Young Writers Society

Hello YWS, I hope you enjoy.

Note: Please be aware that some of the characters may not speak in standard english, as many of the factions and peoples in Ingand have evolved Creoles (Corrupted Languages) of their own, if you struggle reading them trying reading them aloud.

Rise Of The Black Queen
Prologue

I’ve yet to discover if I have ever really been in control of my own life, such things (I have been told) are not for women to dwell on. The idea of a pre-determined course for my days above ground is both comforting and simultaneously, terrifying. The idea of being unable to block your destiny, having it pull at your body with nothing but a cold desire to finish what has been foretold, the ultimate injustice. A world in which such things are planned is not reassuring, with so many lives now held above the cliffs of ruin by my words and deeds alone.

However if I was to guess on that tumultuous succession of days, the nature of Fate, I would hope that she was shackled by Chance, unable to change the rules of the game even if she tried.

Such sombre thoughts are not unknown in my character for those who may truly know me (There are few) and I hope you may forgive them and indulge them, for sake of proper narration. If we are to truly retell the story of my life, one that is most certainly still being written, we must start where I can begin a reliable account. If there was any indication of my so-called “greatness”, the endless lists of poetic fantasy that have been lavished on me; I had missed it quite completely.

I would love to recount my days as a young child in full, but this is beyond me. The memories of that time before are distant and hazy, the happiest days of my life denied from me by that storm and all that it brought. The ocean is my most vivid of all these mirages of thought, infinite in its reach, unassailable and invincible.

The ocean is often thought to bear all the emotions of people, paving the way for many of the tribes of the land to worship it. Bearing their woes and pains to its stormy grey expanse, the roaring tides its words and the crashing waves its stern reply. I may have been one of these peoples, a pleasing image, my childish form wrapped in their deep blue cloths, the shells in my hair clattering as I ran from the waves.

I remember a woman who I hope I called “Mad-ha”, a blurring mass without definition of form. A ghost from my past, the comforting spectre of home that smelt of lavender and was warm to the touch. She inhabits my dreams, the heavy and weary world that comes with the dark-fall, only to have her slip away as I wake; to bear the leaden heart in my ribcage another day. I may have had a brother, a tall and sinewy near-man who may well have tended to the Sea-Gods, or maybe even a simple farmer; to know either or none would be a joy to me.

Many of my suitors (Of which there have been infuriating amounts) have had to have their frames thrown at the holes my father figures left behind, the hardiest soldiers and the most learned men of our age have always seemed to falter in the light of my memories of the man I called “Father”. More of this I cannot say, but I now draw from his numerous diaries the more intimate account. Many have speculated, wondered, praised and reviled in my father’s legend (Though he strongly denied possessing any powers other than experience and common sense) But it cannot be refuted that his diaries and journals paint the most vivid and brutal picture of our island’s darkest days.

- Reth Harrows, as dictated to by Her Majesty.






Chapter One

“Many have speculated on the collection of tales and songs in our fair land (His Grace Be Praised) that tell of “The Wanderer” a foolish and altogether infantile expression of the lower class’s rage at their own incompetence. The songs depict a man of great age who has mastered the ways of the Old World, who with effortless skill can improve the lives of the ingrate poor around him. Sowing seeds that harvest every year, toppling Purebloods from their rightful chairs of office and other such fantastic suggestions.”
- Marteen Foot, “Songs and Tales of Ingand”

“The Wanderer’s a’lurkin,
The Wanderer’s Abaat.
Watch his white hair whistle by,
His ’ood as blue as sky.
Ee’ll cut them with his surd,
Until ee’s ‘ad ‘is fill.
‘Is eyes as sharp as razors,
His tung is sharpah still!”
- Unknown, From Lower Regions, Most likely Cornall.

I watched the cliffs finally give way, the splintered peaks shatter like glass, the earth roar as an entire world was obliterated. The child lay shivering in my aching arms, the rain lashing at our faces; the wind relentless. The skies crackling with spouts of blue, rumbling thunder boomed and seemed to shake the trees from their roots and the teeth from my skull. I felt the tiny bundle shake, her wails punctuated my racking sobs and cries.

Our clothes were soaked and hung heavy upon us like mail, and my white beard matted and filthy. I felt the winds pushing me towards the sea; a great spectral hand forcing my bleeding feet. The climb from the beach had cut my boots to tatters and most probably lay in bloodied rags along the path of jagged rock that I had climbed mere minutes ago.

Alone atop the hill watching the wrath of the unstoppable sea, devouring the walls of rock, clawing and scraping the buildings down with it. Homes, churches, people were lost in the falling cascade of rock, wood and mortar, ground to dust. I wanted to cry, I wanted to feel as I had felt the first time I had watched the very same sky and very same sea destroy my home. To weep uncontrollably at the devastation, but as I looked upon the face of true chaos again, I laughed. A bitter and caustic chuckle that made my heart ache and eyes water, the irony of once again watching our struggles disintegrated was overpowering.

Falling to my knees, the rocks cutting into my flesh again, I howled and cackled like a madman. The tears rolled down into my mouth, salting my visage of an old anguish relived. The little girl that I had managed to save stared up at me through a sodden veil of black hair. Her reddened eyes blinked through the tears, flashing the green that lay amongst them, I felt the world slow. Staring at that poor child, the weight of my old bones seemed heavier than ever, the sting of my bleeding feet and knees gathered strength.

