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There is blood before there is even a memory, and she enters the world in a cacophony of screaming (and only half of it is hers). There is yelling, a sense of urgency, the clatter of heels against stone and items falling to the floor, discarded in the mayhem. All of it is followed by the resounding crash of a door, then silence. In what was almost an absence of sound-- a gray world stained crimson-- she cries; her voice is one of two.
She will never know her mother, but she grows up with the broken gaze of her father trailing after her.
• • •
Her first memory of blood is when she is four (or she thinks she was four then, at least), slipping past the castle maids to the stone archway near the training grounds. Hers is a small and delicate presence amongst the group of soldiers, and when she hangs back, peering past a pillar that hides her from men that she has long since stopped being scared of, she goes unnoticed. She feels so sneaky, hiding away like that, but the way her siblings smile at her when they return from training is always worth it.
(She is not truly unnoticed, not really, but she has always charmed others with her sweet smiles and warm laughter; they would not have the heart to deny her such joys)
But there is something wrong with the clamor that suddenly rises about the training grounds, the rising sound of voices strained with urgency tearing the silly smile from the little princess’s face. She leans further out from her hiding spot, much more concerned about what has inspired such worry among the soldiers than she is about her secrecy, and for the first time in her life, her breath catches in her throat (and later, when she has learned enough to read books and appreciate common sayings, she will know that it was the feeling of her heart stopping, if only for a second).
From the masses of uniforms, she spots a familiar face whose florid hair tumbles over his shoulders as he curls around his hand. Though the faces around him are frenzied and panicked, there is a ferocity in the absolute sternness of Michalis’ brow; the sheen of sweat on his forehead is visible in the vivid light of midday, but the only other sign of her brother’s suffering is the tension about his jaw. Even at his young age, he does not submit to anything and holds his head high-- and even at Maria’s much younger age, she sees that Michalis has the eyes of a king.
It is only once he draws close enough to see her that the ferocity in his eyes crumbles, and for the first time, Maria sees the shadow of panic flutter through her brother’s expression. His eyes are wide as he sharply sucks in a breath-- “ Maria ,” he gasps, pressing his hands into his stomach as he passes-- and then he is gone, whisked away amidst distressed murmurs of ‘infirmaries’ and ‘clerics.’
Even when he is gone, Maria can see the path he walked, if only for the crimson speckling the dirt.
Later that night, Michalis sits on Maria’s bed with her, and he shows her his hand-- big and rough, covered in bandages and other nicks and scrapes, a bloodstain seeping through the fabric where his pinkie should be-- and she takes it in hers gently. Though the ferocity has left his features, Maria still sees the tension in his face, sees the restrained expressions he gives her as she looks at his hand uncomprehendingly, and she knows something is wrong.
“Does it hurt?” She asks, and the sweetness of her voice is enough to lighten the distressed furrow of her brother’s brow.
“I’m fine, Maria,” he replies, and gone is the gruffness of the prince of Macedon; she hears only the gentle and warm voice of her big brother.
So she cries for him, that kind big brother of hers-- she cries until she can cry no more, then cries even still, because she knows it does hurt-- and falls asleep in his arms, comforted by the beating of his heart and lulled to slumber by the feeling of his voice rumbling in his chest.
She is long gone to the realm of dreams and happier things when her brother tucks her in, but somehow, a smile still works its way onto her face as he shuts the door behind him, leaving her with a softly whispered ‘thank you.’
• • •
Her second memory of blood is in the bright light of summer. It is less clear than the others, frayed at the edges, but she treasures it all the same (for it is tinted with the laughter of her siblings, and that is too precious to ever let go of). She remembers a cloudless sky and soft grass beneath her feet, but most importantly, she remembers her siblings, sat in the shade of nearby trees with soft eyes.
It is lonely, running in the grass all by herself, but she knows even then that her siblings no longer have the privilege to always run beside her. They have grown, already, into a prince and princess who can only humor her, at best. It is not something she wholly understands just yet, but she understands just enough to enjoy her summer days enough for the three of them-- and for all her efforts, she is rewarded by the sight of her siblings’ smiles.
