same bowl he and Ranna had just fought over. "Here, you can have my stew. It has a marrow bone in it," he smiled, ignoring the look that Ranna and Auntie Ila shot him. Uncle Tarn chuckled again, and the family fell into silence as they absorbed themselves in their meal. It made her feel strange, whenever this sort of thing happened. Just when she found ample reason to despise them, whenever she found the grounds to be bitter, her family always managed to be the most kindest, most understanding, most loving---Aester smiled into her stew (there hadn't been marrow after all)---it was impossible to ever harbor hard feelings against them. Dimly, Aester was aware that much of her youth was being robbed just to support them. She knew harvesting in the fire fields was a job Auntie Ila could easily take, just as she knew Ranna could take up sewing, or Yarrel could work in stables at the fort. But it was a murky sort of awareness, one that rose to the surface of Aester's mind at times, but was largely ignored. There was a simple comfort to be found in knowing one's place, no matter how low.

When the meal was over, they wiped their hands on their laps and, as usual, waited for Uncle Tarn to speak.

"I expect you two want to go to the garrison tonight?" he said finally, after clearing his beard of errant food. Auntie Ila, with a long-suffering sigh, rolled her eyes, and left the fire-pit to wash their bowls in the water trough. Yarrel jumped up and followed suit.

"Yes! Lera from the south slope said they're throwing a great ball in honor of the Crown Prince!" Ranna's eyes shone, and though Aester had heard differently about the nature of the night's festivities, she remained silent, allowing Ranna her pleasure. "I don't think he'll be here, though," Ranna added hastily, feeling Auntie Ila's vitriolic glare on her back.

Uncle Tarn's eyes twinkled as he regarded his nieces. "I'm sure he'll come next year," he replied loudly, if only to tease his sister. It was common knowledge that Ila hated anything that had to do with the Belis. A loud crash came from the water trough as she dropped one of the bowls. Aester turned to see Yarrel, one hand over his mouth and his eyes crinkled up at the corners, picking up the pieces while the door-flap swung heavily as Ila made her exit. "I wonder what's bothering her," Uncle Tarn mused.

"May we go?" Aester prodded, trying to reel the conversation back on topic before they had to leave for the reading. Once a month, the ladies in the town (really just a small cluster of Belis manses by the garrison) held a sort of intervention for their poor heathen neighbors. Roll would be called, passages from important Belis philosophers would be read, and everyone's time would be wasted, but at least the fine ladies could feel philanthropic in between their self-indulgences. Aester dreaded it simply because she was required to put on "acceptable" clothes of Belis fashion, and those were far too thin and cold for the mountains.

"Would I ever say no?" asked Uncle Tarn, taking his nieces by their hands. "Now remember―"

Ranna cut him off, rolling her eyes much like her aunt did. "I know, I know. Stay safe, don't do anything risky―"

Uncle Tarn pinched her nose, as he used to do when they were children. "I was just going to say, have fun. Your brother here will protect me from your aunt, won't you, Yarrel?"

Yarrel looked up from the corner, where he had been absorbed in piecing the bowl back together. At Uncle Tarn's comment, he snorted in amusement. "Not even the ghosts could protect you from her, Uncle."

There wasn't much time for discussion after that. Auntie Ila eventually came back inside from her self-imposed exile, and the four of them that were going into town (Uncle Tarn was excused from readings nowadays) cleaned themselves up for presentation. After helping Yarrel fasten the collar on his tunic, and Ranna pin her hair up, Aester struggled into the thin Belis leggings and converted drapery that the town ladies had donated. She always felt foolish wearing her town clothes―the "dress" was so horridly out of shape that she looked like a sack of stones, and the colors, dull gray for the leggings and a yellowish off-white for the dress, looked, in all honesty, ugly. Ranna fared a little better, since she was so pretty she could look good in anything, and Yarrel fared the best, since his town clothes were gifts from his friends in the garrison. As they trooped out the lodge, Aester couldn't help but observe that they were two Durmish clowns following two Belis swans. She laughed, prompting a glare from Auntie Ila.

