Being Empress had been so much easier than being a Queen. As an Empress, the greater portion of Athalan’s duties had consisted simply of being a good mother to Aissa and a good wife to Peleus, the remainder consisting of a handful of holidays each year and the general necessity of being visible during affairs of state. A queen could not afford to be so relaxed. Every single day was a constant struggle. Peleus, at least, had had his bureaucracy to handle affairs on his behalf, and the benefit of the stability of the Macarian Empire. Queen Athalan the First had whatever scribes she could scavenge, and ruled over a kingdom of refugees and vagabonds. 

The fact that she ruled a kingdom at all was a near thing, and there were many days she felt exceptionally lucky for it. The Kingdom of Coellon—named for the goddess of spring—had started as nothing more than many thousands huddled together in the holds of hundreds of loaned-out ships. Those ships were provided courtesy of the now-independent Exarchate of Kemtry, the kindest possible way of telling the mass of Chrysopolitan refugees to leave and never return. They had found a stretch of shoreline with good access to the sea on one side and verdant farmland on the other.

That farmland had been inhabited, of course. They called themselves Iboriai, and though their villages lacked the vast grandeur of most Macarian cities, the hosts of spearmen and chariots which they could raise were fierce and deadly. Violence had been inevitable. The Macarians were starving, and had nowhere else to go. The Iboriai were fighting for their homeland. The war had lasted three months, and dead piled up in the thousands.

Bringing an end to that war was Athalan’s proudest accomplishment. Iliatus, war-leader of the Iboriai, knew that he had the strength of numbers to slaughter the refugees to a man; but he knew also that a cornered people fighting for survival would make a terrible foe, and his own losses would be catastrophic. Athalan helped him to realize this, and pointed out that if a new city was to be built along the coast, then the Macarians would be forced to trade with the Iboriai for lumber, iron, and luxuries. Thus was founded the Kingdom of Coellrine, a dot on the map which did not extend much more than three days’ travel from its capital city of Neopolis. 

Neopolis hardly merited the name. From the hills overlooking the city’s southern side, it looked less like a city and more like a hundred villages had been shoved together. In desperate need of shelter from the elements, the folk of the city had turned to bundled straw and dirt to construct simple huts, merchant stalls, and shrines. Athalan was one of only a handful of citizens who had the privilege of living in a structure made of wood, and even the largest temples in the center of the city were simple structures of timber planks. 

From dawn that day, when she nearly drowned beneath the weight of various officials badgering her about preparations and supplies, to midday when she led the great procession through the streets of Neopolis, through most of the great feast that lasted until late in the afternoon, Athalan had been busy officiating the remembrance. It had been one year exactly since Chrysopolis had been consumed by fire and sin, so Neopolis both remembered what had been lost and celebrated their survival. For Athalan personally, it was a day of both immense terror and unlimited potential. That was why, as soon as the last round of food had been served and the last sacrifices burned, Athalan had excused herself and begun the long trek up and out of the city.

To the south of Neopolis, the gentle sea-shore rose up and up into a long line of cliffs that extended for miles and had been the cause of much dismay in the original naval exploration of the area. The terrain there was rocky and harsh, unsuitable for any agriculture other than firewood-gathering and letting loose herds of pigs to forage for nuts and roots. It was a beautiful, wild place, and Athalan adored it.

In particular, there was one place up on the clifftop where the vegetation faded away temporarily, creating a clearing of smooth grass that overlooked the sea. The sun was a golden half-circle resting upon the far distant water, casting the sky in brilliant blood-red and showering gold down to float upon the wavy waters. Many days, Athalan would come there to contemplate, to relax, to forget for a moment the precariousness of her position. With all the shrubbery acting as baffles, there was no sound but the squawking of seabirds, the rustling of squirrels, and the endless pounding of the waves on the cliff face below. 

It was the perfect place for Athalan to wait for her love to finally arrive. This, after all, was the day of Shirrin’s promise; either she would find Athalan there, at sunset, on the one-year anniversary of Chrysopolis’s destruction, or else she was dead and would not find Athalan at all. 