She does not remember what exactly it is that finally springs the expressions to their faces, but she remembers the way Minerva laughs, her face lighting up like the sun cresting a hill after a damp and foggy night. Her eyes squeeze all the way shut (and that is how Maria knows she is, in that moment, truly happy), and she lets loose a bright, singular ‘ Hah !’. She supposes it must be a particularly rare and humorous occasion, because her sister is quick to follow with a second ‘hah,’ and to the little princess who loves her siblings with all her heart, that is a great accomplishment indeed.
What delights her even more is the light that seeps into Michalis’ eyes, for they have always seemed to carry some dark, personal storm within them. It is always hard to make her brother laugh-- even harder than making Minerva laugh with two ‘hah’s instead of one-- but when he smiles, his whole face relaxes. His eyes narrow in a different way than usual-- a melty sort of narrow, rather than a sharp one. He never laughs, though, not really… But he does give her a long, drawn out ‘hmmm…’ before tousling her hair (and not even Minerva is allowed to tousle her hair, but if Maria has to let her hair get messy to see the pain vanish from her brother’s eyes-- to see him smile-- she will do it over and over and over again).
It is only when his hand (warm, it’s always so warm) lifts from her head that she giggles and skips away, but no sooner than she takes off does she trip over a root and fall spectacularly. Her siblings are up on their feet before she even registers the smears of green across her dress or the crimson beading up on her palms; Michalis sweeps her up into his arms, just like he does on those dark nights full of nightmares, and Minerva follows close behind, pausing every now and then to dart off somewhere else (and amidst her siblings’ kindness, Maria does not even remember to cry).
The blood soon disappears, once she sits on a chair in some room she does not recognize; Minerva’s hands wrap a light bandage around her scrapes, and Michalis’ rest on Maria’s back comfortingly. Though they fret, Maria simply smiles up at them-- a skinned knee and twisted ankle are worth it, if that is what it costs to see them happy. For such a thing as that, she does not even mind the grassy smears and freckled bloodstains on her dress.
(But of course, Maria never considers this a memory of blood-- not when her siblings’ warmth gives her comfort even still)
• • •
The third is set in the same place as the first, but in a time where Maria no longer hides behind pillars. She often stands with the soldiers when she waits for her siblings and their troops to return,and has long since made them her friends. (For example, she knows that Mister Raymond has a mole beneath his eye and a stern face, but his eyes twinkle kindly whenever she thanks him for those little candies he always gives her, and Miss Wynn has the biggest smiles for her whenever she brings her flowers)
But as she finally spies the figures in the sky, she hears a rising murmur within the crowd, and suddenly, her eyes are covered and she can’t see anymore.
“What’s going on?” She breathes, her voice laced with a small tremor of panic, and then:
“I’m sorry,” comes a voice she knows to be Mister Raymond’s, and she relaxes, if only a bit. “...I’m sorry, Princess. Please don’t look.”
And because Mister Raymond is her friend, she doesn’t look, wringing the fabric of her dress with her hands as he keeps her blind to the world. She still hears it, though-- the panic, the thud of footsteps and the hurried words that escalate too quickly into yelling. Then, cutting through it all, there comes a bellowing voice so fierce and commanding, so familiar and yet wholly not , that Maria’s hands freeze where they are, the fabric slipping from her hands.
“Healers, now!” Michalis roars, and all at once, the chaos takes direction, a stampede of footsteps rushing past her. Though the scene unfolding around her is raucous, Maria stays put even still, her heart beating loudly in her chest. It is only when she hears a familiar voice wheezing a pitiful excuse of ‘I’m fine’ that she jolts from where she stands.
As light floods her vision and she breathes out a panicked ‘Minerva ,’ she sees her sister hobbling away, a pitiful bandage wrapped around her waist and dark droplets falling from her gauntlets as she clutches at her side.
