sarahbarah

FROM THE EMBERS

 

Queen Amaya the White Flame

Battle of Hippo’s Gorge c. 518 E.S.

 

 

Amaya did not know how, but she knew it would be today.

 

She had insisted on seeing the flowers. The summer - the Haeseni summer, that is - had just come; the light that filtered in through the hospital window had a rare warmth to it, and lit motes of dust that drifted through the air. The dream-catchers and charms that surrounded the Queen of Haense’s sickbed stirred in a gentle draft, and, somewhere in the hospital, a set of windchimes sang dulcetly. Amaya blinked away the haze of sleep, and stirred beneath her blankets. On a bedside stool, Deia idly worked a set of knitting needles as she sat her vigil. With the scent of medical incense heavy in the air, that soft wind, and the light … 

 

I could just let go, here and now … Amaya thought distantly. Her groggy eyes shifted towards the doors; she could hear snatches of laughter in the sunlit streets of Valdev beyond. Laughter, chatter, and someone was even playing a domra, somewhere. I could let go now … and see the others … 

 

She closed her eyes, and released a shuddering sigh. Amaya had always been a humble woman; from the moment she had been crowned Queen, to when she had raised her glaive in battle to kill a man, she had done so for reasons that were well beyond herself. And yet now, the thought of quietly dying in a hospital room …

 

“Deia,” she muttered as she forced her eyes open, and her handmaiden looked to her with a jump. “I … need you to do something for me.” 

 

“M-Majesty?” Deia breathed, her eyes as wide as ever. “I … yes, of course. Anything.” 

 

“I want …” her body protested as she sat upright in her bed. She ignored it. “ … to see the flowers.” 

 

 

Her sunset passed in a blur.

 

After accepting the well-wishes of a last flock of visitors, they left the city in a small party. Amaya walked slowly with her cane, and though the fur cloak felt heavy on her walk, Deia’s arm looped in hers was all the strength she needed. At her side, the boots of Leonid Kortrevich - the Lord Marshal - crunched in the gravel as he followed their slow pace, his forearm resting on his scabbarded blade. 

 

As they crossed the bridge out of Valdev, the world felt more … colourful than Amaya remembered.

 

The evening sky was a rich orange-gold, marred only by a few stray clouds, and its light flashed brilliantly against the currents of the Dules as it rushed under the bridge. Beyond the bridge, the rolling expanse of the Karoswood were a vivid patchwork of green shades, from the deeper shades of the ancient evergreens, to the bright fresh blooms of ash and beeches. “The flowers,” she murmured, “the flowers must be beautiful today.” Even now, awake and walking, she still felt so … dream-like. Is this what death feels like? Still, though, in an even odder way, it felt like someone was shaking her, trying to wake her from that dream, as she hobbled on.

 

“They will be, Majesty,” Deia assured her. The handmaiden almost sounded frightened. “You’ll see.” 

 

 

Sure enough, when they descended from the main road and down into the woods that blanketed the foothills of Morteskvan, wildflowers poked their colourful heads through the woodland foliage in defiant beauty. Amaya could have almost wept at the sight of them; the Haeseni seasons were long and cold, and so a bloom like this was a rare sight indeed. They abandoned the road, after only a gruff protest from Leonid about her condition, and strolled beneath the trees until they found a clearing where the flowers were most abundant. 

 

It was there that Deia laid over their picnic blanket, and Amaya had sat. It was also there that their fourth guest had joined them - Amaya had barely noticed the sound of a horse’s hooves crunching through the foliage until she turned her head, and saw a white-cloaked rider silhouetted by the light. 

 

“What is this, Deia?” Villorik grunted with a customary frown, and a letter gripped in his hand. “Her Majesty is not yet well enough to be out.” 

 

“Villorik!” Amaya chimed. “Come, join us! We were just about to have a picnic!” 

 

The surprise rippled across the warpriest’s face, and then his frown softened. Amaya knew he didn’t have the heart to protest her, but that was just fine - for as long as she could remember, he had always been brooding and dour-faced. A chance to sit down would do him some good. Besides … it’s not like there would be another. 

