Elizabeth
15 YEARS AGO
Riander and Robin
The shores of Alderport, The Southern Isles

Thunder rolled ominously over the shore. In the distance, the sound of sea warfare made Riander feel numb.

The poorest inhabitants of Alderport had no choice but to stay in shacks rooted in the sandy outskirts of the islands. The community was like a family, to him. A way to survive, at the very least.

From a young age, Riander had grown up here, just him and his mother. She'd used to work in the estate of House Alder, but when a sickness struck her and made her lose one of her legs, she'd been dismissed. Then, she'd at least been able to afford a small place in the capital. But after she became effectively lame, the slums had been the only place to go.

Still, Riander had lived a fine-enough life. It was the only one he could remember. They didn't have much, but what they did have, they shared with everyone else who found themselves here. He was only 13 years old, but he'd had to learn how to act like a man when he was quite young. Or at least, to _provide_ like he was one. That way, he could keep his mother alive. And, so he could prove useful enough for the rest of the poor folks on the shore.

And useful, he was. Riander, influenced mostly by man who led a gang of fighters and thieves, became a skilled informant for the bunch, his young and seemingly innocent disposition granting him leverage to work odd jobs and figure out how to rob their owners, whether in secret, or outright. The gang leader, Roman, took Riander in and was sure to take care of his mother, too.

"We look out for each other, kid. And besides, you're not half bad at making people feel sorry for ya," Roman had said one evening after a successful raid, laughing and placing his hand on Riander's shoulder.

Roman was still there, even now. As the war raged, smoke billowing into the air as ships fell in balls of fire, he sat there with Riander in
Their shack as his mother fought for her life.

Some of the Alderport Navy had poisoned some batches of fish in the hopes of sending them as "Peace offerings" To the Pirate Lord's armies. It had worked, but almost too well. Some of the poisoned fish had been carelessly left on the shore, and Riander's mother, Leia, was one of the unlucky souls who'd eaten one. Riander remembered bringing it to her for lunch, that day. And now, she was sweating profusely, her skin dangerously pale and her lips practically blue. She breathed in short gasps, her bright eyes staring blankly at the thatched roof of their shack.

"Ma.." Riander murmured, trying to get her attention. Tears flooded down his cheeks as he saw life fade from her eyes.

Roman looked on solemnly, shaking his head. He averted his eyes, taking a swig form his flask instead.

"Ma, don't go.. I'm sorry.." Riander said, holding onto his mother's hand fiercely now. Outside, the storm began picking up, rain pouring down onto the shore as the thunder and lightning crashed about them.

Leia seemed startled by the sudden thunderous roar, and she took in a sharp gasp of air. Then, her gaze finally focused enough for her to look up toward her son.

"Riander.. You.. You need to know—"

"Know what? Ma, what?!" Riander shouted, his hands trembling as he held onto his mother's hand.

"...Your father was not a pirate. He didn't leave us, he—" The woman succumbed to a coughing fit, her whole body shaking as she was too weak to suppress it. Eventually, she calmed down enough to rasp out the next few words.

"Your father is a-alive. He's.. Our patriarch. Sergian Alder. I'm sorry, son.. I should.. Should have..."

Leia took a few more desperate breaths.

And then, she was gone.

Riander knelt there, his face frozen in shock. "What..?" He whispered, staring at his mother's face, her body completely still.

His father was the patriarch? 
He'd _left_ them here, on a god-forsaken shore?
And what's worse...

"He killed her," Riander simply said, his eyes cold as he moved his hand up to close his mother's eyes. Tears still pooled in his own, and his cheeks were still wet. But his eyes were bright with fury. With a thirst for vengeance.

"What do you want to do?" Roman asked, watching the boy with an almost playful curiosity. He felt for the kid. But what Roman saw was a brilliant opportunity, not merely a loss. Sometimes, emotions were just the best vehicle to get someone to do something smart. Even if they didn't know it. "The war isn't going in our favor. House Alder is surely weak..."

"Then that's where we'll go," Riander said, standing up and wiping his cheeks. He looked out of their shack, seeing the estate of House Alder perched up further inland. 

He balled his fists, glaring at the Alder sigil flying proudly on a banner, the exterior of the place just as lavish as anyone would expect.

"We're making him pay."

Roman smirked, nodding and standing up. 