“Maria--?” Her brother’s voice sounds so distant. “Take her away from here! Go, now!”
And then the world goes black once more.
The fourth memory follows just a few short hours after the third-- a recollection of her knuckles rapping lightly against a wooden door and bloodstained bandages around Michalis’ head. She has to look almost straight up just to see his face, but only for a moment, because soon, she finds herself lifted into the air. It lifts her heart-- quite literally, in a sense-- to see that her gentle big brother is still here for her, and his actions net him a sweet, if not slightly tired giggle (and in later years, she will remember that moment as the one where she learned to believe in the goodness of even the scariest men).
“What brings you here so late, Maria?” The harsh growl of a prince has left Michalis’ voice, and he brushes her bangs aside with a delicate touch as he sits at his desk once more, Maria seated quite comfortably on his knee.
“I wanted to tell you something…” Her voice trails off sheepishly, like she has done something that bad kids do, and her brother arches a single brow with vague curiosity.
“Oh?”
She looks down, hesitation written all over her face as she clings onto fistfuls of her dress; it is only when Michalis gently pries the fabric from her hands that the little princess looks back to him.
“I… I want to be a cleric.”
Silence. Her brother stares at her uncomprehendingly, and she stares back, a little fearful, a little shameful, but determined all the same.
“Are you sure?” A brief pause. “You don’t want to be a dracoknight like myself or Minerva?”
Maria shakes her head, then reaches out; it is her turn, this time, to brush back her brother’s bangs with a gentle touch, her fingertips brushing lightly against the bandage on his head.
“I want to be able to make your pain go away. Yours and Minerva’s.”
Michalis draws in a long, shaking breath, and as he stares at her wordlessly, Maria can see the reflection of flickering candlelight in his eyes. The silence drags on long enough that she becomes fearful, her brows upturning fretfully.
“Are… are you mad?”
As if those are the magic words, Michalis blinks, and suddenly his eyes are shining and there is a warmth in the way the corner of his mouth tugs just the slightest bit upwards.
“No, Maria,” he murmurs softly in reply, enveloping her in a warm hug, “I’m proud.”
• • •
The fifth is formed in pieces, shards of memories she only half remembers now. It is the smell of salves and herbs and sweat as she watches the grown ups work; it is the smell of old pages and the dull pain behind her eyes as she tries to read words she’s not yet old enough to understand; most importantly, it is the glow of staves and the relieved smiles of soldiers whose pain has ended. One of her favorite fragments is a memory of her hands full of bandages and salves, a young soldier smiling both kindly and nervously at her, and Sister Eirene watching her closely from behind.
“This one…” Maria’s brows furrow as she rubs the salve onto the back of the man’s hand. She knows it’s the right salve, because Sister Eirene gave it to her, but she also knows a test when she sees one.
“What’s it do?” The soldier asks, shifting his feet but keeping his hand just as still as ever; Maria’s very grateful for it. “It looks sort of yellow.”
Yellow ! The little princess thinks, and all of the sudden, she beams at him brightly.
“It helps prevent infections!” And she knows she’s right by the way that the Sister smiles at her.
“Wow… That’s pretty impressive.” The smile she flashes him nets her a warm chuckle, and Maria hums happily in agreement as she wraps his hand in bandages. It’s not the most expert job, nor is it the prettiest, but she is careful and caring in how she attends to his wound.
“There you go! You’re all better, Mister Cole!”
The soldier blinks at that, and even as he retracts his hand, his gaze remains fixed on her, like she’s said something profound, imparting unto him some wisdom only the young still remember.
“You… know my name?” His voice is tentative, startled, but not unhappy.
“Yup! Thank you for working so hard, Mister Cole! I hope your hand doesn’t hurt anymore.”
