Stolen Youth

Stolen Youth

Act I

1118 Age of Man – 1120 Age of Man

815 – 817 Post-Empire

Chapter 1

“Sing Goddess, Achilles rage, black and murderous.”

- Homer, The Illiad

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No one wept when Mara left. After all, the dead have no tears to shed. Mara herself had run out years before. She was dry-eyed as she glared at the sky above, daring nature to throw more at her. But, of course, the day was gorgeous, the sun was shining, and the fresh scent of rain hung in the air.

It made Mara sick.

A solitary cloud drifted overhead. She glared up as its shadow moved over the farm. How many hours had she watched them in jealousy? How much time had she spent wishing she too was free to run, riot, and roam throughout the Plains? Well, no longer. Soon, she too would race across the face of Gaia, as free as the clouds.

This particular cloud was the last remnant of the storm that had ravaged the area for a week. A common enough occurrence out on the Plains of Hera where clouds amassed and dumped their heavy loads before moving east. Like a lost sheep trying to catch up to its flock, the cloud moved rapidly over the town of Bracken.

Mara watched as the cloud crawled over the fields. Blowing west, towards the Titan’s Graveyard. It was as fine a direction as any other. Mara knew that the destination was unimportant, what mattered was leaving as soon as possible.

Mara gently shut the farmhouse door behind her. It was habit, ingrained in her bones after years of practice. Never mind that the door and its frame were the only part of the house still standing, or that the wind danced freely amongst the ashes still smoldering from the night before. Mara set off across the fields, following her lonely cloud.

Steam rose around her as the Apollonian rays beat down from above. Already, cracks littered the open ground, reluctantly releasing moisture absorbed only hours before. Soon the mud would be as cracked and marred as the farmers themselves, baked into wrinkled leather by the unrelenting sun.

This endless cycle of sun and rain made the Plains of Hera the breadbasket for the entire civilized world. It was why the Empire had sent settlers in the first place. It was why they had stayed after the Empire had fallen.

Already, Mara could hear the farmers in their fields calling loudly to each other. They were simply happy to endure another storm, ecstatic that their crops appeared to have survived. The latest torrential rainfall would be a great boon in the final month of the growing season.

Their voices shook Mara from her introspection. She had to move. Soon. The longer she stayed, the greater chance she would be discovered.

She turned decisively away from the voices. A simple dirt path cut west through the fields but Mara could not take that. She knew if she did, she might run into one of those same farmers. They would have questions and Mara had no intention of answering them.

They would ask where her family was or where she was going. They would focus on her eyes, red from smoke, and her dark copper skin, coated in ash. Why her skinny arms and legs were covered in bruises, purple spots and faded yellow marks poking through the black grime like sullen stars on a cloudy night.

She knew it was best to avoid that. She ducked into the fields next to the path and continued west. She began a shambling walk, ignoring the pain that screamed at her nerves for attention. Nevertheless, every step seemed to relieve her of a burden. Her thin shoulders straightened, her sharp chin raised challengingly, and she began to move more resolutely.

Only her eyes never changed. The farmers who knew her as a little girl would have been shocked. They remembered her as a giggly little girl on market days, her eyes as bright and bubbly as her laughter. Now, however, her eyes were filled with a depth of rage and anger that was unrecognizable. They were cold, flat, and hard, fixed on the horizon ahead. Fixed on the Titan’s Graveyard, the end of the known world.

Mara had heard rumors of a city amongst the Graveyard. They said Mountainside accepted anyone, regardless of background or standing. A place where a person could make a fresh start. Mara liked the sound of that. She needed a place to start afresh.

The Gods knew there was nothing behind her.

Alexander looked out in gloom over the city he was one day destined to rule. As if reflecting his mood, large clouds pressed down like so much wet wool. The mountains on either side seemed like an extension of the sky above, enclosing and surrounding the city like iron bars of a cage. Alexander sighed. This was his fate.

Alexander could trace his lineage back to Maximillian the Mad, the first king of Mountainside. It was founded over five hundred years ago, long after the Empire, already weakened by overexpansion into the Plains, spent its remaining strength at the Battle of Troy. In the centuries that followed, as the Empire collapsed in on itself, the city states on the Plains of Hera had thrived.

Maximillian had struck out across the Plains of Hera in search of a land he could call his own but new settlements were springing up like mushrooms after the rain. Finally, he reached the Titans’ Graveyard where the mass of mountains halted his journey. He established a basecamp from which to explore them but their peaks refused to be conquered. The Titans’ Graveyard was the edge of the known world and it wanted to stay that way.

Countless men were lost on scouting expeditions, their corpses only adding to those already buried amongst the Graveyard. After years of fruitless searching, Maximillian had only uncovered one habitable valley along the entire western range. It was deep enough in the hills to be protected from winter’s harshness, yet close enough to the Plains to allow profitable trading. The discovery of gold and silver in the hills surrounding his new domain only solidified his conclusion. Maximillian decided to establish his new kingdom here. He called his city Mountainside and made himself king.