But there was some time yet before that moment of disappointment came. She squatted down on her heels and stared out at the sea. Surely Shirrin was not dead. Surely she would come at the most dramatic possible moment, embrace Athalan around the waist, and they would kiss and caress one another in the beauty of the falling twilight. Surely. 

Athalan forced her mind to turn elsewhere. There were ships coming in, ready to dock with Neopolis’s harbor. Many were common fishing vessels and grain barges keeping the city supplied. But not all. One slender-bodied vessel was clearly a merchant ship, come to trade for whatever Neopolis had on offer in exchange for what it did not have. 

The Queen wondered if it was a Eunoniai vessel. The newly-established Republic of Eunon was one of Coellon’s closest allies, and the trade agreement between the two polities was another source of pride for Athalan. The Republic was such a strange and fascinating place. Athalan had only ever spoken with a few members of the Eunoniai Senate, sent forth as diplomats, and yet it was clear that they did not hold the real power. The regent of the republic, Helen of Iathines, was a reclusive figure, and yet her reputation terrified even the most powerful of men. There were ways in which Athalan looked up to her. 

Then Athalan looked up from the ships and towards the horizon, and remembered why she was here. Her heart thumped loudly against her chest; there was so little time left. 

The sun continued to slip downward through the sky. Now it was only a crescent. Then it was a sliver. Shirrin had to appear. Shirrin must appear. Nothing else mattered. Athalan didn’t care that the one she loved had become a woman, she didn’t care how difficult it would be to be together while she ruled as queen, she just wanted her Shirrin back! Any second now, any moment. 

For twelve long months, Athalan had pondered what it had meant that she loved Shirrin. A hundred times she had doubted whether that love was real, and a hundred times all such doubts had been blown away when she imagined Shirrin’s lips against hers, the Witch-Queen raising Aissa as daughter, the smile of approval when Shirrin saw all that she had built. Athalan was in love. If Shirrin was gone, she did not believe she would ever be able to love again. 

Twilight fell. The sun was gone, vanished beneath the waves. Athalan would have to return to the city soon, for once dark fell it would be impossible for her to navigate the brush. Instead she collapsed, sobbing as though she had been struck in the center of the chest. Shirrin was gone. Dead. Athalan was alone forever more. 

There was a way in which it only made sense. Shirrin had been a monster. By serving as Lord Ethirus’s instrument, she had brought about the death of countless thousands, all in the name of bloody revenge against her brother. That sin had wrought an indelible stain, a stain for which death was an acceptable punishment. If Shirrin had lived, what then? Would Athalan have truly been able to live out that beautiful, loving existence with one who had nearly killed her child over a fantasy of revenge? Would that not make her a monster herself, to forgive and forget so many crimes for which she did not have the right to give forgiveness in the first place?

Athalan dug her nails into the palms of her hands and flexed her jaw in an exertion of superhuman will. Slowly, painfully, as though tied to the ground by bonds, she stood up and gazed out at the western sky.

“Give her back!” she screamed. “I want her back!”

Her heart was boiling, her stomach a single stone, tears streamed down her face. Athalan felt like a child, and she had never felt stronger. “I don’t care what she did, you hear me? I know the gods listen, I know the gods watch, so I’m telling you to give her back!

“How dare you punish a woman for your own actions! You made her into what she was, you and your fate and destiny, your cruel punishments and foul betrayals! If she had just been given a chance, she could have made something!”

Athalan’s legs shook so severely she could barely stand, and her throat was rubbed raw. Death seemed imminent, to be brought to her at any moment by a thunderbolt or some other sign of divine retribution. 

“She deserves that chance,” Athalan said as her voice crumpled beneath her. “And I have done nothing but good for my whole life. Give! Her! Back!”

“Back!” echoed the sea and hills and cliffs.

No divine punishment came; but neither did her beloved Shirrin descend from the sky in the arms of a kind goddess. A woman more than three decades of age had screamed at nothing until her throat was about to bleed, refusing to acknowledge that the one she loved was dead and gone. 