He is speechless for a long moment, and something about him reminds her of the way Michalis stared at her the night she told him her first true dream, from his silence to the way his eyes flicker with something that is half shock, half admiration. Then--
“Thank you, Princess” he replies, tousling her hair gently, and when she peeks up at his face again, he wears a brilliant smile, bursting at the seams with warmth and gratitude. “Thank you, truly.”
It is at that moment that Maria knows she is walking the right path.
• • •
Her sixth memory is one that haunts her still, and some nights, she still wakes with the scent of copper seared into her lungs.
It starts with her tugging at Minerva’s sleeve, a hand cupped around her sister’s ear as she whispers a silly request with the utmost seriousness. A present for Papa , she murmurs, because she knows his is a sad soul (and though she doesn’t ever say it aloud, she knows it’s all her fault). Her siblings, having always been by her side, hear both what she does and doesn’t say aloud; how can they refuse their sweet little sister? They can’t, not when all she wants is to make their father smile.
So though Minerva half rolls her eyes, a sigh escaping her lips, she smiles all the same. It’s hard not to, when Maria beams at her so brightly. Minerva’s hands are so calloused, years of hard work engraved into her skin, but even a warrior’s grip will melt into something gentle, the way Maria holds her hand. Hers is a delicate grip, warm and soft and comforting in a way that would temper even the most tempestuous fury.
Even at that moment, Minerva knows Maria’s path will never be like hers or Michalis’.
Their venture into town is peaceful, like it should be-- a simple disguise works wonders, and the populace knows little of their youngest princess. Even in the bright light of day, they are treated like any other, though some of the merchants have a spare smile for the little princess and the way her eyes glitter and sparkle just so. She has only known the castle, after all, with all its stone walls and slinking shadows; the brightness and cheer of the marketplace is so strange and enchanting. There is no end to the way she gasps and giggles at all the beautiful things she sees, not when even something as small as the sight of jam is enough to make her eyes light up (“ Minerva ,” she breathes, eyes full of light, “ That’s the kind Michalis likes !”). It is enough to erase the furrow of her sister’s brow and soften the corners of her eyes.
“Let’s go over here, Maria,” the elder princess says, taking her by the shoulders and steering her towards the other side of the market. She complies, eager to see what it is her sister wishes to show her-- and her hand flies up to her mouth as soon as she does, eyes wide and bright as she hides her surprise behind her fingertips (and this time, the corners of Minerva’s eyes crinkle).
“They’re so pretty,” she whispers, each step along the side of the display slow, careful, like she intends to pay every piece its due honor. Yet even though her breath is stolen time and time again, Maria does not stop for those feathers trapped in amber or the faces of dragons carved into precious stones. What she does stop for is--
“This one!” Maria chimes, holding up a rough heart hewn from wood and strung about some twine. The vendor’s shop is all but ignored, tended to by an elderly woman and a boy who looks to be about Maria’s age, their display filled with both beautiful jewelry and other wooden charms of a starkly contrasting caliber. Undeterred by the surprise etched into her sister’s expression, the little princess leans over, a wide smile blooming on her face as she speaks to him. “You made this, right?”
“Uh…. Uh-huh.” The boy stutters, making an expression akin to Minerva’s; it’s clear by the shock in his eyes and the untouched corner of the display that no one else has so much as looked at his wares.
“I bet you did your best!” Maria giggles sweetly. “It looks so happy!”
Though a flush of crimson crawls into the boy’s cheeks, he nods, quickly charmed into smiling back at her and yet silenced by that same admiration. He has no words even when Maria drops a few gold coins into his hand (but she remembers vividly the way his eyes glisten as she thanks him; she thinks she always will).
“She’s like a princess,” she hears the boy whisper to his grandmother as they walk away, and she giggles quietly to herself.
The streets are turning dark as they finally make their way back, and the memory of shadows spilling across cobblestone torment her for many years to come. She cannot remember anymore the way that Minerva had thrust her arm out in front of her, a simmering fury in her expression that had cowed Maria into silence; she cannot remember the sick glint in the stranger’s eyes as he traps them in an alleyway before they can slip back into the castle; most fortunately of all, she cannot remember the split-second flash of crimson before Minerva’s hand covers her eyes.
