The War Against Aberon (Rough Draft #1)

Chapter One

    The home was simple. With a cream stone making up the four walls, a dark thatched roof with mossy bits crawling across, and small windows with wooden frames hand-carved into the structure. Inside the humble space, however, was something other than simple. The one bed of sheepskin had a lifeless form lying upon it. Buckets of sick scattered by the bedside. In the kitchen, a couple paces away, the few counters were covered in smelly herbs and spices meant for healing. Seated on the couch turned to face the ill body sat Zaffre. Elbows on her knees she kept her eyes trained on the chest of her father in front of her. The slow rise and fall was the only sign of life, and it was something she clung to.

    She'd been sat there long enough that the stench of purge did not phase her nose. Her father had fallen ill one moon ago, quickly falling into a catatonic state. He woke occasionally to spew anything in his stomach, but for the most part, slept. No one knew where the sickness had come from.

    It'd been a struggle since. Zaffre lived on a small farm with just her mother, Jahzarni, and her father, Cylis. The three of them worked to maintain their few fields of barley and wheat, as well as one field of berry bushes. On top of that, they owned a flock of around twelve chickens that provided them their eggs as well as a few extra shillings in the town market. Then there were their six horses that were meant for plowing the fields and just general travel. The horses were Zaffre's favorite part of the humble home. She loved the way they were kind and never judgemental.

    Animals never judge like those of a proper thinking mind. The Westwood district where Zaffre's village was located was the poorest one in all the Vale Havon sectors. Zaffre didn't care much for those politics and the economic statuses of her nation. She did however care about how the status of the poor in Westwood made the people very crass. Any travelers looked at the people like they were scum on their boots. They looked at their vast and green farmlands, the deep and beautiful forests, and they called it the 'slums'.

Shadow Ridge was only just above Westwood in treatment. Westwood's closest eastern neighbor, their economy tended to rely on mining as well as lumber. Unlike the farming in the villages in Vale Havon's westernmost land. Richer than the mountain lands of Shadow Ridge was Navayla, the Sea district. Known for their trading, fishing, and travel businesses, it was no wonder they were second from the top. Finally, there was Sandlelake. Their gold industry was booming and they provided the most income for the kingdom.

    With their placement, Navayla and Sandlelake got the best treatment and their nobles were almost looked at like gods to commonfolk. The idea that currency could have such an influence on perspective disgusted Zaffre. She never liked hearing about politics with all of its cutthroat opinions and callousness. Her father, however, did think being knowledgeable on one's kingdom was a good thing and insisted she got lessons on all things Vale Havon.

Truthfully, she only paid attention about half the time, but now she wished she knew more. Her father wanted her to travel to The Capitol. For Zaffre to be the first in their family to go to university, only the day her father got to see that may never arise. So, Zaffre sat and wished she'd decided to follow her father's wishes instead of remaining on their small farm. Though, she could never leave now. Her mother needed her, the farm needed her, and most of all her father needed her. She could never leave home.

    Zaffre went back to observing the man who raised her. His lilac skin was closer to a gray lavender, his tail limp and hanging off the side of the bed. Zaffre nearly had tears in her eyes to not see his ears twitching in excitement over something or another. His eyes closed in slumber covered the amber hue of the iris. The familiar shade would've been comforting to see from him.

Looking in the mirror and seeing the same slit pupils and yellow shades wasn't the same as seeing the way her father's brightened when he talked about education, his family, or crafting. Crafting, building, another pastime of Cylis. The one-room cottage she called home had been built stone by stone by the man so dear to her and her mother. She remembered so many good times from her childhood in this cottage. This home.

    Standing on one of the kitchen chairs to watch her mother cook. Sitting by the fireplace and staring out the window to watch the horses run about the barn. Being read to sleep by her father. He used as many funny voices to make her giggle as he could. Zaffre smiled when recalling how her mother would glare at how he was riling her up when she was supposed to be going to bed. There was also when she would fake nightmares just to have the soothing embrace of her parents to lull her into dreams. She thought back to sitting on the cushiony couch as her mom put her hair into braids. Zaffre remembered dashing through the door, mud trails behind her left by her feet, Jahzarni just steps away yelling about the mess she was leaving.

    Just then, the door creaked open, and a second later the indigo frame of her mother stepped through the doorway. A woven basket clutched in the crease of her elbow she immediately made her way to the tiny kitchen. "How has he been?"

    "The same, how was visiting Song?" Zaffre watched as her mother placed and opened the basket on the kitchen table. She pulled out a loaf of bread and some dried fruits after answering the question.

    "Well, Mrs. Achebe asked me about five times to give your father her well wishes," Jahzarni said with an exacerbatory tone. Zaffre let the knowledge lift her from her melancholy as she laughed.

    "That sounds like her, anything good in the market? When I was last there Jonus told me his father planned to have some seasoned pork jerky for sale soon." Rising from the couch Zaffre walked to stand by the counters to better speak with her mother.

    "No jerky, but Masie had some fresh Fleur Berries which will be great for your father's next dose of poultice." As she spoke the slowly graying-haired woman lifted a pouch from the basket as delicately as possible and offered it to Zaffre to peek inside. Taking the bag she pulled it open slowly as to not damage the preciousness inside.

The Fleur berries, which were not even berries but sprouts, sat jumbled within the soft cloth of the pouch. Their light blue color identified them for what they were, a magic plant. Usually used in low-level potion-making, the berries were nearly essential to any sort of healing. They also were not native to the area.

    "How did she get Fleur berries? And how much did you pay for these? Fleur berries aren't grown in Westwood, let alone Song!" As she pulled the bag closed Zaffre gaped at her mother. In no way could they afford magical medicine of any sort. She could only imagine the debt this could put them in, they may even have to sell the farm! Zaffre couldn't bear to think of that outcome, but her panic was cut short by the sob that escaped her mother. Jahzarni was normally very well put together, having long ago learned tears never fixed any problem. It was clear she had reached a breaking point as she rested her head in her hands and cried next to her only child.

    "I had to! He won't make it otherwise, I can't lose him Zaffre, I just can't!" She fell into sobs and slipped to the floor, ears folded down and tail wrapped around her waist for comfort. Zaffre hugged her mother and slid with her to the floor, her own tears welling in her eyes. For weeks her mother had remained strong and kept positive. Always saying how "He'll pull through!" or "I know your father, I know Cylis, he'd never let an illness take him." Now it was clear to Zaffre that, that had been an act to keep herself strong. The fear of losing her husband of twenty-eight years was world-shattering, and still, she'd not broken down once. She admired her mother then, Zaffre did, she knew she never could do what her mother had been.

    Not knowing how to console the sobbing woman, Zaffre settled for just holding and being there for the woman that raised her. Zaffre's worries were of no importance at the moment. It was her turn to hold up the remarkable person that was Jahzarni. As she quietly hushed her mother who was quickly bottling her emotions back up for another day Zaffre looked back to her father. His sleeping form still just as ailed as before provided none of the hope that she wished to give the terrified woman beside her. She only wished there was something she could do, but the thought was cut short by a loud and desperate cry of pain.

Word Count- 1566