Estranged siblings, Elian and Abegail, have their paths to rulership altered when one of them dies—then unexpectedly resurrects.

Themes: identity, belonging, family, self-determination, tradition, grieving, love in all its forms

Kneeling in a justani was uncomfortable. And of course, the Camaatese dress—wrapped too tightly from around the shoulders to the abdomen and with too much loose fabric below the waist—was never meant for kneeling. That should never be a queen’s position. Yet there was Miriam, with her hand armed and ready in her lap and her forehead pressed against the musty floor of the abandoned castle cellar as she awaited further instruction. A perpetual breeze coursed through the small room tucked in a mezzanine over the basement, sending chills that sprang bumps along her arms. Even without the breeze, Miriam ran cold, her thoughts trailing to Amir. For a moment she considered how her husband, after overcoming the disbelief of it all, would feel if he knew what she was about to do. What he would do to her in return.

The soft thuds of Marak’s bare feet echoed across the cellar, interrupting her thoughts. The long waves of her hair parted as she lifted her head hoping to see his face, but she only caught the train of his beige cloak as he passed her. Her gaze followed his movements as he grazed his hand along the jutted stone walls. The ends of his dreadlocks brushed his shoulders as he turned his head, nodding each time he passed another unlit sconce lined on either side of the cellar. He moved with an ease she wished she could borrow. Chewing the inside of her lip and focusing on her lap again, Miriam forced herself not to look at the door every few seconds. No one came to this section of the castle, she knew this, but it didn’t help her nerves settle.

As someone who didn’t know what it meant to live after death, Miriam had her reservations, even now. But Marak had never lied to her before, and while this was something he’d told her at length she shouldn’t know anything about, she wasn’t concerned about any apparent resurrection business. Understanding it was the least of her priorities, despite being nonsensical. Seemingly impossible. Questionably human. What she did know was that somewhere between the pain of her barrenness and the pain of the blade digging into the fleshiness of her palm there better had been an heir to her throne.

Two hands secured her shoulders just as this new stream of thought threatened to meander too far, and her gaze met Marak’s as he stooped before her. Even in the dimness of the room, his golden irises gleamed like the polished sakras he would be paid for doing this. There was no monetary value that could equate to the enormity of what this meant to her, they both knew as much. But she couldn’t be so brazen as to ask for his help and offer nothing in return. Paying him might have been just as cruel, but she couldn’t think of anything else satisfactory to give.

As if sensing she had calmed a little, Marak was on his feet again, making another lap around the room. When he finished, he returned in front of her. Suddenly, small flames appeared simultaneously over the candles, brightening the room and illuminating the richness of Marak’s deep brown skin in contrast to the tawniness of her own. Miriam’s eyes widened. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but it had been years since she’d last seen him use any of his . . . what had he called it? Magic? It was a term she’d never heard of before meeting him, and never by anyone else since. But there it was, undeniably clear as freshwater. Whatever it was. Marak grabbed one of the candles and set it in front of her.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Are you certain this will work?” Miriam felt drawn back to a level of vulnerability she hadn’t shown in front of him in so long. Her feelings were the most tangible thing in the room that she could understand. “I would have never asked you if I was not desperate. I have tried everything else.”

Marak set a hand on her knee, and her eyes trailed to the braided leather bracelet on his wrist—tattered, but still there. “I never would’ve offered if this wasn’t possible. Just do as I’ve told you,” he said.

Miriam nodded. Still tightly gripping the blade, she inhaled sharply while her other hand pulled, bringing with it a trail of blood. She pressed her eyelids together, telling herself the tears were only because of the gash, and not at all related to him still wearing the bracelet. She felt the side of his thigh against hers as he knelt, and she reopened her eyes. Stealing a glance through the blur of tears, Miriam watched him focus intently on the candle’s flames. The color of his eyes alternated between rainbow hues as he chanted in a language that wasn’t the Ashruti or Eriash she knew. Following what he’d told her before they entered the cellar, Miriam hovered her bleeding hand over the flame, and droplets intermingled with the fire without putting it out. Marak took the dagger from her, then cut his own palm. When the few drops of blood slipped from his hand and landed in the fire, the flare intensified, and the smoke swelled into a small plume that also flickered in rainbow colors as his eyes did. His wound instantly closed over itself, showing no sign of the incision, and he pressed his calloused palm against the tight fabric that wrapped her abdomen.

