There was still half an hour of daylight left-more than enough time to trek back to the orphanage. The snow already stood at a foot and a half; just over my knees. Hugging myself for warmth, I began the hike to the other end of the village.
It was bothersome, the two most important buildings in my life being on opposite ends of the village. Naturally, the good people of Wilkreth didn’t want to see the sad orphanage right in the center of their happy little village. I pulled my hood lower and trudged on, some snowflakes got caught in my long ebony hair that cascaded down my shoulders, outside of the hood.
Leon’s herbarium was only just down the street from the schoolhouse4. I watched Madam Gurdurt and Madam McEnery as they ruffled the snow from their cloaks and rushed inside. A brief glimpse of my ill classmates piled on to every cot and bed the village could gather in one small shop chilled me to the bone. It was ironic; that Madam Gurdurt was consoling parents who were worried about their sick children. She was probably the one poisoning the village’s water supply with potions crafted of toenails and disease, like witches do in every story.
Poorer villages, like Wilkreth, where the money circulation was tight meant nothing to the King. The large kingdoms with selfish rulers, like Sardathel, took everything the outer villages had to give-and then some. We couldn’t even afford enough food to feed the hungry mouths, let alone a proper doctor. But we had the next best thing: Leon Avertin, a herbalist from Beryl, the capital of the North. Who (for the most part) worked entirely for free, just to help people.
I inhaled the familiar crisp air mingled with the scent of medicinal herbs and surged forward. Many years of working along side Leon had made the sour smell of boiled weeds and fermented goat feces almost homely. Before the plague, Gajeel and I would spend everyday before and after classes helping his father, replanting and gathering herbs for him. But now that was too dangerous.
The easiest way to get from the school to the orphanage was to cut through the village cemetery. I pulled open the eroding rusted gate and felt the frozen weeds catch on to the bottoms of my trousers. Across the several mile long plot of land, hundreds of moldy, decaying tombstones were spread haphazardly.
I kept count of the rows as I ventured on. Cemeteries were among my least favorite things in existence. I always felt uneasy around them. My spine tingled; the silence was eerie; the wind seemed to whisper through the barren trees like the voices of the dead-even when there was no wind, I could hear them. My mind flashed back to my nightmare, how the shadows had seemed to call my name. Once I made it to the fiftieth row, I continued north and exited the cemetery through another rusted gate.
Just as I passed the first of the common houses, a pile of snow crashed on top of my shaking figure. I yelped and frantically dug myself out of the pile. An eruption of cheers and laughter flew with the wind as I glared up at the tree above me.
“He got her!” screamed a chorus of delighted voices.
Gajeel sat on a branch just out of my reach, his face curled into a mocking grin. He was a year older than me, but no one could have guessed that if we stood side by side. Everything about his appearance screamed mischief. From his pointed ears; copper skin; glowing honey eyes; to his wild green hair. And yes, it was naturally that color.
My glare shifted from him down to the five young children crowded around me. Apparently, I had been so distracted by my thoughts; I had missed them. They had popped out from behind the tree and crawled out from beneath overgrown ferns weighed down by a blanket of heavy snow. As children usually are, they were terrible at hiding. I immediately knew Gajeel had helped them. He was the reigning king at hide-and-seek, six years running.
“What took you so long?” Freda, the second oldest of the five, asked. She hopped from foot to foot, wrapped in her fur cloak. “We’ve been waiting forever! I think we have frostbite!”
“Shut your trap! It ain’t that cold out here!” Carlisle, at twelve, was the oldest. His face was squashed together by the cap Madam McEnery had made him a few months ago. The flaps barely covered his monkey ears anymore but still he refused to be rid of it.
The two looked like they could be twins, with the same sandy blonde hair and brown eyes. But it wasn’t hard to see the difference between the two. They were only a year apart, but Freda was taller than him by a lot, and her face seemed more mature than his.
“Both of you, stop it now!” The youngest at only six years old, Mercy was the most mature, in my opinion. She was always the one breaking up the fights and keeping the older children in their place. Wren and Hans, the actual twins, were busy waging all-out war with snowballs, too engrossed in their own worlds to hear her.
