Realm
of Iron and Ink
Book
One
By
M.
J Flynn
Part
1
THE
CHOSEN ONE
Chapter
1
Tomorrow
night I will die. Within a few hours, my mark will be done. The masterpiece
that had been created over my lifetime would come to an end. A symbol of my
death—my born curse. For the last time, the ink will seep deep into my
skin, and the truth would be more relevant than ever, the ink that damning me.
Once I thought it a beautiful design marking me for greatness—courageous. I
used to look forward to the days when fresh ink would be added to my mark. I
thought it made me unique setting me apart from the rest of the world with a
promise that my future would be different from the cruel mundane life in the
Summer Lands. A promise I would not die in its dusty fields like so many, but
now I know better. Death is coming for me.
I
push the thoughts from my mind and turn down the red dirt road that leads to
the back of the general store. Inside a small cramped room is where Branch
creates his masterpieces for the Chosen Ones. I push open the warped door
finding him preparing the needle and ink. Another gave me my first mark the day
I was born, a small brown bird at the base of my back. When my mother was
alive, she had supervised each marking, wiping away my tears, insisting it was
a mark of significance. She had instructed and observed with a watchful eye
each flower, leaf, and sweet thing inked on me. Over the years my mark has
moved up my back draping my shoulders and twisting around my arms. It wasn't
until after my mother died that I had Branch add the thorns choking and
strangling the delicate things.
“You're
late,” says keeping his eyes trained on the ink he is mixing. He doesn’t have
to turn around to know it’s me. “I was up late completing your mark,” he looks
at me over his shoulder with dark eyes filled with excitement. The room is too
small packed with crates for the store and Branch's supplies that only mere
inches separate us. I look away quickly away from those dizzying eyes me busy
myself with the piece of parchment on the table. It is soaked in ink still
drying; it is my mark.
“I
know you said no more flowers, but…” He moves closer touching the picture to
point out the changes. His pinkie finger slides against mine and warmth spread
from my fingertip to my toes. I catch his eye once again, but he looks away
unaffected. As if his touch didn’t stop the earth from moving and my heart from
beating. “I found a way to make the purple deeper, see?” He looks at me through
thick golden lashes.
I
will keep my heart to slow, so I can answer him. “It looks amazing.”
“You
don’t like it?” He takes my hesitation as a disappointment. This will be part
of his legacy on my body—on all the Chosen. Tomorrow night he will Mark the babies
born. Two, if grandmothers timing is right. Two marked for death with intricate
designs. I swallow hard; I can’t think about that, not now, not with my last
moments with Branch.
"I
love it. Really. It's beautiful, and I am honored to have it inked on me.” I
don’t tell him what I want to say; that tomorrow on my last day in this world I
want nothing more than to spend it with him. Wrapped in his arms with his lips
on mine. I am a stupid girl, of course, he doesn’t return my feelings and
why would he? I’m a dull and boring girl, and Branch can have his choice of any
village girls. Besides I am marked for death, no one wants to be part of that.
More
dreams that do me no good. I take a seat unbuttoning
the top of my dress letting it fall off my shoulders as I listen to the noises
Branch makes. Each movement sends a small ache through my chest until I feel
like porcelain as if I might shatter at any moment. Inside my head, I scream
the things I want to say to him. Why can’t be brave and tell him what my heart
is begging me to say? What would happen if I confessed my feelings for him? He
could deny them, laugh in my face at what a foolish girl I am. If Branch did
not return my feelings that might be worse than death. So, I will spend my last
moments wondering what could have been if I were brave.
He
sets down the wooden bowl of dark ink on the stained table the purple liquid
rippling with the motion. Usually, I accompany him to gather the items he needs
to make the ink, but this year I didn't go. The last few days the Chosen Ones
were at grandmothers in prayer. I, however, no longer prayed to the gods I had
stopped praying to them after my mother passed away. If there were gods, they
were cruel and unforgiving, and I hated every one of them. Instead, during those
many hours, I thought of my mother, of Branch, of things and places I wanted to
do and see.
