The Queen's Valley

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. A long time ago in a world only remembered in the literature of the scholar’s, people were kind and helped one another. Now however, it was common to find beasts that hoarded their riches despite the suffering of others. This is what brought the downfall of the planet. The rapacity of the drak, beings willing to kill anyone who dared to set foot near their wealth, no matter how hungry or desperate the victim. Those who would destroy forests and oceans to gain wealth in their one lifetime and damn all those to come after them.

It is thought that since the downfall of their people was due to selfishness, only a truly selfless leader can elevate their nation above its perished state. It is up to the queen to manage the dragons that still remain and maintain fair living conditions for all. This is a tall order in the current world, one destroyed by greed and famine. A world that promotes even the most kind-hearted among them to hoard their meals for fear of how long it might be before their next.

Today, a new queen is preparing to take up this challenge. Amari is summoned the moment she wakes to the recessed dressing room off of the queen’s quarters. She steps down the few long steps to the bottom floor, then up again on the pedestal that was her mother’s. In front of her is one long dressing mirror so she can watch her transformation take place. Around her are barren walls, yellowed with age.

Servants swoop in and begin at once, peeling back Amari’s simple cotton robe and beginning the long process of dressing her. Colorful silks fill the room and swoop around Amari in a haze of decadent landscapes as the servants delicately place and secure each layer. These ritual garments are the one luxury afforded to the queen, to maintain a bond between leaders and remind them of the beauty of their home and of the better world they are trying to build.

The walls of the palace were laden with riches like these once, dripping on all sides with expensive fabrics, paintings of the old royal families in ornate frames, antiques, statues and jewels. Once, it was the picture of excess, but no one would know that now. All of these valuables were traded away for the benefit of the nation when the foreseers deemed them an unfit addition to the life of a selfless leader. It is said the queen at the time was devastated, mourning her possessions more than the child she lost. Her materialistic ways only strengthened the foreseers' certainty in their decision.

As the layers of her outfit come together the amount of servants needed in the dressing room dwindles until there is only one. “I will be right back, Your Majesty, I will fetch the final piece now” she says, then bows and exits the room.

Amari stands straight and motionless, jaw clenched in her formal attire before the mirror. Her sharp features are accentuated by the black lines that mark her face for the occasion. There are four straight lines in total: one spanning the top of both her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, two smaller ones underscoring this one below each eye, and one marking the center of both her lips then continuing down through the point of her chin. Beneath this she wears layers of heavy silks passed down from generations, each embroidered with a former queen’s native language somewhere only she or her servants could see. They express words of encouragement, promise and shared sadness at the ritual that must take place today. With every generation the royal garments add more to the weight a new queen must bear on this day.

All the gorgeous prints of lush foliage and flowing waters can’t relieve the scorching heat that continues to dry the Valley and suffocate the new queen. They depict an old world that is no longer the reality they live in. These images were already only memories for the queens they belonged to. Not until the outer layers do they begin to show the modern world she sees today. Oranges, reds and browns paint the landscapes of these silks. Small dry greens dot the bareness of the view as rocks erect in the distance to meet the relentless blue sky. Even now she can feel numerous beads of sweat rolling down her back, saturating her underclothes.

Her top layer is the darkest in color, the most barren and the only one that is hers alone. She worked with the silk maiden herself to create it in preparation for today. She smiles faintly as she looks over the final outcome. She sketched its details a hundred times, fixating on that instead of the task ahead. She spent innumerable nights selecting the exact shades of dye that should be used. Rather than depict the same scorching terrain as others, she wanted to capture the way the Valley looks just after sunset. She wanted to feel the cool blue tones that finally relieve them of the sun’s heat and which match that of her rare eyes.

Her design depicts the Valley with the pale blue silhouette of twilight behind its darkening shapes, and the sacrificial monument as the grand focal point that adorns her back. This is the one stone feature that distinguishes their skyline above all others. It is found in some way on many of the silks, though not as prominent. When her time comes and her reign is done, she will inscribe her own words of wisdom upon its inner folds to strengthen the next queen to stand in this place.

