Before the Dreamers:
*I had been curious about writing a story from an alternate perspective. Outside of the IC/main characters, from the perspective of an oppressed group — the Illyrians or the Court of Nightmares, I wrote this short Prologue for a young Illyrian named Valan who lives in a small steel clan. Disclosure: if I decide to continue this, I do plan on presenting Morrigan, Azriel, Cassian and Rhysand and they may not always been in a favorable light because this is a first person perspective narration and if you don’t like that, that’s okay.*
⚠️ TW: depictions of violence ⚠️
Prologue:
I wrapped my feet around a large pine tree that creaked and groaned with the gusts of the eastern winds. I could see so far from the top, nearly to the flatlands of the steeps shrouded in mist. I’d sometimes imagine soaring there, the sun glowing between my wings casting an irresidecent orange hue to the ground below. I’d imagine my mother dipping and twisting next to me as we sail across the sparkling sea, to the continent. I know it’s no better there, even here in my unnamed steel village clan we know of the horrors of the Queen of the Black lands, the suffrage of mortals. They are simply mortals, just as I am simply an Illyrian. We all have our place in this world and theirs is below ours, and ours is below that of the High Fae. I jump down, spreading my short wings letting the wind rush to my ears as they lighten my fall. The crunch of leaves sounds beneath my feet as colors of red, orange and yellow fly all around me. Living in the shadow of Ramiel is not so bad, it keeps the bitter winds at bay and masks our village from the deep and harsh winters like those suffered in Windhaven. Our clan is responsible for forging the steel used in battle, our females responsible for learning the arts of healing and when fully trained sent off to distant villages and clans to heal warriors.
My Father had been called to war, summoned by royal decree on word of the High Lord of the Night Court; Rheon. He’d gathered his leathers out of a small silver trunk tucked away into the corner of our one room home and pulled a long sword over his shoulder, it shimmered and sang in the sunlight. Walking through the forest back to the village I thought of his words as a tear ran down my cheek.
‘Valan, do not fear. We have the blood of Enalius, a great warrior. We were chosen by the Gods, it is a great honor to be chosen for war and battle, I’ll return.’ He’d never returned, that was six years ago.
All the males did not return, our entire village, our entire clan had been lost to the magic of the dark lands. I’d one day vowed to become the greatest Illyrian warrior, greater than Enalius himself and avenge my father, but my mother had wept and wept for days. My brother Avrid had begun his training with a group of young males and I had tended to mother and the home. Our village had suffered after the loss of the males, with the older young males training, small males such as myself took up the duties of forging the steel and caring for the females and their training of healing. The Lord who ruled among our small village, who had been chosen to stay and lead, had thankfully ruled with a soft hand in comparison to the majority of Illyria. My older brother Avrid had not been called into battles by the High Lord of the Night Court, our Lord in the Steel-Born Clan had stated the males needed to remain, else the entire clan would collapse. This facade lasted for sometime, and peace remained in our small shadow of Ramiel, until the stars shone and the moon glowed and the peace stopped, and winter came.
My hammer crashed down on the heated blade, I flipped it, and crashed down again sending sparks flaring into the small stone room where I worked. Sweat trickled down my neck and spine, it had to be near solstice and the temperature near freezing by the stone small building proved to be a near oven in even the deepest of winter.
“Valan!” A faint voice called. My hammer crashed again, curving the blade. A curved blade was better for battle, better for war.
“Valan!” The voice came again, louder this time. I set the blade down as it glistened against the flames before moving onto the next. As I raised the molten hammer a hand grabbed my wrist. Startled, I spun around wings flaring, heart beating rapidly.
“Woah!” Avrid said hands raised, my brother always surprised me with how large he’d grown. At six and ten he had nearly doubled his height since father left and doubled in width as well. His curled black hair was tied into a delicate braid between his shoulders and the fire gave his hazel eyes a burning orange tint to match his wings.
“You startled me.” I said, setting down my hammer. I was only ten and two, but strong. Working as a smith; a maker of steel had made my muscles hard and firm, but I was confined. I couldn’t remember the last pine I climbed, or the last sky I soared.
“Brother, you need fresh air, you’re ragged.” Avrid said, pulling at my clothes and giving my hair a good yank, loosening it from its tie. We shared our mothers dark curls, but our fathers hazel eyes and orange tinted wings, burning embers of the earth he’d once said. Whatever that meant.
“I am working,” I said, setting the hammer down and settling the flames, “the steel will not make itself and there is talk of war.”
A smile spread across Avrid’s face, “it is not talk brother, they speak true. I am called to Windhaven to begin my training and hope to join the bloodrite in four years' time.”
My mothers inconsolable sobbing filled my head as the thought of my brother joining the blood rite coursed through me.
“An honor that would be.” I untied my apron and hung it, Avrid slammed his hand around my shoulder and gave a loud and joyous laugh.
“Brother, one day we shall all be called to fight in the royal arms. The treachery of the Queen of the Black lands and the King of Hybern shall not go unpunished.”
