Young Writers Society

one. a new beginning.

The world is holding her breath.

Cold, crisp, chill air lays still within the foggy morning. The world appears blurred — as if she hasn’t fully woken to the call of the day yet, and thus, is not ready to process her surroundings. Buildings crowd close for warmth over a cobblestone road, a fine layer of mist and murk obscuring them from a still groggy sun.

This may be a bustling city in the midday, but before the sun has fully stretched into the paling sky, it is more empty and ominous than a mortuary. They say the that kingdom sleeps when the king is away, and in many ways, that saying is more literal than metaphorical in Damachien. As her queen rests in her bed of stone, her subjects toss and turn in anxious slumber. Here, there are no late nights or early mornings. There are no give it all you’ve gots. In Damachien, there is apathy, listlessness, lethargy… oh, and no early risers.

It is silent.

… Clip. … Clop.

The entire city seems to shake, ears piqued at the sound.

Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.

Repetitive — resolute — sure. Can it be? Those sound like…

Footsteps?

Beneath the mist, the fog, the shivering shacks, the yawning sun, walks a young, surefooted girl. Her frame is round and stocky, her coloring dark, her cropped curls angled forwards fall just below her jaw and over the left side of her face, and her sheath is swinging out from under gray cape tied beneath a cleft chin to keep her warm and modest. Every footstep is as confident and decisive as if she owns this sleeping city.

Beneath eye sockets dark enough to sing the tale of many nights’ missed sleep lives a smile, one that seems to take up her whole visage. Dimples crease the corners of her upwards tilted face, swaying with her steps.

Dust shimmers and shakes away with each footfall. Even the water seems to dry in her presence. Buildings stand taller, perhaps in anticipation for daytime more than ever with just her arrival.

Though the stranger walks with the surefootedness and strength of a woman on a mission, behind the brave flesh is something of wonder and excitement. Dune isn’t the biggest village in Pruding, and Pruding isn’t the biggest country in the world. Certainly nothing like Damachien. Though picturesque in the still morning, she feels almost daunted staring up at the buildings around her.

Gray stone looms and leers, stunningly dark against the deep expanse of fog and sky above her. For a moment, the young girl imagines them weathered against the ravages of time — imagines them in ancient battles that she knows they never would have withstood. She envisions her fingertips tasting each stroke and inch of each stone brick. She fantasizes them painted in the blood of friend and foe alike, can just seethe glisten of rain against the lighter hues, wonders what shadows they'll cast when the sun climbs higher in the sky. She has always been strangely fascinated by stone and the homes that they create. To her, they represent the life that lives within. To her, they are the protectors of that life — much like she had once been.

She pauses, momentarily — her round shadow pulled taught on the building towering above — to ask for their grace… for their help. As she slows, her fingers rest on the hilts of her twin swords, the metal accents stinging cold from early morning, even hidden beneath the coat. Standing there, staring at what could be her new home, for a fraction of a moment, she forgets what it’s cost to get here. She forgets her exhaustion. She forgets the journey. She forgets the anxiety that’s been bubbling in the pit of her stomach since she smiled and waved goodbye to Pruding.

For a fraction of a moment, that is. As the harsh reminders set in again, she secures a bold smile to her face and her shoulders backwards.

Brown eyes move, fixed forward, on the lowest level of the stone building she’d been climbing towards since before the sky had begun to redden. Spiral staircases wind around the inside of the cyclical spirals. In the daze and chill of the early morning, she breathes in fear and breathes out excitement.

The stone door she finally approaches appears to have been assigned a single guard — the poor fellow, however, is slumped over in his full armor, leaning awkwardly against the wall to the right of the door. She cannot make out a single inch of skin beneath the metal. Still, with a smile, the young girl greets them. There is a quick bow, and her round lips open to release her name as she straightens.

“Well met and good morning. I am Azalee of — ”

SNRK!

The snore shakes and surprises her. The first instance, her eyes are widened and her body taut, rigid in fear. The second, her fingers are fastening around her lips to cover a guffaw. Eyes sparkle at the other’s drooped body.

