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The news of her husband’s arrest, and described under the official letterhead of the Realm, disturbed Rhiannon greatly. Not that she feared for his safety – he had managed to tangle himself in troublesome circumstances before – but the current Ealdorman’s further disregard for family showed how dire the situation was becoming. He felt his control precarious and was starting to grasp at straws to secure it.
She had not much liked Mark II, even from the first time they met. Her marriage to Cerdic had occurred during the then-Eorl’s travels across the realm to visit his newly-acquired farthings. It had been spontaneous and light-hearted, with much celebration in her native Wiccaweald, though lacking the formal royal presence that normally accompanied the marriage of an Eorl. Mark II had not been in attendance. In fact, she had not met Mark II for several years after given his intense studies at the Acholm monastery. She had gathered from Cerdic that Mark II did not much care for her Wiccaweald roots (or her nebulous origins). They met on her first visit to Acholm as a lady of the realm. He passed her in a hallway prior to the rite and ritual of a formal introduction. He did a double-take and upon focusing on her face his eyes widened and brow knit together in… awe? Fear? Bewilderment? He had acted even more aloof with her after that encounter than he did with other old-world Ostrons.
Rhiannon was no stranger to receiving odd looks and interactions. She hailed from a tribe that practiced a more fringe persuasion of Ostron mythology which did not align with the current creed of the realm. However, she was an anomaly even within her home of Wiccaweald. Though her build and facial structure were very much Ostron, her coloring was not. Ostrons as a whole along with her native tribe were a hardy people with ruddy or dirty blonde hair. Her platinum hair served as a beacon to proclaim her “other-ness.” It had long been rumored that her unorthodox birth ceremony might be the explanation, though no one knew for sure.
~oOo~
Asher Fleotwudu and his wife had brought a new baby girl into the world a month prior. Like all families in Wiccaweald, they had planned the religious birth ceremony for several weeks after the physical birthing process. The birth ceremony was one where babies were conferred with personhood and recognized by the community and a full-fledged human. The babies that died prior to the birth ceremony were considered spirits which could not hold corporeal form. There were many babies that died as spirits.
Per tradition, the birth ceremony occurred at night. The parents and close family and friends gathered with the priest at the open-air, wooden altar. People were on edge due to an uptick in witch activity as of late. The witches had been spotted closer to town and there were reports of run-ins with travelers on forest roads. Friends and family closed ranks and the ceremony began quickly and efficiently. The bald baby was placed in the empty basin of the altar and covered with a white sheet. Incantations began to fill the air with practiced call and response phrases running into one another in their haste. The priest declared the baby to be Rhiannon Fleotwudu, an Ostron in name and body, and removed the veil.
Horror set on the group as the empty basin gaped at them. Asher’s wife patted and rubbed, then tore at the sides and underbelly of the altar in panic. Asher himself rapidly traversed the circumference of the sacred space, searching the immediate area and beyond. The rest of the group surveyed the altar and the ground in a frenzy, moving outward as they went. Ten feet from the altar, then twenty, the group moved with urgency. Asher caught a glint in the wood from the corner of his vision and something in his consciousness snapped like a rubber band. A sudden cry erupted from the basin and the group rushed back to the altar to find a smooth-headed baby laying in the bottom of the wooden structure.
~oOo~
She was told her hair grew thick and fast after the incident. Light hair was not uncommon, especially in young children, but hers never darkened. It actually became fairer and more silvery as she grew. The way she was ostracized by the other children (and even some adults) taught her some tough lessons early in life. She became adept at reading people and finding ways to ingratiate herself with others using her natural charm.
Admittedly, she had never directed her charming ways toward Mark II in spite of his aversion to her. She had not seen much to be gained from befriending her conservative brother-in-law. She expected to spend her time in the areas south of Acholm and in Castle Gourdburg and not interacting with his ilk.
However, Mark II’s escalating tyrannical acts were quickly becoming personal for her. The attack on her religion and her cultural upbringing, the slaughter of the Thane she knew as a child, and now the arrest of her husband. Her tolerance was wearing thin and she could not much longer bite her tongue and stand idly by.
The wind picked up through the tower window that stood ajar, ruffling the pages of the official letter. She refolded the parchment, tucked it into a drawer, and rose from her chair. Picking up the sole torch in the room, she tossed it in the bucket of water in the corner and disappeared into the darkness.
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