Branch
sits behind me, and I focus on the rain hitting the broken glass of the small
window. Still, as his thighs press against mine, heat pooling at the core. I
force myself to be a statue as his hands gently roam over my skin finding the
perfect spot to begin. It is unbearable, his touch, his painfully slow
movements, each brush of his fingers is like a flame on my skin. I drag in a
breath holding it while I wait for him to begin, for the steady rhythm of the
inking to release the torturous buildup of anticipation.
Branch
presses his finger under my right shoulder blade, and my eyes flutter shut. For
a breath, every sense I have is heightened. I can hear the dripping of the
liquid from the needle back into the bowl and the waves it causes. Somewhere in
the distance sisters share a secret and I too am in on it. A butterfly beats
his wings, and the whisper of it brushes against my skin, and the small room
fills with the smell of Janine. Then the first prick of his needle pushing into
my skin starts, and everything disappears. A moan escapes my lips as the
tapping of his mallet begins to push the needle deeper and deeper.
His
long nimble stained fingers dance across my shoulders, steady in a place filled
with uncertainty. Branch would never know that he was the calmness in a storm
that is in a constant rage inside of me. He is more than my friend, he was my
tranquility, and he would never know that. He was my candle in the dark, and I
was going to miss him terribly. I wanted to remember every detail of him, even
if it was only for a small moment. So, I add another mark; I tattoo the memory
of him in my mind. The way his face lit up when he tells a joke and the way he
keeps his unruly curls tied back with a strap of leather. The way he smells of
ink and parchment. I press the memory in my mind of us slipping out late
at night when we were young; sneaking into the forest so that we could catch a
glimpse of the small folk that never came. Hopefully, wherever I end up after
the Chosen night, if there were gods, they would let me take my memories with
me.
A
bead of sweat rolls down my brow from both the pain and the heat of the day.
The heat I would not miss. I hated how it aged the people of the Summer Lands
faster than anywhere else. Leaving its mark on the skin and bleaching their
hair to gold wheat. The summer sun cooked the ground until it was hard as stone
making it more difficult for the plows and picks to penetrate the fields.
My
skin hums with my new marks, and the thoughts of the Summer Land drift to me in
waves as the minute's pass.
"Done,"
Branch announces leaning back in his chair. "I do believe this will be my
finest work," he swipes a finger across the fresh ink, and my heart skips
a beat. He is silent for a long time tracing my mark until I am coming undone.
"You could run—there’s still time," he says just above a whisper so
quiet I’m not sure if he truly said, or I dreamed it. He had spoken once before
of running away, and though every fiber of my being wants to run with him.
I
answer him the same way I did when he asked the first time. “You know I would
be caught before I even got out of the village. Besides even if I managed it
where would I go? The mark you branded me with will give me away.”
Branch
sucks in a breath pulling his hand away from me leaving a new piece of
emptiness to fill my gut. Like me, he didn't choose the path he was destined.
His father had died before he was born in the fields, and his mother soon
followed him after he was born. Branch was eleven when he was taken in off the
streets as an apprentice to the ink Smith.
“Here
takes a look at what I branded you with,” he says his tone stinging more than
the inking did. I know that he is hurt, but I can’t let him have such follies.
Even if we were to run and somehow not get caught what sort of life would he
have? Always looking over your shoulder, never truly having a home. No, I will
not do that to him. I take the aged mirror from his hand carefully not to
touch his fingers again. I turn it back and forth catching glimpses of the
fresh ink on my shoulders. I can only see pieces of my mark, I have never seen
the full mark on my back in a mirror. Still, I can see that Branch had added
more violets peeking out beneath the thorns.
“It’s
beautiful,” I say. Over the years Branch’s art had become more defined. If he
were born in the capital, his work would be paid for with irons. Perhaps even
sought out by the Queen and the Royal family. But things are different here in
the Summer Lands, things like art are not appreciated skill. Skills like
strength and speed were admired in the Summer Lands, abilities that could be
used in the fields. If only we had been born to a different fate. I hand
him back the mirror no longer wanting to see the ink that marks me as cursed,
and him a poor man. I button up my top and turn to him. He remains in the same
position his legs on either side of me, and I try not to think about how
moments ago they were pressed against me. My eyes are drawn to his chest the
heat making his tunic stick to him. I quickly look away forcing myself to focus
instead on his ink—stained fingers gripping his knees.
