THE COIN-EYE [PK]

[Axelu 4333]

 

THE COIN-EYE

Cecily Amelia of Alstion

“Did you know, sweet Cecily - that we style, and bear iconography of the world’s most selfish, and prideful creatures?  It is a strange ornament when you truly understand what it means to share in their blood.”  - Alexander Caius

“Cecily, come inside.”

The girl sat cross-legged in the posterior gardens of The Hand of Horen, one eye hidden beneath her windswept hair as she sorted small stones into circles on the marble tiles. Her father’s voice carried from the archway, faint yet firm, and she turned, rising obediently. Her mother stood beside him, veiled yet boasting a vitality in her eyes that betrayed the modesty of her unshapely garments. 

Inside, the halls breathed of wax and smoke, the walls lined with banners of House Alstion, banners that, in time, would burn; an irony of dynastic proportions, for it was the dragon, a Harbinger of flame, that adorned it. She passed beneath their weight without thought, a child unaware of what awaited her.

“You wander too far from your lessons,” her father chided softly, straightening the fall of her skirts. Her mother voiced, then, “You are a daughter of kings, Cecily. One day, people will look to you.”

She laughed, bright and guileless.

“No, Mama,” she whispered. “They’ll look to Godwin.”

They smiled and said nothing. She would come to learn, in time, how silence can be the cruelest omen.

 

The Daughter of Whitespire

Cecily was born in a marble bastion that no longer stands, the second child of King Charles Reman of Aaun and Hedwig of Warsovia. She was an elder twin to Charlotte, elder sister to Marcus, and younger to Godwin, the brother destined to inherit Aaun and the ancient glories of their line.

But destiny is brittle.

When Cecily was still young, her father and mother conspired to slay her uncle, James of Whitespire. For their sin, war resumed with the state of Ravenmire, and many territories and lives were lost. Saint Raguel descended upon the city in wrath, and the once-shining jewel of the Heartlands was scorched black. The towers fell, the banners burned, and the Alstions were unmade in a night.

Her family scattered. Cecily was spirited south, by the kith of her friend, Maude, to the wardship of the Prince of Valentin, while her siblings were sent into the Pontiff’s keeping at Lemon Hill. There, Charlotte shed her name like a skin, became Charlie, and later Charles, growing into piety and disillusionment. Cecily was instructed in statecraft by the reclusive Prince, and was treated as his daughter. When asked if she would like to join her siblings, by a pontifical courier, the youth expressed apprehension; apprehension to be surrounded by the stark reminders of what she had lost. 

Godwin remained with Charlie, albeit briefly. He bore the crown under pontifical regency, but when she was scarcely grown, he too was gone.

It was meant to be his burden, his birthright. Instead, the weight of it fell upon Cecily’s shoulders, a yoke she had never sought, and would never escape.

The One-Eyed Girl

The mark of her bloodline was set upon her early. Cecily came into the world with one eye clouded, white as snow, bereft of sight. So too had her grandmother before her borne the pallid orb, and Lorelei of Enswerp, her cousin and dearest companion in childhood, carried the same affliction. The People of Middelan did not call it chance. They called it Curse. 

It was said to have begun with Johannes van Aert, Governor General of Veletz, and his fateful marriage to Klara Miray, others name her as Mariya Barbanov, whose dowry carried a legacy more weighted than royal blood. From that union issued a judgment: that every firstborn daughter of every son sprung from their line would be born marked, one eye turned to milk and darkness. Not merely a blemish of flesh, but a sign that Heaven’s gaze no longer rested kindly on Middelan.

What began as a van Aert inheritance did not remain confined. When Amelya of Middelan wed into the House Alstion, the curse stretched its long fingers into the line of John I of Aaun. From then onward, even the high halls of Alstion were shadowed. The taint of Middelan passed quietly into that royal blood, reappearing with cold precision among daughters otherwise destined for glory. It became a generational burden woven into the fate of two houses, a mingling of northern heresy and imperial pride. Thus, with every girl-child born with a sightless eye, white as snow, the reminder was given anew: some unions are struck not in blessing, but in judgment.

