Fantasy The False Monarch: A Contested Throne [Closed]

[Tondc]

It was an amazing thing that something so familiar could look completely the same, yet feel entirely different. Her gaze wandered as she was led down the marble floors, artwork and tapestries lining the walls. A small, breathy laugh came out as her memory recognized many of them. Her footsteps slowed with the servant in front of her as they neared a private reading room. “His Grace will be here shortly… um– Princess.” the servant had informed, pausing and emphasizing her title as he opened the door to the study for her.

The Princess waved her hand, offering a warm smile. “It’s not a problem. I know this was unexpected. I don’t mind waiting.” She walked in, and only once she neared the dark wooden table as the room’s center did she hear the door close behind. Her eyes roamed around her surroundings. It was not officially her Father’s study, but he had much preferred this one when he wanted to become harder to locate. “It’s quieter” he had told her. She spied some of his books still littered throughout the room. As she grabbed one, the flipping of the worn pages was the only noise that filled the room.

There was an awkward silence outside of the pages. Though, perhaps there was always an awkwardness in waiting for someone. But this silence was accompanied with an eeriness. An uneasiness. The feeling set during the wait, and even the rays of sun that warmed the room could not alleviate the feeling. Perhaps the circumstances of which the meeting was to take place were too extraordinary. After all, how many times did someone rise from the dead?

It was a mutual request that a meeting occur, though Rhiannon wondered what the King really thought of it. If she didn’t know herself, she doubted he did either. She leaned against the dark wooded table, the rays of sunlight hitting against her, the warmth soothing of her nerves. Why was she even here? Why did she come back? Rhia’s thoughts reeled at the events of the recent day. Of her return.

Silas’s court was gathered for one of its regular events opened to the public. Many citizens came to express their grievances and request aid from the crown. It wasn't an ideal place for her, but it would also have been the only way she’d get a legal audience with the King that wouldn’t land her in a cell. Rhia arrived inconspicuous, calmed by the sight that others wore cloaks and hoods. Not many citizens were likely to recognize her, but in Izalta’s royal court? She was not even sure she could go through with revealing herself, so she did not want to risk being recognized early. As she came before the King, she had considered leaving, the familiarity of the throne room overwhelming. But seeing the King. Her brother. “It seems you’ve gotten a promotion since last we met. I should congratulate you. Your Grace.” she had finally greeted, pulling back the hood of her cloak, a bold grin on her lips. It was a bold move, but she feared she’d back out otherwise. And she couldn’t afford that. She needed to do this. Had known since the previous King had passed roughly two years prior.

Eventually, she set the book down as her thoughts died down, with a nervous exhale that followed. “I hope this wasn’t a mistake,” she muttered to herself. Her bold reveal did not leave any room for turning back. At least, not immediately. She was stuck for the time being.
Marcola

 

[Marcola]

Silas was well accustomed to the pace of being a king by now, though he carried out his duties with an internal reluctance. Years of shadowing his father's official events, followed by his own two years as monarch, left him well placed to address whatever issues would be brought before him at royal audiences. He remembered the first time he sat on the throne - an ornately carved structure cut from marble, decorated with painted vines and mythical beasts and placed squarely above the rest of the room by a podium - and he had felt like a child again, small in comparison to the throne which was at its' peak taller than a grown man, and insignificant compared to his father's legacy and the shadow of tragedy. Even now he felt like he didn't belong there, though mediating various disputes and speaking proclamations as tradition dictated was more routine than anything else, the crown that signified his power was ever-present in his mind.

He had thought this would be a day just like any other, though there was a particular solemn air hanging in both the room and his heart. How wrong he was about that.

He could no longer remember what issues he had resolved before the next person had been called forward, and upon speaking removed the hood of their cloak. In the half-second before realisation, he thought perhaps this was someone he had known in his days of sneaking into tourneys as a lad. Then came the realisation, the chatter throughout the room, someone questioned what sorcery this was that this person had stolen the face of the princess. Between the unidentified feeling that had settled in his chest, a dagger of alloyed hope and anger and sorrow thrust directly into his heart, he realised it was not a guise. Later he would consider that it could be some sort of magic, and then promptly doubt that idea. If someone wanted to get close to him they could mimic the steward, a servant, or any one of his guards, why would anyone go to the trouble of figuring out what his sister would look like aged a decade just to do this?

He hadn't realised that he'd stood from the throne, his gaze and thoughts so fixed on this ghost that had appeared in his hall. She did look different, older obviously, but the light from the stained glass windows painted patterns on her hair just the same, she still had their mother's eyes and that scar he'd given her from pushing her into a fountain when they were children. He remembered they had fought over something insignificant, and the guilt he'd felt when he saw the blood in the water was so much that he'd started crying and apologised on the spot. "Rhiannon, I-" he had started, cutting himself off when he realised that he was speaking as her brother rather than the king. The typically stoic king must have had a shocked look on his face, that shifted to a cold stare when he composed himself. "You will be allowed a private audience. In two days time." he had managed to say that much, then glancing to the palace steward to make sure it was written down. He couldn't rightly remember how things had gone then, his mind in such turmoil that the rest of the event was a blur.

