All Novel Romance
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Though she has never known what it is to love a man, she knows she could not love one who would threaten harm to win her over. But, being of Derven, Namora’s desire for peace and the lives of her kinsmen outweighs her foolish hopes. Even so, she has to force her voice to come out steady, “And what do you wish me to do, Father?”
Only when the calm, assured voice of a Princess willing to do what is necessary over what is right reaches his ears, does her father look her in the eye, “I wish for you to do what your heart tells you to. Whichever decision you choose, you know that I and the country of Derven will support you.” Over come with grief because he knows his daughter will make the selfless decision, the King presses his palms into his eyes to stop the burning tears from falling.
Namora drops her gaze to the floor. Ever since she was able to comprehend him, her father had never told her what to do but always gave her a choice. Throughout her life he has taught her that only one with the true mark of a leader would choose the right path, dark and cold as it may be and no matter how appealing the others were. Many a time she had found herself at a crossroad, wondering if it was right to follow her heart or her mind and in the end it was always her mind that offered up the right path, reminding her of everyone else’s needs and wants. Though her heart always had the best intentions, it always directed her to selfishness.
While Alumenia can obtain what they need to survive from the other countries, Derven isn’t in such a position of luxury. Being denied metal means no tools to harvest crops, no blades for saws, no way to carve trees and no more production of weapons. Without those, the people of Derven would starve to death if they weren’t overrun by the armies of another country first.
“I will accept King Irron’s hand,” Namora responds. Though she doesn’t want to condemn herself to a life of servitude and submission to such a deplorable type of person, her mind can’t live with the causalities of war that her heart’s choice would cause.
Having nothing left to discuss, Namora rises. Her father speaks softly, “He intends to arrive in two days, however I will tell him that you are otherwise engaged and we will be happy to expect him next week.”
She bows slightly, unable to bring a smile to her face. While her father understands the importance of the Huntress Festival, he understands better than most that these will be her last remaining days of freedom before she is to become first married, then the Queen of Derven and Alumenia.
She has to will her feet to move and carry her out of the throne room. As a guard closes the doors behind her, Laren waits solemnly for the news of her meeting, “Well, Princess?”
Namora puts on the best smile she can muster and attempting to fool her teacher her voice comes out chipper, “Soon, dear friend, you will have to get used to calling me Queen, as I am to be wed to King Irron of Alumenia.”
His expression darkens as he walks beside the Princess, “To cage an animal so wild and free would be more cruel than ending its misery.”
Many of the Derven men suspect that Namora and the Advisor of War Laren have a relationship that is more than it should be. It is always awkward when someone happens upon the two together, speaking to each other in composed bits of poetry. In truth, Advisor Laren is no more than Namora’s teacher and friend. Not only has he trained Namora in combat but he also has trained her in the finer aspects of espionage. He taught her when she was young to convey a message through poetry so that others wouldn’t understand it. They practice regularly-their bits of seemingly love poems really hide the latest gossip or news of the day.
Namora stops in an empty hallway, taking a deep breath before turning to him, “The brush tiger, no longer a kitten, must above all else consider the pack, before herself.” Seeing a sadness in Laren’s expression, Namora knows that he is but one of a small few who can see her true sacrifice. Before he can respond, she tries to assure him, “Its fine. I’m fine. Besides, I’m getting to be an old maid and no one else has made any offers.”
She turns away from him, continuing towards the kitchen. He keeps up pace, his voice a quiet whisper in case someone might over hear them, “That isn’t because you are unwanted, Princess.”
Namora sneaks a freshly baked roll off of the long wooden table while the chef’s back is turned. Slipping out the door with Laren at her heels, she takes a big bite, doing her best to pretend that she is content. Once outside, Greystar ambushes her and steals the rest of the bread. She stares into the spotted grey neck of the beast, petting his mane until a hand on her shoulder makes her return her attention to her teacher. He squeezes her shoulder gently, repeating his words from before, “That isn’t because you are unwanted, Namora, it is because the men of Derven know that they are not worthy of you.”
