Chapter Two
The God-Prince
Scene Two ☆ Scene Three ☆ Scene Four ☆ Scene Five
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In what was undoubtedly a world-class case of heartless irony, the heavens had been particularly uproarious on that ill-fated morn— their wrath submerging the terrestrial world as though with the intent of drowning out all life.
Beset with sleeplessness, in those wan, lonely hours before daybreak, the youth had slinked out of his chambers and supernaturally skulked through the halls like a vagrant spirit with his unshorn hair and gossamer nightgown. When neither the maids nor the butlers had yet to even rouse to cater to their taxing schedules, the quietude would have typically comforted him. Now, however, it instead brought with it an unbearable undertone of dread— like that tense moment of calm preceding the calamitous advent of a brewing storm.
The castle, despite its immensity, felt oddly restrictive. It was as if its high walls were hell-driven to close in and squash him. And yet, for as much as dreamers resented reality— it was spontaneously more preferable to the cursed realm that waited for him in his resting moments. Rolling around in bed, kicking sheets and bleeding sweat— he would visualize the past in excruciating, blood-red detail, choke on its parabolic smog— and watch it die again, again, again—
… The judicator had already tugged on the drawstring, signaling the end of this criminal’s crude performance. The guilty, who had masqueraded as a passionate and kind peer— per the court dictated, was sentenced to execution via fire, a grotesque mode of punishment that has not been invoked since their country’s more primitive years.
But the sentence was reflective of the crime— the crime of depriving the people— of the royal family— of the virtuous idol who they revered like that of a shining goddess. Honestly, what truly baffled him the most was the fact that the grieving prince hadn’t taken the matter into his own hands— literally, in the most violent way possible. Albeit the blazing fury in his eyes when the jury reached their ultimate decision sorely implied that he was wholly tempted to march up to the stands and behead the defendant where he stood.
In the end, he had been but a mere messenger— and when the forbidding truth of the conspiracy was brought to light before the eyes of the courtroom, the prince unsheathed his sword and vowed that he would exact proper justice upon the engineers who were slithering about behind the scenes… even if it meant shattering a thousand-year-long truce.
… And he thought— perhaps that was the moment when Jevon should have intervened— could have grabbed the prince by his shoulders and shaken him out of his fury-induced trance. However, a poison had already been planted in his dear friend. A poison that not even the most potent medicine could pray to expunge— lest it rhymed with raw, bloody vengeance.
Now, he was a stoking fire. The moment he had encountered that disjointed corpse— shredded and dissected beyond recognition, intensities and entrails strung like ghoulish garlands and a wellspring of blood dying the pale marble a fiendish crimson— he was doomed to scorch the land in the name of her tainted memory. Even when the prince himself had vehemently and outspokenly abhorred all manner of injustice— the very concept of war was one he had frowned upon as strongly as one would any inexcusable sin— despite being a child of carnage himself— and swore up and down that he would revolutionize Igerene. Uplift it from its warmongering roots, and enthrone himself as a sensible and peace-loving king like his father.
But even the wisest and most pious of men, amidst their fear, yearning, and sorrow— yes, even they can find themselves bowing before the altar of evil. Even they would tempt the devil and bargain their souls away to appease their innate greed and pride.
The prince did not consult with demons. Instead, he wordlessly donned his family’s armor and embarked into the abyss, guided by a dark hankering and untold loyalty.
Today, he would join the twisted shadows of war and bloodshed— and by tomorrow, he could be spiked on an enemy’s spear as the mangled husk of the kind boy he once knew. With a rush of foolhardy bravery, Jevon considered if he could stop his beloved friend before the rising of the banners and the cannon’s signaling fire. Before the spilling of the first blood— before he ventured beyond those unreachable crossroads, and madness had him completely ensnared.
And so, Jevon found himself loitering around the outermost wall of the palace, sheltering himself beneath the eave— arms atingle with goosebumps from the rainy air and trepidation— coiled firmly around himself. For an unknowable stretch of time, he watched the indignant rain with abstracted intrigue through the apertures in his outgrown bangs. On the surface, he appeared somewhat dissociative— as if he was dreaming while standing, his expression far-off. However, he was inwardly a roiling hurricane— the doddery floodgate that threatened to burst and consume everything in its path.
When the rusted gates rolled open with a drawled groan, Jevon snapped out of his half-trance and darted out from his hiding spot to greet the advancing vanguard. The chosen platoon was uniformed in extravagant chain mail, pristine steel lineated with splashes of gold; it was simultaneously elegant, if not a bit gaudy, but accordingly robust, adding firm layers of bulk.
Their expressions were obscured by their helmets— spectacles in of themselves, fitted appropriately and adorned with metallic wings. They wore capes bearing bold shades of purple, and were emblazoned with the emblem of House Montague— of twin-headed lions and seraphic plumage. Great swords, spears, broad shields. These warriors in particular— astride majestic war stallions with their ferocious, impressive gaits were the illustrious Valkyrie, primarily comprised of feminine-aligned people— but it was a heroic title that any honorable fighter could come to possess, given that the work was put in. They were plucked straight from the castle’s personal garrison and typically acted as silent guardians, seldom participating in the likes of warfare— designated as among some of the best their ranks had to offer— descendants and prentices of bona fide legends.
And, of course, at the forefront of the charge was none other than the esteemed Crown Prince himself, otherwise known by his other designation: the undefeatable Warrior Prince.
His armor of choice, he recalled, had been designed in his honor when it was decided that he would inherit the throne. It was among one of Igerene’s many long-standing traditions for a ruler to model armor in the likeness of an animal of their choosing— and while, in the past, imposing predators like wolves, dragons, and other ferocious cats were chosen, this was the first time that any has dared to enlist their sacred symbol as inspiration: Emperor Drucilla’s several-winged lion— not modeled since her own time.
Though then again, the people of Igerene have deluded themselves into believing that the Crown Prince was her reincarnation— someone who embodied her unmatched strength and beauty— as well as her heavenly popularity. And within this suit of gold, in a way, Jevon had thought that he was gazing upon one of the untold portraits that lined the walls of the palace— mock renditions of her glory, lost to the sands of time. Here— he was but a fossil of a former monarch, miraculously restored to life.
Not a single patch of skin was left unguarded; however, he could spot little creases in the armor that showcased glimpses of a dark-colored bodysuit-like garb looming underneath. Otherwise, it was astoundingly extravagant— the prince was on the lither side, but the ensemble made him appear broader— grandly so with its ornate pauldrons— a plated skirt, thick breastplate and ornamented vambraces with opulent decoration abounded throughout.
The most notable feature, however, was the helmet— it was breathtaking, leonine in appearance while the neckline was trimmed with fur, characterizing its legendary mane. He was mounted on a purebred warhorse— and at such a height, Jevon thought as if he was staring up at a mountain in his vain attempt to communicate with a being of impeccable divinity. But he tried nevertheless— pressed into the rocketing deluge, swamping his thin clothes in an instant.
With the helmet folded upward, he could distinguish the prince’s face amid the heraldry— his long, unbraided hair was soggy, estranged strands dripping down in front of his eyes, hiding his countenance. When he heard the slush of approaching footfalls across the dampened earth, he tilted his head in Jevon’s direction— and he found himself coming to a crashing halt.
“Roxxy…”
To him, the prince was like the sun incarnate. A benevolent light that never failed to warm him, clearing out the eternal rainstorm that seemed to hover over him like a curse. Now, however, that cherished luminance was comparable to a bedimming candle— but a breath away from enfolding the world in complete darkness. Pellets coursed down the elegant sheen of his armor in rapid waterfalls as they maintained a long stare, taut with unspoken words, forsworn promises— and on Jevon’s end, unconcealed desperation.
“… Please, don’t go,” his plea was but a murmur amid the bulleting rainfall, however. Hardly discernible. He felt as if he had drifted to the abyssal depths of the sea, and wondered if his muffled voice could reach the surface— could reach the sun. If he had been stronger, then— he would have fought a little harder— swam a little faster and pushed himself through the harsh currents— he would have submerged himself countless times in order to save him.
But he was weak— and his voice never traveled far, not above the rageful tide, and not above the roar of the flames and their shrill cries. As such, the prince had not heard him. How could he— when in the face of his hatred, the world around him may as well be as unimportant as a hive of buzzing insects? He had but a single goal: destroy in her name, avenge in her name— even if it means casting aside his own virtues and principles and embracing primitive barbarity— even if it means shunning the other half of his heart.
For they both knew— have known since they met at the waterfront of the crossroads of fate— that they were wound together by some inescapable cord— an inseverable cord.
