Chapter Text
Prologue: The King’s Justice
They say that children are born to be both of service to their kingdoms and of service to their parents. I had the unique honor of being of service to the gods. Or at least, that was what I was trained to be.
Most parents raise their children with the belief that they have purpose. To bring joy, prosperity, even to be filled with the ideas that they and they alone can make a difference in the world. I, on the other hand, was born with the sole intent of pissing off my grandfather. My life’s work was completed the moment I took my first breath. And yet, after fifteen years I still stand. Purposeless, but still standing.
I’ll take all the wins I could get.
Despite my grandfather loathing my existence, he did find uses for me. Despite my ‘tragic heritage’ I was not hidden, rather I was put to work keeping up appearances and being the kind, respectable and in line member of the family that my own mother failed to be.
And, I say this not to discredit the man - trust me, if you looked into who he really is, he’s done that work himself. The revered Chadwick Sullivan, and the Sullivan name was well respected in the Calldyr Provence. We were born of stone, as my grandfather says, but that just means we worked in the quarry business and most buildings in the capital had a Sullivan stone in its foundation. The highest achievement being the Temple of Malek, recently reconstructed with said Sullivan Stone. It was why I had been chosen to become a servant of Malek, to honor the Sullivan name and continue it’s legacy of steadfast, unwavering support to both the gods and the kingdom.
That, and the fact I was a child born out of wedlock and a dedication to the god of death could wash the stain of embarrassment off the Sullivan Family name.
That was the root of my grandfather's dissatisfaction with me. When he looked at me, he didn’t see the family resemblance or the strength of the Sullivan’s. He saw the blend of my mother and my unknown father. Dark ebony skin contrasted his white. Piercing green eyes to his brown. Long, coily hair that grew free, only to be bound in braids and twists to his…nothing. And I apparently inherited my mother’s mind and cunning smile. Perhaps being dedicated to Malek would save me after all.
My mother was against the idea. She had always told me my personality was too upbeat, to free to be dedicated and that the way Calldyr and most of Navarre interpreted Malek was incorrect. But, I didn’t protest the idea. Perhaps there would be freedom in shaving my head, dawning the green robes and dedicating myself to his name and service. And, servants of Malek live in the temple, in solitude, and being anywhere other than under my grandfather’s gaze of disappointment sounded quite enjoyable.
But yet, I find myself once again at his side, on another display walking into the amphitheater of the capital city, unknowingly about to bear witness to the atrocities of men and dragon alike. I remember that day so clearly, the first of July of my fifteenth year. I had been told to dress in green, tame my hair and meet my father in the early hours before dawn to carriage ride over to the amphitheater. It was too early for a play or performance, though the city had been celebrating their defeat of the Tyrrish in their futile rebellion for days, perhaps there was more fanfare to go on.
The amphitheater was located outside of the city, nestled in the rolling hills as if it was carved out of the cliff side. From the top of the structure you could see the capital city clearly in all its opulent glory. And that’s not to say the amphitheater was lacking in its build. Cut marble, carved statues, cracks lined with gold in certain areas. And at its base was a grand platform of a stage and a large courtyard that could easily fit hundreds of standing spectators.
My grandfather touched the stone pillars as we passed. I followed his moments. It felt, cold. Colder than any cut of marble should be. Everything about this place, a place usually full of laughter and merriment felt an eerie sense of, something as I could only describe as, heaviness. A looming shadow over me that had not yet suffocated my being.
“Anaiyah Sullivan, hurry your feet.” My grandfather chastised in a hush whisper.
It was never just Anaiyah, Niah, Na even. It was always my full name. It was as if he had to say my full name in order for his mind to recognize I’m still a part of his family. But, I had no desire to get further on his bad side and so I picked up the pace. Once we crossed through the arched hall we entered the open space of the amphitheater. It was so empty compared to days when I saw it full of spectators that I could clearly lay my eyes on the few people in attendance. A line of guards on the stone stage at the base of the theater, a few nobles I assumed from the fine clothes, some generals, and a small row of hooded figures dressed in green. Servants of Malek. In total, there couldn’t be more than about twenty five of us.
“Sit with them.” My grandfather ordered, lifting a finger towards the small group. “And do not make a sound.”
I look up at him and nod once before walking across the curved stone and down a few rows towards the four hooded attendants and a rather stern looking priestess, choosing to sit on their opposite side. I was about fifteen rows up from the wall of the amphitheater that separated us from the grounds below. While it was far, at my vantage point I could see the faces of each soldier lining the stage.
