Once Upon a Time In Avonna
Azadar Keep, Year 354.
The rain fell heavy and the wind blew hard, and that was normal.
Serfs fled away from the lowlands as flash floods took some of their fellows, and that was normal.
And high above from the fourth story of the Azadar estates a baby cried for the first time, and a young man wept tears of joy.
But that was abnormal.
“By the Springs, he is gorgeous Emily,” Casimir ab Azadar spoke, and the tears were his. A young man on the cusp of his eighteenth birthday, Casimir was beautiful in youth: all pale skin and the golden-brown hair of his Vavardi mother. He was lean already, fit from years of training and campaigning under his father Mortis ab Azadar. Yet, in the dim light of those bedchambers, nothing shone with radiant beauty quite like the baby in his arms.
“A strong pair of lungs,” the voice came weakly, and could barely be heard above the sound of the child screaming. The source, though, was unmistakable – Emily, the woman who had just given birth. No one could see her as anything but a pure-bred Lithmorran, with alabaster skin and hair the color of wheat. Whereas Casimir had the slant of Vavardi heritage in his eyes, Emily’s were almond-shaped and shone blue like the sky.
She was deathly pale, and her breath came in short gasps. It wasn’t long before Casimir’s attention shifted to his wife. “Emily, are you… going to be okay?”
A thin-lipped smile against the pain, and she responded: “Of course, my love. It would be a great tragedy to die now, hmm?”
Small, nervous racks of laughter and Casimir replied thinly, “A great tragedy indeed. This… he… our lives…”
“Are just beginning,” she finished with a smile – genuine and easy this time. Though she was obviously younger than Casimir birthing the child had given her all the warped delicacies that time would set in place. She was reserved and withdrawn and thus when she waved her hand for Casimir to leave it was with all the regency of a tired Queen. “Go, Casimir; Show him to Lord Mortis.”
The young Lord Azadar took his wife in the sight of his stormy blue eyes, looking her condition up and down, before giving a belated smile. Taking the newborn tighter to his breast he stepped out into the hall and kept on, past the flickering torches, down the drafty stairwell, and through the hall where old dusty family portraits hung. Outside, lightning flashed.
“Born in a thunderstorm. You’re going to be special, aren’t you?” Talking to the child, or mostly to himself, Casimir halted in his progress to stare out the window for a time. The lightning, when it flashed, illuminated Avonna’s capitol far below. The shingled roofs of wooden houses weren’t nearly as high as where father and son stood above – but above even them was the steeple of the town church, upon the highest hill in the small city. Stoic and strong against the pouring rain and roaring thunder, it was a dark sword cutting through the boiling clouds.
Casimir’s attention turned to the portraits on the wall, and he walked along – albeit much slower now as he explained to his newborn son: “There is Varian ab Aldair, first of our House.” The young Azadar’s face light up with pride as his eyes flitted over the painting of Varian – a tall blond man, regal in all black but for the massive gold-colored claymore he balanced on one shoulder. To his sides, two others stood, but their faces had been torn from the painting. “The marks to both his sides, where it looks like the fabric has been ripped – that was where his two sons once sat in an equally regal pose. They were warlocks, both very powerful, very dangerous, and very corrupt. We must be wary, for each Aldair – or Azadar as we are now known – carries a small amount of their witch-blood. It is why we turn ourselves over to the Inquisition readily. To preserve our legacy, untarnished. It will be your legacy too, son.”
The child stared on, quiet blue eyes piercing in the twilight of torches. Casimir continued down the hall, and gestured to another painting – this one of a woman in fine leathers with a abnormally thin rapier hung at her belt.
“There is Lady Zara, the greatest duelist House Azadar has seen. She bested seven Daravi sword-dancers single-handedly. Her sword was made of the finest damascus steel, thin like a needle but unbreakable as all damascus is. We haven’t had a duelist of her caliber since, and I myself am no exception…” A wry smile took the noble’s face, and with a bright glint in his eye as he looked to the boy in his arms, the admittance comes: “In fact, your dad isn’t much of a duelist at all truth be told.”
Talking more-so to himself now, his quiet Vavardi dulcets whispering their echo throughout the hall, Casimir continued on – the child silent but for a sparse mewl here and there.
“I am more-so… a strategist. I can fight, oh yes, but give me a good group of men to control and I can make sure that they all return to see their wives – and their sons.” An affectionate smile paused the speech, then. “Which will you be? A mighty duelist, or a master tactician? Better yet, we will turn you to both, and you may escape some of the mistakes that your father has made.”
A small bit of sadness, then. Something amiss. “Mistakes.” The word fell from his tongue, disgusting and bland.
“Dear Dav, I’m not yet eighteen years of age, and already I have made so many mistakes. I’m never as faithful as I should be to your mother… yes, she knows. We have an agreement of sorts, I think? But it’s falling apart soon. Each day I pray forgiveness, for guidance, and I talk with Mortis – your grandfather and my own father – but I cannot stop the… Oh Lord’s sake son, is this precursor of things to come? Already I worry your ear with my problems.”
“I love her, though, as you are like to hear a million and one times before you reach your fifth summer. I love her with all my heart.”
The words uplifted him, and soon the smile was there once more.
“I mentioned your grandfather before. My father. If ever there was a man who deserved to rule all, it would be him. He is the greatest man I know, and perhaps the greatest I will ever know. You’ll meet him soon, and I think you will love him with the same passion I do. He’s firm when needs be, and kind and gentle when he doesn’t have to be. A great warrior, too, and a leader of men like no other. Yet, here we are, little one – stuck in our estates instead of our rightful castle – due to the latest Harmon Queen and the Beauparlants.” A scowl twitched his lips, but one look at the babe in his arms obliterated the negativity quite completely before it could once again take him.
“This is your life, son. You’re going to do great.
The child was fascinated. Eventually the two, father and son, made their way into the Great Hall where Mortis, head of the Azadar House and Casimir’s father, kept his introversion by pacing the floor. Casimir’s mother, Cosset, sat prim, proper, and proud at the head of the table. Casimir had neglected to mention his mother to the child, and it was perhaps the lack of preparation that sent the boy into a small fit. Cosset’s eyes narrowed upon the child in Casimir’s arms, but she retained her silence.
Mortis, however, immediately stomped over to Casimir with a great beaming smile. “For Dav’s sake son, what in Arien took you so long? Show me him, show me my grandchild!” It was with a mischievous grin that Casimir obliged the older man. Mortis looked young indeed, perhaps a man of mid-thirties, but the gray in his hair bespoke of age and his face was already a mess of wrinkles. Yet the light in his eyes as he stared down at the child took twenty years off. He looked like he might conquer the Daravi all by his lonesome.
“What is his name?” Asked the old father.
“Hugo. Hugo ab Azadar.” Said the new father.