Iris

August 3rd, 976 - Roma, Diolona

Mama taught Iris that sunset was the time to move. The soldiers dressed in green and the soldiers dressed in white would stop their rampage and return to their respective sections of the city wall. On distant hills, the oppressive “flash, crack, crash” rhythm of artillery fire had replaced the church bells that signalled dawn, and their silence now signaled dusk.

Iris waited for the soldier on the street to turn the corner before carefully stepping out from a crumbling building and surveying her surroundings. The curving streets of Roma that she used to skip hoops down were now eerily silent. Had it not been for the dust, blood, and smoke, it almost would have been peaceful.

In the distance, she spotted a sign that read ‘Milano Panettaria’, causing her stomach to rumble. Quickly, quietly, she approached the old bakery. Its windows were shattered, its door had been ripped from its hinges, and there was no bread. Iris’s stomach grumbled again; perhaps there was some in the back. The red glow of dusk cast slanted, jagged shadows into the building that reminded her of a wolf’s maw. She was walking straight into its gullet, but the alternative was to starve.

But there was no bread in the back. Iris’s knees gave out under her, causing a plume of dust to rise into the air that glittered when it hit the sunlight. She felt around on the ground for something, anything to eat. At last, Iris felt a crumb. It was rock solid and covered in dust, but she shoved it into her mouth anyways. “Gross.” She kept searching for more and soon her mouth was so full of dust that it became difficult to swallow the bread.

Something wet trickled into her mouth, softening the bread slightly. Then, between shaking breaths came sobs muffled by bread. Iris curled her body into a ball while squeezing the dust in her hands so hard it turned into a solid lump. The rest of the city lay silent.

Iris wanted to go back to eating roasted mutton steeped in garlic sauce, not week old bread crumbs. She wanted to take a bath with nice perfumed soap. But above all else, she wanted to see Mama and Papa again. What was the point of eating bread crumbs and bathing in rainwater if they were not with her? What good would surviving another day do if tomorrow was just as empty as today?

It was only last week that Papa had gone to parley with the King of Saudricha, only to return as a head in a bag. He came home with a letter that declared “I would rather Roma receive a holy martyrdom than allow it to fall into the hands of Reformist heretics. Consider this man a saint, for he died in His name.” Mama followed him not long after trying to cover Iris’s escape from a Baernvar soldier.

When the bread finally went down, Iris rolled onto her side, still curled up. Her eyes were puffy and moist, while her mouth was covered in dirt. It was a pitiful state for a young noble lady to be in, but there was no one around to scold her. She took whimpering breaths as she stared out the door of the bakery at the empty streets of Roma.

Something in the distance rumbled. There was no flash of light or crack of gunpowder, just the crash of the cannonball. Dusk had ended. Her tutors had taught her about aermit, the force of the scientific mind that allowed cannonballs to be hurled silently without gunpowder, and flames to be ignited without a flint. They were wildly inaccurate, but there was always the chance that a cannonball would hit the bakery and bury Iris underneath it. Even if the aermit canons didn’t get her, the soldiers would surely find her tomorrow. As the rumbling got closer, Iris closed her eyes.

Suddenly, another cry echoed through the night as if to replace her own. It was higher pitched, and came interspersed with coughs. Iris closed her eyes and tried to ignore it, but something in her, curiosity perhaps, spurned her to her feet. With no other sounds besides the occasional crash of a cannonball, it wasn’t hard to locate the source.

Two adults lay in front of the door with streams of red pouring from holes on each of their heads. The blood had solidified but not dried, giving it a matted look in the moonlight. Iris didn’t think they were bullet holes, since they clearly died from the large gashes across their chests. Instead, it looked like something was ripped from their skulls. Beyond the strange manner of their death, Iris also noticed that their faces were neither Diolonan nor from any of the invading armies.

Iris wondered if her parents would have scolded her for taking such a dangerous risk, or praised her for taking the opportunity to be virtuous. She scrunched up her face and entered the room before closing the door behind her.

Behind a stack of wooden crates was a baby wrapped in a small bundle of cloth. When she crouched over it, the infant ceased its whimpering and locked its dark, watery eyes with hers. For what felt like hours, they simply stared at each other. Orphan to orphan. Pulling back the folds of cloth revealed it was a girl, but its features were just as strange as those on the dead adults. Its hair was black instead of Iris’s blonde, its eyes were pointed, and two almost imperceptible bumps rose from its forehead like mosquito bites.

Another cry from the infant snapped Iris out of her trance. Her sinuses tingled and soon, she too began to bawl. Something stirred within Iris’s heart. It wasn’t maternal; she was too young to understand parenthood. Instead, there was something comforting about simply holding another creature that could cry. It didn’t matter that the baby’s cries were instinctual rather than emotional because its tears were still warm as they slid down Iris’s neck.

By the time the two stopped crying, both were teetering on edge of sleep once again. Before she fell asleep, Iris checked the blanket for any signs of a name.

“No name,” she thought as her eyes drifted shut. “Then I’ll need to come up with one.”

That night, Iris dreamed she was a child again, listening to Mama and Papa’s stories in the mansion’s garden. Surrounding them was a field of Mama’s favorite flowers and Iris’s namesake. Papa spoke of the iltsuen’s grand palaces and graceful dances.

“Can we go visit them someday?” Iris asked.

“Maybe one day you will get to sail across the sea and visit Magentel,” Papa smiled and rubbed her head. “Then you can meet the iltsuen eimeltet, and dance with them, and write to us about your adventures.”

“I want to go now.”

“We don’t want you to fly away so soon,” Mama hugged Iris tightly, causing her to squeal. “But look here, we already have a part of Magentel here in the garden.”

A small pink flower appeared in Iris’s lap amidst a sea of purple. Its delicate petals were so infatuating, she didn’t even notice that her parents had gone away. Cupping the pink evening primrose gently, Iris pulled it towards her heart.

“Primrose, what a wonderful name,” she thought.