Irelia

A quiet calm surrounded the queen Ariata upon walking through the portal. Ears still ringing from the clash of battle left behind in her own world, the stillness of the air made her pounding heart seem louder. She took a quick glance back to make sure the way was closed, then stumbled forward, falling to her knees. The heavy bundle wrapped securely around her chest began to stir at the sudden impact. “Shh now my child,” she crooned softly, “you are safe.” Her blood soaked hands shook while she delicately unwrapped the girl, revealing large grey eyes and a head of jet-black hair.

The wound in Ariata’s side throbbed painfully as she lay the babe on her lap. She gently lifted the child’s hand to look at her inner wrist, as she had many sleepless nights before. She stared hard at the birthmark that had brought about so much destruction. A delicate red sliver, a likeness of the moon in its final stages before the dark. A mark of one destined to possess unrivaled power, and bring both great and calamitous change to the world. A mark the world should not have known about were it not for the betrayal of Ariata’s own sister, Triga. An acolyte to the High Priestess of Renora, Triga recognized the mark immediately for what it was and ran straight to her mistress. The church called for the death of the child, and declared war against the royal family when they refused to surrender her for slaughter.

Magic had been dying out in the kingdom for centuries, allowing for the people’s fear and suspicion of it to grow. When the prophecy was foretold ten years before the birth of the princess, the church used the growing terror to gain power. All children were checked at birth for the mark; families lived in fear that a son or daughter would be the fated child of prophecy that cast their legacy forever in the shadow of shame. When Triga was to be the one to check the princess, Ariata considered it a blessing. A priestess’ single-minded and often cruel presence during labor was something all mothers dreaded, and Ariata was happy to share the room with someone of her own blood. Until the babe was born, bearing the dreaded mark. Ariata begged Triga not to tell, but her sister could not be swayed.

Rife with the suspicion and bitterness of the times, the common people were horrified to learn their fear had been realized in none other than the princess. War waged while a year passed until finally the royal army was defeated, the castle was invaded, and Queen Ariata, the last daughter of a bloodline strong with magic, desperately used a long-forbidden spell to open a portal into another world to save her daughter.

Ariata lay a kiss on the girl’s temple as the child began to cry. She held her to her chest, shakily stood up, and stumbled into a walk. This new world was densely forested, the crunching of fallen leaves underfoot muffled by the child’s wails. The sun shone brightly, the beautiful fall day a balm to Ariata’s ravaged soul and body.

She walked for hours, feeling weaker by the minute. Her path led her down a mossy slope ending in a winding river. She slowly lay the babe in her bundle down in a hollow of a smooth rock. Sinking down with her back against the stone, she could feel her life flowing out of her.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so, so sorry my love. I’ve failed you. I was struck by a blade as we fell through the portal…I should… have been faster, I should have…we were supposed to be here together and now…my daughter…Irelia…my sweet love.” Her breath became shallower with each word. “I hope you will grow older and see. You must…see…why. You must prove the prophecy wrong, change the world… for the better. You must show them they were mistaken about the meaning of your destiny. Please.” Ariata closed her eyes and let the tears flow down her face.

“Please. Please,” she wheezed. “If anyone is out there… if there is any good left in the universe, any goodness in this unknown world, someone please find my child. Don’t allow her to die alone in this strange place. Please,” the last word a whisper as she wept.

A cool breeze caressed her tear-stained cheeks as she closed her eyes for the final time. The girl, Irelia, ceased her crying and began to hiccup softly. Even the river seemed to quiet as if the elements themselves wished to bestow a lasting peace on the dying queen. Ariata weakly reached her hand towards her daughter, brushing only the tip of a tiny finger, and was still.

~~~~

If Ariata had ventured further down the stream, she would have come upon a small lake, still as a mirror. Beyond this lake lay a large cave, spacious enough to hold several houses from the nearby village, yet relatively cramped for its current resident. Within this cave lay a great white dragon, unique among her kind for her considerable size, as well as the alabaster sheen of her scales. This dragon had a name, as all her kind within this world did, though she was now known mostly by another. They called her “The White Death,” a name popular among her enemies in the recent wars.

War was beyond her now. Isra, the White Death, was content to live the rest of her surely numbered days in a too-small cave feeding on the occasional deer brave enough to quench its thirst at the lake. The death of her rider, Queen Ana, and subsequent fall of the queendom left the dragon with little options but to flee and hide.

On this particular afternoon, she was dozing fitfully, dreaming of battles long past, when she was awoken to a peculiar noise. Her first thought was of a child crying, but this deep within the Foxwood mountains the idea was inconceivable. Again—a soft cry, growing louder by the second. Isra lifted her snout and sniffed the air. There was a faint yet unmistakable scent of death on the wind.

Stone crumbled beneath her claws as she laboriously pushed her herself up to stand on all fours. She folded her wings in tightly to breach the cramped exit of the cave and listened carefully for the unusual commotion again. It was too close to fly there, and the forest was too thick to allow for her girth. She waded into the river and began the arduous process of walking against the current.

She quickened her pace as the wails became louder and more insistent. “My body has grown weak in my exile,” she thought sadly as her heart thundered loudly beneath her scales. She was almost beginning to wish she hadn’t strayed from her cave when she came around a bend in the river and stopped short.

Against a boulder on the western shore she saw the woman. An ordinary human at first glance, beautiful enough, and her her finery spoke to nobility. Isra stepped out of the water and peered closely at her face half hidden by long dark hair. There was sadness there, but also grace, even in death.


She was so entranced by the dead woman that it took her a moment to notice the cries she'd followed had ceased. She moved her attention to a bundle of cloth on top of the rock. Her aquamarine eyes opened wide at the sight she beheld.

A child, no longer an infant, but not much past its first year. A girl, with eyes the color of a stormy sea and slightly pointed ears peaking up towards a crown of midnight. “Where has this child come from?” Isra thought. “I have not seen a human like this before. Why would her mother bring her here in her moment of death? She would surely die had I not found her.” A gleam caught her eye; a silver necklace peaking out from beneath the cloth. It looked to be a locket of some kind, the backside engraved with one word, “Irelia.” She lifted a claw to gently turn over the locket. She stumbled back, tail slapping the water behind her. "A memory stone! How is this possible?! One has not been seen for centuries. The child’s mother must have possessed great power to be able to use it. As must her daughter, if she expects the girl to view her mother’s memories in it someday.”

Once thought lost to time, memory stones were made of a rare and precious amber found only in a long-forgotten corner of the world. Sorcerers of old discovered they could be used to preserve precious memories, a legacy of sorts for none but the most powerful. Isra believed them all to have been destroyed long ago by rival sorcerers jealous of their forebears might. She could not imagine how this child possibly came to possess one.

“She must be someone of grave importance if it was necessary to learn of her place in the world this way.” Her mind made up, Isra gathered Irelia gently in her claws to carry her back to her cave. She had a feeling this day would bring consequences she could not yet understand, and realized her own role in the fate of this land had not yet come to an end.

As a creature from one world would nurture a child of another, the fate of both worlds would begin to be shaped by the promise of destiny.