Mountainside had proceeded to flourish. The hunters, trappers, miners, and loggers would venture down from the mountains with goods to sell. The cities on the Plains would want to purchase leather, meat, metals, and lumber. It was a perfect match. The Xanthus River provided cheap transportation costs and Mountainside had quickly become the largest city of the western plains.

King Maximillian had used this wealth to build a palace that reflected his rise in power. At the end of the valley was a massive waterfall, The Godfall, the largest yet discovered in the Graveyard. There, the water gracefully pooled in a small lake before flowing through a deep brook which flowed out of the eastern end of the valley. A small island in the middle provided the bedrock for this new palace, a fittingly impressive site that established Mountainside, not as a city but a kingdom.

It was this kingdom, founded on free trade, with a strong streak on independence, that Alexander was fated to rule. He had been sent off so he could learn to do so but, now that he was finally returning home, he couldn’t shake the unrest that had seeped under his skin. He didn’t want to be here, but he was. He didn’t want to rule, but it was what he was born to do. He didn’t want to be king, but it was his destiny.

He supposed he should be happy. After all, when he was originally sent away he had begged to stay. The memory of how despondent he had been brought with it a brief flash of irritation. Alexander smiled at his own hypocrisy. When the call to come home had first reached him he had been excited. He couldn’t wait to finally see his mother and father again. Letters exchanged at irregular intervals couldn’t replace seeing them face to face. He hoped they would be proud of him.

However, it quickly became apparent that Alexander was not being called home for a social visit. It had taken him days to finally squeeze the truth from the courtier who had made the month long trip to Unity. The messenger had dissembled as much as he could but the sheer number of euphemisms employed only served to unsettle Alexander further. His mother was dying.

He had demanded they move faster. His greatest fear was he wouldn’t make it in time. However, the Plains of Hera were impassive to his fervent prayers. The horses pulling the carriage had been numb to his pleas. The carters had actually laughed at him when he insisted they make double time. He had burned with shame, but any amount of groveling would be worth seeing his mother again.

He should have been overjoyed as the city grew nearer, but all he felt was disquiet growing deep inside him. He had been gone eight years and in that time he had seen the world and discovered it was wider than one small city nestled in the mountains.

In the eastern city states, where republicanism had found new ground to flourish, Alexander had beheld the majesty of the Temple of Zeus in Unity with its thirty-foot tall golden statue of the God of Thunder himself. In the far north, he had ventured to Hyperborea, to see the fabled Aurora, a lasting remnant of the fight between the Gods and the Titans. In the south, he had seen the vast docks of Hellespont teeming with crews and cargo.

Yet, here he was. Alexander was depressed that after all his travels, and all his adventures, he was returning home. He looked again at the city that was his home, his destiny, his cage.

Alexander was woken from his reverie as his carriage rattled over the drawbridge and into the courtyard of the palace. His faithful manservant, Percival, who had followed him across the Plains and back, gave an encouraging nod. He knew exactly how Alexander felt. Alexander allowed himself one last self-indulgent sigh before he put on his best crown prince mask and descended from his carriage.

He was surprised at the crowd. It seemed as if the entire palace staff had turned out to welcome their Prince home. The maids and man-servants were all lined up in the courtyard as he entered. He took a brief moment to savor their attention before turning to greet his father.

King Philip, approached and looked up at his son. This, more than anything, hammered home how long Alexander had been gone. For when he had left eight years ago, he had looked up at his father. Now, his father barely came up to his shoulders. Nonetheless, King Phillip reached out and hugged Alexander to his chest, tears in his eyes, as if Alexander were still that same eight-year-old boy.

“You’ve become a man while you were away,” The King said.

Alexander returned the hug warmly, all anger at his departure eight years ago temporarily forgotten.

“I missed you, Father.”

This close Alexander was painfully aware of how much his father had changed. He appeared much older than Alexander was expecting. He was thinner too, and he seemed to stoop, as if the burden of his crown was pushing down relentlessly. Despite this, his father’s blue eyes gleamed with the same sharpness he remembered from his youth. “Would you like to see…” here the king’s voice had trailed off.

For the briefest of moments, pain had crossed his brilliant blue eyes, and Alexander was forcibly reminded of how much his father loved his mother, Queen Anne. Alexander had heard the story of the first time they met countless times, it was still a favorite ballad of strolling minstrels.

They had met over thirty years ago at a ball that his father, then a prince himself, had attended. Prince Philip had been sent by his father to meet the Princess of Vicci, an eminently suitable match. She was said to be a rare beauty though Philip had heard rumors she had a foul personality.

