#argost cress

[blessed-by-umbral]

Fatalem iter

Fatality / Journey- Day 3.

@daily-writing-challenge

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Two Years Ago

The moon ascended gracefully in the night sky, casting its luminous beams upon the gentle flow of the fountain at the heart of Cress Estate, resembling polished silver in its brilliance. The evening air was imbued with a serene stillness, punctuated only by the subtle sounds of nocturnal creatures that inhabited the towering trees scattered throughout the estate's expansive grounds.

Within the tallest bell tower, a foreboding and muted light flickered behind the stone-arched windows, creating an unsettling contrast to the otherwise peaceful ambiance of the estate. This eerie illumination hinted at secrets hidden within the ancient walls, drawing the eye and stirring the imagination as the night deepened around the tranquil setting.

Inside the expansive, dome-shaped chamber, a multitude of flickering candles radiated warmth, casting a soft glow against the stone walls that were richly decorated with intricate tapestries depicting the storied lineage of House Cress.

The imposing iron bell, which typically occupied a central position within the chamber, had been carefully unfastened and moved aside to create a sacred area for a life-affirming ritual. At the heart of the room lay the meticulously prepared and groomed body of Argost Cress, surrounded by personal artifacts that spoke to his identity. His favored weapons, the armor he once wore, and an assortment of bourbons he relished were thoughtfully arranged along the base of a stone slab, which was intricately engraved with ancient runes.

Among those gathered were his bereaved spouse, Elisia, who wore a black veil that gracefully draped over her face, and beside her stood Argrin, her eldest son, clad in traditional mourning attire. Onora found herself positioned closely next to her brother, her arm comfortably wrapped around his. The color of her clothing leaned more towards grey than black, as it was contrary to her usual practice to don garments that were entirely embellished in black. Ondrea, resembling her mother in both appearance and attire, also wore a dark covering that shrouded her face in a concealing veil. She stood before her father's lifeless form, holding a lit matchstick poised above the wick of a candle, ready to ignite the flame that would symbolize the light of his memory and yet all that impeded her thoughts were his final words.

“Your presence within this family is akin to a blemish that tarnishes its integrity. It is a mark that penetrates deeply, much like ink that seeps through the fibers of parchment, leaving an indelible impression that cannot be easily erased. This stain not only affects the surface but also alters the very essence of what it means to belong to this lineage, casting a shadow over the shared history and values that bind us together.”

A subtle smile began to emerge at the edges of her concealed lips as the anticipated flame finally made contact with the wick of the candle. In an instant, the fire surged forth, causing the candle's flame to flicker uncertainly for a brief moment before it steadied itself, rising tall and unwavering.

Ondrea's voice emerged from the heart of the room, gentle as a spring zephyr, yet imbued with an executioners last rites.

Ó coinneal sruthán geal (Oh candle burn bright)

Ó coinneal sruthán le cuspóir (Oh candle burn with purpose)

Ó coinnea treoir a thabhairt do na mairbh (Oh candle guide the dead)

Ó coinnea coinnigh do lasair ar lasadh (Oh candle keep your flame lit)

Ó iarrthóir na fírinne (Oh seeker of truth)

Las do choinnle (Light your candles)

A profound quietness pervaded the bell tower, with the only interruption being the sporadic, gentle pops of the candles as they burned.

As she turned with deliberate slowness, Ondrea's skirts swept against the hard surface beneath her feet, the fabric whispering against the stone as she drew nearer to her brother and mother.

Argrin's voice cut through the stillness  “This fatality is a dark mark on our history. His fatality will linger in our hearts for years to come.”

“Indeed, this situation presents a significant loss, and the path that lies before us is extensive, fraught with challenges and difficulties. Yet this is a journey we all must take.” Onora articulated her thoughts, gently withdrawing her grip from Argrin's arm to extend her hand towards Ondrea. The moment their hands made contact, a powerful surge reverberated through Ondrea’s senses, filling her ears with a tumultuous sound until her sister's voice emerged distinctly amidst the chaos.

"Patricide, sister?"

Ondrea removed the obstructive veil from her face, allowing her striking gold-green eyes to lock onto those of her twin. The moment was charged with an intensity that seemed to suspend time, as if the world around them had faded into the background, leaving only the connection between the pair.

The atmosphere was thick with an unspoken understanding, on that cultivated a silence that enveloped them. In that stillness, the bond they shared became almost tangible.