"Whatever you say, kid."
Marguerite
Elena Corvus
Tonate Proper, The Southern Isles

She screamed. Body drenched with sweat and tears streaming down her face, Elena Corvus screamed as she had never before, for it was a pain she had never known before. Again and again, the pain racked her body, leaving her doubled up, every sinew and fiber of her being taught. Her screams filtered through the halls of her home, echoing and bouncing to and fro, as if the sound waves themselves were frightened of what could birth such ungodly sounds. It was a sound that none in the house could escape, but perhaps, if cruel enough, they could ignore. 

"Push!" Ordered the old woman whose hand Elena clutched for dear life. Her weathered face had seen many a new life brought forth and many a frightened new mother. "'E's almost 'ere! PUSH!" 

Elena obeyed, pushing as hard as she could and screaming yet again, almost crushing the woman's hand in her own. Another older woman standing at the end of the bed and ready to receive the child which Elena was to bring forth. 

When the contraction passed, Elena collapsed back into the bed and laid there panting as the old woman mopped her pale, sweaty brow. "Good girl," She murmured, giving Elena a warm, mostly toothless smile.

"Where is my husband?" Elena sobbed. "Where is Zander? He should be here! Where is he?"

The woman's brow furrowed and she shook her head, a sorrowful look appearing upon her wrinkled face. A face that had seen many sorrows, in her time."'E in't comin', dear," She replied gently, brushing a tendril of hair from Elena's face, as a mother would do with her child. "You be on your lonesome, but donna worry. You's strong! You's got good blood in ya, and you 'n' the chile 'll be fine." 

Despair crept over her soul, seeking to steal away what should be a happy moment in her young life. Zander had abandoned her... She knew that the midwives had sent for him; they had pleaded with him to come to his wife's side as she brought forth their firstborn child. Had they truly grown so far apart? Did he even care for her anymore?

Since the day they had been enslaved, a change had begun in Zander. It was one which Elena had not seen until their liberation, and it had taken place slowly. A bitterness... A fury against the world for its cruelty and unfairness... A fury that was often aimed at the person closest to him. Their home-Elena's dream home, given to the two of them by the Pirate King himself-had turned into a home of nightmares, haunted by shattered glass and scars in the walls.

She had worked hard to provide for her young family, taking in laundry from surrounding taverns and the homes of the wealthy. Even as her body swelled with the child within her, she had gone out every day for work until her hands were raw and cracked. The child would not have a mother's soft, gentle hand to caress it, as the midwife now did with Elena. Haunted by his own demons, Zander had sought darkness, never leaving the house nor seeking any work. The burden fell upon Elena, and in a way, Zander became the demon that haunted her at home. That raging face from the depths of the darkest of worlds.

"Please, I need him," She begged.

"Sweet'art, women 've bin 'avin' babies since the world begun. Didn't need no man to birth 'em. You ain't the only woman to have a chile alone, and you ain't gonna be the last. 'E' the one that gave you this pain, did'n' 'he? You ain't got a need for *No man*, you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Elena whimpered, "But-" 

Her protest was cut short by yet another contraction, which was soon marked by Elena's body writhing and her screams ripping through the house again.
Both women ordered her to push and, from that point on, Elena didn't have the energy nor the will to speak. For what seemed like an eternity, her world was a crescendo of screams and agony. Unintelligible words escaped her lips. Her mind could form no thought but that of pain. 

And then, through it all, came the rallying cry, "One more! One more! It's 'ere! It's 'ere!" 

Silence. The world seemed to stop turning for a few moments as the women waited with baited breath. Elena lay collapsed on the bed, a bit delirious and panting as she waited for the sound of new life. 

And then it came.

The midwives smiled and divided up the work, the younger focusing on the child and the older focusing on the new mother. When they were ready, the two were brought together. 

"It's a girl," Said the midwife with a warm smile that lit up her vibrant eyes as she placed the child in Elena's arms. The little girl was all red and slightly damp, with the faintest little patch of black hair on her head. She was swaddled in the blanket which Elena had stitched together from the strips of cloth she had been given here and there. Elena always seemed to be putting things together; trying to put right an increasingly shattered world.

Tears of joy trickled freely down her tired face as Elena clung to her child and kissed her forehead. The child's cries stopped at the sight and sound of her mother. Her large blue eyes gazed up with wonder and curiosity at her mother, which made Elena smile softly down at the infant. A face so wondering... 

