Estaetsia

Chapter One - Estaetsia

   All throughout the heavy wooded mountain range of the nation of Caelian rain fell hard and almost glumly out of a sky of navy and charcoal causing streams to flow from any smooth surface. Above head the sky was a dense, endless abyss of inky lavender storm clouds, the sun hidden deep in their depths, peaking out only a faint eerie light. Trees thick with clusters of dark green soaked through leaves lined and provided a cover from the immense rain for the marshy dirt foot paths, the gravel roads dulling and washing away with the pouring rains. It had been raining nonstop for seven days and seven nights proceeding the moment in time of her birth. Seven dark days and seven cold to the bone nights had passed in the beautiful forest land.

            The citizens of Caelian have few pet peeves; most of them live luxurious, free lives with work that every person loves and a skill for Māksla that only Caelian’s possess. But they all had ONE major pet peeve. The months from Oktobris to Aprīlis, Oktobris the fifth to Aprīlis the fifth for one week every month (the second week of every month to be exact) it rained from two seconds past twelve AM on Svētdiena to eleven fifty nine and fifty eight seconds on Sestdiena. These weeks were called Slapjas Nedēļas, the ‘Wet Weeks’. Most of the population of not only Caelian but every nation in the world of Estaetsia suffers from the Slapjas Nedēļas, all of which with a sort of melancholy relaxation. For in the space from Oktobris and Aprīlis no child is or has ever been born, conceived yes, but no births in those months. Most of the population is born in the summer months, Maijs to Septembris. Luck has it that most women are inseminated to date right or receive something along the lines of a C-section, right? Wrong, the people of Estaetsia don’t believe in luck, that’s for sure.  By the first of Oktobris every pregnant woman has gone into labor and given a natural birth, on her own, as of no coincidence.

            She was an exception, because every rule has at least on exception, correct? She was born on the fifteenth of Janvāris at noon. The dead middle of Slapjas Nedēļas. Her elfin face was soft and clean and a crisp, shocking white, her large eyes, she opened them immediately of course, were a large, delightful silver-blue. Her soft hair was a light dusting of silky blonde strands on the top of her head. Throughout the valley, a hush had fallen when her first cries pierced the stagnant air. The infant was a beauty in and of herself, a miracle that no one would see that way.

            Thunder clapped in the dense distance, arousing another long wail from the tired infant. Her mother stroked her tiny face and hushed her alarmed child, her quiet, fearful gaze on her husband. Just as he was opening his mouth to reassure her, there was a knock on the door. The woman fled with her child to the back room, hid the baby in a bundle of blankets in the closet, and walked out, smoothing her curls back. The man took a deep breath and called, in a hoarse voice, “Come in.”

            A small, thin and wispy woman wearing a drenched black cloak stepped inside, closing the door to the hut behind her. She shook out her midnight brown hair and gazed around the room, her cabochon emerald eyes searching the room. “Where is she Morta?”

            The woman ran her fingers through her honey blonde hair and looked directly at her friend, her eyes set with defiance. “Safe.”

            Ivory sighed at the act of defiance the woman showed and looked her in the eye, her fingers running through her hair. “Morta, Kameron wishes to meet your daughter. We both know the laws, please do not make me defy my king.”

            The couple exchanged a look and Damien left to get their wide eyed daughter. The women sat on the rough love seat and waited, the fire crackling respectively whenever the king’s name was mentioned. As the man carried his infant daughter in, the fire snapped and faded out, leaving the room warm and lit by only a candle on the table. Ivory opened her arms to accept her ward, her gaze settling yet again on the young mother. “What is her name?”

            “Catalina Caelinia.” The young woman spoke tiredly, her gaze settling with pride on the baby in Ivory’s arms. She has yet to rest after the laborious morning of birth. Catalina cooed softly at the sound of her name, her wide eyes bright on Ivory’s face.

            Ivory returned the child to her mother and clasped her hands together, opening them moments later to reveal a golden chain with an oval locket in her palms. C.C.D was engraved on the back, the front decorated with roses. The baby’s eyes locked on the shiny object in total amazement, her tiny fingers clenching and unclenching. Ivory laughed, as did the parents, and draped the golden chain kindly around the baby’s neck. She laid the baby in her mother’s arms and sat back, gazing at the alert baby in wonder.

            Catalina cooed happily in her mother’s arms, and started to nudge at her mother for milk.

            Ivory swallowed with a heavy heart, and gazed at the parents. “I must take her, Morta, Damien. You both know this, and although it kills me, I must take her now.”

            Morta looked at her husband, appalled. Damien spoke for his wife’s terrified state, his voice gruffly broken and strained. “Catalina is hardly even seven hours old! At least allow us to raise her, tell Kameron he can take her to Capitoline when she is older….please Ivory!” His voice broke when he said her name. His darling daughter was being taken away from him. “Just because of the day…”

            Ivory glanced at the man; his face aged in a matter of moments to the extent of twenty years, and felt a heavy ache in the center of her chest. They all knew the truth about the infant girl, what she was, and that no doubt she was special. This being the truth, she would never grow up in the home of her father and mother. She would never see the sun rise over the mountains. She would never even know her parents most likely. For a moment her heart stopped in mourning. How could such lovely, loyal people lose the only chance at a child they had? Her aching heart led her to thoughts of treason. To break all Caelian laws and tell Morta and Damien to take the baby and run. Get as far from here as they could, and never look back. The thought left a coopery taste on her mouth; the salty tang of blood that would be shed if they fled. Ivory shook her head and stroked Morta’s golden hair.

            “I apologize for this Morta. I really do. But to protect her I have to take her. You know how true this is, my dearest friend/”

            Ivory was right, she was always right. To protect their daughter, even though they carried heavy hearts, they showered their baby in tear soaked kisses and sent her into the cold night in the arms of her protector.