I want to especially thank my beloved Beta-reader Dragonblooded. She makes an amazing job and I highly appreciate her.
Beta-reader: Dragonblooded
Luck.
Such a simple word. Such a simple meaning.
Visualize it. What form does it take? Our ability to comprehend is limited only by our imagination. More complex matters only require more complex minds, until imagination reaches its maximum.
When one tries to visualize luck, it does not seem like such a simple thing anymore.
Luck is an intricate concept, mistakenly viewed positively. When someone is in the favour of luck, it is often a misfortune to others. Winning a war against all odds is extremely fortunate, unless you are the losers. If good luck and bad luck exist, shouldn't there be better and worse luck as well?
When civil war blazed across Norvedrgarde, it left behind irreversible damage. Its queen was cast aside and locked into the dungeons for her own safety. The merciless wheel of power, driven by the greed of the nobility, rolled over the peasants and lowborn, leaving behind orphaned children, childless mothers and fathers without a family. So many stories and fates were lost to this power play. Stories the end to which no one would know, remaining forgotten in the ash once all artefacts would fall apart.
When the dust finally settled, a baby girl was born. To the outside world, and to anybody who asked, Malloréa's mother died during childbirth. The servants in the castle whispered what bad luck it was for the little girl to lose her mother. The queen, adored by her people. What they did not know was that Malloréa's bad luck had protected her from her worse luck – being smothered by her own mother.
With the passing years the princess grew fast. The world outside changed even faster. Long gone were the days of the open castle and safe streets. It seemed the days of the monarchy were numbered. The city outside of the castle emancipated itself from the clutches of royalty. The princess was merely tolerated, thanks to the ancient spell of the Night Queen. But just because the queen could not be betrayed, does not mean she couldn't be overruled by the masses.
The civil war had been raging outside since the times of the Lost Queen. The side of Erwella, the former commander of war, had united armour guilds, blacksmiths, masons and even mercenaries. They called themselves the Children of Veliona, after the first victim of the violent conflict that erupted right before Erwella's death.
The other party, the less fortunate one, was called Fricai de Yawë. They had to operate in the shadows and be hidden under the cover. Guilds of brewers, bakers, mercers, perfumers and leather workers were not equipped to face conflict directly. They worked in the underground and had to develop a different system, to disrupt the plans of the Children of Veliona.
These parties had an unspoken deal: to exclude the queen and her castle from the war. Otherwise, no one was spared in the battle for control over the city.
Common folk, loyal guards and friends of the crown poured inside the castle as soon as the war began in hopes of seeking shelter. However, one day the gates closed, and remained closed for many years, mercilessly dividing families and lovers. Those who had not sought shelter in time were left to their fate.
Malloréa was locked like a bird in a golden cage. She was clueless of her own capture, and of the world outside.
On a warm summer day, as warm as it can be in the North, Malloréa was outside playing with a beautiful golden ball. Every time she threw it into the air, it always landed safely in her palms, the move practiced countless times. The air was fresh, and a breeze filled her lungs with the crispy smell of just-blossoming flowers, roses and hellebore. The too-sweet scent of an overripe fruit washed over her.
Her pale skin was reddening from the sun, but Malloréa was not aware of it yet. One more time she threw the ball in the air. As she looked up to the sky, the sun blinded her for a second. She missed. The ball rolled lazily away without intention of stopping. She ran after it. She didn't notice the hole in her path as she ran. Her tiny foot stuck inside it, and she immediately fell over and faceplanted into the ground.
"Ow-ow-ow," cried Malloréa as she pulled herself from the ground, in shock and pain. Tears filled her eyes and her lower lip started to tremble in anticipation of her cry.
Before she could begin, a voice interrupted her. "Hey, are you okay?"
Malloréa searched for the source of the question. She looked up into the crown of the tree, which cast a shadow on her and filled her lungs with its sweet smell. "Who is it?" asked the girl, curious, but unsuspecting.
The face of a young boy appeared between the branches and leaves. "I am Rysaine," said the boy, and agilely climbed from the tree. He landed with a thud on the ground next to her. His face was dusted with dirt and slightly scratched from the rough bark of the apple tree. His clothes were expensive but torn, dirty and overused, and over his shoulder hung a fabric bag filled with apples.
"And what are you doing here?" asked the seated princess, forgetting her pain.
"The boys and I come here sometimes for apples. They are good and they are free," the boy said proudly, biting into an apple he fished from his bag.
The princess shook her head. "Why don't you buy the apples instead of stealing them?" Malloréa retorted. The boy smiled at her with a mouth full of apple pieces. He fished out one more apple and handed it to her.
Malloréa rubbed the dirt off her hands and yielded, accepting the apple as a token of peace.