“Inhale the smoke. Deeply.”

She leaned forward and felt his hand flex hard against her stomach as she breathed the fumes in. It had a sickeningly sweet smell that prickled her nose and burned in her chest. She fought against an urge to cough and inhaled until the smoke faded and the flame returned to its original yellow. When the cough forced its way through her nose, Marak released his grip of her abdomen to pat her back until her breath steadied again.

“It’s finished,” he said gently. “When you next conceive with him, you will bear life.”

Wind filtered through the hollow, cobwebbed room, carrying with it a bout of silence. The communication shifted to their eyes, drawing at each other like water from a well. Wordlessly, their history followed the wind and silence, wedging itself between them. Marak faltered, then took her wounded hand into his own. Seconds later the skin knitted back together. He held her gaze and her hand for a moment longer, then released both, rising to his feet. She risked taking his hand again. His fingers twitched in her grasp, as if deciding how to respond. At another time in life, they would interlock with hers without hesitation. At another time in life, he would smile at her, and that smile would mean everything. But that time had come and gone.

“I am sorry,” Miriam said. “More than anything I would have wanted my offspring to be yours, and—”

“Don’t do this, Miriam.”

“It is the truth. I must uphold my duty, but—”

“I know. And I must protect my tribe,” he said. “I won’t be coming here anymore.” Finally, he withdrew his hand, and she let him.

She bit her lips. For thirteen years, since Miriam was twelve and he fifteen, whenever there was death to their relationship it always revived. But she knew there was no life for it anymore. “Okay,” she whispered, not trusting herself to say anything else.

Marak looked at her one last time and exhaled. Later, when he left, the lights went out with him. With her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, Miriam stayed on her knees in the darkness long after he was gone. Then she cried onto the dusty cement floor, until all her woes were wrung out and she was left empty. And when she composed herself, she unwrapped the sash from around her waist and smeared the drying blood from her hand before rewrapping it again, careful to face the soiled side toward her. Then she bundled the loose fabric of her skirt and stood in the fullness of her queenship. Beneath the sash, beneath her skin, already, something felt different.

* * *

“Congratulations, it is a prince,” the doctor said, his wrinkled hands swaddling their newborn in sheepskin. Miriam straightened her legs after having had them bent for so long they felt numb, and she leaned her back against the lavish satin and silk pillows on her bed, panting as she looked at her boy. Her son’s cries contended with the pouring rain and rumbling thunder outside. Miriam couldn’t help but be enamored by the strength of her little one’s lungs. The sight and sound of him made all the pain worth it, and she held her forearm across her eyes and bawled.

Amir clasped Miriam’s clammy hand and moved her arm from her face. Seeing him smile at her—the usual rigidity of his thick eyebrows softening, the sharpness of his angular face slackening—was almost as miraculous as the birth itself. The little hair he had on his head resembled a dishevelled nest, as if he were the one who spent fourteen hours laboring, not her. But he was present. It was odd attempting to balance the elation of finally having a child with the reality that the same child was born of a loveless marriage. Amir brushed sweat from her forehead and planted it with a kiss, the hair from his moustache and beard tickling her skin. She clutched his shoulder and pulled him close. It was unlike them, but neither seemed to escape the tenderness that came with the moment. When they separated, the doctor rested the baby against Miriam’s chest. She didn’t know a brown-skinned infant could start so pale. Her index finger stroked his back as she revelled in the miracle that was her son. The thunder boomed again and shook the room, this time only competing against the rain’s sounds. Their son had finally settled.

“Let him get used to being on the outside a bit,” the doctor said, dipping his hands into a barrel of water and drying them on his trousers. “I will return soon.” The small man exited the room, leaving the king and queen to prate over their boy.

“What should we call him, Amir?”

Her husband traced his fingers along their son’s full black hair. “One day the people will worship him as they worship me. Camaat will once again be strong under his rule. My first son deserves to be called something worthy of his responsibility. Let us name him after the greatest ruler who ever lived: my baba’sbaba.”

