Chapter 2: Am I Alive?
As soon as I closed my old bedroom doors. I spun toward the stairs. The steps of my white lace heels seemed to carry equally enthusiastic rhythm. I ran down the hall and looked down to four less enthusiastic faces. My mother, grandmother,grandfather, and my father. Arlic Brenel. Mr Brenel, a shy man of 5.8 not tall by any means, but stood tall in most rooms with a face of intellect, wisdom, and a type of sincere calmness which was his most admired characteristic. His hair was a pecan brunette, and eyes a hazel caramel to match.
“Syrah, we must go. We will almost be late at this rate.” he said with a care in his tone, and anxious.
I then took a hold of the marble banister; and jumped with a simple elegance, and slid down with no thought of my life at all.
Unlike most families who would instantly beg one to stop, gasp at this behavior, and any mother would be worried for their child’s life. My mother did not. She watched with calm familiarity, utterly unbothered. The expression of a women who knew precisely what her daughter was about to do, and trusted her to survive it.
I then landed with grace on my feet to the marble, twirled and curtsey as if I was at a ball. “Well we know she is prepared to debut this fall. With such grace under pressured environments.” A stronger voice said; that was my grandfather Baron Mangus Borne. A honorable man, dark hair, and blue eyes.
Clearly. I think this is the moment one is meant to take a deep breath. Thus, I stood tall and with pride walked to the grand front iron doors of the Brone-Brenel estate. My skirt matching my skip, for a brief, shining second, everything aligned. It was a beautiful day. This was the day. The door to my new life I was going to open, waiting for me to fling open..that bright light we feel when we realize we are conscious for the first time…you know? I feel it now!
Naturally. I fling it open as if the harder I insisted. The more the ideal would happen. But, life insists on keeping me as a punchline.
I swung open the front door….and rain. Rain?! Fog clung low to the ground, cold and sudden, as if the world had changed its mind for the moment I stepped forward. Moments ago, sunlight had poured through my bedroom window as a blessing. Now, reality is greeting me damp and unimpressed by enthusiasm or a lesson for me taking longer than I should. Upstairs I left behind warmth I suppose, and promise I believed. Here I was handed the truth. My grandfather paused beside me, and too glanced at the sky.
“That is unusual; it was clear just moments ago. Quite cold too.” he nudged me and smiled, “like you.” I had to smile at his effort.
I stepped into the carriage marked with my family’s crest. The windows were fogged. I sat, and felt as still as ever. As the wheels began to roll away, so did my certainty. Confidence, I have learned things quickly once movement becomes irreversible. A human calamity I imagine.
Yes, I am Syrah Lunel Brenel-Borne. I am confident by nature. But, I have a most complicated question. I need answers too, and I hope by going to Larian will allow me to do so.
Answers to what question? Well…
The carriage rocked. Rain tapped against the glass, and Iron. I looked at my family. They always saw me as light, warmth, and life. I wondered if anyone else could. I pressed my hand to the window. I searched for the comfort of fog yielding to warmth. But, coldness seemed to be most accurate.
My grandmother lifted her gaze, she smiled “my dear, what are you looking for?” she said softly with care. I swallowed “Trying to imagine my expression.” She laughed softly. “Then close your eyes and dream instead,” Dreaming. What is with everyone’s recommendation to dream as if it is natural.
The darkness outside thickened, the scent of rain too. My grandmother’s hand held mine. Soon she drifted into sleep. Smiling. I wondered if she was dreaming of me. If I had to envision, she was hoping I would meet a dreamy lord. Extra credit if he were a prince. She is still a lady, after all she has high hopes for me. A common granddaughter but raised to be refined. Not because I should marry a man of title, but she believes a lord should find me purely worthy. She would say that much. If she were awake.
The carriage jolted. My free hand pressed against the glass. A frost bloomed, delicate, and crystalline growing outward like frostbite. As if proof were in front of me. My mother laughed and distributed blankets to us all. “Syrah, would you like one?” I shook my head, but like any mother, placed it on me as if it was going to protect me from the cold…..
I will miss them. Adapting so naturally to my temperature, never asking why, or making me feel like an inconvenience.
The carriage continued on, and something stirred. Memories surfaced uninvited, carried by the rhythm of the wheels.
