Caught Between Kingdoms: Letters

     It was this day that a tall, muscular Darigan Eyrie skirted around the crowds in the square. Not that it was much of an issue—most would go out of their way to avoid him. Or stare with fascination at the ice-tinged cobblestone path rather than lock eyes. He was wearing a jacket, although not nearly as heavy as those around him. His natural coat offered him a thick layer of protection, a small victory for being raised in a barren, sky-bound country.

     When he came upon a small, brick-laded house with crumbling stairs, he smoothed down his mane and did his best to brush off any errant snowflakes from his coat. He gave a solid knock with his callous-covered right hand, being careful not to puncture the door—or himself—with his sharp talons. A deep, feminine voice with a strong accent answered from inside.

     “Hello?” she asked, before opening up the door enough to see through the crack.

     The Eyrie made a small wave. “It’s just me, Marielle. Pardon the unexpected visit.”

     Upon recognizing him, a petite red Usul with patchwork clothes and slippered feet pushed the door open, a look of surprise plastered on her face. “L-little brother?” she started before shivering from an errant gust, “It’s c-c-cold. Come in before you get sick.”

     He eagerly shuffled in, but scarcely got two steps into the house before she tapped his arm.

     “Boots off, please.”

     He scoffed. “I was going to wipe them on—”

     “The floor mat? With that mud?” She clicked her tongue as her gaze traveled up his mud-covered soles. “Not unless you clean it up later.”

     “Fine,” he huffed, roughly prying off his boots into the pile where his sister’s shoes lie.

     “You know the rules, Serian,” she said with a wink of her glowing blue eyes.

     “Yeah, yeah…” Serian grumbled under his breath as he hung his coat on the rack, his eyes, ever the mood ring, shifting colors with his frustration. Meanwhile, she poured a cup of tea and placed it on a worn coffee table flanked by well-dusted seats and an old couch. Behind the cozy setup, a gentle fire purred in the heath. She gestured for him to sit down, which he did. He shuffled around a bit on the lumpy seat until he could find a position that was somewhat comfortable.

     After wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, Marielle sat herself down, crossing one leg over the other. She took the warm teacup to her lips and blew on it gently before taking a sip. “It’s been a while. Are you well?”

     “It has,” Serian sighed in agreement before lifting the teacup, giving it a whiff, and taking a polite sip, “and I am.” It was fruity, a bit more spiced than he might have preferred. He hoped that his distaste wasn’t obvious in the way he coughed afterwards.

     She held a teacup in her hand and let it hover over her lap. “I was worried you might be upset at me.”

     “No, not upset.” The Eyrie felt a pang of guilt as he shook his head. The room suddenly felt warmer all of a sudden, as if kindling had been added to the fire. “I’ve just been out of touch.”

     She placed the cup on a floral print coaster. “After visiting a few times a month for years, then not at all—not even replying to messenger Weewoos…” she crossed her arms. “I knew something was wrong.” Her voice softened. “You promise I haven’t upset you?”

     Serian slumped in the chair and caged the teacup within his talons. “It’s not you, Marielle, it’s…” he struggled to find the words.

     It had been months since the potion incident. Sir Rohane had been trapped in his own nightmares from a sleep potion gone wrong. Both he and Jeran, who offered to venture inside the Blumaroo’s nightmares, made it out alive. But amidst Jeran’s sleep talking, there were more than obvious scars from knight’s ordeals with Lord Kass.

     As the Eyrie, once called Setarian, now known by his Meridellian name of Serian, had been a former General of the corrupt warlord, the raw musings of Jeran’s subconscious were particularly piercing. His adoptive younger sister, Lisha, had tried to bring it up on a few occasions, but every time, he searched for an escape, for any way to change the subject. As it was, his guilty conscious played his mistakes on loop for the better part of seven months, even more than they usually did. And add his apparent affinity for magic to that and—

     No, he thought, feeling his heartbeat rising. I am a swordsman—the preferred sparring partner of the “Hero of Five Lands,” at that. I haven’t the slightest interest in magic!

