When the evening's festivities were at and end, and the late hour demanded all retire to their chambers to continue their celebrations privately, he had offered to escort her to her bedroom. She accepted, of course, desiring to remain with him until the very last moment before time demanded they part. At her door, she knew he wanted to kiss her again. She could feel the gravity of their lips pulling them together, and was about to relent to the unutterable truth she dared not admit, when she could not.
Even this morning, thundering in pursuit of him with the King and his Red Guard, she could still feel the deep green of his eyes as they stared directly into her past with the promise of righting any wrong that had been done. And for a moment, the briefest of allowances, she had become Athlorial Lumendel, the love stuck, eighteen year old he had first met, once again. But she was not that woman anymore. She was Soliana Solaris; and while Athlorial was still firmly ensnared in the hopes that would never be by the Legend of Eriboth Dordrosis, Avendia's Warrior Poet, Soliana had long since buried any such belief in love and its eternity. As such, at the doorstep of forgiveness, the entrance to her bedchamber, she bid him a lipless good night.
But as pleasant as the memories of the celebration following the Indri Primos had been, they were abruptly forgotten in the wake of his treacherous betrayal of Elven-hood, Meckthenial, King Rendunial, and most severely, her. Again she had begun to believe only to have him shatter that belief. But unlike twenty years ago, she did not cry. Athlorial's tears had long since dried and her sadness had long been replaced by the fiery rage of Soliana. No, she would not cry over him again. Instead she would see him brought to justice, a justice long in demand by the hearts and lives of those he had broken, the lives he would continue to break.
Broken. This was not the first time she had broken, nor was it the first time she had ridden into an unfolding chain of uncertain events. To her, it seemed the summation of her life was built upon the search for certainty after a single moment would dissolve all such constructs of it; and this morning, at the end of their pursuit, it would be no different. As the thundering group of twelve of perhaps the most combatively lethal individuals within the Elven Kingdom galloped in pursuit of perhaps the singularly most lethal in all of Avendia, she was forced to relive a moment in her life. A moment that would inevitably lead her here, riding on her horse, on this path, to bring forth justice to the only man she had ever loved. She set her will and her mind against her duty because, unlike decades ago, she did not know what was coming next.
It was not the same every day, but when her father came home after working in their forge and indulging at the local alehouse to drown whatever pain he was feeling, it was always the same. Yelling. Throwing. Cursing. She had witnessed them for the better part of her memorable life. It had become so much of a routine that her tears no longer flowed, her mind no longer feared, and her body no longer felt as the resulting blows she received from her mother landed upon her now numb heart. After being dealt the emotional torrents of anger and self-indulged pity at the hands and mouth of her father, her mother, to cope with the constricted walls of her once hopeful life, was left with no other choice except to manifest it upon her daughter as a physical release. But being the eldest, and having a heart for her younger sister who was so small and innocent, she would always find a way to draw the attention of her mother's ire and focus completely upon herself until either an emotional or physical fatigue had rendered her mother's work complete.
She was young when it first started. The image of the first time her father struck her mother across her face would be forever seared into the release of her innocence. From the moment when that first fateful blow landed upon her mother's cheek, she had been changed. Internally, she had, at least for the first nine years of her life, reconciled with the fact that while life would never be perfect, it was, at the very least, bearable; and at its very best, content if not happy. But seeing her mother dashed to the ground in a single, ale induced heap, shook that realization and yielded it to a greater revelation that things could always get worse.
In the weeks and months to follow, stretching into years, the increasing frequency of her father's drunken outbursts would also become more intense. At first, she always had hope when he returned. And most times when he entered their abode, he was the loving father to her and the affectionate husband to her mother she had known, or at least thought she had. But every so often, although not often enough to allow all the constructed excuses to be rendered void, he would come home seeking vengeance and violence. And her mother was inevitably the target of his volcanic release. Sometimes he would beat her mother where she could see, and other times he would take her to their bedroom where all she could experience was the haunting cries and screams from a voice so wounded, it transmitted all its pain unto her very heart.
The initial effect upon her mother was that of emotional paralysis for several days thereafter. During this time, she would seldom leave her bed, let alone room, leaving the responsibility of its management to her young daughter. But as time passed, and the compounding effect of the repeated emotional and physical beatings reached its threshold, her days of paralysis turned to a dark activity; an activity that would find its solace within the soul and on the skin of her daughter. The weeks turned into months, and the months into a year of a repeated pattern of abuse passed from father to wife, and then from mother to daughter.
She remembered when she was told of her mother's second pregnancy. Something within her father was repaired as life and he had been returned to the roots of their beginnings. For a little over ten months, she lived under the impression that the conception and subsequent birth of her younger sister had been an answer to her prayers. But all hope for light and love had been dashed upon the hard realization that her father's fists would never end, and the transmission of her mother's hopelessness would never cease in its embellished and necessary release upon her.
In that moment, while her sister was yet an infant and left crying in her cradle while her mother flooded her with a deluge of uncontrolled rage, pent up and needing release, she made the sacred vow that her sister would never be forced to endure what she was now enduring. Lost innocence, an ending of belief, and the altered sight of reality was such that she would do everything she needed to prevent the pattern to be repeated to one so little an innocent as she must have been once. And it was on this night that she realized just what needed to happen because she knew what was coming next.