Soon, the sound slowed, until the present loosed its grip on my reality and slipped away. The more I stared into the glass, the more aware I became of the stillness in me. In my chest. In the place where warmth should live. I tried to look harder, I tried to will the glass to look back at me. Can you help me?
But the harder I searched, the darker it felt. I fell, further, and further to the grip called “past”, and soon, It was as if I was no longer here at all but back to that one night.
I was back to the night I fell asleep. That night. Two hundred and twenty-eight days ago. Winter. Snow falling beneath a brilliant moon.
I was dancing on the stage, performing a traditional holiday piece at Veylor University to welcome the Winter of the First Light. The light silk brushed against my legs, metallic white and weightless, catching the lanterns glow as I turned. It paired beautifully with my black hair, my inviting eyes green, the red shoes dancing at my feet like Persephone’s descent stitches into my motion.
Then, the audience was silent. in awed. But, the crack of calcium, the sound of spilled illuminated iron, and melody of my own voice did not prompt an encore. I fell. The beauty of the dance did not break at once. For a breath, perhaps two. If I could recall. The haunting image of myself held. The theatrics of my dress followed, beautiful, and it changed from pearly grace into ruby.
Still the audience did not move. They thought it was part of the performance. Then silence shattered. Not into applause. Into tears, and not the gentle kind, as if I touched their emotions with beauty. No, it was tears of terror. Terrified of me. I became their nightmare.
And I became my own nightmare.
And then, nothing. Seven days later, as Bell of Renewal rang to welcome the New Year of the waking world. Chime, chime, chime…..my eyes flew open. I awoke for the final time.
The final time…..
I look to you. Yes. I have been speaking to you
In
The
Past
Tense
of my own physical life because that is how I learned to survive….
I pretended I slept all night. I pretended to breathe, or reference a heartbeat.
Don’t ignore the fine details,
I said I had black hair, and yet this morning argued why having my white hair, resemble a hare were most suitable….
I ignored the way my hair, my eyes, and skin shifted from living warmth I danced with on stage then, to the morbid pallor I dance with now.
I ignore the cold. Not because I felt warm, but because I feel nothing at all. No heat, no chill, no sensation. Only fear of losing the feeling of affection.
Most of all, I pretended I could see myself.
Dancing and swaying before my bedroom mirror. Staring into the fogged glass of this carriage window. Imagining….Yearning,. That my face might look back at me. That the glass might remember me!
For the greatest act of all. Is pretending I still have a reflection. In truth, my reflection died the night I did…
And, so I implore once more, I contemplate, I persuade, I articulate like the living. But when I step out of these carriage doors, will my breath return, will my life begin again? If they knew my secret, would anyone still consider me a being?
Would I look alive?
Now it is only theater? I am only theater I suppose. A pantomime of a heart that does not beat.
No one hears the stillness in my chest but me. Stillness and winter became my body. Yet, I laugh softly. I dare to dream, though I remind you I no longer do. And project with performing emotions of strength, as if it is ok, as if I am ok … .That I must be faced to depart the idea of dreaming again, or alone.
I cannot relate to the story we read in the beginning. Because I mourn the ability to dream at all. I hope when I exit this carriage the mirror might return its sound.
I wish I could hear yours. I am sure it is lovely. I am sure if you danced in the mirror with me earlier, there was more than one of you? Yes?
But, I whisper…I believe I am destined to always dance en macabre!
Soon, the carriage light, and reflectionless glass returned, and I turned to my grandmother. She was awake, and squeezing my hand.
Softly she said “Syrah, imagine a bright sun.” As if she knew; I was falling into an episode of despair.
She knows that moment I can no longer hide from myself. That night. Chased me without warning. As if she knows how to pull me back. I did imagine one; but I could see myself burning quickly.
But now that I am back, I might now answer, I am off to school and hope to find answers to the biggest question. Am I alive? Yes. But how did I come up with such a question? What is with the morbid poetry? Well here it is.
I am what the public calls a Hidden One.
Chapter Three: Hidden Ones.
As the carriage rolled into the Sapphire Gardens which is a distinct indication we are near the palace neighborhood, as it were the world seemed to now change it;s mind about the darkness. The sun started to unhide. The brick roads gave way to the oak-lined streets. The fog thinned, and twinkling lights appeared one by one. Like fairies dancing in the sky. Adorned with Blue Sapphire Rose flags, a quiet signal we were close to the university.
