- THE SCOPICS -

Let the one who cries for the dead, have honour and glory eternal.

Let the mourning and tears follow the blood.

Let the sun shine upon our green hills, upon the struggles and pains of man.

-Old Pelagian Kaimo-

When the Dolvetians shot her, during the last days of our siege of Riviella, Viletta Scopic was less than twenty years old. As an exception, the firing squad aimed at the head instead of the heart. A heart inside a thin, sickly body, which held on and on, with remarkable endurance. Both imprisonment, and days of torture. Her lips never spilled a word, despite everything we later learned they’d done to her. And when she was sent in front of the firing squad, she was bearing the bitter smile of the Scopic family. Perhaps that’s why the exception.

This last bit about the smile was revealed to us later by the priest who, with his non-negotiable presence during every execution, confirms the assertion of the soul in the skies in the names of Una and Ereva. When the muskets aimed straight at her heart, he said, little Viletta only waived her hand, and told them some kind of goodnight. In truth, she didn’t say goodnight. Not exactly. What she said was “go sleep already…”

She was the first woman in our town to die in such a way. Others had been imprisoned, yes. Died of hunger, sure. Some had even been exiled. But those cases as well, were extremely rare. Up until then, most women only knew to die speechless, on their bed or mattress. And it was out of ill health, or old age. During child birth. Because of poverty. A bad marriage. All those things the people of our town found to be most normal.

Even within the Scopic family, women mostly died of the age ghosts – the various crisis of health that came naturally to an aging body or mind. Also, most of them unmarried. In this regard, little Viletta was in line.

But death via firing squad, that was new.

And it hadn’t been two years since she’d come back from Sipolis. She’d spent the last ten years there, studying at the Great Owl – the big library where one could become a master in almost anything, given they had enough time and money. And it was a tradition of the Scopics to send one child per generation, the one most favoured by the eldest father, with no regards to gender and order of birth, to study at Sipolis. That time, it was little Viletta’s turn. She was seven years old.

At Sipolis, she’d taken a mostly generic course, gathering a little bit of knowledge in every existing field. After returning to Riviella, she’d began teaching other young girls, and moved back with her family, in their old house. A dusty, two-floor estate, where the last remains of the, once-noteworthy, Scopic family spent their last days. Still retaining a grand, untouchable nobility. All of them.

No one, not even themselves, knew exactly what kind of nobility this was, when exactly they got it, or even, to be frank, when they’d lost it. Our society, nevertheless, felt obligated to at least acknowledge that in this part, of nobility, the Scopics had never stepped out of line. Not even once. No retreat, or any submission of any kind was acceptable, or ever committed.

Their women would still style their hair in the old fashion, held in the back and way up, near the top of the head, and tucked tightly. This was the so called “swan”. And truly, from afar, it would really resemble the head and neck of this majestic bird. They still wore the old, noble, black robe. With its brown fur on the edge and its golden buttons – well, polished bronze in their case – going all the way down from their neck to the heel, and well tied in the middle.

These women, without ever openly accusing anyone – such low-class things were beneath them – knew in their own, subtle way, how to show their disregard and superiority towards all others. Sinners or strangers. They’d pull their thin lips, just a bit. And people knew this pull. They knew to fear and avoid them. Over the years they’d become a kind of golden standard for our town, in regards of integrity.

The men would always wear black as well. In summer or winter. They’d never go to the tavernas with the rest of us. You could only find them hanging around our towns’ venom stores – overseeing proper distribution of the drugs and medicine, down at the old bridge and the “Donations Hall” near Riviel Temple. Just like their fathers and grandfathers used to.

None of them ever worked, so they could easily stay far away from any vulgar contact with our towns’ mob of servants. In this way they could easily push aside anything new. Anything touched by knowledge or reason. Some small funds still remained in the local bank from their ancient fortune, and the family lived its exemplary life with the few remaining cash it had left.

So it was within reason that everyone counted them as one of our towns’ pillars of society and traditional order. Despot Mavier’s circle -the ones controlling Riviel’s Temple, always had at least one Scopic in it. And as time passed, those strict and spotless people became a permanent factor to consider for the appointment of any local position.

In silent agreement, everyone had acknowledged that the list of the temple’s yearly “Honours and Donations” to our town’s poor, needed the signature of at least one Scopic at its end. Most likely it would be of the medic and philosopher Parris Scopic. Widely regarded as the head of the family, and honorary priest at the temple, by Despot’s decision.