On this particular evening, her mother had made the mistake of attempting to release some of her dam contained aggression on her husband which led to a particularly prolonged episode of physical, emotional, and no doubt sexual abuse. As he left in a fury of rage and sorrow, she heard her mother's whimpers slowly silence themselves as they always did. After her sister was born, Athlorial’s primary focus had changed from self-preservation to the preservation of the innocence yet intact within her younger sibling. At first, she tried to convince her young sister to leave the house with her in an effort to completely remove her from witnessing any such event, but her sister would never allow that. She was so paralyzed with fear that all she would allow her older sister to do was to hold her while they both cuddled on their bed. A bed that had seen so many tears, bruises, and blood it would never be washed clean. It had become the reflection of her heart and soul.
And on this bed during the days when all the world seemed to shatter and all the monsters condensed into their father, sometimes while crying audibly, and the other times crying internally, she would whisper to her younger sister words filled with promises that she herself had ceased to believe years ago. She whispered them now. But they were not loud enough, as they never were, to calm her sister's sobs. Nor were they loud enough to prevent her sister from following down the path of lost innocence she herself had walked years ago. A path she continued to walk this night.
Between sob induced sighs, just when her sister was beginning the familiar process of calming down t
o fall into a much needed emotional and physical slumber, she heard the confirmation of what she knew was going to happen. Her mother's bedchamber door slammed shut and was followed by heavy, erratic steps approaching their current hiding spot. There was no where they could go and nothing they could do, and judging by the severity of her mother's experience, theirs was certain to be especially significant. When the heavy footfalls stopped outside their door, and she could see two shadows cast under it, she whispered, "Do not open the door, no matter what!"
She glanced at the still closed door, expecting it to open; however, there was a pause as if the gods were deliberating the fate of the three women, two huddled on the bed, and one standing ominously outside, "You must promise me you will not open the door once I leave! Can you do this for me?" The younger of the two girls still clutched to the older one with her face buried into her breast.
"Dominia!" she said in a louder, but still hushed whisper jolting her younger sister's attention. "You MUST do this. Do not open up the door no matter what you hear."
"Ok," she said though half-heartedly because fear had still gripped her heart and attention.
"Dominia! Promise me!" again she glanced to the door with a horrible expectancy much too old for her yet youthful age. "Tell me you promise me!"
"I promise, Athlorial!"
Without hesitation, Athlorial tried to get up from the bed, but found it necessary to dislodge the fear induced clenching grasp from her sister's tiny hands and arms. Assuring her sister that she would be ok, she forced the tiny fingers open and walked toward the door amidst her sister’s pleading tears. There was a silent pause just before she opened it when she turned back to see Dominia's tears streaking down her face. Each one emboldened her to do what must be done. She dipped her head, waited a split second to gather her courage, and opened the door to a backhanded smash hitting her squarely in her nose. But when she would normally have fallen to the grown, overtaken by grief and pain, she managed to strike her mother weakly in the stomach.
Running past her mother, but not before she was able to close the door and shout, "Lock the door, Dominia!" she almost lept down the stairs. After her mother stood up following a brief doubling over from the unexpected punch, she chased after Athlorial. Catching up to her just at the bottom of the stairs, she reached out in a rage and grabbed the long, full locks of bright blonde hair and yanked as hard as she could. With her head snapping back, the resulting force surpassed her young ability to counteract it, Athlorial came crashing backward to the ground, her breath knocked from her lungs. She instinctively rolled onto her stomach and curled her legs up underneath her in an effort to minimize the exposure of her targetable areas.
Her mother wound up and kicked her in the side. Almost lifted from the ground, she felt it land squarely on more than her exposed stomach. Echoing deeply inside her where her resolve took its genesis, the blow connected forcefully upon her intentions and ended any thought of saving her younger sister. Gasping for air as if she was dying, she tried to tell her mother that she was sorry, but no voice responded because there was no air left from which to draw sound.
Sensing there was no more fight or defiance in her eldest daughter, but still not satiated from the contained violence within her soul, she began walking back to the stairs seeking its expulsion upon her youngest. Seeing this through the corner of her eye, Athlorial was snapped back to her dedication and vow and yelled from somewhere protectively primal, "Brithnok! (Bitch) Is that all you have got!"
Feeling the challenge, her mother stopped and turned to see her eldest daughter now standing, bloodied and holding her side, tentatively favoring where her kick had struck. "What did you say to me?"
"You heard me! Brithnok!" Athlorial continued to insult her mother with the single word.
Provoking her by using the very same insult her father used during his rage induced onslaughts, she knew she was going to draw her attention away from her sister; however, she had also become aware that she did not have to succumb to the same pattern as before. Whereas her resignation prior to this night had induced a belief that nothing would, or rather, could be changed; seeing her sister almost become the object of that same pattern allowed her entrance into the awareness that regardless of the dictates of her resignation, the pattern had to change. And she had to change it.