A hand comes forward to my right, tugging at the hood to reveal a young girl about my age, her pale eyes aglow.
“Psst.” She whispers softly. I turn and duck my head to shield myself from my grandfather's gaze, “I’m Maya. What’s your name?”
“Anaiyah.” I whisper back. My curiosity gets the best of me and I lean forward again, muttering, “Do you know what’s happening?”
Her smile widens, “You don't know? Oh that’s right,” She glances down at my green dress, “You’re not dedicated yet. We’re here to represent Malek on behalf of the king's justice.”
“The kings-“ The sound of a singular trumpet led against the stone, the tune of the king. Another row of soldiers walk onto the stage, followed by two high ranking officers. Holy shit. It was her. General Sorrengail. The great general who helped end the war and Augustine Melgren, the commander of Navarre’s military. I remember years ago he had lunch at my grandfather’s house; I had avoided both of them the entire day. Finally King Tauri himself walked onto the stage. The seated guests all began to rise in their respect, as do I.
“Don’t.” Maya grabs my hand, keeping me sat with her, “Malek does not rise for the king, and neither do we.”
We. I tried my best not to smile at the simple phrase. But, it felt good to be a part of a we. Perhaps my hesitations of becoming a servant of Malek were unjust. And glancing at my grandfather across the theater I finally felt at a safe distance. While the feelings of unease swirled around me, the feeling I carried close to my core, it felt right.
The king spoke loudly, his voice continuing to vibrate against the stone as he proudly championed the loyal soldiers of Navarre and their defeat of the rebellion. ‘The smoke of Aretia still fresh on their uniforms.’ I hear him say with a smile. While she would have never been invited, I’m glad my mother isn’t here. Even in her illness, she abhorred war and violence in all its forms. I remember her falling to her knees in tears when it was announced by the king that the province of Tyrrendor had formally requested its secession from the kingdom. I can understand, she knew so many lives would be unnecessarily lost. This world has always been too cruel to her. I hope that with the rebellion defeated, there could be peace within our kingdom.
”Bring them out.” I heard the king say and my eyes began to scan the courtyard. Bring who out? I glance over at Maya and glimpse a look of delight on her face. As if she knew of a surprise that I did not and she seemed almost giddy about it.
A line of capital city soldiers begin to emerge from the archways into the courtyard, followed by a group of individuals. Citizens maybe? They weren’t dressed in noble colors. In fact, many of them looked like they had been on a battlefield prior to their arrival here. Some walked, some limped, many with cuts and bruises on their exposed skin. Some carried their heads high, others only looking at their feet. None of them looked at the king.
The rush of wind above me turns my attention to the sky as a black shadow appears to break from the crowd. I try to conceal my gasp but a squeak of awe tumbles out of me as a massive, black mass of talons, teeth and claws lands on the carved stone above the stage of the amphitheater, its battle torn wings stretching outright before it tucks them at their side, his giant head arching over the stage as if to inspect the wounded citizens.
It wasn’t over. Next, another row of soldiers appear on the opposite side of the courtyard, this time ushering, no some of them forcing a group of smaller civilians into the open space. I could hear some of the murmuring, sniffling even. No. These weren’t civilians, they were children. They were my age, many of them several years younger. They stopped them about twenty feet across from the crowd of civilians, a line of soldiers blocking their movement from attempting to cross. One of the younger ones steps forward, but is immediately pushed back by a soldier.
My stomach began to sour.
Now, two soldiers walk into the stage, their hands aggressively pulling at a civilian towards the front of the stage. With a kick to the back of his legs the man drops to his knees, his wet hair hanging from his bowed head, causing murmurs and gasps amongst the citizens of the courtyard. Finally he looks up, his face marred with cuts, a bruise, but a determined, fierce, and unwavering face.
I know that face. The wing in my grandfather’s home is lined with portraits of all the Dukes and Duchesses of each province, some rotated out upon the appointment of a new heir. I know that face because my grandfather ripped down that portrait one summer ago and left the spot on the wall blank ever since. He’s no citizen.
It’s Fen Riorson.
Now it makes sense. The wounded citizens are the Tyrrish rebels. The children are the. Malek no, their own children? And now the words of Maya are on loop in my mind, ‘Carry out the king's justice.’
“By order of his most gracious and wise majesty, King Tauri, all surviving members of the Tyrrish separatists are hereby sentenced to death by dragon fire -“
“May we commend their souls to Malek.” The row of servants at my right speak in unison.
