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edenfallingI went grocery shopping today. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring a book or magazine to occupy the half hour I sit around in the little food court area before gathering my purchases and proceeding to checkout. However, I had a pen and a notepad, so I decided to do a bit of writing. This is what came out.
In the notes to Pebble on a Mountain, my previous Firsthome ficlet, I mentioned the Three-Day Revolution that broke the Estarin Empire, and how the Empress Consort fought a valiant rearguard action trying to put things back together. But before she fought, she was a woman grieving her husband's death. (975 words)
---------------------------------------------
Against the Flood
---------------------------------------------
Maranea de Colleua, Empress Consort of the Estarin Empire, turned at the whisper-soft sound of someone opening the door to her receiving room. It was still morning, and she had not given word that she was willing to see anyone. But the intruder was only her father, the Lord Governor of Merua. The messenger she'd seen riding down from the heliograph tower must have brought a message from her husband.
She smiled. "Father, what news from Estara? I hope Jorilar and I won't need to cut our visit short."
Her father latched the door and walked across the room to where Maranea stood at the window, far from any curious ears that might be lurking outside in the corridors. He wasn't smiling.
That meant nothing, surely. Her father had never been fond of Daleron, though he tolerated him both as the Emperor and the man who made Maranea happy. Daleron must have requested her to return home, and her father was simply unhappy to bid her an early farewell.
Except... except he didn't look unhappy. He looked positively grim.
"Maranea. The Emperor is dead," he said.
Maranea put a hand against the white tiled wall to steady herself. "What?"
"Your husband, the Emperor Daleron IV, is dead," her father repeated, his eyes hard in his granite face. "There is rebellion in Estara, worse than any ever seen in the heartlands. A mob of slaves and freemen stormed the palace and slew the Emperor in his bath. Then they stoned the High Priest in the Temple courtyard, and murdered all members of the army, the navy, and the Imperial Guard who didn't immediately surrender, or who hadn't already turned against their oaths and the law."
"No. You must be mistaken," Maranea said, wondering how her voice sounded so steady. "Daleron is not dead. I need to return to Estara and help him through this chaos. He'll want my support."
Her father stepped forward, wrapped his hands around her shoulders, and led her five steps sideways to sit on the divan beside the window. "Maranea. He's dead. Jorilar is Emperor now, and you are his regent. Estara is lost until you raise an army of your loyal subjects -- or take control of the one currently in my lands pacifying my troublesome mountain peasants. A few villages evading their tax payments are nothing compared to an Empire split asunder. You can and you will put these traitors down; I know you have the strength. But you must face the world as it is, not as you wish it to be. You cannot let grief drown you."
"Go away," Maranea said. She pushed his hand off her arm and curled into herself, huddled against the thin velvet cushions.
"Maranea--"
"Leave me. I can't-- I can't talk to you now. Go away."
Daleron was dead. The Empire was breaking. Both were impossible. It was as if the sea had become dry land, and vice versa.
Her father drew back, his eyes softening though his face remained set and grim. "As you wish. Shall I tell Jorilar of his father's passing, or do you prefer to take that task on yourself?"
Maranea heard herself laughing, a strange, small choking noise. "I would prefer my husband to be alive." How could Daleron be dead? He should have lived another twenty years at least -- time enough to see Jorilar grow into a man, to give her more children, to continue unraveling the wasteful disaster the past two Emperors had made of the Empire's finances and trade. He wanted-- had wanted-- to help the common folk. He had cared for them as his children, as Emperors were meant to do. Maranea had called him foolish for trusting in the people's hearts, but this was not how she had wanted to be proved right!
The rebels had murdered their own champion. They had murdered her husband. She would show them no mercy.
Nesta have mercy, Daleron was dead.
Maranea pressed the crook of her hand to her mouth, fighting back a scream.
"I'll have your mother tell Jorilar," her father said. "When will you be able to see him?"
"Later."
Her father waited. Apparently he wanted a more specific answer. How could she put a time on grief? How could she see her son and hold him and tell him everything would be fine when she wanted to shriek and drown the world in salt water?