SO, now that you know the truth of my…..life. You might wonder what a Hidden One is Well it is the biggest part of why I am questioning my mortality. Thank you!
But, in a serious manner. I am what the public hides. What they dare not say aloud. The real name of my condition is
“Elaren.”
Yes, I say with clear sincerity I am Elaren. No, I am not unhappy about it. In fact, being an Elaren can have it’s benefits. We are blessed creatures; or were once that is.
The book I read earlier was what Elaren say is the story of our own creation; they say Elaren came into being when one dreamed so vividly, desperately, that somehow they created what she saw. A lonely queen found refuge listening to the waking world’s stories, and creation of fictional characters from stories humans created. She had the power to pen us into humanity.
There are two types of Elaren. Born Elaren which are born from other Elaren, or awakened Elaren. Born human, and one day a dream stirs, the body listens, and one day without warning…..the shift occurs. We awaken into what were once stories.
Fairies, luminous, strong, and witty. Sirens of natural talent, voice, and song. Zodiac Elaren who carry culture, history, and promise in their veins, Demigods who were touched by the sun, storm, or any season in fact.
And vampires Hallowed-Blessed, as the text call them.
Creatures of night. Of restraint and law. Of terrible devotion. Which is ironic. I am a character of restraint? No, I awoke in the night.
Yet, as stories. No matter how lovely, can still cause fear. It is easier to love what is on paper, than reality, the people who embody them. So, yes the myth of Elaren is dreamy, familiar, comforting. But, a story is not human, and does not bleed. We are, and we do.
And me?
I am counted among the Hallowed-Blessed, or plainer words. I am a vampire.
I might have just elaborated Elaren is voraciously human, didn’t I? Yet, to my limited knowledge, unlike other awakened, or born vampire Elaren. I cannot tell whether I am normal or an aberration.
But, I digress. This much at least. I keep a secret. The day I awoke, my heart never restarted. My skin turned cold. Breath vanished.
Elaren are supposed to shift between human and Elaren forms. A vampire in human form is fully alive: heart beating, skin warm, breath moving as if death never touched them. In their Elaren form, the heart still, skin cools, and hair changes. Features betraying their life.
For me, the Elaren shift changed almost nothing. My skin over the year changed from warm, to porcelain, my hair black to white, and eyes green to lilac. And it has stayed that way. Human form, or not. My heart also did not return, my breath never followed, warmth never came back, and sense of feeling …
Now this leads to a second question. Why did I call myself a Hidden One? Well, the word Elaren is dangerous to say. To discover. The world has never agreed what to do with us. In some kingdoms like the Eastern Kingdom of the Twelve, Elaren are free, respected, and sacred. In most, we are bound. Hidden. Hunted.
Actually, because of the this isn’t my first attempt at a PhD. About a year ago, I was at Vaylor University in Vaylor Dominion. Their Elaren laws are incredibly harsh. My “awakening” was public, on stage, and it caused widespread terror. My life was in danger. I was told that three strangers hid me and helped me escape that night. If they hadn’t, I would have been prosecuted for something I couldn’t control. I still carry the weight of that night… Honestly, it’s been hard to talk about this with you, but I feel you’re listening, and I trust you. I’m grateful for that.
Thus, as I look I see the old buildings; full of ivy, and flags symbolizing specific desires. The University of Larian, which is in my home kingdom of Auraven. Elaren laws here are much more gentle. However, Elaren protocol here does not name us.
No shifting publicly.
No asking.
No Telling,
No Naming.
I heard whispers five years ago, the Queen’s brother was murdered for even daring to work toward such a future. Since then, protection has taken the shape of silence. I understand the intent.
But as a woman, as an Elaren. I feel the cost is twice over….
Oh, look. How beautiful! We soon passed by the Larian University gates. “It is as beautiful as it has been.” my father and grandfather said in unison. Both are alumni. I must admit a bounce of my seat. The excitement. If I could feel anything. I feel….such joy. A pull!
As we rode under the gate above it, six jewels held to the iron to the facade in harmony: ruby, emerald, diamond, amethyst, sapphire, and moonstone. As the carriage passed under. Oddly. I never realized this before the words before today
“Discrere detegit occultum.” To learn is to uncover the hidden.
