Fantasy ♔ kingdom come ♚

[Elysionistic]

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[Elysionistic]

It was a beautiful day, it truly was. The sun had just passed its zenith up high in the clear blue sky, and the summer’s heat was enough to be pleasant but not enough to be sweltering. But it did nothing to brighten the foul mood of one young boy called Owaine Warriche-Symme, who was leaning against the palisade running along the southern edge of Imme. He was staring sullenly at the sparring ring where the rest of the children his age were duelling, practice swords ringing out where they collided.

If he’d had his way, Owaine would have also been right there duelling with them. In fact, he’d been doing just that up until just a short while ago when the captain of the guardsmen of Imme, one sir Winde, had groaned and gone under the makeshift fence marking the edges of the sparring ring to drag Owaine out of it. He’d had enough of Owaine’s ‘antagonism’, in sir Winde’s words.

“You’re being needlessly rough,” the captain had admonished when he’d stopped with Owaine several meters away from the ring, nodding at the boy Owaine had been sparring with (who had looked way too relieved at Owaine’s forcible removal). “You’re supposed to practice, not hurt each other.”

To which Owaine had sneered, shrugged off the grip the captain had had on his shoulder, and said loftily: “Had he been more skilled he wouldn’t have been hurt. It’s his own fault.”

Despite it being the truth - Owaine was far superior to all of the other children at Imme when it came to anything - it hadn’t been received well, and future king or not, Owaine had been ordered away from the training area for the rest of the day as punishment.

So now here he was, sulking (though he’d never admit to it) and having no idea what to do with himself.

Owaine had been sent to Imme to be kept safe, he’d been told, but it seemed like the planning hadn’t gone beyond “get Owaine to Imme”, because he’d been there for two months now, and there really was nothing for him to do. The outpost guards had their own routines and the knights their patrols, the servants and the cooks all did their own thing. Even the children of the adults stationed at the outpost had their own sets of chores to do when they weren’t receiving combat training. Owaine, on the other hand, only had combat training as a means to pass time aside from twiddling his thumbs in his fortified basement chamber, and that was only because he’d harassed sir Winde into letting him join the other children when they were being trained.

Needless to say, Owaine felt like a dead limb attached to the otherwise functioning body of Imme.

Grimacing, Owaine pushed away from the palisade and made a decision. If they wouldn’t give him something to occupy himself with he’d damn well do it himself.

Making sure not to draw attention to himself, he strode off towards sir Winde’s personal abode.

Apparently, stealing from the captain of the guards was really pretty easy if one were a crown prince. Upon entering Owaine had gone straight to the sword rack where he knew sir Winde kept his collection of ornate swords and grabbed the first he lay eyes on. Strapping it to his side, his lips had twisted in relish, his petty act of revenge successful. The fact that he was in possession of a fine sword was also a very big plus.

Once finished he stepped out and strode through the bustling outpost towards its eastern exit. Some servants gave him lingering looks, but he paid them no mind. Even if they’d recognized the sword to be the captain’s (which they most likely didn’t) they wouldn’t have stopped him; surely, if the crown prince was walking around with a sword then he was obviously supposed to walk around with a sword. No one would suspect him of anything untoward until the captain spread word that one of his swords were missing and someone remembered seeing the crown prince in possession of it, and by then Owaine would be far enough away to not have to deal with that whole drama for a while.

Coming up to the wooden gates of the exit, Owaine didn’t slow his steps even as he saw the guards look at him and then at each other, seemingly uncomfortable; did they stop the crown prince, or did they let him through? What was protocol in this situation? Owaine decided for them.

“I’m going out for a bit. I’ll be back soon,” he said dismissively, and before the guards had time to object, the boy had leapt off the beaten path out of camp and into the thick underbrush to disappear from sight.

-
Owaine had walked far enough to have no clue where he was, but he’d made small nicks in trees he’d passed every so often so he wasn’t worried about going back. So far, he’d had no more fun in the woods than he’d had back at the outpost - which was to say, there had not been that much improvement enjoyment wise. But having a sword was fun, at least.

Scowling, Owaine hacked at a long tuft of grass and found satisfaction in the way the shorne blades of grass scattered by his blade. He was standing in a small clearing, basking in the sunlight and terrorizing the tall grass tickling his knees. Being at Imme was stupid; what had his uncle been thinking? How was Owaine supposed to be safer at Imme when the risk of him dying from boredom here was so much higher than dying by some random angel’s blade back in Myrefall?