With the support of every queen before her, this day is in her honor. The ceremony will admire her sacrifice and fully induct her as the next Queen of the Ikkera Valley. Once selected, her title as queen was only a probationary one. It wasn’t until she was proven fruitful and able to sacrifice the labors of her body and her heart to her people, that she could fully take over.

Today she will stand before thousands, a mere colorful speck in the distance atop the sacrificial monument, as they slay her first born and drain its blood. It will seep down the rocks into the dry cracks beneath their feet, drunk in thirstily by the soil that nourishes them in return. This is the sacrifice that comes with being queen, of taking on the burden of drakoden ancestors.

Should she be capable of further reproduction, she will be permitted to keep them and raise them as candidates for her throne. When a queen is capable of further reproduction it is seen as a sign of a thriving and fertile line. It is often one of her offspring who is chosen to take up her place. Should she only have males, they can vie for the position of the counterpart, the one that offer’s his contribution to the chosen queen to fertilize and extend her noble line.

Amari thought heavily about this when she was young, wondering why any mother, particularly her own, would want to pass down the grief and responsibility that came with this title. Voicing these questions always led to a lecture, explaining exhaustively that a selfless queen should not think this way. She should want to give everything to her people: her riches, her love, her life and her children. It is a great honor to have a hand in raising a future queen, because then her mother can assure their values will continue to serve their nation after she is gone.

Amari’s own counterpart, Rhyn, will be there today. He is the one person with whom she brought her first and only child into the world. She is thankful there will be another there to truly share in her loss. Not in the way her citizens will mourn for her child’s life, then rejoice in her full anointment. Someone who will be filled with clouds, morning until night, through the numerous celebrations to be held under the perfectly clear skies. Amari is rather fond of Rhyn and feels grateful for it. She heard tales amongst the servants of queens who despised their counterparts, some who even turned to selfishness by refusing to lie with them. Amari always thought it helped that he descends from a neighboring tribe.

She pulls away the last silken fold of her own creation to reveal that of her mother’s. She is third in her bloodline to take this place. She sees in the mirror characters none of her people would recognize. Though her mother could not be entirely certain Amari would be the one reading them today, they were written to her, and her alone. Translations would be provided from the scholars should they be needed, but Amari reads the white stitched words effortlessly.

¡ƎḾǍÇÉ ㄝ ÄḾÔŘÅ! : LOVE THY NATION!

This was something her mother often told her when she questioned the ways of their people. Though it would make some sense and offer support to any new queen, Amari alone could benefit from the full impact of these words. She remembers fondly all the times she was scolded with them as the curious child that she was, often asking questions that did not put the nation first above selfishness.

She imagines most of these messages are the same, meant both to help any young queen and signal some deeper meaning to the loved one they hoped would be reading it. She pulls back one more fold to that of her grandmother’s. This is the first time she ever truly felt connected to the grandmother she never met. She runs her hand idly over the golden stitching. In the same ancient text of their former tribe it is written:

·ṼẸŔMĄĆƎ NīN ÄḾÔŘÅ - ƑĒĽōō ƊẶ· : Romance is not love, loyalty is.

She wonders if this is what her own mother meant. That Amari should not only love thy nation, but devote her undying loyalty to them. She wishes she knew what additional meaning her mother found in these words when she read them. Amari is glad to have them both with her today, but can not help but think how far away their words are. Their pain when writing these messages was far behind them, while hers is just beginning.

Both Amari and her mother were one birthplace away from taking the sacrificial monument for their family, Amari even more so. She was born a twin, the second child by only a minute and a girl no less. This was seen as so fortunate that though it awaited the official ruling of the foreseers, her position today was not far from guaranteed. She can’t help but think how much easier this day must have been for her mother. She, at least, was able to hold and feel the joy of her second born in her arms as she endured the death of her first.

