Everything seemed cold, dead. The grey
courtyard listened in silence to the wind howling around the stone
walls and watched as the crowd of people all dressed in grey, brown
or black split ranks, allowing a walk way between the two groups. It
was not a funeral. Down the middle of the walk way four knights
wearing silver armor, carrying long spears with their black capes
trailing behind them escorted a young woman, two in front of her and
two behind. Everyone in the crowd turned towards her and bowed their
heads immediately, not daring to look into her dark brown eyes. The
young woman's brown hair was covered by the black hood of her cloak
and she seemed to hide behind it, her dark eyes shifting from side to
side. A long flight of steps lay before her and her escort. The
platform that the long steps led up to had a tall flat stone set up
upon it with a rock table carved from it sticking out of the middle.
A man dressed in black robes stood to the right side of the sacred
stones, holding a knife in his hand. The young woman drew closer to
the broken, sacred steps, taking them fearlessly as she stared
straight ahead. She made it up to the platform and turned slightly to
stare at the crowd. All of the people down below held complete
silence. The man wearing the black robes wordlessly grabbed the
woman's left hand and pressed the jagged knife's edge against the
palm of her hand. The two locked eyes. Before the woman knew what was
happening the blade had cut through her skin and the blood was
dripping down into a depression in the rock table. She caught her
breath, turning away so that the crowd could not see the pain on her
face. The robed man held her hand above the depression, lifting up
the knife to the crowd he showed it to them then dropped it on the
platform.
“The blood of Moira Zuill blesses us
today. The gods receive her sacrifice and will bless us through her
rule.”
The woman Moira Zuill closed her eyes,
feeling lightheaded as the crowd cheered loudly in excitement and
supposed enthusiasm. Zuill felt the robed man bandaging her hand. She
opened her eyes, feeling him sprinkle some of her blood on both their
garments. Though she never would have admitted it, Moira felt sick
and faint. One of her escorts took hold of one of her arms, allowing
her to lean upon him. Her blood in the bowl looked black. The robed
man turned, taking a box from a pedestal he opened it and took out
something that flashed red and silver and he pulled it out, a stark
contrast to everything else in the courtyard. It was a crown with
scarlet fabric attached all around the ring of the royal possession.
Moira managed to stand tall and straight by herself, pulling the hood
and cloak away she let it fall. The man walked around the table over
to the woman and placed the crown on her head. It was heavy but Moira
Zuill would not let it show. The robed man took her bandaged hand and
raised it high.
“Moira Zuill, queen of Sccairn,
ruler of the northern isles and leader of our people.”
The clouds came in thick and strong
over head, covering the sun and moon completely as the crowd cheered,
repeating his words. A cold wind blew up from the north, blowing
Moira's thin scarlet veil around and plastering it to her face as she
watched the crowd. They seemed sincere, happy. Moira could only hope
that they were.
Intriguing.
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