Queen of Golden Waters

Prologue: Evãÿñe & Nÿmuę

Prologue: Evãÿñe & Nÿmuę

{~~~<•>~~~}

A new Queen’s crown is a realm of diamonds,

Beauty and elegance until another King triumphs.

Diamonds turn red when swords and shields collide,

Now a crown of rubies and thrones of poison and briar.

{~~~<•>~~~}

Death. 

Unfortunately, that is how this story starts. This tale's beginning bears no 'hole in the ground', except for the mucky pits dug to bury the dead. There is no warm, inviting hearth or a pantry stocked with food and wine. In fact, this story begins with two starving children. 

Death.

That is all that surrounded two little girls. Ripped wings, battered corpses, soiled hearts; an insurmountable battle of blood and poison. It is a world no child should be exposed to and the irrevocable scars would forever hold a dark place in one's heart. 

The tiny, traumatised, golden-haired girl–no older than seven summers–huddled close to a woven basket and, tearfully, she peered down into its contents. It was too heavy for the poor, stranded child to carry...but too precious to abandon.

Even the child, disadvantaged with a young and inexperienced mind, knew that much of right and wrong. She was taught the qualities of a good conscience from her parents, who had died the way they lived. It is not in simpleminded naivety that one forsakes such a helpless creature, but in selfishness and heartlessness. 

Thus, this little girl of no more than seven summers had nowhere to go. She was alone in a dark woodland with a basket, famished and exhausted, being hunted by something far darker than the shadows. 

She sat on the forest floor, eerily quiet and calm, amongst the Autumn foliage, a few minutes before midnight. The pale light of a full moon shone through the canopy of old oaks and streamed a luminescent path she dared not follow. 

The moon was particularly beautiful that night; a rare and hailed sight to behold. But our little, lone lass had no intention and felt no inclination to observe it.

One of her small hands encircled the woven-willow handle of the basket. She gazed down tiredly, yet fondly, at the being she refused to leave; her other hand stroked its tiny, pink cheeks. 

The babe wasn't crying as typical babies do. In fact, she was silent and sleeping; her chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm, her little heart working hard to maintain itself. 

Though the seven-year-old didn't want to believe it, deep down–with her perceptive, hereditary healing instincts on high alert–she realised her new, little sister was very ill. 

The girl was too immature, however, to understand what the baby needed – all she could do was love her baby sister and sing lullabies. 

'When the monsters came into our home,' Evayne thought shakily, 'the healers gave Mama a medicine that made Nymue come earlier than normal. Maybe...maybe that's why she's sick?'

The observant child assumed correctly. 

The baby was diminutive in stature, prematurely born and suffering the consequences of being forced from her mother's safeguarding womb too soon. She was tiny, even for her species, and underdeveloped; small enough to fit into the palms of a Man or Elf's two hands. 

But the girls' parents had no choice. The enemy was invading their kingdom in swift, overpowering waves of ever-present night. To fate's ill hand, this darkness was seeping into the free hearts of many.