Red River Fan Fiction ❯ Aster ❯ Prologue ( Prologue )

A/N: To anyone who reads my main fics and finds this, don't worry. This is just a side project to take a break every once in awhile and keep things interesting for me. I'm not abandoning my other fics. That being said, the time between updates for this one may be a bit lengthy. Because most people are more familiar with Viz's version, I'll be using the names from the English translated mangas. Also, the rating may go up as the story progresses.

 

Cultural note: This fic portrays a very romanticized version of the Romani people (crudely referred to as gypsies). I've remained as true to the cultural history of the Roma as the story allows, and I've taken great pains to avoid any stereotyping if at all possible. But this story does involve magic, and it is there only for the purpose of enriching the story. Please keep in mind that this story takes place in a world where many things are possible that certainly aren't within our own. If I wanted to pigeonhole, I wouldn't have done a crap ton of research before beginning this :)

 

Disclaimer: I don't own Red River / Anatolia Story / Sora wa Akai Kawa no Hotori (too many titles! Gah!). Shinohara Chie does and she is a GODDESS for creating this series, so all the credit goes to her.

 

Aster - Prologue

 

The campfires were all dead and smoldering, having been doused by the early morning rain. Now they were nothing more than charred piles scattered among the wagons. Pots and pans, tents, and other items had all been gathered and packed away inside the tall, cabin-shaped wagons, or vardos as their owners referred to them, that were littered throughout the clearing. Anything inside not already tied down was quickly secured. Huddled within were women and their children, watching through rain streaked windows as the men hurried to secure mules in their harnesses. One of the men, large and imposing with gray hair that betrayed his age, rushed about, calling out orders and making sure everyone was ready to go. As the others scrambled around him, he paused a moment to glance behind him, up to the top of a long ridge that overlooked the camp they were now preparing to leave.

 

The soldiers there had appeared shortly after dawn, numbering close to one hundred in total, arranging their ranks along the length of the ridge. At their head rode a golden haired man on a white horse, his heavily ornamented armor almost completely hidden beneath the fabric of his cape. Two boys, who were also mounted, flanked him on either side. So far, he had made no call for an attack. But since the people below looked to be preparing to leave without a fight, it didn't appear he would need to.

 

The rain had soaked them all by this point. The flags the soldiers held above them now hung limp, weighed down with water. Their clothes and hair clung to their skin, and several of them shifted restlessly atop their horses. Still, their leader made no move to advance, and so they waited as the rain continued to fall lightly. Overhead, a large raven began circling, calling out as it drifted on the winds. The only other sounds were the drumming of rain against the soldier's armor and the shouts of the men in the clearing below.

 

Suddenly, a tiny shape broke away from one of the wagons and headed up the hill. Several soldiers began to move into a defensive position, but the man on the white horse held up his hand, stopping them. As the figure approached, they found it was nothing more than a child; a tiny, soaked girl, whose dark hair was tangled and stringy from the rain, and whose bare feet were filthy from running through the mud. She stopped defiantly in front of the leader, her small fists balled and shaking. It was evident she was terrified, but her large eyes flashed angrily as she opened her mouth to speak.

 

“Go away!” she yelled bravely. “We didn't do anything to you! Why are you making us leave? Papa said you are a good man! So why are you doing this?” Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as they mixed with the rain.

 

The man on the white horse stared down at her coldly.

 

“You're not a good man at all!” she shouted.

 

With that he narrowed his eyes and reached for his sword, nudging his horse forward.

 

“Father! No!” shouted the younger of the two boys as he jumped down from his horse to stand in front of the girl.

 

“Kail, move out of the way,” the man demanded, but stayed his hand on his sword.

 

The boy didn't budge. “She's just a child!” he pleaded.

 

“She's a dirty gypsy whelp, Kail. One less to worry about coming back to spoil our lands.”