What she does remember is the gurgling behind her as she clings to Minerva’s coat, struggling to breathe as her veins turned cold. The sound haunts her long after it’s stopped, and it is only when she is swept up into her sister’s arms that she manages to stop her sobs, comforted by the rumble of her chest as she hums to her.
“He’s dead,” she whispers, staring blankly over Minerva’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” her sister replies, and Maria feels as though it is an apology she has made many times before. “I had to protect you.”
That is the night that Maria decides she, too, will do anything for her siblings; it is a promise she makes to both of their shaking hands.
• • •
Her seventh memory begins with her knocking timidly on a looming door (she knows he will be there; he always is, this time of year), and peering around it when a low voice ushers her to come in. The eyes that find her once she lets the sunlight spill into the darkness of the room are quick to widen, something akin to panic flickering within.
“Maria,” her father murmurs, and when she nods at the sound of her name, he swings his legs over the side of his bed, patting the space behind him. “Come… Come here.”
So she totters over to him obediently, and he lifts her up with ease, sitting her on knee despite the space at his side he’d saved just for her. There is something soothing about the way he wraps his arm around her-- a warmth that so distinctly belongs to family-- and she relaxes, silently staring up at him.
“What is it?” He asks, his voice gentle and lacking the gruffness that she sometimes hears in her siblings’ own. “You seldom visit me so early.” And when her brows furrow and her hands bury themselves within the folds of her dress, her father simply smiles at her. It is a tired smile and it is a sad smile, but it is also a kind one.
“...Today’s your sad day, isn’t it?” Finally, she manages to mumble out her question, and the smile on her father’s face crumbles away, morphing into shock. “You always have a sad day when the leaves turn orange, every single year.”
“My sad day, hm…?” He echoes the words thoughtfully. “Yes, I… I suppose you’re right.”
Lifting her fist from where it had lain in her lap, Maria slowly unfurls it, revealing the charm she’d bought at the market. “I got you this. It was the happiest charm I found.”
“Happiest…? How do you mean?”
The little princess fidgets slightly. “There was a boy at the market--” She can see the way her father’s face stiffens at the mention of the land outside the castle. “--who was selling these charms. He made them himself…! And I asked him, and he said he did his very best. He was selling them with his grandmother and they both looked so happy, so I’m sure he knows the most important thing.”
“Hm…” He brushes her bangs to the side with a gentle hand, smiling once more (but this time his face has come alive, curiosity glimmering in the depths of his eyes). “What is this? This ‘most important thing’ of yours?”
“Love,” Maria replies simply. “I’m sure he loves his grandmother; he loves her just like I love you, so I’m sure this charm can make you happy today.”
He is silent as she peers up at him, and even his hands have stilled, as though he has very nearly forgotten to breathe.
“...It’s my fault you’re sad, isn’t it, Pa-- ...Father? Because Mother isn’t here anymore. ...I’m sorry.”
“Oh, Maria,” he finally whispers, pulling her close; she does not mind how tight his embrace is, and simply wraps her arms gently around his shaking back. “You can always call me Papa.”
She closes her eyes and breathes in. “...Okay, Papa.”
It is a long time before he pulls away, but though his face is still tired and sad, the arm supporting her is warmer than ever.
“I am sad.” Such a simple statement after such an overwhelming silence, but Maria knows how to hear the depth in it. “I miss your mother terribly… But it is not your fault I am sad, Maria. It has never, ever been your fault. It was simply time for your mother to leave us… But you are the light she left behind.” At that, he plants a gentle kiss upon her forehead. “Now, hold out your hands.”
“Like this?” She cups her hands, and he nods, procuring a locket from underneath his shirt. With a practiced motion, he opens it, and a flash of gold drops into the princess’ palms.