Thus, he had arrived at the ball where he was to be formally presented in dampened spirits. However, the Fates delight in playing games with the lives of men, and Prince Philip had spied Anne, then a handmaiden, as he had entered the ballroom.

Philip always bragged that he never stood a chance. It was love at first sight. To the shock of the courtiers in attendance and the surprise of his own retinue, Prince Philip had ignored the nobles. He sent his man servant to bring his regrets to the princess and the king. Philip had already met the woman he loved, there could be no other. He had approached Anne and proclaimed her the most beautiful woman in attendance and begged her for a dance.

Soon, Philip and Anne began to see each other, causing quite a stir, but they were deaf to the gossip. Philip was warned that Anne was not noble. He couldn’t care less. Anne was cautioned that Phillip was a prince who was above her station. She hadn’t listened. Thus, one of the strangest romances ever seen on the Plains had flourished. Within six months they were married, and Anne had become a princess.

The citizens of Mountainside loved them. They boasted that only in Mountainside, freest of the cities on the Plains, could a commoner become a princess. No where else, would a prince throw caution to the four winds and follow his heart. When they had in turn become King and Queen, the citizens had celebrated in the streets. The King’s feelings for his Queen were well-known, becoming a byword for love and dedication throughout the Plains.

But now the Queen, whom Phillip loved with all his soul, was dying. There was nothing anyone could do. The Fates had spun her thread, measured it accordingly, and now were only waiting for the final cut.

Alexander had arrived just in time. He hastened to follow his father to her quarters. King Phillip grew quiet as they approached the Queen’s chambers. Even the joy he had felt when his son returned could not improve his mood. He stopped at the door and nodded to Alexander.

“She’s waiting for you.”

“Are you not coming in with me?” Alexander was surprised, he had assumed his father would stay with him.

King Philip shook his head, even this slight motion seemed to drain him. “I cannot.” He seemed a shell of the man Alexander had once known. Philip grasped Alexander’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “There is nothing worse than being powerless my son. I cannot stop Hades from taking her.”

King Philip turned and hung his head. Alexander thought he understood. Sometimes it is painful to admit defeat, and his father, who had braved the scorn of the nobles and spat in the face of decades of tradition, was for the first time faced with an obstacle he could not overcome. Philip stumbled off, leaving Alexander alone in front of the doors to the Queen’s chamber.

Alexander took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He knew this wouldn’t be easy for him either but unlike his father he hadn’t been forced to watch her wither away. He hadn’t been forced to watch as pain stole her smile and lethargy sapped her strength. Alexander pushed open the doors, determined to face this head on.

He hadn’t prepared enough. For while Queen Anne was never a striking beauty, her vitality had leant grace to every movement. She had been born to laugh, with a warm smile for everyone she met. His mother had been lively, nearly dancing with every step she took.

No longer. Now, she was propped up in bed by a mass of pillows. The lines on her gaunt face only stood out in starker relief against the pale, almost translucent skin that had once glowed with life. Her limbs that had once held him in their warm embrace, were withered like winter branches, each bone and vein sticking out from her wasted flesh.

Alexander slumped to his knees next to her bed and grasped her hand. It was cold and clammy but he refused to let go. She smiled weakly at him and Alexander felt his heart break. Now he understood why his father hadn’t been able to face this.

His mother was barely more than a skeleton. She tried to speak and Alexander, mere feet away, could barely hear her whisper. He leaned closer to listen. He had to repress the urge to shudder as her breath caressed his ear. He was the Prince, he would be strong.

“My son…. I missed you.” Her voice, that had once been likened to bells ringing in the summer, was reedy and faded in and out, as if even talking was too much.

Alexander nodded, grasping harder at his mother’s hand. He didn’t want to let her go. “I know mother. I missed you too.” Alexander’s vision was growing blurry and with his free hand he wiped his eyes but it didn’t matter. The tears were pouring fast and loose, his nose was running. He felt hot and cold at the same time.

“My son, there is something I need to tell you. Will you listen?”

“Anything mother. Anything at all.”

“Remember that a king…” Queen Anne coughed, great racking hacks that shook her diminished frame like a thunder storm. “A king must be respected but…” Her voice trailed off.

Alexander paused hopefully, waiting for her to take another breath, but her chest didn’t rise. He waited patiently, but her voice didn’t return. He expected her eyes to reopen, but the lids stayed shut. He sat there, holding her hand, as it grew ever colder. He didn’t know how long he sat there, how long he waited, but he did, expecting that at any moment she would stand up and resume living. It was a childish hope, a little boy’s attempt to hold onto his mother. If he held onto her, she would never leave him.

Alexander didn’t resist as servants gently removed the Queen’s hand from his. He was silent as he was led to his bedroom. He was numb to their questions; he was immune to their condolences. He was left alone. He undressed in a daze, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor where they fell. He crawled into his bed and pulled the covers over his head. He turned his face into his pillow and wept.

His mother was dead.