A muffled thud and the sounds of stone skittering across stone made Owaine stop mid-slash and lift his head in rapt attention. He was alone in the glade; the sound had sounded as if it’d come from somewhere deeper in the forest. His interest was immediately piqued; between grass cutting and mysterious sounds, he’d definitely choose mysterious sounds any day.
Turning a sharp right and forcing his way through the gnarly bushes encircling the glade, he came out on the other side to the sight of the ruins of what once must have been an impressive cathedral visible through the trees.

Instantly, Owaine felt his spirits lift. Ruins were always interesting to explore.

Hurrying through thickets and evading treacherous roots, Owaine reached a broken section of wall and used the thick ivy clinging to its side to climb up atop it to look into the skeleton of a building. The cathedral - for it must have been a cathedral once, the architectural design was too similar for it to have been anything else - was big, and aside from the opening Owaine had found and the collapsed ceiling, the walls were mostly intact. The archways and pillars that hadn’t completely crumbled along with the ceiling were more than five meters tall, and the windows were gaping holes where sunlight streamed through. What had once been the open floor of the cathedral had been taken over completely by grass and weeds.

Letting out a breath, Owaine sat back to let himself take in the place. He wasn’t a magical being, but even he could tell this place was steeped in old magic. Owaine had never felt anything like it before, and it made exhilaration bloom in his chest and made his eyes shine in a way they usually never did. Had the sounds he’d heard in the clearing been this place calling out to him in the only way it could? These ancient ruins of a forgotten time, recognizing a King of the future?

He jumped down from the wall and started walking towards where he imagined the altar would have been back when the cathedral had still been in active use, eager to see if he’d find anything treasure-like in its vicinity, when suddenly, he heard the same sounds again coming from somewhere behind him. Quickly, Owaine spun around, sword raised, and waited for more. Anything more.

But it was silent. Unsure, he adjusted his grip on the sword and shifted his weight. Was it the ruins trying to tell him something again, like he’d initially fantasized? Or was he not alone?

… Had he been tricked here by something?

Quiet and as fast as he could, he hurried back to the wall and away from the exposed open area. He was sure he could defend himself from whatever creature he’d possibly encounter in these woods, so it wasn’t fear that made him creep along the wall towards the opposite entrance to the ruins. It was the knowledge that the advantage in any fight lay in the element of surprise. If there was a darkbeast lurking outside the ruins that had been the one to lure him there, Owaine would make sure it wouldn’t even see him before he killed it.

Once by the entrance, the boy leaned forward to peek out. What he saw was a dilapidated courtyard, with collapsed walls and jagged parts of must have been tall decorative archways once sticking up from the ground. There wasn’t anything immediately dangerous to spot, and the atmosphere in the courtyard practically screamed serenity at Owaine, so there couldn’t be a darkbeast.

Owaine had just started to straighten up from his crouching position, when suddenly sharp movement to his left made him flinch and almost drop his sword in surprise; what looked like a huge bird had just flown to land on the top of one of the pillars, and the thud-crumble sound echoed through the area. Which explained the weird sounds, Owaine guessed. But no, not a bird…

A shiver ran down Owaine’s spine, and the hairs on his arms stood on end. The bird was almost shimmering in the sunlight, like there was a mist of pearly smoke surrounding it. It would have reminded him of a darkbeast, except the aura of a darkbeast was murky and tainted, and this - despite the ridiculousness of it - made Owaine think of pureness, of all stupid things. And actually, it wasn’t really a bird at all.

Owaine’s head buzzed (distantly, he heard his father’s dying screams echoing through his mind). Not a bird. It was an angel.

Frozen, Owaine stared at the creature as it balanced atop the pillar before swooping its wings to launch itself through the air to the next pillar and land on it. No human could have made that jump; the pillar had been several meters away. Not that there had been any doubt whether the creature had been human or not.

Shaking himself out of his stupor and swallowing all emotion, Owaine forced himself to step out into the courtyard before he could second guess himself. His hand was clasped tight enough around the hilt of the sword to make his knuckles go white.

Obviously, he was going to kill it, and he was going to do it without hiding in the shadows to prove that this angel was a small enough threat to him that he didn’t even have to use basic tactics to do it. The closer he came to the angel the more his skin prickled, almost like the creature made lightning gather in the air around it.