But he left regardless. Speechlessly, without even so much as addressing Jevon by his name, turning his attention on the dire road ahead, sliding his helmet down. With a flick of the reins, they departed— and all Jevon could do was watch as that back he admired— a strong and capable back that had managed to balance the immensity of the world with such grace even when its weight threatened to crush him— that acted as a support and a council whenever Jevon required it— slowly but surely disappear into the haze of the horizon. And all he could do was watch, glued to the earth with a fist curled tightly against his heart— a trembling lip heralding oncoming tears, following the cascading droplets in blending lines.
“… I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he had whispered to no one in particular— as if his entire existence— his meaningless, cursed existence— was something he simply felt compelled to apologize for. Vowing to be an aegis—
And yet he had failed him— let the fires roar and consume. Again.
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“… I must say, you do not appear to be as surprised as one would presume you’d be.”
Well, it was not as if he wasn’t “surprised.” The spontaneous appearance of a god would alarm… just about anyone, he reckoned, celestial upbringing or otherwise. However, since arriving in this realm, Jevon has been readying himself for this exact moment. It was but a matter of inevitability, after all— Jevon was an outsider, a heavenly deserter— who crash-landed into the dominion of another deity without warning or justification.
Rather, what concerned him was the fact that the god had only chosen to reveal herself to him now as opposed to… the last decade of his unasked presence freely violating her plains— unless it was simply a consequence of tardiness, which he sorely doubted. So, wondered if he unknowingly overstepped any such divine boundaries— or if she possibly desired something from him. Most likely the latter.
Regardless, Jevon smartly put himself on the defense, ensuring there was a comfortable amount of space between them and maintaining unflinching eye contact… even if his gut felt as if it would implode from the sheer pressure of her penetrating gaze.
Shrouded in a halo of moonlight, the god possessed an otherworldly beauty to her. As he familiarized himself with her selected form, he couldn’t help but draw comparisons— her raven hair, facial structure— and most notably, her divine eyes— shaded an empyreal gold, echoed that of… no, he put the brakes on that thought process and refocused himself on the task at hand, coughing into his hand for good measure. With forced sangfroid, he countered her former statement.
“… I had an inkling that you and I would inevitably cross paths, so long as I remained in Igerene, anyway… Of course, I understand that you must have been watching me for some time now.”
“Naturally. Did you expect me to turn a blind eye after the disciple of another god so imperiously encroached into my domain? Though, we both know that it was no mere coincidence that your journey led you here, Prince of the Stars— and into the arms of my chosen pupil, no less,” pupil, he echoed in his brain— of course, he knew that the Crown Prince, like his lauded ancestor, were the chosen progenies of the heavens, or rather, of Antares.
Of course, for a supernatural being such as himself, he was the sole person in this world who could accurately distinguish mythos and truth, and for this case in particular, he was loath to say it was indeed the latter. Bound to an unshakable destiny, and branded gold as evidence— these individuals were fated for glory and godhood… but such was the extent of his knowledge— the extent at which the arid archives of his prior incarnation’s limited memory was disposed to offer, at least.
“… Well, of course, your union with my scion… that was but a matter of kismet as well, I suppose. In which case, I suppose our contact is long overdue… I will say that I have my reasons for failing to reach out sooner, but we shall put that aside for now,” Antares continued; and as she pranced closer to him, her dress billowed behind her like a stream of ethereal clouds, her footwork a graceful waltz. In that phantom of an instance, Jevon counted the stars in her eyes— tiny, infinitesimal shimmers within pools of melted gold, curtained by dark, elegant eyelashes— temporarily memorized, the image of another briefly flashing before him.
However, he managed to shake himself out of it and recreated their distance, and he dared to call the fleeting micro-expression that emerged on her face as… something equivalent to a sullen pout. With a huff, Antares lassoed her arms around her back and began to wander around in a circle.
“… Well, returning to what we were previously discussing… Prince of the Stars… You must have noticed it by now, haven’t you?” Antares’ pacing came to a steady halt as she tilted her chin upward— it was a cloudless night, stars aggregating around the brilliant, cerulean moon in cosmic rings.
“… Of course, due to the extended amount of time you’ve spent among the mortals, your soul has reformed itself to better suit its surroundings. I would say that, physiologically, you’re not that different from your terrestrial kindred. Albeit spiritually… well, regardless of how desperately you try to deny it, you are still the remnant fragment of a once mighty power… Mediator of the realms, who ruled over our godly abode… and proxy of our Great Mother, Eden. In terms of appearance, at least, you are their spitting image.”
Choosing silence, Jevon lowered his head, familiarizing himself with the lacerations in the pavement, weathered down by age and longtime neglect, sneaky foliage worming through. He could feel the censorious gaze of the god upon him— like a guardian who had caught their offspring with a hand in the snack jar past midnight, but the weight of it was almost unbearable, a crushing boulder. After an interim of contemplation, she returned to leisurely pacing and continued.
“… And with the death of their providential light, as has the stability of the cosmos. As they were the foundation that instilled order and harmony— a beam of support, you could even say… Without stability, even the mightiest of strongholds can fall. In that sense, without their structure… mortals and gods alike… we now teeter on the edge of complete and utter disorder—”
“And yet,” she spun around on her heel, facing Jevon directly once again, thrusting a finger of accusation in his direction. “You have done nothing,” she stomped toward him, and Jevon felt the earth shaking beneath him; he had heard tales of the great war god who leveled mountains and drained seas, and what he considered ridiculous allegories, he found himself wholeheartedly believing at this moment. Jevon almost went careening when she entered his bubble and this time, he was frozen in place— a meek mouse to a vicious dragon.
“… To alter your fate. As the sole survivor of that horrific tragedy, you have opted to cower away like a frightened child instead of taking responsibility as their prince— as their successor. Don’t you understand? Without structure, all will cease to function as it should. Chaos and death will run rampant through the streets, begotten by your carelessness… Tell me: do you truly believe that you’ve managed to fool them with this disreputable charade of yours?”
“Stop,” he pleaded, averting his eyes, arms squeezing around himself like a protective blanket. “I… I have already dismissed that part of myself. I don’t… I do not want anything else to do with this! Not after… all of the sins I have committed….”
“… No matter how sincerely you crave it, you will never be a part of humanity nor its cycle,” and Jevon hardly needed the heavens to point that out to him— he knew that he was a peculiarity, a stranger— undesired by the stars and hated by the earth. He could wear their clothes, recreate their emotions, immerse himself in their history, and enjoy amiability and friendship— but at the end of the day, he was the lingering remains of a ruptured planet, floating pointlessly through the endless vacuum of space.
… And yet, the reality was harsher than he imagined when it was at last spoken aloud. Jevon hugged himself with a tightness that was not unlike a turtle seeking to retreat back into its shell, letting out a tight, shuddersome breath— one that seemed to resonate with the deity, whose stately persona seemed to stagger— a ripple in the tranquil waters. She stepped away on her own accord, eyes chasing the absconding image of a nightbird, a black shape disturbing the moon’s stagnant serenity.
“… I simply couldn’t afford to stand aside any longer… not when there is so much at stake. I doubt I need to explain how you… or rather, that beloved prince of yours… is involved in all of this. Right, my child?”
Decidedly, he failed to respond. A whistle of cold air winnowed through the god’s overgrown curls. However, she made no bodily reaction to the frigidity— merely reaching up to tuck one of the errant strands behind an ear and linger as her eyes wandered down to her unclad feet, expression unreadable. Answerless, she moved on to another subject.
“… You encountered him, didn’t you?”
“Who… do you speak of?”
“… The one who destroyed the fragile balance… that unscrupulous serpent who slithered and cajoled his way into your pristine garden, subsequently setting it ablaze.”
Her words slammed into him with the ferocity of a wrecking ball— as the sole survivor of the star children, anyway, there was only one inference he could draw from the vagueness of her description. A foggy silhouette of a man flitted across his vision, girdled by a sinister ring of fire. There were pockmarks, however— like an uncompleted puzzle, craters in his memory— the man was a specter— a barely-there, faceless entity steeped in an enigmatic haze.
But he could distinctly recall the sweetness of his timbre; the warmth of his consoling touch; the elegant strums of his instrument— or how his holy form seemed to illuminate like raw gold beneath the perpetual moonglow. When Jevon missed a particular note while he was studying the lyre under his generous tutelage, he would neither chide nor ridicule him. Instead, skillful fingers would come and twine around his own, gently ushering him in the right direction. The breadth of time it took was inconsequential— no, they would have kept at it until he fully came to master the song— and then, in a joyous and enlightening cycle, move onto the next.
Other times, he would pillow his arms behind his head, relaxed in an argent bed of flowers— and listen with undisguised fascination as the mysterious man recited valorous tales from his homeland. A succubus with a head of viscous snakes whose petrifying gaze could render even the strongest warrior to an immovable block of stone. Reams of lightning bolts cast down by a haughty war god onto hordes of bloodthirsty beasts. Or the ferocious— world-sized titans who had purportedly molded the cosmos, the stars, and the skies in the palms of their hands.