"Well, there are rarely any apples on the market nowadays," said Rysaine, sitting on the ground next to the princess. "And money is not always…you know…there," he mumbled, as if ashamed. Then the boy took a second look at his surroundings, and then at Malloréa's cleanliness. His eyes widened in shock. "Or…you don't know at all! You're the princess, aren't you?"
"Yes," giggled Malloréa over his grimace. "Other kids don't want to play with me," she muttered, returning to her apple.
Relief washed over the boy when it was obvious the little princess would not report him to the guards. "I can come around more often, if you like," he offered with a gentle smile.
"I would love that!" the princess exclaimed at the prospect of gaining company in her golden cage.
"Good! I need to go now. My family is waiting on me." He got up from the ground and offered his hand to Malloréa.
But that did not work as expected. "Ow," the girl exhaled as she put her weight on her foot, unnoticed until then. "That hurts," sobbed Malloréa.
"Uh, do you need to call the guards to help you, because…" He trailed off as he backed away from the girl, in fear of punishment for his tiny robbery.
Malloréa felt his reluctance and put on a brave face in fear of losing her newly gained friend. "Run. I can make it."
The boy gratefully nodded and ran away into the bushes, where his secret passage was.
The little princess waited a few minutes before she started loudly crying, attracting the attention of the castle guards. Qybern later chastised her for being reckless and shook his head over her bad luck. No one knew of the worse luck just a few meters past her fall – a branch inconveniently long, at such a height to take out the princess's eye.
Another few years passed and from princess came queen. She was crowned in the silence of her own castle, with little to no care from the outside world. Rysaine and Malloréa became very good friends and eventually fell in love. And with some inconspicuous help here and there from the monarchy, Fricai de Yawë began turning the tide of the war.
She waited for him at the sunset under their favourite apple tree, which lately was no longer bringing as many apples in its old age. Soon, she heard the rustling from the bushes, and from there came Rysaine. His grimace was, however, not of the kind one she was used to receiving.
"What is wrong, love?" she asked gently, almost scared to provoke his reaction.
He shook his head and looked down defeatedly. "Delwing was taken hostage by the Children of Veliona," whispered Rysaine, so faintly that Malloréa barely heard him.
She gasped and reached out to hug Rysaine, who pulled away from her. "I am so sorry."
"I know. I know! He's not my biological father, but he means so much to me," Rysaine cried out. "What is wrong with them? He was just an ordinary leather-maker. Not even that talented! Why would they take him? Why?" His voice trembled.
He finally allowed Malloréa to hug him. He rested his face in her soft dark hair, immediately staining it with his tears. "Can I do something to help you?" she asked, caressing his shoulder, where she knew sat a tattoo of Yawë, the symbol of the Fricai.
"I-I don't know. There has been no ransom so far. I don't know what they want from him!"
"It will be alright," she whispered gently, but she was partly reassuring herself. Rysaine lifted his head and looked down to her pale face, reflecting the moon's shine as it emerged from the clouds. He bent down and captured her lips in a wet, trembling kiss.
Together they lowered themselves to the ground. Under the beautiful aging apple tree, and in need of distraction from the bad deeds of the world, they made love under the clear night's sky.
+BREAK+
"What do you want from me?" Delwing shook under the chains pinning him to a sturdy wooden chair. He was underground, without no natural light. The only source of light was a furnace with a poker stuck inside of it.
"Tell me, how is it possible you and your people are so suddenly well supplied and equipped to fight us? Why are you are not starving in your ratchet holes and rotting to death?" the man towering above Delwing asked in a scarily calm voice as his prey twitched.
Sweat dripped from his forehead to his eyes. "I don't know! I swear. I am just a leather-maker. All I want is to make my living," the poor man cried out.
The other man lifted the poker from the furnace and slowly closed the distance between the heated end and Delwing's shoulder.
A painful scream filled the cellar as the poker burned its way through the soft, damaged fabric of the tunic, revealing for a moment a Yawë tattoo before the skin started to burn and blister.
"I can see whose side you are on. Don't you dare to lie to me, you scum," the man growled. He put the poker away and bent down to face Delwing, who was writhing in agony. "Are you willing to talk now?"
For a while, Delwing only trembled. Saliva poured out of his mouth, staining his already-burnt tunic. "The queen…is helping us," whispered the poor man, barely audible.
The other man straightened himself again and paced a few times around the room, thoughtful. He rubbed his chin as he walked. "You see, there is a problem I dislike. The queen should never have interfered with us. For this, she must die."
From the last resources of his energy, Delwing laughed out. "But you know that is impossible," said the elf with satisfaction.
"How can we know? No one has tried for centuries. The Night Queen's spell may be long gone," the other man said. With a sly smile on his face, he walked towards a table, on which stood a small box, packed with care and detail. "Or maybe there is a way around it."