"What are you laughing at?" she snapped, understandably more than a little agitated about having to sit at the feet of her oppressors.

The quickest way into town was down the cliff. A path was carved into the rock face, and it was by that the family traveled, their hands linked even though they were confident in the surety of their own feet. At the base they joined the throng of other families, their hands still clasping one anothers. Honey-and-gold stag grass and deep green pine thinned into great houses and cobblestone, and the entire Durmish population of Durmmick threaded its way through the streets to the town hall. With Auntie Ila at their helm, the four of them pushed their way inside, and made themselves comfortable on the stone floor. They always sat at the back, as far away from the speaking platform as they could manage, though recently Aester had begun to wish they sat closer to the front. The soldiers of the garrison were required to be present for the readings, and her new 'acquaintance' would be here today. She knew she would most likely see him at the dance tonight, but that knowledge alone did not quell her youthful need, not at all.

"Stop fidgeting, girl," Auntie Ila snapped, and Aester realized she had been craning to see him.

"We're just looking for Lera and Aderin," piped Ranna, slipping an easy alibi to her sister. Aester hadn't told her about the soldier; the siblings tended to defend each other on instinct.

"Do you mind if we sit closer to the front?" Yarrel asked. Aester had told him, simply because Yarrel was a friend to many at the garrison, but her particular soldier wasn't one that Yarrel knew. He had posed the question mainly to satisfy his own curiosity. That it would make his sister happy was a bonus.

Ila shook her head in disgust, as is she couldn't believe anyone would want to sit closer to the front. "If you must." She shooed them away, and then fell into conversation with a severe-looking old man sitting next to her.

The three of them squeezed their way to the front of the hall, sitting as close as they dared to the soldiers. "Any reason why you wanted to sit here today?" Yarrel teased, fully aware of the answer. Ranna, however, honestly wanted to know.

"Don't think I'm complaining, but is there any reason?" She was curious, but already her eyes were starting to wander appreciatively to the soldiers. Her attention wouldn't hold for long.

Aester hit Yarrel lightly, giving him a disapproving look. Her soldier was something she wanted to keep to herself, for she harbored the fear that if he were to ever meet Ranna… Aester cleared her throat, ignoring their questions. "If Auntie Ila decides to join us, tell her I went off to sit with Aderin," she ordered with a tentative vein of finality that didn't quite pass pleading. She then pushed her way yet again through the masses, honing in on a target that was decidedly not Aderin. Yarrel, a big foolish grin on his face, watched her as she left, and then turned to Ranna to for a conspiratorial whisper.

Their conversation, whatever it detailed, was lost to Aester. The crowd pressed in on her, but any claustrophobia she might have felt was squashed by zeal. It seemed to take forever, as if she were moving through pine sap, to get to the soldier. Then, abruptly, Aester came to a full stop at a figure seated in the fringes of the soldiers' section. "Hello," she said, a bit breathlessly. Her new seatmate started, broken from a daydream, and was halfway into a salute before he realized who it was.

"Hello yourself," Orsen replied, assuming his original position, his arms folded over his knees. He shot her a sideways, mockingly accusatory look, mouth quirked into lop-sided smile. Around them, the other soldiers turned to stare, most of them amused at their brother-in-arm's new friend, only a few honestly annoyed at Aester's intrustion. "Fancy seeing you here."

He was being maddeningly mundane, and Aester felt her smile grow despite herself. She had never fancied anyone before, and Orsen, with his dark eyes and thick black hair, was as good a first fancy as any. It was masochistic of her, but she enjoyed the way he played everything down, if only because she felt it was a veneer for something more. "Will you be going to the dance tonight?" she asked, not caring how she was presenting herself, nor even aware of her over-eager folly.

If anything, he seemed to find her frankness amusing, but hid his own smile before she could see it, and assumed a serious expression. "Why? Is anyone important coming?"

A rotund Belis woman, swathed in lace and light green, began to take roll. All Durmish were registered under their Belis name, and some of the older folk still had trouble remembering that, in the eyes of the Belis, they were not Hurn, a simple son of Ulin, but Hurneth abh Uliel. The old man in question, after several repetitions of his name, finally (albeit cantankerously) offered the standard reply, "I await instruction." The roll resumed.

