Achlys
Andros, 1457
It wasn’t an act made out of spite, or malice or any other word with a negative connotation. This Achlys knew. This Achlys, mostly, understood.
It was an act made out of desperation—an act made by someone who was, otherwise, entirely and utterly, hopeless.
That was a fact.
Or was it?
Achlys didn’t know, and it quickly became obvious that she never would. Her mother was a confusing soul; her actions confused Achlys even more. None of it made sense- the thought, the intent, the outcome- it all was nonsense, complete and utter nonsense!
Or was it?
Too much, is what it was.
Achlys had learned a long, while ago, not to delve too deep into trying to decipher the reasoning behind the actions her mother had taken in her childhood, not question what had happened, what she’d seen. It wasn’t that it was too painful, the memory of her mother, no. The thing that irked her, that broke her, nearly drove her to madness… was that it was all her fault.
Everything that happened:
The pain, the suffering, the beginning of an entire war.
The killing of thousands of innocent souls across the known land.
The ultimate disappearance of her mother, whom she came to learn she knew very little about.
It was all Achlys’s fault.