I was about to ask my father, and grandfather if they noticed. But, before I could speak.
My mother whispered to my father “Arlic” she says “Now would be the perfect time.” He smiled and nodded with quite agreement. From beneath his coat, he produced a small velvet box.
“My dear,” she says, voice already betraying her, “in a few moments this carriage will stop. In a few hours, you will be moved in. And tonight, I will go to sleep not knowing what you choose to do with your night.” I couldn’t help myself, and laughed. She was correct. My nights are long now.
A breath she doesn’t quite take. “As you know,” your father said as she looked to my grandfather, and mine, “attended Larian as well.”
Arlic opened the box. “I added the ruby to my mother’s pearl choker.” Arlic said;
The necklace is exquisite. Thoughtful. Unlike anything I have ever seen. The pearls form a choker—three rows—interrupted at the center by a oval ruby. My mother slid closer on the carriage leather seat and clasps it around my neck. “Three rows,” she whispered, fastening the clasp.
“For the third time.” “The first,” she says softly, “you were left.” “The second, you were taken from what you had earned.”
She leans in, lips brushing my cheek.
“But this time?” A smile I know too well.
“You wrote your own path.
Signed it.
Sealed it.
And had the audacity to hand-deliver it yourself!”
The entire carriage laughed, softer: “I love you, my dear. And I am so proud of you.” “We are proud of you.”
I cannot feel most of anything; but I can feel tears. If I could breathe. I would have caught them. At least, this, I can still feel.
“It is beautiful” I could not see my reflection; but the necklace did not count. I could see it reflected. I felt the smooth curve of pearls, the ruby. For this moment; I did not need to fully see myself. I could feel the beauty, the weight, the luck, and the love.
The carriage finally slowed. My grandmother woke again, perfectly timed. Then her sharp wit “Oh, what a beautiful adornment. Perhaps you’ll attract a nice lord along the way!”
To my grandmother’s credit. She has never denied love. Power, and affection she believes must coexist to not become corrupt. And though I may not have a heart. I imagine it skipping at this advice. Because. I needed to hear that.
I am not leaving home to just preform life, I came to study, to uncover. To find the answer to my question no one dare ask about me. And live with the answer. Even if it means authoring my own obituary.
Chapter 4 The Morbid Do Not Make the First Move
The carriage became as still as my heart. As an Elaren, I have all the time in the world. Frozen, patient. By human rule, I have none. An inconvenient place to exist, somewhere between eternity and a being in motion.
And yet, sitting here, I felt frozen; I fidgeted with the velvet of my bustle. I needed to put my gloves on, but I felt so. So absurdly small. Not in body I always am. Small in certainty.
Like a child about to be handed off. Scared and unwilling to let go. But, then the child in question might play a game, to pass time, to instill confidence, and soothe the emotion of fear…
I felt a memory arise.
During my girlhood. Though I am common by birth. My grandmother insisted that If a formal event arose on the books, and if children were invited, I would be brought along.
She dressed me herself, intentionally. She walked me through the halls as if she was arranging the board before play. Strategic. and protective. Placing me not where I wished to stand, but where I would one day be safest, because I became the strongest.
Raising me into a lady was never a favor. It was her moving me on her board. One she chose, and followed though without question.
She would smile, fix my posture, and say, “Raised as a lady, yes. But only a prince should ever think himself worthy of you.”
For a time, I was protected. As she walked with me at those events. But then the moment came. I was placed in another room, a board with other children while my family dined.
Even then, I understood the scandal of myself. I felt it immediately. My difference. The way proper children seemed to know, instinctively, that I was not of their sort. The comfort she had given me vanished the instant her hand left mine. I would grow uncomfortable in that room, stiff with manners I had learned but not yet understood how to use.
My grandmother would kneel before me, fixing my hair one last time, her expression always calm, but striking.
“Sryah, you are a lady. You will be fine. I will always return. Play. My dear. Even if the others don’t want to play. Create your moves.”
And yet, because I knew I did not belong on this board, I did not know which rules to play. I remember running after her, reaching for her hand as she walked away.
She would always turn. She would not reach out. She would always curtsy, and then would leave me there.
But, now I knew my manners, I knew how to move in society, I always valued rules, because, living between two names, and now the living, and possible dead. This unfamiliar board, and knowing I’m a piece with a double check name. I felt it again. I felt it all over. Just, I am a bit taller, and hopefully wiser.
