THE CUPBEARER

[MunaZaldrizoti 8037]

Spoiler

 

 

THE CUPBEARER

 

 

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Hunting had never been something Milena vas Ruthern was fond of. Most outdoor excursions or activities held very little of her interest, despite her father's constant lecturing about their house's natural inclination to more martial pursuits. Fortunately, her wardship beneath King Ivan of Haense had been the thing to save her from such a  fate...though in truth, it often felt more like a punishment. Day in and day out, she trailed after he and his wife, the imperious Queen Nataliya, with goblets and bottle at the ready. In truth, she considered them no better than drunkards as of late, but some sympathy had been found for the couple since the passing of their only daughter, Princess Anastasya. Despite her diligence, she had grown to feel like more of an indentured servant than a pupil to be educated. The thought crossed her mind of how she might be a noblewoman to be made example of, to order about in an effort to embarrass her titled sister.

 

"Ruthern," The Queen huffed in her direction.

 

In the midst of their hunt, they had taken respite in a clearing of the Ferdenwald. Prince Leon of Reinmar and his wife, Princess Adalfriede, had invited the royal house of Barbanov on a hunt to which Milena had been summoned as royal cupbearer to attend. Their party had just felled a great stag, kinsmen of the princely Barclay stringing it to one of their saddles. However, it seemed the mission of her own monarchs to imbibe until they fell into a stupor. As often she had, the young noblewoman had begun filling those bottles she bore with springwater halfway, to keep them both from seeming entirely disoriented. However, with only a small pause did she protest and filled for Nataliya a cup of the Haeseni liquor. In doing so, she was distracted from the current happenings, a helmed man addressing the royal hunting part and speaking to Ivan himself. What stirred her and grasped her attention was the insults that followed.

 

"******* King of Haense," This anonymous outlander spat at the dirt, recognizing the Barbovic monarch. All eyes fell upon him, some more insulted than others. King Ivan himself seemed unamused. Milena could've sworn she saw a glimpse of amusement cross the face of the now-former Palatine, Ivo Radovanic. A reminder of her growing hatred for the commoner, raised too high above his station in life. She contented herself always with the fact that she might one day return him to those humble beginnings, for all the insults and dismissal he had paid her.

 

Amidst her imaginings of plots and schemes and the future, she felt the shove of the Queen's goblet against her chest. The Ruthern scoffed beneath her breath. This woman had often taken Milena into her confidence, speaking at length about secrets no others knew. But now, in view of these Reinmaren allies, she was treated no better than a handmaid. Her eyes, dark blue and stormy in shade, only follow that goblet dully as it slipped down her dress and landed in the muddied dirt below. She heard the ongoing exchange ahead of her, but cared not for what was being said. Another peasant, to complain about how life had given them favor whilst it had reduced him to irrelevance. Typical.

 

But suddenly, the outlander's phrase shifted...a threat. "I will see you bleed, as the rest of us do!" A bottle was produced, shaken before any could raise any alarm or attempt to stop him. A liquid violently whirled within, before it and the glass shell that enclosed it was flung forth. An assassin, come to claim the head of her guardian and monarch.

 

In that moment, it felt like time slowed. Her eyes lifted, from the cup to the King to the outlander. Her mind, quickened since birth, attempted to think of some plan. A way to stop the regicide that seemed entirely unstoppable. In that moment, all she could conjure was the thought of Josef, the King's second son. Her closest companion. A boy of age with her, whom she shared an ancient gift with. Her affection for him had changed, now that they were older, but it was something she would never admit to anyone. Something she knew he did not even notice. He bid of her to respect his mother and father, for she was oft one to grumble about their differing treatment of her. She would die for him, if he needed. Not just for love of him...but because he was the only person in the world who understood her completely. A kindred spirit. Two souls, bound together by the threads of fate.

 

Her legs moved before she knew what was happening. The bottle of carrion she bore slipped from her hand, forgotten. She mustered her courage, of which she had in spades but rarely put into use, and thrust herself against the King's side. She heard the curses of Nataliya behind her, feeling the consort's fingertips graze her sleeve in an effort to pull her from the impact. A dour figure appeared out of the corner of her eye, likewise acting as shield for the King. Good, she thought. I will not die alone, atleast.

 

The blast was quick, but it felt as if someone had ridden their horse straight into her. Her whole body bent and contorted, feeling her feet leave the ground. A rush of wind, howling and whistling, filled her ears before she felt a sharpened pain. She had collided with something hard and unmoving, sending her blurred vision to the soil below. Her limbs were tangled around the roots of a tree, but she felt not the lingering energy to remark on it. For the first time in her life, she could give no opinion or remark of distaste for her current state.

 

He will have his papej, atleast.

 

And then she saw nothing but darkness.

 

---

 

A warmth enclosed itself around her, stirring her to awaken. But she knew it was not real. In her life, the curse of the Barrowborn had rendered her dreams lucid, always conscious to what was going on around her. Many times, it was the spirits of those who lingered, conjuring visions of the past or vague symbols to warn her of the future. Those darkened circles beneath her eyes were the evidence of such prophetic nightmares. But this one felt different. It was not eerie, but a sensation she had not often felt. Tranquility.