Still, Amari knows better than to discredit her mother’s sacrifice. While most new queens are able to take a period of mourning after their first child, she could not. Amari remembers all too well the tears of her mother in the years that followed her own ceremony. She never thought of her as young at the time, but she is painfully aware of it now.

Amari pinches her eyes shut, silently scolding herself for having such selfish thoughts. She reminds herself to be grateful, that things are better this way. She will be able to mourn her child properly, and in time, begin anew. This is a luxury her mother was not afforded. Holding one of her children in her arms, especially one that is a copy of the one she was laying down to sacrifice, may have felt more like a burden than a blessing on that day.

Amari has not been able to see her child up to this point, a strict rule that is always adhered to in the palace. It is in place to lessen the weight of the new mother’s obligation. In only an hour’s time though she will hold, see and give her child away all for the first and last time. She will take it from the servant assigned to it, walk it in her arms the fifteen paces to the tip of the monument and place it at the highest point of the stone formation as an offering.

It must be done this way. In the end, she must be willing to give the child up herself. Then the most honored among them will kneel to her child, thank it and make one swift motion across its neck with their blade. Her heart aches at the thought, at the images that infect her mind. She releases her grandmother’s layer and returns to her mother’s, reminding herself of the words, why this must be done.

She has been debating with mounting anxiety whether or not to look at her child’s face when it is handed to her. A question no stitched messages of encouragement can answer for her. She knows from asking long serving citizens of the palace there is no easy solution to this. Some new queens stared determinedly at the folds of their silks, refusing to acknowledge the child or what they were doing, only to wail over not having that small glimpse of them to remember. They were riddled with guilt for not being strong enough to give them this small gesture of dignity. Others were haunted by the child’s face in their dreams, the eyes of their counterpart or the empty halls they could be running in.

To not look in the child’s direction at all, to keep looking ahead from the moment the child enters her arms to the moment she places it at the point of the offering, would be seen as too heartless. She would be perceived as having no love or care for the child, and therefore giving neither of these to her people. This would cloud her entire time as their ruler and plant the seed that she is unfit to raise a suitable heir. Therefore she must, for appearances sake, at least look toward the child as she carries it.

One of her servants, who also served her mother, told Amari the former queen did not look at her twin. She did not want the sight of the child to disturb her every time she looked at Amari. This weighed heavily on the young queen who often thought with unexplainable longing of her deceased sibling. Part of Amari wanted to look down on her mother for the decision, but she understood and appreciated her dedication far too much.

Amari wants more than anything to see her child, to acknowledge their life, to see if they share her same rare eyes. She believes they must, the blue of her eyes was a very dominant trait amongst her family’s tribe and it is likely to be found in Rhyn’s bloodline as well. But she was restless over whether this would make it easier or harder to move on and fulfill her duties. She did not want the child’s face to return to her every time she looked at Rhyn or her future children. She did not want to wonder pointlessly what its days at the palace may have been like. She tries to remind herself that this is an act of kindness. To give a piece of herself that is so precious and valuable over to her people, is to give them everything. This is the only way to lead them wholeheartedly into a better world.

Whatever she decides, she must be content with it, at least for that moment. She must tell herself whatever she needs to, so she can stand strong before her nation. As the ritual unfolds, she will be expected to look forward to her people, to remain placid and calm. To flinch or whimper, to show any sign of dissent during the proceedings would bring immeasurable shame and force the foreseers to reevaluate their selection. Whatever she decides, it must be selfless.

“Are you ready, Your Majesty?”

Amari’s eyes flick up swiftly to the servant who reappeared in her mirror. She is holding the last remaining jewel of the palace in a simple cloth. Its clear color is meant to reflect any that may fall on a queen’s last layer. It is nestled at the end of a silver hair pin that will adorn the dense black waves that are loosely gathered into a tight bun at the top of Amari’s head. She flattens her layers of silk back in their place and nods for the servant to enter.

