Tainted
"For certain is death for the born. And certain is birth for the dead; Therefore over the inevitable, thou shouldst not grieve." –Bhagavad Gita
A/N: Thank you Foxfire1 for the review and encouragement.
Two: Terreille
It was a boy. The parents, Regan and Adair, named him Santigo after Regan's grandfather. As Adair held the small bundle in his strong arms, he couldn't help smiling, couldn't help the pulsing of pride in his blood. He almost forgot his wife was still in the room, exhausted but awake. This child was his world now, and all noise grew mute and all objects hazy. It was Regan who finally caught his attention, telling him to come to his senses. He could see the mockery in her eyes. Apparently, the child was more a miracle to him than her. She nodded to the healer, who apparently had something to say. Turning around, he noted the hint of worry in her eyes. Immediately, a shadow of fear grew in his heart.
"The child, he's most beautiful, my lord. I imagine he'll have your blue eyes, and your lovely wife's rich hair." She trailed on, as if trying to dull the pain of the bad news that would come. He grew very impatient very quickly, and snapped at her to tell him what was wrong.
Clasping her hands together (he noticed they were slightly shaking), she licked her lips. "Your son is weak, my lord," she finally said quietly. Adair's first reaction was confusion and anxiousness. What did that mean? Looking down at Santigo, he could see the boy was pale, perhaps a little frail, but weren't all babies when they were born? The healer went on, as if sensing his confusion and afraid of his anger from her silence.
"When he grows, he may not be a very strong child; illness may follow him, especially in the winter. He won't be as strong as you, my lord..." And then she said the last three words he wanted to hear at that moment. "…If he survives."
A hot anger swept over him before he stalked from the room, unable to look at Regan. Clutching the child to his chest, he wanted nothing more than to take them both away where Santigo could grow strong, and tall…and live. Moving into his bedroom, separate from Regan's, he locked the door with a sapphire shield. The Opal Jewels around Regan's proud neck couldn't hold up to that. Looking down at Santigo, then, he was torn between emotions. Part of him wanted to weep at what may come; part of him wanted to laugh at the joy of the child in his arms, even if it wouldn't last. The last part of him remained silent, and that's exactly what Adair did for the rest of the evening, holding the one thing he loved to his beating heart.
Three: Terreille
Santigo ran through the marble halls of the Sabel estate in the country land of Terrielle, blood pulsing loudly at his temples, hammering the beat in his ears. Rounding the corner, he scuffled across the floor, trying not to slide on the polished floors. He stopped momentarily to breathe and to think upon his options. Under the stairs? No, too visible. In the atrium? Too obvious. Behind the book selves? Too dangerous (what if Father found out?) He finally settled on the kitchen; the staff were always happy to help. He couldn't help the nagging worry in the back of his mind, telling him to take it easy. It was his father's voice; he was always so worried about him overworking himself. It was that warning that made him run faster now, made him work harder. He had to prove them all wrong. Mother understood. She encouraged him to learn weaponry; to run ad jump. "You could be Master of the Guard someday in some grand court," she used to say.
Slinking into the kitchen, the staff took note of him, smiled, and went back to their work, as he didn't appear to be there to talk. He smiled back at them, thankful for their silence as he ducked into one of the shining metal cabinets. He drew his knees to his chest and concentrated in breathing through his nose. He didn't know how long he waited there, maybe five minutes, before he heard the formal door of the kitchen open once more, the door the family used. Straitening up in his confined space, he held his breath and waited. Suddenly, the cabinet door opened, and he was greeted to the sight of a young girl. A girl of bronzed skin and silky brown hair; her hazel eyes held flames of intrigue and courage. She said nothing right away, but merely reached out her small hand and gently touched his arm.
"You're 'it'."
Frowning, Santigo sprang from his hiding spot.
"How did you find me so fast?"
"You hide there last week."
"So…there's plenty of other cabinets in here you could have checked first."
"But you're not smart enough to try another cabinet."
Santigo gave up, nursing his bruised ego, as he didn't know what to say. He couldn't keep up with the cruel wit or speech of his sister.
"I don't want to play anymore," he said, squirming slightly, no longer happy with the game.
"You can't stop just like that."
"Who says I can't?"
"The rules of the game."
"There are no rules of the game!"
"There are too, you idiot."
The formal kitchen door swung open once more, cutting off the argument for the time being. Both children looked at the middle aged man entering the kitchen, both seeking his blue gaze. Adair Sabel loved all his children, but had a special fondness for only one present. Adair, his first born. The child he wanted to inherit his titles and land. Regan didn't want it, for she didn't believe Santigo strong enough. Adair didn't care if Santigo was the best warrior or had the brightest mind. All that mattered was that he had the biggest heart. And right now, that heart had no place straining itself on such a trivial game.
"Santigo, I thought I told you to not strain yourself."
"I wasn't," the curly brown haired boy protested, taking a step forward.
Adair frowned slightly, but there was an amused gleam in his eyes. "Take it easy for now. Go up to your room and study your history. According to your tutor, you're struggling in that class right now."
Santigo brushed past his father, but briefly turned around to stick his tongue out at his sister. Smirking, he pounced out of the room, liking to believe that he had the last word…or action, at the very least. Adair looked down at the remaining child, his daughter. She smiled sweetly up at him, sweeping back her pink satin gown to curtsy.
"I feel ever so bad for Santigo, father. It's such a pity he can't get such good marks as me. Mother says that with my mind, I can surely excel in the Hourglass Coven."
Adair hid his annoyance. Of course Regan would say that. By the power of suggestion, she was using their child to make up ideas to get them out of the country and back into Draega.
"I'm sure he'll receive great marks with age. Some of us just learn faster than others." Nodding, then, he quietly left the room. He wanted so bad to be close to his children, but Regan made that impossible with her manipulation. There would always be a cold wall separating them. He slowly walked through the halls, taking the cold staircases to reach the third floor. Stopping by Santigo's oak bedroom door, he pressed his ear against the door, glad to know that his son was able to study while listening to music. He shook his head and walked further down the hall. Opening the door, he walked into the quiet room. His daughter's room. That's all she was to him now. There was nothing personal between them, no names, only the bloodline of father and daughter. He stood silently in the room, not sure what to do with himself.
"Father?"
Adair turned around, pleasantly surprised to see a small witch looking up at him. She had short brown hair, which she demanded so as to make archery easier, and playful, yet kind, brown eyes. Her skin, like his, was bronzed, a light golden brown color. His third child, yet the product of only a second birth. He was as surprised as Regan to find that she had twins. The difference was that he was pleasantly surprised. Kneeling down, he held out his arms to her. She rushed into them, like some fleet footed nymph from ancient tales. She smelled like the forest, like crushed flowers and rainwater. Even for one so young, she was so strong and quick, her mind and sword always once step ahead of her opponent's. Yet she still loved to be a child, she liked the idea of being a maid. She didn't mind the country, or playing with her older brother. Adair smiled in spite of himself. He loved everything about this daughter. He loved everything about Dorothea.