As a denizen of the stars, he was imprisoned by the unwaning night of the upper earth. To him, this enigmatic stranger had been a portal. A glimpse into the beauteous opportunities that dwelled beyond this suffocating enclosure of clouds— this insincere, artificial paradise. Into the sweeping grasslands; the unlimited ravines of the great oceans; the verdant songs of the rolling valleys. Small and fragile and alone as he had been, he subconsciously came to revolve his life— his sanity— utterly around this clandestine brotherhood of theirs.
However…
“Do you wish for freedom?”
His reality was completely capsized by a few uncomplicated words— a seemingly innocuous statement that would ultimately lead to the entropy of all that he had known until then. And like a breached dam, he was caught in a torpedo of memories— resulting in an onrush of nausea that caused him to topple onto his knees, a palm clapping over his mouth.
Kill them, enticed the demon— its voice like honeyed poison, thrusting that vindictive knife into his hands—
Before he knew it, he was standing before the altar of the galaxy— encompassed by vigilant stained glass— pouring rainbows over his contorted expression as he tentatively marched up to the mensa wherein the whitehaired god was sprawled, dressed in those translucent ceremonial robes— scintillating in the enduring moonlight.
Kill them, as he hesitated on the final step, the demon pushed him forward— a pair of ghostly arms springing out, shoving his back— neither there but everywhere simultaneously. Goading, tugging, flattering— as if the walls, the floors, and the ceilings were uttering dangerous words to him: the distorted voices of the abyss fueling his bloodthirst.
Kill them all, and you’ll be free at last.
He raised the point of the blade over their unguarded chest. Even now, he was unsure if they had been awake or asleep— ignorant, or willfully surrendering themself to their fate. They have always been one to preach such drivel, after all— even when it came to their own existence— for death was the natural end result for all things— the archaic and immortal unexempted.
Carve your way to true freedom— to paradise— with their blood.
He was promised freedom. He would finally be able to escape this stifling cage with the spilling of their blood— and the demise of their influence over him. No longer would have to yield to the cruelness that was this sheltered fate of his—
And yet, his hands had trembled.
They represented the part of himself he despised the most physically incarnated. Furthermore, an easy target. He was unsure why he would hesitate. One leap and he would be free. If he regretted it in the aftermath, he would have already hit the pavement regardless. All he had to do was set one foot after the other.
And once they fell—
Once he killed them—
He could achieve…
Kill them.
Kill them.
Kill them.
Kill—
Jevon had not realized he was hyperventilating until he was yanked back into the real world by a pair of arms, scooping him up in an astonishing hug. A hand found its way into his awry locks as fingers, roughened by conflict— as they combed through with startling delicacy like a mother comforting her sobbing offspring.
And, oddly, he felt ensconced— the rapidness of his breath tailed off into a quiet tremble as would his thunderous palpitations abate. Subconsciously, his face came to dock in the crook of a neck as if his body, scarcely ever touched by the delightful hallucinogen known as parental love— instinctively craved her attention.
“… Forgive me, my child,” Antares said as she traded out her godly sobriety for maternal gentleness. “… I realize that you have suffered immensely. It was cruel of me to thrust the burden of the world on your shoulders… not so suddenly, anyhow. However,” she pulled back to face him head-on, diligently brushing away a blossoming tear with the pad of her thumb.
“… I came here to warn you. The death of your predecessor was only the beginning; if you fail to take action now, as heir of the stars, then this world… these people you’ve come to cherish… they will be lost to you, entangled in the throes of madness and despair… including your precious prince. Are you content with that, even though you— and you alone— possess the power to alter the tides of fate?”
“But I… I was the one… the reason why all of this is happening is because—”
He was interrupted by the harried thumping of incoming footfalls, and with flaring panic, Jevon broke out of the god’s embrace and scrambled onto his feet, using his shirtsleeve to flush away any lingering tears. And from the hedgerows emerged his date, who he recalled he had rudely abandoned in the ballroom— tumbling into a halt and buckling downward, clutching their knees as they struggled to recapture their breath. Jevon kneeled, a concerned hand hovering over one of their quivering shoulders.
“Xolani, what…”
When their eye snapped up, Jevon noted that the god had vanished. For she was little more than an apparition it seemed, it surely did not surprise him— and besides, her schemes were the least of his worries at the moment, so he drew his attention away from the invisible elephant for the time being— zeroing in on his friend’s palpable, and worryingly, uncharacteristic distress.
“Jevon, I…”
“Xolani, deep breaths— take your time,” he soothed; however, Xolani shook their head fiercely in rebuttal, their proceeding sentence akin to a punched-out gasp— as if a fist had driven into their chest.
“It’s Roxxy, he— he’s been… something has happened to him, Jevon. I… I’m not sure what yet, but those old fogeys in the council— the ball’s been canceled already, I… I need you to come along with me for now, all right? I can’t face this alone.”
Never before has he so accurately experienced the sensation of having your heart sink straight into your stomach. Roxxy…
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As Xolani described, the caucus mostly consisted of elder gentlemen, though he would not deign to call them solons. They have served the nation since the time of the whilom emperor, and clung tightly to their outdated, traditionalist values. In that same vein, these quote, unquote, “old fogeys” were not that dissimilar to their father, hence why Xolani eluded the statesmen like they were a plague, for they had a tendency to… “lecture” them, which was putting it nicely.
Needless to say, Xolani has never consciously waltzed into their censorious den until now, and there was no kicking or screaming or bellyaching— but rather a grave, uncharacteristic silence and a harsh grip around his wrist. The entire journey felt akin to trudging through a pit of thick mud as his brain ran through theory after theory; the elephantine weight of his apprehensions like a rockslide, threatening to bury him.
Senility aside, the statesmen were usually well-mannered— preeningly, even, donning unflustered dispositions and robes of peerless white, balanced and high-shouldered. For they had a reputation to uphold; they were the king’s core circle— his gurus and counselors— thus, even when differences in opinion occurred, even when feathers were doubtlessly ruffled, they always maintained their poise— their decisions and actions were reflective on the government as a whole, after all.
However, Jevon could descry their feuding from yards down the hall; it was unnaturally heated, and he wondered if they had somehow ended up on the doorstep to the rageful colosseum instead. He and Xolani exchanged a look of likeminded bewilderment and, presumably, came to the same tacit understanding: the situation must be incredibly dire if it has managed to get even the knickers of the ever-composed senate in a big, angry knot.
So, there was a moment of hesitation when the pair had paused in front of the humongous doors of the squally conference room, as if they were dithering on the threshold of destiny— and he was admittedly quite afraid of what lurked on the other side. However, Xolani ultimately marched forward with stride, even if it was tantamount to sticking your toes into a piranha-infested lakebed— their confidence unafflicted— at least, on the surface— the entranceway parting with an echoey moan. Cowardly, Jevon shrunk behind his far shorter companion as they sashayed into the room, arms akimbo and hands settled against their lithe waist.
Their abrupt appearance brought the stormy squabbling to a deathly standstill; their horns temporarily disjoining as a wave of shared bafflement washed over the council. The bearded senators were arranged in a ring of podiums with mountains of indubitably important work cluttering their spaces. Whereas from upon his grand throne at the precipice of the positioning, the king’s herculean penumbra loomed over the council like a chilling shadow. His head was propped up with his elbow situated on the great arm of the chair as his dark, unshorn curls splashed over the grim mahogany. His facial expression was undecipherable, shadowed in a mess of hair and untouched by the chandelier’s condemning light— lost amidst the royal heraldry that adorned his person, priceless gold coruscating with each micro-movement.
His ever-dutiful right-hand Sir Mercutio stood unseated and poised with his man-sized claymore— its legendary steel weathered from overuse and embossed in ornate gilded etchings. The broad point was aligned solemnly with the floorboard while his large hands lay folded around its decorative hilt; his stature unflinchingly imposing, watchful. For a fleeting instant, however, his unblinking gaze flickered over to Jevon, and there was a flash of unconcealed distaste before his head promptly jerked away. How petty.
Kisses and waves tossed flippantly to the surrounding audience, Xolani strutted up to the center of the room wherein an enormous rug embroidered with the winged— lion-esque seal of the Montagues was enringed by the attending council. “Hello, hello, nice to see you all… oh, Gregory! Did you get a new haircut, darling? It looks wonderful on you…”
“Lord Alexis,” arose the guttural voice of one of the more elderly statesmen, holding a thin stack of papers in a pair of wrinkly hands. “Why have you come here? And who is this person with you?”