Miriam closed her eyes and smiled, dismissing his inaccurate comments about how the people felt about him, and thinking instead about the name. Even growing up on the island of Tunh, Miriam heard stories about the King of Camaat who once singlehandedly negotiated a trade deal with twenty Southern and Western Nations so large it boosted the economy for decades. His reputation colored him equal parts wise, strong, handsome, and kind. All characteristics she wished her son to embody.

“‘Elian’ will suit him well,” she replied. Miriam looked at Elian, but happiness seized when she noticed he wasn’t moving. It must’ve been her imagination. She inhaled and held, trying to isolate her breathing from his, then continued observing. Nothing changed. Her heart pounded. Then the thunder, followed by a flash of lightning. Marak said nothing about this being a possibility. She sat up, peeling the motionless body from her chest, and holding him in her arms. Rocking him. Rocking him. Rocking him. Still nothing. She screamed.

 “Doctor! Doctor, our son is not breathing. Why is he not breathing?” Amir yelled, belting words when she could only make sounds.

The old man hobbled back into the room as quickly as he could and grabbed Elian from Miriam. His gaze darted around the body he examined, then he hurried outside again. Amir ran behind him. “Save him if you want to live!” His voice trailed down the hall.

Minutes passed like hours as Miriam waited for them to come back. She stared emptily at the window that only pooled in the darkness of overcast skies, and her mind ran on every possible thing she might have done wrong to make this happen: she shouldn’t have relied on Marak, or eaten meat that morning, or married Amir. Maybe she shouldn’t have worn green. She wondered how much of her life passed staring out at the pouring rain before the doctor returned, and when he did, she sprang up to sit. Seeing his relaxed demeanor brought air to her lungs, settling her in an instant.

“I apologize for the scare. Here you are, Queen Miriam.” He gently rested a now wriggling Elian against her chest again. Her shaking arms could barely lift, she was so terrified. The doctor seemed to notice and helped her wrap them around her son. “You have a strong boy.”

“What happened?” she asked, the words sounding raspy, like all the saliva in her mouth dried up in the time she was away from Elian.

The doctor cleared his throat and glanced over at Amir, who re-entered the room at some point when Miriam wasn’t paying attention. “It appears that the prince momentarily was not breathing, my Queen.”

“Yes, we could see that,” Amir barked, “but what does it mean? You did not answer me outside: was our son dead? Did you let him die?” The sharpness in his face returned as it reddened to the shade of a ripe pomegranate.

The old doctor hesitated, flitting his attention toward Miriam in attempts to avert from the King’s looming fury. His hesitation was one Miriam knew well, as did everyone when encountering the beginning of her husband’s infamous tantrums. She was masterful at the art of word selection, knowing which ones to use and which to throw away to avoid his repercussions. Masked as a need for perfection, Amir’s true issue was unchecked anger. Whatever anyone wanted to call it, the reputation of his outbursts exceeded the walls of the castle, stretching throughout the country. He insisted on perfection—if he didn’t deem it so, he didn’t want it. And while it initially flattered Miriam that he would choose her as his wife with the standards he had, she only continued to see the underbelly of his volatility. The doctor sighed and crossed his arms when he saw Miriam wasn’t going to help him by intervening.

“In simple terms, yes,” he whispered, then sped through the rest. “Several factors could have caused it, but most importantly, he was resuscitated in time and after some inspection he seems healthy for the most part.”

Amir and Miriam exchanged a glance. Before she could collect her thoughts, Amir took swift steps towards the doctor until he towered over the man nearly half his height. “And what does ‘for the most part’ mean?” he asked, agitation sharp in his voice.

The doctor scratched the back of his neck and sighed. “I . . . I am not sure. When I was examining him, I noticed that his eyes are purple. It is something I have never seen before, and I have no experience with what the cause may be.”

Miriam’s eyebrows knitted. That was impossible. But when she turned Elian around, amethyst-colored eyes blinked up at her. She gasped, then shot her gaze to Amir.

“Purple?” Amir asked, gauging by her reaction that the doctor told the truth. “But how? That is not normal. Is he sick? Have you heard of anything like this in Tunh before, Miriam?”

