Lyra sucked in a deep breath with her mouth and immediately regretted it as her mother’s hand snapped against her back, leaving a reddening mark that joined several others. Flinching hard, she tensed, and the plank of wood perched atop her head clattered to the ground, stubbing one of her toes and eliciting a sharper yelp as she suddenly drew into herself, arms raised to protect her head as her mother’s displeasure turned into pure, vitriolic wrath. “No! No, no, no! Stupid, idiot girl, insipid failure! A noble woman must carry herself with grace and poise at all times.” She snarled, raining blow after blow on Lyra’s back.
Lyra didn’t have to protect her head, but it was of course just instinct when you knew that that pain was incoming. There were few things that were entirely off bounds when it came to the lessons and discipline that she received, things to keep their so-called noble family well respected. Her face, her arms past her elbow, her thighs, and her pelvis. To Lily, her daughter was going to be that solution to the misfortune that had struck her, something that she could marry off to anyone of importance to regain just a glimmer of the position she held so long ago. It would only make things harder for Lily if Lyra was scarred or marred in a way that would make her even slightly less valuable.
“Horrible, wretched, evil little thing! After all that I have done for you, after all that I continue to do for you, this is how you repay me? This is how you thank me for bringing you into this world? I gave my flesh, blood, and my very bones to give you life, and you can’t even manage to walk straight?” Lily hissed, snarled, and spat, spittle hitting Lyra’s skin as she ranted and raved and expressed that deep-seated pitch-black hatred within her heart. Maybe one day, long ago, when Lily was of sound mind, she would never have behaved in such a way, but time changed people and even if Lily was once not the witch that the village called her, she was certainly that now.
The only saving grace was that the beating lasted a mere minute at most. Lily wheezed and panted, wiping spit from her mouth with the hem of her sleeve and sputtering into a loud, violent coughing fit.
Lyra bit back the moan that wanted to escape her as her mother relented, glad it was over and having learnt long ago that trying to protest or say anything at all would only make matters worse. Even an apology would incite her mother into another rage, even the sincerest of efforts to mend things between them was useless, her mother would find some flaw to needle in on, some little slip-up that was unforgivable and inexcusable. Speaking would just make things worse, worse than they already were and that would be just too much for her, too much for her poor little heart.
Lily hissed quietly, thumping her chest lightly, noisily hocking up a thick glob of phlegma and mucous onto the ground with a disgusting plap. “Look what you’ve done, awful little Lyra… awful, awful…” She trailed quietly, muttering to herself as she teetered a touch. “Get dressed and go collect the tithe from the church. Quickly, before the alms-giving ends.” She shot, turning from Lyra to fuss over herself quickly.
In another time, Lily was beautiful. A fair skinned woman with long blonde hair and an undeniable cherubic cuteness to her. What was Infront of Lyra was instead a mess of a woman, dirty all over with sallow pallid skin, dressed in a filthy woolen dress with tears and patches all over it from being mended time and time again. A flicker of vindication blossomed in Lyra’s heart took joy in the sight of her mother suffering and so quickly winded. Alms had been getting sparser lately and even though her mother took the king’s share of what little they received, it was not enough to grant her the strength to hurt Lyra more.
Quick to put some distance between herself and her mother, quickly Lyra dressed herself in a loose tunic that draped over her skinny shoulders like a dress and a pair of short trousers several times her actual waist size. Once upon a time the tunic had been a pleasant off-white of undyed fabric and the trousers were full sized pants meant for a man, but they fabric was cut away to make mends elsewhere and what did remain was inevitably stained a gross brownish black from the grime and filth that seemed to make up her entire world. Out of the door like a bullet, she didn’t bother to look back at all, even as her sore legs ached and throbbed with pain immediately.
The stressful activity of trying to crudely mimic a noblewoman’s court training aside, Lyra was simply of horrific health. She was nearly skeletal from malnourishment and looked more like a particularly grimy urchin boy than a girl. Brown skin, naturally light brown but tanned from the time spent outside to be away from her problems, and red hair that was kept in a frazzled short, hacked up mess, Lyra stood out even amongst the other poor-folk as she hurried her way down the streets, keeping her head down. There was a berth around her though, and what looks she did receive were pitiless at best and visibly displeased at worst, after all, everyone in the village knew exactly who she was and her family’s past.
Lyra No-Family, daughter of Stuart and Lily Ward, nobles who had fallen from grace and been violently deposed. Years had passed since the mesne turned on it’s lord and joined the neighboring country, and the world had certainly changed but hate was a hard thing to let go of. Her mother’s wild behavior didn’t help keep any facts straight either. Her father was supposedly a rapist, a pedophile, an abusive hedonist that glutted himself like a peg, and when his head was cut off, he was full of enough shit that it spurted out from his neck. Her mother was a slut, a whore, a cheating bitch that received the devil’s own seed in her womb in the blackest sabbath, and was of course best known for her intense, deep-seated lust for dogs and pigs. Meanwhile the raiders that helped pushed and instigate the strife so long ago were no longer raiders, rather, they liberators and saviors who had done some unscrupulous things but ultimately had saved the land and even allowed the land into their territory, allowing it to return to prosperity.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Whatever the truth was, it didn’t matter. Truth didn’t fill your belly and it didn’t stave off the night chill.