Jevon cordially removed his mask and draped an arm around his chest as he deeply bowed in greeting. “Jevon Fulbright of Diplomatic Affairs, Your Grace. Forgive me for intruding upon your conference unsolicited… but I was informed of the situation with Roxx—… with His Highness, and I…”
“Diplomatic Affairs?” Another councilman spoke up— a middle-aged man with a comically curvy mustache, which he proceeded to fondle with a moue of palpable contempt like some affluent pig— leering at Jevon as if he was but a mere pebble. “This matter doesn’t concern you people— you ought to learn your place, boy. Run along now, will you?”
“Actually, I’ve come across certain rumors regarding this fellow and His Royal Highness…”
“Oh, really? Like what?”
“Apparently, they’ve been courting in secret—”
“Courting? Another man? Don’t be ridiculous— His Royal Highness would never stoop to such debauchery—”
“But I hear that they were once caught—”
“It is blatant fallacy— are you daft—”
Despite the fact that they were butting heads like indignant bulls prior to his arrival, whatever subject that incited their quarreling has been completely forgotten about, it seemed. Now, the statesmen, both young and elderly, were huddling together leading small-minded whispering campaigns, reminding him of those covens of gossiping housewives he has unintentionally eavesdropped on while grocery-shopping in the market.
Though hushed, their words were carried on tangible echoes, reverberating through the spacious hall. With his background, along with his longtime affiliation with House Montague swathed in mystery, of course, this was hardly the first time he has found himself at the heart of such controversy. In fact, it was a day-to-day occurrence for him: his colleagues, for example, thoroughly enjoyed spreading misconceptions about him due to his reserved nature, and while it was certainly annoying at times, he has learned to cope with it. He had Xolani’s encouragements to thank for his steel-clad will; however, with rows of hypercritical eyes weighing upon him like so— it almost felt as if he had been placed on trial.
Outwardly, he was composed, but his chest had tightened considerably, and his breaths tipped into a quiet staccato. Imperceptible to most, but Xolani appeared to catch on, and their mouth opened to no doubt protect his reputation— but a deeper, irrefragable voice pierced through the murmuration like a mallet’s silencing strike, commanding order.
With a hand raised, King Raphael simply uttered, “Peace,” bringing silence to the room. He shifted slightly, stretching himself to an impossible height— the fact he was hunchbacked before was startling, to say the least— the man truly was a titan among men.
Now, the chandelier caught his countenance, only partially obscured by twilight, and Jevon felt the corners of his mouth upturn on their own accord. He looked well, he thought, as his eyes scanned every contour and every line upon the king’s robust countenance, worn down and wrinkled and marred with enervation and age and bygone battle. There were visible circles under his eyes, and his beard was a bit on the scruffier side, and the smile he wore was evidently tired, but nevertheless joyous. Truly, Raphael was but a kindly sheep hidden behind an oppressive wolfly aura, constructed like a mountain but as soft as sand. Like King Alirense, he thought, Raphael was an offspring of malice— but harbored a heart of undeniable goodness.
“Jevon, my boy… how long has it been since you and I have last seen one another? You’ve grown so much— I hardly recognized you,” he stroked his beard in contemplation, analyzing Jevon— his loyal guardsman as well— but Mercutio was doing an acceptable job at suppressing his repulsion— and Jevon lowered his head once more in greeting. However, rather than obligation, this bow was one of genuine respect— a brilliant smile painting Jevon’s lips when he faced the gargantuan man, perhaps audaciously for one of his rank, but neither he nor Raphael particularly cared for those silly formalities, anyhow.
Initially, Raphael had terrified him. As a meek child, in juxtaposition, he was but a tiny as an insect while their imperious monarch was perhaps as monumentally terrifying as a carnivorous lion. But once he was able to creep out of his shell, he came to learn that Raphael was a warm man— one who pampered his children, talked to the flowers in the garden, and cherished his subjects above all else.
“Forgive me, Raphael; I’ve been distracted by my work lately, I’ve been wanting to take you up on your request for tea, but…”
“You heathen!” A senator blurted coupled with a slammed fist to wood. “How dare you address His Royal Majesty so discourteously!”
As the king lifted a silencing hand again, the statesman adhered, head falling. “It is quite all right,” Raphael stated, then shifted his attention back to the whitehaired man before him, smiling sweetly. “I’m grateful to hear that you’ve been getting along well with your peers, Jevon. No longer that timid boy who fled from his own shadow, are you?”
“I… I suppose. Ah, but Raphael… as much as I’d like to catch up with you, Xolani…” He exchanged a brief glance with his cross-armed companion before meeting the king again, understanding evident on his face. With a hypothetical sigh of relief, he continued. “… We’ve heard some… troubling news in regards to His Highness. I… we came here so we could confirm this.”
His question had dislodged a nail, and the delicate framework of the king’s strained composure came crashing down. He slumped back in his highchair as a large hand cradled his face, exhaling a deeply anguished breath. The storm of doubt whirling inside of Jevon then spiraled into a savage hurricane— Roxxy is dead, he thought immediately, his own composition crumbling as his knees shook, his body mass suddenly too burdensome for them to support. They have unearthed his corpse among the detritus of war, or floating lifelessly in a blood-soaked river, or his lone head had been speared upon an enemy’s lance—
When the king or council did not rise to the challenge of answering, Mercutio fearlessly stepped up to the plate, loudly clearing his throat and extracting an opened envelope, stamped with what he recognized as a national Codoslian emblem— a bejeweled, ornamental crown. Its contents were unavailable, but he could only presume that they were within the possession of the king. “… We received a report from our messenger… this was personally addressed to the royal family of Igerene by none other than King Faustian himself. Within it… it claims that His Royal Highness, Prince Roximus, has been detained… and that come next month, insultingly on our very own Day of Reclamation when spring draws toward its end… he will be executed by the College.”
Execution…? Roxxy will be… he’ll…
“… Oh, so that’s their game? I must admit… for Codoslia, that’s rather daring of them. How exactly did they manage to catch our indefatigable Warrior Prince to begin with though, I wonder?” Though eternally, Xolani appeared unfazed, when they sidled up to Jevon’s side, he could tell that there was a tremble to them— though he was unsure if it was due to fear, or anger, or some other emotion.
“… I mean, that pretty little title he flaunts around isn’t just for show, after all. He is about as skilled, if not more so, than that of the Valkyrie— Drucilla’s own chosen. Of course everybody’s got their Achilles’ heel; however, I still find it exceptionally hard to believe that someone as bullheaded as him could be taken down so simply.”
“… The Ministry has received reports that Codoslia has supposedly solicited the aid of another nation… but we have yet to acquire the data to confirm if that is actually the case or not— but we all know how the Codoslians— how the College— have historically acted in wars of the past— they are always currying favor with their stronger allies— or strategically putting them in a position in which they are unable to decline their “generosity” — in exchange for their forbidden fruits” Mercutio explained, tucking the envelope back into his armor and marching into the spotlight, pausing just a few feet away from his offspring— whose scalding gaze he purposefully evaded.
“… But we have received additional reports about a rogue swordsman who is not yet affiliated with any known banner… a completely neutral party who has been rather… indiscriminate with their killing.”
Xolani thoughtfully stroked their chin like an imaginary beard. “Indiscriminate, you say… what, is it some sell sword with a bad case of vigilantism?”
“… Again, we have not ascertained what their goal is… However, they are quite the formidable force. Entire platoons on either side have been quashed single-handedly by their blade… even the local villages were caught up in the crossfire… it appears that, whomever we are dealing with— is less of a soldier and more so a bloodthirsty hound seeking to entertain his thirst.”
“… Oh, how interesting. So, what you’re suggesting is that… our dear prince foolishly challenged this monster… and was completely and utterly crushed?”
“… As you stated, His Royal Highness is one of the greatest soldiers this army has ever produced. While it is certainly possible that College— duplicitous bastards they are— have managed to put one over on our astute and irrefragable prince… it still sounds rather unlikely, all things considered. However, if this rumored beast does exist…”
“… The vessel of a god and a belligerent monster who seeks destruction… It reminds me an awful lot of what happened in the past… involving one Drucilla the Conqueror and a heinous war that nearly led our primitive state to our doom… But regardless, it seems that we’ve got ourselves in quite the little predicament, huh” Xolani then granted their enraptured spectators a brief look-around before laughing humorlessly.
“… And it would appear that you haven’t settled on a course of action yet, hm? I’m surprised— when it comes to our barbaric nation, we usually rush headfirst into battle without a second thought… After all, we are the children of war.”
“… That is what I was insisting,” Mercutio then spun around as he lifted his chin toward the seat of the king where a consternated Raphael had his hands twined and propped atop the desk ruminatively.
