"You may call me Jesminda, Prince."
It is early morning. The predawn rays illuminate the ever-golden crowns of the ancient trees whose mighty trunks have stood on these lands for centuries, planted as far back as Braon, the first high lord of the Court of Autumn. This was his favorite part of the forest. Away from the big cities, away from the capital, villages, and settled places. Just nature and air. With his own hands, Braon had planted every sapling of every tree, every bush sprouting in this forest. Or otherwise known as the Forest of Golden Thought. That name didn't come to him right away. Braon liked to come here once a month, walking alone, thinking about the new and the old, the mortal and the immortal, the beautiful and the ugly. When he was bored with his duties, with the lords and ladies who were always dividing territories and fawning over him at every meeting, trying to seek his favor. Even when he was bored with his family. The beautiful Inwu, the wife of the high lord. A stern woman with a cold heart. He loved her. She wasn't of the highest blood, came from a lower caste, but he loved her. Long ago, when Prithian had not yet been broken into courts, on this very spot, Inwu had saved him from arrows and boiled love in his heart. She bore him a son, little Kinshua. Braon cherished his child. But even from his beloved family, he grew weary. He wanted peace. So he grew his own forest, in the southeast of the Autumn Court, on the border with Spring, where the monsters of all kinds still dwell. Here, Braon found peace, where he could indulge his tormenting thoughts and compose them into poems that, after his death, Inwu would transcribe into chronicles that would be honored for generations to come. It was because of this that the first high lord of the court of Autumn was nicknamed the Thinker.
Millennia have passed, generations of rulers have passed, but the Forest of Golden Thought is still one of the most dangerous places in the Autumn Court. It is said that the Thinker's wisest thoughts and fears have become tangible because Braon filled them with such strong feelings, and if anyone dares to enter this mysterious forest, he will either lose his mind or be eaten by one of the monsters. Golden trees still grow here, and in the very centre of the forest stands a lake so clear that it seems as if it were not water but tears. In the villages there is a legend that the lake was formed from the tears of Inwu, which she shed while mourning the death of her husband.
The golden leaves rustled at the pace of their light steps, the branches crunched beneath their soles. There was no power now to distract Lucien Vanserra from the thoughts that occupied his clever head. ‘Perhaps all the legends were lies? I've been wandering in this forest since my childhood, and I haven't gone mad yet, and I've never seen any monsters so colorfully described in the annals. " Once again, he escaped from the Forest House, away from the abuse of the cruelest of all six of his twin brothers. Aisa and Assar were the true children of their father, so much like him they were both. The twins heeded Beron's every word and advice. They put their father's words into postulates, obeying Beron's every will without question. They always mocked Lucien. They regarded his younger brother as a toy, and Beron condoned them in this. Lucien was not a weakling, and if the ‘educational measures’ of Beron he could not avoid, then with the attitude of the twins he fought, if not openly, then arranged them various tricks. ‘You let me down from the summerhouse? I'll put laxative root in your food. Did you tie me to a wild horse and gallop it? I'll set a bogey on you when you hunt. It was a vicious circle. But Beron knew what names to give his children. The High Fae have long believed that names have power, and how a parent names their child will determine their character and sometimes their fate later in life. The name Aisa meant sharp or fallen, and such was the first of the twins. Sharp, as an arrow he threw words at anyone he didn't like, and it didn't matter to Aisa whether it was a servant or a high lord. The other twin's name, on the other hand, meant vengeance. Assar was never stingy with it. All of Lucien's attempts to fight back, his little childish pranks on these two met with nothing but dire consequences. He was always invited to Beron's carpet afterward. And the twins were there, too. Common sense told Lucien to stop and not answer. ‘Silence is golden,’ Inkyu, the sixth son, himself following such a principle, had always told him. Sometimes, it seemed to Lucien that Beron didn't know Inkyu existed at all. He was so indifferent to him. He even gave him such a name: Inkyu meant ‘sixth’. "I guess your father's imagination ran out on you, - Aisa laughed, ‘I took one look at you and knew you were no good for anything.' Inkyou never responded to that. He wouldn't even look at the twins. Lucien couldn't do that.
It was the seventeenth year of his meaningless life, and all these years, he had had no peace from Beron. Not a day could pass without him being bullied, not a meeting with the supreme ruler that did not end in abrasions for the youngest and most unloved of his sons. Beron and the twins were his nightmare, and because Lucien knew he could not remain silent, could not quietly bear all the inclement weather they would bring down upon his head, he would withdraw into the forests of the court of Autumn.