 

For all the aches of her body, Amaya felt … elated as, mere moments later, she sat with with those three: Deia, a woman who had meant more to her than a mere servant; Leonid, a boy she had raised and had grown to love as a son; and Villorik, who had always watched her as a silent protector, and, while he would never speak the truth of his heart, Amaya knew it all the same. 

 

For a time, they sat in a weighted silence. Amaya knew today would be today -- and they all knew it too. Despite that, she could help but feel so at ease. It’s … so strange. Her eyes trailed to the branches above; she watched as a blue-plumed bird and its hatchlings hop from branch to branch, shedding some loose leaves in their clumsiness. 

 

“Are you afraid?” Villorik asked after a long moment. Judging by the frayed edge of his tone, though, the fear was his own. 

 

“Afraid?” The word was a strange one to Amaya; she could summon countless memories of when she had been afraid, when she had felt her weapon take the life of another soul on the countless battlefields of the Covenant War. Amaya knew what fear was - and she did not feel it now. “No … not anymore. I am sad, is all - sad to leave this world behind.”

 

“I see. That is good, then,” Villorik murmured. Amaya’s misted eyes panned to him, but he, too, was looking up into the trees. “Value comes from contrast, Majesty. Without cold, we would not know the meaning of heat. Without the horrors of the Shadow, there would be no comfort in the Light.” His eyes flit to her, and she was almost taken aback; it was not the usual stoney facade of her brooding friend, but that of the boy she had first met in the fight pits of Karosgrad, so many moons ago. “If you are sad, then it means you lived a happy life. Contrast, you see?” 

 

As the birds sang around them, she looked across the picnic blanket, and gave Deia’s hand a squeeze. “It’s been my greatest blessing,” she said weakly, “to have loved, and been loved. Thank you - all of you.” 

 

 

As the wind gusted, Deia’s hand in hers, the breeze carried the scent of earth, pollen … and something else. 

 

Something evil - she was sure of it. Today was going to be the day, after all. 

 

“You should know that your pyres cast long shadows.” The voice, chilling and dripping with malice, swept the sunlit clearing like a spectre. “Did you think your sins would go unnoticed?”

 

 

It happened so fast.

 

Amaya did not know how long the demons had been watching, but they made no secret of their presence now. They coiled their way out from the shadows of trees, their eyes alight, and their heads mounted with horns. Isn’t this … a dream? She blinked groggily. She could still smell the faint traces of the hospital incense, still feel the warmth of her blankets. Am I … already dead? Vaguely, she felt that same sensation she had on the bridge - like someone was trying to shake her awake. 

 

She was vaguely aware of the demonic voice calling out again, as hellhounds prowled around their feet, and magic hummed in their hands. “ … Accept my blessing, and you shall live; deny it, and you choose suffering …” It was all so distant, though, as if Amaya were underwater. She could only blink absently when the fighting started - when a hellhound rushed at them, and a torrent of malflame assault came thereafter.

 

What a strange … dream … She watched as the hellhound went down to one of the men’s glaive, and the surge of malflame spray off Villorik’s snowy cloak. Why would …? Then, as fast as everything moved, it seemed to inexplicably slow down. One of the horned demons stoked a fireball in their hands, twisted glee in their eyes, before she sent it surging towards Villorik. Oh … she thought distantly. Villorik is going to … 

 

… He’s going to … 

 

… die. 

 

 

Her ears seemed to pop. Blood surged to her brain. From whatever death slumber gripped her, Amaya awakened. Her hand shot out with a strength did not know she still had, and yanked Villorik back, just in time for the fireball to sail past him. Despite the demons before them, Villorik could only stare at her in shock.

 

“Your Majesty!” Deia shrieked. “Come, we have to -” 

 

“No,” Amaya protested. Her hand shook as it moved to her waist, and drew her sabre, but she drew it nonetheless. “... I can still fight!” 

 

Villorik’s surprise subsided, and though the smile left on his face looked foreign, it was genuine. Today was going to be the day - she knew it, and they knew it too. With singed streaks on his white cloak, Villorik turned back towards the demons, and advanced with clanking footsteps. 