“Angel,” Owaine’s voice rang out loud and clear in the silent courtyard. It didn’t even shake at all, and with conviction, he stared up at the angel on the pillar and continued. “I’m going to kill you. Come and face me!”

Owaine was ready; his tutors may call him a child, and his sister still teased him when she got the chance despite being four years his junior, but he was ready for this.

Except. Except the angel wasn’t so much an angel but more like… a child? Now that Owaine could get a closer look at the thing, the wings looked more fluffy and disproportionately big for the small body they were attached to rather than vicious limbs to bludgeon with, and the face had wide eyes and plump cheeks. Ridiculously, Owaine was reminded of the baby geese he sometimes chased back at Myrefall when he looked at the creature, and it completely threw him off. How was he supposed to avenge his father and prove himself ready when the angel was a dumb child?

Owaine’s dismay made him crinkle his nose, and he pointed accusingly at the angel. “You’re a child?!”

 

[boo.]

So maybe it wasn’t a good idea that he hadn’t told anyone he left. About an hour beforehand, it seemed a capital idea to dash off into the woods, but now, as the trees seemed to close in about him, he was reconsidering. This was the second time he had slipped away, but the first time he had wandered off the path. In his opinion, paths were made for usability, not enjoyment. All the interesting things were likely to be found elsewhere.

Although this idea still seemed exciting to the young angel, he found “adventure” more difficult than he had imagined. His leather sandals slipped on roots and hidden stones, and his airy brown tunic was not made for treks through the brush. There was a red line on his cheek from when he had mistakenly let a branch go too soon, and his hair had lost some of its glossy tint. This image reflected perfectly what he felt; as he stumbled onward, he began to regret leaving more and more.

Finding his way home was of no concern; as befitted his angelic nature, two feathery bundles were folded behind his back, and they allowed for an easy view. No, it was his desire to prove his peers wrong that kept him moving forward. Just two weeks ago, he had arrived at Eitan, the hidden base just a short distance from foreign territory. His father wanted to give him a taste of life away from Mishmeret, and while the young angel hadn’t considered himself particularly coddled, he did find that the other angels here seemed to look down on his reserved upbringing. Normally, this wouldn’t have bothered him, but it had truly become a problem when he began to believe it. If he was supposed to become some great leader, like his father, shouldn’t he feel more like a soldier? This was precisely the reason he continued on. Exploring the unknown was the only way he could think of to earn respect.

Determined to banish this foul mood, he began to hum a tune in soft tones. His mother constantly sang, and he couldn’t help but do the same when he desired her comfort. As his fingers tapped in time, he paused in a small patch of sunlight and stretched out, unfolding his sail-like wings so that every feather was tickled by the faint breeze. From here, the ground sloped downward, and the trees were positioned like columns on either side, just wide enough for him to glide down. He backed up, then dashed forward as his wings caught the wind. Just like that, he let gravity do the work as he drifted down the hill, imagining that the trees really were columns, and that he was sweeping through exquisite halls of marble.

As his feet brushed against the ground again, his sandal caught on something hard, and he almost tumbled head-over-heels. Luckily, even angel wings are heavy enough to create a counterbalance, and he swept them forward so that he remained upright. As he looked for what had tripped him, he was surprised to see that the ground he stood on wasn’t just grass, but that it was a half-buried stone pathway.

Incredibly, without meaning to, he had stumbled across overgrown ruins, some relic of a bygone age. As he peered through the foliage, he realized that many of the thick tree trunks weren’t trees at all, but rather were the remains of gaping arches and grand pillars. Instead of ribbons and silk banners, vines were draped across the crumbling stonework, and living things of the earth replaced the long-gone royal attendants.

As he wandered between columns and collapsed walls, the young angel was reminded of a game he played with his younger brother back at Mishmeret. Inspired, he scrambled up a sloping stone barrier and perched himself atop the tallest point. From here, he spread his wings once more and flapped once, launching himself up and onto the next pillar with practiced balance. Dead leaves swirled around him, dancing in the new air currents like confetti that celebrated the coronation of a king.

The game was simple, but required no small amount of concentration. Each landing point was high off the ground and small in area, meaning that both feet had to land securely or risk a nasty fall. He didn’t seem concerned, however, and continued to bound around the area, unconsciously letting out a bubbling laugh.

“Angel!”