***

Amari’s dark hair soaks in every drop of the sun’s heat, becoming hot to the touch as the Foreseers introduce the ceremony. The people who have gathered create one uniform mass below them, moving and swaying with the words of the forseers like the waves of their shallow river. Two servants kneel before Amari fanning her while a third holds a large paper parasol above her head. The foreseer's words sound like a dull metronome in her ears as she holds her gaze forward. She is ignoring the increasing drum of her chest and trying to decide how best to honor, love and give her child away.

Rhyn is beside her now. He was part of the party that walked with Amari from the palace to the monument. His eyes were wide when they met each other in the hall outside the queen’s quarters. Having never seen her in the clothing of royalty, he hesitated before bowing deeply and stepping back to allow her and her servants to pass. She notices him now in her peripheral stealing glances in the direction of the servant holding their child. She wonders for the first time if he had the option to see its face.

She hears a small cry from her right and aches for the child’s pain. She wishes she could go to Rhyn, comfort him and feel his comfort in return. But they must maintain the perfect balance of sincerity and strength. They must always show that no matter how great the pain, they have no reservations about giving everything they have and are to their nation. Amari notices the fans stopping first, then she feels the pressure of innumerable eyes pressing in on her.

“Now,” the head foreseer says looking directly at Amari, “your time has come to show us all the great legacy you will continue, to honor your title and your people in the greatest way you can.”

Amari breathes deeply and turns to face the wrapped bundle that is her only child. She moves forward automatically, her route preprogrammed from rehearsing it with her servants. When she is before the child’s caregiver, they bow and place the child in her arms. She waits only a moment, then looks fixedly at the child's feet. Its small rounded toes are pink, and kicking at nothing in particular. Its legs are plump and there is a crease where its ankles should be.

Her heart pounds harder and her legs grow heavy. She is still fighting with herself on what to do and knows her time is almost up. The child feels her uneasiness and begins to fuss. She turns and begins the walk to the head of the monument. Three steps in, four, five. Her window is closing and she has still only looked at the ground in front of her and the child’s feet. She wants to acknowledge them, to honor their life and sacrifice. But she fears the repercussions of faltering in front of the foreseers or being unable to move on with her duties.

Ten steps now, eleven, twelve. She is moments from placing her child on the monument. She is acutely aware that this is the only time she will ever get to feel them in her arms. She glances at their stomach as it rises and falls. Their fussing has become full wails now as they approach the end of their time together. The child’s skin is becoming blotched with redness from the distress. She looks at her mother’s silk as it peeks out from under her own at her wrist. She must be strong, she must give her child to the planet and to their people.

She is there, standing between the foreseers and her nation. She kneels and places the child on the sunbaked stone. Her eyes well with tears as she stares over the screaming baby to the waiting audience, her devotion as a queen battling with her devotion as a mother.

She steps away to allow the chosen foreseer room to approach her child. They smile and nod their approval as they pass but she looks resolutely through them, already feeling the tendrils of shame start to grip her. This life came from her and she will know nothing of its existence after this day.

The foreseer is kneeling now, the child’s life will be over in seconds and she is already feeling the guilt of her decision. She cannot bear it. She knows without doubt now she will never be able to live with herself if she does not force herself to fully see, with her own eyes, the life she is willingly handing over.

Without moving her head, Amari’s eyes fall to the child. She drinks in the image of their few dark wisps of hair, furrowed brow, small running nose and puffy reddening cheeks. Their eyes open for just a moment between screams and she is able to see them. Dark, rich, brown eyes stare up at her. Then the blade comes and the child’s cries go silent, leaving a ringing in their wake.

Amari’s eyes shoot up and her nails dig into her skin as she tries to mask her trembling. The customary chant of respect rises slowly to fill the Valley and all Amari can think is, that's not my child.