“I
have something for you,” I say before I lose the nerve.
“Wren…”
“It’s
something to remember me,” I hurry before he can disagree with me. I know he is
going to argue with me and I don’t want to hear it. Not again, when every part
of me is dying to go to the ends of the earth with him. I pull a small iron
chain from my pocket. "It’s not much.” I look down at the thin bracelet so
tiny, yet it feels like a lead weight in my hand. I am asking him to hold on to
a piece of me even after I am dead. “It belonged to my grandfather, and I
thought you could wear it... tonight...for me.”
"Of
course, I will wear it,” he takes my hand into his closing his fist over it.
The iron is warm in my hand, but not as warm as the spot he rubs with his
thumb, my pulse beats against his finger. I steal a glance up at him, and once
again those dark eyes hold mine—eyes with no bottom. His lips press into a thin
line, and I fight every urge in me that wants to move closer to him. It would
be so easy to bridge the distance and no longer wonder what his lips felt like.
Now was the time if I were to be brave. Branch licks his drying lips, his hand
tightening on my wrist. This would be it, this would be my first and last kiss,
but before I can move his words stop me.
"I
will go with you. Protect you," Branch’s voice takes on an even tone, and
once again my breath catches in my throat. How many nights have I dreamed of
running away with him? Daydreams of going to the ends of the world and spending
the rest of my days wrapped in his arms, but it is a fantasy.
"I
can't,” I say taking my hand back from him. “I want to go with the Fae, perhaps
I will become a Fae—bride to a handsome warrior," I say forcing a smile on
my face. Branch searches my face for a moment, but I keep the truth hidden and
try to soften the sharp sting of my words. "Besides, it’s an honor
to be a Chosen One. It is my duty," I repeat the words I heard my whole
life. I wait for him to plead with me it might just be enough to break my
façade and make me run. Instead, he says, “Wren, you’re going to be late, you
better go.”
Chapter
2
My
skirt soaks up the muddy water as I race down the road leaping over the
puddles. The sunbaked streets drink in the summer rain filling the deep ruts.
The storm is a sign of good luck for the Summer Lands, a blessing that the
fields will have another productive year.
Despite
the warm rain, a shiver runs up my back as I approach grandmothers weathered
cottage. I try to smooth down the halo of frizz around my head, but it does
little good. I pull open the swollen door and try to slip in unnoticed, but
Grandmothers steal eyes cut to me. Thankfully the village children fill the
room ensuring that grandmother will not scold me. The cottage is cast in
shadows from the unforgiving fire burning in the hearth behind the Chosen. It
didn't matter how hot the sun grew grandmother always kept a fire burning in
the hearth. It choked out the air and caused a line of sweat to bead at my
back.
The
other Chosen, River, and Acacia sit flanking Grandmother on benches. Acacia
glares at me as I take my seat next to her, but she doesn't tell me off like she
wants too. Not perfect Acacia named for the beauty of the pale, delicate
flowers that cover the dusty fields after harvest when the farmers give the
ground a month of rest. I bit down hard on my tongue, so I don't stick it out
at her. Acacia lets out a hiss of breath—a promise she would tell me off later.
Now on show she must be prim and proper, a perfect specimen of a Chosen One.
Her marked hands are folded delicately in her lap, and her sheet of golden hair
is pulled back with a robin egg blue ribbon trimmed in gold. It must have cost
her father a week of his earnings.
Like
most of the villagers my stepfather, Hal, didn't have the money to pay for such
fineries. What was not spent on ale and brothels went towards the little food
we could afford, stale bread, root vegetables, and if lucky the ends of an
animal from the butcher. Besides, Hal didn't think money should be wasted on
the dead, and I had to agree.
My
hair was frizzy from the heat in the cottage my braid unraveling into a tangle
of knotted curls. Acacia dress is simple yet, pristine and beautiful. She holds
herself like a proper lady, she always has. Far different from my mud—soaked
skirts and slouched shoulders which often earned me a lashing from the
schoolmaster when I was young. If Acacia looked like a Fae bride to be then,
her twin brother River looked the part of a Fae warrior—handsome and strong.