“Your Majesty, once you have given the word, our forces will make their way into the royal capital and seize that dastardly king’s head— hells, we would have already conquered them had it not been for your hesitation… Tell me, even after everything those wicked Codoslians have done— after all of the pain that they have sown— why do you continue to show them unwarranted mercy?”
“And I want you to understand why I have been hesitant, Mercutio. I understand that peace is no longer an option at this rate— this is hundreds of years of spite that has compounded on itself— war with the College was inevitable, but I… I do not believe in brazenly attacking their innocents, burning their homes and towns… and now they have my son— I realize my perspective is selfish when you consider my position as a leader… but I would rather give into their demands than risk losing him. I—… I have already lost so much because of this war and I cannot—” His voice cutting out, Raphael gave his head a definitive shake before bitterly introducing his next point. “… And besides, taking the life of their king— I’ve been resolved to reinvent how we as Igerenians handle conflict… no, all of this… all of this is the result of my carelessness. If I… if I had stepped in… if I had stopped Roximus before he escalated things, then perhaps—”
“My liege,” Mercutio interrupted in a sterner voice than before. “A single life is incomparable to a lifetime of shame should we even consider accepting these pyrrhic terms— there is end benefit for us— and nothing that substantiates that they will even keep their word. Do you seek to upend the very constitution of our land— what defines us as children of Antares— while those wretched Codoslians spit and laugh in our faces?”
“Mercutio, this has nothing to do with honor,” Raphael countered as hot frustration poured into his expression, straightening his slumped, defeatist posture to instead tower over the conclave like the pseudo-war machine he was— pretensions of sheepishness swung overboard. “That is my son— as foolish and reckless as he is, I will not abandon him! In Camilla… in the place of his late mother, I… I swore to myself that I would protect him!”
“So, you intend to sacrifice an entire nation for a single soul? How can you even justify such odds?” Mercutio fired back. “Where is your sense of pride? Are you not their king? Or are you nothing more than an old fool clinging to the specter of a dead woman?”
“Oh, that’s real rich coming from an old delusional fool, pops,” Xolani seethed as they lodged themself between their adoptive liege and the king. “Considering how you’re still mourning over the fact that you lost your true heir. Sad that you’ll never be able to properly retire, hm?”
“Quiet, you spoiled little brat! This doesn’t concern the likes of you.”
A taken aback Xolani furrowed their brow in challenge. “Oh? This doesn’t involve me, you say? Well, I would argue that it does, given that you’ve considered sacrificing the life of my dearest friend for something as ludicrous as “honor.” But no, this doesn’t concern me,” they thrust a finger into his chest as their teeth lashed like an angered canine. “Not— one— bit.”
While Xolani and their father continued to bandy words, in the background, the statesmen had dissolved into their gossipy chinwags again; however, from Jevon’s perspective, it was all no more than a garbled discordance of voices. Inconsequential static. It was as if the rest of the world had faded into oblivion, finding himself in a constricting, dark box— as his brain desperately tried to unravel and process this unsettling series of events. Roxxy, renowned for his peerless swordsmanship and unflagging integrity, was somehow overcome in battle, and was subsequently offered up like some— peace offering to Codoslia. A bargain was introduced: if Igerene chose to surrender, then the prince would allegedly be spared— but the College has an infamous track record of disingenuity— masters of the game who were holding their queen piece at knifepoint.
It was the pride of a nation versus the welfare of their heir presumptive. In most places, of course— the protection of the nobility was a foremost priority. Albeit in the eyes of these hubristic children of war, capitulation— even entertaining the notion of it— while bedecked in their medals and laurels of glory, it was like death— worse than being stripped naked and publically humiliated— a steep dishonor that would impress an indelible, dark stain on their irreproachable esteem— an irrecoverable curse that would stalk and disgrace generations hereafter unto infinity. And submitted to Codoslia no less—
It simply wasn’t an option— even if such hesitation would result in the death of their prophetic Delphic idol. If anything, it was likelier that these people would find the means to cash in on this hypothetical tragedy— using it as a rallying cry to unify the disheartened public and thereby promulgate more hatred and more needless blood to gratify their imperishable appetites for slaughter. This conference was redundant— the senators had already reached their wise verdict and it was they who engineered and swayed the majority vote— it was not their king’s constitutional right to interfere as a mere figurehead. And in the eyes of these people— their beloved Crown Prince was nothing but a scapegoat.
Since Roxxy was thrust into this world, he has only ever been treated as a political apparatus. Destined to be a martyr, even. They insist that the gods had bled starlight into his veins; however, underneath that veneer of majesty, he was no more than a simple boy who dreamed of adventure… who stared wistfully into the evening horizons, curious about what mysteries resided beyond those oceanic boundaries. One who resented conflict and favored knowledge and kindness over blood and destruction. One whose smiles embodied the combined splendor of moons, suns, and galaxies. Who has saved him time and time again, wrenching him from an abyss of loneliness and despair.
And now— these gutless— decrepit heretics planned to abandon him for the sake of their nonexistent integrity? Unlawfully concluding that he was unworthy of salvation? And was Jevon supposed to just— stand aside helplessly and watch as they figuratively and literally executed him right before his eyes?
“… If he truly is a prince of Igerene,” he overheard Mercutio say amongst the torpedo of hot debate— his tone steadfast like riveted stone. “… Then he ought to be proud to die for the glory of his nation.”
And thus, the thinning thread that represented his restraint finally, after what seemed like an inestimable amount of time, finally snapped. Claws outstretched, Jevon verbally lunged at the mouthy knight. “Shut your damn mouth,” he spat in a stunningly uncharacteristic bout of rage— a shock to both his bug-eyed spectators and, most of all, himself. He has always considered himself an abstinent individual, after all; he turned a deaf ear to temptation, and usually did his darndest to keep his emotions reined in… but it was as if a supernova of anger had burst within him and he could do little but yield to it.
“The fact that we allow heartless oafs like you glutton yourselves on such lofty positions of power… the lot of you are nothing more than lousy, tone-deaf tyrants who profit off the suffering of the weak,” he continued; his voice was practically secreting venom, and his eyes, normally round and compassionate, appeared colder than ice.
“Do you truly care so little about human lives? Status and glory be damned; he doesn’t deserve to be your sacrificial pawn just we, as the deplorable nation that we are, can find a convenient excuse to continue perpetuating all this wanton violence! Your twisted virtues are steeped in hypocrisy… and your quote, unquote: “honor”— is nothing more than a shallow justification for the untold mounds of innocents this nation has used to shore up their bulwarks and validate their inhumanities. And now you would even condemn and forsake your future ruler… this is just shameful!”
“Know your place, outsider!” It was following the rebuttal that Jevon found the tip of Mercutio’s great blade aligned with the crook of his throat— but the whitehaired man asserted his ground, maintaining strict eye contact with his foe with unbreaking composure.
“… Your friendship with my liege notwithstanding, you are but an outlander whom we courteously took in when none else would. You are not privy to this discussion nor the decisions of this court— so do not presume that you will leave unscathed after so unashamedly slandering our pride as a country.”
“And it was you who suggested that the Crown Prince was destined to die for the so-called “pride” of this rotten nation,” Jevon interrupted, his fury diminishing like waves ebbing to the loosening storm. And in its place stood a leveled timbre, albeit accompanied by an undercurrent of unabashed snark, which was further accentuated by the way that a small smirk played on the corners of his mouth.
“… But as far as I can tell, this nation consists of— or at the very least, is ruled by spineless cowards who are too afraid to fight in the very same wars they have mongered. That is, it is far more painless to shamelessly duck behind a desk and dole out inequitable directives while watching the world burn around you when you believe that your fortunes make you impervious.
But you know what they suggest about karma, right? What goes around will inevitably come back to bite you, and once the tabloids unavoidably catch onto how pathetically useless their government is after they have decided it was fair and just reasoning to send their own prince to the slaughterhouse, well… it may be decided that you senators will not be able to feel safe in your own homes any longer— just like the countless strangers you have indirectly condemned because of your prolonged negligence.”
“Is that a threat—” Mercutio practically growled— the veins in his forehead, angry and protuberant, betokening what Jevon could only foresee as a concerning rise in blood pressure. Adrenaline still fresh in his blood, his next series of words tumbled out on sheer impulsion— his eyes redirected toward the proverbial throne as Jevon turned a cold shoulder toward Mercutio’s warning to drape a hand over his breast, spitballing a spur-of-the-moment suggestion to that of the guilty court:
“Raphael, I acknowledge that any chances to reconcile with the College would be a fool’s errand at this rate… However, I still believe that there… may yet be a chance to resolve this matter without needing to spill further blood.
… I also acknowledge how hypocritical this sounds. I have spent… all these years turning my ears and eyes away from this conflict like the very same coward I have deemed others to be, but… but I know that I can no longer afford to be blissfully ignorant. When Roxxy needed me the most, I… all I could do was watch his back as he walked away— seething in my own powerlessness.”