Her hands are tightening over her face, but giggles still escape through the creases in between her fingers — how can she help it? It’s so adorable! There is not a thought that perhaps the guard may get in trouble if they are not awakened, nor that it is dangerous for them to be asleep. In fact, all Azalee does in response is to untie her hood and rest it atop of their sleeping form. It is a chilly morning, after all. In her mind, she does not even momentarily consider how she will recover her beloved coat. Such thoughts are not worries Azalee has been taught to have, yet. She sees a need and fulfills it — then turns to, hopefully, fulfill her own.

After she wrestles her laughter away, Azalee turns towards the stone door, sealed shut. It may be latched shut from the inside – unsurprising, as Azalee appears to be the only one awake, and they wouldn’t just leave one of the queen’s doors wide open for any burglar to sneak in under the shield of night. Neck craned upwards, feeling the sting of the early morning on her skin for the first time, she smiles at the prospect of her new life.

And then she knocks. Of course, politeness is foremost. But when no one answers her call, without a second thought or a moment of hesitation, she pushes on the latched door.

And she pushes. And she pushes.

But when her brute strength alone cannot break the mechanisms within, her hand moves to her hilt. She draws only one sword out — noticing that the guard next to her stirs at the sching of its release from its sheath — and fixes it inside, attempting to trigger the tools open this way. It is almost immediately evident that the soldier was to be the main bar against entry, because after only a minute or two of fiddling, the door slides open with no more than a creak from its hinges.

Tucking her sword away again, Azalee strides in, with power and confidence that seems to suggest that she is meant to be here, and here is where she’ll stay. On the dark marbled floors that stretch beneath her, an expanse like a glass mirror that somehow slightly reflects the coziness and yet aloofness that the castle walls around her hold, her footsteps reverberate and click, punctuated by the shutting of the door.

This is a foyer-like place — Azalee (potentially incorrectly) presumes it to be the only entrance from the outside into the castle. Candlesticks hold light, which reflect on the floor as if glistening pools of water. Opposite of the door is a long mahogany desk, atop of it quills, assorted books, and parchment. To the left of the desk is an arched doorway, through which Azalee can see only more flickering candlelight. Beside her there are long, stone benches accented with purple cushions to wait upon. Azalee is just about to take a seat and wait her ‘turn’, as it may be, patiently, when she hears a cry.

Azalee stands tall, eyes widened, hands automatically on her swords. The exclamation is not loud enough to stir the sleeping, but plenty loud for wakened ears to find. It is only when the same noise echoes a second time that Azalee takes off. Without thinking of repercussions — without thinking of the fear she may instigate in the other — Azalee wields her swords and runs. The scenery of the room she runs passed blurs as she slides to the door behind which the noises emniate — in her wild fear, she knocks with an elbow and calls out, “Is everything okay in there?”

The noises stop abruptly. There is silence. Azalee rises an elbow again when the door swings backwards, opening into darkness — and there, in the space of an instant, in front of her, is a woman.

She’s only slightly shorter than Azalee is, and her skin is only a shade or two lighter. Though her unkempt, gray curls and the creases under her eyes suggest she has only just awoken, the speed at which she moves allows Azalee to imagine that she waits in the crevices of the castle for any disturbance to pounce upon intruders. In her mind, she attempts to replace the thin night gown with armor befitting of a knight, and found that the woman before her would be improved and well-suited by it. Absentmindedly, she smiles.

“What do you think you’re doing, smiling like an idiot?” It is either because of her rude awakening or in spiteof it that the woman shouts — Azalee cannot tell from her position which. The woman sends her stumbling backwards, out of the doorway, as she waves her hands and shrieks. “You’re trying to rob me? What is going on in that head of yours? What are you doing in here?”

Weapons slide back into place — though Azalee is being yelled at, she can tell there is no true threat. Her smile never leaves her face as she splays her palms out for the woman, a show of surrender. She is still moving backwards, into a larger room than the foyer, one she hasn’t been given reprieve to examine yet. “I am terribly sorry, madam — I heard your shout and assumed you were in danger.”

“I was just dreaming! Gracious moons! If I were in danger I’d — ha, danger? What — who — wait, where’s the guard? Did you kill the guard? What is wrong with you? Get out of here!”

“What?” Genuine surprise comes on Azalee’s face, before she forces her grin to return. “Of course not! He was as you were — merely sleeping.”