They would make it the Fae would keep them if for nothing more than their
beauty. I would be lucky if I made it across the vail before they slaughtered
me. Rivers golden brows pull into concentration, as grandmothers continue her
lecture.
"And
why do we have the Chosen?" Grandmother asks pulling me to the present and
off my appearance.
The
eager eyes of the Village children seem to glow in the dark corners of the
room. Wide—eyed listening to the story Grandmother had been telling for years.
The same one I grew up with, once upon a time it too fantasized me, but now it
fills me with the anxiety of what is to come.
The
children glance anxiously around at each other, seeing who would dare bring up
the Fae first. They spread rumors about the Chosen with morbid curiosity of
schoolyard gossip. Sharing secrets of what happens to us after we are offered
to the Fae as gifts. Whispers of meat being stripped from bones, and the Fae
drinking our lifeblood often floated towards me in the streets. I saw the looks
the children in the village gave me, and I knew of their bets on how I would
meet my ending with the Fae.
"The
Chosen are gifted to the Fae—kind to keep our way of life safe.” A girl in the
back speaks her voice barely above a whisper yet it is as loud as a bell. I
glance at the other twins to see if they too showed any signs of fear. Both
wear blank expressions, numb perhaps to what fate had in store for us. They
couldn't believe the propaganda we were fed, could they?
“Yes.
Without them, our world would be cast into a dark war. The Fae—kind would be
free to walk amongst us once again. The Great King Foinse fought against the
Fae driving them to the north to Tuatha. He forced the ancient Fae King to
surrender, but the Fae would only agree to peace if a treaty were made. They
would remain in Tuatha behind the veil if every eighteen years for the length
of the war, we would give them the gift of those born on the day the treaty was
signed. Those who were born tomorrow will become the next chosen; they are a
gift from the Great King. Without the chosen, the veil would collapse, and dark
magic would penetrate our world once again. When the Fae ruled this world, humans
were made into slaves. The Fae did as they saw fit, murdered, and raped us,
plundered our villages. Fed on our souls, drank our lifeblood, made potions
from our bones, their razor fangs shredded our skin. Until Foinse, a mortal
human man stood up against them; he waged war leading our forefathers into a
great battle that lasted for eighteen years. Many lives both Fae and human were
lost. Therefore, we have the Chosen so that we can live our lives freely
without fear. This year the gods have blessed us with four chosen, three from
the Summer Lands, and one from the Autumn Lands. This Chosen year there are
more gifts than there has been in many decades. In return, the Fae will
bless us with peace and fertile lands.” Though Grandmother told the story of the
Chosen to be blessed, I knew the truth even if no one else wanted to believe
those born in the Fae year were cursed.
I
remember the story of the On the Chosen year I was born; there was only one
chosen, Astrid. She was dull and afraid. While the others celebrated and drank
spiced wine and honey ale—she wept. When I was young, I thought the story of a
girl to be foolish. It was an honor to be Chosen; it separated us from the rest
of the villagers. I was eight when I saw her sister crying on the edge of the
forest. I marched up to her with the intention to set her straight. She
shouldn't be crying over her but rejoicing her sister who had been blessed. She
struck me in the face and told me I was a stupid child and knew nothing. If I
thought that it was an honor to be raised for slaughter, then I deserved to die
at the hands of the Fae. She told me the horror of what happened to Astrid.
When the celebration had ended, and the morning light came, the villagers
opened their doors and went about their day as if Astrid never existed. She had
saved them all, kept the monsters at bay, and yet; no one mourned for her.
Astrid was gone, and no one would speak her name again, her life meant nothing
to them. It wasn't until days later when digging in her garden Madam Mizzou
found pieces of Astrid in her garden. A nose under the cabbages, and a few
fingers by the turnips. It was all that was left of the Chosen One who saved
them all. A reminder from the Fae, and the truth of what they do to those who
are Chosen.
My
hand finds my cheek still stinging with the memory of the truth.
You can read the full novel @
https://www.swoonreads.com/m/realm-of-iron-and-ink-2/
