A century flutters by for a Farthan—all the faster when gazing upon the coil of a mortal. Where had it writ on the sorrowful graves of the Fatebearers, that the meaning of them would cease to exist even on their tombs.
— Study I of Tarkas, Second Verse
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It had been about a year since then. Varna’s Recognition Ceremony was long over, and her status had finally earned the right to be a Stringer. However, her concerns lay in a land farther than a mere title.
Sunlight reflected off the chiselled pathway outside the Rayan City’s walls, which were typically unmanned, and lax even if they were. It served as a reminder to the fragility of the Farthan race, a thought which constantly made Varna frown every time it was brought up.
The orange hue spared not a single glare from the relatively pristine path, always finding a way to impede Varna’s vision. Despite that, though, it was rather tranquil. Much of the outer villages were exposed to pleasing weather. She could see it even now, the quieted breeze, flowing grass, and peaceful wildlife which existed outside the walls. A good portion of the residents within the city would not mind spending their last breath here, even if controversial.
Unfortunately, however, the image of a serene village only acted as a facade to its saddening origin. The city residents would often refer to the city outskirts as a sullied land, in spite of dealing or making trade with the villagers. It was a rather discouraging thought to understand that each and every Farthan were united under the same citizenship. Bullshit, Varna thought, as the dissociation from the civil issue brought forth uncouth memories.
She could recall it like yesterday, when the remainder of the Milieze bloodline was banished to the city outskirts, the ‘Forsaken Village’ the ill-bred primates called it. How deplorable it was, using the frail and decaying heritage as a scapegoat to wash their hands from taboo.
The Rayan Order came only a few days later, apprehending the family and subjecting them to the corrupted scrutiny of their peers. Their pleas fell on deaf ears, especially when the council was a continued heritage of nepotism. It was quite the sight to see, convicting the scapegoat to bear the burden of humiliation for the rest of their lives—their bloodline sullied and inheritance shattered to dust. She was lucky, as fate would have it, for she evaded the vile eyes that trespassed on her home.
“Hush, and go!” Her fingertips had tingled as she hid behind that closet door, holding her breath for an eternity as her parents had implored with the order. By providence, perhaps, the order focused too much on the apprehension of the ‘traitors’ and failed to recognize her, only coming so close as to notice the unnatural closet door.
The remainder of the Milieze bloodline would later be picked up by a distant relative, when her uncle had taken her under his wing to give her the proper treatment of Farthan culture. She hadn’t a single clue why he did so, and whenever she asked she would only get a vague response.
“Fate is but a lovely scarf, young miss.”
Varna froze.
“Are you alright there, miss?” The unfamiliar voice spoke again from behind.
It took Varna a few moments to register the situation, calming her shivering hands before she could ascertain a response with a nervous laugh.
“Yes, sorry, I’m fine.” Varna replied, retracting her hands to her pockets. “Um, I mean no offence, but do I know you?”
Varna peered into the young woman’s appearance. A modest and comfortable one-piece dress suited more for homestay than a working job. The white dress was accented with a touch of gold embroidery, suggesting at least some form of wealth. A noble, perhaps? Varna briefly thought, before immediately discarding that outlandish idea, especially when considering the egotistical nature of Farthan nobles.
“I believe not.” The woman shook, before directing her attention to the incomplete scarf upon Varna’s neck. “But I noticed that lovely scarf. Is it yours?”
Varna held the scarf on her neck, before replying with a chuckle. “Yes, but I think ‘lovely’ is a bit much for my crude workmanship.”
“Oh, don’t say that.” The woman smiled bitterly. “It’s only as lovely as you make it out to be.”
The woman paced forward to walk alongside Varna. Every step she took emanated the very form of elegance, and the small briefcase she held seemed to dance with the rhythm of her footsteps. The gentle breeze only heightened her beauty, which was emphasised with fairer skin and long braided, hazel hair, which too swayed with her dress. It was a demeanour Varna hoped to reach one day.
“Well, pardon my intrusion, but where might you be headed?”
Varna smiled gently. Despite her circumstances, she felt a deep trust from the young woman. “My mother’s old home. I visit her once a month, you see?”
“How splendid.” The woman exclaimed. “Do you mind telling me her name?”
“Vileena. Vileena Milieze.”
The woman gasped, her expression slightly shocked. Varna frowned slightly.
“Is something the matter?”
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As if it were never there, the woman quickly regained her graceful bearing, this time with a more jovial tune.
“Not at all, young miss.” Her steps skipped slightly as the chiselled pathway quickly receded to grass and dirt. “Actually, your mother and I have recently gotten to know each other.”
“What, really?”
Varna exclaimed in excitement. How long had it been since a fellow Farthan had gotten to know somebody from the outskirts? Even more so when considering that the woman in front of her befit a presence that only refined nobles possessed.
“Yes. It came about—” The woman cut herself off suddenly and stopped moving, raising Varna’s eyebrow.