Jevon was indeed contradicting himself. He had been terrified to relive the— fire— that inscrutable plague of contempt that only deepened his aversion to mankind. He therefore canceled his emotions and appropriately distanced himself, sheathed in a euthymic bubble. Clinging to mundanity to keep himself sane while demons of hate and longing battled within him day in and day out and gradually devouring him alive like a slow-acting cancer. He immersed himself in work as a distraction and kept himself awake through the night out of fear of confronting that innermost darkness that readily bore its fangs the moment he dropped his guard…
… so what right did he have to play hero now after continuously running away with his tail between his legs? When he rarely had the motivation nor strength to embrace the dawn? When the mere act of peeling himself out of bed required an appalling amount of willpower?
Of course, the cruelty of the council incurred the ire of some unknown beast that was apparently dozing away within the darkest crevices of his soul. And of course, he could not express with his current vocabulary how utterly terrifying the idea of losing his most precious person was due to the selfishness of this war. And…
… the words of that god still rung clear and nagging in his ears. This was not merely about the fighting— no, he had averted his eyes from his destiny altogether. But how could he—
Wicked, fell dragon—
When he would have regaled in their devastation—
Omen of the end—
… And yet.
His mouth continued to run on and on without his jurisdiction. He wished he could rip out his damnable, traitorous tongue and squash it under his boot. “… Even then, I… I would never be able to forgive myself if I… if I stood back and did… nothing… If I continue to do nothing. I want to… I want to save him.”
I must save him this time—
Possibly sensing his crumbling courage, Xolani— ever the more charismatic of the two— stepped up to the mantle, comforting him with a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll take it from here, love. Ahem… I do believe my lovely little sidekick is on the right track. Let us not neglect the elephant in the room: ever since this war has begun, it has been mired in suspicion— quandaries that I have been tirelessly pursuing since day one, more or less. The College is no less guilty than we are— they have done their part in keeping the world wrapped around their little finger because they and they alone have discovered the means to challenge the heavens themselves… but there is no plausible way to rationalize their decision to go to war with us— not when they lack the artillery to do so. The magic sanctions imposed by the Commission have already severely weakened their influence overall, and their dyed-in-the-wool scholars are not built for melee. While it is true that the College and the state have decided to capitalize on their poor twist of fortune to effectively turn the tides back in their favor, I have my doubts as to whether they are the real perpetrators here. And if my ever-loyal gut is to be trusted— then I have an inkling that we will find the answers we seek if we embark on this quest to save the prince.”
If Raphael was intrigued, he decidedly eschewed from showcasing it outwardly and merely heightened his posture, demonstrating that he was listening attentively. Therefore, Xolani continued. “… I like to think that I have a good read on others— comes with the job description and all that, and I assure you that I am not short of any tangible evidence to corroborate the existence of a third party— but the court doesn’t care about the testimony of a reject, right? But I know that you will see reason, King Raphael… a good king must accept a bevy of different perspectives— regardless of its… unscrupulous origins. But I assure you… my trust can be more assured as opposed to these pretentious, gutless cows.
… We will have to act furtively… which is why I propose arranging a small reconnaissance team consisting of myself— the beautiful and farsighted Master Xolani— and my sweepingly handsome sidekick, of course,” Xolani finished as they swooped in to interlock their arm with that of their aforementioned sidekick.
“Benvolio,” Mercutio started— a quiet remark that held thinly-veiled irritation. “What are you planning—”
“A smaller team would diminish the chance of steeper casualties and detection,” Xolani continued unthreatened. “According to our scouts, their capital is grossly defenseless at this moment in time… coupled with whisperings of some peculiar goings-on within the College’s coven at the moment while the bulk of their central forces are out gallivanting on the frontlines… instead of our entire army bursting in guns blazing like a pack of brainless barbarians, it would be far better if we mitigated the potential backlash— along with the concerningly high stakes involved— by sending in a covert team to ambush the College’s headquarters and prize their only applicable bargaining chip out of their hands before they can make good on that bluff of theirs. After which, a rep of Diplomatic Affairs— in this case, our beloved Sir Fulbright here— can work his magic and attempt to strike a deal with the heads of the sect… or we can simply behead them and be through with it. Whatever works in the moment! And let me paraphrase that I don’t care what happens to a bunch of stuck-up dignitaries either way.”
Xolani disconnected from his arm and dove down to bow exaggeratedly. “Furthermore, I implore you to not heed the petty words of this washed-out council of fugly old men who’ve got sticks wedged so far up their asses that they could choke on them,” they swept back up as their sole eye appraised the conflux of conflicted expressions that lined the seats of the attending jury.
“… Why not shoot for diplomacy while it is still an option? Or if necessary, my people and I can merely… take out the trash once His Highness is properly secured. If Sir Mercutio has any doubts in regards to our skill, then I would be more than happy to give the council a demonstration,” they placed a sharp emphasis on that final word— a blood-curdling threat suspended on the edge of their razor tongue like the knives they very well had stashed in the hidden compartments of their elegant dress.
Raphael caressed his fluffy beard as he chewed over their options— participating in a fugacious stare-down with the dark mahoganies of his pedestaled desk. And after a long interim of introspection, his resonant but calm voice gracefully cut through the thickening tension. “… I am more than familiar with what your people are… capable of, Xolani— the Watchers have achieved more than their fair share of remarkable feats from the mercy of the shadows. Given that they specialize in subterfuge, would it not be wiser to send out your envoys to shoulder the burden of this most risky endeavor? That way, I can at least guarantee your safety…”
“Well, those bloodthirsty dunderheads were taught to kill first and ask questions later. I don’t think I can necessarily trust them to not aggravate the situation even further than it already is if negotiation is indeed still a viable option. You see, my… sticky credentials notwithstanding, I do agree with Jevon’s sentiment,” Xolani partook in a brief stretch as they swung their arms upward; the curvature of their spine a sleek, bending arch. “While I do believe that this is a very touch and go little conundrum we’ve found ourselves in… if it is indeed possible for us to reach some sort of compromise, then I’d say we tempt fate and see where it gets us as opposed to shooting in the dark,” they dropped back down to pose with an upraised thumb and a wink. “Yup— if everything goes according to plan, we will walk away with not only the life of our poor, captured prince— but perhaps a peace treaty as well!”
The king appeared indecisive. He nervously toyed with the jewels on his fingers, mouth downturned. A debate was raging within him, it looked. After he was finished wrangling with his own throat, however, he proceeded to address the council in a steady tone; however, a detection of incertitude nipped at the heels of each word.
“… If there is indeed a possibility for us to reach a compromise with Codoslia, then I would at least like to make an attempt. This war… it has indeed drawn on longer than it should— nay, it shouldn’t have ever occurred in the first place… and I wholly intend to take responsibility for my rashness once we can reassure a lasting state of harmony. But first, I would like to speak with Sir Fulbright in private. Should we decide to carry out this plan, I expect each and every one of you to do your part in rescuing your Crown Prince. For now, however, this conference is hereby adjourned,” and though the statesmen clearly did not approve of this turn of events, their complaints went mostly unvoiced— and they slowly shuffled out of the meeting hall in groups of aggravated whispers.
With his eyes meandering between Jevon, his offspring, and the king, Mercutio, after receiving a curt nod from his lord, let out an audible huff, much like a fitting child, and stomped after the exiting droves, armor clanking bitterly. With an annoyed roll of their eye, Xolani refaced the king and leaned their elbow against the arm of their friend— seemingly waiting for Raphael to drop whatever information he promised.
“Ah, Xolani, I was hoping to speak with Jevon alone,” Raphael said gently.
“Oh, right. Silly me, I forgot for a moment that I wasn’t the protagonist of this story. Should be, though. But just give me a second with ‘em, Majesty,” Xolani then proceeded to swivel around, grabbing the shoulders of their friend with firmness while Jevon fearfully avoided their sharp gaze.
“Oi, look at me. Jevon. Jevon, you silly little snickerdoodle, you think that you can just tilt your head down and act all meek after that show you just gave us? Confronting the senate like that of all people takes some serious balls, y’know? And it’s nothing to be ashamed about, either— those hoary little morons needed some sense smacked into them, and boy, you absolutely killed it! They’ll be reciting this incident for generations to come— you’ll be a megastar, Jevon Sebastian Fulbright!”
Though their humor was like a placating anchor amid his most distress moments, Jevon couldn’t find it in him to chuckle, let alone face them with pride. That crude performance of his had been the result of unbridled impulsion, after all; he hardly deserved commendation, and truthfully, he was planning to retract his proposition and hurl himself into the ocean, and let himself return to seafoam. He could not describe his embarrassment in simple words; he felt like he was going to dissolve.
