A Short Story of Flamesend

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Through the window, I saw light.
I saw hope and life and home;
But this cell is always night
And I am alone.

Adrasteia’s voice trembled as the last line of her song came out as a faltering whisper. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and trickled down the sides of her face, down her neck, and to the rough blanket that covered her cot. She drew a deep breath and exhaled sharply to regain her composure. She hadn’t expected the emotions to overwhelm her, considering she had written the lyrics and the tune.

Yes. It would do nicely. Sitting up, Adrasteia swung her feet off the cot. The stone floor of her prison cell was cold and damp, and it sent a chill through her body. The room was not as bare as it had been when she arrived. Now she had a small stool, an extra blanket, one book for reading, one to write in, and a tile of dehydrated ink for her pen.

She stood slowly, allowing the pain radiating from her hips to subside before taking the two steps needed to reach her writing supplies. Writing book, ink, and pen in hand, she returned to her bed. Using the stool as a makeshift table, Adrasteia set the book down and flipped it open to the first empty page. With tiny print, she wrote out the lyrics of the finished song - eight verses in total - and indicated the tune using a special musical notation she had learned as a girl. There were no supplies to waste and no song or poem was written down until it was perfect.

Footsteps outside her cell barely registered in her mind, until they stopped at her door. The telltale chink of a lock being opened made her heart leap in fear. Why was she being summoned at this hour? Adrasteia turned to face the door.

A woman beckoned her, silent as always. Adrasteia rose from her cot and limped toward the guard. No additional chains were needed. Her hip had been badly injured in battle years ago which made walking difficult, and her wings, carefully folded in place, had been locked between small sheets of bronze, the key to which was in the possession of her captor.

The halls they walked were shrouded in shadows. Through a window, she saw a clear night sky but could not ascertain her location. Why she bothered anymore, Adrasteia couldn’t say. She was a prisoner somewhere in her enemy’s lands, in the fortress of a powerful prince who kept her locked away for years on end.

Her escort led her into a room lit with lamps and smelling strongly of foreign spices. One glance around confirmed it was the bedchamber of a man. Adrasteia fought down panic. She’s never been brought to him at night. The woman guiding her stopped and motioned to the bed.

Adrasteia bowed her head. “Sir.”

“I’ve been told you sing,” said a male voice she didn’t recognize.

Her thoughts raced. This man wasn’t the prince who held her prisoner. Why was she here and who told him about her? The silence in the room hung like a millstone around her neck. “I do, sir,” she stammered.

“I don’t suppose you know-” He broke off. “No, I don’t suppose you would. Just sing something pleasant. I haven’t been able to sleep in weeks.”

Adrasteia ventured a glance forward to see the man who summoned her. He was younger than the prince but carried many of the same features. She had heard of this son; he had left in disgrace before she had been captured. From the prince, she heard only of vile deeds, but the gossiping guards spoke of a boy who fled the arrogance and hardheartedness of his father. The man looked in her direction, and for a searing moment, their gazes met.

Adrasteia looked away first, returning her attention to the floor. She had long ago decided to not give them the satisfaction of beating her to submission; she meekly obeyed almost every command given her. “I know some of your people’s music, much written by my Bavnovian ancestors, and a collection of songs I’ve composed myself.”

“Anything, so long as it’s pleasant,” the son said.

She sang a ballad of two loves separated by an ocean and the message in a bottle that united them. She continued on, singing of the coastlines and storms of her home, of ships that go out to sea, of festive dances late into the night, of the bond of friendship and family, and of her faith in Alabaster, God of Creation. She lost herself in the memories of Bavnos, singing until her throat was dry and her words raspy.

She sang until dawn. A different guard led her back to her cell. Adrasteia slowed her steps as they passed a window and she saw, for the first time in years, the vibrant hues of a sunrise licking at the landscape.

That afternoon, while she slept, the old prince died and his son was restored to honor. She was summoned to sing at the funeral. The son presented her to his people as if she were a goddess. He moved her from her cell to a lavish room with servants to see to her every need. She was given libraries of books to read, an endless supply of paper and ink to compose whatever her heart desired, even a husband of good standing and character.

But she was not given her freedom.

Her children lived in the freedom of their father’s name while she remained a prisoner in her enemy’s land. Adrasteia treasured her books of poetry and music. For every piece she wrote for the prince’s son, she wrote one for herself and one pleading for Alabaster to hear her prayers. She wrote little prayers on tiny scraps of paper and slipped them into a discarded glass bottle, imagining that she was sending messages home just as the lovers from the ballad.

When her daughter married the old prince’s grandson, Adrasteia’s wings were freed from their cage. But, after decades without use, they were too weak to carry her home.

She died of old age, bequeathing thousands of pages of poetry and music to her granddaughter. This girl, young in years but wise in soul, had Adrasteia’s fierce spirit, and under cover of night, took her grandmother’s legacy back to Bavnos.

Through the window, I saw night.
I saw regret and life alone;
But this world is full of light,
And I am finally home.