Children of Fire and Sun: Part One

Chapter Two: Maysa (Domhnall)

"A Memor never sleeps."
— Prince Aldric III of House Memor
~•~

The silence was the herald that something had gone awry.

It was not the clash of metals, or the thud of footsteps as the guards clashed against the traitors. Nor the guttural screams of the princess consort that would soon resound as the traitors carved out her unborn brother from their mother's womb. His life was snuffed out even before it could begin. Her father's pleas too would go unheard by her, lost in the space between waking and sleeping. No, it was the silence. The oppressive quiet that settled around her like a fur cloak, its grip like a vise around her slender throat. That was what told her that the world, as she knew, had crumbled while she slept, dreaming of succulent cakes with dripping honey.

She would open her eyes to the sunlight, its rich hues setting her bedchamber on fire. Despite it being the middle of winter, she was sweating. She would call for her parents only for the silence to greet her. By the time she dared to step on the cool marble of the floor, her thin shift would be wet with sweat. The next few moments were a blur of actions, moving images that made little sense even after all these years, as her father would rush into her chambers and whisk her away to the gardens. Yet as the Maiden would have it, he tripped.

"No, baba!"

Maysa Memor sat up with a start, gasping for sweet breath. Yet another nightmare of that blasted morning. The silken bed sheets were tangled underneath her body and, just as in the dream, beads of sweat decorated her brow like a wreath of the clear crystals for which Domhnall was so famous for. A gentle sigh escaped through her parched lips. It has been five years. Far too long for her to be having these dreams. She was not a child, after all. If only her mind understood that. But the past is resilient. It seeps in through the cracks and crevices of the memory, like a haint that refuses to give up on life.

The things she would do to forget her past!

Dawn had not quite touched the Domhnall. The skies were still a light cerulean, with streaks of grey and silver. A crescent moon as white as a wolf's canine glinted amidst stray clouds. Warm, sultry breeze caressed the silken curtains of Maysa's bedchamber before tracing invisible patterns on her dark skin. It was gentle as a lover's touch ought to be. The hour was serene, the hustles of the day yet to begin. Might as well make the most of it. A bemused smile emerged on the princess' lips.

Maysa sat huddled on the bed for a few moments. Then she stretched her arms and slipped on to her sandals, which were beneath the plush bed. She walked over to the washbasin to her right and splashed water on her face before wiping it off with the sleeve of her shift. With a practised precision, she got rid of her shift and donned a tangerine dress that ended right above her knees. It cinched around her waist, accentuating the natural curves of her body without being too overt about it.

For the last scion of the House Memor, it was not unusual for her to be awake before the sun. Maysa found it difficult to be in bed for a long time at any hour of the day, if she were to be honest. She knew that the lords of Namiona laughed behind her backs about this habit, attributing it to be one of her ploys to stand out to show how much better she was than the. A desperate desire to be different.

They selectively forgot that it might be something deeper, given that on that one day Maysa had slept late, her entire family was slaughtered and she too had almost died.

A sharp rap on the closed doors of her chamber stirred her out of the voluntary reverie. Who could it be? She wondered, tilting her head toward the door and saying,

"Enter."

With a small thud, the door opened to reveal a man adorned in the full armour of a knight save for the helmet. He was Sir Airon, her chief advisor. He wore a face that was wrinkled with eyebrows that were small bushes and had a mind of their own, often crinkling according to the whims of its owner.