Delwing looked towards the box. It took him a couple of seconds to focus. His face twisted with confusion. "B-but those are my gloves, my products," he murmured.
"Indeed they are! With a touch of love from Children of Veliona!" The man laughed. Delwing cowered in his chair. The other man walked towards the table, picking up a pergament and a quill with ink. He brought this all towards Delwing. "You will write a letter to your contact with the queen, sending her a gift of your finely made gloves as thanks for her help.
"No! I shall not do it!"
The other man sighed and reached again for the poker.
+BREAK+
Malloréa sat under the aging apple tree, waiting for Rysaine. She looked down at her hands, which were wrapped with bandages. Qybern had convinced her to learn to fight, which—with her constant bad luck—had blistered and cut her hands. The maid who had tended to her had just shook her head over it.
And soon arrived Rysaine. He was holding a package in his hands, seeming slightly relieved. The two happily reunited with a kiss.
"Delwing returned home!" exclaimed Rysaine. "I just missed him, but he left a letter there for me. He is leaving Norvedrgarde for Westrgarde for a few months. The stress is too much for him."
"Rysaine, I am so happy to hear that," the queen said, hugging him one more time.
Rysaine nodded and gently shrugged. "I am just disappointed he did not come say his goodbye. But he left a gift for you. For all of your help. Without you, we would have lost ages ago." Neither of them knew that Delwing's body was not that far away from them, maimed and disposed of in the city's sewer system.
The boy reached towards Malloréa's hands and frowned at their state. The queen guiltily shrugged, both knowing how unfortunate she was.
"Well, it seems like this is just the thing that will help."
Together they unpacked the box and revealed a beautiful pair of leather gloves, greased till they shone. Rysaine took them out of the box and pulled them onto the queen's hands.
The plucked the last two apples from their beloved tree and ate them together as they walked through the gardens, holding hands, unaware of what was coming for them.
Not long after, Rysaine became fidgety. He released Malloréa's hand, only to look down and see his completely blistered. Ignoring the consequences, they tossed the gloves away and ran immediately to Qybern.
Despite Qybern's best attempts, Rysaine's state worsened by the minute. The poison had already worked its way into his body, loosening the bonds of the proteins which formed his cells, and thus, his entire body. The barrier, responsible for his bloodstream were no longer reliable and with time, internal bleeding came, and eventually, liver and kidneys failure. This was and still is a stage of no return.
Malloréa soon followed in his path. However, thanks to her bandaged hands, her body had not been so severely exposed, and she was stabilized under the control of Qybern. Her damaged hands – her bad luck had protected her from her worse luck.
When Qybern finally had time to stop, he performed an autopsy on Rysaine's corpse, searching for clues as to which poison had been used. He performed many tests, but none proved to be the right.
As the days progressed and the queen improved, Qybern did many experiments. Using oils to bathe Rysaine's kidneys and livers, he gained an extract of the poison. When he stained a shaved rabbit's skin with it, the skin blistered. It was cantharidin.
When our beloved Erwella had raided the Others for the infamous wulfenite ore desired by the previous Queen, she had also equipped herself with a few bottles of this rare beetle poison, which the Others possessed thanks to their warmer climate. Qybern knew who was responsible for this misery, and what he needed to do.
He sent a word out that Malloréa lived, protected from assassination by the Night Queen's spell. But that was not the truth. The poison had been given to her by someone without ill intentions. That was something, the Night Queen's spell did not count with. However, the real culprits believed Qybern's words and believed they couldn't kill the Queen.
The Children of Veliona soon devised a proposal to end their war by arranging a marriage with Malloréa. She could hardly refuse, especially in her sickly state.
On the night of her wedding, she was taken against her will by the same man who tortured Delwing. The same happened every night for weeks, with every encounter more and more violent, leaving Malloréa with bruises and broken bones. As if they knew of the queen's torture, Fricai de Yawë became more violent, which—despite their promise—forced violent responses from the Children of Veliona.
The queen soon became pregnant. After only a few months, the baby was born prematurely.
All attacks stopped. The Children of Veliona did not know about Rysaine's romantic involvement and believed the future monarch to be of their side. Fricai de Yawë, however, knew the baby had not been premature.
After a few long decades, Norvedrgarde was finally in peace, the last victim being the queen herself, for she died in childbirth. The maids and servants whispered that it was her bad luck again. And it was, protecting her from a worse fate than dying. No one could know how miserable her life might have been, had she survived.
This Queen is the one, no one can recall. Her deeds were mostly good and her mind remained uncorrupted by the crown. She was the victim of circumstances and she dealt with them in her own way heroically. However, people like her tend to be Forgotten.