A silent acceptance.

--

Mentions: @onora-cress

[blessed-by-umbral]

The Terror, The Teller, and The Tempest

Daily Writing Challenge, Day 5:

Mistake/Wild

@daily-writing-challenge

Reader Warning:

This prose depicts scenes of violence against women, blood, and verbal abuse. Please read at your own digression.

If you or anyone you know is experiencing abuse please contact:

National Domestic Violence Hotline: 800-799-7233

  ---

Two Years Ago: Four months before Lord Argost Cress’s death.

The intention was to serve tea, complemented by a variety of strawberry tarts; however, the remaining tarts were eaten several days ago. Instead, Ondrea carefully climbed the massively ornate staircase at the heart of the Cress Estate, mindful not to spill the tea or tarnish the sugar. As she ascended, she took a moment to gaze at the enormous stained-glass window at the apex of the stairway, which beautifully captured the colors of the setting sun. The warm shades of pink and gold streamed through the glass, illuminating the lavishly adorned space with a gentle, inviting glow.

Despite the calm atmosphere enveloping her, her mind was filled with chaotic and restless reminiscing.

--

Four months prior:

Tension lingered thickly in the air as Argost stood before a crackling hearth fire, the steady orange glow haloed around his body like an aura. It was a perfect symbolization of his very being-- a man of fire and power.

His piercing green gaze was fixed on Onora, who stood in silence, her posture erect yet her eyes focused on the intricate patterns of the rug below. "I wish not—" she began, but Argost interrupted, his voice a perfect cocktail of authority. "You have no choice." Despite his attempts to embody the gentleness that Elisia urged him to show towards their children, the intimidation in his demeanor remained unyielding.

"Your brother is currently searching for a betrothed, yet we have a unique opportunity at hand. Although House Boissombre is modest in size, it possesses significant potential. The essence of this House has always been to foster and solidify connections. We embrace and prevail in our endeavors. By leveraging the prospects that House Boissombre offers, we can enhance our standing and influence. It is imperative that we capitalize this opportunity."

A subtle shift in her gaze directed her focus toward her father. It was quite peculiar, the wave of warmth that enveloped her chest at that moment. The very passion that her father radiated appeared to ignite a similar flame within her, though their interests remained in contrast.

"I am aware of the whispers surrounding Lord Boissombre—his reputation for cruelty and mercilessness is well-known." An admission of truth. Defying her father was a challenge she seldom embraced, as she had always been the compliant twin, in stark contrast to her sister's boldness. "I am concerned for my own safety." she added after a moment's hesitation, "-And for the well-being of our House."

"The welfare of our estate depends on this," Argost insisted with resolute authority. "You will converse with him, delight in his humor, bestow upon him your enchanting smile, and fulfill the role of the wife he has always dreamed of."

She was afforded no room for rebuttal, for Lord Argost swiveled about and returned to his desk at which he sat, no sooner busying himself with parchments.

Concealed by the shadows that enveloped the dimly lit corridor of the Cress Belltower, Ondrea lingered just beyond the closed door, her presence a mere whisper against the oppressive darkness that surrounded her.

During this period, she assumed the role of a spy, intent on overhearing their conversation. Her motivations were not rooted in malice; rather, they stemmed from a deep-seated desire to ensure the welfare of her sister. While the weight of her father's dominance pressed upon her, and surely Onora, a fierce longing ignited within Ondrea—a yearning for him to experience her own burgeoning power

  ---

“Faaaaarceee.” A murmur of countless voices resonated in her mind. They continued. “No good man.”

She couldn’t agree with the whispers more.

Ondrea contemplated the idea of remaining hidden in the shadows to eavesdrop on Lord Etain's grandiloquent speeches. During their brief encounters, she had been able to discern the facade he presented rather quickly. His smile, unshaven face, and expensive attire failed to mask the man that lay beneath the surface. The darkness of his intentions was evident in his gaze. She could see it, that draw for dominance and power. How could she not, when she so often saw it too when gazing upon her reflection? 

Her feelings towards him were marked by indifference.

Nonetheless, she proceeded in her gait down the hall toward the south wing, nearing Onora's study.

As she approached, a sense of concern washed over her at the sight of Onora's door firmly closed. This was an unusual occurrence, for Onora was known for her inviting nature.

“Curiiiiiooous.” The whispers urged.

