Fire Born, page 12
Nothing could be worse than that, so she turned her attention to the handsome men. Emlyn would've assumed that a man of such insidious intentions would wear ugliness like that of a medal. But the speaker looked to be quite the opposite – he was beautiful. His lips were plump and pink, large and alluring. His cheekbones were pleasing to look at, high and sophisticated. With dark black eyes that spoke of passion and sin, his skin was a lovely contrasting tone. Dark as the chocolate Emlyn claimed to love. The robes he wore were black and grey, with no particular sense of brightness or colour. Still, they were beautiful indeed, and slightly silky, too.
This strange mystery of a man hovered over Callum, the boy who clearly served him. He, too, possessed rather handsome looks. But unlike the dark man, who was more than darkness itself. Callum could only claim a short height and wild, untameable curls. The man that Lorded over him, as was his duty, carried no hair whatsoever. An odd trait.
These men were clearly from Haast. They were Vyries. From the symbol they wore, that was clear enough. Emlyn knew nothing of the family they both descended from.
The dark man, as she decided to call him, was clearly far more important than this “Callum”. She'd heard little from her sister and uncle, and the stories she sought were mostly myths and legends. The Vyries called themselves the gliding bird, as the books depicted them to be shapeshifters. Shedding their skin to turn into beasts of great superiority. She knew not if it was true.
Magic was scarce in the world; although she'd never ventured far, this much was known. Sirens were capable of elemental magic, and so were Faeries. But even then, the two creatures had hardly ever been sighted before. Those who claimed to have gazed upon such a being never appeared to live for that long. They were a curse. Yule named them this, and Emlyn had never denied her sister anything. The weapons Yule wielded were far more frightening than the prospect of death. Torture would come first, Emlyn knew it was so. The proof had already surfaced. Emlyn knew death when she saw it.
The dark man sat proudly upon his throne, which itself was a horrendous sight to be seen. It wasn't made of metal or wood; that would've been much more acceptable. The throne was tall and was fashioned out of the rotting skulls and bones of those who had long since passed. Fresh heads had been placed upon spikes that were set upon the top of his throne. Emlyn swallowed her horror. Her lips trembled, but no sound escaped from her silent tongue. She briefly considered the thought of running, but her legs wouldn't move from the spot. Was this to be her fate? Following a man who knew sin well enough, and bathed in the blood of thousands? He certainly looked like the type.
Emlyn felt tears, knowing that death was upon her. But what use would it be to cry? So much was untold. Her fingers trembled, and this was the only movement that could be seen. Well, to her. These strange men had looked her way, and not a single curious gaze had been directed upon her. Trapped in a world of invisibility was certainly not a laughing matter, and escape was far from likely. Volun blood was spilt casually by men like these, and even if the opportunity to speak was brought about, she'd much rather run. As would any other woman or man, for that matter. Fear was a grand motivator, after all.
Vyries were whispered of from one maiden to another, who spoke only of grand accomplishments in battle. She recalled the stories of Sheen, the battle that had almost destroyed half of Andriis. Sheen was once a sizeable prospering city, but the leaders were far too arrogant in their ways, thinking themselves to be untouchable. Believing in the right to free speech and equality. Such preaches couldn't be condoned. The many allies that admired and loved them couldn't stand the thought of an attack, as there had already been one. The King had acted recklessly in attacking one of their villages. The war that would come from such an act was horrific. All in the name of pride.
What would result from that was devastating. Allies of Sheen attacked the capital in a fit of rage. Andriis was split between pride and arrogance, loyalty and love. Those who died from these principals were well mourned for. Upon the final battle, the Vyries desolated Sheen.
Emlyn knew that what the King had done to his enemies was brutal; she'd heard the news far earlier than anyone else. Her source was the whispers that came from the sky. They told many stories of what was to be and what mustn't. Of course, she never told Yule such things. Her sister would think her to be an abomination.
Emlyn claimed no form of anger at her dear sister; she'd loved her twin from the moment they were born. The same couldn't be said for her sibling, as hatred festered within Yule's heart, tainting all of those who were near. This was not a fate Evelyn would wish upon anyone. Yule was quite the whisperer, and could persuade anyone to do her dirty work.
The dark man poured himself a glass of what looked to be alcohol, but Emlyn couldn't tell; she wasn't close enough. Long, inky fingers skimmed across the tall steel mug. The rings that glittered in the candlelight were obscene. They were outrageous in size but beautiful to the eye. Emlyn stared upon them in surprise, noticing that one ring bore the Sephora symbol. Alarm festered within, proliferating much to her distaste.
Emlyn despised being weak, but she knew what she was, and understood that this was how her emotions began and ended. There was little that could be done about her fear. Not in the face of these savages. Yule's voice whispered through her mind, claiming they were barbarians that deserves to rot.