"After supper," Maranea said.
"I'll have him brought to your rooms at sundown," her father said. "Grieve today and tonight only. Tomorrow we plan for war."
He let himself out of the receiving room, shutting Maranea in with her building tears and rage and clawing, empty need for Daleron to appear, to tell her this was all a lie, a mistake, a tasteless jest.
The room remained empty. Her husband was dead.
The brilliant midday sun of the Meruan coast streamed through the wide windows, striking the ghost of colors from the mosaic floor to reflect on the pure white walls. The pattern showed Nesta's symbol: a silver wave imposed over a shifting jumble of blue and green and purple, all the colors of the sea. Maranea had designed it herself when her father built this summer estate, the year before she married Daleron.
He had stayed in these rooms with her once, while she carried Jorilar. Daleron had knelt to touch the mosaic, tracing his thin, clever fingers over the tesserae: stones and silver, ceramic and glass. "It's beautiful," he'd told her, "like the woman who dreamed it into life." Then he had kissed her, wrapped his arms around her despite the summer heat as if she were more precious than all his domains and riches. As if he would never let her go.
She would never see him again.
Maranea curled onto the cold tile floor and wept for the end of her world.
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End of Story
---------------------------------------------
And then, of course, she went to war. Eight years later, when Maranea had been driven from mainland Estaria out to the Gwynorae archipelago, and her invasion fleet had been defeated at the siege of Tenuno, the Hlaenor captured her and Jorilar (who was then fourteen years old) and sold them to the provisional interim government of the Free City of Estara in return for an official relinquishment of all Estarian rights to the islands of Na'eraelu and Rusalich. Three years after that, Maranea was executed. Jorilar escaped in the consequent riots and fled south to Merua, where he declared himself king and renounced any claim on the Imperial throne.
Thus ended the Empire.
(Of course, other people kept trying to put it -- or at least the Estarian parts -- back together for several hundred years, but by Ekanu's day the fragmentation of Estaria is basically a done deal.)
In the notes to Pebble on a Mountain, my previous Firsthome ficlet, I mentioned the Three-Day Revolution that broke the Estarin Empire, and how the Empress Consort fought a valiant rearguard action trying to put things back together. But before she fought, she was a woman grieving her husband's death. (975 words)
---------------------------------------------
Against the Flood
---------------------------------------------
Maranea de Colleua, Empress Consort of the Estarin Empire, turned at the whisper-soft sound of someone opening the door to her receiving room. It was still morning, and she had not given word that she was willing to see anyone. But the intruder was only her father, the Lord Governor of Merua. The messenger she'd seen riding down from the heliograph tower must have brought a message from her husband.
She smiled. "Father, what news from Estara? I hope Jorilar and I won't need to cut our visit short."
Her father latched the door and walked across the room to where Maranea stood at the window, far from any curious ears that might be lurking outside in the corridors. He wasn't smiling.
That meant nothing, surely. Her father had never been fond of Daleron, though he tolerated him both as the Emperor and the man who made Maranea happy. Daleron must have requested her to return home, and her father was simply unhappy to bid her an early farewell.
Except... except he didn't look unhappy. He looked positively grim.
"Maranea. The Emperor is dead," he said.
Maranea put a hand against the white tiled wall to steady herself. "What?"
"Your husband, the Emperor Daleron IV, is dead," her father repeated, his eyes hard in his granite face. "There is rebellion in Estara, worse than any ever seen in the heartlands. A mob of slaves and freemen stormed the palace and slew the Emperor in his bath. Then they stoned the High Priest in the Temple courtyard, and murdered all members of the army, the navy, and the Imperial Guard who didn't immediately surrender, or who hadn't already turned against their oaths and the law."
"No. You must be mistaken," Maranea said, wondering how her voice sounded so steady. "Daleron is not dead. I need to return to Estara and help him through this chaos. He'll want my support."
