A soft voice resonated through the saloon. The old song reminisced about warriors, direct ancestors from most of the men there, unforgettable heroes of a time ended many ages ago.
The tone was sad. The owner of the voice, a thirteen-years-old girl, was sat in front of a guitar man while she felt tears coming from her eyes and her throat to tighten as if a thousand hands were suffocating her.
It wasn’t a happy night… not for her. Not for any of the women there.
However, for her luck, nobody was noticing. The men, too happy for celebrating the victory in the War of a Thousand Days, were barely paying attention to the singer and it was in the drink and the uproar that their instincts were focused.
Suddenly, the singer looked to her side. At the south of the saloon, sat beside the King, Queen Brione kept her face emotionless; representing exactly the name her parents had gave her when she was born: “the one with strength”.
Yes, because it was needed a supernatural force to stay there among the redheads, watching them eat from their animals, drinking their hydromel and slide their dirty hands over their women. Her will was to draw a sword — something none of the men from Cashel seemed willing to do — and chase out those men from her home.
She closed her eyes tightly. All that was entirely the fault of the man beside her.
King Lugus had been neglectful in battle, coward in his choices and weak in the closure. The Kingdom of Cashel, for thousands of years inhabited by the people with dark skin and shadowy eyes, found themselves being crushed by the white ones, pale and redheaded inhabitants of Masha.
The world, divided among three Kingdoms separated by the sea, would never be the same.
The mashians together with the people from Bran — another white skinned people, however, with their hair black as the night — and guided by King Atho, took less than a thousand sunrises to defeat the confused and unprepared casheans.
The Queen shivered, pressing her palm against her red dress, anxious to leave that place. It wasn’t enough being defeated, they were also forced to watch those damned men celebrate while laughing of the way they have killed their people.
From the corner of her eyes, she observed Lugus. The King, on his forties, was a direct descendant of the old gods. The used to say that the blood of god Cashel — the divinity who named the Kingdom — ran on his veins. Brione, who came from a poor family, but was gifted by the gods with a unique beauty, was married to him solely for her looks.
One day, Lugus showed up on the humble wooden house of her parents. He looked at her as if the was a mare at a stable and informed her about the wedding. Unable to defend herself or deny to comply with the man’s wish, she was taken a month later to the palace to become the Queen of a whole population.
Forced to sleep with him, she gave him the son —Randu— that the King wanted so much. Silently, she handled all the betrayals and cowardice from his liege and, in the only time she dared to raise her voice, she begged him not to join in the war (for the Kingdom wasn’t up to the more powerful opponents) he slapped her, shutting up her mouth.
After that, he left the men to their ideas. The King and his advisors sacrificed many villages in the name of an alleged conquer that would praise their egos.
Brione never really understood the reason for the war. Atho, king of Bran, was a fair and kind man. He had never done any kind of threat to the overseas kingdom and never did any sort of provocation. Anyway, Lugus had decided to invade the kingdom of Masha, the second in importance and a direct ally of Bran, in order to conquer the emerald mines that offered than luxury and wealth. The idea came up as soon as the mashian king died, letting the unexperienced Prince Iran adrift.
What Lugus had never imagined was that Iran and Atho were childhood friends. More than that, they had a relationship that, it wasn’t for Atho’s love for his wife, would cause mean gossips to run around the world.
The war ended and with it came the humiliation. Iran, the young prince, as soon as he invaded the main city of Cashel, forced King Lugus to offer him a feast, letting the most beautiful girls from the kingdom at the service of his soldiers, anxious to the delights of the pretty women with dark skins.
The redheads, as the mashians were called, had auburn hair and freckled faces, with intense emerald green eyes. They said Masha, the goddess that created their continent, liked their eyes so much that created mines with rocks that replicated their intense stare. They called the rocks emerald and their price was invaluable anywhere in the world.
A single gem would be able to buy a beautiful house. However, all the wealthy belonged to the King, letting to his enemies solely the role of envying and hating him.
Suddenly, the politics left Brione’s thoughts. A murmur called her attention to the entrance.
Iran, the heir of Masha’s throne, entered the castle with a laughter. On his hands, a hydromel bottle; on his lips, a satisfied smile of a man who had accomplished a great job.
“They say Cashel women have their chests darker than their skins,” he yelled, lustful, upsetting Brione’s stomach. “Suck on those tits as long as you can, pals,” he said to his soldiers “for it’s a joke that is only funny once in a lifetime. Cashean women are unworthy of a second fuck.”
Brione quivered in pure hate.
Why were the women the victims? The men had triggered the war, so why didn’t the mashian take their pants off and dig their cocks into them merciless?
Lost in her thoughts, she only noticed the song came to a stop when the anguished cry of the singing girl got to her ears.
She saw the despair shining on the rounded eyes. She was still a child, but the prince didn’t seem to mind.
