Story Beginning

[Willow Oran]

This piece is the first chapter to a much longer work and it sets up many of the characters and relationships that will be important thoroughout the story, so I want to make sure that does all of that and draws the reader in as effectively as possible.
I've hesitated over posting it here, or anywhere else on the internet. But it's been through about six revisions thanks to family, friends and various classes and I want to open it up to constructive criticism from a wider audience.
Please take the time to read and honestly review it. I'd be very grateful to hear all your opinions and advice.

Thank you!

-Maggie

Naming

First there is light; light and cold, after the warm dark it hurts her so she twists around and away but the light and the cold are still there. She squints her eyes, shuts them tight-

The light goes away, she can make the light go away! She likes this so she tries it over and over, light dark, light dark, dark light dark and light again. Slowly the light stops hurting, hurts a little less every time till finally she keeps her eyes open and looks at the light. Light feels less now, she notices that the cold has also gone away, it snuck away while she was busy with the light and left only a tingle. She likes this new warm, it feels almost like the old warm but this time with light. Warm light is darker than cold light, she can look at it and not feel hurt, so she looks at it. Warm light has a funny shape, the funny shape gives her a rising bubbly feeling that comes out of her as a sound. She likes sound, makes it again and look! the warm light makes sound also.

Something lifts, she starts, she was unprepared for movement, but now the warm light is closer and the shape more solid, she can feel and smell it now and it smells familiar, but not quite. It isn’t Mother, where is Mother? She tries to see, can’t, maybe sound? Tries a sound. Works, more movement. Not-Mother gives her back to Mother. She knows Mother right away, even from this outside light place. Mother lifts her close and she looks, sees Mother’s face. Mother has a good face and Mother is warm. Satisfied, she closes her eyes once more and sleeps.


Genevra smiles down at her sleeping daughter. The child has just opened her eyes and now she is resting. She wonders what it was her daughter saw while learning how to use her eyes. Genevra sees her bedchamber, an open space with gray stone walls and large glass doors that open onto her private garden. The room is filled with flowers; vases of roses, hanging baskets dripping with delicate, brightly blooming vines, pots of pansies, and just outside the doors, an almond tree in full bloom. Genevra loves her plants and Arion indulges her. The nurses had disapproved at first, being suspicious of their foreign queen’s customs; but in the end their opinion hadn’t mattered. Arrived from Faerin several days before, Genevra’s mother had made them obsolete.

Amaryllia is cleaning up now, allowing Genevra some time with her daughter. Genevra marvels at this concept, that she has a daughter now. Has it really been only a few hours since this infant was inside of her, a part of her? The memory of that time is already beginning to slip away. It is time to begin a new set of memories. The anticipation of what those memories will hold pleases Genevra.

“Love,” the lilting voice pronounces the word with a tone of profound exasperation; Genevra shifts her gaze to frown at her mother. Amaryllia is taking note of her daughter’s plants for the first time. “Your first birth and you’ve filled the room with love symbols. I taught you better than that Genevra.”

“I was wondering when you’d say that,” Genevra replies, resigned, and mildly annoyed, “my flowers are perfectly suitable for this room.”

“But not for a birth,” comes the reprimand, “Your husband’s people take names seriously, you should have filled the room with plants symbolizing strength, or intelligence, then you could have given her a name appropriate to her station. Now she’ll be named for love, no matter which plant you choose to name her for, or have you forgotten the customs you were raised to follow?”

“She will be named using the customs of this country, mother. She isn’t a faerie; she will receive a human name.”

“That’s what I said when I named you. ‘She isn’t a faerie. I’ll name her according to her father’s customs.’ That’s what my mother said when she named me. Don’t do it. Daughters should be named using the mother’s customs. Anything else will bring bad fortune.” Amaryllia tells her.

“There’s no proof for that.” Genevra argues.

“No?” Amaryllia counters, “Look at me, I go through fire and water to win your father and then stupidly follow my mother’s mistake with the naming and what happens? You go and choose a human. I see all my work being swept downstream and when I try to give you advice you ignore me. At least give her a surname bestowed using our custom. Even a fickle thing like love is a better name than a cursed one. Perhaps it will balance out.”

“No.” Genevra refuses curtly, “That would be worse. In Faerin a name’s meaning shapes the person’s life, but here it means more than that. Here, a person’s name is their being, and to have two names is to have two beings. The people of Enigma wouldn’t stand for it.”

Amaryllia snorts, the harsh sound incongruent with her graceful bearing, “For a culture that puts so much value on names, they chose a stupid one for their country. Enigma. Why do they call this land that? There’s nothing mysterious about it; it has cities and towns and roads and geography just like any other country in the world. These people who live here are no stranger than any other humans. Why Enigma?”

“Arion said it refers to their history.” Genevra answers, irritated by the insult to the country that has adopted her as its queen. “He said that when his ancestors first settled here and established their kingdom they had no memories of what had come before. They had to start their history all over again. Their customs and superstitions stem from the fragments of tradition that those ancestors could recall. They called their country Enigma because it was a mystery to them and apparently to everyone else as to where they had come from and how they had gotten here, and why they had left wherever it was they were before.”