 

“Fathe—“

 

The boy was cut off abruptly when the girl peeked out from behind him and yelled boldly, “Don't call me a gypsy! I'm Roma! And I am not a child! I'll be six next month! AND I'm not dirty either! I take a bath every day!”

 

Blinking at the girl's innocence and stubborn defiance, the boy stared down at the tiny thing standing just behind him. He found himself touched by her bravery. Out of all the people who had been living in the clearing below, none of them had made a move to protest their impending exile, save for this small girl.

 

“Yuri!” Came a frantic voice from down the hill. The two children turned to find the man with the gray hair racing towards them, his eyes locked on the girl. As the boy backed away, the man ran up and grabbed her from behind, wrapping strong arms around her and lifting her out of the mud. His eyes locked with those of the man on the white horse, and the two of them stared each other down as the one holding the girl slowly retreated backwards.

 

“Papa!” she exclaimed, but a hand was quickly clamped over her mouth before she could say anything else. Once they were a safe distance away, he threw her over his shoulder and ran back toward the wagons. As he ran, she looked up at the boy who was still standing next to his horse, watching them leave. The two children stared at each other until the girl was hauled into the tangle of wagons, disappearing from view.

 

“Papa! That man called me dirty!” she exclaimed as she bounced along on the man's shoulder.

 

“That man was the king, Yuri. He could have killed you, child.”

 

“But he called me dirty! That's rude!”

 

He sighed wearily. “Little girls should not yell at big men with big swords.”

 

“But I don't understand,” she cried as he set her down inside the door of one of the largest vardos. “We didn't DO anything wrong! Why isn't anyone fighting to stay?”

 

The man bent down and gazed at her sadly. “Someday you'll understand, little one. All you need to remember right now is that our fight…” He pointed to the top of the ridge. “…is not with that man.”

 

She stood quietly, staring up at him, her young mind unable to understand why he wasn't angry like she was. “But…” she started again quietly.

 

“Enough,” he cut her off. “Now stay in the vardo. You don't leave until I tell you its ok to do so.”

 

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she nodded and withdrew into the wagon, climbing quickly onto the bench seat that ran the length of the window. She pulled back the curtains and gazed out, watching as the last of the men secured mules to the fronts of their vardos. As they began climbing onto the coach seats at the head of their wagons, the girl noticed the gray haired man step out into the middle of the clearing, a knife in his hand. She looked around, and noticed that everyone, from the men gathering their reins to the women and children crowded by the windows were all watching him intently. She turned back to watch as the man kneeled down and placed his left hand on top of a small tree stump. He hesitated only a moment, then reached down with the knife, slicing away his little finger. He made no sound as he did so, and only paused briefly before standing again, the severed digit gripped in his wounded hand.

 

“Papa!” she cried out, and turned to jump down from the seat.

 

“Yuri…” a warning voice filtered in through the small open door leading out to the coach seat of her own vardo. A young man with dark hair glanced in at her. “Stay put.”

 

“But… he's hurt!”

 

“Just watch,” he said calmly.

 

The child huffed in frustration as she turned back to the window, not understanding what was happening. She stared as the gray haired man straightened and turned his face to the sky. He lifted his wounded hand above his head, pointing it towards the rolling storm clouds. His lips moved slightly, but she couldn't tell what it was he was saying. The blood from his wound mixed with the rain and streaked down his arm to stain his shirt, and when he opened his raised hand, the only thing that remained of his severed finger was the bone. As he stood offering it to the sky, the raven that had been circling folded its wings and dove downwards, snatching the bone into its beak and then quickly ascending back into the clouds.

 

Almost immediately, the rain began to pour down harder, the sound almost deafening on the vardo roof. The child watched as the man turned, lifting his good hand, and waved it forward. One by one, the wagons began to leave the clearing, disappearing single file into the surrounding woods. As she felt the wheels of her own dwelling begin moving, she glanced up towards the ridge again, looking to see if the boy was still there. But the rain was falling too heavily, obscuring the view, and all she could see was a curtain of gray.

 

Continued in Chapter 1