Chapter I
The water was cold; it had been for a while now.
Partially submerged, its cool touch caused meagre tremors; reactions to the temperature. Oeyar lingered, still, motionless. Sinking, as physical resistance muted to a deliberate crawl; steady breaths, limbs splayed like a starfish, gaze planted to the ceiling.
Designs of large animals of blue and green spiralled along the walls as they stretched across the ceiling, displaying painted sea scales, fish, and crustaceans as deep, stark maroon encompassed marble columns in their entirety.
The tub was far too large, with painted art of sea creatures adorning white sides in vivid motion of scales and fins, large and small, with a particularly recognizable figure of an azure sea dragon amidst a crowd of swirling white and red patterns.
She quivered.
Perhaps Olios would share one of his more exciting tales as he combed her hair? False pride carried for that feature, even as little Obris possessed softer and curled locks.
A lie worth the peace.
Father was no great beauty, possessing none of Khaderos’s natural glamour that glowed when wearing gold circlets or silks. Dark where father was light, and light where father was dark, Khaderos outshone him in appearance and mannerisms.
Mother’s sole source of spousal pride lay in Khaderos, walking beside her in perfect obedience and stride. Gossips of idiocy followed such prettiness, but Khaderos cared little, focusing on Obris’s first steps.
Fists clenched, dark eyes flashing, father’s lips bled in a sneer at the lack of invitations. False ridicule of such events he would loudly share at dinner, even as privately shook in repressed humiliation whenever spotting Oeyar dressing excitedly only to be forgotten.
Late at night, when seeking father led to wandering feet, a cramped feeling would surface at the sight of those red columns, so smothering, beneath the occasional oil lamp. Light glinted against the dark aura of crimson, and suffocation took hold, reminding her of mother at every turn.
Oeyar had requested an oil lamp, and Olios had obliged, face glowing with hidden amusement, as he had presented her with her very own, painted in patterns of birds and lively animals, as the spark inside never went out. He had promised, yet, she noticed him shirk away from its influence, taking a step aside. Ashri were creatures of shadow, and when she looked at him, she saw nothing but light.
No oil lamp was worth this.
No exchanged words. That lamp lay abandoned, unused, except on nights when Oeyar would visit her father alone. Olios walked closer, as the light of lamps only showed that stifling red, her lamp no different. Olios was enough; the red seemed distant beneath his deep shadow.
Lamps helped nothing when alone. Oeyar said nothing.
Never ask for help twice and face scorn, or worse, pity. In Oeyar’s seventh year, one of discovery and questions, precociousness had reigned. One such night, she had asked her father, on one of his more vigorous days, what was most precious in life, curious, a sly smirk painted on her face; Would he say something foolishly resentful? Mother had said he valued only obtuse things, and Oeyar, ever curious, wished to test such a claim so naturally, had asked.
Expression shifted to one of exasperation, no longer simply frustrated and tolerant. Temple furrowed as his eyes focused on Oeyar in intensity, motioning for closeness.
She shivered, the water lapping upward from the motion, again closing her eyes and focusing back to that night.
Darkened gaze had met hers; father had been unamused.
″ Such a question will give you nothing. I am weary enough as it is without Khaedro’s influence in my chambers. Now, go, find Olios, and he shall provide sufficient entertainment. That is what you seek. ″
Uninterested, curt and removed from any intimacy. Turning, father had begun to survey medicines. No surprise in his actions; no, but she had assumed he tolerated her. It seemed a severely wrong conclusion, and with no other place to go, she made to leave.
Feet crossed the threshold; palms clasped tightly to invoke no reaction and restrain from appearing foolish, Oeyar bit her lip in shame. Father had spoken then, tone strangely solemn.
″ Trust is the most valuable possession, as it holds the key to your unravelling. Do not give yours away. Hold it near, and guard it closely. Do not be loose with it. ″
Eyes widened in surprised delight. For an instant, Oeyar had seen a glimpse into his mind before father disappeared, deep inside the facade built, refusing her access. Quietly, he told her to go and find Olios and that he was once again far too ill, tired and worn to spend time with her.
As she had left, she had heard him mutter that he needed Olios, and her upbeat mood had soured as the idea of that concoction had turned her belly upside down.
Even now, surrounded by water and clean, she felt ill at the mere thought of that brew.
She had not fetched Olios; instead strode to her chambers and lain there amongst the covers mulling over that day’s events. Mother’s words echoed once more.
Men like your father are inferior, as they desire nothing but to drag our lot with theirs and keep us there through loathsome experiences. That is a fact.
Oeyar had shaken the thought away, her father was no mere bitter man without cause nor a cripple, and her mother had been wrong.
Frustration had mixed aptly with confusion and hurt, at how father seemed incapable of being understood, of trying to attempt civility to convey his reasons. He chose defensive maneuvers. If he trusted her enough, she could save them both.
He had preferred to drown alone.
Betrayal had sparked at the thought. Mother too. Mother only allowed a brief venture into her heart before unwittingly Oeyar would fall back into the void, forced to climb again.
Denial of such kinship made little sense. Oeyar’s aunts and uncle sneered at her presence, their gaze searing and full of scorn, and though she had ignored them quite well, her parents, she could not.
Later, when she had felt Olios sit on her bed, back turned to him, face planted in place, as dry tears clung, she had reiterated her experience. Omitting specific details that showcased any vulnerability, in case it caused negative impressions. Quietly, Olios’s smoke-like voice had penetrated the darkness, voice low and soft, with an inkling of something she had known not.
She still did not know what it had been as fingertips brushed against the smooth surface of the tub.
″ Hush, all is well, child. Your father has always been quite volatile concerning certain matters. His disagreeable nature ensures his__ unfortunate lack of emotional capability. Do not trouble yourself. You are not required to strain yourself with his burden. ″
″ I could fix it, fix it all. W-why does he not t-trust me? I can help...″ Her voice broke without consent, and between rushing to control the surge of emotions, swarming her in their attempts to suffocate or seek Olios’s comfort.
Turning, she had shoved her face into his chest, face buried, as she had complained of her woes, grief and ostracization, though trying her amplest, her best had been unacceptable. How much longer would such disappointments occur? How many dismissed attempts at rekindling lost sparks of kinship would she endure? What was she doing wrong?
″ I do not u-understand, why does he w-wish to suffer alone? ″
″ Precisely. ″
A sigh, then silence as Olios snuffed out the flickering oil lamp, the same one he had made for her, as he would always insist on making her presents and objects. Strange, from his darkness, as it overtook the room, she felt nothing but light grow as he embraced her; he mentioned nothing of her tears and only whispered of dreams and fantasies beyond his and her grasp.
It mattered little; they could pretend once more.
She would save them all, someday.