Amaryllia absently winds a lock of dark hair around her finger as she considers this explanation, her skepticism is clear in the glacial blue of her gaze. “Why don’t you go and talk to Arion about the naming?” Genevra suggests, attempting to make peace, “It’s traditional for a relative apart from the parent to give the name during the ceremony. I’m sure he’d agree to let you do it.”

“Mmm.” Amaryllia hums softly, still thinking, “I don’t like Arion very much,” she says vaguely, “He doesn’t like me much either. But I’ll tell him you’ve asked me to give the child her name. Get some rest dear.” She glides through the door that leads into the rest of the castle. Relieved to be alone with her daughter at last, Genevra settles down, and joins her child in sleep.


Amaryllia finds her daughter’s mate in the library, deep in discussion with a large, human male, one of the many around the palace; this is one of the things Amaryllia doesn’t like about the people that her daughter has become queen of. She is of the faerie, and faerie are small. She cannot approve of these overlarge humans; the shortest Enigman that Amaryllia has seen was well over six feet. She recalls that the name of this particular giant is Aldrich, he is with Arion often, and seems important.
Amaryllia has spent much of her time here in Enigma being confused about who is who. To her mind, a mind used to the widely varying appearances of the faerie, Enigmans all look very much alike. Take these two men for example, Amaryllia is sure that they are not closely related, yet the only differences she can see are Aldrich’s greater height and the green in Arion’s eyes.

Politely, she refrains from interrupting and stands a little way off, just close enough to hear what the two men are saying. It wouldn’t do to thwart one’s own curiosity.

“-Of course we’ll be naming her according to custom,” Arion is saying, “But I’m still not sure which custom… Genevra doesn’t want to give anyone a reason to believe that my choosing her was a mistake. She believes we should name her according to this country’s tradition with no debate.”

“And you?” Aldrich’s voice is deep, the words rumbling up from his diaphragm like an earthquake that rises and ripples up through the earth. Amaryllia studies him; of all the giant humans she has seen here, he is the hugest. Even Arion, who to most faeries resembles a small tree, is dwarfed by Aldrich. Amaryllia feels claustrophobic just watching him.

“I’m not sure,” Arion admits, “Names are important both here and in Faerin, but the reasons behind that importance and the method of ensuring that the correct name is given are quite different. I’m afraid that whatever we choose, someone is going to be offended and probably angry, the real question is who and how much. At best I could end up with a few angry citizens, or one angry relation. At worst I’ll have a small scale revolt or a broken alliance, or both; and all because of a name.”

Amaryllia seizes her chance, “Perhaps I can offer a solution?” She asks, sweeping between them, she ignores the inevitable feeling of being trapped and tells them her proposition, “Genevra asked me to officiate at the naming ceremony. We will follow your Enigman customs, and Faerin will be satisfied. Problem solved.”

Arion looks skeptical, “The problem with Faerin would be solved, there will still be Enigmans who object. They will want a entirely Enigman ceremony to balance the perceived weakness in the child.”

“Weakness?” Asks Amaryllia.

Arion looks disquieted, “There are some who believe that because my daughter is not fully human… they believe that she will be weaker for it.”

“I see.”

“I think you should take the lady’s offer.” Aldrich cuts in, surprising and gratifying Amaryllia with his support. “I think I know how we can head off any internal discontent. My Lady Belinda has been pressuring me to find someone to officiate at our younger son’s naming, he is nearly two months now and still un-named. She is becoming impatient with the long wait.”

“A double naming?” Arion sees what Aldrich is getting at, “It would work. And the implied promise?”

“If you agree to it.”

“I am thinking that the promise implied is of a betrothal later on?” Amaryllia asks, wishing to clarify what the men are talking about, “Would such a promise be appropriate?”

“Certainly,” Arion tells her, “Aldrich governs the plains district; he’s second in power only to Genevra and me. An alliance between our children will be perfectly acceptable, though unusual. If you and Merrill officiate at a double naming for the two of them there should be no major objections from anyone.” He looks relieved at this thought.
Aldrich is pleased; he excuses himself, saying he must go inform his lady of the plan. Amaryllia does not linger. She has things to do before the naming, and Merrill must also be informed. Besides, neither she nor Arion are comfortable in eachother’s company.


A month later, Arion stands in the upper garden, outside the rooms he shares with Genevra. He has spirited his daughter away from the preparations for the time being and now he stands beneath the almond tree, holding her in the predawn light. By the time the sun has risen she will have a name, and for better or worse that name will shape her.
Arion hopes it will be for the better. He still has his doubts about this compromise. It seems to him that this mix of Enigman and Faerie traditions is unpredictable and wonders if he may have done his child a disservice by agreeing to it.

To choose one or the other would have caused political trouble, but surely that could have been smoothed over. Unconsciously he whispers his worries aloud to her,
“What if you are given the wrong name? So many names sound innocent enough yet have wholly negative meanings… Will your esteemed grandparents know the difference between a sweet sounding name and a sweet meaning one? Will they know which one is right for you?”

“Have a little faith, Arion.” He turns to see Genevra standing behind him, smiling wryly. She is resplendent in blue and standing there in the morning twilight she looks as ethereal and inhuman as Arion often forgets she is.

