“It’s hard to imagine life beyond what you’ve been taught. Beyond all the things that you’ve seen. It’s even harder to live through life when your future fails to meet any of your expectations for it. Perhaps I was na?ve, perhaps this was always fate’s plan from the beginning…”
“Laranthel! Boy get down from there this instant!” Marianne stood at the bottom of the hill Laranthel and the other kids were playing a top, an angry look upon her face. This damn boy, how many times have I told him not to climb up trees! What if he breaks an arm? Her thoughts trailed off, her mood growing angrier and angrier.
Laranthel scrambled down the trunk of the tree, fear coursing through him as he felt the angry gaze of his mother on his back. The other kids stopped dead in their tracks as well, fearing the familiar fury Laranthel’s mother was known for. At the bottom of the hill was his mother, her curly blue-black hair falling wildly down her shoulders, her sharp beautiful features curled into a snarl as she watched her son once again break the rules. Her hands were on her hips, her legs set firmly on the ground as she regarded her disobedient son.
“I’ll see you later Thel’,” whispered Charlotte before darting down the side of the hill where Marianne wasn’t. Smart girl.
“And who else do I see up there? Adam? Marcus? I know you’re father doesn’t want you climbing trees either, climb down from there, NOW!” Marianne started up the hill, a fierce scowl on her face, as if at any moment steam would begin to bellow from her ears. All the other children either climbed further up the tree or started to bolt in the same direction as Charlotte. They all knew Mrs. Aser was a terror when she was angry, and it wasn’t just Laranthel who would suffer her wrath when it came around. She stormed right over to Laranthel, who was desperately trying to brush the leaves and the dirt from his tunic and grabbed him by the collar and began dragging him down the hill toward their house.
“Mom, I’m sorry—” before he could finish, Marianne gripped him by his curly dark blue hair and shook his head around, dizzying him.
“I don’t want to hear it, when we get home, you’re going to sit in the parlor and read over the codices and anthologies until your father gets home! Then you’re going to run circles around the house all day until you throw up, since you want to play so much!” Marianne continued to drag Laranthel through the field leading to their quiet little row of houses beneath the hills. “Do you hear me? Laranthel, do you hear me!”
Laranthel nodded his head furiously while trying his best to keep his balance as his mother dragged him through the grass towards their house. She’s so strong! And it hurts…
He turned his head back towards the tree he had climbed, there stood the other children watching him get dragged away with a grim look on their faces. Charlotte at the front shaking her head.
“Poor, poor Laranthel,” she muttered as he disappeared into the rows of houses making up their neighborhood. By the looks on the children’s faces, it felt like he would never be seen again…
***
“How many gods damned times have I told you not to climb up trees Laranthel? What if you fall and break something? What then? You never think!” Marianne gave Laranthel a sharp smack to the back of his head as he sat at the parlor table.
It was a fancy room with elegantly patterned rugs, a beige carpet, red cushioned chairs and sofas, burgundy wooden tables, and mirror adorned walls. Currently though, its splendor was being overcome by the anger of Marianne, who stood over Laranthel scolding him as he brought his study books out from his leather school pack. He was frowning, growing upset and embarrassed at his mother’s words.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself young man? Hmm? Laranthel I am talking to you!”
“No…” Laranthel managed to eke out.
“No? No what? What does no mean,” Marianne hollered.
“No, I don’t have anything to say for myself mom,” Laranthel meekly replied.
Still unsatisfied due to her anger, Marianne crossed her arms and continued to scowl down at Laranthel. He looked like he was about to cry, and she relented, her face softening with a sigh. “Please, Laranthel, don’t climb up trees anymore. You could get hurt, and I don’t know what the hell I’d do with myself if you ended up crippled for the rest of your life.”
Laranthel nodded, sniffling. “I’m sorry mom, I won’t do it again.”
Mariane looked down at her son and closed her eyes, allowing her anger to fade. She turned and left the parlor, leaving Laranthel to suffer his punishment in peace. He flipped open the first book he had pulled from his pack, a thick old tome titled “History of the Children from the Land of Night”. It was a book about his people, the men and women who had fled their homeland to make a new life far, far away from the Land of Night, their old homeland. Laranthel’s tribe, the fifth tribe to leave the Land of Night were called the Unmor, they left the Land of Night two hundred years ago according to the codex and made their way to the coast of Elysimyra where they settled and stayed until the Imunani settlers came and conquered the land twenty years after they arrived. They’d been living in the region ever since, Laranthel knew all this because ever since he could read, which was five years ago when he was four, it became common for his parents to punish him with the pursuit of knowledge. It made him smart, but not wise. He had little appreciation for any of the things he learned and associated them with pain and sadness. That said, he could appreciate a good story. Especially if it was a heroic one. He closed the old codex and fished through his bag until he found one of his favorite anthologies, “Tales of an Imunani Hero”, stories about the human’s from across the Ghost Sea, his father’s people, the people that wandered the world in search of glory and adventure. Well, he’s half Imunani, thought Laranthel.