The unexpected spoken word shattered his daydreams, and he wavered on the pillar he had landed on. Fear leapt into his throat as his gaze snapped to the intruder, and he found himself unable to move. A million scenarios attacked his brain, each ending with the horrible reminder that this was basically enemy territory, and this was the enemy!

Although the first thing he had seen was the hilt of the sword by his side, there was something a bit off about this enemy. He wasn’t exactly all he had heard about at Eitan; everyone said the humans were seven feet tall, skeletal and ghoulish with dead eyes. This… was smaller. In fact, about his own height.

“I’m going to kill you. Come and face me!”

…

“You’re a child?!”

More words startled the angel, and his footing wobbled. Panic surged in his wings, and although he beat them furiously in an effort to remain where he was, gravity finally won over, and he fell to the ground in a heap of fluffy brown feathers. It took him only a moment to untangle his limbs and scramble to his feet, although his face was bright red and caked in dismay. He pressed his back against the pillar and opened his mouth, trying to form some kind of speech but failing pathetically. He had no way to defend himself, and this human was completely determined to end him right there.

But something had given the human pause. What had he expected, a glorious figure wrapped in linen and light? As he stared at the human, the young angel realized that neither of them had been what the other was expecting.

“You… You…” Elior finally stammered in soft, trembling tones, extending a hand in an effort to plead for mercy. “Aren’t you?”

His knees finally gave out, and he crumbled to the ground, although he continued to press himself against the pillar. “Please, don’t take my eyes! There… there are so many things I want to see!” Upon coming to Eitan, the first thing Elior had been told about humans was that they plucked out the eyes of the god-kin in fits of jealousy. He couldn’t imagine not being able to see; why would they do such a thing?

 

[Elysionistic]

Owaine spluttered, indignant, taking the innocent question for an insult. Was he a child? He was 12, practically an adult already, not a baby like his little sister. Besides, the quivering angel looked a lot younger than he did, if Owaine said so himself.

“I’m not a child, I’m 12,” Owaine said haughtily, willing his flushed cheeks to cool as he stared down the angel with a Look. “I’m obviously older than you.”

Emboldened by the way the angel cowered against the pillar, Owaine puffed out his chest to look the adult he was and moved forward, closer to the angel. His sword was steadily aimed at the angel’s throat as a deterrent for the angel to make any sudden moves, more for threat than actual practicality. His arm was beginning to burn from holding the sword at such an awkward angle.

The closer he got the stronger the buzzing in his ears became, and Owaine realized it hadn’t been his initial shock and fright that had caused it; it was caused from being close to the angel. The hairs on his arms still stood, and the air felt thick with what Owaine imagined magic would feel like. A part of him felt silly for thinking the ruins were enveloped in magic before, now that he was exposed to what it truly meant for something to be magic.

It was a heady thing, like feeling the chill nip at your exposed face during sunny winter mornings.

Owaine almost missed what the angel said, he was that lost in sensations and thoughts. But what the angel said baffled him enough to snap him out of it. “Your eyes?” he said, scrunching up his nose in a grimace of incredulousness. “Why would I want your eyes? That’s disgusting. If I were to take a trophy, I’d take something else, like...” - he scanned the angel quickly; the billowy clothes, the glossy hair, the pale skin - “like your wings.” He finished triumphantly, smirking slightly.

Standing over the angel like this, Owaine supposed he was the winner in this… non-fight. Certainly the angel had no fighting capabilities whatsoever, so there was no threat in that department, and as for the risk of it fleeing by way of flying away... Owaine was close enough to grab its feet and pull it back down if it tried to. Had anyone asked him, Owaine would never ever have said he would have expected his first encounter with an angel to be as ridiculously easily won as this one had been. If all the angels were like this, then they would win the war within the week.

But of course, the other angels weren’t like this angel. Owaine had seen what they’d done to his father, and heard stories of what they’d done to others. This angel before him was the exception, not the rule.

What was an angel as weak and pathetic as this one doing this close to the human kingdom?

Confident of his own superiority over the creature, Owaine relaxed a bit by way of leaning his weight on one foot and putting his free hand on his hip. He sniffed and looked down at the angel through dark bangs. “What are you doing here?” he said in a tone as authoritarian as he could manage (which honestly made him sound a bit like sir Winde). Feeling inspired, he added: “These are my ruins. You’re trespassing not only on my land, but my ruins as well.” And he was going to end it there, he was, but then he remembered the stupidest part of this whole situation, and he just had to add another question despite himself. “And why are you unarmed?!”