“How can I save you?” I croaked, the wind howling; suffocating my words in their din.

“I can’t even look after myself…Old fool” I felt the acid tongue of my grin lick at me, to feel the absurdity of it all,

’The blind leading the blind’

She seemed to not understand, or to not be able to surmount her grief to even think, she was clutching a necklace in her hand. A chain of copper wire, holding a clutch of seashells, and a plume of tattered feathers; black as pitch. It rattled as was buffeted in the raging wind, they were the feathers of a crow. She looked me in the eyes, and her mouth started to shake, after a while the words came shuddering out.
“I want to go home” she sobbed, I felt the sorrow, the desperate plea of a rain-soaked child, longing for a refuge; one I could not provide.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” I muttered and thought of some way, some way to tell her, that she could never go home. The words passed from my lips like dust, destroyed instantly by the wind, a hollow apology from an old fool to bandage the cruellest wound. I cradled her in my arms as the storm raged atop the craggy hill, feeling the soles of my feet weep blood and my body shudder with cold, waiting for justice to be done knowing full well it would never come.

It is clear that I lapsed in and out of conciousness for a number of hours, I must confess journal that I recall little.

I awoke to the sounds of gulls, their prattling caws grating at my thumping skull. The sun had decided to show its face, the glare filling my eyes as I blinked and gawped like a freshly landed fish. I rolled on my side and felt the heaving cough rack through my ribs, a dusty and hacking expulsion of air that left me grimacing in pain.

The child had risen and was watching the sea, calmer now, glitter in the morning sun. She looked almost serene, her blue robe fluttering gently, the necklace clattering around her neck. The dirt had encased itself around her, the nicks and bruises that bore the proof of our narrow escape, had only started to heal.

I tried to push up on my hands but the muscles protested, leaving me to groan and thump back onto the grass. I had managed to nestle into the shadow of the hill during the early hours of the morning, whilst the child was asleep, cursing the wind and rain as well as my bloodied feet. The rolling hills and cliffs of the coast were laid bare, the wind-bent scrubs rustling softly.

The child turned and watched my display of exhaustion, she could not be a day over nine. Her face was gently tanned, elfin with her ears sticking out ever so slightly, the green eyes still circled with sore red skin. She looked inquisitive, her head cocked, trying to comprehend the battered and white-haired man coughing his guts into the sod. I tried to smile but felt the cough rise again, it was several minutes before it subsided. She thumbed her necklace nervously, never raising her head she muttered.

“Cliff’s gone” came the words, heavy and thick. I propped myself up on a rock, feeling the numbness in my side turn to needles.

“Yes” I murmured. It was a long time before either of us spoke. The wind rustled the scrubs and I watched the clouds roll, I ground my brains to find a way to tell her. The storm had been brewing before I had arrived, the villagers had gathered in the church and implored me to help appease the sea. They had all the food they had, in barrels, ready to be cast into the waves; an entire harvest. I wanted to tell them what fools they were, to run, to hide. But I knew that such heresy would have bought me in the scant and freezing wooden halls. Clamouring and praying in their blue cloth, throwing the grain into the howling gales, crying as their offerings were ignored, it would have been funny if it wasn’t so tragic, so commonplace.

“The churck…I can see it nomore” she mumbled as she watched the sea, gazing at the pile of rock that was being pummelled by the waves. I saw the tears well up again, the lead curtain was beginning to fall, the slow and steady beat of comprehension.

“My 'ouse is gone…”

She started to weep, the quiet and subdued sobs gently rocked her back. I mustered my strength and crawled on my knees to her, biting my lip as the gravel dug deeper into my cuts. I placed a weathered hand on her shoulder and she recoiled, spinning wildly she turned and wailed.

“You didn’t 'elp!” she exploded, her face frozen in a wild and untamed anger.

“They said you woulda 'elp us, use your power to stop ah storm” she spat as she shuddered with rage. I saw the burning rage in her eyes, the utter and unassailable conviction, the blame. Her short black hair was being tossed wildly by the wind, making her visage all the more fierce. I began to explain in a calm tone, hoping to stop her doing anything drastic, I was in no state to chase her, and in the woods beyond she would not last long.

“I need you to listen” I put out my hand, as if to steady her. She blazed with rage but let it grasp her.

“I am not what they say I am” I said in the most clear tone I could muster, through the burning pain in my knees and feet.

“They may have told you silly things about old men with white hair, that they can perform miracles” She started to slow her breathing.

“I am not that man, that man does not exist” I hammered it home, watching to see if my plea had landed safely. She began to speak, her rage subsiding, the heat leaving her gaze.

“They said…You were daht man fromma songs” She said, I felt the disappointment in her voice, the despair.

“No, but I did manage to do one thing, I got you out” I smiled my crooked smile, that fact did give me comfort, my warm and burning truth; I’d saved one. She did not smile, her face was as solid as the cliffs, but she looked me in the eye; the flash of green.

“What do we gon do now?" she mumbled. I took in a sharp breath and started to search for a suitable stick.

"We walk"