Myuri: Chapter 1: Pilot

Klaude had come, simply for a drink.

She felt as worthless as the others in the tavern, recklessly throwing their heads back, pouring ale down their throats as though they would tomorrow was nonexistant, on the night of the summer solstice. They had no families to spend such an occasion with; they were as alone, as miserable as she was, their only companion being their drink.

Klaude had run away from her mistress, with only the few possessions she held dear, and a purse of barely enough coins for but a single glass of wine.

She did not run away from her mistress, specifically, but from her mistress’ new husband, who would come to her bed in the night, when his wife was asleep, and plead for Klaude to lie with him – oh, just one time!

Every night, she denied him; every night, she felt more violated.

And then came the night when he did not give her a choice. He came to her bed, and covered her mouth with a hand hot with pleasure.

By dawn the next day, Klaude was miles away; she had run east, east in the city-state of Congrella, east, just miles from Myuri’s capital, where, at that very moment, the great King David could enjoy as much wine as he so desired, on the treasury of the crown.

“Miss, can I get you something to drink?”

Klaude looked up from her hands, folded in her lap, to the pot girl, standing before her.

“Wine, just a glass of it, please,” she replied softly, fumbling for the coins of her purse. She knew just by the way the young pot girl looked at her, that she was intrigued by Klaude’s most unique features – her crimson hair, thin, with most uncared for split ends touching her elbows, her eyes that reflected the sky, her caramel skin, her delicate pink lips, even her breasts, fashionably small, somewhere buried beneath the bodice of her dress.

The girl shook her head. “Sorry, Miss - that is not enough."

Klaude was humiliated, her hand suspended in the air holding out the money. It was not enough; all of her earnings and the only money she had taken with her, when she had run away – not enough for a glass of wine, definitely not enough for a night at the inn just across the road from the tavern.

“Is this enough?”

She turned to her side: A most dashing young aristocrat. He offered the pot girl a handful of silver coins.

“Enough, and more.”

“Then more, you will serve us.”

He seated himself beside Klaude, as the serving wench walked away.

“Isn’t there something that, perhaps, you would like to say to me?”

Klaude cleared her throat, gathered her wit. “I only desired one glass of wine. I wish to return home, and I do not wish to return home intoxicated.”

He smiled slyly; he was handsome to say the least. But Klaude had no interest in having relations with any man, not since she had been defiled by her mistress’ husband, the beast she had run away from.

“Where is this home, you speak of, Madam?” he inquired, a flirtatious ring to his voice.

Klaude looked away from him; she did not respond.

The wench returned with a most lavish bottle of wine, and two glasses filled with the rich red substance.

“You do not have to converse with me, but please, all I ask is that you drink.”

Klaude brought the glass to her lips; she drank the wine with goodwill, sipped at it contentedly until it had vanished from her cup. Then she stood to leave.

“Wait – please.” He touched his fingertips to her wrist, spread them out against the skin, tenderly. “Have another; when I came to you, you appeared distressed. It is the night of the summer solstice, a night for celebration. A single glass of wine is not nearly celebratory enough, nor is it enough to rid you of your sadness. Have another, please?”

Klaude sighed, and sat back down beside him, watching him skillfully fill her glass with more of the delightful red fluid. His arm found her shoulders and wrapped itself around them; he held her to him, as though she were his own.

“What is your name?” Klaude demanded, impatiently.

“Gaius. Now you must tell me yours.”

“I am Klaude. I thank you for your generosity, but I cannot go home with you.”

Gaius brought his arm down to her waist, his touch rich with desire. “Then where will you go?”

Klaude looked away; she could not answer his question. She knew not where else she could possibly go, but with him.

Her third glass, then her fourth glass, and she had decided she would indeed go home with him.

It was far past midnight, and the tavern was empty.

“Come home with me, Klaude.” Gaius stood, and offered her a hand.

“Of course…” her voice was almost as wobbly as she was, climbing to her feet. She held him for guidance, followed him down the dark, barren roads of the town.

“Where…” Klaude managed to utter. Even in her drunken state, she knew something was amiss. She could feel danger; she tried to push away from him, at that very moment, her heart beating wildly, but he was stronger, much stronger.

He grabbed her, animal-like, insane, pushed her against a tree.

She felt his hands in places they did not belong; they stripped her dress from her body, felt and groped and touched, so violently, no love, no tenderness. She opened her mouth to scream, but then the cold blade of a knife found her throat, and cut a little slit.

