"1043 days left…" by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

As the retch hit into the toilet bowl, it burst apart, splattering the walls with a viscous black goo. Muna recoiled, coughing violently as the pungent odour of rotten eggs filled her bathroom. She staggered, her whole body shaky, as she struggled to regain her composure. Despite the nausea overwhelming her, she knew she couldn't falter—not today. Not on her Dois Trae.

"Miss Muna?"

The sound of Lisa's voice was a sudden relief washing over her. She turned toward the familiar sound, tears streaking her cheeks, her voice breaking as she managed, "It's... it's getting worse."

The maid moved quickly to Muna's side. She knelt beside the trembling girl and reached out to gently brush the damp, sweat-matted hair from Muna's face.

As Lisa drew closer, the overwhelming stench of the black goo hit her, and her face contorted in disgust. She hastily placed her hand over her mouth and nose, fighting the urge to vomit.

"Is it that bad?"

"The scent is quite... strong," Lisa admitted, her voice strained as she tried to mask her discomfort. Despite the odour, she held Muna by the shoulders with a reassuring grip. "You need a good bath. And I bought more lotion yesterday, so you'll see. No one will know."

Muna bit her lip, "Maybe I should use the necklace... Zvoya said I would sooner or later lose control. What if I hurt someone? What if I hurt mum or dad... or you?"

"Are you mad? If you put that collar on, you'll be a slave to that wretched elf. Zora and Orlo also fight and kill Lamias. They will know, and they won't hesitate to turn everyone against you! Or even kill!"

Muna remained motionless on the cold floor, the chill of the tiles seeping into her bones. As the room filled with the sounds of running water, her own scent became unbearably present, suffocating her with its intensity. She hugged her knees closer, a dreadful feeling settling in as she sensed herself rotting from the inside out.

She was hungry.

Suddenly, the sharp click of high heels echoed into the room, immediately followed by Darra's call. "Muna?"

Lisa darted out of the bathroom at the sound, "Mrs. Dargustea, may I help you?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Darra entered, holding a traditional dress draped over one arm, her nose wrinkling. "Where is my daughter? And what is this smell? It stinks like something died!"

Lisa quickly approached Darra, leaning in to whisper confidentially, "Miss Muna is having some bowel issues, poor thing. I suspect it's the stress of the event."

"Oh no," Darra murmured as she was about to pass Lisa and move toward her daughter. However, Lisa subtly positioned herself to block the way, forcing Darra to pause abruptly.

"What are you..."

"She is very vexed and, poor thing, is feeling extremely embarrassed. I'm preparing a bath to relax her," Lisa explained.

"Well, I have her dress here, and I wanted to help her prepare," Darra insisted as she held out the dress, eager to be part of her daughter's celebration.

The maid gently took the dress from Darra's arm, offering a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Mrs. Dargustea, I'll prepare her so you might have time to get yourself ready," she said, subtly guiding Darra outside of the room.

"Lisa, this is a very important event. I really would like to..." Darra tried to speak out but was interrupted by the maid.

"Miss, believe me, you do not want to be close to her right now. I'm a maid; I can handle this sort of incident, and..."

"Lisa, let me pass!" Darra's frustration was building as she tried to step forward.

"Mum, don't come in! I want to get ready with Lisa," Muna's voice called out from beyond the bathroom door.

"But sweetheart..."

"It's my day! I should be able to choose how and with whom I want to get ready!"

Darra's face tightened, and she took a moment to compose herself before responding with a resigned nod. "Very well, Lisa. Let me know if I may help."

"Of course, Mrs. Dargustea," Lisa responded, giving a slight bow as Darra reluctantly turned and left the room. Not soon enough, the maid closed the door behind her.

As Darra walked down the hall, her steps echoed defeat. She contemplated retreating to her own space for a long bath to collect herself before perhaps checking on Orlo. However, as she passed by, she noticed Zora's bedroom door slightly ajar.