     Besides, magical power could be dangerous—would be dangerous in his hands if even Lisha was tempted by its allure. And if it corrupted him like it did Kass--

     “…ian? Serian!” It was only now that the Eyrie realized his sister was standing over him, voice panicked as she nudged his shoulder.

     “I’m well,” he answered all too quickly; the bursts of air coming from his nostrils begged to differ. “D-don’t worry about me.”

      “But I am worried.” She came within inches of his face, studying it like she would a rare flower. “You are not well.”

     His beak snapped shut as he tried to calm down. In the commotion, his teacup had spilled to the floor. Instead of cleaning it up, she knelt next to him, stroked his arm, and whispered soothing sounds in a language only she and his long-passed mother seemed to understand.

      When his breathing slowed, he found his next words. “I need to know more about our mother.”

     Marielle stopped her doting instantly. Her eyes flicked to the Eyrie who had since fixated his gaze on the fire.

     “Why so suddenly?” she replied, picking herself up and grabbing a few napkins to wipe the floor.

     There was a long silence while Marielle finished cleaning the spill and returning the teacup to the sink.

     “Did she know how to use magic?” he asked airily, his chest tightening as he spoke.

     Anxiety surrounded this answer. If she did not, then what would that mean for his curse? And if so, then what would that make him—the son of a mage? Throughout his teenage and adult life, Serian had felt confident in his skills. He identified himself as one of Kass’ soldiers, a master of the Darigani sword arts and an Eyrie of military renown. And later, after the Wars, he found solace in knowing that his strength with the sword could do some good to make up for all the bad that his leader had wrought—what he himself had wrought.

      “Yes,” Marielle answered with some hesitation, “a little. Such a thing was common in her village.”

     “Ah.” Serian’s heart dropped. “In… Meridell, I take it?”

     “No, it was—” she paused. “You mean, I haven’t told you?”

     “No.” The Eyrie shrugged, hoping he could hide the traces of fear in his face. “The topic never came up in conversation.”

     A whistled wind burst past the house, snow squall in tow.

     Marielle paused to throw another log into the fire. “I see,” she said, more to the hearth than to him.

     “I know my father was a high-ranking officer under Lord Darigan. My Lord—” Serian cursed under his breath—“Kass. Sorry. Kass never told me anything good about him, but he did tell me that I could do better, that I could undo my father’s…” the word felt vile as it escaped from his bill, “mistakes.” The Eyrie couldn’t help but bitterly chuckle as he felt heat rise to his cheeks. “Mistakes indeed.”

     Since tending to the fire, she scooped up a shawl from the couch and draped it over the Eyrie’s shoulders. “You looked cold,” she said simply. “Hold it as tightly as you need to.”

     Being careful not to catch the delicately stitched garment in his talons, he wrapped it around himself. “Thanks, Sister.”

     “Of course.” She found herself back on the couch again, this time with knitting needles and half-completed red sweater. While she spoke, her hands worked through the motions of crafting as if entranced. “Mother was from a village in the Haunted Woods.”

     The Eyrie’s large black bill hung wide open. “… what?”

     “Yes.”

     He leaned in closer. “I thought you all were Meridellian.”

     “My father was.” As she corrected him, her eyes shimmered. “This was his flower shop.”

     “Oh.” Serian bit his tongue. For the longest time, he thought only he and his father were the outsiders in the family. “I… I can see this is upsetting you. Maybe we should—”

     “No.” When she said this, she missed a stitch and made a frustrated huff. “You deserve to know your family’s history.”

     “But—”

     “Father passed from a disease that swept through the land before King Skarl sent a knight to find the ‘magic orb.’” Marielle undid the stitch and fixed it before continuing. “Being a foreigner, Mother was blamed for his loss and escaped, while I was raised by well-meaning neighbours.”