 

She was standing within the feast hall of Castle Morteskvan, her family's fortress and home. Music played, light and airy, and the great tables were laden with rich dishes and roasted game. She saw her siblings: Svetlana making jests at Mikhail whilst Belisar and Sigmar spoke of some recent excursion to combat bandits in the wilds. Even Stefaniya, sickly and abed, was sat amongst them. Her features were healthy, as if she had never known ailment in her life. Milena's eyes drifted foreward, to see her eldest sister Tatiyana. She looked regal in crimson, neck dotted with onyx and citrine. Milena envied her, for her beauty and birthright, but admired her all the same. Beside her stood Lorcan, her besotted intended, an easy smile upon his lips. He had always been so kind to his beloved's youngest sister, never one to judge her for her differences. But Milena paused, noticing small figures skirting about that blissful pair. Children, black and blonde of hair, giggling and cheering.

"Milena..." A voice sounded from behind her. It filled the Ruthern with both awe and dread. She turned to meet the face of Mikhaila vas Ruthern--her departed mother.

At her side, vigilant and stoic, was Ser Rickard, Milena's father. Their union had been one of great controversy, a common-born knight wed to the heir of that ancient house. But her mother had been stubborn, love winning out over the snobbery of the Haeseni nobility. Milena had often thought she inherited the trait from the late-Baroness.

 

"I have lingered here for some time, my littlest one." Her mother's features looked upon her youngest with confusion. "And now finally vy come...to join mea. The last essence of mea life that I gave to the world." Milena's brows knit into a line. She did not understand. "We shall be together. Look, at all that awaits vy." Mikhaila paid a nod towards her kin, the merriment having continued on without her notice.

 

It was all she could do, not to run towards her siblings. To embrace that ideal image, the loving family she had longed for since childhood. To hold her mother in her arms and learn from her, to see her face when she one day accomplished all she meant to. But the realization passed over her, that this was an offering of temptation. As the Morovar queen had often advised, spirits were just as like to deceive as they were to advise those with her ability. Milena was being lured into death. And she had spent much of her life thus far contending with that uncaring force.

 

"Niet," She sounded, turning back to her mother, denying herself the luxury of comforts she had never known in the waking world. But she had vanished. As had Ser Rickard. And as Milena turned back to observe the scene she had taken in just earlier, the hall had begun to break apart. The candles flickered out, the howl of cold winter winds rushed all about her and carried away her siblings as screams left their lips. A darkened void loomed over head, leaving her all but a stoney platform to stand atop.

 

A guttural growl emitted from that darkness, something sinister and wicked. For all her courage, this was something she had yet to encounter, sending a shot of ice down her spine. Swelling her breath, her gaze rose higher. As it did, a grotesque figure emerged, wreathed in shadow. A draconic skull, horned and fearsome, sneered down at the small Raevir. Those empty sockets seemed still to bore into her very soul. Above him, that same crimson eye she had dreamt of in seasons past. In an instant, the scene below had shifted. The platform was raised above the Highland Realm, flames and ash licking from beneath her. The City of New Valdev was in ruins, melting like wax into the River Lahy.

 

"SAVE US!" The voices of the living and departed blended together, all trapped within the streets of her homeland's capital. "SAVE US! SAVE US!" But she could not move. Her legs were pained, heavy and without use. Her dreary gaze only watched as her people burned to ash, at the hands of those malevolent creatures. Tears sprouted from her eyes, looking on in horror.

 

This was her purpose. This was her will to live. She would not be Oracle of her kingdom, but her visions would keep them from extinction. And they would keep Josef from harm. The only one she might be selfless for. Her eyes closed and a rush came inward, as if everything and nothing had come to strike her all at once.

 

Dawn crested over Haense that morning...and Milena vas Ruthern's eyes did open.

 

---

 

Spoiler

An account from my character's perspective of some recent events, and a bit of exploration of her innermost thoughts and desires. Enjoy!
(It's almost 3am so I will fix any grammatical errors and flubbed-up sentences tomorrow!)

 

[ContestedSnow 1435]

Ratibor Radovanic had spent the 'nights' following that sudden attack, if one could differentiate night from day these days beyond the help of time-keepers, at the side of a slain Ivo Radovanic. He was still, and ghostly pale, as they who had given up the ghost tended, but the young Radovanic thought it a better respect to allow him to lay in rest for a time before he saw a pyre's flickering tongue consume him.

 

He recalled the sudden visitor's words, his shaking bottle; he recalled how he had barked out an order, for he recognised what it would precede. And yet... he had hesitated, when his spear could have struck the man from his horse, and stopped aught from occurring. He had only needed to act faster, to act with conviction. It was one stroke of his blade and all could have been cut short. Yet he hesitated. Hesitation, or some farcical mercy? Fear, of killing others? Of killing the enemy? He'd never managed to abandon that fear. Perhaps he was naive.