"If you scream," he said, "I will cut." Gaius smiled at the horror in her face, and his tongue lapped at the blood dripping down the nape of her neck. 

His lips kissed hers, but it was a dreadful kiss, one of dark, dangerously fierce lust, not of love. He held her against the tree by straddling her body in his legs, and entering her with frightening force.

She pushed and writhed from beneath him, desperate for freedom, trying to cry out, but his mouth swallowed her own, aggressively, solely to silence her. Klaude managed to free her mouth of his, but he slapped his hand against her little cheek, beat a fist into her lips so that all that could escape from them were a meek scream and a pathetic whimper. She moaned silently in defeat, and he dropped her and left after cutting a thin slit in the crevice of her breasts.

Klaude collapsed, face forward into mounds of dirt, salty tears gliding down beaten cheeks.

The last thing she heard were the footsteps of this man, as he fled to wherever might truly be his home, a place he had not taken her, as he had said that he would.

*

Reina sang a happy little working tune to herself, as she prodded a washing stick about a barrel containing only soapy water and her father’s and her wears.

            It was a typical morning; her village was slowly starting to wake, the women coming outside – with only wraps to cover their nightshirts – to do their household’s washing, men readying for work, and children preparing for school.

            She took in the herbal scent of some sort of tea being prepared by her father, from inside their cozy little house, which was about three days’ journey downwards from the capital – comfortably nestled in the south of Congrella.

            “Reina.”

            Reina turned to see her father’s smiling face, poking out of their backdoor as she hung their garments at a most efficient pace along a clothesline.

            “Yes, Father?”

            “Have something to eat, daughter. Are you not tired? It is still early…” Revony called out, fatherly tenderness ringing in his voice.

            “Of course, Father, and I am quite fine,” Reina replied, simply.

            It was chill outside, despite the fact that it was already a day in late-June, and, in fact, the summer solstice had just been the day before. Reina stepped into the warmth of the house, her walk, graceful as ever, and seated herself at their modest little dining table, Revony seating himself across her.

            She looks so very much like her late-mother; that lustrous black hair, those dreamy violet eyes and perfectly pink lips, oh, those dark, rich lashes, that prim, firm nose. Revony sighed to himself. My Reina. Beautiful, she was, to say the least – but she was already seventeen, his Reina, his lovely, perfect, Reina – and he was convinced that her life had far more purpose, than to do chores for him.

            And yet, he was quite sure that there was not a single man in all of the realm quite worthy of his perfect little girl.

            “Myuri’s current situation is not looking good, my dear,” he stated, with a small sigh.

            “Has it ever, really, been? Oh – does this regard that murderous Kylani?” Reina inquired. “Father, you know I have never been one of… politics.”

             “I am aware that you lack an interest in ‘politics,’ but I have always hoped you would develop one. Either way, it is a mystery as to whether or not she is responsible for her father’s death – but, as a woman only slightly your senior, she definitely has some nerve to declare the city-state she now rules, independent. She is starting a war, and she knows it. And she is unafraid. Quite, quite unafraid.”

            Reina brought her cup of tea to her lips, with an awkward stiffness. “Honestly, Father…You do so love to talk.”

            Revony sighed, once more. “Politics, government – oh, they simply thrill me, my Reina. I would never be so happy, as to see you obtain some sort of seat in them.” There was some regret in his voice.

            The meal proceeded in silence, until Reina stood, and went back outside to continue with the washing. All of her early morning gaiety had left her, and so she did not sing to herself, now, as she worked.

            And then the screeching of a trumpet march suddenly caught her attention.

            She was confused at the sound, positively alarmed. She stepped out from behind the house, and cocked her head for a view of where the odd noise was emanating from – the foothills that licked the borders of the village. The foothills were swamped, swallowed in the most terrifying of colors – red – red, the color of Espiarus, once peaceful, loving Espiarus ruled by peaceful, loving King Napoleon.

            But those days were over.

            Now, red was the color of Espiarus’ new murderous new mistress.

            Queen Kylani herself was leading an army greater than the little town in both size and population, and she would have each and every single one of them cut down, whether male or female, adult or child.

            “Father!” Reina was feverish in all her fright, her shock. She found the strength to utter only that single word, and it rolled off of her tongue with utmost reluctance.

            Revony was already outside, his still, firm body leaned against the front of the house. He was paralyzed with fear; he saw Reina, scrambling to his side, and put on a façade of dignity, of courage that did not exist.