Mercy grinned at me, showing off the gaps left from missing teeth. When she spoke, her voice skipped over the ‘D’s’. Berylian wasn’t my favorite language either and was very hard to understand. But she spoke it well, for a small child. “We were going to wake you up, but Ma’am Gur’urt ma’e us leave. I hope she wasn’t too ma’ at you, she’s scary when she’s ma’.”
All the kids stared at my cheek with sympathy, which was so numb I’d forgotten about the cut. Even Gajeel’s smile fell into an angry scowl. I shrugged and pulled myself to my feet, dusting snow from my cloak.
Out of all us orphans, Madam Gurdurt had always hated me the most. I guessed that was mostly because I provided nothing to the village. Gajeel was the official assistant to his father; Mercy, Freda, and Wren were pupils of Lady Marian, the village seamstress; even Hans and Carlisle were farm hands.
I couldn’t sew anything to save my life-let alone craft clothes and sell them on the market. I had a small degree of skill with Leon’s herbs, which seemed to flourish under my care. But Leon was always credited with the amazing work, not me. I didn’t mind that as much as I should have. He called my work payment for all the village’s medical needs. Like I said before-his help was mostly free to the village. If people thought I was useless, the more they avoided my existence, it meant less trouble for me.
I had heard stories about the year I was brought to Wilkreth. A baby with no family, no idea where I’d come from. The day I was left on the orphanage steps was the first of the harshest winter to ever happen in Sardathel. Every plague; monster attack; snowstorm; earthquake; poor harvest; death of livestock-all my fault in their eyes. The villagers even whispered that the most recent plague was caused by me. They thought I couldn’t hear their gossip, but I heard everything.
“She wouldn’t scare me even…” I glanced around to make sure Madam Gurdurt wasn’t standing behind me (that had happened once before). “Even if she turned into a nasty old troll!”
The children laughed delightfully.
Their laughter was abruptly cut short by the branch Gajeel was perched on, it gave a sudden loud crack. In seconds Gajeel had fallen into the same pile of snow he’d buried me in, branch and all. His snow-covered mitts flew from within the pile. “I’m still alive!”
Those words had become something of a catchphrase for him, one’s he had every cause to use. With a giggle, I helped the children dig him out of the snow. I shook my head at his casual, goofy grin. No matter my mood, or how tense the situation, his smile could always bring one to my face. It was too infectious.
“Why were you all waiting for me, anyway?” I smiled. Their eyes seemed to sparkle with joy.
“You have a new story,” Freda cheered.
“Read it to us!” Shouted Carlisle.
“Please?” Mercy added quietly.
“No, no-no, I can’t,” I shook my head, fighting the grin forming on my face. “Madam Gurdurt will have my head if I don’t get my report done by tomorrow.”
The children pouted, disappointed. I tried my best to frown disapprovingly at their pouting faces. I wasn’t doing an excellent job at acting my age. I needed to act seventeen, not twelve.
“Curse Madam Gurdurt!” Hans raised his arm to the heavens and slammed the snowball in his gloved hand to the ground, it crumpled on impact as if sealing the curse. “Always making us learn about boring, fat kings and their brainless descendants! She wouldn’t know a good story if it landed on her front door!”
The other children nodded in agreement, solemnly glaring at the crushed snowball as if it were Madam Gurdurts head. “C’mon Tara,” Gajeel joined them-that traitor. “I’ll help with your report, just a little story?”
“You guys,” I huffed. “Who taught you to be so relentless?”
“You did!” The answer was unanimous, all six of them beamed at me.
“Now you’re just being cruel,” I said, turning my gaze to the sky as the sun sank further into the mountains. “Fine, we have time to start it.”
I was met with sweet curiosity, even my own stomach fluttered with excitement. Despite the cold, my body flushed with a newfound warmth at the thought of reading a story. There was a shiver of anticipation as we searched for a place to safely hide from the snow and Madam Gurdurt. We settled for the crawlspace beneath the blacksmith’s porch. I could never forget how much these kids worshiped me, I was like their own personal Goddess: Katara, the Storyteller. Unlike the adults, the other orphans treated me like a normal person-like their family.
“I haven’t finished this yet,” I huffed as the children huddled around me in the cramped area. Gajeel himself had both Hans and Wren piled on top of his long legs. I pulled out my newest treasure. “So don’t you go asking me how it ends.”