It was here that Varna reached her destination, stopping in front of the home of her mother. The house itself appeared rather modest, with a thatched roof extending the entire home, and a subsidiary of it. A wooden fence encapsulated a little less than one Farthan-acre of the home, which allowed cattle native to Farthos to proliferate and allow the residents to make ends meet, that is, of course, without taxpayer money and trade. Off to the side was a small coop, where animals came and went to their leisure. Most of the sound came from the wildlife, as well as the wind rustling through Varna’s ears.
“Sorry, uh, madam? You stopped speaking.”
Distancing herself a few steps from Varna, the woman turned around and faced her with a gentle, calm gaze.
“Apologies. Allow me to introduce myself instead.” The woman bowed. “My name is Lillianne Frost, and I am your mother’s new caretaker—from His Lordship, Duke Egreiss Ward.”
Farthan nobility, for the most part, followed the same logic and order as human nobility. Only when the standings of Fatebearers entered the limelight did it cast aside its graceful nature. The integrity of Farthan blood would taint itself, as its own noble carriers relentlessly sought for social power—something that only the unfortunate would witness firsthand. And yet, Varna felt no such presence from her mother’s new caretaker.
She crossed her arms in thought over the wooden table, looking around the homely guest room in search of answers. The thatched cottage, of course, provided her with no such thing, only postponing her search for answers in the midst of her confusion. Sliding a coaster nearby toward her, she pressed for more.
“Duke Egreiss sent you?” She asked, bemused as she grasped her fine cup.
Lillianne nodded slightly, before reaching into a pocket embedded in her dress and pulling out an envelope. Its cover appeared plain, but the seal engraved upon it was undoubtedly of the Ward household.
“Yes.” Lillianne slid the envelope over the table. “I myself am perplexed by the matter, but that in itself is of little importance to me.”
She smiled, taking a sip of the tea she brewed.
“It’s the least I can do for the household.”
Varna hesitated to respond, seeing a glimpse of Lillianne’s forlorn expression. Forcing a cough, she averted her gaze and quelled her sudden nervousness. That countenance of hers was one she was quite familiar with.
“And what of my mother, uh, Miss Frost?” Varna asked, terribly artificial.
“No need to be so formal, My Lady.”
Varna raised an awkward smile. “Lillianne, then. How about my mother? Was she well?”
“Pardon my offence, but I can only say she has … certainly seen better days.”
Varna could only sigh in response. Certainly, she thought, and certainly it was, for it seemed as if the stars were mocking her circumstances. She could recall it, yet again, the day that it appeared that she had been cursed; it seemed, perhaps as a slight karma, that the city wished to wash their hands of blood with blood itself. ‘Bitter thoughts would only harbour its sour aftertaste’—a saying Varna had known for a while now. Thus, she spoke.
“No use in raising dead affairs.” She rested her cup on its coaster with a clink, the sound resounding in her ears. She spent the next few moments in silence, a contemplative expression resting upon her face. “I know you’ve been tending to my mother already, but would you mind accompanying me to visit her?”
“Not at all.” Lillianne chimed, standing from her seat. “Let me show you to her room.”
Varna smiled. “Thank you.”
“It’s only natural, and formalities are unneeded.”
“Oh, sorry.”
A small chuckle escaped from Varna’s lips as the two of them paced through the home. It was brief respite, however, as the moment Varna stood in front of her mother’s door, time froze in its place. Her surroundings dimmed, as the vibrance around her slowly lost its colour. She, and only she, could hear the familiar sound of a loom and its thread, which wove over themselves to create a scarf.
She reminisced. The day her loom had lost its light. She had heard it—the indiscriminate chanting, the cacophony of voices, pikes and flames which had travelled outside her home. Then came the knocking—banging, on the newly erect doorstep after throwing their subjects in like animals.“Gone! Begone! Away with you, Forsaken pigs!” They had chanted, repeating themselves over like a faulty record.
Then it came too, quickly after, by only a few days.
“The Scarves show no prejudice.” Her mother had spoken, forced and frail. Her fingertips, which were rough and calloused from the unjust treatment, had caressed the loom after a few days. Varna, who had watched as her mother struggled to loosen the thread, offered help to no avail, before she was given a single, incomplete scarf. Its prismatic colour was more beautiful than anything ever imagined.
“Take care—” That was all she heard, when the rest was shadowed by only a saddened cry.
“My Lady?” Lillianne’s voice interjected.
Varna’s back straightened, shooting up. “Sorry. It’s nothing.”
Lillianne tilted her head slightly with a tinge of scepticism. Paying her no mind, Varna slowly twisted the door handle with shaky hands, a creak from its hinges lasting longer than her lifetime piercing her eardrums.
Much of the room was rather tidy. A single, wooden bed occupied the front-left of it, with a small closet and drawer and chair accompanying it to the right. On the far left, was her mother’s worn loom, which appeared to be out of thread and highlighted by the rays of sunlight upon the window behind it. Only empty space occupied the rest of the bedroom, which Varna thought was rather lonely.
There, on the bed, was her bed-ridden mother, who appeared quite lifeless and fragile. Her figure occupied less than half of the bed, and her complexion was pale and disturbed. Gently placing her hands on her mother’s own, Varna uttered not a single word as her scarf fell on her mother’s chest. With a single, emphatic whisper, she spoke earnestly to a near lifeless husk.
“I’m back, mother.”