She tapped gently on the door frame, her voice soft but hesitant, "Can I come in?"

"Yes, come in," came the reply, somewhat muffled.

Darra entered, her heart sinking further as she took in the scene before her. Zora was lying on her bed reading, dressed in linen pants and a shirt, more suited for sleep than anything else.

"Why aren't you getting ready?"

Zora sat up slowly, placing her book aside, and lowered her head, her posture deflating. "I... did something bad," she admitted.

"Well, talk. What could you possibly have done?

Zora slid off the bed and knelt to reach underneath it. She pulled out a bundle of ragged fabric, which, despite its tattered state, Darra recognized immediately—the dress she had laboured over for countless hours, now ruined. "Why would you... oh."

"I am so sorry, Darra. I lost it... and... I know how disappointed you are. I'm just going to stay here and..." Zora's voice faltered.

"Do you want to wear your robe?"

"Muna will not be happy if I do," Zora responded.

"Happy? You know what? I'm done. I don't care." Darra's patience snapped completely. She reached down, grasping Zora by the arm with a firm resolve. "You are coming with me!"

Zora found herself unceremoniously led, almost dragged, by Darra into uncharted territory—Darra's own room. It was a space that Zora had never entered, almost as if it were forbidden. Unlike the spaciousness of her and Muna's rooms, Darra's room was smaller, yet it exuded a cosy warmth, filled with trinkets, paintings, and relics adorning the walls, each piece fragment of long stories to be told.

Darra pulled a chair up to her closet and reached deep inside, retrieving a small green trunk. With a slight wobble, she stepped down from the chair and gently laid the trunk's contents on the bed. The fabric was covered in a layer of dust, but a golden tag gleamed through, engraved with the words: "Made by Noctavia Zonnestra Duvencrune."

"It belonged to Orlo's mother?" Zora asked, her eyes widening in surprise.

"No, child, this belonged to your mother. Noctavia just made the dress," Darra clarified as she handled the garment with a reverence that spoke of deep-seated memories.

"My mum?" Zora's voice trembled slightly, her mind racing. In her twenty winters, she had rarely thought about her biological mother, knowing only the fact shared by Darra—that she had died in labour. "Did you know her?"

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Tomorrow, I'll tell you everything about your mother, I promise," Darra said as she opened the trunk and carefully lifted a skilled black tunic. The fabric shimmered subtly, reflecting hues of black and dark blue. "She was wearing this when she had you."

"It looks..."

"Astonishing, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"Now, take your clothes off!" Darra commanded suddenly, breaking the reflective mood.

Zora, caught off guard by the abrupt change in direction, hesitated.

"Oh, come on, you already stripped in front of everyone yesterday," Darra teased lightly.

"I'm sorry... I was..."

Darra lifted her chin, "Don't be sorry to feel, to be alive. And I want to see what our Teacher did to your skin."

Prompted by Darra's assertive kindness, Zora quickly shed her clothes, revealing her skin adorned with little dark moles. Darra couldn't hide her wide smile at the sight. "What's with the little moles?"

"Orlo explained it's my skin ageing. I think it looks cute," Zora responded, a shy expression of pride colouring her words.

"It looks like little love marks," Darra observed.

"He said it was my skin... but I agree, I like it," Though it was hard to tell when Zora blushed, it was unmistakably clear that Orlo was the only person who could make her feel whole again. Recognizing this, Darra knew it would be futile, even pathetic, to come between them.

"Come on, raise your arms," Darra instructed as she slipped the dress over Zora. The fabric glided over her skin like water, settling around her with flawless precision. Zora, if not for her elfin traits, could have been mistaken for Veilla herself in another life.

Zora twirled around, examining the tunic that clung revealingly to her form. The dress covered her arms but left little to the imagination at the neckline, and the opening at the back showcased her bare skin, hinting at her underwear.

