Fantasy The Winter of Our Discontent [Closed]

[Melpomene]

The Winter of Our Discontent ​

 

[Melpomene]

In the darkened winter winds there was naught to keep them from the brink other than the spiraling breath of a maddened king.

In the blackness of it, there was an oppressive heat. Alongside it, a chill bloomed within the breast and extended just below the skin where it turned into a burning inferno that was all-encompassing. Only a burning red crack allowed the dying sunlight to cut in. Laying a dagger-like caress against Rowan’s pale cheek, sliding over one dark eye. Alight, it came shimmering with gold in the burning fire. Dilated and narrowed, he gasped desperately for breath, pursing his lips reaching for cold air to satisfy the desperate hunger that had consumed and would not allow him leave. But it never came. Instead, he breathed in fire.

“My prince?” The priest was pressed against the screen. His leathery face was creased and stained, wispy white brows furrowed in a frown that could not be smoothed. It was intimate, they sat one with the other in the darkened abyss. Alone as the whispering winds curled about them. Sweat dappled on the prince’s young golden cheek, and with a newfound exuberance, he had gripped the crescent moons that rested lovingly over his heart. The edges bit deep into a soft pale palm, but never did they betray. If they did, he was deserving of it.

Thickly, Rowan swallowed. Words that had laid so heavily upon an addled mind seemed to trapped against a lead tongue. A keening whimper, instead, escaped his pale throat. Panic set in soon after. Seizing limbs and heart which flared and descended into utter disarray. A soul void of life sank and captured his bowels yanking them ever lower into the nothingness below. Frayed, and despondent there was no speech which could accurately anchor his mind’s eye to that of the priest’s. The yoke was lifted and forfeit.

This fear, this phobia rested just above his breast, digging deeply through skin, muscle and sternum until it heaved out a bloody heart that would beat aghast as the knifing hatred of bitter mid-winter rendered it dead.

“Breathe, Rowan.” The same soothing voice echoed quietly from across the screen. Leagues apart, yet so intimately close Rowan could feel his heated breath against his cocked ear. So heated. So hot.

“I can’t! You know I can’t!” he gasped. Tears pricked against his eyes. They were from the pain in his chest. Only the pain in his chest.

“You speak, therefore you breathe. Speak to me, Rowan.” Like a master consoling its pet, Rowan almost felt the old weathered hand card through his golden hair as it had so many times in his youth. Father Edwyn had been about for so long. Back then wisps of his beard had still been black. Even then, it was always him chasing the demons from the prince’s susceptible mind. In every corner of his eye, the sky darkened with sin and pestilence. In every corner there stood an enemy, a traitor, awaiting with dagger-like nails prepared to pierce.

“I’m sorry.” A voice so small. It was a child’s, thickened with tears. A child’s. It could not have been Rowan. Yet his throat hurt from even that exertion, and his pale cheeks were wet.

“My dear boy, you have nothing to feel sorry for. The Gods weep with you to see the fall of your father.”

“It is temporary.” A hope. A naive hope. A stupid hope.

“My boy, his mind is leaving him. It is his punishment. You know this.” Rowan’s teeth were pressed tightly, one against the other with skin pulled taut over them. To say such was treason. Rowan wished to cry out, to reach across the screen and throttle the priest himself for such insolence which he let spill out before him. His father the king was chosen by the double gods themselves to sit upon the silver throne and bring about an order of peace and holiness in a world darkened by the endless night.

Yet, at the same time, Rowan knew the words to be true. And in their truth, he wept.

“It is not his fault .” So childish. Words spoken in such a tone were not befitting a prince. “You know what witches do!”

Father Edwyn leaned back, the wood creaking beneath him. Condensation began to kiss against their brows and lips. Exposing his neck, baring himself, the prince arched his back exuberantly. There was silence. It rang loudly in his ears, buzzing there between Rowan’s eyes. It was insistent. But comfortingly familiar.

A pregnant silence had been his childhood. It was his home. Wrapped in its warmth as he laid a head against his mother’s thigh while she embroidered, pregnant with his brother and attempting to remain still in her discomfort, yet glowing at the same time. It was the only time she would allow her long fair hair to fall from its bun and wrap about her, encasing them in a cloud of pale perfume.

Occasionally, one of her pale hands would sneak down and brush through his hair.

My good little boy. she would murmur affectionately, caressing a plump, smooth cheek. Ruddy and young, she would be unable to stop herself from pinching it. Never hard, just enough to tug. Such affections began to wane as his brothers fell from her loins and took his place. But Father Edwyn had come, beckoning the wandering prince to sit upon his steps and take his place in the chapel to learn of the ways of their Gods.

