THE MEMOIRS OF QUEEN CATHERINE I OF THE PETRA - Blood on Small Hands

[Zaerie 3414]

— THE MEMOIRS OF

 QUEEN CATHERINE I

OF THE PETRA —

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

– BLOOD ON SMALL HANDS –

These memoirs are a private record and are currently unpublished.

5-10

 

I wish that I could say that I had a long, fun, and care-free childhood. Nothing would be further from the truth. In reality, it always felt like my skirts were stained with blood as I walked a path of death and horror. If only I could say that if I had been larger, the pool of it wouldn’t have felt that deep, but that too would be lying. The list of those that have died around me or because of me is a long one.

 

You would expect that a girl of less than ten would’ve been considered off-limits from the harsh realities of the world, but you would be disappointed. Perhaps it all happened to prepare me for the rest of my life, perhaps the world knew who I must become, and that I needed to be stronger than I was. Perhaps I needed to be shown the horrors of both the darkness, and of humanity itself so that I might make the correct choices to uphold the good that remained within it. I’m torn, still, if I should blame myself or not. Most would, and do, tell me that it’s not my fault, but how can you help but jump to the conclusion?

 

Perhaps the reason I chose red for many of my cloaks and dresses was because I thought the invisible blood on my hands might blend in among the threads. After all, my Grandmother said it herself when I, a six year old, had the arsonist executed. “You have sinned, you must go to confession, you must repent.” How did I sin? I was later told that I hadn’t, that it had been justice not sin. What is the difference? Where is the line? Can an act be both justice and sin? When does the scale tip? Does justice outweigh sin or does sin outweigh all? I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but I’ve decided that I’ll just assume it’s better to repent for everything. Because if nothing else, at least I will never commit the sin of never apologizing to God for my actions.

 

Men had captured him, Flint, the arsonist. Came to me to tell me of an attic of flesh and teeth. Me, a girl of six. No one else was around, you see. No one else could handle it. At first all he did was deny. No, he didn’t burn the town hall. No, that wasn’t human flesh in his attic, he knew nothing about it. No, he did not burn those two children alive. No, no, no- then who? But it had been him, for when I began to speak of finding people to run a trial, so that I didn’t have to do this- he forced it on me anyways.

 

Suddenly, it’d be too much hassle, a trial, in front of all those people, perhaps lying in front of so many scared him, perhaps he couldn’t handle lying to an adult, only a child such as myself. It seemed mostly that he found it a waste of time. “I confess, I did it. I burnt the town hall, the dog within, the children within. I am guilty and I confess.” And suddenly, a much larger task was on my shoulders. It is one thing to beg adults to run a trial, to put the burden to someone older, to someone that could handle it. It was on me. They looked to me.

 

And so I ordered his death.

 

The execution was really a turning point for my life. I think that is when people around me began to notice what was happening - the burdens on tiny shoulders. My Uncle Alberic specifically noticed. The growing monster that stalked around the Commonwealth with the face of an innocent little girl; who maybe if allowed to continue on would’ve lost the understanding of the value of a descendants life. I was not allowed to turn into that monster, however. I owe that to Alberic. He began to visit far more regularly, pushing my Grandmother to allow me a childhood and to be taught more properly. Between him and Rhosyn, I became a person with sympathy and empathy and sometimes, far too much of both. Not that I’d have a normal childhood anyways, but at least I didn’t execute anyone else for six more years.

 

Unfortunately, Alberic’s influence couldn’t solve the harshness of the world, only the harshness of myself. When the dead men grabbed me, my empathetic heart didn’t save me. Nowadays all I usually remember are chained wrists, a dark water filled cave, the Deadmen’s faces above me, and being chained to a tree set ablaze. They had grabbed me from the road outside of Marignan. A small girl grasping a wooden flute and a doll that I believed to be my mothers spirit looking over me. They stunk like death and rotting flesh, they reeked of despair, outrage, and a horrible fate coming. Surrounded, they chained my small, small wrists together, and I still wonder where they found shackles that size, and who makes items built to hold small, scared, and sniffling Princesses.

 

The Theonus family had noticed, by then, that I had been surrounded, and the Dead men began to tug on the chains. Dragging me off down the road, towards the riverbank, still clutching my beloved doll and flute. They tossed me into a rowboat, and we drifted from below the star covered sky into a musky cave. From there, I was again hauled up onto a rock, where their leader and second taunted me while the others intercepted the Theonus’ rowboat fleet coming to my rescue. While they battled in the water, I was cut and cursed. A scar that still shows on my forehead stays with me from that night, though I no longer try to hide it.

 

As the Theonus drew nearer and the Dead men’s chanting subsided, deprived of enough time to properly sacrifice me, the second in command seized my chains and my Petrine Knight doll- ripping the doll in two and wrapping the other end of the chain around one of the cave’s trees. I was secured to the spot, unable to move far from that anchor tree as he began to light it ablaze. They left, then, fleeing as all I was able to stare at was the growing flames that I was unable to run from despite the river that surrounded me, unable to reach it. Returning to Vallagne and being saved from that blaze and cavern is a blur.

 

The curse is a separate memory, with its two long years of pain. A childhood of curses, prophecies, weights upon my shoulders and the ebb and flow of a river that cared not for my age. I suppose one day I should thank Deadmund for that lesson in resilience, it seems that I needed the practice for later.

 

Thank you, Alberic, for helping me cure that curse.

 

I suppose it was lucky that the next few years were mostly calm in comparison, if you can call attending diplomatic meetings and being told of my Grandmother being threatened by Veletz ‘calm’. It wasn’t a kidnapping or executions, so in comparison it was. It seemed that all of the harshness of my early youth prepared me for the harshness that would be my early reign, it was clear to even me then that my Grandmother, the mighty Queen Renilde I, ‘The Lioness’, was getting tired. It felt quite like I just simply was not growing fast enough for the tiredness seeping into her bones. A small girl racing to grow up so that she might be strong enough to uphold a battered and scattered people. I wouldn’t grow up fast enough, and it was impossible to wait longer. And so, we stopped waiting.

 

So I became the ten year old Queen.

[Andustar 2123]

"'Twas merely my duty, Catriona."

Albéric whispered, reading his niece's expression of gratitude under lantern light.
"There will be many more obstacles to face, for your rule has just begun. Surmount them with honour, integrity and compassion."