Emlyn wasn't her sister. She didn't possess such horrid traits; she'd never classified herself as the racist type. She couldn't say the same for her uncle. The man hated anything that came from Haast, despised it with a fury that was far more frightening than it should be. She looked upon the two men in concern, and despite her loyalty to her blood, Emlyn hoped they weren't doomed to death. Such a fate could never be wished for or desired in any form. It was a pathetic waste of life source. Floating around in the form of a ghost was hardly well-wished, or liked.
The dark man sneered. "We'll have to sign the papers, the Voluns must think we need them," he said. Emlyn curiously looked upon him, for this was her family they were speaking off.
An alliance, the voices whispered into her ear. Emlyn nodded somewhat reluctantly. She remembered the possibility of this being discussed when she was bound to her physical form. It certainly couldn't be real; both sides were clearly deceiving one another. She knew with such certainty that her own uncle would never lower himself to socialise with men from Haast. Their reputation would be at risk, for most Andriis Lords utterly despised the slavers, not merely because of the golden chains they boasted, but for the life they lived. Instead of houses from stone and wood, they were made with mud and sticks, even, on the rare occasion, carved into the hills or rocks.
To Emlyn, it sounded rather appealing, although she knew it shouldn't.
Haast was a barren land, this she understood. Emlyn knew not how they formed alliances in Haast, but it was becoming quite clear that this was a scam. On both sides, in time it would become clear to who would win this war they were waging.
Emlyn jumped in surprise, enjoying the final sense of movement which had previously been limited. The knocking that had surprised her continued, but it brought about much stress for the dark man. He groaned in exasperation, muttering to himself about scum and their less than pleasant ways.
The servant opened the large bulky green doors that led to his throne of bones. Whoever came up with such an idea was positively unstable. Of course, Emlyn would never speak of this aloud. Only a fool would do so. The Vyrie were fierce warriors who could strangle a man with their own hands; strength was to be admired in all men. Well, until it became brutality. The same could be said about women, thought Emlyn, as the image of her once beloved sister resurfaced in her mind. Her Uncle Aureus strode into the room with his head held high, his long blue robes billowing behind him. He was a man of destruction and ferocity.
Yule Volun followed him soon after. "My dear friends," she greeted them with a beaming smile. Emlyn knew the stretch of the lips was fake, as did they. "It has been a long time since I've seen you, Lucien. Why, I've missed the days we used to play in the woods with little Lyn. She'd greet you if she was able, but my sweet sister is feeling quite unwell."
Emlyn gaped in disbelief. She could scarcely believe it herself! She knew the dark man, and nothing could be more shocking than that.
"Yule," spat Lucien. "My father needed me in Haast. I'm sure you're aware of his passing, I had duties to attend to."
"Oh," smiled Yule. "I shall forever treasure our memories we made together. As shall you, I expect."
The dark man seemed to find the thought rather despicable, and the sight of Yule made his throat convulse in utter disgust. He knew all of her habits and the brutal pleasures that she took from those who certainly weren't willing. He wasn’t impressed in the slightest.
Emlyn knew why the two families hated each other with untamed fury. It would seem ridiculous to those that didn't know them, and even the ones who claimed to be allies knew nothing of the real story. Voluns and Vyries had once been great friends, brothers in all but blood. Their ancestors stood before one another with their hands joined, entwined in a symbol of love and affection. They were once from the same clan. Emlyn had questioned this as a child, for did this mean the Voluns were originally from Haast? Nobody knew.
If they did, nothing was said on the matter. Emlyn had always been curious about the subject of history, and she liked to think she’d received such a gift from her father. He often had taken her into his office and helped her to read and study. He claimed the mind was our greatest weapon that could be used against us, and intelligence was a skill that needed to be taught to all those that breathed upon our soil. “Knowledge is a dangerous thing, my dear,” he’d said, “but with it, we can save all we love.” Emlyn had never understood such words. But like any devoted daughter, she treasured them greatly.
It was that which led Emlyn to look into the history between the ongoing feud. The brothers had betrayed one another. It certainly wasn't clear on who had betrayed who first. One slaughtered another's family, leaving only but one behind. It was senseless and held little logic, but most old stories were the same. They missed key sections that had been lost to the ages.
The other brother had performed more than an act of simple revenge; he had cursed the family with blood magic that was forbidden and frowned upon. However, Emlyn doubted anything about the story was true. Men couldn't carry out acts of magic; such a thing was impossible.
These actions had cursed them to a life of madness and decay, bittersweet but straightforward. Nothing more was written on the matter, and her own father had told Emlyn to be wary of stories. They weren't always right, but sometimes, the worst of them were a simple fact.
"Where is Lady Emlyn?" asked Lucien.
"She's unwell," said Yule. "I'm sure she would've loved to attend our little meeting. But being bed-ridden prevents such things.
Lucien dug his fingers into the old bones on which he sat upon. His rage was apparent, but Emlyn knew nothing of the reason. She didn't know this handsome stranger, and yet there was a sense of familiarity that lingered in the air. Her sister clearly knew the man, and perhaps she did too. But Emlyn couldn't be sure of it.
She tried to scream, shout or wail. But her mouth seemed to only move, and no sound would be produced.