            “Daughter, come.” Revony put an arm around the child he so loved, the child he was willing to do anything for, die for. He found that the old lady, Madame LaRue, was comfortable in a wagon she had had readied the night before.

            Her luggage was packed; two strong ponies saddled. She turned and smiled most elegantly at Revony. “You were a fool to not believe me a psychic, Revony. I long foresaw this morning. In spite of your lack of faith in my abilities, I will save your daughter, as I promised to you I would.”

            Revony looked up, emotionlessly, into the equally emotionless face of the smug elderly woman. “Please, not another word. Just take my daughter.”

            He spoke of Reina as though she were not there, as though he hadn’t his arms around her, ready to give her up a final time.

            “Father, I will die at your side.” Reina gazed up at him, determination blazing in her youthful face.

            “No, Reina. You will obey me as your father, and be not such a fool; you will go and find refuge with this kind-hearted lady.”

            Reina opened her mouth to protest – her stubbornness was really quite annoying, especially in situations such as this – but Revony passionately kissed her scalp, her lips, with a fatherly love, squeezed her tightly, and then pushed her away from him, with such power, such force, that any onlookers whom had missed his tight embrace, would think that he was in a rush to rid of her.

            “My Reina, I love you. I made an oath with your mother as she died, that I would see to your safety before mine to the bitter end. This is the bitter end, Reina, precious, precious, Reina.”

            Reina bit on her bottom lip in an effort to avoid breaking down in tears. Her father did not deny that this was the end, that their next meeting should be in another world, and only God knew when that would be.

            “Oh, Father…”

            LaRue tugged Reina up beside her, by the arm.

            And they were gone; behind them was all a red, red blur.

The old woman had not always been so vile. But life had been unkind to Madame LaRue, and with every disappointment and letdown and rejection, she had become bitterer, each she had tucked under her belt and never forgotten, and by now all the regrets she had nursed throughout the span of her life had curdled putridly into spite.

            In her youth, LaRue had been a dancer, and a talented one, at that. Lonesome nights in bed were infrequent, but nights spent in bed at all, even more so.

When asked how many men coveted her, LaRue would always guess a figure somewhere around fifty. When asked how many heads she turned while walking down the road, she would give a rough estimate of about ten. When asked how many hearts she had broken, she would say nothing; there were simply too many to count.

            But for whatever reason, the one man she had loved with her entire being had deserted her. When they used to make love, years and years ago, in the moments of stillness that sometimes transpired, he would always tell her, breathlessly, that he loved her; and she would always tell him the same with equal breathlessness. But where he was now, she did not know, for he had never told her. All that was left of him, was the moonstone necklace that she still for some reason wore, of which he had given her the very night before he disappeared from her life.

            This girl, Reina – was that her name? – reminded LaRue greatly of her own self, as a young lady, and for that very reason, she would not have rescued her from the invasion, had the girl’s father not been a friend, a dear friend.

            “Who are you?”

            LaRue turned to acknowledge the maid, Reina, who had been so daring as to break the silence that had held strong between them over the course of their two days of travel. “You will call me Madame LaRue.”

            Reina dipped her head, in a slow, poised manner. She gazed all around her, suddenly in a state of shock, that, for the first time in her life, she hadn’t a clue where she was, where the two ponies leading their earnest little wagon were taking her.

            “We are traveling north, lass,” LaRue stated, firmly, as if in response to the girl’s confused expression, “to the capital.”

            “Why is that?” Reina asked, in a state of shock. She had always been quite sure that she would die before seeing the capital, Corriander, with her own two eyes.

            The old woman shrugged. “Well, the king should be made aware of the invasion, should he not? That the queen, Kylani, herself, his greatest enemy, his greatest fear, is within miles of him, yes?”

            “Yes…”

            LaRue sighed, most regretfully. “I am very sorry for the loss of your father, Mistress Reina; he was a good man, a very good man. I hope that you should find it in your heart to move on.”

            “Loss? Loss! You do not know that my father has been lost. No… there is no way that he could be lost!” Reina cried out, miserably, the true gravity of her situation falling heavily upon her. Was she now an orphan – no – she could not be!

            “I do not know, indeed, but I do know that there is a high chance of him being… lost,” LaRue replied, gently. “Miss Reina, you will lose plenty more persons in your life. I assure you that there will be more painful losses than this.” Her fingers found the moonstone of her necklace, cold against her skin.