Speak not their names. Such names were sacred and to never be invoked.

Stand tall, speak proudly as a prince would. As a good boy would.

“I’m sorry.” he breathed again. This time his voice was steeled. “Father, please, I have come to confess. May you still listen?”

“Always, my child.”

A pause.

“I… Question my father’s judgment,” he admitted quietly. “He may be destitute of the mind now, but he is still our Lord King. His decisions are rash, to trust the harlot in such times is…” Rowan pursed his lips. Then raised his head. “I question his judgment, father. I ask to be forgiven.”

“My dear Rowan, you know I love you as a son, do you not? And you know I would have been there to pit you on the path of righteousness if I thought the defying glint within the recesses of your mind was against the will of our Gods? Then you know that for this day you have committed no sin. To question the path which a sinner now festers on is not something to be ashamed of.

“No, in truth, I would have admonished you to turn a blind eye to it. But do not hate your father, our vessels are easy to corrupt and the demons that were loosened upon us take pleasure in poking for weakness. No, no, your father, he should be pitied and loved into his grave. I know you worry prince, but neither of the Gods deign give you punishment for there is no sin to be punished for.

My prince, I beseech the, think not of what you have done as a transgression, but rather as a showing of your own wisdom.”

Another creak and a gust of cold wind wrapped about the prince. An aggressive emptiness filled him. Blinking against it, he could only stumble blindly into the last light of the sun that emptied its split rays into the chapel. He was light, walking on air, breathing in the cold dust and shivering. The room was open and fresh. Narrow stained windows depicting the creation of their twin moon Gods let golden light be streamed through and catch against the heads of the twins as they stood as stone, resolute above the podium of the chaplain. Many a day Father Edwyn had stood beneath them as he spoke their mighty word in the ancient tongue of the good book. Plain unadorned wooden benches lined the walls. It was for only the royal family, yet it seemed out of them all Rowan was the one present the most.

A sigh escaped his lips. His dear brothers. His dear father. They, perhaps, were lost. They could be found if they joined him more often.

Uncertainly, Rowan shifted. He wished to argue the edict of the father. But that would be arguing against the will of the Gods themselves, and what were they if not benevolent and omniscient? And Edwyn stood tall and sure, wrapped in the fresh grey and blue robes of the holy men. The edges were lined with silver and over his head he had drawn a grey hood that obscured his face, letting shadows come and fall over fresh and pale eyes.

Edwyn held out his palm and waited as Rowan performed his obeisance and pressed a tender kiss to the damp outstretched hand. It was old, wrinkled and spotted. The old priest smelled of dust. It comforted Rowan.

“Go, my prince. Must you not greet your uncle? Your cousin? They come to you today, no?” An old and withered hand caressed Rowan’s cheek. “He will help you in your deliberations, I am sure. I knew him when he was young as I knew your father. I know them as I know my own mind, prince.”

“Yes…” Rowan spoke quietly. “I must attend. I have not seen Uncle Gregor in so long, you know. I hardly remember him…”

Wisps of what was left of Edwyn’s brows raised up and disappeared into a shadow cast by his hood. The sun had lowered and began giving way to night. He had already been told of their arrival in the morning. Tired and haggard they had retreated to their beds only to arise curious and poking about the estate like cats.

“Then…” A small pink tongue poked out and wetted the priest's lips. “I recommend let blood be reconciled, Rowan. He calls to you, so go to him.”

Rowan chewed his lip for only a moment. Then he snapped straight and gathered himself, crouching and clasping his hands about the ankles of his dear priest and pressing a kiss about the top of his boots before rising again, straightening the silk tunic on his breast and letting the ermine lined cloak be placed over his robes again. An opulent golden circlet was placed on his brow, blending into the gold of his hair where ruby jewels did not catch the light and send fractures of red light to and fro. With newfound confidence, he turned to walk from the chapel. In the corner of his eye through a window, he caught sight of pale skin and dark hair intermingling within the courtyard. A siren’s song played faintly in his ears, tinkling and beckoning.

A deep frown touched his pale lips. He touched his crescents, then he continued on his way, head raised and eyes cast forward against the endless night. A knowing smile would grace his lips, one which barely stepped from a smirk and would endear his uncle, as it highlighted his man’s face. Baby fat lost, soon he would take shape as the man and king he was.

Then perhaps this kingdom, so lost in sin, could once again return to a holiness, a beacon that it once was.

