The Curse of Eternity

Death One

(a/n This is not the right chapter. I have lost the edited version please bear with me until I am able to find/rewrite this chapter. I will remove this note when I have finished updating this chapter. Thank you for reading.)

On the furthest edges of the Ciy'bria Provence next to the Chimera Sea, lays the Dukedom of Everlasting night. The Dukedom once knew a different name; a grand name, a name noble and proper befitting its nature. All can agree the name it bears, suits the land much better than the name it bore before.

As the name suggests, the land is cursed; cursed by a powerful witch to eternal darkness. The skies are always night. We tell the passage of time through the cycles of the moons. There is no Rhyun shining his face above us, yet, the crops still grow, the season's turn. We call the parts of the darkness, early night, midnight, and dark night.

The witch cursed the Lord of the Land to everlasting life and the land to everlasting darkness. There is one more fact we know about the curse; the Immortal Lord or the Dea'mond Lord as the village calls him, needs a Bride every twelve New Moons Turn. He will send his grand carriage to a village three moons prior where it will wait until the Bride steps within.

In some stories the Bride is special. She is chosen out of fear and respect for the Dea'Mond Lord's power. The village chooses their best girl, one who will be of marriageable age when it's their turn to present her.

They will choose a young girl, the promise of her beauty like a closed flower, shy and hidden among nervous petals. She will be trained on how to be a proper wife to the creature responsible for sending their land into eternal darkness. She learns to sew and embroider with tiny, perfect stitches. She is given the best silks in the brightest colours, brass, copper, with silver coins and bells. She sews her wedding gown in neat, invisible stitches and grows into the role she's been bred to play.

The snow is always deepest during Moons Turn, the village turns to ice most wonderfully and I imagine it's the same now as it was when the curse began; full of glimmering snow and trees crowned with ice chimes singing in the frigid winter wind. The moons are their brightest during this time and illuminate the bride and her walkway like Rhyun shines his face overhead. She is adorned with silks the colour of the sky and sunshine. Her hair is shorn, the sign of what she is yet to become, royalty. The bells and coins she's sewn among the gown chime merrily, she is a beacon for her beloved to find her in the darkness. She believes in her purpose. The path plotted before her is carpeted with hard crimson winter berries and they shield her bare feet from the blistering cold. At the end of the path, the carriage awaits unmanned to take her to her groom. 

As the years travel on the ritual turns into something that can barely be called tradition.

I am Desolation; born a cursed girl found wandering a cursed land. From the crown of my head to the soles of my feet my skin is spelled. My gaze brings death. Of the times before Mupu found me, I don't remember much and what I do stays locked behind doors of forgetfulness.

Mupu is a dear old Feelinai who took me in when the world left me to die. She is also a woman who cannot be affected by my curse because she is blind. She does not care about my curse or the marqueings on my skin; she cannot see them. More importantly, she never seeks to exploit my curse for her benefit.

I am about seven when I kill my first living being. My curse is discovered. The memory takes me as they do, throwing me headfirst into the past spiraling until I relive the memory, moment by moment. 

I am foraging in the forest. Sunlight streams inviting and warm between golden Feyan branches illuminating the ground carpeted with vibrant moss, eine nettles, and twigs. The air is pungent with spicy Lililanth, a soft breeze plays about my ankles. As I walk, a magnificent blackberry bush raises before me decorated with large, ripe berries. Gathering the corners of my cloak in one hand I make a mock basket and collect the fruit with the other. The bush has summoned another visitor with its succulent offering. The bush trembles violently and a loud growl ensues. The growl is familiar and I back away from the vegetation slowly. A Mera bear barrels through the bush then stands on its hind legs. Its roar rattles my ears and I release my hold of the berries; they waterfall around my feet and roll towards the bear. I pull my hood off and stare trembling at the grey and white striped monstrosity.