Gilded Thorns

They had thought my mother was barren. So the High King ordered for her to be placed far, far away from him.

He took in many different concubines at the request of his council, further ignoring and neglecting my mother who was locked in a palace where she could not be seen by the visitors. He had morning walks with the slave girls of war and nightly rendezvous with errand boys to quench his never-ending lust.

Lust my mother never satiated.

He left her untouched for many weeks after their marriage, until the royal advisor convinced him to at least try to conceive an heir for the good of the Empire.

And so he did. 

He visited her rundown palace one night and ravaged her until she could no longer move a muscle. He did not have much hope for her because he firmly believed she was infertile; just like how the rumors said she would be.

But then, as if the heavens took pity on her, she got pregnant.

The king was overjoyed and held banquets to honor my mother and her child. She thought that it was finally time for her to be happy with the man she so loved. That she would be able to create a picture perfect family with the man she so cherished.

Just the idea of it made her ecstatic. She was so happy about the thought that he, my father, would finally love and pay attention to her like he would the other nameless women. 

And pay attention to her, he did. 

He presented her with material things — jewelry, gowns and dresses, diamonds and pearls — he thought would satisfy her. But mother was never a materialistic person, for the very thing she sought for was the King's love.

My father's love.

But that love that she so craved was directed to his favorite errand boy. The king met him out working in the palace stables when he went out to train like he always did. 

And he fell in love with that stable boy.

That stable boy was the very boy he'd sleep with. Yes, my father was a sodomite. A being that was heavily frowned upon in the kingdom — by the people, by the temple and by our Goddess — and will be sentenced to death by burning and stoning if anyone found out.

My mother knew about my father's little lover. But like a foolish young girl who yearned for her lover's attention, she said nothing and wallowed in the pain as she watched him embrace someone else.

She hoped, no — she wished that my father would come to his senses and realize that it was her that he held affections for. 

But fate is cruel even to those who wait. 

My mother knew the bitter truth. The ugly fact that she was there because the High King just needed someone to fill in the Queen's spot and take over her duties for the Empire. 

She knew better than anyone else why he had kept her by his side: she was of noble blood and was part of the most powerful family the High King needed backing and support from. 

He would never bat an eye. 

My father was nice and cared for her since she was carrying his precious child. But when my mother gave birth to me — a female — he snatched me away from her arms and handed me to the wet nurse.

With not so much as a glance, he ordered for my immediate execution.

Being the first-born daughter in the Empire is a sign of a curse on the family. The people believed that if a family had a girl as their first-born, she'd end up being a witch — a demon's child and the harbinger of doom. It was seen as really unfortunate to have a female as the first child.

In my case, my poor mother fought hard against this belief. She pleaded with the king to spare me, even going as far as threatening to withdraw her family's support if he went ahead with my execution. 

And so the cruel man granted me my only mercy, on one condition.

In an effort to shield me from public scrutiny, I was concealed within the confines of the palace, away from the prying eyes of society.

My existence became a closely guarded secret, a fact known only to a select few, and a significant sum of money was given to compensate the wet nurse for her role in this hushed arrangement.

In noble society, secrets were currency, and my birth became a transaction sealed with gold. The wet nurse was generously paid for her silence. 

Yet trust was a rare commodity in nobility. My father, a man well-versed in the art of discretion, wouldn't have allowed the wet nurse to live if he harbored even a sliver of doubt.

His meticulous nature left no room for careless oversights, especially when it came to protecting the family's standing in the aristocratic hierarchy. 

Perhaps that nurse had been dealt with the way my father would.

*

Not long after they had me, father threw mother away once again and went back into the arms of his little lover. And as always, he would be locked up in his chambers with his beloved, doing goddess knows what and leaving his imperial duties to his aide.

He was aware that he needed an heir. But his lover was a man. It was impossible for them to conceive. And even if they did find a way, it would be blasphemous. 

So he embraced my mother once again, although reluctantly. 

His expectations were not high. He viewed my mother merely as a means to an end – a tool for producing heirs to secure the imperial lineage. To him, she existed solely for the purpose of fulfilling her designated role.

She was not a person deserving of respect or empathy; rather, she was relegated to the status of a pitiable figure, an expendable vessel whose sole worth was in her ability to bear children. 

*

I was four when my mother gave birth to my younger brother, the crown prince. 

My father, upon learning that the seed growing in my mother's womb was the male heir he sought for, he gave him the name of Cedrin. The bastard tried to snatch him away from my mother so he could hand him over to his male lover.

My mother recognized the weight her family's backing carried and wielded it as her only means of asserting control in the face of the High King's intentions.

She resisted and threatened him again with her family name. With an angry heart, he reluctantly allowed my mother to raise their son destined to inherit his throne. 

Mother knew she was never going to win his affections.

We were the only ones she had in the palace. 

His monthly visits to our palace was like a ritual, overloaded with presents showered upon my younger brother. A procession of gifts, towering like mountains, spilled forth — books, toys, and clothes adorned with expensive jewels that were, in truth, more suited for a mature child than of my brother's tender age. 

He doted on Cedrin and scorned me. 

As a young child once, I had a deep longing for my father's affection. I yearned for that warm gaze, the same tender look he reserved for Cedrin. However, my reality was quite different; my father's eyes bore a painful scowl when directed at me.

