The first time it happened, I was only three hundred years old. Too young to understand what had happened when I found my governess in a pool of blood not unlike the one Miss Lavandale was lying in. If this had happened to anyone else, they would have been soothed and comforted by their parents. I was neither. I was simply told to go to my room and reflect on myactions. There had been no kind word, not even a pat on the back.
Even mortal children get more. I have witnessed that during some of my trips to the outskirts of Sattoriya, where some mortal communities live—though I am forbidden to interact with them.
With the ongoing war between Tartareia and Aperion, many mortal communities have been displaced from the intermediary realms—or buffer realms as the history books call them. But whereas mortals and immortals share these lands, they never mingle.
Immortals occupy a high place in the realm, whereas mortals come and go. Their short lifespan means they are replaceable. They are the bottom of the social strata, doing menial jobs and dedicating their lives to the comfort of the immortals. It is a capital crime for a mortal to even look an immortal in the eyes, and if they address one directly, they can expect to be sent to the gallows. The only way for the two categories to interact is indirectly, through different mediums that ensure the preservation of the hierarchy.
Yet they are odd people, those mortals. Whenever I saw them, they were always running around, laughing and playing. In spite of their low status, they enjoy their lives to the fullest. Or so I think since I have never been allowed to do that. Both for fear that I would hurt myself and that I would hurt others—though I have never been told exactly how I could harm them since I have no abilities to speak of.
Those mortal children, so happy and carefree, always struck a chord in me.
At three hundred years old, I was the equivalent of a three year old mortal. Too young to understand death, especially that of an immortal.
The second time, I was only a hundred years old. The following two times followed shortly. Every time, my parentsswept the incident under the rug but punished me for it without even getting my side of the story.
For the last few hundred years I thought I finally found a modicum of normality. Heading into my adolescent years taught me wisdom, or at least, the books did. I have not been able to go outside as much as I would like to, nor am I able to train like others my age. I am, at least, allowed to read to my heart’s content. Soon, however, I will have finished all the books in our library, having read and reread some of them.
I know all there is to know about politics, history and the sciences. Unfortunately, there are very few books about imagined events—fiction as the mortals call it. But those few that I have encountered I have devoured two, three, four times. I have read them until I know the words by heart and all the adventure those fictitious characters embarked on.
I know there are many more available out there, a lot of which the mortals sell and trade. But who would allow me to go out and buy some for myself? Even if I could, by some miracle, go to the mortal district, I do not have any coin and what little I have that could be traded is indispensable to me.
Oh, how I envy those mortals!
Why was I not born among them?
Upsila comes to my side, brushing her snout against my leg.
I pat her on the head.
“At least you believe me, right Upsila? You were there. I did not do it, did I?” I ask, though I know she cannot answer. Sometimes I wish I had the ability to communicate with animals. At least then I would be less alone.
She nips at my leg and lets out a low whine.
“Good girl,” I smile.
In a matter of seconds, though, her entire demeanor changes. Her ears go up and tension appears in her body. She takes a few steps toward the door, growling low in her throat.
The door swings open and my father steps inside.
“Son,” he purses his lips.
I note the disappointment in his features. He thinks I did it. That I am a murderer. He probably thinks he is being a good parent by hiding my so-called crimes, since it is illegal to harm another immortal if it is not self-defense.
Does he not realize that I would much rather he told me he believed me? That he was willing to investigate what truly happened instead of assuming it was me?
“I have taken care of Miss Lavandale,” he starts.
“I did not do it,” I reply, needing to defend myself.
“It does not matter whether you did it or not.” He purses his lips. “Your mother and I have decided to pause all your lessons indefinitely.”
I blink in surprise.
“What?”
“We do not believe it would be beneficial for you to be around other people at this time,” he adds. “At least until we figure out what could have caused today’s incident.”
“But—”