My brow furrowed, was the High Lord truly meaning to gather arms against them? To fight alongside humans? The Night Court did not have human slaves to be sure, at least not in Illyria but he’d never known the High Lord to be a caring man, or a man who fought for freedom.
“Does the High Lord truly mean to fight on the side of the slaves? On the side of humans?”
Avrid blinked, “but of course! Lord Devlon has commanded it so! We may even get to see the warriors of Prince Drakon and his armies.”
I looked to the ground, the crunching snow beneath my feet, all of this talk of war, of violence, it was grand and an honor to be sure, but as I look ahead and up at the glistened onyx stone monolith of Ramiel, I cannot help but wonder what it truly is?
“Why are you thrilled if there is talk of war now? You’re not a soldier, you’re not a warrior.” Avrid had not even competed in the bloodrite, hundreds of Illyrians lost their lives every year, perhaps even more than were lost to battle. Seemed foolish, killing and slaughtering one another to prove that you’re the greatest warrior; a Carythian.
“War is a long way out, first the Lords, Kings and Queens will talk and discuss,” he grabbed a large turkey leg from the local stand flipping the male a silver coin and winking, biting into it and continuing with his mouth full, “we know how the Lords love to hear themselves talk brother. There is no worry, war will wait and I will train.”
I took the leg when he offered it and handed it back to him, watching as the children laughed before us playing with their sticks as if they were battle swords. The young females even joined in jumping from the trees and landing on the shoulders of the males; good idea. I thought to myself, chuckling.
“Brother,” Avrid said opening the door, a plain broth smell of turkey and carrots, celery hit us with a pinch of salt mother had rationed for winter, “The High Lord’s heir is everything the stories say; he’s lethal, frightening, those by his left and right even more so, one they say is a shadowsinger —.”
Their mother gasped, her breath catching in her throat as the wooden spoon splashed into the broth. She had her back turned but I could tell that she was cupping her hand to her mouth, tense.
“Mother?” I asked, standing I walked over placing a hand on her back, “is everything —,”
“Everything’s fine sweetheart,” she turned, smiling, “sit, dinner is ready.”
Pouring the steaming broth into wooden bowls their mother sat, her long limp dark hair curled pinned half up behind her ears, her hazel eyes did not look up from the bowl and I had never asked about the long scar that went from her hairline to her chin.
Avrid began scooping at his soup, slurping and ignoring the tension in the room, but not me. I lived here, caring for my mother and something had upset her.
“Mother, is everything alright?”
Her eyes met mine, so warm and bright like the sun peaking over the crest of the mountain. She smiled softly and brought her spoon to her lips.
“Yes.” She said simply.
‘Why are you lying?’ I thought, ‘why are you frightened?’
Dinner continued in silence, Mother collected our bowls and brought them out to the washing well in the center of the three homes that surrounded us. Avrid had dozed off after indulging in three bowls of soup letting his arm and wing hang over his small cot in the corner of the room, snoring so loudly there was no way sleep would find me tonight. I rubbed my hands together and opened the door, the small flames still hung around the homes casting a light against my mother’s wings as she set down the dishes in the snow. Unusual for her to clean the dishes at dusk; they’ll freeze and shatter! She’d yelled once when she caught me doing it, iron pots and cutlery was expensive, and yet here she was knelt down in the snow scrubbing dishes.
I kneel down beside her and lift the dishes into my lap, she quickly inhales through her nose and chuckles slightly.
“You’re so quiet for a young male,” her rough hands graze my cheek, “spending too much time with your soft footed mother.”
I smile at her and place her hand on my own, barely out of childhood myself. Her hands are small as I cup them, they’re freezing, but she doesn’t shiver.
“Mother…please,” I say, “what is it, what’s got you out here at night scrubbing the pots?”
Her eyes close as tears fall, her exhaled breath clouding in front of her. She pulls her hands away and wraps her arms around herself, “there are some stories that do not need to be heard my sweet.”
She gathered the dishes, some had frozen to the ground so I grabbed hold of them and pulled a solid piece of snow with the iron pot. I did not appreciate the answer I’d received from my mother, but I knew she had not always lived in this village, that she’d lived far away before, that she had been sent here as a healer, that was all Father had said.
‘If your mother wishes for you to know the rest she will tell you. It is not my story to tell.’ He’d told Avrid and I one night when mother had taken off to the skies, she hadn’t returned for several days, Father had paced around our small home, fists clenched, tapping his foot until she returned. She was covered in ash, and smelled of smoke and iron.
Setting the pots on the small pine table she kissed the top of my head brushing the strands of my hair from my eyes and went to her side of the room curling herself against the wall.
*****
Avrid and Mother were still sleeping when the orange light of morning caused my eyes to drift open. Stretching my arms, wings and legs I roll out of bed and head for the stone shop. Our small village is so beautiful in the early mornings, the orange, pink and yellow sky divided in two by Ramiel, the quiet except for the babbling stream several miles through the woods.