Miriam sunk her teeth into her cheeks and swiftly shook her head. Lying was easy when it came to Amir, which was good because there was no way she could explain the suspicions that made her heartrate double. Forbidden knowledge of the Omori tribe aside, there was no way she could explain her history with Marak without Amir reacting dangerously to it. But that was the least of her concerns now. She couldn’t believe Marak didn’t warn her of the possibility her child could have been born with one of the rainbow-colored eyes he had told her the Omori people had. If no one was supposed to know his people exist, not even her, why would he leave her to deal with this without a plan? Her gaze trailed to the doctor.

“I . . . cannot say with certainty,” the doctor said. “I can do check-ins every week for the first month, then once a month for the first year to ensure there are no impacts to his vision and to assess his overall health. But there are no other abnormalities, so it seems he should be—”

“What kind of ruler has eyes as unnatural as purple?” Amir roared, skirting around the doctor and pacing the room. “We do not know for certain whether anything else is wrong with him, but this alone is enough to make him a social outcast. The people will not take him seriously—they will not take me seriously. Until you find out what the problem is, I refuse to accept this creature as my son.”

“Creature? You cannot be serious, Amir,” Miriam said, clutching Elian tighter. She couldn’t stand his tone. Too long was he used to getting what he wanted, but she knew everything she sacrificed to get to this moment—her autonomy in Tunh, her relationship with Marak, her comfort and life. Now that she had finally bore him an heir, he had no right to undermine her losses. “Do you so easily forget how many of our children never lived long enough to see outside of my womb?” she asked behind clenched teeth. “We cannot reject our child because he has some physical differences, especially ones he has no control over! Even if his health was somehow impacted, he should be—”

Amir glared at her with dark eyes, and the silent warning shut her up. Yes, this was how she grew accustomed to him regarding her. Not all the sentimentalism of earlier. Once Amir set his mind on something, it was set. If only he wasn’t so dismissive when it came to human life. “If you could do it this time, you can do it again,” he said. She matched his glare. “You want something to play with now? Fine. But you will have me a proper child worthy of the throne, and when you do, you will discard whatever it is you have in your hand. I will not allow an ill heir.”

The door slammed behind him as he stormed out of the room.

The doctor tapped his fingertips together and avoided looking at her. For a moment, the only sounds came from the rain. Miriam stared at the door, then looked at the sleeping infant in her arms. His plush cheeks and curled eyelashes. She pressed her lips to his forehead, taking in his scent.

“He is a fool,” she whispered. “But do not listen to him, my miracle boy. You will rule this country one day, no matter what he says.”

I wrote, rewrote, then rewrote this story again many times over the years—since I was 16 actually. Thankfully, what it is now and and what it was before are very different things.

Fed by many streams of inspiration, this story was birthed loosely somewhere in the intersection of my experience working as a coach and facilitator with youth and young adults navigating their futures despite their pasts, and my experiences growing up as a Caribbean descendent in a neighborhood of predominantly Middle Eastern and Asian populations.

Queen & Kin as it exists currently has a special place in my heart for so many reasons. It's the first non-fanfiction manuscript that I've completed and polished. I know it's a massive story, and it's extremely ambitious to query a story that's 171,000 words as a debut writer, but I believe in it (as all writers have to believe in their own work, so nothing unique there).

The two main reasons I wrote this story are:

1. To elicit empathy. 9/10 characters have a pretty decent reason for making the decisions they do (i.e. trauma/hurt. overcompensation, family, love, etc.). It's not always because they're "bad" (though there are some people who seem to fit the ticket, and I don't want to exempt that). But more often, the characters think they're doing the best or most justified action they can, right or wrong. In this, I try not to tell the readers or even imply who they should "side" with. There are main characters, but no one is all good, and now one (except maybe one character) is all bad. Their desires conflict, and it's up to the reader to decide who they want to root for.

2. To pose the question: "at what point is history/the past/your past informative. transformative, or stagnating?" I want Queen & Kin to let people see that their pasts don't have to define them. Bad people can do good things, and good people can make bad decisions, but there is always an opportunity to be better

I hope that people (if they get the chance to read it some day) will be able to grapple with these thoughts, and ultimately enjoy this fantastical world of mine.