The curse lingered, etched in Cecily’s pallid eye, and mirrored in the elder Lorelei’s own. Yet if their blood bore heaven’s disfavor, their hearts knew none of it. The white eye was a mark of shame to their houses, but between them it was a secret emblem; proof that they were bound by something older and deeper than mere cousinship. As children, they were inseparable, the sun and the moon, running through Whitespire’s courts hand-in-hand, whispering secrets in the alcoves, and laughing until the night swallowed them whole. Their uncle, Alexander Caius, would refer to them as coin-eyed, a doting and affectionate declaration that reminded the youths of their individual worths, even in teasing. He passed in her youth, but in his final days, he gifted her, Charlie, and Lorelei a dragon plush toy, respectively. It smelt of him, and she embraced the final relic of her beloved uncle closely on the notice of his disappearance. It was an heirloom cradled with each of her children and the eldest among her grandchildren. Decades later, the scent of Alexander had faded, but it had not waned in significance for the matron, nor had it for Lorelei. 

Years after Whitespire had fallen, politics drove them apart. Lorelei remained where Cecily could not. And Cecily chose Alba.

They met again, long after their parting, on the eve of Cecily’s daughter’s marriage. Neither spoke much of the years between them, for they hung too heavily in the air. They simply stood side by side, dimmed halves made whole again, if only for a moment, with hands held. 

The Crown

Cecily observed the weight of the crown upon her father. Above the sleek golden band that circled Charles Reman’s brow, his hair was already turning grey; beneath it, his eyes were tired, and lines had begun to etch themselves into his face. Before councillors and courtiers his posture was impeccable, yet among family it collapsed, and the burden of sovereignty showed itself plainly.

She had thought herself spared, as the second child, the one who would stand behind Godwin and simply be. Yet with Godwin gone, and Marcus thrust into illegitimate kingship above them both, Cecily was pulled into a legacy by legitimists that she neither sought nor claimed.

When her distant cousin, Edward Caius, approached her with a marriage proposal, she initially delayed her response. He was a third-cousin of hers, a great-grandchild of Charles I of Aaun by his second son, Prince Emil, the Duke of Balamena. Yet, the young man’s removed distance from the Crown did not stifle his ambitions. He was no Prince in status, but his character and steadfast discipline kindled a flame in Cecily that would guide them to success in the years to come. Alba needed a hand to hold its banner. And Cecily, though she never bore a coronet, with Edward beside her, bore that weight nonetheless.

Together, they became Princes of Alstion, Lords of Alba, and in time were granted ducal lands by the Holy Regency. Under Emperor Tiberias Horen, they rose further still, styled Archdukes of Alba and named Princes of Alstion once more.

And yet, Cecily elected never to permit the archducal coronet to strain her brow. The Noble Diet of 2003, when President Levi Summers of Salvo attempted to assassinate the Johannian pairing and their nobles, altered her perspective forever. Often, she catastrophized over the blood nearly spilled that day; of her supporters, her blood; their legacy. 

“Crowns are for kings,” she once murmured to Edward,
“But Alba is not ours. It was borrowed, as are our lives.”

She ruled not as sovereign, but as servant. It was both her nature and her choice.

In her later years, weakened by the cancer that had plagued her for two decades, she was given tinctures and remedies by Ana de Montcalm, the archducal alchemist, to ease her pain. One night, in the haze of those draughts, Cecily dreamed. And there, through the dim, came the familiar presence of her uncle, Alexander. They spoke much, as they often did, of her legacy. Cecily’s feet were always steadied on the ground, and spoke of herself with an acute sense of humility, of duty to what and who was lost before her. 

“Even what is bygone may leave vestiges, to value, to embrace.”

“But - not every hand is so blessed as yours, or heart. All the little victories name you a winner in your courts, as well as heavens, you know,” The fallen Prince, inhibitor of the heavens, and all worlds betwixt them and earth, spoke to her, “Once but every-so-often is one like you born into our bloodline.” Alexander tilted his head, a faint smile in his eyes, a gesture so familiar that it pierced the dream with aching clarity. They lingered there, speaking softly as though time itself were suspended, until Cecily woke, and the vision dissolved like mist at dawn. 

 

Ghosts of her Blood

Her siblings remained the unquiet ghosts of her life.

Marcus, whose clai to kingship divided them, she loved still; fiercely, quietly, without demand r expectation. His crown had driven a gulf between their houses, but never diminished her affection. In her prayer, she did not ask for his triumph or his fall, only that he might be granted peace.

Charles, her twin, had once been her other half, the echo of her every thought. Alba shattered what had bound them, and silence fell between them like a sea. For years, they lived estranged, their bond carried only in memory, and tempered by resentment coaxed by a crown that was no longer theirs. Yet in their late years, reconciliation came not through words but through presence: walking side by side beneath gray skies, seeking the sheep Charles tended. They said little, for little needed to be said.