“I don’t trust them,” in his arms their daughter screws up her face and Arion takes the expression for one of agreement, “See, she doesn’t trust them either.”

Genevra gives him an amused look, “She’s too young to know one way or the other. Come Arion, what makes you not trust my parents?”

“Nothing, except that they are… too old, perhaps, would be a way to put it? They are too present and not present at the same time. Do you understand?”

“I think I do, though I’ve not noticed it myself.”

“You may be more accustomed to it than I.”

“It still does not explain why you distrust.”

“I am afraid of them.” Arion confesses, “Your parents are not without their share of power, Genevra. They’re legends in Zanduan, were you aware of that? I know they don’t fully approve of me and I must constantly tread carefully around them while not compromising my own authority here. Your father, at least, seems content to convey his feelings through not speaking, but your mother knows perfectly well that she is too old and too powerful to be silenced.”

“I do not think they mean to be frightening or disrespectful,” Genevra muses, “Would you like me to speak to them?”

“No. Best just leave it. What’s taking them so long?” Arion switches subjects, “The sun will rise soon.”

“They’re coming,” she assures him, “Belinda and Aldrich were just behind me.”

She is proven true. Aldrich steps into the garden, yawning, Belinda close behind with their eldest son, Einar. He is holding his younger brother and comes to stand silently between his father and Arion.

“Lady Amaryllia asked that we all meet them in the lower part of the garden.” Belinda tells them.

“Why not here?” asks Arion.

“I think she likes the water in the lower garden,” says Genevra, “Mother prefers to be near water as much as possible.”

“Are you ready?” asks Aldrich.

“Yes.”

Together they make their way down the aged, stone stairs. Einar carries his brother carefully, allowing the infant to see around them.

Arion notices his daughter fidgeting fretfully as they leave the upper garden. The petals that she enjoyed don’t float this far from the tree. Arion whispers to her, to no avail. Fidgets lead to whimpers, then to tears, and when they reach Genevra’s parents where they are waiting in a secluded area of the garden by the side of the stream, the baby girl is wailing.
“Will she not be calmed?” asks the queen’s mother. “She’s disturbing the boy.”

“I’ve tried, Amaryllia.” Arion replies, “I don’t know what’s gotten into her, she’s usually very quiet.”

“At this age who’s to say if this is unusual or not?”

Arion grimaces as his wife’s mother turns back to the children. Genevra wants this, he reminds himself, it’s for the best… but although he can hide them, Arion can’t dispel his feelings. Merrill and Amaryllia make him distinctly nervous.

There used to be an old, thick tree stump in the middle of this glade, Arion remembers. Someone, he suspects Merrill, has carved it into a double cradle, still rooted firmly in the ground. Arion reluctantly sets his daughter down in it, and Einar follows his example, placing his brother next to her. Arion tries not to think about the method that Merrill must have used to make that cradle. Perhaps he could have hand carved something that exquisite in only a month. Arion doubts it. Merrill is more inclined towards the supernatural arts. He is powerfully built and looks a venerable age when it suits him. Merrill is neither human, nor Fae. It is said that he is the child of two of the greater spirits who oversee the running of the world, but if this is true Genevra has never said, and Arion has never had the nerve to ask.

“It’s a bad sign.” Merrill comments, stepping out from the shadows in which he has been lurking, “What is it you’re crying for?” he asks, addressing the baby.

“It’s nothing, Merrill.” Arion says, shielding his daughter from the older being, he is beginning to regret this already. This is not the way a naming ceremony is supposed to go! “It’s nothing. She’s just had a bad night. She was kept up late by too many strange people.”

“There is no one strange here, why does she not stop?” Merrill counters, reaching down towards his grandchild. She cries louder. “Such tears ask for a sorrowful name. Child, I name you Marion for the tears you will desire to cry could fill an ocean.”

“Father!” exclaims Genevra, mortified, “You can’t mean that.”

“I would not say it if I did not mean it.” He answers calmly, “Your daughter’s life will not be easy.”

“If you’ve seen something and you aren’t telling us Father…” Genevra warns him.

“I’ve seen nothing but what’s around me.” Merrill tells her. “You would see it too if you cared to look- ah!” He pulls his hand sharply away from the rim of the cradle, the knuckles red where the as yet un-named boy has hit them with the wooden rattle.

“He seems to have taken offense,” says Belinda dryly, trying not to smile. Merrill’s naming of Marion has annoyed her. Merrill scowls; Amaryllia steps quickly between her mate and the infant boy.

“Perhaps he is simply reminding us that he would like to have a name too.” She says. She turns to look down at the boy, who glares resolutely back. He has placed himself directly between the younger Marion and her grandparents and she, amazingly, has begun to quiet. “Or perhaps not,” Amaryllia amends. “You’ll be a good friend to her, won’t you Alwyn?” She asks, and names him.

The adults wait to see if the names will be accepted. Names are given at dawn, always. Now it is dawn and the names are given, but the names must be accepted by the sun. The adults hold their breaths and wait, expectantly, apprehensively, they look eastwards and the sun rises.