His father was half Night, half Imunan, though most people didn’t make such a distinction. Only the Night people made a point to identify their own heritage, the Imunan and the people of Elysimyra didn’t seem to care where anyone was from. They all bowed to the Lords, and they all stayed out of trouble. That’s what the school master told him was important, that’s what all the histories and fables told him was important. Stay out of trouble, and you won’t find yourself trying to get out of it. Words to live by, hopefully die by. Laranthel pulled the leather-bound cover of the anthology off of the yellow-tan pages beneath and flipped through the book until he found the story he was looking for, “Vrythian and Azar, Tyranny’s End”. His eyes wandered the pages as his mind drank in every detail described by the words of the story, a tale about how the first king of the Imunani ended the reign of the cruel demi-god king of the Azaran’s. Two men descended from the Imunani gods fighting in an epic battle between good and evil, between the self-indulgence and cruelty of the Azaran’s and the determined discipline of the righteous Imunani. The nine-year-old Laranthel didn’t completely understand this, but it was written in the synopsis of the story so that’s what he would say when his parents asked him about what he had read. What he was really interested in was the story of swordplay and great magic possessed by the mighty demi-gods. Laranthel dreamed of being a hero, dreamed of going on adventures like the people in his story books, of fighting demons and monsters, and maybe even the cruel Night People that abused his tribe’s ancestors two hundred years ago.
As he sat engrossed in his stories, he heard heavy footsteps approach him from behind, he nervously peered over his shoulder and found his father looking down at him. He stood tall and firm, his wide frame and round face looking down on his son, lost in thought. His father had human features, aside from the dark bluish skin he shared with Laranthel and Marianne. A tall and wide frame, bulky musculature, black hair, and eyes of deep blue instead of the rusty or amethyst hued irises night people usually had. Though, Laranthel had never seen an Imunani with deep dark blue eyes like his father, so he wondered if maybe it was something passed down to him from the Night People after all.
“Good evening, my son,” Arava hummed in his low baritone voice. He reached down and ruffled Laranthel’s hair.
“Hi dad,” Laranthel replied to the big man.
“Your mother tells me you’ve been causing trouble. climbing trees.” Arava sat down in the seat across the table from Laranthel and pulled one of the codices to his front. He opened it and scanned the glossary then began to flip to whatever item he had picked out. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay. Don’t climb trees anymore, breaking a bone and getting it fixed by a healer is a particularly painful endeavor.”
Laranthel nodded nervously, still anxious about if his father was mad or not. He was an unreadable man, even to his wife who had known him for fourteen years now. Laranthel and his mother swore the big man liked to surprise them with his anger, waiting and plotting his outbursts when he was sure he’d win any argument, teach whatever lesson he had sought out to teach. And Laranthel and his mother loved to cause mischief, “Two rotten apples on a dying tree,” Laranthel’s father would say when they both got up to their mischief.
“What’s the matter,” Arava chided, grinning across the table at Laranthel. “Scared?”
Laranthel shook his head, mustering all his courage. “No.”
Arava nodded his head up and down. “Good, being scared doesn’t help you in any situation, and it makes you look guilty. And you must never look guilty, even when you are.”
Laranthel turned his head and gave his father a skeptical look. “Dad?”
“Dad indeed, what nonsense are you teaching my son, Arava.” Marianne stood in the doorway of the parlor that led to the kitchen, her arms crossed, and her lips curled into a mischievous smile.
“Nonsense indeed, what nonsense do I know Marianne? I don’t know nonsense Marianne; I only know sense.” Arava’s face was serious, as if what they were talking about was serious in the first place. He was messing with Marianne.
Marianne shook her head and asked: “How was work,” disengaging from the banter she had started.
Arava smiled, knowing he had won the battle before it had begun. “Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Stood around all day waiting for my soldiers to get through with their paperwork, yelled at some maniacs who thought it was a good idea to get drunk and start sword fighting, the usual nonsense.”