Emlyn nervously shook her hands, clenching at the white sleeping gown she wore. It wasn't physical, but neither was she. There could be nothing more horrid than this, Emlyn was convinced upon it. The truth that her own sister had murdered her shone brighter than all other truths.
Aureus flipped through the old crusted paper he held tightly in his hands. It was an agreement.
Emlyn might not behave like her sister when it came to the arts of politics, but she knew what they looked like. The papers were the beginning of an alliance, but she knew it was fraud-worthy.
Her uncle wouldn't seriously consider signing agreement papers with a slaver. He wouldn't dare; his thoughts upon them were far too evident. Emlyn knew of his hatred, as his fists hurt far more than they should. Family was meant to be loving, but it'd been a long time since she felt such an emotion. Emlyn wished she was present with a body that possessed flesh. Then, her tongue could discuss the matters that would occur, even though she imagined her fear would most likely prevent such an event.
Lucien snatched the paper from Aureus’ tight grip, dismissing the man’s scowl with a wave of his hand. They were no matter to him.
Aureus swallowed his rage. "I'm sure the papers are agreeable." Lucien didn't seem to agree with such a statement, but nothing more was inquired. It appeared they would do for now.
Emlyn primly walked towards the scowling men, hovering behind them hauntingly. She frowned; the agreements were ridiculous and borderline outright insulting. She couldn't help but be impressed with the tight control Lucien seemed to have over his temper. If it was Aureus, he would undoubtedly be spitting in rage by now. But alas, the situation was turned. Lucien sighed, demanding a quill from a servant. He eyed the words that were upon the paper cautiously. Aureus was not to be trusted.
The fear that quickly took control over her senses was daunting, and followed Emlyn like a shadow. One she didn't wish to see or feel. It was haunting, and she despised it.
Lucien hummed, accepting the quill with a smile. Even that small act was beautiful, and Emlyn blushed – or much as she could in her pale, ghostly form that nobody could see or feel.
It was a pitiful existence. She'd grown used to ignoring men and their petty egos that only increased with age, but this one was far too handsome to her liking. He possessed a certain sense of charm that made her flutter about. Her sister remained unmoved, like always, but this was to be expected of her. Yule only felt joy from the things she took pleasure in, which was torture. Emlyn knew not where she got that from.
She liked to think it was her Uncle Aureus, but as time moved on, Emlyn questioned that belief. For deep down, she saw the goodness within. The light that used to shine brighter than anything before. She had faith in that. Perhaps her sister could be redeemed, but nothing was set in stone. Time was like a river; it only kept moving.
Aureus smirked at the sight of the dripping ink. The contract would be signed, and they could proceed. "Lucien," he said, turning his smile towards the man that sat before him on the throne of bones. "Do be tidy? Yes. I don't suppose I can expect much from your penmanship."
Lucien gritted his teeth. "I'll do my best."
"Perhaps," he said.
Emlyn could easily feel the intensity within the room. The anger boiled; it was overflowing. But there wasn't anything she could say against it. Despite the fact she didn't know the dark man, her tongue refused to speak. A muscle she'd relied on all her life, and yet it had failed her. No, it went far deeper than that. Her whole life was a failure, and Emlyn was only fourteen years old.
Death held her tightly within his grasp. Her form wasn't alive, nor did she feel the need to breathe. Emlyn thought death would've been more peaceful; in that, she had desires. She wished to greet her own mother and father more than anything else. Who wouldn't want to reunite with their own parents after years of separation?
"And Emlyn? What about her?" Lucien asked.
Emlyn found herself mentioned once again. This strange man clearly knew her, but his features and name were unrecognisable. The only things about him that could be familiar were his last name and the symbol he wore. Lucien Vyrie had links to the Sephora, but for what reason, Emlyn knew not. She prayed to the Gods above and below that answers would be found.
Emlyn saw the hatred within her sister's cold and deadly eyes. It was formed in a manner that was almost hard to see, but she knew Yule well enough. It seemed Lucien did, too, for his eyes narrowed in rather sudden suspicion.
Yule merely smiled sweetly; it was so clearly fake to the trained eye. Most wouldn't know the difference.
Yule had trained herself for many years to look innocent in the eyes of her victims until it was far too late. Emlyn spent most of her days praying for redemption. She knew her sister wouldn't wish it upon herself, so somebody else would have to be up to the task. Their uncle would never do so, for he was as bad as her. "She'll get better," Yule said. "Eventually."
"I see," replied Lucien, though his eyebrows creased in a frown.
Emlyn doubted that. Her life was no more, and death could only bring about such bittersweet sorrow.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The lanterns swung in the cold, bitter wind, offering little comfort for those who resided out in the cold.
Aidan guzzled another heavy glass of beer, one of many that kept coming. As the price began to rise, he could only thank the owner for not mentioning his visits to the pub to his own mother. Glena would've been horrified at his lack of constitutional manners. He seemed to have lost half of his sanity, and the reason for this was still under questioning – as was his character.