“… Hey, Jevon. Love. We’ll be all right,” ever the mind-reader, Xolani moved to stroke one of his cheeks instead. Though a nutcase through and through, at his worst times— they were but a beacon of unrivaled compassion— dispelling his anxieties with their comforting light.
“… We’ll figure this out, okay? I promise you, no matter what comes to pass, we’ll rescue that fool of a prince. Have some more faith in yourself, will you? And like I told the council: we fail, we’ll just kill the bastards. Right?”
“… I suppose.”
“Earlier, you mentioned that you felt as if you haven’t really changed. But you’re wrong— I mean, just now, whether it was impulsion or not, you stood up for what you believed in, Jevon. You fought back. The Jevon of the past, who was no more than a flickering light in a sea of darkness when we first found him… just a tiny little spark trying to survive in this big, scary world… well, you’re an entire milky way now, darling. And I want him to see how far you’ve come. I know he’ll be proud of you.”
It consumed all of Jevon’s strength to restrain those irksome tears; he felt overwhelmed, like his heart would overflow and engulf everything around him, but he tamped down on the urge to sob and instead acted out a smile— a little shaky thing, but nevertheless gracious.
“… Thank you, my friend… truly, thank you.”
“Any time, love. I know I can be quite the thorn in your side, but I’m thankful that you’ve stayed with me all this time regardless. You really are my most precious friend, Jevon.”
“That should be my line, honestly. Ah… look at me; I’m a complete mess,” he sniffled; a sleeve was pulled up to eviscerate those daring droplets that managed to elude him, but instead of criticism, Xolani just laughed warmly and patted his shoulder.
“It’s all right, darling. I’m not any better off myself; I mean, what sort of earful do you think will be waiting for me when I step outside these doors? Daddy dearest certainly won’t let me off the hook this time, yeesh,” though an unpreventable shiver had given them pause, Xolani quickly wrapped themself back up an unruffled smile and took several steps backward.
“Well, I shan’t keep you any longer, sweetheart,” wheeling around, Xolani began to trot out of the hall, throwing a stagnant wave over their shoulder. “Embrace your destiny, Jevon Fulbright! Don’t choke up now, y’hear?”
At some point, the king had stepped down from his towering podium, traipsing over to the young diplomat, bundled in an ornamental cloak lined in dark fur, and his gait hunchbacked yet nevertheless titanic. Upon his approach, Jevon spun around and presented an earnest apology; he felt slightly reassured by the words of his friend, but that didn’t change the fact that he had spoken so inelegantly! For a man who prioritized manners and etiquette, the amount of shame he experienced on behalf of his uncharacteristic boldness was tantamount to a famous thief captured amidst the act.
“Raphael, please forgive my speaking out of turn; I… I am positively mortified by my behavior. I am willing to accept whatever punishment you deem necessary—”
“Oh, there’s no need to apologize, my boy. In fact, I must say I was rather amused the whole time!” Raphael said gleefully— he truly was his typical, jolly self— which Jevon was thankful for, given— all that has transpired in these last few years— that unbearable weight must be like a mountain had been buried atop him. The older man then proceeded to deliver his back a few eager pats, comfortably dropping his kingly exterior in his presence.
“Mercutio was getting out of line; I should have intervened sooner, truthfully, but I…” Mercutio was one of his most trusted advisors, having served him since he was just a boy— their closeness was undisputed, so Jevon could understand his hesitancy to correct him, no matter how wrong he was. With a headshake, Mercutio decided to shift subjects, beckoning the younger man along with a wave of his hand.
“Come, there is much that I’d like to discuss with you. Walk with me for a while, won’t you?”
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“You’ve become quite the gentleman, Jevon.”
As they navigated their way across the craggy path, their hands firmly interlocked, Jevon assisted Raphael— he was by no means elderly, however, the recent years have taken a severe toll on him, both in body and in mind. He did not fail to notice his limp as they were traveling through the castle grounds, needless to say.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he argued bashfully.
With eyes squinting through the murk, he took a moment to inspect the road ahead for potential obstacles. Once he concluded their safety, their journey resumed— and eventually, they would come to an end in the steep trail, emerging upon pearly sand, the telltale susurrus of waves enticing them forth.
Releasing the other man, Jevon took to the vanguard, cautiously scoping their surroundings as they crossed through a small cave, shiny with moisture as it trickled down its sandy walls. Through an aperture in the roof, they were enfolded in a brilliant ray of moonlight, and his feet felt several tons heavier than prior.
It has been some time since he has been to this place— this secluded cove near the estate— and the selfsame one where he and the prince met under a sky of raining stars.
Coincidentally, he also learned that this was where the king and queen— Roxxy’s forebears— initially crossed paths as well.
When they exited the cave, the pelagic breeze scissored through his hair, blowing it awry— well, not that it wasn’t a mess already— and he inhaled, refamiliarizing himself with that salt-tinged bouquet. The waters were dark and undisturbed, calmly lapping at the surface, curling around the numerous shells and husks that dotted the coastline, before retreating and repeating. In the far-off distance, restless seabirds let loose a series of high-pitched screeches. Raphael approached his side, leaving hefty footprints in his wake.
“… Son, are you all right?”
Breaking out of his momentary trance, Jevon sought to assure him with a practiced smile. “… Ah, of course. It’s just… I have not visited this spot in quite a long time… I think… it was well before I left with Master Joseph…”
“A long time indeed, then. For me, I haven’t… since…” Raphael trailed off into a forced chuckle and folded his hands behind his back, maneuvering toward the shore. With a flick of his chin, he summoned Jevon over as well. He parsed the distant horizon, awash in blackness, before shifting his eyes toward the sand, peeling back as the creeping water approached, deluging his shoes.
“… Jevon, my boy. You recall what started the war, yes?”
“… I do. It was…” His tongue rolled around in his mouth for a moment as he tried to assemble the right words.
“It… began with the death of Lady Camilla,” cited Raphael as he fingered his rings— fidgeting as his anxiety crested, but he withstood it and the thrust of the waves and the ominous crooning of the nightbirds and remembered his breathing, as hoarse and battered as it was. He was healthier than Jevon recalled the last time they were able to cut some time out of their jammed schedules to gather for brunch, but— no. He was still a broken man, ultimately. A broken man who was cursed to lose more than he could psychologically weather if the gods intended to torture him further.
“… The court revealed that… the culprit was an envoy sent by Codoslia— the College… we have feuded for many long years now— a tireless back-and-forth with no foreseeable end. The people of Codoslia are— innocent… like our own… but we both suffer because we cannot forget our hatred. The College punishes and controls the weak. And this country indoctrinates them— despite how vehemently I have worked to shatter that cycle, I… I do not know if we can ever fully repent… I do not know if true sympathy and change await us.
… I never intended to go to war with them again. I have done all that I could since the start of my tenure to right the wrongs of my predecessors… of that rotten man who occupied the throne before me,” his voice stuttered a bit on that particular admission, but the king quickly recollected himself and straightened his hunchback, arms dropping limply by his sides. “… But then my foolish son expedited matters. I wanted… answers… I did not want to blame them immediately when it contradicted everything we knew about the way the College went about things— how they schemed. They never would have violated this fragile concord of ours and invited the wrath of Igerene upon themselves in such a flagrant manner like Xolani had worded it— it is simply counterintuitive. And now King Faustian— at the behest of the College— arms and sabotages his own citizens, forces innocents to pay for their sins…”
“… Then you suggest that there may be more to this war than what meets the eye?”
“… We were no better, naturally. If Camilla… if she was indeed the bait— then we… fell for it hook, line, and sinker. That boy of mine… he gathered his troops and barraged the border like a senseless madman. I… I tried to reason with him… but it was as if he was possessed—”
And Jevon knew, of course— he remembered; the demonic, inhumane fury that warped the sunshine-like boy that taught him the verity of life and nerdishly played out the dramatic sequences from his favorite stories with his wooden training sword and a valiant cape fashioned from his bedclothes. How he swore that he would eradicate the entirety of Codoslia if it meant repentance— if it meant that his precious mother could rest— he was deigned to wipe out all life on earth if it could appease her sleepless spirit. He knew— because he heard them as well. Those vengeful, hateful eidolons— for they were the very same that tortured his dreams.
“… I never wanted to go to war with Codoslia, son,” Raphael finalized as he relaxed his strained, whitened fists. “… It is as you say: there is… more to this situation than one may conclude at a glance… how we neglected to investigate her death more thoroughly; the Ministry’s unnatural urgency to carry out the defendant’s punishment… Igerene is cursed to adhere to our god’s inextinguishable thirst for chaos— perhaps… it was inevitable that these fragile scales would tip in our disfavor and blood would spill across this land yet again, but—… for so long, it has felt… like something orchestrated.”