Marianne nodded, pushing off from her perch on the walkway frame to walk into the kitchen to get dinner fixed, ignoring Arava’s provocations. “Oh, really dear, it sounds like you’ve had a tough day.”
“Oh, not too tough, never too tough,” called Arava in reply, leaning back in his chair to try and get a look at Marianne in the kitchen.
Good, they’re at their normal banter, I must be in the clear then, thought Laranthel.
Moments later Marianne called for Laranthel and Arava to come to the dinner table and eat: “Wraps are ready, come and eat!”
Laranthel rushed to his feet and began for the kitchen, enticed by the smell of the marinated chicken, and rice his mother put in her wraps.
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“Hey boy! Put your books away before you head to the dinner table!” Arava rose to his feet and packed away his own book, closing it shut and placing it back into Laranthel’s leather bag.
Laranthel turned and walked back to the table, quickly and carefully closing, and placing each book back into his bag. When he was done, he bolted after his dad to the dining room and took a seat at the other end of the round black wooden table in the center of their room. It was plainer than the parlor, the walls white and empty save for a family portrait of Laranthel’s parents sitting side by side with their swaddled newborn boy in Marianne’s lap. His dad was wearing a formal blue Imunani outfit, a silver circle on his left shoulder acting as a clasp for a half cape that draped down the same shoulder, a cap on his head with a blade pierced cloud pin on the face of its crown. It represented his mother’s family. Laranthel’s mother wore a purple dress and a white sash across her chest, a silver tiara on top of her braided hair. They looked happy, Laranthel liked looking at the portrait, it filled him with pride and joy.
“Wraps today? What a treat my love,” said Arava in his low voice, pulling one of the grilled bundles of flour sitting on the platter in the center of the table.
“Well, it’s been a while and I know you boys love when I make them,” replied Marianne grabbing herself a wrap from the platter and placing it on her own white ceramic plate.
“Thank you, mom!” Laranthel grabbed himself a wrap and placed it on his plate, waiting for someone to begin their prayer.
“Who shall we pray to today? My ancestors, the gods across the sea? Or perhaps to the divine mother who helped our people flee the Land of Night?” Arava looked around the table, his curiosity written across his face.
“Let’s pray to the Lady of the falling star, Perestria tonight,” said Marianne.
Arava nodded and bowed his head, closing his eyes in preparation for their prayer. “Alright let us begin. Hear us our Lady who led the first tribes out of Akulton, who threw the shining star that led our people to freedom, please bless this meal today and continue to watch over this family. In your name.”
“In her name,” Marianne and Laranthel said in unison.
The Aser’s began to dig into Marianne’s wraps, Arava and Marianne making small talk and banter while Laranthel focused on devouring his meal. He was a determined consumer, mind focused on the delicious taste of the stove crisped flour and sweet and tangy marinated chicken set between rice, lettuce, and tomato.
“Slow down boy, the food isn’t going anywhere,” Arava chided from his seat across the table. Laranthel nodded sheepishly and slowed his eating, his cheeks hot from embarrassment. The wraps really were delicious.
They finished each of the six wraps Marianne had prepared and began to clear the table. “Laranthel, go to the pump and fill a bucket so these dishes can get washed,” said Arava standing from the dinner table, his plate in hand.
Laranthel nodded and walked into the house’s second living room and out the back door into their family’s back yard. He grabbed a bucket from the stone floor of their back porch and marched over to the metal pump sticking out of the ground a few feet from the house. He set the wooden bucket down beneath the faucet and began to pump the machine’s lever up and down until water started to pour from the faucet, steadily filling the bucket.
“Hey Laranthel,” called a soft whisper from the wooden fence that enclosed the backyard. Laranthel jumped, then turned towards the voice. It was Charlotte, peering through an opening between the many planks that made up the fence. Laranthel looked back to the house to make sure his mother wasn’t watching him then returned his gaze to Charlotte.
“What are you doing here,” Laranthel asked, his little voice a soft echo of his father’s baritone.
“I wanted to see if you were okay,” Charlotte drawled sheepishly, her eyes on the doorway Laranthel had emerged from, her mind on Marianne’s furious voice.
“I’m fine, we had wraps today, they were amazing,” replied Laranthel. He was distracted now, absent mindedly fiddling with the pump handle.
“That sounds good,” Charlotte mused. Her adolescent mind wandered into thoughts about the delicious food before she regained her focus on her original task. “Well as long as you’re okay. I’m gonna go home now, bye!” The little human girl disappeared, the blur of her way black hair fading as she drew further and further from the fence.
