Siarra: Fairytales

Siarra was my first (and very short-lived) character on Chiaroscuro, originally conceived for a plot that had to be permanently suspended due to an ill-timed haitus. A young common-born child with a twin named Oren (no relation except through name to the erstwhile council-member), she had managed to capture enough attention to be groomed for loftier roles in the service of the nobles, all through the efforts of yet another.

“Once…upon a time…in a king…king-dom far away…there lived a…a…b-e-a…”

“Beautiful.”

“Uncle Ankar!” Siarra twisted around, a smile spreading wide across her features as she scrambled up from her cross-legged position. Even in her obvious delight though, she did not let go of the precious book in her hands, its value counted in the hours of labor and eyestrain that an illuminist suffered through to grace its pages with the Light’s blessings. To allow the thin album to be damaged in any manner would have meant more than mere heartache - to have it be damaged by a vassal would have been a crime deserving of corporal punishment if the owner was so inclined, not the least of which was because she had ‘borrowed’ it from the library without expressed permission.

‘Uncle Ankar’ dipped his head shallowly in acknowledgment, stepping across the tower’s top with the stately grace of a royal. His hands were clasped behind him, bearing straight and stiff and forbidding as he stopped an arm’s length from the young girl, looming over her slight figure.

But Siarra’s smile never faltered as she tilted her head back to maintain eye contact with the man, her arms now wrapped about the precious book and hugging it to her chest. “I didn’t think you were coming, but I still practiced and you can really - “

A hand rose, a silver raven adorning his third finger with its eye of cold amethyst winking in the dimming sun's light, stopping the bright spill of her chatter. Abashed, the child shrank back with a blush, scuffling her feet. “Your diligence is commendable, but do not let your enthusiasm carry you away. Remember your manners, Siarra.”

“Yes, Sir,” the girl said meekly, self-consciously assuming a more erect pose and clasping her hands demurely on the edge of the book. Despite the pall of decorum she assumes however, she is not quite able to suppress a shy peek upwards toward his face.

Uncle Ankar would have been considered tall, even amongst his peers, and the spareness of his frame made him look almost emaciated. Yet the sharp, high shelves of his cheeks and the deep hollows of his eyes served to focus the force of his character into an almost palpable aura, centered about dark, near-black eyes shaded by brows still a rich, almost metallic bronze hue, unlike carefully groomed hair that had been touched by gray at both temples. Currently, the eyes roamed critically over Siarra’s form, judgment heavy in every line of his bearing as he turned to walk a slow circle around her. Robes of deep violet trimmed in ivory moved with the heavy whisper of silk and velvet, cut and embroidered with the unmistakable talent of a master’s hand, but in a fashion that was nearly a half century old. “Very good, Siarra. You are progressing quite nicely, though you really should concentrate more time on your reading. What little I heard was well done - you have improved your pronunciation dramatically, at the very least - but you should not have stumbled over the word ‘beautiful’.”

Siarra’s eyes alternately rose and fell with his comments, finally remaining fixed on the tips of her shoes at the final admonishment. “I…I’m sorry, Uncle Ankar. I don’t have as much time as I used to. I am learning how to ride now, on a pony, and how to care for it…I am also being taught courtesy, so that I may serve the ladies when I am older.”

There was a soft sound of derision, not quite coarse enough to be called a snort, and the man strode to the tower’s edge, gazing out over the forest district with narrowed, bitter eyes. “To serve Mikin ladies,” he hissed, following the unerring lines of crenelations and walls and, beyond them, the trademark roads of the house of the mongoose - as straight, as unswerving, as stubbornly and blindly loyal to customs and rules as the people who built them.

Siarra shifted her weight uneasily, puzzled by the undisguised rancor in his voice that belied the innocence of the words themselves. Her eyes flitted uncertainly from book to man to sky and the distant forests, restless as a mouse that has caught the scent of a stalking cat nearby. It wasn’t until the breeze that habitually combed across the top of the tower stiffened and snaked through the thin sleeves of her shirt that she shivered and finally scraped up enough courage to opine, “I’ve met some of the ladies here. They…they were kind to me, especially Lady Rellakira. She chose not to punish me, when I was caught in the emperor’s gardens - “

“Silence!”

The girl flinched violently, instinct bringing her to her knees with a gasp of fright, head bowed, her knuckles whitening while the binding of the book creaked protest in her tightened grasp.

“You will not,” the man growled warningly, turning to stalk toward her with lethal, feline grace, “ever speak of the merits of any noble claiming the name of ‘Mikin’ in my hearing again. Is that clear?”

Trembling, Siarra gulped down air against incipient tears and nodded furiously, the end of her braid jumping with the motion.

Taking a deep breath, the man straightened out of his stalk with visible effort, reaching down to ghost a palm over the sleek, fiery crown of her hair, the red strands sparked to gold where the noonday’s sun struck truest. “Is that clear?” he said in gentler, but no less firm tones.