Lyra had no time for such thoughts, coming to a slow as the church came into view and her breath caught in her throat. When life was all misery, pain, and resentment it was too easy for simple things to become beautiful. It wasn’t poetic, it wasn’t humble, it was to be thankful that there was no longer a needle in her eyes while no treatment was administered. The church was a simple building, a full story or two taller than everything else nearby, segregated from the rest of the plaza and made the centerpiece of it all, with sharply sloped roof tiling that were a dull but still pleasant blue colour. The most remarkable thing though was the way the sun hung between two taller towers by the sides of the building.
Golden light shone from between them and for a moment, Lyra’s lips pulled into a smile as she thought just briefly of a benevolent god giving her just a bit of warmth to make it through another day. It helped that the sun was not yet passed the towers and that meant that the time for daily almsgiving had not yet ended. It started when the edge of the sun touched the inside edge of one tower and ended when the farther edge of the sun passed the inside edge of the other. Faith was a tricky thing, but food was food and food was good no matter what.
So, Lyra made more haste, finally catching sight of the church’s entrance in proper. What she saw, made her eyes widen.
A celebration of some sort, with a good few dozen men and women in different types of armour mingling sociably, a few of them even on horses and absolutely gallant looking. Banners were hung up above the church door, with the proud image of two lines back-to-back, each with a sword in hand and a bright sun above them. The details didn’t concern her, she knew, but it was the nature of a child to bask in the awe of what surely must be knights, heroes, and adventurers. Children her age loved to play pretend and even Lyra knew stories about the fantastical deeds some could do. Slaying dangerous beasts, driving back the darkness and the evil, blessed by some god to invoke miracles, and by their nobility to cast spells of earth-shattering potency.
The world at large with its heroes and legends were beyond Lyra, she knew, but the hope was there. If she were a hero, what would she do? Would she be a knight in armor? A masterful ranger capable of shooting a pigeon in the heart from more than a hundred paces? A wizard who would chant mystical words and hurl balls of fire? A blessed priestess smiting the wicked with holy righteousness? These thoughts and wishes were so often past her, so often so far out of her reach that they weren’t worth entertaining when she had a chore to do to avoid her mother’s wrath.
The sting of her mother’s discipline pushed her to ignore all that for a moment. She deserved this, for today she could just briefly entertain looking upon the vaunted adventurers before they sallied off to distant lands to do wonderful things. To her delight mixed in the crowd of villagers and these wonderful visitors were all manner of impoverished family, meaning she had a chance to approach, and to partake of the much, much nicer than usual food on offer.
So, approach she did, eyes roaming over the visitors but focused on having a bite to eat before she settled in to learn who they were and what they were doing here. Her mother, she decided, could wait a little bit extra and it would be worth it. She was winded earlier and so whatever anger she would show wouldn’t be too bad. Getting slapped a little for a chance to just briefly exist in this brighter world was entirely worth it. Squirming and wiggling her way through the crowd, avoiding touching anyone or making a sound, Lyra made her way to a table setup with food and drink for the public and savored the moment to try to figure out what she should eat first.
There was so much of it, more than the village brought out for normal festivals and feasts, and it was a delight to the eyes. Still, bread was a good place to start, especially since a tray of bread of fresh, steaming buns was just set down on the table and Lyra went for her prey like a piranha after blood, a hand reaching out towards the pile of food, only for her fingers to brush up against someone else’s.
The illusion was shattered, and Lyra’s eyes shot up to try to see who she had touched and what their reaction would be. She was not outwardly publicly abused but there was no denying the cloying fear in her mind that one day that would change for the worse.
One of the visitors.
A tall, well-muscled but ultimately slim man, dressed in some sort of brown leather armour with a short sword and buckler on him. Groomed, but certainly not well groomed, with a scruffy, scrabbly beard black beard on his face and less prim and polish than the mounted knights who were all ceremony and pomp. He didn’t look angry, just, surprised. Lyra didn’t chance it though, digging her fingers into two buns and pulling away quickly to squirrel herself away from the table and hide herself amongst the crowd. She didn’t bother to look behind herself, didn’t bother to see any further reaction, just keen on disappearing to start wolfing down her meal and debating whether she would go back for more or just claim that almsgiving had already ended for the day.
Unbeknownst to her the man she had left behind was keenly interested in the bizarre little boy he saw. He was after all, a capable member of the expeditionary taskforce’s scouts and while he was attending a mix of a morale raising and recruit seeking celebration, he was still very much on duty to protect the more noble members of the taskforce. Yet despite that, despite his years of training, despite his undeniable talent shown through successes in the field, he had not noticed the boy whatsoever. For a moment he reprimanded himself for getting complacent and slacking on the job, just about to wave the event off before the boy vanished. Not slipped away, not made any sort of noise, nothing of that sort. The boy with nary a sound vanished. All excuses aside, there was simply no way that he would have missed him disappear.
So, the spark of interest was lit, and he made his way to the town’s pastor. Clearing his throat and introducing himself into the conversation. “Father, Sir Draya, forgive my intrusion, but seeing as you’re already talking about prospective applicants… what can you tell me about a scraggly boy, not more than five feet in height, with brown skin and red hair? Couldn’t be even in his teens I’m certain.” With only a pause the pastor regarded him with a somewhat strained, vaguely perplexed smile. “Ah, Sir Lockewynne! Yes, of course, I believe I know who you may be referring to.” The minor details in the pastor’s expression were noted and filed away carefully, only adding to the mystery of this talented young man.