Maybe I talked too much, thought Laranthel as he returned to his task. He was easily distracted, and loved to go off on tangents, lost in his own little world. Nobody else seemed to appreciate this habit of his, not his parents nor Charlotte who lived in the house an acre beside his. The two had known each other since they were babies, the two of them having vague memories of the trouble they got into before their minds had fully formed. Laranthel finished filling the bucket and lugged it up to his little chest, doing his best to stumble into the house without spilling any of the contents within the bucket. He had filled it too high and became too distracted with his thoughts to consider emptying it some before he entered the house. He waddled over to the kitchen sink where his mother and father stood side by side scrubbing their used dishes with some of the leftover water from an old bucket.
“Here you go,” Laranthel murmured softly as he set the bucket down beside his mother. She bent down and grabbed the metal handle and pulled the bucket up onto the granite sink counter.
“Thank you Laranthel. Now go draw yourself a bath and wash up.” Marianne pulled a dish from the sink and dipped it into the water Laranthel had poured. The boy nodded his head and walked off, leaving Arava and Marianne alone in the kitchen.
“That kid really looks just like us, like if we had a kid together,” Arava japed as he scrubbed at the white oval platter, they had used to stack all the finished wraps on.
“Hmm, an interesting way to say it, but I can’t say I disagree.” Marianne’s lips grew into a grin, and she dipped her hands into the bucket of water she had set on the counter and flicked her wet fingers at Arava’s face. He reeled and laughed, his chin on his shoulder in an attempt to cower from Marianne’s dripping fingers.
“Hey, knock it off! Knock it off!” Arava laughed, wrapped his arms around Mariane and rocked her back and forth, the two of them giggling all the while. “I hope days like this never end,” sighed Arava in Marianne’s ear.
“Me too,” replied Marianne sultrily. Arava played his face in her neck for a moment before backing away slightly, his eyes and lips smiling into Marianne’s. “I’m glad for a moment to settle down in our, hopefully, long lives.”
“Oh? The ferocious Marianne has settled down? That’s news to me! Ought to tell the rest of the neighborhood as well! I’m sure the kids would appreciate it, and the town’s ears as well.” Arava leaned in and kissed Marianne on the forehead once, twice.
“Oh, ha, ha. You’re so funny my dear,” said Marianne lowly. She leaned into Arava, he closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Oh, but there are yet more dishes to do, sadly my affections will have to wait.” She smiled up at Arava playfully and pushed him away, turning toward the dwindling pile of ceramics in the sink.
“I suppose you’re right. But perhaps there will be ample time in the bath when we get finished cleaning down here…” Arava leaned down and gave Marianne a kiss on her neck. She responded by swinging her hip into his, her eyes focused on the dish in her hands.
“Like you always say: maybe, maybe, maybe.” She finished washing the dish in her hands and grabbed the one Arava had taken into his hands, looking him in his eyes when she did.
The two finished washing the dishes, dried them, and set them into the rack in the wooden cabinet hanging on Arava’s side of the sink. Arava pulled a towel hanging on the cupboard beneath he sink and dried his hands, then handed Marianne the cloth.
“That’s disgusting,” she said sharply, slapping his hand away. She dried her hands on the ankle length dress she was wearing and pinched the loose fat at Arava’s stomach, making him jump. “Go draw our bath, I’m going to go check up on Laranthel and finish up things down here.”
Arava gave Marianne a mock salute and left the kitchen to head upstairs. Marianne dried the countertop with the rag Arava had used then went around turning off all the glowlamps and candles they had lit around the house. When she was finished, she walked out of the front door and grabbed the glowlamp they used to light their porch at night from the foyer and hung it in its place on the left corner of the entryway, illuminating their house’s porch in a dim orange light. She watched the black metal cylinder encasing the light crystal within sway back and forth, imperceptible waves of power wafting from it, imperceptible for a normal person that is. Marianne used the innate powers sorcerers were gifted with and allowed the crystal a small bit of her power, causing the lamp to brighten until the dim light that engulfed the porch began to shine a magnificent gold. After taking a moment to admire her work, Marianne turned and walked inside, shutting the door firmly behind her and locking it shut, twisting the small lock at the door, the deadlock above it, and sliding the chain above into its slot at the top of the door. She walked passed the front living room and into the hallway that opened up to the parlor, the kitchen, and the back door and climbed the staircase tucked within middle of the hallway. She headed right when she reached the top of the stairs and peered into Laranthel’s bathroom. The lamps were snuffed out and the tub was draining, the heat crystals he was given to heat the bath neatly stacked in their container by his bathroom counter.