~*~*~*~
Purity, at its heart, meant nothing without black sin. It was the shadow that acted as friend to the light. It only existed under the permission of the face of the sun and moons. It was only in their absence that shadow would forever leave and instead let oppressive darkness reign. It was only a hairsbreadth away, threatening to come as soon as the last candle was snuffed out and left to smolder.

Whisps of smoke came as the torches and candles burned ever brighter. The howling of the winter’s storm came. It rattled the shutters of the windows and iced against the ice windows, frosting them until only a white hellscape was able to be seen as warm breath fogged them. A whirlwind as strong and as powerful as the clash of mighty armies, just as those which had been made in the stronghold of the heavens. Built from the hands of celestial fingers, with stars combed through their hair and weapons of great power they fought the might of the dark lord. But there was no holy battle being fought outside those pale frosted windows.

It was only a storm. An omen, perhaps, but nothing more.

A king was dying and the land wailed.

Pale blue eyes watched the silver mirror placed delicately atop a white marble-topped table. Geneva sat still, back straight and hands clasped serenely before her. One foot was tucked delicately behind her ankle. Both feet were clad in light bejeweled slippers.

Gentle fingers threaded through her fair head of hair. Not yet had the onset of white and greying signs of aging begin to show within. Lady Alowin carefully freed her of every knot and tangle, brushing until it shined in the light of the torches before carefully beginning to place complex braids throughout. It would be threaded with a silver chain to catch the light and embedded in her hairnet would be fine emeralds as was befitting a queen.

She looked up, eyes dancing over the fine-boned features of the young woman who worked so tirelessly. Young, yet already the curves of womanhood were coming to touch her. Suitors called for her, requesting the blessing of the Queen to court one of her ladies in waiting, watching with interest as the girl swayed across the dance hall, performing alongside the little nymph that sang from her siren’s song from her little perch. But this girl, little Lady Alowin, she was no siren.

Her face was sweet with bronze hair falling to frame her round cheeks. Pink and plump, there would be no shortness of men wishing to place chaste kisses against her lips, but within her eyes, she held fast to a naivety. A lack of cunning and an abundance of warmth that would make for a hearth within the coldness of the winter. She was no virgin, however, well she hid it. A slight smile came upon Geneva’s mouth.

A network of knowledge always surrounded the spider in the center. For some reason, many of the girls assumed an absolute loyalty from those who surrounded them. Yet, still, some were smart enough that Geneva did not fear for whoever would become her daughter and take the crown as she once had.

“Alowin.” She looked up, watching the sudden alertness in the girl’s face. Demure and quiet, her eyes were cast down until she seemed completely enraptured by the braids which she placed within the fair hair of the queen.

“Majesty?” A mouse’s voice squeaked. Befitting for her image.

“The men speak well of you, Alowin. Do you have one in mind already?” The girl looked down, shifting idly from one foot to the next for a few moments, then canted her head to the side.

It is the steward’s son.

“Lord Ebovoric seems rather kind…” A near coquettish look crossed her girlish features. Geneva smiled. She was right. The boy flirted with every pretty girl and seduced them with promises and hopes beyond their birthright, dangling it before their faces as the master dangles the candy. And they ran into his sheets and laid themselves bare for him. Poor stupid girl. She had seen them speaking from the courtyard. Had watched little Alowin flush and stutter beneath his handsome visage. Already he must have taken her.

“I… I fear his eye wanders…” Geneva let her eye flit for a moment, recognizing the ardent envy, and cocked a fair brow.

“Men’s eyes always wander, little mouse, you must learn to let that go.” For a moment, Alowin’s gaze sharpened and her small mouth opened. A noiseless sound of protest and then it snapped closed as a flush crossed her. Geneva could not help the laughter that escaped her.

“Oh? Come now, you believe me to be purposely in the dark over mine own husband’s doings? He sings the siren’s song from across the castle, of course I hear it.” She settled back, flexing her fingers. Rings had been slipped on them, weighing them down with the familiar regality that befitted a woman of her status. They were growing stiff and cold. The brazier burned too far from them, not yet reaching into the crevices of the wide walls of the queen’s quarters.

Lady Gwendolyn Aelswith had shaken them. A widow, pale and young with not even one child has come to grow in her womb stood against the king, having been brought after tales of her mosaics had reached their ears. And she had wheeled on the king, pressing herself toe against toe, and demanded her husband’s land go back to her hands despite law decreeing it be given to the crown.

A true bewitching minx hidden deep within. Hidden behind pale sculpted cheekbones awaiting to be cupped were the startling cunning and filthy mouth of troubadour that saw upon her opportunity, but she was no threat. No, she had simply been new. Walking in, strutting more of it. Geneva had heard the story of what had caused so much attention to coming to the young woman.