And Godwin… Godwin remained absent, unburied, yet eternal. Every decision Cecily made carried the weight of his shadow. Every title she bore was one he should have held. His name was a wound she never spoke aloud. 

.

.

.

Her children, however, were no ghosts, but the substance of promise and hope:

In Elizabeth, her daughter, ginger-haired and bright-eyed, the curse of Middelan broke. She bore no pallid eye, no mark of Heaven’s disfavour. She was an Empress-to-be, the successor to the motherhood of man, and already First Lady of the Empire of Man. Where Cecily’s sight faltered, Elizabeth’s gaze was whole, clear, and unclouded. 

Her son and successor of she and Edward the Elder, Edward the Younger, carried the weight of rule with gravity, yet not without gentleness and charisma. In his wife, Jane, Cecily found one she respected, and in whom she trusted the future of their house. From Edward sprang grandchildren, and in his eldest, Margaret Cecily, she beheld herself anew. The child bore her name, her curiosity, her fierce clarity of spirit. Cecily cherished this most, that her likeness might outlive her not as a curse, but as a strength.

Her younger son, John, she loved no less, though his path diverged. Where Edward trod the road of duty, John strayed toward fulfillment, toward the quieter joys that crowns and councils could not gratify. She saw freedom of him. Whilst Edward embodied her burden, John embodied her yearning. 

The Last Vision

Years before her passing, Cecily wandered beneath the quiet boughs of Adria where her grandmother Amelya had once walked. Once a bastion of the bygone League of Veletz, not a single soul meandered that day; it reminded her of Whitespire. Her ill humors had limited her mobility in advancing age, and she often succumbed to the same bouts of hallucinogenic daydreams that she had in youth. There, beneath the filtered green light, she dreamed and saw her uncle Alexander as he had been in youth.

He smiled, his arms open. Over time, he welcomed her again and, beside him, Esfir d’Arkent beckoned with laughter in her eyes. Cecily joined them beneath canopies, at riversides, in distant planes and strange lands, and even the skies, where the sunlight turned gold upon their hair.

When she woke, each time, she wept, for she thought him long dead. His memory felt like a whisper of what she had left behind in childhood: security, familial unity, privilege without burden. 

And so, when the end came, and she lay upon the settee of Castle Morvelyn’s hosting chamber, those who kept vigil swear they heard her murmur, faint and serene, as though to one unseen:

“It has been so long,” she whispered, her breath a thread of wind.
“Take me home.”

Perhaps he did. Not then, but rather, as the great ship that took Cecily and her husband Edward, to the shores of Balldur, veered off course, and submitted to the thrashes waves of the island’s foreign seas. The waters rose in fury, striking against the timbers as though Heaven itself sought to reclaim what blood and burden had wandered too far from home.

There, upon the unquiet deep, Cecily’s mortal course was ended, as the vessel that guided them settled at the cusp of lands just beyond Balldur, that descendants would one day come to know. No chapel bells tolled, no banners of Whitespire fluttered at half-mast. Only the sea bore witness, cloaking her in salt and storm. Yet even in that distant place, word of her passing drifted back across Man, carried on sailors’ tongues and chroniclers’ quills, until her name was spoken in hall and hearth alike.

Thus the curse of Middelan, borne in her pallid eye, was at last stilled… not by healing, no, but by the hand of the sea. And yet in her children, and in their children’s children, her shadow walked still, tempered into strength, until the mark of her blood became not doom but remembrance. As the sea stilled, the sun's rays distorted the horizon, and from it rose a great magnificent beast, whose thrashing wings rippled air and water alike. It is a shame none aboard lived to witness it.

Spoiler

 

Epitaph in the Capital of Alba to come:

Here lies Cecily Amelya of Alstion, Princess of Alstion, Archduchess of Alba,

Patriarch of the Johannians, Arbiter Draconis
Daughter of Whitespire’s kings, one-eyed.

She bore no coronet,
Yet carried the weight of crowns long fallen.

The sun and the moon set apart,
The greenwood opens.
She has gone where the lost are found.

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

[ncarr 2806]

“Sit up, Jane.” The voice came in a low tone and from the Furnestock Duchess’ flank, the one-eyed Princess of Alstion its origin. Jane had slumped at her mother-by-law’s flank, her posture stiffened suddenly at the woman’s beckon. 

 

Still, beyond death, Jane carried Cecily’s words with her. The doting guidance of a mother, perhaps not in blood but in counsel at the least.