He had thought that two days would be enough for him to get hold of his emotions, to sort through everything both in his material and internal worlds. Life as the monarch of Izalta marched on much the same, but he was focused on the meeting for much of it. When he did arrive at his study, that had been his father's once, he knew he was late. He didn't even have much of an excuse really, the tension surrounding the meeting had built up to the point where he had insisted on sparring with the captain of the guard that morning. It worked to calm him and there were never any serious injuries, but the palace healer always insisted on fussing over every small cut and bruise. He supposed she had good reason, if he died from some measly infection the kingdom would no doubt have been thrown into chaos.

As he drew closer, the guard outside the door stood to attention and began to reach for the handle to open it. Silas waved a hand to signal the guard to stop, this wasn't a diplomatic meeting where his power needed to be flaunted, it was just his sister. So why did he feel like there was some horrible fate awaiting him on the other side? After a moment of hesitation, he made his way into the room. He looked considerably less regal than she last saw him in the throne room no doubt, with the ceremonial crown swapped for a simple gold band and plainer clothing than he had worn then. His aloof expression had not changed, though his brows were formed into a slight frown as he looked at her, then flicked his gaze about the room before settling on the portrait above the hearth - the royal family as they had been ten years ago - staring at it as if it now offended him. His father hadn't had the heart to move it and Silas couldn't bring himself to either. The door clunked shut behind him, and was the only sound for a few moments as he tried to figure out what to say. He'd had two days to think about it, and now faced with her he could only say three words.

"You were dead."

The words were simple but clearly charged with emotion, though Silas couldn't figure out exactly which - Bitterness at being abandoned? Disbelief at the evidence he now had that she was not in fact dead? Fear of whatever else he could be wrong about? He wouldn't ask her 'why' right now, though he desperately wanted to. He wanted to see what she would say, if she would explain how she escaped. He wanted to hear it in her own words.

His intense gaze returned to her now, studying her reaction. He was never very good at reading people outside of combat, but maybe she would reveal something. If nothing else he could memorise how she looked now, etch it into his memory in case she disappeared again. He didn't realise how he must look to her, how much of a shock it would be to see this icy and detached man where her bright and boisterous brother had once been. In his own mind it was for his own protection, a wall to keep out anything that might hurt him further.

 

[Tondc]

The door creaked open, and her head snapped towards the door as the King soon appeared from the opening. There he was, Silas. Her brother. In the silence, her gaze examined him from head to toe. Physically, he didn’t look too much different. Taller and older, yes, but still the brother she would recognize anywhere. Yet, that seemed to be where the similarities ended. She had thought the solemn king was just the persona he took on while sitting the throne. Their father was a warm man, kind and open. Yet, even he had a sterner, perhaps even cooler personality when holding court. There seemed to be no change in Silas’s demeanor from two days ago and now. And the scar that now adorned his cheek only seemed to emphasize the weight of the crown. Of the past ten years.

Rhia followed his gaze briefly towards the large portrait of their family. She had noticed it when she entered, yet had refused to give it much of her attention until now. Her eyes went from face to face of their family. They were all so happy. That day was still clear in her mind. Their father had been on the throne fifteen years, having ascended the throne a year before her birth. In honor of the anniversary, and fifteen years of relative peace, a portrait of the family was ordered by the King. It was a celebration. A celebration that was soon and abruptly ended.

The flames. The screams. The tragedy. All things Rhia remembered, despite all her efforts to suppress them.

Her eyes paused on Silas, ten years prior. Where was that smiling brother now? The boisterous warrior who was her partner in crime? The Prince who would sneak into tournaments as an unknown challenger, with his sister’s help. And she remained relatively unchanged in demeanor. Perhaps that made Silas’s stark change so… unsettling. Then again, perhaps she was expecting too much. Look at what had happened ten years ago, almost to the date?

You were dead.

His words brought her back to the present and out of her thoughts. There was a rueful laugh at his words as she turned her attention towards him once more. “And now I’m not. Though, really, I never was.” Magic existed in their world, but none that could resurrect the dead. “You all just believed I was gone. And…” Her words trailed lightly, despite the weight of their conversation. Rhia held her brother’s gaze for a while longer as the emotions behind Silas’s words did not go unnoticed. It took everything in her to not run up to him and embrace him. Part of her wasn’t sure what would happen to either of them if she did. Another part wasn’t sure she wanted to, and upon seeing his cool gaze, maybe he didn’t want that either. What did he even think of her returning? What if he resented her for not coming back sooner? Or was Silas perhaps just entertaining a fool, not convinced it was her.

His charged words revealed nothing but perhaps a desire to know. To know more. Though, how could she admit that the world thinking she was dead had somehow turned out to be a blessing? Maybe because some part of her still felt that it wasn’t. She couldn’t decide. As she shook her head, she inhaled shakily before continuing. “And, I can’t say the world believing I was gone was all bad. I’m sorry,” she added quickly, “It was not fair to you. To anyone. I just couldn’t– well, it just would have been hard to explain I had not died. I wasn’t ready.”

I’m still not.

Rhia motioned towards the painting, now behind her as she pulled her cloak closer around her, almost protectively. Shielding her. “Some could say the same about you, though. You’ve changed, and not just in title. Perhaps I am wrong, but the Silas from ten years ago seems dead as well.” Her words were plain, though there was almost a disappointment in them. Not in him, but with the circumstance.

“Congratulations though, if that’s even appropriate.” Her lightness of her words were similar to when they were younger as she laughed tentatively. “The Crown looks good on you,” a finger tapping her forehead where the golden circlet rested on Silas.