For days he wandered, hunting deer or fishing in the cold rivers. He travelled to villages and small towns, always hiding his face with a cloak so that Beron would not be informed of his adventures. He spoke to the inhabitants, saying that his face was so ugly that if they saw him they would immediately fall from the sight. Introduced himself as a wanderer, making up different names and stories. He helped with the harvest, learning what his brother Eris would call ‘not worthy of a prince’. But he tried to help the peasants. More because there was no one else. Beron didn't care about their problems, the only thing he cared about was the tribute they brought him each month. Few courts retained this custom. After the war, most of the High Lords had reformed to appease the populace, but courts like Autumn, Spring and Night still observed the custom.
The seventeenth day had passed since the youngest prince had fled from the Forest House, delaying the hours of pain that Beron would invariably bring him, for he had quarreled with the twins again. This time Lucien did not stop at any villages or taverns, he walked purposefully this very way, hoping to stay here for a couple of months, for no one would ever venture into the Forest of Golden Thought. He was drawn to the dead silence of this forgotten place, a place where Lucien could finally free himself of all titles and responsibilities and relax. To let himself go and collapse all the shields hiding his true nature. The nature of the Court of Day. Here, he could bask in the sun and soak in its light and warmth.
Strolling along one of the paths, shimmering in the sunlight, enjoying the solitude, Lucien moved towards the Lake of Tears. He felt the gazes of unknown monsters watching him through the golden crowns of mighty trees, but never once did any of them dare to attack or even show themselves, so Lucien did not pay much attention to it. He was occupied with other thoughts and dreams. Dreams of distant lands. Of other courts. Of travelling and making new acquaintances. About how his life would have turned out if he hadn't been the son of a high lord. What would he have done? What would his character have been like? Interests? Would he have been a strong warrior? Or a merry minstrel? Or would he go to an academy and teach? Or would he go into commerce and travel by ship?
Step by step, he indulged in his dreams, savoring them like the juiciest fruit from court of Summer, savoring what he thought he would never experience in his life. Without noticing anything in front of him, he silently walked to the shore of the lake and froze. He was not alone. In an instant, waking up and throwing all his thoughts back, he drew his bow and pointed it at the rippling water in which someone was splashing. But he didn't fire. A creature emerged from the lake. ‘It's a girl!’ - exclaimed the young man mentally with surprise. She had her back turned to him and had not yet noticed him so that he could see her shamelessly. A small head crowned with twisted horns that nestled in a mane of brown, oak-bark-like wet hair that ran down her thin, swarthy back. Sharp shoulder blades stuck out tantalisingly, wet shoulders shivering in the cool air, and Lucien couldn't budge. He tried to send a pulse to at least one of his limbs, at least to lower his bow, but it was all to no avail. The prince just stood there watching this fae turn around quite clearly, not expecting to see him there with an arrow pointed at her. Shock encompassed the features of that lean pretty face. The redhead's already large eyes widen even more in surprise, the small mouth with the puffy, dry lips opens ready to scream, but he seems to restrain himself and just covers it with both palms of his hands, the nails on the fingers of which could rival his older brother's stilettos.
Lucien manages to make an effort on himself and lower his weapon.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I didn't expect anyone else to be here at all." - he said quietly, though more than anything he wanted to burst into a selective profanity.
The girl slowly took her palms away from her face, still with a confused look on her face, and began to step out of the water apparently unashamed of her nakedness. Lucien tactfully began to look around and, noticing a dark green cloak lying by a boulder, hurriedly took it and threw it over the shoulders of a small faerie already standing on the shore, whose head didn't even reach his shoulders. Tilting her head to the right, causing her mop of hair to ripple and almost hitting him with her horns, she asked decisively:
There was not in that face the beauty of which women at court are so proud. There was nothing refined or delicate, no fair skin or high forehead. No ballads could be written about this face, no poems could be composed about it, and it was difficult to give her any vivid epithets. But there was something in those eyes, in that slanting gaze, or was it the wildness of her features, but, as always, he could not lie to her.
"My name is Lucien Vanserra." - he said quietly, almost in a whisper
Slight surprise slipped into her gaze, and then the wildness returned, and a cheeky smirk slid across her dry lips.
"You may call me Jesminda, Prince."
And those words were the beginning of their end.
a little sketch of Lucien's past. Not canon at all. English is not my first language, so I apologize.
areudirty
prguitarman
discoholicmusic
stormborns
ellievsbear
gamechangershow
2087
