Legends of Belariath
Aterumbra
"Nomadic bloodlines; roots of a wanderer." These are the words she once used to describe herself. Funny how things became distorted over the years, how words change and meanings shift from one thing to another. All that could be said was that she ran away; ran from the torment that broke her mind and damned her soul. Ran to a place that not even one who called himself experienced in the greatest of sorceries could find her. And it was in this place where her story began again...
This is the tale of a girl who once was innocent and pure. But thanks to the true nature of the lands and the people within, did she fall so ever far into madness and corruption, despair and ruin. This is the story of Aterumbra, and everything that she was and perhaps shall become. Much like a butterfly from a caterpillar, but with wings that reflect the chaos of the spirit and the cruelty that is lauded and rewarded the most.
Her father was wicked in ways most mortals would not dare to dream openly of. A magician of darker bent, ruling his personal fiefdom from the shadows, was he known in his little corner of the lands just as "That One Man." A true name did he possess, but was it given to none - not even his servants and slaves. His right hand man was a despicable man who coveted a girl he should not. Known more for his presence than his prescience, the man was a thug in every sense of the word. Aterumbra only two truths about her mother: that she had one somewhere, and that she was "no longer a factor." Aterumbra's father only considered her important when he needed to learn something using breath and blood. The slaves he used for skin and bone, flesh and terror. None of them ever lasted long, but the screams of anguish and the sorrowful eyes whenever she saw one or a few led to one of "those rooms" would haunt her very being.
While her father was busy with his spells and potions, his trusted comrade schemed on how he could get his hands on the girl who was slowly growing into a wondrous beauty: a midnight rose under a forever night. Did the man spend months learning how to slip into and out of Aterumbra's chambers without disturbing the wards and the locks that kept her within the tower itself. And after all, there were always other women - young, and not so young - kept for various experiments. Did the despicable and craven lusts of the second-in-command never slake how many women (and beautiful men) he took for his own pleasures. Always were his eyes on the true prize: Aterumbra herself. Some of the time, would Aterumbra's father notice something out of place within his sanctum, but would he never catch on that his so called "favoured assistant" was scheming the entire time. The man's arrogance was far too great to believe anything could be done to usurp his unsavoury conquest for more magical power. And as the girl grew into a woman, would she herself know the evils of her father's wishes far more intimately than she ever feared: was she force fed potions to give her intelligence or beauty, deftness of step or brightening of skin. The concoctions did something to her blood, eventually slowing her age down to a leisurely waltz, rather than the swift galloping that humans were well known for. Something that Aterumbra would never know, but her father had longed for in himself...
Once the girl had reached that magical age of grace and goodness, was Aterumbra truly a woman of in seasons and wisdom. After all, had her father fed her more than potions. There had been many long nights - especially in the cold season - when she had been made to memorize tomes, chapter and verse. Her birthday gift from her father had been a new goblet: something he had crafted for her to purify the waters and wines he gave her. In his eyes, the only poisons she should be made to swallow were the ones he gave her. However, the "gift" bestowed upon her by her father's henchman was far worse: ravishment and rape. Had he spent long years learning how to muffle sounds with sorcery and potent potions. Aterumbra truly had no chance to fend off the man that first night. His cries of pleasure and satisfaction would echo in her heart and her mind for ages after, as it was not the last time he would press himself upon her to slake his craven lusts.
Would Atreumbra suffer repeated rapes, some times with ropes to hold her down for the man's perverse pleasures. Did he love to experiment with different things, introducing the unfortunate young woman to new and even more twisted practices. Things, of course, had he "perfected" on the others he had vented his passions on over time. This went on for years before it became evident: she would bear the child of her attacker. The man was chosen to serve her father because of his mixed race. His strength and imposing nature lend itself to his work, but her father would not condone having that blood mix with his, with the blood of his kin. His pride would not accept such shame, such abject blasphemy. She hid it for a time, she had to: the man threatened her but he knew better than to follow through. Was the assistant more than certain Aterumbra's father had ways of finding out the truth. True to his nature, it wasn't long before her father did indeed found out. And his rage was something to behold. Wizard or not, the entire tower virtually shook with his anger; his thirst for vengeance at his being "betrayed" was not to be denied.
She was isolated in the tower while he decided her fate. One of the guards - a man with family of his own, in fact - took pity on her and helped her escape. She hid for a time with a hermit in the woods, and the elderly woman helped the frail woman deliver the child. It would be the last thing of innocence and beauty Aterumbra would look upon. Shortly after, her father's more loyal huntsmen and trackers found her. Was the old crone slain in their assault, but was it far too late: the child had already been sent far away to be cared for by another. Aterumbra refused to say where the child was; she would not damn the innocent as her father did. She was sequestered off to face her fate once more; chained in the tower she resigned herself to death. Death would not come for her regardless of how often she called for it, begged for the shroud of darkness to take her.
At the hands of the maniacal magister known as her father, she was -cleansed- of her "transgressions." He had been "forced" to kill his trusted right hand man, she bore a child of ill blood, he raged with his disappointment. That's what he called it: "disappointment." Could she have wanted to laugh if he wasn't raining suffering upon her when he spoke of it. First weeks, then months went on. Even she with the last of her concentration could no longer keep track while she suffered the cleansing. He muttered magical words, carving runes of such spells into her flesh, rendering her blind so she may not look upon the beauty she favoured, destroying her ability to create the art she loved ... or so he thought at the time. He had meant to break her, and in a sense he did. Her sight taken, her body wracked with agony and anguish from her father's vainglorious magical works, did Aterumbra fall into the darkness within her tortured spirit. Madness took hold like gravity, strangling what little remained of her sanity, dragging her to the depths of her mind. Once she lost all reason with reality, her primal self took hold. She grew to enjoy the pain, the torment ... she -craved- it now, like flowers of the desert craved the rains. She would soon be released and banished from her home, sent off to wander alone; she sought out the lessons learned while tortured in her fathers tower. She gathered through trial and error that pain brought sense to her world. That with abuse and maltreatment, would something akin to enlightenment allow her to creep forth from the brambles of chaos and find a sense of the real.
Meeting another isolated elder during her travels, she learned to sculpt. Did she also learn to use her other senses to -feel- things others did not. With these two things in heart and his spirit, did Aterumbra find a new vision; her art returning to her during moments of clarity. She found herself in time in a new land where she would seek out inspiration for her sculptures, and those brave enough to try to aid her, might in fact help her ascend through pain to a higher self awareness. That is, of course, if they can see past the insanity to the spirit inside, still with butterfly wings that shine even in the darkness of gloom.