An Epistle of Secrets.

Hey there! Here's a short narrative I did during class. The prompt:  'While I was looking idly through my family's old box of documents, I suddenly cam across an official letter.' Imagine yourself as the narrator and continue this story.

While I was looking idly through my family’s old box of documents, I suddenly came across an official letter. The envelope was a faded brown, with spots of darker brown at the edges and the front of it held three words inscribed in small, neat, calligraphic penmanship: To dear Emily. Funnily enough, my grand-aunt, who had vanished off the face about a century ago, was named Emily Mathers too. For some inexplicable reason, these three words, the longest being only 6-letters long, triggered a strange, visceral feeling deep inside my 15-year-old mind and unmistakably, I felt an old memory resurface. For a split second, I glimpsed a gold sheen accompanied by the whistling of something being drawn and a powerful burst of energy. Strange, I thought.

Cautiously, as if this letter bore the power to shatter the world, I turned it around where a red, official-looking wax seal was stamped upon the bottom-right corner. The opening of the envelope was creased at the edges as if someone had opened and closed it one too many times. Apprehension and curiosity beat in equal measures through my bloodstream as I tenderly lifted the flap of the envelope, which looked ready to crumble in my hands as if it were tired to hold onto the contents any longer. Finally, with my heart slamming against my rib cage, I gently pulled out an ageing epistle. Suddenly, there was no mistaking now: there was definitely something powerful with this epistle. I opened the letter and began to read its contents, which were inscribed in the same neat, cursive penmanship, but as if they were written in a hurry.

 “Dear Emily,

          I’m afraid I’m running out of time, dear sister, for God had seemingly decided I deserve no more time for all I have done. As I write you this loving epistle, I hear the thumping footsteps of the High King’s henchmen up the cold steps of the tower where I have spent the last few years in pathos. These footsteps will perhaps be the last sounds I’ll ever hear, and the sunrise before me the last alpenglow I’ll ever see. Emily dear, listen to me well: I have something very important to entrust you with. Time has a cruel habit of erasing the truth off our scrawny brains and therefore, I’ll put it in this letter in the ‘words of my fathers’, hoping you will understand it. This is to be read by you grandchildren only.  

‘In this lineage will come a child,

Ebony hair, brilliant blue eyes.

When she begins to rule despite class and need

She will realize she belongs to the royal breed.’

Love,

Dawn.

I sucked in sharply. Suddenly, the world began spinning around me and I began to see glimpses; scenes I’ve never saw before flashed before my eyes as if the writer had impressed upon the paper all her memories with each blot of ink and reading the letter set all their secrets free. It was as if someone somewhere else in time had done all the seeing for me and now there were playing back all the sights they have witnessed for me through this letter of centuries. A fair maiden, with hair fashioned from the inkiest of night skies, with a pallor that matched that of the moon, with two twinkling orbs hanging off the gentle arch of her eyebrows was smiling at me. Her eyes were such a rich blue that they seemed to spill out into the eyes of anyone who stared into them – the bright azure would be the object of envy of even the Greek Naiads. In a split second my mind’s eye registered the details of the flawless beauty, analyzed her through the previous documents stored in my memory and came up with an entirely implausible conclusion. The lady was none other than Queen Christine, the most powerful Queen of European history. My mind did another quick analysis on the four sacred words again:

In this lineage will come a child: me?

Ebony hair, brilliant eyes: how many times have I caught people staring at my black hair and startlingly azure eyes? (A million).

When she begins to rule despite class and need: surprisingly, I was just awarded the most ‘just’ leader in class yesterday.

My eyes fell upon the last nine words and I knew it. The epiphany was irrefutable:

I am of royal blood. I am Queen Christine II.