Back in the day you see, one could see the people of our temple had a serious problem. They couldn’t decide if the gifts Riviellotts brought as offers to the Sigod should go to the temple and its priests, or Riviel’s living decedents, who just happened to be five of our town’s oldest and most noble families. And it was widely acknowledged, at least by the latter, that Parris Scopic had, at some point, come between the two sides. He’d proposed a solution clear and fair, thus putting affairs back in order. This crucial problem solved, it was decided that Parris Scopic should get nothing less than the noble duty of coordinating the temple’s donations and relief efforts to our town’s poor.

This was exactly the reason why the rumours started spreading so rapidly once little Viletta had been captured. They all found it difficult to believe. The last, and favourite, child of the Scopics? Such an important and trusted member of the Revolution? Impossible. The girl had shown nothing and done nothing setting her apart from the rest of her family.

A very closed and sickly creature. Endlessly lonely. With a deep sadness spilled all over her face. To them, she seemed to be more afraid of humans, than concerned with the future of humanity.

Most rumours would proudly connect Viletta’s arrest with some local interest. The girl, they’d say, was if fact innocent. And had been unjustly arrested, in order to diminish Despot Mavier’s influence, most likely by Belir Alleth’s faction. These rumours were quickly silenced, once they learned how little Viletta, unsalvageable as she was, had proudly announced to the Dolvetians she belonged to the Revolution. How her friends were revolutionaries too. And how she didn’t plan to talk or reveal anything to them, no matter the cost. As for the rest of her family, she said to leave them alone. That they had no idea about what laid in their basements’ floor.

After that, the town’s ill-minded, the speculators and all those pretending to know everything, quickly dropped the matter. They’d understood Viletta wasn’t a part of their world, so the case was of little interest to them. They abandoned her with the warm thought that the Dolvetians would not wait too long before shooting her, as they themselves, deep down, wanted to do.

And not just her, but all these young brats, suddenly turned revolutionaries, whose number was growing by the day. If only they could kill them all before the town fell…

One mystery remained unsolved however. How did they catch her? How did they found her, deep inside that dark, forgotten cave of the Scopics?

It was betrayal, that was sure. Because, as was the rumour, the Cavalerias who went inside the house, had gone straight to the basement. As if they’d known from before what was happening. There they’d found the small pocket-press, a few stacks of paper, dry ink and a brush. They were all inside a old wooden chest, long forgotten by everyone, beneath a blanket of dust. Viletta had even thrown a bunch of towels and old pillows on top, in an attempt to hide it a bit better.

They’d found spiders laying on the celling, termites slowly eating the old chest, and the whole place had a deep smell of mould. The signs were clear. No one else had stepped inside the basement in years. So, how could they have found little Viletta if nobody had betrayed her?

Last they saw her, she wore her family’s black robes. They wrapped her well.

She’d been born in them. She’d grown up in them. And she died them. Only, during her final years, every summer when she’d come home to visit from Sipolis, she wore a large, white, silk collar. It closed on her chest with a cute bow, whose edges would play happily upon the black wool. The hair, split in two, though not long enough for a “swan” just yet. The large, brown, melancholic eyes. The long, skinny figure, wrapped in the black robes. All together gave an image of clumsiness and seclusion that was almost comical.

“And here’s the little wimp” the girls of our town would whisper back then. And laugh behind her back. It was always during the first days of summer, when they were just beginning their long walks along the river, in small groups.

She’d always walk by herself. Would never dare approach anyone. Neither her old girlfriends, nor the girls of the neighbourhood. Neither the rich, nor the poor ones.

Her annual return however, would always cause some major problems in the family. Viletta never knew about their life. The real life of the exemplary dignified Scopic family. Everything hidden inside that two-floored house. And since it was fate she left for Sipolis while still in her early years, not even ten, it’d become kind of difficult for them to reveal their secret to her now. To shatter her view of them.

Thus, without realising, or even slightly feeling it, they’d found themselves entangled in this huge lie, that covered their entire life. They were stuck. Trapped, inside their own house.

Back when she was gone, you see, aunt Karine could easily get up early in the morning, place a wet towel on the cutting board, and strike it loudly with a cleaver. This way, everyone in the neighbourhood knew the Scopics would have meat again for dinner. They could remain without food for a couple of days. They could fight and course each other, no problem. But when she was there… little Viletta couldn’t learn any of this.

And now she’d come back for good.