     “Oh.” The Eyrie’s ears flattened. He floundered for a few moments before saying, “I’m… I’m sorry.”

     “It’s ancient past now,” she said with a forced chuckle. “I’ve since moved on.”

     Setarian walked to her side and wiped away her tears with his furry knuckle.

     “A boulder does not move from the force of a river. The tide shifts around it.” The Eyrie sighed deeply. “Lisha taught me that one from one of her fancy scholar books.”

     This got the Usul to smile, at least.

     “And here I thought your brain had grown three sizes,” she teased. “I was about to ask, ‘who are you and what have you done with my musclehead brother?”

     “Musclehead?!” The Eyrie crinkled his brow and snorted, a mischievous grin cutting across his bill. “I take offence.”

     After placing down her knitting materials, she turned to face him on the sofa and gave it a few light taps. “Would a hug suffice as an apology?”

      He hemmed and hawed, before reluctantly finding himself beside her. She wrapped her arms around his body and shut her eyes. Not one for showing closeness, he awkwardly kneaded at the rug with his feet until he noticed the stitching was starting to come loose. Needing to find something to occupy his mind, he glanced around on the wall and took note of the stitched crafts that hung on the wall. Some of them looked faded, with old string darkened by time. A few of the art pieces featured menacing trees with long, gnarled limbs and a smattering of cookie-cutter houses with ornate markings on their doors.

     Haunted Woods, eh? he found himself drifting into thought.

     It was rumoured to be a dangerous land, one filled with perilous risks, ghosts, and terrifying monsters. If it was true that his mother was born in such a place, no wonder she would be quick to leave. Based on the little he managed to glean from Sir Rohane, it was not a very pleasant place to visit.

     “She left because it was dangerous in the Woods, right?” asked Serian, hoping to confirm his hypothesis. “I bet she hated it there.”

     Marielle lifted her gaze towards him. “Not at all. It hurt her a great deal to leave.”

     A swarm of question marks danced above his head. “But isn’t it all swampland, snot, and evil trees?”

     She chuckled under her breath. “Mother described it as a luminescent place where the moon would rise upon a shimmering lake and flood the town with a silver light. Where lightning bugs danced like gemstones in the sky. Where glittering snowscapes left dazzling diamonds upon each exhale and the howl of a distant beast proved that the village was safe.”

     “That…” he tried to imagine these scenes atop his dismal mental images but could not. “That sounds amazing.”

     “Apparently, it was.”

     “Apparently…” he mused, “so, you’ve never been?”

     “No.”

     “But…” He fought the urge to feel sad and instead felt angry, “why leave paradise, then? Why have the two of us if it only brought her misery? Wouldn’t she have been happier without—”

     His sister placed a finger to his bill. “Don’t speak of yourself with regret. She chose this life because she chose freedom.”

     “Freedom?!” The feathers on his hackles rose. “How is what she had—"

     “Yes, Serian. Freedom.” She brushed a thin layer of purple fur off her lap. Whenever her brother was stressed, he shed a lot. “Her village never let her explore beyond their gates—mandated that she would have to marry within the group—told her what she could and could not do with her gift of magic, so she rebelled. She refused their lessons and left her family and friends forever, all so that she could make her own decisions.”

     The Eyrie melted into the couch, blowing a chunk of his almost shoulder-length purple hair out of his view. “Then where do I come in?” he asked wearily.

     Marielle took a long sip of the now lukewarm tea. “Would you like to see?”

     He rolled his head towards her. “See what?”

     “Her letters.”

     His blood ran cold. “She wrote letters…” he choked out the words, his throat suddenly dry, “about me?”

     “Not only about you—about him.” There was a twinge of distaste in the way she said it that made a chill rise through the Eyrie’s spine. “About the Darigans. About what her life was like after she was forced to leave. Our family owned a messenger Weewoo who travelled with her.” She hesitated. “At first, anyway.”