“Sleeping — of course — that little — well, it’s what anyone should be doing at this time of — what are you doing here?” Amber eyes seem to narrow at the young girl – but Azalee only combats the anger with a brimming smile.

“Am I to take it that you are the guardian of this place?”

“Guardi – what are you – who are you?”

In one swift movement, Azalee’s hands fold to her front and her back and her body bends, giving her most sweeping, respectful bow. Dark brown curls cropped below her chin that match the shade of her skin perfectly fall in front of her face. When she straightens, her slightly slanted bangs fall back over her face, partially obscuring one eye.

She is still smiling. “I am Azalee, of Dune.”

“Dune?”

The smile slightly falters – as if shocked that the other had not heard of her homeland. “Dune… one of the inner towns in Pruding.”

“Yes,” answers the other, hurriedly, arms crossed around her chest instantly, the scowl never leaving despite the flush beginning to creep up her neck. “Well – yes – anyway, whatever! Who are – I mean, what are you doing here?”

“I heard in the capital of Pruding during my pilgrimage that there was a search for a personal caretaker and handmaiden for Majesty. I am here to confirm what I have heard, and apply for the job, madam.” And, now with a smile more shy, Azalee performs another bow.

“Gracious moons, child, if you bow any more, you’ll throw out your back!” huffs the woman. She seems incredibly perturbed for some reason. Before Azalee can contemplate that thought anymore, she bursts, “Have you any idea what time in the morning it is!”

“I am aware that the sky is already reddening,” Azalee replies, rising as instructed, “so I am aware it is early enough to submit my candidacy.”

There is a long pause after that singular statement in which Azalee can seemingly sense a million thoughts that pass through the others’ mind. Questions that Azalee can not answer without them being voiced – and then the sad, almost demotivating realization from the other that the newly awakened woman would haveto interview Azalee now, for where else would this potential troublemaker go, and what else would she do at this time in the morning, if not occupied by her?

She huffs again – as if to punctuate that she is unhappy with this aloud. “Fine,” she growls to an unasked question, “fine. Take a seat.”

“As you wish, madam.”

“Oh, shut your mouth, child. I’m not that much older than your mother is, I’m sure. Would you call her ‘madam’?”

“Of course not. She is my mother. I call her as such, regardless of age.”

Though her back is now turned to Azalee, the latter can tell the woman is rolling her eyes at her.

After running to the foyer to check that the door is sealed shut once again, mumbling about vagrants from all corners of the world creeping in if she weren’t to keep a watchful eye, the woman wobbles back into the room in which Azalee has already stumbled — the one she rushed passed in her desperate attempt to ‘save’ the other’s life. There is much at which to gawk: the black marble floors polished so immaculately, one can see the reflection of the candles hung from the ceiling; the sweeping designs of chariot races, wars, and ceremonies, cut into the stone walls and punctuated by gold plating on the edges; the candles hundreds of feet off the ground, lit seemingly by magic or will. But what Azalee finds herself staring the longest at are the lounges, the chairs – all embroidered, stuffed, and more beautiful and soft than any bed she has ever even touched. Chairs are a luxury back home. One doesn’t need them for survival. Azalee has only ever seen chairs in the committee room, the few times she was invited in for a review – and even then, they had merely appeared to be planks of wood held by rope. They weren’t carved, stuffed, or soft. They were nothing like this…

In respect, Azalee bows again and apologizes, softly enough for the other to just barely hear, for interrupting her sleep. This time, she can see the others’ eyes roll at her, and offers a small, remorseful smile as she gingerly sits down. Wow! She could just melt into these cushions. How does one even get up from such a soft surface? Is she going to fall through it?

Her fantasies of disappearing into the cushions, never to be seen again, are interrupted by the others’ strong voice. The shadows under her eyes seem to darken as she stares at Azalee, eyes momentarily catching on her swords, as if she is remembering them levied at her door. “So, you’re Azalee of Dune.”

“That is correct, madam.”

“Enough with that, child! It’s Matka of Damachien.” Nothing in her defenses have even slightly softened – there is still the air of cold, hateful hostility and frigid curiosity.

