Phaedren Neald

Background
This is my mother. The gods favored her with beauty unbefitting the station into which she was born. Their favor perpetuated her elevation in the small society of human mountain dwellers to which she belonged. Their favor granted her the attentions of the most comely of suitors. Their favor rendered to her the life denied to most in a world frequently subdued by masters whose power is surpassed only by their cruelty.

Their favor deserted her.

Who can understand the gods? In the same breath, they breathe favor and wrath?

Their wrath delivered her as captive to the orc horde that rolled over her village as a wave over so many castles of sand. Their wrath destroyed her society. Their wrath denied her the comfort filled life. Their wrath slaughtered her suitors. Their wrath bade her to become the object of the attentions of new suitors. Their wrath saw her with child. Their wrath left her as dead, her new suitors having had their fill and seen fit that she breathe her last alone in the track riddled snow of their wake.

The gods are fickle.

Who can understand them? They capriciously turn away wrath and extend grace.

Their grace led a lone human, a hunter, to her as she struggled to maintain her grip on the vestigial strands of life that were quickly slipping away. Their grace clothed her in animal skins, restoring life-giving heat to her frost-bitten limbs. Their grace carried her to the comforts of a new home and embraced her in spite of her brokenness. Their grace delivered me from her womb; then, their grace departed.

The gods are cruel.

Who can understand them? They preserve and curse whom they will.

My birth was remarkable. Born in the caul, the amniotic sac was cut from my body before my first breath. I do not remember the event, but I was later told that it was a traumatic experience. The midwife could not be persuaded to stay and administer post-partum care. “He is marked by the gods for a dark purpose”, she said, “why else would he be born in the caul?” What foolishness.

The gods are foolish.

Who can understand them? With their given intellect we understand mystery and create superstition.

I am awakened by the howling of wolves. I am sixteen. In the dim light of the full moon, where the slight tint of my skin is hidden, I could pass for human. My mother’s blood runs strong in my features. Full moon? The solstice has just passed. The moon should be quarter at most. The wolves should not be in this country for another two months, at least. I go back to sleep with the wolves’ omen ringing in my ears.

The gods are foolish.

Who can understand them? They act with boldness, but speak in riddles.

The morning greets me with angry noises from the front entrance of my home. I am twenty. As I step to my porch I inhale the stench of decay. “You must leave,” Ryaul commands with as much vehemence as he can muster. He garners what little courage he has from the fact that he is surrounded by neighbors who support his cause. They know I am different. They know that, two-on-one, none in the village could best me. “We cannot go on allowing our cattle to die and our goods to spoil.” Anger rises in me, but I know he speaks the truth. I glance at the emaciated carcass of the animal that clearly died on my porch last night. The progress of the decomposition is unnatural, to say the least. I must leave.

The gods are foolish?

Who can understand them? They offer what cannot be refused, and demand a price that cannot be paid.

The gates to the abbey of the stone-fist monks loom in front of me. I turn my head at the cry of a hawk and catch sight of it as it dives for its prey. It snares the unsuspecting shrew and begins its ascent only to thud sickeningly into the bole of an oak and flop to the ground, its neck bent at an impossible angle. The shrew scampers away. Another omen. Surely I am meant for a dark purpose. The gates open before me. I need their discipline. Whether I am meant to bend to the will of gods or demons, they will not find me easy prey.

The gods are foolish.