The carriage door is my timer, and it opened, and the surrounding seats emptied. As any proper university would, a herald announced my family’s name.
“Please welcome The Baron Magnus Borne, Class of 1820, College of Strategic Diplomacy.” He hesitated just a fraction too long, as though weighing a move best left unplayed.
“And, hum, The Baroness Sera-Caissa Borne.”
He continued with precision. “
Accompanied with the Honorable Emeritus Ruby, Mr. Arlic Brenel, College of Law, Class of 1848, and Mrs. Marien Brenel, Governess of Larian Primary Preparatory.” My grandparents, and parents exited the carriage with graceful flair.
Then there was a pause. Long enough for me to get my bearings. I felt a feminine, gloved hand stretch, one that does not always reach back, and I took it.
“And their daughter,” he said, “Miss Syrah Lunel Borne-Brenel, admitted as PhD student for the College of Science.”
I could hear it before I even jumped: the intakes of breath, the whispers, the fans opening. My name, specifically, always carries controversy. Which, I don’t think my grandmother considered….Or, Maybe she did when she hyphenated my name.
The childish feeling I am having. Did not escape me. I don’t want to step out, but.. I had too. This hand would make sure of it, trust me. Then I heard her sharp voice
“If they whisper. Give them a reason too.” I held the hand tighter. “My dear, it is time to play your game, take control, and make sure you are second to move.”
And as if the fear instantly broke. I jumped down from the carriage. Not with grace, might I add.
My grandmother, breaking tradition, was the one to assist me out of the carriage. To reach her hand back, inviting me to take it this time. As if she were too experiencing this moment, but from a master’s perspective.
The pebbles joined in my delight. This may be unreliable as the whispers I hear, but I swear one of them struck the temple of a young, dashing lord as it scattered!
I looked to my grandmother. I said, “Do rules apply to me if I am debating mortality?” A laugh followed, as if she knew. She trained me right.
As my family descended toward Orientation, I felt a sense of overwhelming calm, and joy of knowing. My set was four strong and individually strategic pieces of love, support, wisdom, and understanding. My family. Was now the one to let go, and might be the one to try and chase my hand. But I have to prepare to curtsy and turn around.
My grandmother stopped, stood before me, already composed. Hold my hand tighter.
“I taught you how to stand, breathe, move, and think like a proper lady,” she said, fitting new lilac glovers over my cold hands.
“Now” she said, with a tightness in her voice. “Teach me how to pretend to breathe like a proper Baroness.”
“Be still,” I told her. “Like a chess piece.”
She obeyed. One breath. Then another. The second was for me.
I felt it then. The weight of it. The weight of delicate strategy. She had given me both sir-names on my birth certificate for a reason
This lady of steel learned how to play without a master and became one.
She once attended Larian—and if you listened closely when the herald spoke, you would hear what he did not say. He did not announce her class year.
They never will.
Merit, in games like this, is not erased for lack of brilliance, but for arriving at the wrong moment. She paid the price not only for being born a woman but for advancing before the board was ready to acknowledge her. She learned early how to move unseen.
She hid on the board beneath my uncle’s name, advancing square by square through Larian itself. She maintained the façade long enough that she nearly completed a degree in strategy. And in truth, the only reason she was discovered was because she advanced too cleanly.
Excessively detailed. Highly accurate. Significantly advanced in comparison to competitors. They shared classes. My grandfather, and her but as a man, she could never approach him. Not openly. Not without consequence. So when faced with a match she could not win by waiting, she did what she always did.
She changed the rules of engagement.
She would later teach me this lesson again and again: someone must always make the first move, but the board rarely favors them for it. To move first is to reveal intention. To move second is to gain leverage.
And yet there was one time she chose differently. She made the first move. She found him in the park and sat across from him as an opponent. Not as a man at all, but as Miss Sera Rook.
She did not hesitate when she saw the opening. And by making that first move, she set into motion the very play that would later cost her the board. My grandfather did not intend his delight to unfold into something so dangerously memorable.
Later, still smiling, still proud, he told his cohort he had met a remarkably talented woman. One who had approached without hesitation challenged him to a game of chess and defeated him cleanly.
