the Blessing of the Suns

Alanna, age nine, Rogue Lycanthrope

The very beginning

The forest of Soncrate

“Alanna!” Mother called to me through the mind-link. I looked around, but I couldn't see her through all the ash, smoke, and flames. My world burns down around me, and my heart is pounding seemingly almost out of my chest. I’m trapped in a room of fire. My safe place, where I’ve lived every day of my life is being consumed by fire, the beams that used to hold up the roof come crashing down in a fiery blaze. I keep my gaze focused above me, watching out for the falling beams, dodging them in a lethal dance until the last beam falls and the roof collapses. I need to get out of here. The flames to my right flicker somewhat and I dive through them, the fire burning my body, the heat making my blood run cold. I land on my back, out of immediate danger. The smoke in my lungs is taking its toll, and the edges of my vision are going dark. I see a blurry figure running towards me, and I reach for my dagger until I see the outline of Mother, her swollen belly clearly slowing her in her frantic sprint to me. I try my best to keep my eyes open, but eventually the smoke and flames and pain and searing heat force them closed.

I open my eyes to a blurry grey room, two figures huddled over me.

“F-Father?” My throat burns as I try to speak, and as I regain my consciousness the scorching pain returns full-force, as do my memories of today. Father and I were at the edge of the clearing in the center of which our home stood going over healing versus lethal plants. Mother had called us in to sup and break our fast, and we ate together, conversing over our meal. When we all had finished, Mother brought me up to my bedroom for my morning lessons. While she tried to wrestle me into a stay and petticoats - which has become considerably harder for her as her pregnancy has progressed, she began her usual morning lecture.

“Alanna, I know that you do not think that this is at all helpful for you, but it is important for your future. I love you with all my heart, and I support you in all-in most of the decisions that you have made thus far, and I accept that for the time being you have no interest in being a proper lady, but I swear to the Goddess I will never stop trying to turn you into one.” I gave up and let her dress me in all the fanciful, impractical fripperies she so desired, though as a show of protest I kept my most hideous scowl stuck across my face. Mother has always complimented my intellect being so advanced - I have no way of knowing how true her statement is as I have never known anyone other than my parents - but it seems no matter how smart she believes me to be, she has never let me escape this. Mother fussed over different fabric colours for what felt like hours - if only your father was of fairer skin, I wouldn’t have nearly so much trouble finding fabrics that compliment you - and fussed over my hair, pulling and pinning and primping for what felt like a very painful eternity - your hair is so beautiful, and you waste it by knotting it and letting it loose to catch leaves and twigs in the forest. Your hair is that of a delicate and dignified lady, what with its black colour and natural shine-oh sit still will you? If your infernal squirming causes me to mess this braid up one more time, I’ll not let your father take you out into the wood for three moons, and that time instead will be spent on dancing practices. - I had shuddered at the prospect of more dance lessons, which caused Mother to mess up, sentencing me to three months of torturous dancing. Once my hair felt like it was being pulled out of my scalp and I could barely breathe from the constricting stay - the role of which being to shape my young bones in a way to complement a corset in my future, she pronounced me fit to begin my lessons. Thankfully we started with history, my favourite of all the subjects, though I had became much less energized after about a year of learning that the most important things Non-Fae Queens and Princesses do is marry another Non-Fae King or Prince and provide a son. Still much better than Etiquette and Proper Courting though. Part of History includes learning the Fae’s history, which has always intrigued me. After a few more lessons it was finally time for me to change into my regular clothing consisting of a dark brown tunic to match my skin, loose black breeches, and my dark brown knee-length boots. After changing I had smelt smoke, so I ran down into the kitchen where Father had previously been carving designs into his longbow. When I had entered it was empty, but for the raging flames consuming the north and east walls. I had heard howling and growls from outside, but it had been at that moment that the ceiling came crashing down.

I open my eyes again, focusing in on Father’s eyes. The burning in my skin hasn’t faded, and my entire body aches down to my bones.

“Water...please...” I gasp out. Father hurries away, returning with a ladle full of water. He holds it over my open mouth, pouring incredibly slowly, yet I still manage to choke, coughing and straining to sit up. I looked down and noticed my wrists and ankles have been locked into leather cuffs attached to long chains. Father tries again, and this time I am able to swallow the refreshing liquid. “Where are we Father?” My voice is still weak, but the pain immensely diminished with every sip of water.

“We are being held in the pack’s dungeon. Your mother and I found you burned to a crisp just outside the fire, but before we could take you and run, the pack’s warriors encircled us and we were forced to go with them.”

