The Howard's Archive

Chapter one.

Talia Howard
1850

The following months were ones of avoidance from my mother, monotonous condolences from everyone I passed, and days spent primarily in my room, among my cotton pillows and wool sheets as I honed any hobby I had the patience to pursue. Though, on one particular day, I found myself sitting outside of the palace, watching from afar as the knights did valiant thrusts and kicks and jabs against still, defenseless, wheat-filled mannequins, all to be inevitably stabbed or kicked down, and to be made anew by the maids with stitches and twine. I wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to be made anew. To be held gently in the hands of those who had only the intent to fix me. To be fresh and raw as a new-born baby, un-tampered with by the harshness that life casts upon everyone. I was only thirteen years old, many looked down upon me and thought of me as pure still. And I guess, compared to some, I was.

The evening took me to the library, where there my mother read me verse by verse from the delicate and heavy Bible in her hands. I believed not of God. I believed not of any deity or supernatural being looking down on us. I thought we, as in humanity, were utterly alone in the universe. That our faults and flaws were all our own, self-inflicted pains. I believed humanity created this God for comfort, so that we had someone to blame when we were angry, and that we had someone when we were alone. For this reason, I had tried to force the religion onto myself countless times, tried to bend my mind in ways to accept religion, to accept that not all things believed have to be seen. I had given up on that a long time ago. Contentedness can only truly come when you accept that you are the reason for your anger, and shame, and loneliness, and happiness, and joy. Not that I had ever felt content. It just sounds true, so it must be.

I looked back at my mother and watched her read for a moment, her eyes trailing over the prehistoric pages and their prehistoric words as she formed them in following. She was beautiful. I was sure that my mother was the most beautiful woman on the Earth, as naive as it is. It was always an honor when people said I looked like her, even if I didn't truly see it myself. Personally, when I looked in the mirror I only saw my father's cruel and unlikely features staring back at me; his slightly crooked nose, his swamp-green eyes, his cheekbones that protruded skin like a corpse. I had it all, and it was a sickening thing to rediscover every time my appearance was brought up in the form of reflection, a portrait, or otherwise.

I had only noticed my eyes falling to the marbled floor when my mother's delicate fingers wrapped around my shoulder and gently squeezed. Her eyes held so much concern and care that I almost wanted to look away in cowardly fear of being undeserving of such tender-holding.

"What are you thinking about, my sweet?" My mother asked in her ever so perfectly knowing yet gentle tone. I had not the heart to tell the truth.

"Read me another psalm." I asked, and she didn't pry, or dig, or ask further questions. A part of me was relieved that I could once more avoid healthy communication and vulnerability. Another wished she had pried, wished she had dug into my hollow supplications the way a gardener's fingers dig into the dirt or a maid's dig into the pomegranate. I wished I cared less for making messes of my emotions and vulnerabilities. I think I simply wished to be heard, but could not bear the consequences of being so.

My mother continued her lovely yet continuous reading, and I laid my head back against the gold-lined wall and closed my eyes, letting time pass by as I cared not to savor the moment, or perhaps bask in my mother's words a moment longer. Though, after a few moments and a few more sentences from my mother's echoing lips, a less-than-quiet whisper sounded from the door of the library– or, more of a hiss, like an irritated cat.

"Ps–"

I opened my eyes and turned to the source of the sound, only being met with the disappointing face of Anthony Evyon, a son of one of the palace maids and a great irritant of mine– I would have preferred the berated cat. Unfortunately, my mother saw my brief glance in his direction and assumed it meant I wished to leave and join Anthony on whatever boyish adventurous he wished to embark on, and she lightly nudged my shoulder, closing the bible simultaneously,