*

Justin watched the girl in silence, from his seat at the town’s tavern. The lights were quite dim; all he could hear were festive sounds in celebration of the summer solstice, outside.

            He gazed at her intently, at her tumbling locks of red, red hair, her pretty face, her feminine-build. His heart was set aflutter with desire for her, and he could no longer resist the urge to step forward to her, and make conversation.

            But Justin was beat to it by another man, with a handful of coins, sliding about the bench of the table to the girl’s side, his waist clicking against hers.

             A silent curse escaped Justin’s lips, his tongue having been somewhat loosened by several glasses of wine.

“You wanted me, Sir?”

            Justin was unsure what to expect, upon being summoned to the tents of his master, a wealthy merchant, while most were still out and about the lit up streets, dancing and drinking.

            He observed that his master’s daughter, Ashleigh, stood at her father’s side, a prim, most seductive look about her vainly cared for face, directed towards him. Justin flushed, and turned away; her constant flirtations had come to be quite annoying.

            “It has come to my attention that you have given me several good years of service, and in exchange I would like to offer to you my own daughter’s hand.”

            Justin cleared his throat, trying desperately not to betray his shock and dismay. How was he to tell his master that he was not interested in his daughter, his daughter who was known to be common-stale, earning good wage as a prostitute behind his back?

            “My father has numerous servants, Justin,” Ashleigh said, a smirk across her lips, “and intends to perhaps dismiss a couple, in the next few days. Maybe – just maybe – it would be in your best interest to accept my hand.”

            He gazed meekly over his shoulder, wishing to join others outside still partying like madmen in the streets. “You are right, Madame. I should need a couple of days to consider.”

            And then he took his leave, most boldly from the tent of his master and his gaping daughter.

 The street lights were beginning to dim, and the roads littered with emptied wine bottles were beginning to clear; the moon was Justin’s only guidance as he began back towards the merchant’s encampments. He wondered to himself how much longer he would serve his master, if he should decline Ashleigh’s hand and allow his large family, back home, to starve; should he wed into what would surely be a miserable, sure-to-fail marriage or should he not, and lose employment?

            All was silent, perfectly still, and around him fellow workers were already fast asleep in their own tents. They were middle-aged men, fathers with families, who had no desire to drink and dance in overloaded streets.

            He sighed to himself, and was suddenly frightened still at the sound of moaning.

            The slightest whimpers… of agony?

            Justin suspected at first that the little sounds belonged to a puppy left for dead, until he lit a match and pointed it in the direction of the small groans.

            “Oh, Goodness!”

            Lying face down at the foot of a tree was what appeared to be a small girl, only her radiant red hair showing in the dark of night.

             “Hello – are you alive? Hello?” Justin whispered, mostly to himself as he scrambled over to the girl sprawled out and stripped of her dress in the dirt. The closer he got to the girl, the more familiar she appeared to be.

            And then he recognized her – the pretty maid at the tavern.

            Justin propped her up against the tree, stroking tangled locks of her most alluring crimson hair from her face, lifting her prim little chin with a single finger. Dry blood and dirt swallowed her face; her nude, dainty body was covered in dirt and bruises, but, regardless, for a brief moment made him feverish with desire. He swallowed and closed his eyes and whispered to himself that he should be a gentleman.

            Although he was no physician, Justin ruled to himself that the girl had been raped and terribly beaten.

            He stripped the cape hanging limply from his shoulders and wrapped it around her delicate little body; he pulled her into his arms. The beating of her heart was wild against him; she was clearly still very much alive.

            Her eyes began to flicker open slowly, hesitantly, as though she wasn’t quite ready to see the world again, just yet.

            “Can you speak to me, Madam? If you can, pray tell me your name?” He combed his fingers through her mess of scarlet hair gently, holding her to himself as though he had known her lifetimes ago.

            “Klaude,” she choked out her name, and then buried her face into Justin’s chest miserably and began to weep.

            “I see you are in pain so you need not say more, until dawn, at least,” he told her, reassuringly. “I will get help for you soon enough.” Justin thought of the wives and daughters of the merchant’s other servants, who could perhaps spare Klaude some dress, help her wash, and see to the wounds about the personal areas of her skin. But, alas, they were all asleep and it would be quite, quite rude to wake them.

            “Can I trust you?” she whispered, removing her face from his chest for a heartbeat to gaze up into his face challengingly.

            “Milady, I fear that you have no one else to trust, for the given.” A smile shone about his handsome, dark face.