Matka. It isn’t the name Azalee would have picked for her, she considers. Matkaseems like a soft, gentle name – whereas the woman in front of her is merely a warrior that has left her armor behind. And of Damachien? Does that mean that this glorious city has always been her home? Such feels strange to Azalee. Though she has only just begun her journey, she already can’t imagine a life in which one is buried where they had been born. In the pause before speech, Azalee considers that this is how most live, and that being shocked by such is puerile. But here is Azalee — one who has never paid much mind to how others live or what is normal and expected.

Matka’s voice calls her attention forwards and upwards again.

“Tell me, Azalee of Dune.” Eyes narrow and stare at the young girl as she shifts in a seat accented with crimson cushions. “Why do you so desperately want to be stuck here?”

For a moment, there is fear and confusion in Azalee’s hazel hues – she appears momentarily frozen. But all too quickly, her smile returns, her head inclines slightly, and, with her eyes shut beneath her beam, she responds, “I apologize, Matka. I am unsure how I gave you that impression.”

“It’s the morning – hardly even morning, actually, the sun hasn’t even woken – and here you are, on my doorstep, beating down my door and begging for an interview that I haven’t been able to bribe a single person into attending.”

Of course, Azalee is Azalee. All she hears from Matka’s huffing is, I’m the first person to apply! Her eyes open as she straightens her back. Though Azalee’s confidence is washing the room in waves, the dark, dull pinpoint that seems to be Matka can not be overcome by Azalee’s newfound joy.

Perhaps Matka is currently not willing to give her anything more than glares that sting like swords seeded in acid, but Azalee is determined. She knows there is no way she can leave this room without the promise of work in the morning — it’s both her ego and the day of room and food on the line. She is goingto get this job, and thus, she determines to make the bestimpression imaginable.

“I was a hunter back in Pruding — I served my town as such for fifteen years. If you wish for me to produce scrolls of recommendations, I have them — I apprenticed under my mother, and then the head of hunting there before I was promoted to the position.”

Azalee is just remembering that the scrolls are in her coat that is on the guard, and is just opening her mouth to interject this, when Matka holds her hand to stop her. Matka’s excitement in the other has not raised at all — not even infinitesimally. “Yes, yes, child, fine. That’s fine. I’m asking: why are you here?”

“I undertook a pilgrimage!” It is with a sense of pride that these words rush out. “In Selath, I heard that there was an opening for work in Damachien, and I’ve been walking since to get here! I wanted to put in my application the moment of my arrival.”

The defenses that have shielded Matka thus far from any further expression other than annoyance seem to melt away at these very words.

“You’re… you’ve… you’re straight from Pruding?”

“That’s right!”

“How long ago did you arrive in town?”

“Perhaps… fifteen minutes?”

“Fifteen – child!” The face of Matka appears red, momentarily, flushed in anger or confusion. The stormy canvas of her face clouds over again, emotions flashing rapidly and wildly – now something ominous and deep falls over her gold eyes. Her plump fingers fold beneath her apple-shaped chin and she leans forward, obviously prepared for the confession she is sure Azalee is about to make. “What did you do in Dune? Are you in trouble?”

Azalee’s smile fades for a moment – just a moment – before giggles dimple the skin of her mouth. “Nothing wrong! I just… knew it was time to leave!”

The room around them seems to favor Matka, its mistress, the once beautiful, shining engravings of gold souring in a depression dark as the depths of the sea. Though Azalee, brimming with joy and simple curiosity, is the sun, she can not break through the storm clouds that Matka and this castle seem to have bred in their bones. Depression and sorrow had become the identity of the walls of this castle years ago, and were maintained daily by Matka and the other maids. It appears, with the set of Matka’s eyes, that she believes not even the brightest sun could alleviate this storm.

“That is exactly why you cannot have a job here.”

She stands, as if royalty. Of course, what is expected as proper manners is for Azalee to stand with Matka – but having no such knowledge, Azalee remains seated, staring upwards with her large, brown eyes.

“W – what?” The storm is beginning to coil around and penetrate young Azalee now – she is sucking in air in her shock and confusion. “Mada – Matka – I don’t underst – ”

“Of course you don’t. But if you understood, it would be too late. Go, before it is too late to do so again.”