But there was no time to weep and mope. Athalan had to get home before night fell. She staggered to her feet and, with the limping gait of one who refused to acknowledge she had been mortally wounded, set off for Neopolis. She had just reached the edge of the brush when a black streak cut the air in front of her. A great raven fell from the sky, crashing headlong into the dry dirt. 

It sprawled, feathers disheveled and limbs twisted, squawking and croaking. Athalan froze, unable to account for it, unable to react. Was this a sign, or merely another innocent creature? It was right in front of her, a place she could not help but pass it as she went on her way; either she would have to pick it up and save it, or she would have to step over its body.

She chose to save it, of course. Picking up such an injured creature was no easy task, but Athalan’s fingers were suited for it. No sooner had she levered her fingertips under its wings, though, than there was a sudden change. The substance of the bird loosened and ceased to cohere, becoming a loose and liquid stuff that swelled and spread. Athalan leapt back, startled, and watched it grow and grow until, all at once, it became solid again. A human being, dirty, hair matted and coarse, covered in scratches and painfully thin from malnutrition, lay on her back in the dirt.

Athalan’s tears resumed. “Shirrin!”

Shirrin frowned, blinking dust from her eyes. “Shirrin… that’s my name, isn’t it?”

Athalan already had Shirrin in her arms, most of the way to pulling her into an embrace. “Of course it’s your name.”

Shirrin nodded, smiling naively. “I’d forgotten my name for a while, but I think you’ve gotten it right. My name is Shirrin. Who are you?”

Athalan’s heart sank. “Athalan. You don’t remember me?”

“I don’t remember much of anybody. Or anything. I think I forgot everything, though I remember sometimes.” Shirrin squinted intensely, her entire face wrinkling up as she concentrated on a single thought. “I promised you something, didn’t I? What was it…”

Athalan wondered for a moment if this was some cruel joke on the part of the gods; then she thanked them anyway. “Never mind the promise, let me help you up.” She grabbed Shirrin by the hand and yanked her upright. 

As soon as she was on her feet, a sudden and increased vigor came swiftly to Shirrin’s movements and features. She gazed intensely down at Athalan’s face. “I hate to repeat what other people have already told you, but you are tremendously beautiful.”

Athalan kissed her. It was rash, too fast, but she didn’t care. Shirrin, meanwhile, had forgotten how to kiss, so it was quite an awkward affair, though she learned quickly. When they broke off, her red eyes were wide and gleeful.

“Oh. Well. This is going to be fun. I think. Maybe. I hope it’ll be fun.”

“It will be,” said Athalan. “Now come along. We need to get back home before nightfall.”

The End

SaffronDragon

Writing the author's note is always the hardest part of releasing a new chapter, and that's never more the case then when it's the final chapter of something. At long last, here we are, at the end of Bladethorn. This story has been a real experiment on my end, as well as signaling the end of an era. Bladethorn is going to be the final time that I release two web serials at the same time; from here on out, as I start focusing my creative energies in other directions, I'm going to be holding myself to only one web serial, updated once a week instead of every other week.

If you want to keep reading my work, I of course have a whole Scribblehub page with several other completed novels in it, including the four-book Selene series, as well as my most successful piece of fiction, The Earthborn Emissary. If you're interested in something that's similar to Bladethorn, though, might I recommend my other dark fantasy novel, Chained Flame. You can read the first draft of Chained Flame here on Scribblehub as it was originally released, but if you want to see the updated version, it's actually available as an ebook! Buy it at https://saffron-drake.itch.io/chained-flame or go to https://books2read.com/u/mKMan9 to see which other ebook marketplaces that book's available on.

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And lastly, I hope you've all enjoyed the story of Bladethorn. Coming up with a satisfying ending for this tragic, romantic, emotional story was one of the hardest creative decisions I've ever had to make, so if you liked it, I'd super appreciate if you let me know in the comments.