            Klaude trusted his smile, and gingerly matched it with her own. She then let him carry her to his tent, where he lay her down on a thin mattress, beneath a thick comforter and propped her head up on a pillow.

            Justin installed himself at her side, as though guarding treasure.

            His dear smile was the last thing she saw, before drifting off into more pleasant dreams.

*

The sky was a rich black.

            It was late in the night of the highly celebrated summer solstice, at the heart of Congrella, Myuri.

            A dashingly dark young war hero had just returned to his fashionable manor from the town’s tavern. This tavern he so frequently visited that it was often dubbed his own; he had once considered buying it what with his tremendous wealth, but he had come to realize that there was no need, for, despite the fact that he could never call the place his property, he could call all of its women such.

            There was still much partying about the town, as the solstice came only once every twelve moons, but Eric was quite contented with his catch: A most attractive maid, perhaps not the most beautiful lady in all of Myuri, but surely one that could fair well enough in his bed, at least for the night.

            He wasn’t quite sure of her name, but prior experience in this game he so excelled at, had taught him that it was better he did not. However, his name was no secret; every girl in the community was aware of it, and desperately wished for hers to be linked with it.

            Eric brought the girl to his chambers, introducing her to a handsome four-poster bed.

            “It looks like any other bed, Sir,” she whispered to him, slyly, one hand stroking his bare chest, the other clinging to his waist.

            “And yet it is not.”

            “Oh? Then pray tell me – what makes it special?”

            “That, you will soon discover for yourself.”

            And yet, as he lifted her onto the bed and the tinkling of her pretty little laugh alone instantly thrilled his body, his thoughts wandered to the summer solstice of the previous year – the girl he had spent it with, the virgin daughter of the governor of the regions north, the betrothed to a wealthy and popular doctor, the first woman to ever tell him the words I love you.

            Sweet Dele – oh whatever had become of her?

*

A nurse greeted Dele with good news, that morning.

            Whereas most others spent the summer solstice drinking and partying, the poor girl had spent the day in labor, in those very hospital rooms.

She had been sleeping, until the nurse quietly entered with the new, healthy babe at her hip.

            “Wake, Madam.” The nurse helped to prop Dele up, and rested the baby girl in her lap. “I am quite, quite pleased to report to you that she appears to be in good health.”

            Dele smiled, weakly. “I am pleased to hear so.”

            “And your mother and father finally returned to town yesterday at dawn. They were quite, quite shocked to hear that you were in labor, as they had never even heard you – their daughter – were with child. Your father was particularly displeased. Your mother arrived, just a bit earlier – will you see her?”

            “Thank you. Yes.”

            The nurse then exited, and Dele watched her mother enter, and then come to sit at her bedside. She took the child in her arms, tenderly examining the babe.

            “She looks very good, Dele.”

             “As I am told.”

            “I wish I had heard of her, sooner,” the woman said to her daughter, coolly.

            “Had you and Father not spent almost the whole year away, then it would not have been such a surprise.”

            “You could have written.”

            “I assumed rumor of my pregnancy would have reached you very soon.”

            “It did not and do not assume anything,” her mother replied, stiffly. She looked over her daughter, and at first glance thought at least twenty years had passed, not one; Dele, at eighteen, had the appearance of a middle-aged housewife. Her fiery copper hair was gray and drained of life; her face was grim and leathery. Her youthful beauty had vanished from her.

            “What is to happen to me, Mother?”

            “Your betrothed – that very learned, respected doctor, Hal – no longer wants for you to be his wife, of course. He claims that you two had never once made love, so that child is not his,” she answered, smoothly. “And your father has decided to disown you. My Dele, I am without say.”

            Disown.

            Dele hid her shock and tremendous fear under a façade of stern bravery and acceptence. “Of my daughter?”

            “Again, your father will not have it.”

            A cool silence then transpired between mother and daughter.

            “My Dele, you must rest here for some time. And then perhaps you might seek out the man who impregnated you and ask that he extend his home to yourself and your daughter.”

            Dele thought of Eric, and of how she had left him with cool dignity that morning one year ago. It would be humiliating to run to him, a man she had spent but a single night with, to plead for help, for shelter. But my daughter needs a home.

            “Mother, I must ask you something.”

            “Of course, Dele.”

            “Do I have your forgiveness?”

            Her mother paused. And then nodded. “Yes.”

             “Then pray follow my exact instructions.”

            “You have my ear, daughter.”