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LOSE YOUR MIND

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NATALIA VASS

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HISTORY:
In the year of 1402, Bannockburn, Scotland, change was afoot. A country often overturned by warring empires, it was a place of emerald beauty. A purity spoken only in tongues. Amongst these warring men, a woman was born with magic in her blood. Nesta Bhàsa was forged from fire, a woman born on the foothills of a Scottish burgh, a beauty among a sea of hard women. She was a fine silk that was meant to be worn, and this did not go unnoticed. Born in English occupied land, a Duke took a fancy to her when she was just shy of sixteen years old. With her inky black hair and shrewd, almond shaped eyes, she was a thing to be conquered. Just like her land. It was a time when Scotland was bleeding, filled with the blood of a boiling revolution. Unwilling to bow for those who intended to control it. Nesta did not care for such things, she braided magic into her hair and the air around her. She was not a woman intent on being trophied. And yet, no choice was given. She was of meagre blood, a common girl to those that sat high above. And when High Duke of Durham, John-Geoffrey III decided he would like her as a mistress, there was nothing much she could do about it. Swept off to a foreign land, she was inlaid with jewels and finery, force fed a fattened life until she was pregnant with his illegitimate child. And thus, on a midsummers day in 1419, the story begins with the birth of a little baby girl; Elira Vass.

Elira looked just as her mother, with copper brown hair and studious fingers, she bleed magic just as her mother had. However, this was a secret only the two could share. Elira’s abilities would find her held before the guillotine before she could breathe an incantation. It was an intimate act in those foreign days. But, when Nesta grew older John soon found no use for the woman. She never did lose her beauty, but she lost her shine. Nesta had always been a proud woman, instilling such morals on her own daughter. They were made of tougher stuff, but life in a manor had softened her. She had grown to love John, for he was not a cruel man. Fat, full of sloth and gluttonous, most certainly. But, he cared for his prizes, just as he might do so with his dogs. Even Elira, whom was given a higher education, one she could have never have dreamed of had she been born in the archaic coven her mother hailed from. This being said, when John grew tired of the woman - too old and slow to gather him to her side, Nesta and Elira was pandered off to the royal court. It was perhaps a more regal life, the court was always looking for loyal workers and Nesta had always been handy with a needle. But, the devastation of losing all she had known, Nesta’s heart shattered when the truth of it became apparent. She was cattle, and so was her daughter. Having wished for more for the girl, nothing burned more than the reality of the loss. Her health soon declined. She died when Elira was but seventeen years old, kissing a promise on her forehead. She mustn’t ever lose sight of herself and her capabilities. That night, every candle inside the palace walls flamed to life. And a darkness breathed free inside Elira for the first time.

A lady in waiting for the queen herself, Margaret Anjou, Elira became privy to many a tale. Stories of revolutions and wars, politics that turned her brain and sometimes, the odd affair. However, she was blind with grief in the years that followed her mothers passing, blaming the world she was forced upon, she found herself moving from place to place. Her skills were vast, as one of few women with a higher education she was often taken advantage of. Callouses grew on her fingers, her body strong from hard work. She was not a girl fed fat and wasted. And she was not unkind on the eye, either. With piercing eyes of winter frost, and hair the colour of a ravens wing, she picked many eye on her passing. And sometimes, when the nights grew cold and her bed empty, she wondered what it might be like to share it with another. Her loneliness grew until she caught the eye of a young Laird of a small patch of lush Scottish land, Alexander James. He breathed life into the stories Elira’s mother had woven for her, bringing to life a part of her that she had thought died with her mother. Elira fell in love with the man quickly and completely, consumed by her desire to live within him. She wrote magic into them both, and he took her as a mistress without thought, for he loved her too.

They met in quiet corners of the large palace in which they worked and stayed. He grew enamoured with her, enchanted by her otherworldly aura. Elira was an educated woman, it was true, but she had the tongue and the fire of a woman ungoverned and he enjoyed that of her. However, not all was well, as madness reigned heavy over the English monarch. Well into their secret liaisons, Alexander’s murder was executed right before Elira’s very eyes. They had wandered into the maze of the gardens after nightfall, breathing stories and laughter into themselves until they were filled to bursting with it. Alexander promised to take Elira back to his home with him, even if it meant he had to pack her in his things. And Elira rejoiced at the notion of it. Overjoyed at a future unbound by British Monarchs. She would steal seams no more. Alas, such a future would be lost as Alexander was seized by two men in the cover of night. He fought valiantly, demanding Elira run, but she could not. She watched, helpless, as they ran him through with a blade. Elira held him in her arms as he died, weeping sorrows into his skin and cursing all and any. As he grew still in her lap Elira vowed never again to allow herself to be so helpless. She would refine her magic, she would become more than she was. The assassins tore her from his body, daggers still dripping with Alexander’s blood. They looked upon her satin skin and silken hair, a fiendish desire in their eyes. Tearing her blouse, they spoke vile words into her ear, promising to enact upon her a world of ruin. They did not succeed.