Now, Azalee rises. Instinctively, her feet slide shoulder width apart, and one arm rests forward while another pulls back – her fighting stance. It is true that Azalee has never lived in the life Matka has lived before. She has not lived here, after all. She had been a fighter – a hunter – of animal and witch alike, in Dune. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t belong here! If she can just convince Matka of that – if she can just see, then – !

“You have to let me submit my candidacy! I am a hard worker! I — ”

“There are things you are still too young to understand. If you know what’s good for you, you will leave now.” Matka’s anger is released in staccato words — no veil or subterfuge hiding behind her tone. Amber eyes narrow as if to attempt to assess what the other will do, and how much of a threat she is.

The thing is, Azalee is not often one to rise to the bait. She was never a hunter with a quick temper, and all of her shots and strikes were practiced and careful, not instigated by enmity. But as aforementioned, Azalee is the sun — and when one gets too close to the sun, one gets burned.

“I am not going anywhere.” Her head pitches upwards, her hands curl into fists. “I walked from Selath just to apply my candidacy. You cannot turn me down without a proper meeting. This is not fair.”

This is not fair. Ah, the four magic words that Matka has appeared to be waiting for. For the first time since they’d met, Matka smiles. It is a grin dripping with antagonism, prepared and ready for the verbal belligerence that she is about to partake in.

“Fair? You do not know the first thing about fairness, child.” Each word is punctuated and broken in a clenched jaw of ire.

This statement causes Azalee to pause — fists loosen, lips fall open in a moment of thought. Azalee is unsure whether or not such is true. She still feels so young, after all. Perhaps she does not know anything about a universal truth of fairness. But there is something she does know. Something that no one else could know for her.

“But I doknow that this is what I want.”

What Azalee thinks is a pretty strong statement is almost immediately shut down. “You don’t know! You’re too young to know anything for sure!”

Perhaps, but — “Then at what age did you know what you wanted?”

The next words explode from Matka’s frame — words so booming that Azalee is sure even the carvings on the wall jumped in surprise. “I never got to decide what I wanted! I never had the opportunity to think like that!”

Azalee’s stance is still being held. Lightning struck close to her, and the thunder is still reverberating around them, but Azalee is prepared to weather the storm. For the first time, she considers where her weapons are — the two knives stashed in each of her shoes, the swords in their hilt attached to her left hip, the slingshot tucked beneath her scrolls in her cape, now wrapped around a sleeping guard. She cannot use them — Azalee doesn’t fight civilians. But, she considers, uncharacteristically cynical, that doesn’t mean that civilians won’t fight her.

“Listen to me, child.” It appears that all of Matka’s volume had already been used, for now, she whispers. Azalee feels her form loosen a bit — she takes a step forward, out of interest. “We do not get a choice. This has been my job since the day of my birth — and until my death, so it will be.”

Azalee’s nose scrunches in confusion — her head tilts slightly, and a smile pushes at her face. “Are things… not done the same in Damachien, Matka? Most, in my experience, work but a single job their whole lives.”

Fire is in Matka’s eyes, but her voice remains practicedly low, even if simmering. “No, Azalee.” Azalee’s eyes widen slightly at Matka’s first true use of her name. “You must turn around and leave, now. Before the night falls.”

“Night falls? Matka, why?”

“Your path will be gone.” A hand is brandished outwards, as if gesturing at some invisible path. “By morning of the next day, your path will have been swallowed into darkness behind you. Did you not hear from your travels?”

“Here what?”

It is with a shaking timbre her words are released. “No one who enters Damachien for more than a day can leave. We are trapped here, Azalee.”

Amusement is the first thing that gentles the curves of Azalee’s face — after all it does sound like some fire-side story, and not someone’s true life. When Matka’s face doesn’t brighten in turn, Azalee darkness her face, with a murmur of, “Oh, you are serious.”

“Of course I’m serious!”

“But — the members of the guard I met in --”

“They will never be able to find the city again. It will be lost to them, and they will be wandering, restless souls. Don’t you read any books? Moons, child. You must get out of here! You cannot look back at this city. You must go! Now, before your path is gone!”

In all honesty, Azalee cannot believe the words that are coming out of Matka’s mouth. Disappearing. Leave forever. Ha! It is like a joke, just less humorously told. She has been dreaming of Damachien’s city walls her entire life, and it’s hard to believe the welcoming stone she saw this morning may be nothing more than a prison.