     “I…” he took a long, pensive breath. “I would like to see that, yes.”

     Marielle walked into the other room and dug through a messy cupboard, Serian in tow. Handing a growing pile to her brother, he quickly ran out of space. With his arms full of tchotchkes and his patience waning, he let out a decisive huff.

     “Found it,” she said, unearthing an unassuming wooden box with a thick layer of dust covering the top. “Here.”

     After depositing the rest of the junk near his feet, he received the box and opened it. Marielle seemed unusually sullen as he did. There was a folded over letter, yellowed with age, and dotted with what seemed like tear stains. The Darigan gingerly flipped the page back and gasped at the first sentence of the letter. They were all signed in cursive, curvy letters: Mariana. Their mother. He scanned the contents.

     The village leader refused me today. She said that I was never welcome again, not after “polluting” myself with the outside world. But don’t worry, your mother is strong. I’ll find a way to survive and one day—one day soon—I will return to Meridell.

     And survive she did. Letters upon letters detailing her wit and knowledge of plants to create nutritious food. Serian’s eyes began to glaze over until he saw an all too familiar name—Lieutenant Dorian. His father.

     He found me today while gathering berries; his name is Dorian. I was frightened. After all, he is one of them, one of those cursed Darigan creatures, Serian winched at these words. But instead of harming me, he showed me kindness when few others had bothered. He had the materials for a fire and offered me a warm place to rest… I said yes.

     Letters about the two Neopians’ relationship continued for a year or two, some of which were written in another hand. She had planned to return with Dorian to Meridell to raise Marielle… and their newborn son, Setarian. Seeing his name there, his old name, he gently brushed a talon against it as if doing so could create the answers he sought, could summon his mother to their side. But of course, all that he received was silence.

     And if they refuse us as we are, the letter continued ominously, then the four of us will travel in the wilds… together.

     There were still piles of letters in the box. Serian found himself looking at more and more of them, transfixed by their window into the past.

     “What happened?” he asked after finishing another letter, although he feared the answer. “Why didn’t they come back for you?”

     Marielle’s long ears deflated against her back. “Kass happened.”

     There was only one brief letter about that fateful day. All it said was we have been found by troops calling themselves ‘Kass’ army.’ They recognized Dorian immediately and were enraged by Setarian’s existence. They are demanding for us to return with them to the Citadel.

     “The Weewoo returned with singed feathers,” Marielle said, her voice nearly a whisper, “I feared the worst.”

     “But I survived,” the Eyrie replied, taking her hand. “I survived.”

     “Thank goodness for that.” She tried to smile but instead choked back tears. Serian offered her an awkward hug, which she gladly took.

      It was some time before the next letter. Apparently a Darigan messenger Weewoo was lent to her by a kind soul in the Citadel kitchens, a cook by the name of Della.

     We’re alive, it started in shaky penmanship. Dorian was ordered to serve Lord Kass or all three of us would never leave the dungeons again. He did it for our sakes, to save his son’s life, to save my life. It hurt him deeply.

     Shortly after Lord Darigan’s disappearance, he was excommunicated for disobeying Kass’ orders—that is why we found each other. But now… he is serving Kass while I work in the kitchens and make food for his army. Setarian lies in a basket hung by the vegetable bins. He’s learned quickly not to cry. Scarcely does he make a sound.

      I hope you, at least, are safe. I love you.

     There was a single purple Weewoo feather in the box. Serian spun it in his hand, thinking back on all the lies Kass fed him as a child. That his father cared little for him, how he was unwanted and unloved and that only through Kass’ service would he find worth. And for much of his life, he believed this. The thought it now made him sick to the stomach.

     There were only a few more letters now, each with less legible writing than the last.