 

It was Amaya’s turn to watch in shock, then -  never before had she beheld such raw intensity emanating from the stoic Ruthern. His demeanour crackled with an infernal fervour as he hoisted his poleaxe high, bringing it crashing down upon one of the malevolent demons. The clash of steel against otherworldly flesh sent shivers down her spine, leaving her in stunned disbelief.

 

As Amaya gripped her sword, she felt Deia’s arm tug at her. “Your Majesty,” she whispered as the sounds of battle ensued. “Please - we have to …” 

 

A third arm intervened, as Leonid gently lay his gauntlet on Deia. With the evening sun falling sharply on his face, he wore the same smile as Villorik beneath welling eyes. “It’s … okay, Deia,” he said gently. “There could be no better way for her.” 

 

No better way … Amaya’s own eyes misted at that. She had never relished fighting, not after all the years of bloodshed in the war, she had always been able to swing her blade with such conviction - to kill with such conviction - because she knew there was a purpose. She felt that same strength today - the final vestiges of it - but now she knew she fought for her own sake. 

 

Her own soul.

 

Her own glory. 

 

“Deia.” She spoke with a steadiness she didn’t think herself capable of. “I … am ready.”

 

The rest happened in a blur, but not as it had in her slumbering state; no, now the fading Queen fell back to the instincts that she had honed in the battlefields of Middelan. She powered through the soul-stinging chill, sprayed from the mouth of one of the hellhounds, as the demons commanded their beasts to advance … and yet that pain was nothing to Amaya; it was nothing compared to the loss of Veronica, who died saving Amaya in the disastrous Battle of Westmark.

 

She buried her blade into the maw of one of the hellhounds, and pinned it to the ground. When she was sprayed by a torrent of malflame once again - this time by her own brother, whose true form was obscured beneath demonic horns and glowing, empty eyes, that pain was nothing compared to the pain of when she had lost him in the first place. 

 

The clash of metal and cries of pain echoed around Amaya as she moved in that instinctive haze. Her sword bit once, then twice, as she cut down two more of the hellhounds as they rushed at her, and though her sword-arm threatened to give out from the pain of the malflame, that pain was nothing compared the pain of her capture by the forces of Veletz, and left to think that she would die without ever seeing the light at the end of the war.

 

Yes, that’s right … A thought skittered across her mind as the hellhound’s corpse turned to ash at her feet. She was only vaguely aware of her companions, locked in mortal clashes around her. Back then, he saved me … In the blink of an eye, the demon dashes through her periphery, obisidian-coloured tail snaking after her, and her blade lunges towards Leonid. 

 

The demon emitted a shrill sort of screech as Amaya surged forward, her own blade aimed with deadly, practiced precision. It’s almost over now, isn’t it? Just… a little bit more. Amaya expected her blade to bury itself within the recesses of Laelia’s flesh, and yet…

 

…now, she was behind Amaya, driving her blade deep into the Queen's side. It sliced through flesh, and crunched through bone. She felt herself sag to the side, and the air leave her throat in a gasp. Is this it? She felt herself falling, and … No. Her leg shot out to balance her, and she grit her teeth as the pain lanced through her body. Like everything else these creatures might toss their way, the pain was nothing; she had watched friends and family die, killed the friends and families of others, and felt the weight of the world on her shoulders as the Queen of Haense. 

 

“You can’t… get rid of me… that easily!” Summoning the final ounces of strength within her, she swung the pommel of her blade towards the demon’s skull. The blow landed with a satisfying thud, in spite of the searing pain that coursed through her veins.

 

Amaya stumbled back as the stench of ash and blood permeated through the clearing. The cloth of her dress was singed from malflame, the skin beneath twisted grotesquely, and blood ran in a heavy stream down her leg. She was spent; she could feel it. And yet she kept heaving breaths through her tired, aching lungs, and brandished her sword in a trembling grip.

 

The demon that stood before her glared through warped eyes, but Amaya must have looked even worse than she felt, for the demon’s lips twitched into a spiteful grin. Instead of finishing her off, she spared her a moment of respite and turned to Leonid, who stood mere paces away with his own blade brandished. 