It has been weeks, months even since you took a proper flight. And the wind was singing, I could feel it as my simple parka drifted slowly as my hair blew behind my ears as my face smiled up at the sky.
War can wait.
With a burst of wind beneath my wings I bend my knees bursting myself into a mighty flight. The rattling of pots and rocking chairs in my wake makes me chuckle. The sun greets me as I rise and tears stream from my face. I should have woken Avrid or Mother, but perhaps this moment was a gift from The Mother just for me I think as I let myself fall before soaring back into the sky higher than before. The higher I fly the farther I see, the grass and misty cliffs of the steppes and the deep dark forest dividing the two regions. Twisting and gaining speed I know I should turn back, get to work making blades, axes, daggers and other weapons but is that truly what I am meant to do? I can’t help but think that as I soar beside the sun and look down at the earth, and yet I find my feet crunching back into the snow and I am still just a young male making weapons, weapons that one day I’ll hold.
Catching my breath from flying I don’t notice it at first, at least not from sight, instead I smell and hear it. The scent of smoke, and screaming. My wings flare, along with my nostrils and I charge towards the village. I am still just a young male, but I am an Illyrian.
Branches from trees slice through the thin flesh of my wings, but I don’t feel it not as my heart is pounding, not as the smoke darkens, not as the screams grow louder.
Snow flies in front of me as I rush out of the forest to see the females crawling to the feet of their Fathers, backs covered in blood, flesh hanging in strands from their wings. Clipping.
Their fathers do not respond to their pleading, not even if tears fill their eyes, not as blood drips onto their cloth shoes. My eyes widened , I’d heard of the practice, but our village had been spared, our Lord did not believe in the practice and did not enforce it. I had not understood, the maiming, the mutilation, my own wings ached in response as a tear fell down my right cheek.
I am still just a young male, but I am Illyrian.
My head jerks when familiar sobbing and screaming echoes through my ears as my mother is dragged forward. A tall male with two whispering shadows coiling around him like venomous snakes pulls her forward tossing her into the center to the feet of a pale light haired male.
He clicks his tongue in a distasteful way and jerks his chin to the Illyrian male controlling the shadows, more swarm to him like hornets returning to the hive as he tucks himself into the cover of the pine trees.
“This is a pity,” the male says, he’s dressed in a fine black suit while the males surrounding him wear the fighting leathers of warriors, survivors of the blood rite, “unfortunately there can be no loose ends, you understand don’t you darling?”
My eyes meet my mothers and she smiles, I step forward and the snow crunches slightly but it’s enough to draw the male's attention. He turns and then shadows coil around my ankles pulling me forward. Snow flies around me as I desperately clutch at the frozen ground for anything to grip.
“And who is this?” The male says, his violet eyes giving him away immediately. The High Lord of the Night Court brushes the snow from my face and I snap at him, which earns a chuckle even as the shadows tighten around my ankles causing me to cry out.
“Azriel,” The High Lord holds up a hand, “release the child.”
The shadows recoil back to the dark, and the High Lord grins a beautiful cruel smile as he extends a hand.
“Is this your son?” He asks my Mother who shakes her head.
“Yes my Lord.” I’ve never heard her sound so weak.
“Get up Mother.” I say rising from my back to my knees.
‘Where is Avrid?’ My eyes scan the crowd and my brother is nowhere to be found, the door to my home is burst, I look to my mother again desperate for anything.
“Your brother is dead,” The High Lord says, as if he’s read my thoughts, “too bad really, he would have made a valiant soldier, but he could not follow orders.”
I dig my hands into the earth, through the ice to the frozen ground beneath cracking my fingernails, as tears stream down my face.
“Now,” The High Lord says, turning back to my Mother, “as for you Petra darling, you know why I am here don't you?” He asks so kindly.
“Yes my Lord.”
My ears won’t stop ringing long enough to hear what is said, the smell of smoke is overwhelming, the females are still screaming although it’s turned into a more of a full groaning now.
“If one rebel survives then it can grow anywhere,” my eyes flicker to my mother.
Rebellion?
Without a word, without a blade, without so much as a flick of his wrist the High Lord of the Night Court snaps his fingers and my mothers neck snaps.
I don’t know when I started screaming, or when I lunged, or how I managed to drag a single fingernail across the High Lord's face drawing a drop of red blood.
The other Illyrians got to work setting the homes ablaze, taking off with the females who remained as I beat my fists against the cursed Illyrian; Azriel.
“Let me go, demon!” I scream, “let me go! Avrid!” I scream, not believing the High Lord, hoping, dreaming that he’s lied, that my brother will stumble out of our home and drive his blade into his spine and tear off Azriel’s wings and free me from this hell.
“Enough.” Azriel says.
“I’ll kill you!” I scream, I search for the High Lord, but he’s gone, like smoke.
“I’ll kill you all!” I scream as tears stream down my face as my Mothers body is left is the snow, left to the burning village.
Then the world disappears, time disappears and I have the feeling I’m falling. Even as thousands of voices whisper around me in the spinning darkness.
I am a young male, but I was still just an Illyrian.
