Ophelia has always had trust issues. But it all started when her father, the person who was supposed to love and care for her mother and her for the rest of his life, allowed the excuse of an empire called the Yerpen to kill her mother, his own wife...
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Today was the twenty fourth of November. The day my mother had died. The day she'd been burnt alive on a pyre in front of my very eyes. The day my eyes had finally been opened to the horrors the Yerpen committed on a daily basis, the day I'd run away, and joined the Anarchy Heist.
I remembered the day as if it were yesterday. I was sleeping in my parent's room that night. Well, the room the palace had let us stay in. My father was a vizier to the Yerpen, and had gone on a trip for a month without me or my mother. I'd joined them while they were sleeping because I had a nightmare that night, also because it had been a long while since I'd had the comfort of both my parents at the same time. But then I couldn't feel their bodies next to me, couldn't feel my mother hugging me, the warmth of my father's back seeping into mine, I'd woken up. I couldn't find them. Where they'd lay, were only rumpled blankets and cold sheets. I looked at the clock, and it was still early morning. The sun would've barely been out. I didn't bother dressing, and asked one of the maids where they were. I didn't remember how I got to the courtyard, only that some butler or maid led me there. But by the time I'd reached, the sky was pink. I saw the back of my father, and had run to him. He'd asked me what I was doing here, and I told him I couldn't sleep, and wanted to know where they were. He told me to go, but I'd already seen my mother by then. Her image had scarred me. Bruises and blood covered her body, she was in her nightgown, still, and tears ran down her face. She was tied to a vertical pole, tears were running down her face and falling into the spit of fire below her. She was being turned on it like she was venison to be roasted. Her face burned. It turned from smooth to red to patched. Her skin melted off her face, bit by bit. Her beautiful, rich brown eyes had turned lifeless, reflecting the red flames of the fire she burned in. Younger me had been horrified. I remembered, in a nightmare, I'd seen blood running from her eyes instead of tears. I had asked my father to stop that night. Begged him to stop. But he didn't tell them to. His eyes didn't water, his face held no emotion. He'd only told me, "She deserves it." I begged everyone there, every person, the guards, the other viziers, the other ladies. But no one listened. They had to drag me back to my room, and I had silently mourned for her. When my father had come back, I didn't speak to him. He didn't speak to me. He only spoke once that night. He gave me a bloodred dress, and told me to wear it. That night, a banquet was held—to celebrate my mother's death. That was the night I'd escaped.
It wasn't easy. Running away from your whole life at ten, climbing the ranks of a movement that you were supposed to be against. But I'd made my way the hard way. I'd spilled considerable amounts of blood, delivered many corpses, skinned too many people. My respect and fear was earned, anyone who said otherwise would learn.
But sometimes I thought—what would've happened if my mother hadn't been burned alive? What would've happened if I hadn't run away?
I supposed I would've grown to be the fucked up bride to some fucked up lord with equally fucked up views on women and the world. Sometimes I was glad she'd died—she wouldn't have had to deal with the tortures of my father anymore. Didn't have to witness the monster I'd become.