 

No … She tried to hobble forward as Laelia advanced on Leonid, but her battered leg refused to move. If I can just … kill her … With a ring of steel, Laelia’s weapon met Leonid’s. The Marshal was weakened, that much Amaya knew, from some accursed spell cast earlier in the fight.

 

Villorik suddenly closed the distance from behind, and buried a jet-black dagger into the demon’s back. Leonid, weak as he was, countered swiftly, and sent Laelia reeling to the ground with a counterstroke. Tears slipped down the ailing Queen’s cheeks, mingling with blood and soot that accumulated upon her flesh.

 

In one swift motion, the demon’s blade that sought to strike Villorik in retaliation, instead found itself embedded within the Queen’s chest as she whisked the Cardinal from the path of peril.

 

 

 

 

In the midst of an open field, where the earth met the sky in a vast expanse of green, Amaya bled.

 

First, she saw herself as a child, dreaming of a destiny beyond the confines of her beginnings. She remembered the sudden departure of her mother, taken by the cruel hands of battle; then, her father's disappearance, setting her adrift in a world that seemed intent on swallowing her whole. Still, her heart, an untamed tempest of ambition, yearned for the crown that now weighs heavy upon her brow. 

 

The air was thick with the scent of crushed grass and the metallic tang of blood. 

 

There was Aleksandr, the boy with steel eyes that never seemed to land on her, and there was Fabian, with his enigmatic smile and prophetic tarot cards, who whispered of a destiny written in the stars - a queen destined to rise from the ashes of her past.

 

“Which is it?”

 

“The, ah,” the thin-faced boy stared at her, soft eyes glinting with mischief – and worry. “The Empress. Your fate is with the Empress.”

 

Blood mingled with the earth.The lilies that cradled her form now bore witness to the crimson tide that paints their ivory petals red.

 

She recalled her upbringing, the early years shaped by loss and longing for something greater than herself. The fondness for strange bugs, the late night hunts in the Queenswood, her penchant for medicine and sword fighting alike - all mere fragments in the grand, beautiful mosaic of her existence. 

 

Her breaths came slowly now, like soft whispers of the wind rippling the grass she laid in. The corners of her vision blurred.

 

“This feeling I speak of, Amaya, it ravages within me. Fate has made it so, I am meant to be King,” spoke Aleksandr.

 

 “My question is simple: Are you meant to be Queen?”

 

There, in the quiet solitude of the hunting lodge, nestled beneath the watchful gaze of towering pines and the gentle murmur of a nearby stream, she pledged herself to him, her heart laid bare as she vowed to bear the weight of the Crown with courage.

 

 

Streams of golden light dappled her bloodied form as she saw her children's faces, their smiles etched into the forefront of her mind. She recalled how Emma wished to reach the stars, her bright smile always unrelenting; how ambitious Ivan had become in his duty, and how he glowered when she pushed vegetables onto his plate; how little Robert always kept himself tucked behind his mother’s skirts.

 

In the distance, she could almost see them - the figures of her ancestors, translucent and ethereal, beckoning her towards a warm light.

 

She had no mother by blood, but a shepherd in Elia. A brother in Carolus, Erik, and Fabian. A light in Villorik, Timofei, and Aleksandr. A friend in Marian, Rosalind, Liridona, Deia, Ioanna, Cedomir, Seraph, Alasdair, Leonid, Andrey, Esfir, Esmeray, Torrugr, Otto, Klara, Henrik, John, Verdier, Konrad, Haus, Walter, Siegmund, Reza, Ilaria, Aveline, Milonir, Viktor, Audo, Veronica, Dimitri, Ramona, Rhys, Rowena, Derek, Andrik, Franziska, Stefan, Catherine, Mikhail, Alfred, Gwenyth, Wilford, Atticus, Irena, Josefina, Poppiya, Ludvika, Vandira, Aurelia, Grelu, Canonius, Emigliana, Scrap, Ofeliya, Adela, Liesbeth, Svetlana, Tatiyana, Sigmar, Katrin, Thondorus, Stanislaw, Xalek, Roslin, Alyona, Manon, Christopher, Makaela, Nataliya, Marjoreya, Amari, Garen, Lorcán, Lottie, Alfie, Edmon, Aster, Iduna, Rozsika, Murtagh, Mahaut, Adelina, Laurissa, Vlad, Enrico, Andrei, Fiona, Ronja, Elaina, Demitrey, Arthur, Tensei, and so many others that she loved. 