“What pack? What are you talking about?”

“You know that Lycans like us form packs, large groups of many different families. But as you noticed many years ago, we do not have a pack. You have asked both of us many, many times why we don’t have one, and as you well know, we’ve never given you a straight answer. Because of your young age, we weren’t planning on telling you until you became of-age to shift. But now, well, we no longer have the luxury of time. There are, in fact, two types of Lycans, those who are members of a pack, and those who are not. We are the latter, of course. These Lycans have been classified as Rogues by other Lycanthropes. Because our Goddess created us to be social creatures, most Rogues turn feral after a few years outside of a pack; their eyes become bloodshot, and though they still shift from wolf to humanoid form, their minds deteriorate, they forget all but their instinct to kill, destroy, and survive. Too many packs have been obliterated by these Lycans; so many that as of now, I do not know of a single pack that will let a Rogue pass peacefully through their territory.”

“How have we not become feral?” Father hangs his head in his hands, and Mother takes over.

“Both your father’s family and mine were always very tightly knit, both families becoming small packs of just their own blood. Your father and I met when our families both found a small isle off the coast of Astranmïan, unclaimed by any pack. Our families were prepared to battle each other for the right to the isle, but because we found each other, our families joined together peacefully and created a home for ourselves on that isle. Sadly, after only a few years, a bloodthirsty pack invaded, and only your father and I escaped the massacre. We came here, to the Plains, and built a home, just on the edge of the Blood Sea pack’s land. You have to understand, Alanna, we only refused to ever let you outside our little clearing because we are trespassers. To live life as we do, as Rouges, is incredibly dangerous. That is why I have allowed your father to train you in survival techniques. You need to know if you want to survive long enough to shift for the first time.” Mother takes Father’s hand, making him look up at her. They smile sadly at each other, chestnut brown eyes locked with Mother’s green. Father reaches over and places a hand upon Mother’s ever-growing stomach. This is why Mother never even fought Father when he began to teach me how to survive in the wild, though she clearly didn’t like it. This is why Father never once pressured me to be more feminine, why he let me be myself. This, here, is why Mother herself taught me how to read maps, why she taught me what clothing is best and most practical, why she taught me my numbers, how to read and write, how to sew not only hems, but to sew together leather and padding as well. All this time, I have resented her for forcing me to learn arithmetic, the genealogy of our neighbouring nations, economics and history but she has only been trying to prepare me for when they are no longer here to protect me. My eyes begin burning, and tears stream down my cheeks.

“Father, how long have we been locked up here for?” I still cannot move my arms or legs, but I turn my head to look around our cell. The cell itself takes up half the circular tower within which it is contained, the other half containing an opening in the floor that I can only assume is the top of staircase, a wooden bench, three symmetrically spaced wall sconces, and a hook from which a single key hangs. There are five slits a hand’s width wide placed evenly on the wall of the cell to serve as windows, each about four hands high. The singular, crescent-shaped wall is grey stone, and to my left is a thick wooden door incorporated tightly into pure silver grid of bars which separate the two halves of the room. Against the wall on our side of the bars is another bench, but this one is in a crescent form and is against the curving stone wall, with rushes scattered over the stone. My cot is on the cold stone floor, aligned with the bars. The shackles around my ankles and wrists are linked to thick iron chains that are long enough to reach halfway across the cell. Mother and Father are sitting on the section of bench that’s closest to me. They have metal manacles with iron chains the same length as mine, and to my right is a large clay bowl of water.

“We've been here six nights; in a few more we will be meeting with the Alpha and Beta of the pack. You shouldn’t try to sit up Alanna. The salve on your burns hasn’t quite set in yet.” Though I know that the Alpha and Beta will not be happy to see us, I am extremely excited to see another person. It is a naive hope - and I recognize that - but I do have hope that perhaps their judgement of us may be swayed in our favor when they see how young I am, and especially that Mother is heavy with child.

“Mother, how is the baby?” Mother smiles at me.

“Still very much alive, if that is what you are asking. How are you feeling? You were burned very badly from the fire.” Even locked in a tower dungeon, she is still the ever-worrying mother. I gesture for more water to soothe my throat, and pick up a damp, threadbare rag lying beside the bowl of water. Mother holds the ladle over my mouth and as I swallow, I can feel the pain diminishing quickly. I sigh in relief, then wipe my clammy palms on the rag. I try once more to sit up against the bench, but I stop when my arms give out.