At the end of the match, she had him in mate. He said to them, laughing, almost in awe,
“I would be lucky, I am only to be a Baron but I believe I have just met a Queen.” Then, quieter more to himself than to the room he added,
“How shall I win her over?”
My grandmother would later tell me she heard every word. She was there. Standing only a few paces away. Dressed as a man. A single tear fell. Just one.
He knew it then though not yet who she was. Her brilliance was undeniable. And yet though an excellent strategist himself, he forgot the one rule that brilliance leaves patterns. When he spoke of her, someone recognized the timing. The precision. The unmistakable structure of play that had already outpaced every man in the College of Strategy.
It did not take long for the truth to surface. The student topping the program Lord Rook, was, in fact, a Miss Rook. It would have been an enormous scandal!
A woman posing as a man. Living among them. Speaking their language. Thinking faster than they did. Worse still, the whispered horror followed: that she might have seen too much. That she might have known too much.
Unclean, they decided…They called her a harlot.
Not because she had done anything. But because she was about to win.
My uncle took the degree. Though, he took no classes, and earned no credit. They wrote the diploma to him…
And she made another move the one women are so often forced to make when the board closes around them.
She erased the scandal in the only way polite society would allow.
Marriage. To. A. Lord.
Afterward, my grandfather was quietly undone. To watch the most brilliant piece he had ever faced, now his wife be removed from play. Her hard work, while, we love my dear uncle, awarded to someone who made no attempt to earn. Allowed to exist. Never again permitted to advance.
When he later became Baron Borne, he used what power he had to change the rules of the board. He was one of the biggest advocates with the King Leonhart.
Women would be permitted to attend Larian. But no merit earned before that moment would ever be counted. Some victories, it seems, are only recognized once they no longer threaten anyone.
He cleared his throat softly behind us now.
“She really is a master at chess,” he said mildly as if this were an aside and not a warning.
My grandmother smiled without looking at him. “Unfortunately, my lord. They did not announce me as a true master alumnus from the college of strategy.” She winked.
He blushed, but I understood her plight. She was away. Sending me off. A version of herself, though she is not Elaren, she had to still hide, but this time without a false name, having to give up femininity, or fully hide underneath odd clothing.
“My dear, you might have to hide like I did, but you also do not have too. So take every opportunity.”
I held her arm tighter as she, and my family walked through campus. I realized. The gut feeling. I was not leaving home. I was being sent, and this time. No one was coming back for me.
It was time; I made the second move!
Chapter 5: My Leave You as My Mirror
As we walked toward orientation….the quiet moment soon reminded me. I’m Elaren.
I then looked up, not just at the sky.
At you!
Yes. You there!
The one reading.
Watching this unfold as if it were a scene rather than life. I am aware this is unusual. You may pretend you do not notice. But I will always notice you.
Oh, and ouch! The light! Immediately my grandmother stopped, and turned to block the light as I adjusted myself.
Between me, and you.
The weather itself seemed determined to mirror my dilemma, shifting with my thoughts: dawn, then clouded, and now light. Light, yes, sunlight does burn!
While I can tolerate it, I find myself more sensitive than expected, my eyes squinting despite my best efforts at dignity. I do wonder if there exists some contraption designed specifically to shield one’s pupils, or a parasol perhaps?
Now, a big pretend breath….
If the myth is honest, and this so-called Dream Queen truly is our creator, then I must ask how literal she intended her work to be. Did she write my kind as a reflection of the original vampire? After all, he did not fare well in sunlight.
And yet, here I stand. Uncombusted!
Perhaps she borrowed just enough inspiration to make us believable, and just enough restraint to allow us to survive her more….ambitions vows.
Just the additional sunburn, I suppose. Unless fantasy calls, and sun is what I actually need to cure my mortality. I rolled my eyes at the idea.
Though if the Dream Queen were a good writer, she would not have committed such a cardinal sin toward womanhood denying us our reflection. We already bear society’s expectations, and she removed even that small mercy!
What good lord will look to me now? I flung my arms out in a dramatic swoon.
Ha. Well. I can look to you.
You are, I suppose, my own magic mirror. Not mirror, mirror, on the wall. no, nothing so indulgent. Instead, I ask you directly:
What is the truth?
So therefore, from here on, you are my reflection. As my Gran found a loophole with my name, I have found one with my reflection. With you.
My reflection. Is living. Breathing. I hope? You!
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