She can feel the burn of the tears brewing behind her eyes. Quickly, she turns away and mounts Greystar. Though she wants to tell him that she would give up anything just to lead a simple, poor life with any man in her country over King Irron, she knows to utter those words would be a betrayal of all that is Derven. Instead, she offers him a weak smile and though she knows that there is nothing convincing behind her words, she says them anyways, “I’m just nervous, that’s all. King Irron will make me as happy as any man could.” Before he can respond, she turns her horse away and starts back toward the Huntress camp at a full gallop. As the almost deafening wind whips her face, she lets the tears flow freely. CHAPTER 2: THE HUNTRESS FESTIVAL
She reflects on her life; her childhood was agreeable. She enjoyed her youth, hunting in the woods with the other women, listening to their stories of love and life while she herself remained sheltered within the confines of her title. She always hoped that one day she would be able to discover love as she had seen the other women do. Though no man in Derven ever caught Namora’s eye in such a way to make her heart ache and race, as her friend Amyee tried to explain, it wasn’t due to a fault in her exterior but rather one inside.
Namora is about a mile outside of the Huntress Camp when she slows Greystar to a halt. The harsh, bright sun stretches its arms over the horizon, pulling itself over the cliffs that surround Derven. She takes a slow breath and wipes her face dry. Never before has she yearned so desperately for the darkness, wishing that she could lose herself deep within its shadows and hide from her responsibilities. Drawing closer to camp, she can begin to make out the shapes of the women eagerly awaiting her return. Namora hopes that they won’t be able to tell she has been crying.
No one speaks as she gets off of her horse; instead they all wait to hear what news was important enough to interrupt the Festival. With all eyes on her, she puts on a large smile and announces, “I am to be wed to King Irron of Alumenia!”
The cheers of ignorant happiness make her want to wretch.
“A feast this afternoon for our soon to be Queen!” someone shouts, only to get loud hoots in response.
Namora feels like her knees will buckle but she keeps her smile as large as she can. Someone’s hands clasp on her shoulders and begin to guide her away from the group, “Yes, a feast! Let us all prepare while the Head Huntress rests,” Cari’s familiar voice appeases the crowd.
As the women begin to disperse, each with their own task at hand, Namora lets Cari guide her away from it all and towards the Princess’ tent on the outskirts of camp. She feels tears leak from her eyes. Her old hunting companion stops just outside of the tent and as if sensing that Namora needs her privacy, she talks to her back, “I am… I am glad we are fortunate enough to have you as our Princess.” The way the old woman’s voice cracks leads her to believe that she senses Namora’s distress.
“Thank you, Cari,” she whispers in return, “I think I am just a bit overwhelmed with all of the excitement.”
Cari hesitates for a moment; not saying anything, she gently squeezes Namora’s arms before leaving her alone.
No longer able to stop the tears from falling, she retreats into her tent. The thick woven canvas, yet another product native to Derven that is woven from the bark of the juneao tree, prevents the daylight from intruding inside. Collapsing onto her cot, Namora lets her heartache free and she cries herself to sleep.
. . . . .
Soft hands brush Namora’s cheeks, summoning her back to the world. Though she wishes desperately for them to be the hands of her mother, she knows that cannot be. The thick scent of evergreen tress fill her nostrils and before she opens her eyes, she know that it is Amyee.
“The women are almost done with your feast; I dare say, though all of the town’s best cooks are at this Festival, we have never seen a meal to match this one,” her voice caries the same optimistic tones as usual but when Namora opens her eyes she can see that Amyee is sad.
She sits up and rubs her face, “Just pre-wedding jitters, that’s all.” Standing up, she unbuckles her leather vest on her way behind the changing curtain. She pulls on a fresh pair of pants and a clean shirt before splashing her face with water from a nearby basin. As she presses the towel to her cheeks she can feel Amyee combing the tangles from her hair. Together they stand in silence, her friend’s swift fingers gathering up her locks into a fishbone braid. When Amyee is finished, Namora hugs her friend.C0ntent © 2024 (N/ô)velDrama.Org.