      Della has proven a kind friend; she slips scraps to Setarian whenever she can. Still, he is growing weaker. His feathers have grown frail and brittle. I fear what will become of him if this continues. The original ink was smudged. Serian held back every emotion he could in the fear that it would damage the parchment. I have caught an illness, one that afflicts many of the Darigani. I worry it is catching up to me, but I must remain strong, for both of their sakes.

     I hope you have been well, Marielle, darling daughter. I love you.

     “She actually cared about me,” Serian said it with awe, as if the very idea of was strange. “She… wanted me. Was worried about me.”

     Marielle laid her hand on his shoulder. “Of course, she did. She loved us both.” Her voice grew sad. “It was the Wars that got in the way of us being together.”

     Serian found himself growing numb. Seeing his gait grow unsteady, Marielle led him to a chair. His enormous purple wings hung around him like a cape as he slumped down.

     I have grown weak. Della has taken over my duties and smuggles medicine to ease my pain; she is a good friend. I hope she can be there for our son, too, when I’m gone.

      Dorian survives, but he is forbidden from seeing us. One time, thanks to Della, he snuck in wearing a disguise. He kept apologizing as if this was his fault. I never once blamed him.

      I hope you have been well, Marielle, darling daughter. I love you.

     “Kass told me…” Serian struggled to keep his voice calm as he placed the letter on his lap. “Kass told me that Dorian had betrayed the Citadel and was permanently removed for the greater good…”

     Marielle gasped. “Y-you mean?”

     “Yes. He was caught with a ‘conniving cook’ trying to steal me away from the orphanage as a young child…”

     “Then Della…?” She wouldn’t dare say it.

     “I fear so. Until today, I never knew her name...”

     The last letter was barely legible. Serian’s hands shook as he struggled to make out the words.

     Della carried Setarian and I to the “Children of Kass” orphanage where he’ll be safe. She’ll make sure to check on him when she can get away.

     I hope he will grow strong and compassionate like his father and one day—one day, find you in Meridell.

     I’m sorry, Marielle. I won’t be making it back home.

     I love you, darling daughter. I love you so much.

     The last letter drifted and twirled to the ground where it laid in silence.

     A swirl of emotions hit the Darigan Eyrie all at once as he bent over in the chair and clung to the sides so tightly that his talons ripped through the wood.

     When at last he brought his head up to the ceiling, he screamed so loudly that the house shook. “It’s not fair!” he wailed, “it’s not fair!”

     “No, it’s not fair.” Marielle picked up the letter and placed it in the box before solemnly hiding it back in its dusty tomb with the others. “It never was.”

     The Eyrie balled his hands into fists. “Kass stole everything from me—everything!”

     “Not everything,” she said calmly before squeezing his tear-stained hand. “You still have me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

     Serian’s bill quivered as he nodded, tears falling to the ground.

     The two remained in silence for a time, grieving what they had lost but thankful for what they had remaining.

     After a time, Marielle spoke. “I want you to know something, Serian, about the first spell Mother taught me.”

     Serian turned himself in her direction but did not make eye contact.

      Marielle made a scooping motion with her right hand from below her ribs to above her head and followed it with a few foreign words. A small flame flickered in her hand; she held it between them, and it reflected well in their icy blue eyes. “This flame has given me light when I had none. It reminds me of her whenever I light the hearth.” As if in response to this, the fireplace replied with a shower of sparks upon the crackling wood.

     Serian pondered this for a few seconds in silence. “I should at least understand magic, if only to have some connection to her.” Before it controls me… he grimly added.

     “Yes…” the Usul smiled sadly. “Think of magic as an extension of yourself. Knowing it does not fundamentally change you; all it changes is how your energy is moved. Please, cup your hands.”

     He did as she asked, and she tumbled the magical flame from her hands to his. Serian watched the light shimmer and brought it close to his chest. It felt warm. Familiar. Comforting. Like a hug from a loved one.

     He held it tightly. “Thank you, Marielle.”

     “You’re welcome, little brother,” she said as laid her head against his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re home.”