"The dress is meant to be worn with no undergarments," Darra explained with a mischievous grin, watching Zora's reaction.

Without needing further persuasion, Zora quickly shed her panties and turned around to assess the outfit's effect fully. "I look..."

"Like a queen," Darra interjected, offering a warm, approving smile.

"I was going to say hot."

Darra laughed heartily at the candid remark. "Let's do your hair?"

Zora took a seat on the bed without needing to be told. Darra retrieved a brush from her dresser and settled beside Zora. She began gently brushing through the elf's dark blue locks.

As she worked, Darra observed the calm on Zora's face, noting the lack of questions about her mother or the history of the dress. She wasn't surprised; Zora's personality was such that she seldom asked for more than what was offered, often content to absorb what came her way in her own time and manner. This trait made her both enigmatic and endearing, and Darra respected it.

Darra gathered Zora's hair into a graceful half ponytail, weaving them into an elegant braid. Once finished, she paused, casting a glance towards the green trunk that still sat open.

She reached in and retrieved a golden tiara, its delicate design mimicking the curves of vines and leaves clad in gold.

With a gentle touch, Darra placed the tiara atop Zora's head, adjusting it to sit perfectly amidst the dark blue locks. The tiara framed Zora's features, enhancing her natural beauty with a touch of regal grace.

Stepping back to admire her work, Darra finally broke the comfortable silence. "Go see yourself in the mirror," she encouraged.

Zora approached the mirror quietly. Standing before her own reflection, she didn't twirl or adjust her appearance as one might expect. Instead, she stood still, her gaze locked on the image before her, as if seeing herself through a new lens.

"You like it?"

Zora stared for a moment longer before turning to face Darra. "I know it's me, and I feel like me. But I see someone else," she confessed. "Does that make sense?"

"I think it does."

"I think Muna will be mad it's not colourful, but it's so beautiful. Was she beautiful?"

"She was."

"Tomorrow, you'll tell me all about her?" Zora turned back to face Darra, her eyes seeking confirmation.

"I promise, every single memory I have of her."

"With chocolate cake, if any left. I would love that." Zora smiled, the gesture brightening her face as she refocused her attention back on the mirror.

"I promise, tomorrow we'll have chocolate cake," Darra replied, smiling and sealing the deal.

But this promise was already broken in the making.

At the end of the corridor, Orlo, in his room, deftly tied the corset that concealed his wings. He couldn't help but steal glances out the window, observing the final touches being made to the evening's setup. The patio was transformed, adorned with strings of electric bulbs that twinkled like stars against the Long Night, each one leading the eye to a wooden stage that served as the centrepiece.

Around it, tables laden with an assortment of foods and drinks formed inviting circles, among which Orlo spotted the tables with his apple pies—three, at least, by his quick count. Bonfires added a warm glow to the property's edges while small camp tents dotted the landscape, adding a wicked whimsical touch to the scene.

He had just secured the final knot of his corset and was about to slip into his blouse when Redfred entered the room.

"What do you think you are doing, boy?"

Orlo paused, furrowing his brow in confusion as he turned to face Redfred. "What am I doing?"

"Where are your wings?" Redfred asked.

"Well, I hid them like always," Orlo explained, though the question unsettled him slightly.

"Why?"

"Because of what is happening to faeries."

"You think you look like a faerie?"

"Well, I do have wings..."

Without warning, Redfred's hands clamped down on Orlo's shoulders, gripping firmly. He spun Orlo around so abruptly that the younger man nearly lost his footing. Redfred then set about unlacing the corset that Orlo had tied neatly with great effort. The garment fell to their feet, and Redfred didn't pause. He reached for Orlo's wings, now unfurled and free, and arranged them over Orlo's shoulders with almost ceremonial care.

"Your father liked to place them like this like it was a cloak. He only dragged them on the floor if he wanted people to listen to him," he explained.

Orlo caught his reflection in the mirror, his wings draped majestically. Yet, he felt a twinge of shame, a bareness he wasn't accustomed to. "I feel naked with them exposed."