Elira’s saviour had silver blond hair and lions teeth. She tore upon the bodies of the two men, exacting justice that no human could possibly accomplish. It was the first time Elira had been faced with such a creature but she did not run, she did not call for a God that had done her no justice. She thanked her, sat at her feet and sobbed a river of grief into a bed of grass. She begged the woman to free her, to kill her so she could be with the man she loved, but the strange creature refused. Elira lit the bodies on fire with just her mind, her magic finally a living, breathing thing. In time, Elira would ask herself if Maeva saved her that night because she saw use in the woman’s powers. Or, perhaps it was something else, something familiar that lay in the woman’s past. Either way, Elira became indebted to Maeva that cold, dismal night. Forever, and always.

A life debt was issued that cold, winters night. Elira knew it, Maeva knew it. Perhaps it was something that would never be cashed, but Elira was no fool. She latched onto the creatures side, and they soon became close. Learning the whispers of a world Elira hadn’t dared believe existed, Maeva opened a door for her that could never have dreamed of. An extraordinary world governed in blood. They lived outside of faith or worship, deadly beings with sharp teeth and sharper eyes, untouched by time. Elira was incredibly intrigued, fear a distant memory with a woman as formidable as Maeva as her guide. The vampire even helped Elira exact revenge on the monarch that butchered the only man she loved. Years passed by and Maeva introduced Elira to the wonders and lengths of magic, opening up her heritage until nothing was impossible. She refined her magic, just as she had promised herself she would. Elira had strong, pagan blood, a gift from her mother. And every time she exercised her reach it was a reminder of the woman who had raised her. She kept her promise. And when time became an issue Elira pleaded with Maeva to help her learn to slow it. Elira had grown very fond of Maeva, viewing her as something of a sister.

Elira travelled at Maeva’s side and as they navigated the world. Times changed, but they did not. Often, they would separate, experiencing the different flavours of different lands, expanding their horizons in solitary voyages, but Elira always travelled back to Maeva’s side. And as time ticked slowly on, it was less about a life debt and more about loyalty. However, Elira’s carefully manufactured world would come to ruin in the modern day. It happened without rhyme or reason. Elira had arrived home to the house she and Maeva shared at the time, a deep dread building in within her. She felt the whisper of tragedy before it struck. And the moment Maeva’s body turned gray, her desperate eyes turning a dull, lifeless gaze, Elira was not overpowered by surprise. The death was fast and unwarranted. She had been alive one moment, dead the next. Maeva had been Elira’s crutch in a world that had dragged her towards ruin. She had saved her, taught her, and taken her in. Elira lost herself in grief once more, but she did not weep. She had spent almost 600’s years perfecting her own emotions. Rather, something else broke within her, something deeper and darker. She had no intention of letting Maeva rot for long.

Elira travelled with Maeva’s corpse, taking them into the depths of the Scottish countryside. It was where Elira had buried her mother, having taken her remains with her when Maeva had shown her a much more lavish existence. Through all of this, Elira’s memory spun a world of memory in desperation. She had known about her mothers necklace, a thing of spectacular beauty, it had hung around her mothers neck long after her death. Elira had always admired her, felt the heat of its power radiate through her fingers. She hadn’t known why at the time, but in her lessons with Maeva she soon realized what her mother held dear. The Talisman of the Bhàsa name. And in those moments following Maeva’s strange passing, Elira knew that if she were to draw enough magic to bring back the dead, she would need something powerful to draw it from. Whispered prayers of condolence and regret filled the air as Elira unclasped the precious metal from her mothers skeletal throat. Her bones beautiful even bare, it was the most difficult thing Elira ever had to do. But, darkness had all but consumed Elira. She did not care about the consequences, only that she needed her friend to return. No matter the cost. Such mind-fullness would need to be exercised after she had found a way to bring Maeva back. And resurrect she did; but the price was steep.

In the breaths between incantations Elira made a choice. Blinded by the dark shroud of grief, she performed one of the darkest spells one could ever perform. In the small, Scottish countryside in which her mother had grown centuries before, Elira tainted the once untouched earth. The spirits of her heritage had always followed her, had whispered encouragement into her heart, offering a guiding light. But, when the balance is thrown, someone must suffer. The moment Maeva opened her eyes once more, Elira did not feel relief. For, in that precious, stolen second, the earth stood still and the spirits quieted. She was no longer worthy of their light. This was not the only suffering to befall the land, for payment had to be made. Maeva had awoken, but in return, a sacrifice was made. Only four Bhàsa witches had remained following Elira’s mother. Now distant relatives, but Bhàsa witches nonetheless. The price for Maeva’s return was simple. The Bhàsa line would die with Elira. Those four innocent, untouched witches dropped dead, their souls taken to pay for Elira’s mistake. And she felt it, deep inside herself. A part of her torn from the roots and burned before her eyes. She was utterly alone.