Her father stepped forward, wrapped his hands around her shoulders, and led her five steps sideways to sit on the divan beside the window. "Maranea. He's dead. Jorilar is Emperor now, and you are his regent. Estara is lost until you raise an army of your loyal subjects -- or take control of the one currently in my lands pacifying my troublesome mountain peasants. A few villages evading their tax payments are nothing compared to an Empire split asunder. You can and you will put these traitors down; I know you have the strength. But you must face the world as it is, not as you wish it to be. You cannot let grief drown you."
"Go away," Maranea said. She pushed his hand off her arm and curled into herself, huddled against the thin velvet cushions.
"Maranea--"
"Leave me. I can't-- I can't talk to you now. Go away."
Daleron was dead. The Empire was breaking. Both were impossible. It was as if the sea had become dry land, and vice versa.
Her father drew back, his eyes softening though his face remained set and grim. "As you wish. Shall I tell Jorilar of his father's passing, or do you prefer to take that task on yourself?"
Maranea heard herself laughing, a strange, small choking noise. "I would prefer my husband to be alive." How could Daleron be dead? He should have lived another twenty years at least -- time enough to see Jorilar grow into a man, to give her more children, to continue unraveling the wasteful disaster the past two Emperors had made of the Empire's finances and trade. He wanted-- had wanted-- to help the common folk. He had cared for them as his children, as Emperors were meant to do. Maranea had called him foolish for trusting in the people's hearts, but this was not how she had wanted to be proved right!
The rebels had murdered their own champion. They had murdered her husband. She would show them no mercy.
Nesta have mercy, Daleron was dead.
Maranea pressed the crook of her hand to her mouth, fighting back a scream.
"I'll have your mother tell Jorilar," her father said. "When will you be able to see him?"
"Later."
Her father waited. Apparently he wanted a more specific answer. How could she put a time on grief? How could she see her son and hold him and tell him everything would be fine when she wanted to shriek and drown the world in salt water?
"After supper," Maranea said.
"I'll have him brought to your rooms at sundown," her father said. "Grieve today and tonight only. Tomorrow we plan for war."
He let himself out of the receiving room, shutting Maranea in with her building tears and rage and clawing, empty need for Daleron to appear, to tell her this was all a lie, a mistake, a tasteless jest.
The room remained empty. Her husband was dead.
The brilliant midday sun of the Meruan coast streamed through the wide windows, striking the ghost of colors from the mosaic floor to reflect on the pure white walls. The pattern showed Nesta's symbol: a silver wave imposed over a shifting jumble of blue and green and purple, all the colors of the sea. Maranea had designed it herself when her father built this summer estate, the year before she married Daleron.
He had stayed in these rooms with her once, while she carried Jorilar. Daleron had knelt to touch the mosaic, tracing his thin, clever fingers over the tesserae: stones and silver, ceramic and glass. "It's beautiful," he'd told her, "like the woman who dreamed it into life." Then he had kissed her, wrapped his arms around her despite the summer heat as if she were more precious than all his domains and riches. As if he would never let her go.
She would never see him again.
Maranea curled onto the cold tile floor and wept for the end of her world.
---------------------------------------------
End of Story
---------------------------------------------
And then, of course, she went to war. Eight years later, when Maranea had been driven from mainland Estaria out to the Gwynorae archipelago, and her invasion fleet had been defeated at the siege of Tenuno, the Hlaenor captured her and Jorilar (who was then fourteen years old) and sold them to the provisional interim government of the Free City of Estara in return for an official relinquishment of all Estarian rights to the islands of Na'eraelu and Rusalich. Three years after that, Maranea was executed. Jorilar escaped in the consequent riots and fled south to Merua, where he declared himself king and renounced any claim on the Imperial throne.
Thus ended the Empire.
(Of course, other people kept trying to put it -- or at least the Estarian parts -- back together for several hundred years, but by Ekanu's day the fragmentation of Estaria is basically a done deal.)
(no subject)
Date: 2010-07-22 02:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-07-22 03:56 am (UTC)*shrug* But yeah, even so, she doesn't deserve what happens to her later on, and none of her faults meant she loved her husband any less.