The book was delicate and seemed almost ancient. The golden spine was worn, pages brittle and browned with age. My thumb brushed fondly over the flames on the cover, burning brightly beneath the sword and scroll that seemed to battle one another. The intricate details of the painting were mesmerizing. I could stare at it for hours and almost imagine the heat of the flames on my skin, hear the clashing of metal.
Gajeel flipped the page, seeing the intricately drawn raven on the inside. “What is this one about?”
I smacked his filthy hand away before he could rub the oils of his skin all over the paper. “Its about the third era. The story of Aria Alita and Corvus Gorat, the ones who started the War of Raven’s, the story of their courtship. It’s called The Clash of Paper and Steel.”
I traced the words of the first page fondly, while most Beryllian’s could speak our language well, I prided myself on being one of the few who could read it. Mercy, who had nestled herself in the center of my lap, stared at the strange symbols curiously, trying to decode them. I could only imagine the bravery it took, for someone to have been there in person, to write the truth for the world to read.
Skipping the historical prologue, I cleared my throat and began, ““Kill me.” The words left his lips before she could register them. This boy-a complete stranger-faced her with sullen eyes and placed a blade in her hand. The convoluted symbols along the handle seemed to glow at her touch. “Corvus,” the name left her lips, but she did not know it. An overwhelming sense of finality crushed her gut, and she knew; he had to die by her hand. What she didn’t understand was why. The boy, Corvus, fell to his knees. “Make it quick.” Hands-her hands reached out to cup his pale face, careful with the knife as her vision blurred-””
Freda jumped, bashing her head into the low wooden porch above us. “Wait what!”
“I thought this was a love story!” Carlisle agreed. “Why does she have to kill him?”
“Maybe if you lot would shut up, we can find out!” Mercy groaned. I smiled, holding the precious girl in my lap. She truly was blessed with patience and wisdom beyond her years.
Freda and Carlisle nested back into their seats, Freda rubbing the back of her head in pain. Mercy nodded for me to continue. ““She didn’t know why she was crying. Why did her heart ache so much for this boy? His azure eyes transported her to a moon lit ocean overcast with an oncoming storm. She found herself becoming lost in the never-ending waves, not hearing the angry voices from the woods around them. “Aria,” Corvus spoke gently, his voice was smooth, like gliding over a cloud. “Kill me.” The blade felt heavy in her hand. Lifting the dagger, her tears finally poured free down her cheeks. A blinding light overcame them and suddenly, she woke up…” I grinned, and glanced each of my eager listeners in the eye, slowly making my way around the circle back to the book.
“…. Aria had never liked the cold…..””
195Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNJys5WFB8v
I was sure I had frostbite by the time I made the Littles go back to the orphanage. They ran inside the two-story house, immediately ridding themselves of their soaked clothing. We had spent half the time arguing because I skipped the second chapter of the book, deeming the…situation inappropriate for the children’s innocent ears. The children wouldn’t go home until I promised not to read ahead. Begrudgingly, I had to agree.
The light from lit candles inside casts a heavenly glow. Warm and welcoming. Gajeel and I entered last, making sure no children were lost in the blowing snowstorm. We stumbled inside with rather dramatic gasps of relief when the heat smacked against us. I didn’t care that Gajeel was next to me. I started stripping off my soaked boots and heavy cloak. He wasn’t bothered either and followed suit. When all that was left was our under shirts and trousers, we rushed into the common room.
Madam McEnery fawned over the children huddled around the roaring fireplace, half frozen. When we entered the room practically blue in the face, she handed both of us thick blankets and ushered us to the fire as well. I felt safe, warm, and loved all at once as she fussed over us like a proper mother would.
“Where have you all been?” She asked. “The sun set an hour ago.”
“S-Sorry, Ma’am,” Gajeel shivered. “We didn’t want to stop the story.”
“Yeah, there was a prince, and a princess, and an evil king!” Mercy added.
Madam McEnery’s brown eyes softened. She knew how much they loved my stories. We shared a knowing look. Madam Gurdurt could never find out. She had forbidden the spread of false history.
“You’re lucky Madam Gurdurt is staying at the schoolhouse tonight,” she turned to Gajeel. “I suppose your father will assume you’re here. You might as well spend the night. No sense in making you walk alone in that storm.”
Gajeel smiled sheepishly, his fingers fiddling as they always did when he was nervous. “T-thanks Ma’am.”
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