Aester laughed, though quietly so as not to elicit any more stares. They both knew he wouldn't be going anywhere else―soldiers could not leave the garrison unless under orders―but she played along nevertheless. "I'll be going," she offered, struggling to keep the untested expectancy out of her voice with great difficulty and limited success.

He pretended to consider, which, little did Aester know, was difficult for him as well. No one's feelings (be it his, whatever they were, or anyone else's) could ever be strong enough to withstand the infectious light and charm of a young girl with hope. "Well, in that case," he began, but was cut-off by the woman's call.

"Orsen abh Gweth?"

Orsen seemed annoyed at this interruption, an observation that made Aester's stomach do all sorts of things stomachs did not normally do, but he lifted his head for the customary reply. "I await your instruction," he shouted back, and then turned back to her. "In that case," he continued, "I guess I have no choice but to go." He smiled briefly, the first real one since she sat next to him. He wasn't perfection, but it didn't matter if his mouth was a bit too wide, or his brow-ridge a bit on the heavy side: he had the handsomest smile she had ever seen. She smiled back at him, and, as a reply (to say the least) it sufficed.

"Ila abh Tarn?"

"I await your instruction," given somewhat stiffly.

"Raniel abh Edreth?"

"I await your instruction," Ranna replied in a light, pleasing lilt.

"Yrael abh Girith?"

"I await your instruction," said Yarrel with the cracked voice of adolescence.

Orsen continued to smile at her, though it shifted back again into one of amusement rather than one of earnest. "Nothing to say?" he prompted, raising his eyebrows at her.

"Astarael abh Ambrus?"

Her tongue was still lost somewhere, and she had somehow forgotten how to work her mouth.

"Astarael abh Ambrus?"

Orsen laughed a little, nudging her with his elbow. "Come on. That's you."

"Astarael abh Ambrus?"

He nudged her again, softer this time, and her jaw remembered its place. "I await…"

Author's Note: The real prologue! Woot! Definitely a different feel than what I had with Night Child. In that fic, I introduced the POV character as Astarael right off the bat, but the pre-Charter world of this story (in my opinion) is better developed. I wanted a greater disparity between the different cultures of what will become the Old Kingdom (eventually I will get to how the kingdom becomes the more culturally homogeneous society we see in the books), and so have included the different naming systems of the Durmish and Belis peoples (yes, I kept the Belis from Night Child...x3). I think it works better this way---by seeing her first as Aester (Which should be viewed as the Durmish equivalent to our "Esther." The pronunciation is about the same.), this hopefully makes Astarael more accessible as a person, rather than the figure of myth that she is in the books. But whatever! As I had it in Night Child, yes, Astarael, Ranna, and Yrael are siblings. Unlike Night Child, however, I wanted a better family dynamic. One of the major problems with Night Child was that I tended to present Yrael and Ranna as very flat, unappealing characters (to be honest, I tended to present most of the characters that way... x___x). Hopefully I will rectify that here, because I love me some Ranna and Yrael! Also, everyone is aged up from Night Child. This may be because I am writing this story as an older person, but I'd like to think it is because 11 year-olds (in the case of Yrael) don't really have the capacity to be running around killing people... Astarael is 18, Ranna is 17, and Yrael is 16 (tee hee, I just realized Ranna is my age. x3).

I realize this installment isn't the most terribly exciting, but the action picks up next chapter, I swear! This was more exposition than anything else. I spent a lot of time agonizing over whether to cut this down, and rewrote it twice, but eventually stuck with this original version. I think the relationship dynamics presented here, along with the introduction/development of the setting, and the introduction/development of the world are too vital to be cut, especially after a sort of drive-by-shooting immersion chapter like The Two-Man Patrol. I guess what I'm trying to say is, if this chapter wasn't your high fantasy cup of tea, the rest of the story isn't really going to be like this. As much as I love innocuous little slice-of-life pieces like this is, there is going to be way more action in the near future.

Well, I guess if you read it, please review? :3

Until next time!
Sam ;3