“Go on,” he says, “Look at it.” Mystified, Maria holds it up, letting it sparkle in the faint slivers of light filtering in. The ring is a simple thing, undecorated save for a single sparkling stone, but she can tell immediately that it is his treasure.
“What’s this? She asks, curious. Then, pointing to the crimson flecks along its side: “There’s something on it.”
He pries it from her grasp gently, a shadow flickering across his face for a moment, but only that. Slowly, he drags his thumb across its surface, and when he hands it back to her, all the crimson is gone.
“It was your mother’s ring,” he says, “But it’s yours now.”
“But it was in your locket… Isn’t it super special?”
Her father smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s alright. You gave me this charm, after all-- I’m just casting a spell.”
Maria’s eyes grow wide, and she leans in as he does. “A spell?”
“A spell,” he confirms. “Whenever I feel sad, I’ll look at this charm you gave me, and I’ll feel happy once more. And you, whenever you feel as though you’re the reason I’m sad, will look at this ring and remember that I love you dearly.” Another kiss upon her forehead. “It is a magic spell that only fathers can cast upon their daughters.”
Her eyes are practically sparkling as he pulls away, and the corners of his mouth tug further upwards. “Are you going to keep that in your locket, then?”
“I am,” her father replies.
“Really?”
“Really really.”
“Okay…! I guess it is kind of scratchy.”
“Hm… Indeed it is.”
And for the first time that morning, her father chuckles.
• • •
The eighth memory is one of the worst; it is the innocuous sound of liquid splashing and a dark stain at her feet as she passes her father’s door, as well as the first and last time in Maria’s life that she truly screams. The sound echoes down the corridors and summons a swarm of servants and guards, as well as her siblings, with faces white as sheets.
It is only Minerva’s arms that keep her steady when a guard exits the room.
“King Osmond is dead,” he announces gravely, and moments later, Maria is whisked away to her room.
The days afterwards pass like a long nightmare. Maria does not leave her room, even to eat. It is her siblings who bring her her meals, and it is her siblings who wipe away her tears when they begin anew. Maria is not strong, not like they are (with their stony faces and the way they stand straight and true), but she is the reason that they are able to be strong at all.
“Maria,” her brother says one day, one arm wrapped around her as she sits on his lap, “You need to eat.” There is a firmness about his voice, but even more than that, there is an aching tenderness; Maria thinks it is sorrow.
“I’m sad,” she whispers, nigh inaudible. “I miss him, Michalis. I miss Papa…”
“...I know,” Michalis replies, and his voice breaks just slightly at the end, “But Father would be upset if he knew you were skipping meals.”
“...Yes,” the little princess finally relents, because she knows he’s right. The plate Michalis hands her has nothing extravagant-- merely jam and bread-- but he knows it to be her favorite (Michalis always knows). Hesitantly, she takes a bite, then another, and then another, eating in silence until the entire plate is empty. She can tell it is enough, though, because the worry fades from her brother’s eyes, and they instead crinkle just slightly at the corners.
“The way you smile is the same,” Maria murmurs amidst the silence. “You and Papa. It’s kind and warm… I love your smiles.”
The plate shatters on the ground.
Maria flinches at the sharp sound, grabbing onto her brother’s shirt; his arms have gone slack, and there is something terrifying about the way he looks at his hands (because she has never seen someone look so terrified of themselves).
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. Then, more quietly: “...I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
But Maria simply reaches out and cradles his cheek in her tiny palm, smiling warmly at him. She pulls him closer slowly, slowly, until he finally rests his head on her shoulder. When he pulls away, there is a single tear falling down his cheek.
It is the only time she sees him cry, that strong big brother of hers; he will stand tall as he always does when their father is hidden away forever beneath the coffin’s lid; he will stand tall when they crown him king, the weight of thousands of lives placed upon his head; most certainly, she is sure, he will stand tall even when the trouble she hears whispers of in the castle halls finally comes to pass.
But for now, she wipes away his lone tear with that gentleness of hers that will one day save him.
“It’s okay,” she replies. “We’ll be okay.”