“I presume the Ministry and the senate would argue otherwise… even though you have asked Xolani’s people to investigate on your behalf?”
“… I am sure whether I fully approve of the Brotherhood’s methods… but as I’ve found myself distrusting the Ministry as of late, I have no choice but to look elsewhere for information,” he confirmed. “… I have been searching as well… for… anything that may shine some light on… everything And now that they’ve threatened Roximus’ life… I almost know for certain now that… we’ve been carelessly overlooking an even larger mystery that is at hand.”
… Of course, he thought the same. From the moment her cadaver was discovered in scattered pieces, the investigation that ensued thereafter was mottled with holes. Assassination was fairly commonplace within noble society. Big-name politicians and discreditable suzerains slipped deadly nightshade in their teas and wines, or were cut cleanly at their throats in their sleep… but it was always quick and painless, prioritizing the safety of the hired killer above all else, leaving behind as little evidence as manageable.
However, with the late queen… merely recounting the events of that horrid night kickstarted a tsunami in his stomach, every grotesque detail that was relayed to him firmly imprinted in his brain. It had been a crime of grim pleasure, of wicked sadism; the assailant had enjoyed picking her open, festooning the walls and floors with her scarlet carnage. Long-standing dissension aside, it was unfeasible to think that Codoslia was responsible for such— unadulterated madness. No, it could have only been the work of a vengeful devil, but even the diabolic likes of the underearth wouldn’t seek to impure one as gentle, as regal as Lady Camilla had been.
… But when they finally acquired their smoking gun, it directed them toward an exchange student who had hailed from Codoslia— a young alchemist by the name of Felix Alain Faucher, who he had actually been roomed with when they attended the Royal Academy back in the day… though in spite of this, any memories related to their relationship were mysteriously foggy to him.
Regardless, Felix— he at least remembered that the boy had been a bit on the eccentric side. His personality was wildly unpredictable, and coupled with his intensely short fuse— yes, he was like a Pandora’s Box of oxymorons— an ever-changing roulette, and as a result of this overcomplicated attitude of his, Jevon recalled that the boy had landed himself in hot water on more than one occasion. But notwithstanding his shortcomings, he was a genuinely wise scholar who was severely dedicated to his craft— a passionate soul through and through. One might question how an ardent and wholehearted philosopher like himself would commit a crime so grave, but— the truth was, this was not the first time that his manic whimsy has encouraged him to kill.
It was the very same man who had been directly involved in the craze surrounding that string of unprecedented deaths that plagued the Royal Academy after two of his erstwhile schoolmates were found brutishly slaughtered. Although his memories regarding his school days were hazy, and he truthfully remembered little about the incident overall beyond the damning facts and the sheer pandemonium that followed in its wake given that both students were of considerable pedigree, rap sheet or not, it would theoretically not have been enough to convict him outright of regicide. But the jury had indeed concluded that the evidence was incontrovertible. Jevon suppressed the urge to shiver, hyper-fixating on the tranquil murmuration of the waves— the brisk, nightly air calming the unbearable dread swelling within him.
… But even if Felix Faucher had all the makings of a— demented slaughterer— the way that the Ministry of Defense handled the case and conducted their investigations inward did not hold up to their usual professional standards— shutting the lid on this chain of events as if it was little more than an inconvenience rather than a duty. Xolani had split off from their roots many a year beforehand; they no longer sustained an executive position and thereby lacked the authority to investigate the chain of command, but now they commandeered the elusive might of the Brotherhood, which must meant that they have done their fair share of deductive work into the matter. What exactly they have unearthed, though… until they pieced together the full puzzle, Jevon had an inkling he would stay in the dark.
… But by the jurisdiction of the Ministry— for a mourning prince, brainwashed by his own despair— it was a destructive match that would channel an obsessive, wrathful wildfire— one that had the potential to scorch the entire world if it continued to spread unchecked. A single head was scarcely enough in reparation.
The Principality of War, though… would she be able to confirm what truly occurred on that ill-fated day, then?
Why else… would she have brought him up?
“Jevon, my boy… do you truly intend to go?”
… It was true that he had volunteered himself in a moment of impulsion. With his friend’s encouragement, he felt obligated to carry out his vow; not that he had any intention of letting the country sentence his dear prince to unsolicited martyrdom for the sake of their ridiculous doctrine… and nor could he afford to simply sit back and watch as that promised executioner brought down the ax of judgment upon his tender nape. Even if this decision contradicted the blissful lethargy he has indulged for the better half of the last five years— no— this was the wakeup call he desperately needed. After all, a world without him… yes, it was completely unthinkable. What point did he have to go on otherwise?
And most importantly, if it was indeed true that his cosmic destiny has something to do with the prince’s misfortune, he would have to resign himself to being the universe’s greatest craven if he turned his back to this now. No— for once in his life, he needed to take responsibility for the atrocities he had committed.
For once, he had to be unselfish.
And thus, with a solemn nod, he answered the king, staring unwaveringly into his eyes— a grayish-purple, their effulgence scrubbed down with asthenia and rejection. Briskly, however, there was a glint of acknowledgement within them— hope, even.
A pair of ginormous hands reached out to enwrap his own as the empire of a king lowered his head humbly to evoke his unparagoned pleading. “Please… help him, Jevon… help our precious, reckless boy.”
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He was proffered a guest room within the royal palace; it was rather late, after all, and though Jevon has spent innumerous nights snuggled under a lone blanket on the floor of his office, he was unable to squeeze a word in before a duo of unbending attendants hauled him to his promised lodgings, practically padlocking him inside. He hoped that his landlady would take the incentive and feed Aurora while he was away; however, she has also gotten fairly skilled at capturing all those intruding vermin, so he wasn’t too worried.
He unlaced his boots, unfastened his tailcoat and shucked himself out of that horribly constricting corset, then peeled off his silken gloves, leaving him in nothing more than his form-fitting dress pants and that ruffly white shirt. Perched on the rim of the mattress, he gave his lodgings a quick once-over— it was rather sumptuous, of course; however, it appeared as if it had gone unused for some time, judging by the thin screen of dust that had developed on the lavish oaken furnishings. A massive double-doored wardrobe, a vanity with a murky mirror, a writing desk tucked away in the corner, alongside a posh bed with elegant framing. Other than that, it was reasonably decorated— a gaudy tapestry here, an exorbitant carpet and brocades there… nothing that he was not unaccustomed to after being in the presence of aristocracy for over a decade. He let out a profound sigh.
Tomorrow, Raphael was intending to schedule another conference to discuss their plan of action; he doubted that the statesmen would concede easily— but he had faith that Raphael will be able to find the confidence to stand his ground— belabor the absolution of his creed into their pompous skulls.
However, he needed to confront Xolani before anything— and attempt to persuade them into… reconsidering their proposal. Jevon did not want to expose his friend to unnecessary peril; he was more than content with burdening the weight of this operation alone, but knowing Xolani… well, they will likely take him to court— and triumph— before he could posit a single argument. But the risk involved…
… no, Xolani wasn’t the person he needed to confront— not at the moment, anyhow.
Wearily, he lugged his complaining legs toward the small balcony that jutted out from his lodgings, sequestered behind a veil of satin drapery. Unlatching it, he stepped outside, embracing the cool night breeze. He braced himself on the wrought iron guardrail, lifting his eyes toward the sky, overtaken by billowy streams of ashen clouds, doughty moonbeams just daring to creep through. For an interval of time, he sat in a cognitive silence, tip-tapping his nails rhythmically against the railing. Then—
“… You wish to speak with me?”
Like a drifting ghost, she seemed to materialize from the nothingness, propping herself gracefully on the parapet, dressed in her same, snowy frock with those gilded adornments. Jevon tapped once against the rail, then tilted his head just slightly, neither looking at, but not necessarily, dodging her luminous gaze.
“… I want you to tell me what you know… and this time, I’d prefer if you forwent the dramatism.”
Antares kicked her unclothed feet in a lazy tempo. “Dramatism? I thought I was making myself relatively clear… and besides, is it not characteristic of archaic beings to speak in rhymes and riddles?”
“In storybooks, perhaps… but I want a no-nonsense answer, Patron of War. What truly happened to the late queen? And…”
The fiery outline of that man flickered in his vision— with his delusive smiles and saccharine lies.
“… How is he… how is that person… involved?”
“… The width of my influence has thinned considerably over the years… but I shall tell you what I know. Or rather, the biggest obstacle that stands between you and your beloved prince’s cosmic reunion…
… The long-held ire of Betelgeuse, that wild beast of a god… whose shackles that disreputable snake unbound… in order to sunder this land in two.”
End of Chapter Two
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