I actually had no idea where to put this, but I guess, for now, it suits here best. I don't know... 
Anywho, here it is:
My birth was marked with sorrow.
Even the gods did not want me to walk upon their land, for, in the weeks that led up to my birth, darkness near consumed my people. Black clouds swarmed in the sky; white threads of lightning pierced the night and rain drenched the world, bringing down tents and sending horses skidding across the mud. Ravens alighted upon our camps; scavenging for our meagre food supplies and warming their feathers at the fire.
The Priestesses chanted day and night for the gods to relent. The women sat in caves for many days at a time, chanting prayers and sipping the traditional pulque made of fermented milk and mountainside herbs. The horses bolted at each and every sound and could not be ridden, so my people were locked within the boundaries of our camp.
The people huddled deep in their dens, and my mother – their Queen – shut herself from the world in her red and gold pavilion as her stomach grew rounder and rounder by the hour. Her most honorary advisors sat with her, as did the Primary Priestess and her apprentice. But the darkness stayed, despite their fasting and their many tributes to the gods.
It was one night when my mother’s first pains began. She lay for the whole of that night and through the next day, bathed in her own sweat and writhing in agony. I was not meant to come out, but through my mother’s pure determination I slid, screaming, into the world.
The Priestesses cried out in delight – their Queen had been saved, and yet I, a Princess of the tribe, was put aside; back into the shadows. While my mother was washed in sweet, lavender water and had protective charms said over her, I lay forgotten. The apprentices were burdened with the chore of feeding, watering, bathing and bedding me, as the Queen tried desperately to remove the little hiccup from her memory. It was quite a few weeks later, when the darkness receded and the Priestesses returned, that I first had a flavour of the love that should have been bestowed upon me, as Princess.
The Old Mage took me in, nurtured me like a mother. I had, up until now, been called Little One, Babe, and many other names which were hardly the kind ones used for a child, but Old Mage had the heart to go and ask my mother for a name.
“Myra.” The Queen had replied sharply, and returned immediately to dressing. Old Mage had bowed low, a frown crumpling her face, and walked back to her tent. Myra, meaning apology to the gods, in my people’s language.
That was what my life meant to the Queen. She was ashamed of my birth, so much so that she used my name to apologize. And that was how my life began.
***
Hope you like,
~Ash~
I also sort of liked the fact that the story has an omnipotent narrator, even though it's in first person. Sometimes omnipotent narrators annoy me for some reason, but I think it fitted here.