It was as if he regarded me not with fatherly warmth, but rather with the disdain one reserves for an enduring nuisance—one that, in his eyes, perhaps should have been killed long ago. The absence of his love left a scar on my early years, a silent ache nestled in my young heart.

But despite my father's unfairness, my mother's love was different. Her affection knew no favorites, and she gave both my brother and I an equal amount of care and attention.

In the face of my birth father's hatred, just having my mother's love was enough. As long as I had her and my brother by my side, my father's love did not matter.

And rather than having resentment toward my younger brother, my heart was filled with love for him.

He was not just family; he was my confidant, my best friend—the companion I could lean on, second only to Mother. He became someone incredibly dear to me, a person I cherished and, above all, someone I had a desire to protect.

But change always comes when you are the happiest.

*

Today he is here again, but this time with his lover in tow. I looked out from the attic window where the maids lock me during my father's visits.

From here, I could see them walking side by side with smiles on their faces as their shoulders rubbed against each others'. 

The atmosphere is painted in an oppressively pink hue as they approach our doorstep. A procession of knights, adorned in resplendent iron armors, marched in solemn tandem, each step echoing through the cavernous halls of our silent mansion with a distinctive clunking sound.

From where I was, I peered downward, a subtle frown on my face as my father and his lover halted in front of our door. Their eyes, filled with an intensity as though reuniting after years of separation, lingered upon one another.

I rolled my eyes as I observed my father engaging in conversation with the mansion's butler, his lover's gaze eventually drifting in my direction.

The exchange was so fleeting that I couldn't register our locked eyes, but we did. His stare, penetrating and unnerving, held mine, and the corners of his lips curved into a mysterious smile.

In that suspended moment, the tension in the air became suffocating. The knights, the silent witnesses to this unexpectedness, maintained their stoic postures, oblivious to the exchange that took place between a me and my father's lover. 

A chill crawls down my spine as they make their entrance into the palace. 

I wait in the attic room like always, a refuge I often seek until the maids beckon me downstairs. But I sense an unusual air today.

Normally, my father would have hastily departed this palace by now, as he hated lingering in its halls. 

Yet, today, he lingers, drawing out the anticipation.

Lounging on the bed, a recent gift courtesy of my discerning mother's instructions to the butler, I while away the time engrossed in books thoughtfully selected for my amusement. The minutes stretch into an unsettling eternity, and then:

Knock knock knock

As the door creaks open, my mother's visage greets me, etched with concern. My younger brother clings to her skirt, mirroring the tension in the air with his anxious eyes staring at me.

My attention shifts forward, and my gaze collides with a formidable presence—the King himself. His eyes, cold and disdainful, fixate on me as he looms in front of me. Beside him stands his lover, an enigmatic figure wearing a smile and looking at me with strange adoration.

The room becomes stifling, a weight hanging in the air, and suddenly I am having a hard time breathing. I brace myself for the exchange as I feel the atmosphere crackle with uncertainty.

His unwanted attention settled on me like a heavy cloak, his gaze an unrelenting weight that I could almost feel physically. The way his eyes bore into mine was like the subtle crawl of dozens of centipedes, their tiny legs sending shivers across my skin.

It wasn't just uncomfortable; it was an unsettling, downright repulsive sensation that made me squirm.

"You've seen her enough; it's time for you to go," my mother asserts, her hand trembling as she places it on my brother's shoulder. However, the king dismisses her with a click of his tongue and a shake of his head.

"You should consider yourself fortunate to be alive, girl," he declares, his tone dripping with an arrogance that sends a shiver down my spine. The weight of my book is absent in my hands, and I feel strangely exposed. 

I hate this.

My father, a fleeting presence, casts me a final dismissive glance before turning his back, departing from the attic room. His lover, a lanky figure draped in smiles, follows suit, leaving me alone.

The corridor swallows them, and when they disappear, Cedrin rushes inside, breaking the lingering silence.

"Sister!" his voice echoes in a desperate scream, and he envelops me in a tight embrace. His head burrows into my stomach, and in between choked sobs, he repeats the words, I was scared, like a broken record.

I feel a knot of fear in my own chest, but I pull myself together, offering comfort to my younger brother. I gently run my fingers through his hair and caress his back, a silent reassurance that everything is okay now.

Aside from this, I remember only fun memories while living in the mansion with my mother and Cedrin: my mother's tender singing, a melody now distant like a fading echo of comfort; the bear my mother cradled in her childhood; my brother and I lying beside each other, gazes fixed upon the vast evening sky.

In my last memory, Cedrin and I sneak out of the attic window onto the roof, lying side by side. It's a risky venture for two kids like us, just a misstep will send us plummeting to the ground.

But my brother, who seemed to have a fascination for the sky, doesn't seem to mind. Whether it's the late afternoon, a time he's free from his classes, or the evening when he craftily slips into my room, claiming to have had a nightmare, he's always eager to gaze at the sky.

We create a makeshift nest with our blankets, hugging the pillows we carried up, and lie there, staring at the stars. I share tales of constellations from a book my mother gifted me, a cherished moment between Cedrin and I. 

But so much has changed since then.