The Year of the Wyrm
By James D. Swinney
Stepping softly into the chill air of the late autumn evening, Halian made her way quietly onto the balcony. She wore her sleeping clothes already, a soft shirt of grey wool and pants to match. The wind, sweeping over the great city, ruffled her clothing as she looked out onto it. Clouds of fog--or, as seemed more likely, smog--covered the cityscape, blotting out the setting sun and leaving it all in a greyish haze. Buildings stretched high into the air, buildings of industry and of business, residences and schools. Each one held its own individual beauty.
And she cared not for any of it.
In fact, she cared little about anything anymore. Sadness held her in an iron grip, from which she hadn't been able to escape even for a moment. She cried regularly until her face was red and her eyes sore. Servants and maids who came into her room to do their jobs often gazed at her with what seemed to be judgment in their eyes. That made her cry all the more. The worst part was that she could speak of her troubles to no one, not a single person in the whole of her great city.
They were going to murder her husband soon. That she knew. She had found out from her husband's most trusted friend, High Captain Sallis, the man who had saved her husband's life countless times, the man who would never betray the King. And she found out while he was in her bed.
No, she couldn't say a word to anyone. Not Sallis, for he did not even know that he had told her, and he could not know or she would inevitably die. Nor could she speak to her husband, for fear of him discovering her infidelity. No, she was forced to remain silent. Of all those who lived in her city, she spoke only to herself.
She had not eaten in several days. Her stomach screamed at her constantly for sustenance, but it was a fickle thing. She lost anything that she tried to eat anyway. None of her former hobbies held any joy for her any longer. She did not sew; she did not spend time with her friends. She locked herself away in her chambers--far away from those of her husband--and cried the hours away. She couldn't handle it much longer. The sun was sinking lower with each passing second, and so were her spirits. She was torn inside like an old rag that nobody uses anymore. Nothing she did brought her any pleasure, only more pain. Looking out to the sky, she thought forlornly about the Gods whom she had never revered, never given praise to. Were she to die right now--which was a thought close to her heart now--would they accept her into their heavens? Or would they scorn her and send her to eternal punishment? It was a terrifying thought, but no more frightening that the idea of living in this world any longer.
And so, tentatively, she stepped closer to the edge. The wind was frightfully strong here, this close to the railing. Her clothes whipped about her and she began to have doubts. I must do this, she thought, with some amount of fear. I cannot bear to stay here any longer.
Then, terrified beyond her wildest imagination, she climbed up onto the rail, resting her bottom on the edge. She looked down, seeing the long and flowing river beneath her. Cobblestone streets ran to and fro about the city, almost abandoned at this hour. She took a deep breath, knowing that no one would see her. Then, steeling herself one final time, she jumped.
King Leander wept when he found the body. She lay on the ground limply, with none of the life that he had known her to have once before, though that seemed like such a long time ago. Her face was pale and her eyes glazed over in death. She was still hauntingly beautiful, despite her lifelessness. He cried, his tears spilling down his cheeks and onto the bloody cobblestones beneath. He could hardly believe that she was dead, this woman whom he'd known and loved almost all his life.