“Y-yes,” she whispered, shivering, looking up as she felt the chill presence of his hand, if not its weight. It had ever been thus; they had never touched, for one of his very first lessons to her was that she should require no more ease or comfort from him than was obtainable through words. She had never so much as brushed against the edge of his robe - and yet, sometimes when he walked too close, or when he reached out as he did now, there would be the faintest nip of damp cold, as if a wisp of fog had reached out to comb goosepimples over her skin. It both perplexed and awed her - she had never felt such a reaction before when in anyone else’s presence, and yet she was always conscious of his presence if he was near. Always. Uncle Ankar was special to her in many ways, but this single detail was one of the most compelling evidence that he was unlike anybody else in the world - and he focused his attentions on Oren and her alone. “I will not speak of the ladies again.”

“You will not speak of any Mikin if it concerns their perceived merits,” he corrected stiffly. “They have none.”

Her brows knit in confusion, trying to reconcile his words with her own impressions. “But…Uncle Ankar, they can’t be all - “

“Lies. Deceits. Illusions.” Though he would never deign to crouch down to her level for speech, his voice somehow gained the intimate resonance of a secret shared directly from mouth to ear, murmured sotto voce to a confidant. “Do you not recognize my greater experience, Siarra? Have I ever led you astray? Have I ever requested of you anything that was beyond your ability in exchange for liberties of behavior in my presence that no highborn would ever suffer, for skills and knowledge that a noble would never have gifted a vassal?”

Siarra hunched a little further into herself, muscles tightening. “No…” she admitted hesitantly, puzzling through some of the more complicated words.

“Then why doubt me now?”

She shook her head quickly. “I’m not doubting you, Uncle Ankar! I’m just…I just don’t understand…”

“When you are older, you might. But until then, I will help direct you when your understanding fails you.”

The girl nodded, the barest dip of her head, before she looked up hesitantly. “Uncle Ankar?” she asked quietly. “What if…what about Lady Rellakira?”

Already stepping back in preparation for a change in topic, the man looked down with a small frown of irritation marring his brow. “What of the Lady Rellakira?” he replied with thinly veiled impatience.

Siarra swallowed, fingering the book’s edges nervously. “She…I heard that she is to marry. To Duke Aiden of House Zahir. Should…should I think of her as a Mikin lady? Or of Zahir?” Couched in her tones was the clear hope that she would be spared from watching her tongue on at least one eminent figure in the household that she served.

The man’s reaction was unexpected and unsettling. All expression was abruptly wiped from his face, leaving it stark and - she shivered - almost skull-like in the sharp cast of shadows over the pale mask. It lasted for one heartbeat…two…and then he swooped down, making her fall back with a yelp of terror, reflexively holding the book up as a shield while her rear made the intimate acquaintance of the rough-dressed stones of the tower’s top. “Rellakira…is marrying a Zahir scion?” he asked in bleak, furious tones.

Gasping, heart fluttering, Siarra peeked up cautiously and stammered in a shaking voice, “Y-yes…I heard the Lady Rowena and Lord Orell speak of this…”

He stood again, in slow, stiff movements. It wasn't until the peculiar chill of his presence withdrew that Siarra fully realized how surprised he must have been to stoop down to her as he had, and she slowly uncurled to ask fearfully, “Is this...bad?”

He did not reply immediately, turning to stare out over the land, hands clenched into tight fists about each other at his back. “Leave me. I must think on this matter.”

Siarra hastily scrambled to her feet, relief washing over her at the opportunity to escape the strange moods that had overtaken him this day, when she was reminded of the book still cradled in her hands. Looking disappointingly down at the beautifully tooled cover, still-chubby fingers with their dirt-rimed, ragged nails drawing over its surface, she brought up cautiously, “My reading lesson…?”

“Another time,” he stated, this time with a definite snap, drawing an instinctive bow of compliance from her. Just as she was about to flee for the stairs however, he half-turned, only the curve of brow and cheek visible beyond the line of his hair. “Where is your brother?”

“Oren?” Siarra looked longingly toward the only viable escape route off of the tower’s zenith, trying to gauge how capricious the man’s temper really was at the moment, and finally decided on truth and informed, “He is with Papa. Papa took him early this morning, to learn more about carpentry, I think.”

Nodding once sharply, the man resumed his earlier position, a hand’s width from the narrow brim lining the tower’s top and the half dozen stories of empty air beyond. “Tell him his lesson will be delayed. He may look for me the next time.”

Relieved, Siarra bowed again. “Yes, Uncle Ankar,” she mumbled. Running for the trapdoor, she took the winding steps down toward the keep’s main building as quickly as she could. She did not hear the man's steps follow her down - but then, she had long known that he had other ways of coming and going, that did not involve such mundane methods. That was yet another part of why Uncle Ankar was so special.

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