The rich carpet that was splayed along the hallway absorbed the sound of her boots as she approached the door. The gentle clinking of the tray echoed softly until she paused beside the oak entryway. Ondrea leaned in; her breath bated as she strained to listen to the conversation unfolding beyond the door.

“What did you say?” Lord Boissombre seethed, his voice a low, menacing whisper. He was towering and formidable. His hair, a deep shade of black, was slicked back meticulously. Unfortunately for Onora, this meant his angered expression was on full display.

"If I must repeat myself, then so be it, Lord Boissombre. I have no intention of marrying you. We are not a match.” Onora swallowed, timid, yet confident. Though, an additional voice petered within the recess of her mind. An unfamiliar choir of whispers.

“Beware.” They warned.

Onora winced as if she suffered from a random headache, yet she persisted. “You are unkind not only to our people but to those who serve us.” The latter was offered less sternly, but more so an addendum of mourning. “I cannot possibly imagine bearing your children."

Those words struck a nerve with Lord Boissombre, for without preamble he raised his powerful hand and struck at her with the back of it.

"Loathsome wench!"

It happened all too quickly. Onora lost her footing and fell back. Her side collided sharply with the edge of her ornate desk, sending a cacophony of ledgers, an ink quill, and various trinkets cascading to the floor. The sound echoed through the room, a symphony of chaos, as one particular object—a dagger belonging to Ondrea—clattered among the debris.

In one swift motion, he loomed over her, one hand gripping the lace of her bodice while the other descended to deliver another strike to her face. Within moments, she found herself on the ground, with his aggressive hand firmly pressing against her throat.

“Your desires are irrelevant; what holds significance is my will. You are an object of ownership, destined to bear children according to my wishes and timing, with no input from you.”

The force of his hold around her neck intensified, constricting her airway with alarming severity. As the edges of Onora's sight began to blur and fade into an encroaching shadow, her fading gaze flitted anxiously over his face.

In a desperate attempt to escape, her heels scraped against the floor, creating a chaotic rhythm that echoed her instinct for survival. In that critical moment, Onora's hands frantically sought out any object within reach, anything that might serve as a means to free her.

With a desperate urgency, her trembling fingers grasped the pommel of Ondrea's dagger. “Do it.” Voices. Hundreds, all in unison. “You will die if you don’t.” They sounded gleeful, as if they knew Onora’s choice was singular.

As soon as her hold was secure, she drove the blade deep into his rib cage. She continued to thrust the weapon into him repeatedly, screaming and driven by the fervent hope that he would finally loosen his grip on her throat.

A wild and primal scream erupted from Lord Boissombre. Raw and laden with disbelief.

In the brief moments that followed, Ondrea hastily set the tray aside and rushed to open the door. A single glance at the unfolding scene was sufficient for her to reach a decisive conclusion. Lord Boissombre must die.

Onora exhibited an unyielding ferocity in her assault, prompting Lord Boissombre to loosen his hold on her solely to attempt a strike against her attacking arm. The dagger's keen edge grazed his skin, slicing into his fingers and palm until fragments of flesh hung loosely. She didn't stop. She couldn't.

“Yes-yes-yes!” The whispers harmoniously cheered. “Kill him—” They encouraged. "KILL HIM!"

The stabbing persisted, transforming from a mere thudding noise into a rising symphony of wet punctures. Lord Boissombre released his grip on her throat, attempting to wrest the dagger from her hold. His hands, slick with blood, grappled and contended, determined to prevail over her with no avail.

With a swift twist of the blade, Onora retracted her hand momentarily before thrusting it forward, driving the blade deep into his chest.

"Onora!" Ondrea hurriedly advanced as Lord Boissombre stood, only to trip against the desk. A strangled sound escaped him, tainted with blood as it spilled from his mouth. He gasped, his injured hand grasping for the dagger's handle, glancing down in bewilderment. His gaze shifted back to the twins before his blue eyes fluttered and rolled back in his head. Lord Boissombre lurched forward and collapsed, the force of his fall resulting in a crack of his chest bone as he drove the dagger deeper into himself with the impact.

“I-it was a mistake.” She trembled, voice and body alike. “—a mis—take…it was a m---” On and on she continued that litany, held close by her other half. They remained close, even long after Lord Boissombre’s blood had cooled on Onora’s hands.

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@onora-cress approved this prose and assisted with her character's decision making. ♥