But something nags and pulls in Azalee’s chest at this revelation. Perhaps it is the look on Matka’s face — the hardened brokenness of a weapon left too long in the flames. Perhaps it is the injustice of a trapped life.

Or… maybe… just maybe… it is the dark thought in the back of her mind that if things had been the same way in Dune, she wouldn’t have had to leave at all.

Azalee lets out a single, quiet, almost quivering breath.

No. Not hadto leave. Gotto leave. Azalee has the privilege of exploring the world — of seeing more than just familiar faces and structures. She has been given an opportunity that she will not waste now! She begins to remember herself — begins to stand tall again. Yes, yes. She wants this job. She needsthis job. Yes. Her resolve returns, her eyes narrow. Azalee is not walking out of that door without knowing that this castle will become her new home. Her smile returns with her confidence, and she places her hands on her wide hips as she stares at Matka. There’s a hesitation, and she bows from the waist again.

“I choose this, Matka. Please let me formally apply for the job.”

“You’re relentless.” Matka sounds exhausted as her hands comb through her gray hair. Indeed, the once volatile storm seems to be but a drizzle, now. Her amber eyes consider first the ground, then Azalee’s face, hardening as she turns the thoughts over in her mind.

Though Azalee watches her carefully, she does not raise from her bow.

“You’re not patient enough for this.”

“I am patient, madam.”

“You broke down my door before sunrise!”

“I am… eager.” Azalee smiles at the floor.

A grunt — she attempts again, voice still low. “If you stay passed tomorrow morning, you will be here forever.”

“I understand.”

“You have experience fighting. You should apply for the guard instead.”

“I would prefer not to.”

“Why not?”

“I did not come to a new city to do the same things as I did in the old one.” Her face twitches slightly in the half-truth.

Matka’s lips fall into a long line, wrinkles giving her the appearance of a frowning frog. “You would never see your family again. Any of your friends...”

“That is fine by me.”

“Don’t you have anyone outside of these walls that loves you?”

“It is time for something new, Matka.”

A pause. “What you mave have heard of rumors is true. Our Royal Majesty is stone. Completely stone. It will be the dullest work of your life.”

“Fantastic.”

“But you must be unquestionably devoted. You must give yourself to religious duties.”

“I am prepared to do such. I understand this is why it has been so hard to find another to work in this position.”

“Yes.” Matka hesitates — obviously at least momentarily curious of how much Azalee, and perhaps other outsiders, know of the interworkings of her castle.

Azalee elects to put her mind to rest. “I heard about the work through some members of the guard, madam.”

“Of course you did.” Matka's exasperation is clear. After a sigh and a moment of muttering, she continues, “You’ll need to be fully examined by The Association.”

“That is reasonable.”

“You’ll be dooming yourself. You will never, ever be able to leave. You do realize you will be trapped, right?”

“Trapped is the word you would use. I would use… job security.”

It appears that Matka is electing not to be amused. “I will need to offer this job to all of the Queen’s Maidens first. Make sure there is absolutely no one who wants it.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Oh, gracious moons, will you just stand up! My back hurts just watchingyou.”

Still beaming, Azalee rises, hands folding in front of her as if to pray. She opens her mouth, but Matka’s voice is faster.

“You’re going to give me Hell, aren’t you?”

“Well… that is not the position I am applying for.” Her face breaks beneath the stress of her simper. “Does that mean I have the job?”

Matka’s eyes are still narrowed, unconvinced of some untold truth. “If you pass the examination, and none of the Queen’s Maidens wish for this job, and you pass the training rounds, and you promise to no longer bring blades into this castle… then… perhaps.”

It is a figurative foot in the door, but Azalee rejoices no less than as if this woman has promised her salvation. Hands fly open and clasp around Matka, squeezing her to her chest. The pressure on her heart releases a string of words of gratitude and joy, tears pricking passed the press of her eyelashes. And though Matka rolls her eyes and attempts to evade the grasp of the girl that has been bothering her since before her eyes opened that day, in that moment, both of them are joined in a feeling. There is suddenly the smell of dust and light and, as they embrace, Azalee giggling and Matka muttering, the two of them feel the warmth of dawn as it begins shining through the storm clouds that has been polluting this castle for centuries.