“Mother, can you help me to sit up?” She nods and pulls me by the sides of my torso and leans my back against the bench, and sits down on the floor beside me. She takes my hand in hers, tracing the lines on my palm. As I look closer, I see dark blue half circles making themselves known beneath her eyes, her cheeks more gaunt than I ever before, fatigue creating deep lines across her forehead. Losing our home has taken a clear toll on both my parents, each seeming to have aged decades in these past few days. All this is making my head hurt, likely stemming from a head injury I sustained from the falling beams. Four sets of footsteps echo down the corridor, causing all three of us to tense. Every one of my movements cause a deep aching pain to shoot through my whole being, as well as a stinging burning agony across my skin and muscles - though it somehow isn’t enough to keep me from adjusting my position to one that hopefully projects weakness and a meek demeanor. I’m terrified yet so excited to meet other people. The four people emerge from the shadows, casting their own large ones. They are almost identical, each a huge, muscular, tall, light-skinned man, the bulk of their muscles alone filling a third of the room. From the immediate fear in my parents’ eyes upon their arrival, I know that these men are of high rank, perhaps even a Beta among them. “Hello, Rogues.” The largest man’s voice is hoarse, grating and low. I bristle at his tone, clear disgust ringing through his words. I open my mouth to retort, but Father lightly grabs my right shoulder, silencing me through the pain of contact on my burns.

“Hello Alpha.” The Alpha is here, earlier than we were told; whatever the reason, it cannot be good. The Alpha unlocks the cell door and enters our small space. He sneers, striking Father across the face. I immediately cry out, for Father has had one too many a blow to the head, and any more might cause permanent damage. The Alpha turns to me, his cold blue eyes taking in my small, injured form. He scoffs, and looks to Mother, clearly disregarding my existence.

“This must be the wife of the brown man;” He reaches out and takes her chin in a hand, forcing her to look at him. “a beautiful woman, to be sure, but with no taste in men.” The other three men laugh at the Alpha’s joke, but Mother rips her jaw from his rough grasp. He looks surprised, as though no one had stood up to him before. His eyes sweep over her body, focusing in on her abdomen. No. Not her child; he could not be so cruel. I am proven wrong as he pulls back a fist, aiming for her stomach.

“No!” I grab his forearm before he can strike, quickly realizing my mistake, and yet, I cannot let him hurt my unborn sibling. His eyes light in rage and instead kicks me in the chest, and a sharp pain floods through my body; at least one broken rib.

“Filthy half-breed. Get your filthy hands off of me girl!” I shake my head, unable to stop my response, though I know I’ll be beaten for it.

“I won't let you hurt my mother!” The Alpha laughs dangerously. He gestures to one of his lackeys, and the man gives the Alpha a key. Roughly, he unlocks Mother’s shackles from her ankles and wrists, dragging her out of the cell, slamming its door shut. Through the bars, I watch him pull Mother up by her hair, deaf to her cry of pain.

“This shall teach your half-breed

to respect my authority.” He turns to me, grinning malevolently. “You can just stay there and listen to your

precious

mother’s screams.” He drags her out of sight, down the dark stairs. I hear him stop, a door slams closed, and I hear the unmistakable cry of my mother in horrible pain. Grunts, hoarse laughter, and something wooden slamming against a wall accompany my mother’s screams and begging. I hear every moment, every grunt, every shout of pain, every time she pleads through think sobs for the man to stop his assault. Father’s face drains of blood. After a long, long time, a door opens and heavy footsteps ascend the stairs. I close my eyes before I can see what this man has done to my mother, because of me. Our cell door squeals open, and I feel his heavy steps through the stone. I hear him lock in my mother once more, and begin to leave, but he stops in front of me. My eyelids fly open when his large boot crushes my ribs once more. “Look at her, half-breed, look at what you’ve done to her.” He grabs me by the throat, turning my whole body in her direction. Slowly, I take in her battered broken body, the blood running down the inside of her legs, the bruises forming a purple mask over her pale face, and finally, I look her in the eye. Her green eyes, exactly like mine, no longer sparkle, no longer convey any feelings, they are blank as a corpse’s.

What have I done to you, Mother? What did that man do to you?

I reach out a hand to her, but I stop before I cause her more harm. The eyes that she gave me burn with tears, and when I blink, they escape.

The Alpha and his lackeys left long ago, but I am still reaching for her hand, never quite touching her, tears dripping from my chin, my eyes fixed upon her blank ones.