 

Now, Ivo was dead, and slain. He and Milena had done what had to be done while Ratibor had merely pretended.

 

"Jan. The boy..."

 

His hands shook violently, as he sat in the silence of the room aside him. Jan, his father. How could he tell his father? His uniform's furred mantle rest aside upon a chair, stained a deep, dark crimson from his vain efforts to save his uncle. Killed by his inaction. Ratibor had spent many hours following in some meagre effort at making up for his mistake. The King he had sworn to serve, injured by his inaction, and Milena too, harmed by his inaction.

 

What was the point of all his training, and all he had sworn, if he were simply going to choke up at first notice? As soon as something difficult arose, would he always fail so terribly? His teeth were grit so tight they had begun to gnash, and he pressed his palms tightly together.

 

The deathly silence was interrupted only by the occasional pop or crackle of burning firewood from the next room. The hearth had burnt through its logs once again. It needed stoking.

[ferdaboy 3472]

After receiving news of the attack on his father, Josef made his way to the clinic, happening upon Milena as he inspected the beds, looking for familiar faces. Seeing her in such a state angered him, though he was glad that she had not died. Few people saw the world as they did, and the thought of losing her was unbearable. With a frantic shake of his head, he dismissed those thoughts and set out to drink himself to sleep, just as his father often did.

 

The next morning, he awoke with the all-too-common bags under his eyes and his fingers bruised and bleeding.

[Toffee 2843]

Adalfriede drew the smoke deep into her lungs. Head tipped back, it flowed from her nostrils in twin silver spirals, some of her tension dissipating with it into the hazy air. You do not partake? Adelmar had once asked her when she had waved away the packed pipe. The one he had made with his own two hands and gifted to her, a band of intricate Reinmaren runes spelling out a word, a name. Hexenwald.

 

No. She liked to keep her eyes open, mind sharp, un-addled by smoke or drink or other earthly distractions. Usually. After the events in the Ferdenwald...

 

Another stream of smoke escaped her, this time from parted lips. From her high window, she watched those trees sway, eternal moonlight silvering the distant needles. Beneath the boughs of those trees mere hours ago, the nameless assailant had launched his potion and the world had exploded into screams and smoke and viscera. The Palatine, dead. That Ruthern cupbearer, broken and bleeding. The King, looking so small in that hulking orc's arms, carried out to the waiting carriage, the Barclay eagle painted on its side.

 

She would have spoken to him at the feast. Woman to man. Vandalore to King. Woven some words to ease any tensions wrought from an exchange of letters while they broke bread and ate of the venison they had hunted together. Two families. Two crowns.

 

They all bled crimson. Written words mattered so very little when that blood was so easily spilled.

 

Adalfriede dashed the charred tobacco from her pipe. The cupbearer couldn't be older than her own children. The thought of any of them stepping to her side, taking the full concussive force of whatever had been inside that bottle, had something grey and oily slithering through her gut. Pawns, bargaining chips, a net of safety against anyone who would remove her from the throne at Leon's side—that was what her children had been, when they were infants.

 

Now she would rather end herself and condemn her mortal soul than ever see any of them as that brave, loyal, foolish little cupbearer. Small and pale on a clinic bed in a land that was not her own, clinging to life with desperate fingers.

 

"Have you any further need of me, mein Fürstin?"

 

"Go home to your family, Isolde."

 

As her hirdwoman nodded and left her to her smoke-filled chambers, a small, seething thing in Adalfriede's chest clattered and roared to be let out. It knew that if Isolde died protecting her—something she had sworn on her blood to do—a part of Adalfriede would die, too.

 

These Reinmaren have made you weak.

 

In the face of these accursed feelings, she was helpless. As vulnerable as that young cupbearer, lying broken on the bed.

[GMRO 6186]

Far-off in lands unknown sat an old knight, thinking quietly to himself beside a fire. A self-imposed exile after a bout between himself and one daughter, he thought on about another in Milena. “She was always a quiet one. Her eyes had felt like the heart of a storm, spinning and whirling from views into the future.” He murmured to himself as he pushed the logs of the fire, the embers responding with quiet crackles. Despite the worries of how she would grow up, ever troubled, Rickard knew that Milena would make him proud.

[winterblood 11181]

A sleepless night was endured by one Rezalisa Kovachev, who took to prayer upon hearing of the condition of one of her dear friends.  Once she heard of Milena's stirring and waking, Reza hastened herself to provide her company and care.

 

Elsewhere. . .

 

An elf of lavender contemplated the sea foam that washed up upon the beach of her home, her expression was a dour one under the waning light of the Eclipse.  She could not help but linger on that of the long past, more beyond the echoes of her daily life.  Uttered words of a forsaken prophecy of crowns, keys, and eclipses. . . To find others who shared her sight was no coincidence, she realized.  They needed to be guided, to be ready for what was to come.