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

[brujera 1152]

Elizabeth's quarters laid in near darkness, the only light of a lone candle held within her grasp. The emerald necklace her mother had once clasped at her throat lay discarded there, its brilliance dulled in her anguish.

"What sin have I not atoned for, what vow have I not kept, that Thou shouldst heap sorrow upon sorrow?"

[Mattiii 1663]

Edward the Younger stood on the ledge of a cliff, overlooking the seaside settlement of Oldebridge, established by the Alban diaspora on the western side of the Isle of Kalldur. Peace and quiet stretched across the coast, though on the rocky shores below a single plank of driftwood turned and rolled, half-sunken. He narrowed his eyes, lips pressing into a thin smile. “A sign enough.” He murmured. “The sea has had its due.” For a moment, his hand lingered over the pommel of his blade, slender fingers drumming, before he drew in a deep breath. “So be it.” With that, he turned from the shore, though his glance lingered one last time upon the empty expanse.

[kuerbis 3802]

R!

[kuerbis 3802]

The morning light shone brightly through the stained glass in Margaret Cecily's chamber, making patterns on the floor. It seemed blinding to her, such a shine so very early in the day. The girl had taken ill again, a while ago. Though she fought her illness on most days, her spirit seemed unchanged. On this particular morning, however, it appeared dimmed, for an uneasy feeling had settled into her core.
A hand ran along the length of her pet ferret's back. She glanced at her furry companion with colourless eyes as one of the handmaidens started tying her hair into a simple braid.

"Did mine Lord Father tell thee, dear Manon, why he doth wish to see me so very early? He usually sees me in the afternoon..."

The girl's inquiry, however, was met with silence. The silence worried her further, making knots in her stomach as she paced the halls with uneasy steps only quarter of an hour later. Once she arrived at her destination, her pale knuckles rasped against the oaken door to her Edward the Younger's study. 

-x-

When she came out, only around ten minutes later, a part of her world had shattered, but Margaret dared not to cry just yet. She forced herself to walk with her chin kept upright, for her mother did find it unfitting when she slouched. Only as she was almost back in her chambers, once her eyes had spotted a flag on half mast through one of the arrowslits, did her mask finally slip. A breath caught in her lungs for too long, a cough that brought tears to her eyes - or was it her beloved grandmother's death that made her cry on the spiral staircase? As she started running further up, the girl tripped, which caused bruising on both knees and a scratch on the palm of her hand. As the white fabric of her skirts was sullied with the ichor of her blood, the same blood that had now stilled in Archduchess Cecily's veins. Upon arriving back in her chamber, Marge locked the door so not even Margaret's sisters could enter. The girl took  a seat in her favored corner, made cozy with pillows and blankets, and let her bony fingers trail prayer beads as silent tears fell from her eyes.

Her Archduchess; her matriarch, teacher, idol, her grandmother had passed away. How could life ever be the same when the woman who always managed to bring a smile to her face has left this mortal realm and a deep void in a young girl's heart?

[valecu 2128]

The shining beam of an ancient Alstion met that of Cecily. In her ascension to the Heavens the freshly deceased was welcomed by Eleanor, an ancestor of the prior. Seemingly the women shared close fates and had much chatter to do.

[MunaZaldrizoti 8037]

A letter was delivered to the marbled dormitory of the renowned boarding school Brillantmont, where the young Susanna Aldersberg was knelt down in her noontime prayer. She had arrived upon Aeldin some five years previous, at the shared expense of both her father and the elderly Archduchess Cecily. Were it not for that Johannian matriarch's letter of recommendation, the youngest daughter of Dover would likely have still felt as listless as she had those years ago when she had spoken to the Duke of Furnestock about her future. But now, she had recieved an education far superior to any her own family could have provided her - studies befitting some of the greatest women in Humanity's history. It was often she thought of that one-eyed Alstion, and bid her a thoughtful wish of good health before she came to rest her head each evening.

 

"From Aevos, my lady," The page had bid in a quiet squeak, before he scurried off to attend to his other duties. As the young lady's pale fingers pressed open the wax seal, her pale azure gaze wandered over the sprawling countryside of Velling. It reminded her of home. But as her eyes beheld that news, of the Archduchess and her death, her flaxen brows could only crease. The sentimentality of a grateful ward seemed to compete with what now her father had put to parchment, an order for that prodigal daughter: that she must return home.

[Cheese 8881]

Esfir hadn't known Cecily too well, not until her later life. But in their few meetings, in which the Archduchess prodded at points of pain and weakness, the d'Arkent beheld a woman of greatness, of perseverance, of nobility that wasn't just a title. Perhaps, in another life, Cecily would have been a niece proper, the family the aging Duchess yearned for so bitterly.