As her mother charged, completely losing control of any form of reservation, Athlorial returned the charge with an equal amount of violent intent. Meeting in the center of their dining room, amidst the still burning candles from their dinner, they collided with a balanced determination from two opposing forces. One from the release of all things horrible heaped upon her and forced to be contained until the dam burst and evil was emitted to those closest to her, and the other from a love forced protective vow where nothing mattered except its completion. They struck, with no refined training, from a place of utter need reaching beyond the heart and soul into the very intent of their characters. If the weight of these two slight women could have been measured in the force of their wills, the very pillars of both heaven and hell would have shaken under their collision. But, as such things are not possible in the realm of mortality, the only things that shook were the candles upon the table. They shook and tipped.
Locked in a messed heap of scratching, punches, kicks, and bites, both women struggled to win dominion over the other. As her mother sought vengeance upon Athlorial for whatever transferred emotions she lacked the strength to give to their rightful owner, she landed a particularly violent punch to her daughter's nose causing and eruption of blood and tears ending in a semi-conscious thud. With her sun drenched blonde hair sprawled upon her face, mixed with the bright red fluid, she coughed as it flooded her mouth causing her to choke. Dazed, bloodied, bruised, and blurry from her tears, she managed to see her mother slowly walking toward the stairs filled with an ominous intent.
Warm. She was beginning to feel warm and noticed that her eyes stung from the salt of her sweat mixing with her tears. Warmer now as she continued to try and regain her mental stability and focus enough to allow her command over her broken body to intercept the horrible fate her sister was sure to experience, she rolled to her stomach and pushed herself up to her hands and knees feeling something begin to sting her throat. She raised her head and felt a dread like she had never felt before.
There, before her, and completely blocking the stairs and her sister’s route of eventual escape, was a growing fire. She did not see her mother and knew she must have made it up the stairs before the fire spread. She looked to the candles on the table and saw they were all tipped over and had started several blazes all spreading to different areas of her house. Her eyes began to tear from the black smoke of burning wood as her dread began to grow. She instantly sprung to her feet, ignoring any mental and physical damage her mother had dished out, and tried to approach the flames leading to the steps. But her progress was thwarted by the licking inferno that was now quickly spreading up the stairs. Just then her father burst in, no doubt warned by the townsfolk when they saw the black smoke coming from his home.
But just like every day after he beat his wife, he would drink himself into a drunken stupor until he had to be taken home. Tonight, while coherent enough to have eventually made his own way home, he was certainly in no condition to offer his daughters and wife any assistance. Therefore, as he stumbled in, he demanded to know what had provoked the interruption to his drinking. When he saw the flames in front of him, he stumbled to his right to avoid them and seek solace in the kitchen, but when his eyes fixed upon the blaze growing where he sought refuge, he stumbled backward into another area of flames and crashed through the weekend floor into their cellar.
A heartbeat after her father fell to his demise, Athorial felt rough hands grab her and begin pulling her from the house. She struggled in a blurry, smoke induced panic, filled with an adrenalin provoked courage. She broke from of the grasp once and darted to the stairs. She would have succeeded in her att
empt at throwing herself upon them in an attempt to save her sister had it not been for the rough grasp yanking her off her feet and carrying her outside where she was deposited on the ground and left to cry. Before she could rise to dart back into the burning inferno, she was comforted by a calming, female voice and slight hands that held her firmly in a place of safety. As much as she was struggling, no matter what she did, she could not break the grasp of her comforter. All the while she was being held, she heard whispered in her ear that her sister was going to be ok. It was not long after that she felt a calming warmth possess her eyes and induce her into sleep where she dreamt of flying and fire.
Her eyes opened slowly, but closed tightly again as she squinted from the sunlight pouring in through the opened window. Before her sight adjusted to the contrasting difference between the dark solitude of slumber and the blazing, crisp dawning sun, her sense of smell and appetite was ignited by a multitude of aromas. She smelled eggs, and bacon, and maple syrup all dancing on the tip of her pallet. How she loved eating breakfast with her sister Dominia. They would laugh and try to steal each other's bacon when the other was not looking. On most mornings, she would let Dominia steal at least one of her pieces and if she was feeling particularly giving, two. But where was Dominia this morning? She was always jumping on her older sister's bed before she had yet woken. Athlorial would always feign being still asleep until her younger sister jumped on her directly resulting in a short and playful wrestling match.
But there was no jumping on her bed this morning. Wondering if Dominia was still sleeping, Athlorial turned her head slightly away from the window to see if her younger sister was still clutching tightly to her doll as she did every night; however, what she saw, or rather did not see struck her in a mixed recipe of panic and confusion. She instantly shot up in bed and looked around at her surroundings. She was in a strange room and clearly a different house. Setting the fire to her panic was the realization that there was only one bed in the room she had been sleeping in, whereas she and her sister shared a room each with their own small beds. She did not see any of the very simple furniture holding their clothing, nor did she see her sister's perpetually dirty closet. She saw nothing of familiarity of her and her sister's room. Nothing, that is until she fixed her eyes on the small doll sitting at the foot of her bed.
Convergence (The Dragon Within Saga Book 1) Page 16