The scarred, once enslaved woman now held a bit of hope in her arms. A shitblood, she knew, but even a shitblood could be somebody. Her child would never know chains. Her child would never feel the crack of the whip against her back. The child had something that her mother did not: freedom that would last as long as she lived.

"My Hope," Elena whispered. "You will never know my pain."

Meanwhile, the eldest midwife hobbled down the hall in search of the new father. She found him in the furthest corner of the house from the new life that had been brought forth and the light that came with it. The man sought darkness, and he found it here in a room that he had converted for his own purposes. 

"You 'ave a chile now, Mister," The old woman said rather curtly with a scolding look upon her face. Even she couldn't quite believe that a man could be so close in proximity to such a wondrous event and purposely choose not to be present. "It's a girl." 

He looked up at the woman, his dark hair overshadowing much of his face, save for dark, unfeeling eyes that gazed back at her. His face remained expressionless, without a hint of joy, as he nodded mutely and turned back to the book that he was reading. 

The old woman seemed taken aback for a moment, but far be it from her to meddle in the affairs of her clients. The other midwives would hear the story later, no doubt. Rather than say anything, however, she simply closed the door and went back to Elena. 

Silence hung over the study like a shroud. The screams had stopped, but the voices in his head didn't. 

"The bitch couldn't even get that right."
Elizabeth
*After Somehow Surviving Hanging Day*
Prince Brandon Welles
Aboard his ship docked in Tonate Proper, The Southern Isles. 

Once again Bran walked away from a situation where he should have died in The Southern Isles. He'd learned so many life lessons on those islands, they were becoming more like home than Terresol ever was to him. It had been three days since he'd seen his ship, he never saw Kichea again after she left him, and he looked like the walking dead. His skin on his shoulders and nose was burnt and peeling, his hair had gotten unruly and so curly it covered his ears, the dirt under his fingernails was an inch thick. He shocked himself when he looked in the mirror. He brought his dirty fingers up to the bags under his eyes, the blue hardly visible from the whites being engulfed in red. The Prince was usually a mess, but this was a little far even for him. 

He could only imagine the looks he'd get back in Terresol. He couldn't help but laugh, although it came out as more of a dry heave because he was so dehydrated. Kichea had left a cup of dark rum on the vanity. It was days old, but it smelled divine. He looked over at it, tapped his fingers on the vanity a few times staring at it before he drank it. Can't waste a drop, bad luck on a ship.

There was a knock on his door a few minutes later, and a crew member came without waiting for the okay. "Saw you stumblin' in, thought I'd give you a second to settle in before I told you you got company." The Prince laughed, "A risky decision, but I admire it. Who's here?" 

"Man named Ransis, says your ol' man sent him a few weeks ago."
"Mhm, get rid of him." 
"Seems like folk would miss him."
"I'm alarmed that murder is still your first instinct, Don."
"What the 'ell you want then?!"
"Tell him I'm not here." 
"Not gon work. He saw you stumblin' in too."

Ransis poked his head in behind Don, "I'm flattered by this warm welcome but-By the Gods, Brandon! You look like hell!"

Don looked at Bran with his eyebrow raised, lifted a dagger from the top of his trousers. Bran paused for far too long before he shook his head. Don left then shut the door. Ransis was one of the Duke of Erba's oldest friends and advisers. He was like an uncle to Brandon and Evelyn, the spoke openly. Brandon preferred things that way. 

Ransis entered the room, hand over mouth looking at Brandon from shoulder to foot.

"A little notice ensures a well groomed host, Ransis."
"You have been gone for five months, we've sent you countless letters, and I've been here for weeks." 
"Why?"
Ransis raised his gaze to the ceiling, "Should I repeat my previous statement?"
"No."
"At any rate, I'm not here to drag you home. I'm here to actually give you an occupation."
"Oh?"
"Oh, yes. All in the letter I sent, but I took the liberty of writing it down again for you." 
Brandon took the letter without reading it, "Wise."

Ransis inhaled deeply, taking another look at the Prince. "I'll leave you to it, and we're all looking forward to seeing you at Meros in a month. One month, Brandon. Oh, before I forget." He pulled a letter from his pocket, "From Evelyn." Brandon took the second letter, "Off you go." Ransis nodded, 'Right. The wine is stored aboard your ship already. It's a foolproof transaction." Bran nodded, "I have a fifty percent chance at success, understood."