"You are Menschen, and not all of us are born with wings. You should be proud, son. Your father would be without a doubt," Redfred asserted.

As Orlo continued to study his image, Redfred's gaze shifted slightly. He noted another detail: "Your hair is still too short to be braided."

"It's taking forever," Orlo muttered, brushing his hair away from his eyes with a flick of frustration. "I wanted to have it like my father."

"His hair was very long, but he was not that traditionalist with hair. If he saw you now, he would tell you, if it bothers you, just cut it. It's like wild grass—it always grows back." Redfred chuckled.

"Why are there tents outside?" Orlo abruptly changed the subject.

"Well, you do know what a Dois Trae is, right?" Redfred asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, it's the mark of adulthood, no? Is it something else?"

"Well, that's the pretext, but it's a... fertility gathering." Redfred's explanation began smoothly enough, but he could feel his face warming as he ventured into the more delicate specifics of the event.

"Menschen gather, drink, and eat—well, they will drink a lot. And men and women, well, couples. That is why the tents... but sometimes... it's not the wife and the husband... some switching."

"This is a swing party?"

"Yes and no. Girls will give you a handkerchief from their dresses if they don't want you to... go with someone else." Redfred explained, lifting his arm to show a ribbon—white and red—tied around his wrist. "If you are marked, you can only dance with that one girl and not partake in other ordeals... unless it is with her. Otherwise, you're free to explore."

"So people can cheat?"

"Bluntly, yes, and if a child is conceived during a Dois Trae, the man has to accept the child as his own, and the original progenitor can't claim it. It's a way someone long ago invented to encourage Menschen to have more children," Redfred elaborated, his voice matter-of-fact about the sui generis tradition. "In a very festive way."

"Does it work?"

"We'll see after six moons," Redfred responded with a wry smile.

Orlo noticed Redfred's gaze linger momentarily on Muna's handkerchief resting on his desk. Without a word, the Magi picked it up and deftly slipped it into his own pocket. "You won't need this," he stated firmly.

"She came here and..." Orlo began, attempting to explain, but Redfred cut him off with a pointed question.

"Do you want to dance only with Muna?"

"To be honest, Sir, I don't want it at all," Orlo admitted.

"Then you won't," Redfred responded, a hint of amusement in his voice as he offered an alternative. "You'll need to find another girl to give you a handkerchief."

Reaching into his pocket and pulling out a long ribbon made of silk, its fabric a dark bluish hue. He approached Orlo, taking his wrist and tying the ribbon around it. "I think you want to dance with this one," he said.

The Dois Trae is arguably the most precious festivity among the Menschen, a time when all can discard their roles and clothes, yet remain within the bounds of established rulebook. This festivity, exclusive to those with blue blood, is not shared with other bloods. This makes me think about Darra's plight to conceal Muna's true colour; one can only imagine the lengths a parent might go to ensure their child experiences life to its fullest, especially knowing their time is tragically short. Despite extensive research, the origins of the Dois Trae remain elusive, particularly its initial intent related to "fertilization." It's known that Menschen, regardless of gender, are typically limited to producing only one child. The Dois Trae, then, becomes a calculation product aimed at increasing the slim odds of conceiving a child or even hoping for a second, as evidenced by rare exceptions like Veilla. The event is meticulously organized to coincide with the twenty-third day of each moon, targeting adolescents who reach the age of twenty-three. The festivity upholds a tradition where females choose their partners unless the birthday celebrant is male, in which case he may select multiple partners. Unfortunately, this rule does not extend to females; once again, it is a matter of calculation. Males can produce several at once, while girls can only carry one. It is perfectly possible for one to continuously cycle from party to party, moving from one locale to another—say, from Regulus one moon to Praiaemar the next. If you look deeply into it, you will see that it is a perfect, normal, and efficient way to meet new people. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.