“This one,” he pointed to the girl, choosing her. “I’m going to fuck the bitch all night long”, he yelled in ager. “Until there’s nothing left of her.”
There was, in that room, dozens of casheans. Why none of them was doing anything?
“Please,” she heard the delicate voice, that was singing just now about the glories of their past, begging. “Please, young Prince Iran, I haven’t even bleed yet.”
“I am not a woman yet,” her justification seemed to be in vain.
The man laughed while holding her tight in his arms.
“Do you really think I care?”
Unexpectedly, Brione roused. After all those years, since she left her parents’ house to serve as a brood mare to a king she despised; after all the humiliation; after all the angst she had to live day by day, she found herself drained for the first time.
She raised from her throne — not a shaken and quiet woman anymore, but a Queen.
“Release this child, you coward!” she said, before advancing, taking a sword from a close soldier.
She swayed it against the redhead that was unable to control his laughter. To Iran, in a moment, the fun went to the other side. Releasing the girl, he took in the forms of the woman with such strong features.
Black, beautiful, perfect. Her curly hair tied on a bun at her nape, her curvy body, covered by a fur dress in scarlet red. Brione, as he heard her name was, seemed to be more of a man than the one that was sat, embarrassed, on the throne.
“I won’t deny I am deeply astonished by the courage of a defeated Queen to raise a sword against a Prince like me,” he declared. “However, at the same time, my admiration only raises my lust.”
The smell of alcohol hit the queen. She realized he was drunk. And she guessed she would be able to defeat him. She took an attack position and, even under the smirks of the other men, she took a step ahead.
Nonetheless, she had no experience. No one knew better how to handle a sword than Iran. Two deflections after, he used his own arm to surround the woman’s throat.
The fight lasted less than a minute. She was defeated and humiliated while listening the sound of the sword falling on the floor.
What followed after would stay on her memories until her last days on earth. Lifted from the floor, she kicked around, yelling her husband’s name, begging for help; but, finding herself lost and abandoned all she could do was fight against that man, much bigger than her, that would subjugate her merciless.
Taken to the first empty bedroom Iran found, she was thrown on the bed while she felt the firm and strong hands opening her legs, lifting up her dress and stripping her, embarrassing in a cruel way.
A sob escaped from her lips when he finally managed to slip between her legs.
She felt a punch on her face. She was used to be frequently spanked by Lugus; therefore, the act didn’t intimidated her. Gathering all the energy she could muster, she positioned one of her feet on the manly belly and pushed him with all her strength.
Iran withdraw for a while, but turned himself again to the fragile body.
“Fighting back will only make things worse,” he said, “not even death itself would make me give up on you.”
Finally, the rigid shaft touched the center of her femininity. Yelling, she tried to dodge away, but she was held so tightly against the bed she couldn’t move. Soon that hard piece of flash invaded her, hurting her.
Two, three thrusts and she felt the vomit coming from her throat, suffocating her.
Soon after, that man’s hot fluid filled her and she was finally released.
Ecstatic on the bed, she felt Iran’s weight discharging her worn body. She saw his wide back and the way he sat on the bed, his head down, a man as defeated as her.
No… nobody would ever be as defeated as her.
“Why did you do this to me?” she asked, almost voiceless, trying to understand the reasons why someone who had never seen her before to treat her in such an atrocious way.
Iran didn’t answer. Looking ahead, he seemed lost in his personal hell.
Suddenly, the door opened, interrupting that dramatic moment.
A tall and handsome man came to her view. His black hair and fair skin wouldn’t deny his origins: a branian. They hadn’t showed up at the feast that night. What was he doing there?
“How could you do that, Iran?” he asked, noticing the woman’s nudity.
Getting close to the bed, he covered, kindly. Brione was unable to bear any thoughts in mind, but she felt warm hearted due to that small gesture of compassion.
“You don’t deserve my friendship,” the dark haired man stated.
“So your friendship is measured by my rights and wrongs?” Iran laughed, but in a clearly fake amusement.
The sound of his voice seemed as far as if it was just a wind blowing.
“Get up,” the other man ordered.
Iran raised his body. Brione felt her eyes darkening, but before the emotional shock take over her, she saw, even if a little clouded, the dark man taking off a string from Iran’s chest.
“You don’t deserve to use your family’s symbol,” he said, in a firm and cruel tone. “I promised the deceased King of Masha I would only give away this amulet when his son had become an honorable man, but, unfortunately, I did it too early. You’ve proven me tonight that you have no dignity.”
The, he walked to Brione who retreated, fearful.
“My dear, I leave with you a priceless jewel. Not to remind you the pain you’ve been through, but as a token of the promise that I, Atho, the King of Bran, will make justice in your name.”
After that, dragging Iran by his arm, he left the room.
Turning her eyes to the amulet, the Queen saw, in tears, the most beautiful emerald she had ever seen in her whole life.