 

On the beaches Kalldur, Esfir held a raccoon-fur hat in her lap, and she stroked it. Its pair was gifted to the same departed Princess. "...Good Cecily has passed too?" She queried, saddened but unsurprised by the courier's news. She knew of the Archduchess's ill health, and it wasn't too long before that Esfir's own boy passed of similar complications. This grief she felt for him... was Cecily's remaining kin burdened to feel it too? This ache, that no one should have to bear? Her thoughts went to her uncle, Alexander, first. Then they found Amelya, whom she also met briefly. How were they? Were they well, in these times of strife? Were they receiving the support and comfort they needed?

 

"Strong Cecily Alstion," Esfir repeated, tilting her head skywards towards the moon. Dragons once owned those very skies; they touched the heavens themselves. And now, that same dragon-eyed Cecily Alstion would as well. "-Rest well. And... might Alexander be comforted during this time too."

[DancingZebra267 1626]

Spoiler

good to see Vincenzo in the background.

 

 

Either way, he hadn't really rp'd all that much, but from what I saw from the side, was great quality rp, not to mention a well written pk post. o7

 

[LithiumSedai 5750]

"Let God be the final judge of all allegiances."

 

- Attributed to Saint Calliope of Merryweather, friend to Charles I of Aaun

 

 

[Olox_ 4318]

Charles Alstion was lying in his chamber, bedridden, in one of the fortresses located on the Kalldur Islands when he was informed of the death of his daughter. The Johannian's face showed sincere sadness, even though he had not been very chatty in recent months, as the old monarch was growing weaker by the day "A good child she was, even if sometimes difficult to raise. I am glad that I was able to speak with her one last time before she passed away-" At that the deposed King paused "Before I myself have passed." Old Alstion's eyes filled with tears and his head filled with thoughts of his wasted life "Have I not been punished enough? Why take my child when you could take me? Oh Lord, why did you make me a father..." He whinged to himself before lying down once more to rest - he knew very well it would not be long now.

[annanicole__ 2802]

“Lorelei, you are the eldest child of the new generation of the Alstions. You must lead by example for your younger cousins. You have the eye. You are the moon, and Cecily is the sun. You must always remain together, for you are one,” their grandmother whispered as Lorelei sat nestled in her lap in the gardens of the palace of Whitespire. The scent of roses drifted through the air, and the silver of twilight seemed to crown Lorelei’s hair even then.

 

For many years after, Lorelei and Cecily were inseparable. They ran through the halls of Whitespire like shadows and light, the moon and the sun, bound by laughter, by secrets, and above all, by their shared gift—their matching eye. But time has a cruel way of parting even the closest of kin. As they grew older, paths diverged. 

 

Now, many years later, Lorelei was still the eldest of their line. Wrinkles touched her face, her hands bore the mark of years of work, and her solitude had become her daily companion. She had not seen Cecily in so long that sometimes she wondered if memory itself had embroidered her cousin’s smile brighter than it once had been. Still, her heart longed for those days of youth when sun and moon had walked side by side.

 

“Lady Lorelei, a letter has been sent to you.” Lorelei turned from her roses, brushing soil from her fingers. She broke the seal stamped with Cecily’s coat of arms and felt her heart catch. With a sigh, she lifted her gaze toward the glowing sky. “She is the sun now… and I will soon be the moon. Then, at last, we may be together once more.” She thanked the servant softly, then went inside to fetch her prayer book. She opened it to the chapter she and Cecily had once recited by candlelight as children, the words carrying her back to whispered promises and shared dreams.

 

Later, she knelt before an old locked chest, hands trembling as she turned the key. Inside lay a dragon-shaped plush, its stitches still strong, its colors still bright despite the years. Uncle Alexander had given it to both girls, a gift meant to last a lifetime. Lorelei held it close, pressing her cheek to its worn fabric. “I wish I had stayed with you, Cecily, as Grandmother once told us to,” she murmured. A tear slipped free, landing softly on the plush. “But soon… soon, we will be together again. The sun and the moon, as we were always meant to be.”

Spoiler

 

 

[Marilyn Monroe 362]

Louise, the Baroness Artois, half-delusional, gazes upon the lady entering the gates of the Seven Skies. 

"Good lord-" She says to herself. "Who even knows who is related to whom considering the many illegitimates these men have sown over the years." She shrugs, smiling upon the new arrival.