 

She found solace in the promise of the Seven Skies, now - a realm where the anguish of her illness would be but a distant memory, where her spirit would soar unencumbered by the constraints of her ailing flesh.

 

“. . The light calls.”

 

And so she rose from the embers of the mortal coil.

 

 

 

“About time, Amaya,” uttered a gruff voice.

 

Blearily, the fallen Queen reaches towards an outstretched hand. Her cousin, Carolus, meets eyes with her. She was somewhere far away, now - somewhere warm and light.

 

“You did well,” spoke another voice. This one was much softer. It was Elia’s.

 

The shepherd pauses, taking in the aged features of the Queen. Every scar, crease, and dimple upon her face told a tale of a life well-lived.

 

“I am proud of you, little raven - as are the others.” 

 

The gentle glow that emanated from Elia’s ethereal form unveiled a scene of unparalleled beauty. Before her stood centuries' worth of ancestors, their arms outstretched in eager anticipation of their returning kin.

 

Every figure was bathed in golden light, their fingertips aglow as they beckoned their Queen home, their kindred spirit. And like a chorus of ethereal voices carried on the breeze, she heard it - a collective whisper:

 

“Family through fire.”

 

---

 

 

 

Penned by the hand of HRM, Amaya of Venzia

 c. 515 E.S.

 

O THE HAESENI PEOPLE, 

 

As I pen these words, my heart swells with gratitude as I reflect on the honor it has been to serve you for over three decades, and thirty-five years as your Queen. Through times of war and peace alike, our journey has been one of shared triumphs and unity. It has been both an extraordinary privilege and a humbling experience, and I remain forever grateful for the opportunity I have been given to serve the Haeseni people.

 

Our Esrova Court has remained resolute, standing at the very forefront of humanity in spite of unrelenting challenge. Our streets have echoed with the joy of bustling festivities over the years, and the unity of our people remains unparalleled. The men and women of our court rallied beneath the Rosen Banner during such aforementioned periods of conflict and forged an auxiliary force that not only bolstered the Covenant's numbers but also exemplified the strength that lies in our collective persistence. 

 

During my time within the Court, I have endeavored to cultivate and celebrate what it truly means to be Haeseni, conducting historical studies and exploring the nuances and varying sects of Haeseni culture. Today, the Haeseni people stand as a defined entity, distinguished by their customs, traditions, and beliefs, all reinforced by the spirit of our Esrova Court - an undying hearth that fuels the fiery resilience of the Haeseni people.

 

Yet, the ebb and flow of time proves that the winds of change are an inevitable truth. The Royal Court, a living institution, cannot be confined to the vision of any single ruler. As I grow older, my bones weaken and my illness stirs; thus my vigor to maintain the upkeep of the Court has diminished. In light of this, I have decided to delegate my courtly responsibilities to my successors. I place my utmost trust in my son and daughter-in-law, Ivan and Nataliya, who will usher in a new age for our beloved Court.

 

Whilst I have vacated my administrative role within the Court, my commitment lies with the Haeseni people nonetheless. The doors of the palace will always be open to you, whether it be to hear your petitions or to share a cup of Carrion. Know that you will always find a willing ear and an open heart within these walls, for it is the Haeseni people that I owe my endless loyalty and service. Until the day GOD calls for my ascent to the Seven Skies, I will stand at your side, a steadfast ally to the end.

 

 

 

Her Royal Majesty, AMAYA OF VENZIA, 

Queen-Consort of Hanseti and Ruska, Princess-Consort of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duchess-Consort of Carnatia and Vanaheim, Margravine-Consort of Korstadt, Rothswald, and Vasiland, Countess-Consort of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, Toruv, Valdev, and Werdenburg, Viscountess-Consort of Varna, Baroness-Consort of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, and Astfield, Lady of the Westfolk, et cetera.