Good boy thought Marianne. She turned and headed to his room, lightly knocking on the door before opening it and peering inside. Under his covers and snoring softly was Laranthel, peacefully sleeping in his bed. All that playing and rule breaking must have tired him out. Marianne walked over to the sleeping boy and gave him a kiss on the forehead, catching a bit of his curly blue-black hair on her lips. She turned and left the room, quietly closing the door behind her. She let out a tired sigh and walked over to her and Arava’s shared room, looking forward to a warm bath with her husband. She opened the door to the room and closed it behind her as she entered. The lamps on both ends of the room were lit, and their bathroom door was slightly ajar, the sound of Arava humming emanating from within. Marianne stripped out of her dress and undergarments and neatly folded them and set them in the hamper she and Arava used for their dirty clothes and sauntered into the bathroom.
“Why, hello there, gorgeous,” Arava hummed lowly from beside the tub. It was a large white oval set on the red and tan tiled floor of the bathroom. A pole jutted from the same part of the tub where the faucet protruded, which acted as support for a large metal circlet that carried the bath’s velvet curtain. Arava spared no expense on renovating the house, except for running water in the kitchen, Marianne liked to point out. “Ah leave it be, even the greatest make mistakes,” he would reply.
“Why, hello there, handsome,” Marianne sang back in reply, strolling over to the opposite end of the tub as Arava. He had finished filling the tub and was waiting for the heat crystals to finish warming up the water.
“Dip a toe in, won’t you? See if the water is ready to be tread,” cooed Arava from across the tub, his face feigning worry.
Marianne huffed as if she was annoyed, playing along with his game. “I asked you to ready the bath, but I suppose it can’t be helped.” She raised her leg and dipped her toes into the water, reveling in the sensation of warmth gently caressing her toes. She shivered from the pleasure of the feeling.
“Good, looks like it’s ready.” Arava stepped into the tub one foot at a time and sunk into the water, Marianne entering at the same time.
“This never tires,” said Marianne with a satisfied sigh. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the edge of the tub. Arava leaned forward towards Marianne, submerging his large form into the water until only his eyes and wet hair were left visible.
“Hmm…” came the distorted sound of Arava’s voice from beneath the steaming water. He had a mischievous look in his eyes, the sight of Marianne so relaxed and unaware exciting his playful mind. She’ll be mad if I make a mess of the floor, he thought. Oh well. Arava rose quietly from the water and smothered Marianne in his embrace.
“Hey! Hey!” Marianne giggled and the two began to tussle around in the bath, splashing water on each other and onto the tiled floor, much to Marianne’s chagrin. She was too preoccupied with Arava’s embrace to care however and allowed herself to enjoy his touch.
The two of them fooled around in the bath for a half hour before Marianne, on the rarest of occasions, decided to be the responsible one and end the touching and grinding they had been engaging in for the past half hour.
“Look at this, now we have to dry this floor before we go to bed,” Marianne said glumly. “Oh, you are such a headache!”
“Mmm,” Arava replied, a tired, but contented, look on his face. He took some water from the tub and splashed it on his face before grabbing four towels from the rack a few steps from the tub. He tossed two to Marianne and wrapped one of the two remaining towels in his hands around his waist and used the other one to start drying his hair. “I’ll clean up, you just get dressed and go lie down, princess.”
“Princess, huh? If only.” Marianne wrapped a towel around her chest and another around her head, then left Arava alone in the bathroom to dry the floor and empty the tub.
She brushed her hair, put it up into two braids, tossed on her night gown and laid down on the large bed she and Arava shared; watching and waiting for her husband to emerge from the bathroom. He did, after a few minutes of noisy stomping, softly swinging open the bathroom door having put out all the lights within. He walked over to his wardrobe on the opposite side of the room where Marianne was laying and pulled out his own nightgown and a pair of shorts to wear beneath. He put on the garments, turned off the glowlamp on the bedside table on his side of the bed and slid under the covers beside Marianne. He nuzzled up to her, laying his head on her shoulder as she stared up into the darkness. She turned and tried to rest herself in Arava’s arms, but he pulled his limb out from under her each time.
“My love,” Arava whined, drawing out the words. “I cannot sleep when you lay atop my arms! You know this.”
“Hmph,” Marianne huffed rolling over that she was facing him. They stared at each other for a while before Marianne leaned forward and gave Arava a quick peck on the lips. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Arava responded. The two lovebirds closed their eyes and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of reliving happy days like this over and over again, hoping such happiness would stretch on to eternity.
