| View Blog
|
|
|
|
| Ayleide: Prologue |
Prologue: Birth of Andrew
The solemn fields of Ayleide were victim to foul storm as the sky, a void of radiant blues and violets, threw sparkles of lightning across the heavens. Veiled clouds of rain flew above noisily, raging with thunder that broke the spectral silence of the dusk.
At the base of a rigid mountain sat a quaint castle, standing tall before the valley beneath its craggy hillside. The ancient stone manor gave off fingers of crawling shadows from the light of the crescent moon in the starry night horizon. In the narrow window of the tower, the familiar dim shimmer of candlelight blazed through the twilight.
“Curse Tarin for making me suffer through this,” cried a woman harshly, her voice rasping with anguish and pain. She was cringing awkwardly on her back, and droplets of sweat rolled off her face and sank into the blanket underneath her. Her blouse had been pulled up to reveal her rounded stomach, pregnant and ripe.
The man staring through the window glanced at her on the floor. He turned around, his old eyes illuminated by the lamp on the table.
“Maria, my daughter,” he comforted, rubbing his scarred thumb over her brow. “You mustn’t lose faith. Your son will –”
“Father,” she gasped alarmingly, repeating her paren'ts word and interrupting the soothing flow of his words. Her eyes had turned unstable, and her breaths were no longer steady. “Before… before my time comes after his birth… you must know something. His father.”
The old man’s eyes were filled with vague curiosity. “Maria, what are you talking about? What about Kaleb?” His face twisted with concern and confusion. Surely she hadn’t…
Her eyes still refused to meet his, and her pale skin was shivering with cold. “Kaleb,” she spoke hoarsely. “Kaleb is not his father.”
The truth brought shock and hurt to the man’s heart. The prince of the state, her elven husband, Kaleb – he was not the father of her first child? The handsome, wealthy suitor of his daughter, whom he had courted for eleven years, did not sire his only hopes of a grandchild?
“Maria…” his lips moved numbly, and his soft words were almost inaudible. The Elf Elder was in an inner tirade of disappointment and anger.
“His father,” she whispered sheepishly, an almost innocent grimace on her face. “My son’s father is Aaserin.”
Her father sucked in a gasp, stifling the daggers of betrayal that were stabbing his heart.
“Aaserin! Maria,” he choked out, his words quiet. He felt sick to his stomach with rage and hurt. “You’re fathering spawn of… of daemon!”
She smiled, and sunk into the cold arms of death with her last secret shared.
|
|
Posted by bookworm14 on 2009-11-07 19:56:48 | Rating: | Views: 38
|
|
| |
|
|
Email This to a Friend 