Maya glances at me again, her smile wide, “This is where the fun begins.”
“Rowena Durran. Step forward.”
Even from my distance I could see Fen’s eyes widen in panic. He turns his head to glance back at the king, “I was to go first.” I read from his lips. The king mutters something I can’t make out and simply shakes his head. Melgren smiles cruelly. General Sorrengail looks away.
I could hear the crowd below begin to move as a woman steps forward, her head held with pride, her brown hair flowing in the light breeze, her skin glowing in the waking sun.
On the opposite side, I hear commotion as a group of boys, I’d assume around my age begin to stir. One of the boys turns to the other, his face too in panic as he speaks in words I cannot hear before he turns and begins to walk along the side of the soldiers that separate him and the other woman.
“Mother!”
My heart is in my throat.
”It’s alright, my darling. Stay where you are.” She calls back, her voice soft, gentle and calm.
The boy still walks, only to be grasped near the end of the row of soldiers by the two others, holding him by the arms to either keep him from moving forward or keeping his body upright. More of the children seem to reach for each other. Some of them grabbing the younger ones and turning their bodies to face the walls. To face me.
The large black dragon cranes his neck forward, and the smell of something foul takes over my senses.
The boy shouts something at his mother in a language I cannot understand. She simply smiles at him, and only him before responding in the same language. Her eyes move towards Fen, her head bowing once in a nod before -
Flames.
The dragon opens his mouth and flames erupt from his lips and tongue and they…they engulf the woman. Not before an ear piercing scream ripples through the air. When the flames subside, the woman is gone. Charred ashes at the ground where she once proudly and beautifully stood.
Hell breaks loose. Children are screaming, panicked voices are rising from the courtyard. Soldiers are beginning to step forward towards the citizens. The boy from before legs give out and even I can hear the scream from beneath his tightly closed teeth.
Smoke rises and the smell of sulfur fills my nose. I feel it on my skin.
I can’t do this. I cannot do this. My body lurches forward and I retch onto the ground, spilling last night's meat pie onto the stone floor between the benches, some of it landing on Maya’s feet.
“-Mairi. Step forward.”
They’re continuing on like nothing happened, the name lazily spoken on their lips. These are people. People with children and families who are watching them die. No one is stopping this. What can I do?
There is nothing I can do.
No. No. I cannot do this. I will not do this. I hoist my body upright and run, nearly slipping on my own vomit as I move. I run across the stone bleachers and up the steps to the top of the amphitheater, not before I feel another wave of heat and chorus of screams before I move quickly down a flight of stairs at the rear. I round the corner and find a small archway with an open door. I rush inside and slam it shut, forcing the lock firmly in place. Another wave of vomit escapes my lips and I quickly find a bucket.
“Anaiyah Sullivan you open this door right now! You embarrass yourself. You embarrass me you foolish child!” My grandfather is banging on the wooden door, shaking the lock. His words are only muted out by the sound of screams and flames. I burst into tears, curling my knees to my chest.
I don't want to be here. I don’t want to be here.
I remain in the closet for the rest of the ‘ceremony’. The sounds of screams and roars of dragons fading either by my own abandon of my mind or the conclusion of killings. My clothes soaked in sweat, tears, and bile. I don’t emerge from that room until well after the sun has begun to set. I am alone in the amphitheater. And I walk home alone.
I crawl into my mothers bed and tears find me once again as I break her heart with my recounting of the day's event. She holds me tight as if I was a young child.
My grandfather doesn’t speak to me for a week. And neither do I him. I have nothing to say to a man who willingly would attend such an atrocity of an event. And for the servants of Malek to find such joy in the last moments of someone’s life. I had grown up with stories from my mother that Malek’s true nature was often misunderstood, yet I bore witness to the clarity of what his servants believed to be just.
‘You will heal from this.” My mother told me one evening when I found myself back in her room, unable to sleep.
“I will never heal from this.” I respond, I promise. “I did nothing, mother. I watched, I listened to them all die and I did nothing. How can I atone for this? Heal from this? I should never heal from this.”
“Perhaps not.” She admits, “But you are too kind, too caring to not do anything more than sit in this room with me. If you cannot or refuse to heal yourself, then choose to heal others.”
I leave and sneak into my grandfather’s library and pull every book I can to plan the next five years. Not for the temple for dedication, but for the war college of Basgiath.
And now, my second purpose has been born.