[Author's Note: 'Heritage' is my current working title. I'm on the look out for something better. This is a second rewrite. The original and much less detailed draft first appeared on my LiveJournal.]

Prologue:

Pandora's Box

When you grow up in a family with many skeletons in the closet, you quickly learn not to ask too many questions.

Grandmother died at the very ripe old age of 97. Pandora was the type of woman you couldn’t imagine dead; she looked 30 years younger than her age, and was sharp and feisty to the abrupt end. I thought she’d be there forever. My brother, being firstborn of Pandora’s only son, inherited her earthly belongings. I, the dreamer of our amazing shrinking family, inherited her memories.

Almost two months after we cremated Grandmother and buried her ashes at the foot of her favourite tree in our garden, I thought of the trunk in the attic. I knew what it held from the very beginning, but I have not touched it because I felt that it was too early to disturb her most private belongings.

Nothing is private after you die, I decided. Not unless you take it with you.

Grandmother was a tireless diarist. I’m almost sure she has interred everything that has ever happened in this family into one of those thick notebooks in the trunk. Once, I offered to get her a computer of her own so that she could easily type and maintain her assortment of journals, but she refused; not because she was a technophobe, but because ‘those machines’ takes away the essence of what makes a set of written memoirs personal.

She recorded everything that was worth remembering, or important enough never to forget. She never allowed anyone to read them. I’ve always thought that she'd had them burnt before she died, but their fate was clearly stated in her will - the journals, or rather the trunk and its contents, were to be left to me - Naomi Torlin Sinclair, beloved granddaughter. Clearly, those records were meant to be read someday… if not by me, perhaps by someone else. But there was a small matter of some skeletons.

My brother was by no means, ungenerous with his inheritance. Justin Quinain Sinclair, beloved grandson, was already bringing in an income that allowed us both to live comfortably. The things we often take for granted – the old house, her personal savings, and various mysterious assets we never knew she owned, simply meant we did not have to make any drastic lifestyle changes. We did not owe anyone anything. He went back to his job, and I went back to mine.

The trunk was dusty, and felt like it had a life of its own. I had an unsettling feeling that it flared up in protest, revolted at my touch, then calmed in reluctant acceptance. “You’re mine now.” I said quietly to the trunk, playing along with my imagination. “Pandora’s gone.” I inserted the small key and turned it.

The inside smelt strongly of mothballs and faintly of old perfume. Grandmother packed her last journal away shortly before her death, without ever starting a new one. I wouldn't be surprise to learn that she had foreseen it all - her life that was rich and vibrant, ending some time during her afternoon nap. No pain, no disease that normally ailed the elderly. She was an unusually healthy woman. It appeared to be something that ran in the family. Justin and I were almost never sick.

Journals were not the only items packed into the trunk. Photos albums, faded and worn from too much handling, take up almost a third of the contents. The edges of a small wooden box were visible under the pile of notebooks. A thick garment of some sort, its colour still rich despite how long it must be in there, was sealed within a large Ziploc bag. I moved some books around, careful to put them back exactly in the order I found them, and retrieved the first volume of Grandmother’s gift to me.

For years, my sweet-natured brother and I have wondered about many things in our past. Our parents, for instance. Justin remembered them, but the memories were mostly vague, and just stopped at one point. I remembered nothing, being too young at that time to have recollections of any sort.

"This could be it, Naomi." he said to me some weeks ago. "Everything we've ever asked ourselves, asked each other, tried to ask her. Our past locked in Pandora's box." It made me afraid to open the trunk. Perhaps, like Pandora of the myth, I might release something I'd wish I left alone.

Too late now.

I held what clearly was a very old volume, marked only by a small, white and completely modern sticker with the number “1” boldly penned on it. The pages were tinged pale yellow, and the once black ink had faded into a dark brown. I expected the pages to be mostly stuck together but was relieved to find that they were in fairly good condition. I decided to take a few volumes back downstairs with me. The musty, dim attic was no place for leisure reading. Before I did that, I quickly scanned the opening page.

The first entry dated back 43 years. It said:

My name is Pandora Sinclair. That is my name in this world. It has been exactly five months since we fled our homeland, renounced our true names to escape the Daeschone's detection, and to give our children a chance to live.

I stopped here and read the flowing script again. This was unexpected to say the least. Grandmother never hinted that we were refugees or defectors from another country. And I was certain that I never heard of anything called the Daeschone. Curiosity piqued, I kept reading.

I will only write my true name here once, for once is already enough to put us in danger. But I will not to be cowed. These are my memories, our family history. If my descendents are called to reclaim the land, they shall not go unprepared.

Now extremely intrigued, I carried the journal into the pale evening sunlight by the window, brushing back a ticklish strand of brown hair from my face. There was a small thrill flowering inside of me; a distinct clack of dry bones as the metaphorical skeletons in the closet stirred.

My name is Merraj Fierra. I am of royal blood. I ruled the fallen kingdom of Er'dalis, as the immortal queen of faeries. This is my story.