A shipment of dull glass had led her into a foul mood, smashing a glass sheet with her bare fist.

You wish me to make a mosaic for their majesties with this shite?!” she had cried. This isn’t red! This-” she had held up her bloodied fist and shaken it hard at the redfaced and cowering artisans. “this is red!”

The crimson blood had pumped red on the floor that day and deep within her husband’s loins for the little woman with bloodied fists and a mouth that had woven a near impressive amount of curses into her vocabulary. Intriguing enough, though she was not enduring.

“I am the queen,” Geneva said simply, touching the rouge which now coated her lips. “And I will always remain the queen no matter what harlot steps in and entices his majesty, I am his wife. My position is defined and unchangeable. Does she not still bow when I walk by? Does she not still address me with eyes cast down and kiss my hand rings when I will it?”

Alowin looked up and then shook her head. “How lovely her majesty is…” she whispered. “I could never be so sure… I would hate my husband if he ever turned his eye.”

Hate. In her youth, Geneva thought herself capable of it. Yet now as she watched the simpering of young girls at the behest of the dangling web of men who never brought love and only the lust of their loins she knew it was too strong to spare for something so petty. They were women, she was a queen. A queen did not feel something as useless as envy or jealousy, as she had nothing to be jealous of.

“You hate? No, child. There is no reason to hate. You are his husband, no? So you will endure. All the other women will come and go but you will be constant. They are but harlots who may believe themselves to have an edge, but the moment they begin to wrinkle or come to be bores they will be dropped and cast to the side.” A slight turn of her mouth. “Even if they are witches.”

Alowin fell silent as she slid the hairnet over Geneva’s freshly braided hair that had been curved into a simple bun. After a moment she stood gracefully and gestured for her furred cloak to be placed over her pale shoulders. She had aged, but her beauty still glowed in her glowing pale face. Fair and tall, she glided across the smooth stone floors.

“I hope you heed my words, child. But I do not expect you to.” She pursed her lips, checking the mirror once more before casting her eyes to the mahogany door the separated them from her brother-in-law. A soft frown creased her brow.

A snake shivering in the brush with his beady eyes that stared from above his greying beard. Rowan had accepted his kind words as fact, but he was a boy who did not understand the way of the kingdom yet, with a mind filled with adoration and naivete he would not know the first steps to take.

Yet, one would think he would consult his mother. But… She fought the urge to bite her lip as he heart fluttered and softened at his innocent stare like that of a boy that would sit at her knee rather than a man that ran from the gentle affections she laid on him. Such a fine man he had become. Such fine men all of them would become.

If they would listen to their mother perhaps they would transition smoothly from boyhood to manhood.

But a man’s pride was dangerous, and the growing storm made it moreso.

A breath fell from her nose and she stepped from her rooms feeling the guards coming to flank her as she walked regally through the halls to the feat in the honor of the old Gregor and his spawn. Perhaps Rowan would not look upon them with scrutiny, but he needn’t worry about such things.

He had his mother. For now and until she died.

~*~*~*~
The chill was deep and cutting.

A flurry of white had encased the courtyard in ice and maddening wind. Furiously it whipped at the rocking branches of the trees, they groaned with distress, bending hard and low as they filled with ice and snow. Smaller branches snapped with ease, fluttering through the wind and landing hard against the hard ice-laden earth. It was at once destruction and beauty, a fascination within nature that the moon gods had bestowed. Now, they were unable to be seen hidden behind the thick clouds, however they would be full today, according to the workings of the astrologists. It had been only briefly that Gwendolyn had been in their presence, but she still appreciated it, loving it and holding it close within her.

Pale fingers traced the sky. Frozen they broke in the wind. For a moment she was distracted by their ugliness. The knuckles were scarred, as the hands of mosaicists often were, from countless pieces of glass digging deep within them. The tips of her fingers were calloused from playing on her loot. They were only womanly in shape, slender and pale with long fingers that danced like an ambling acrobat over the curve of a man’s hip and thigh.

It did not matter. Men hardly looked at her hands. Oftentimes their eyes were placed elsewhere.

A twist in the pattern, a new constellation was being made, traced and embedded deep within her mind locked away in recesses that would be untapped. It was what she and her mother would do, sleepily in the night as the cold comfort of the two moon Gods hung over them and her mother would point with her long pale fingers that were stained by powder and herb. She would smile, eyes drawn into the corner and watching her daughter as she slid into the same movements until all had become second nature.

Dark hair fell into her eyes, a mist escaped before her face having been breathed from her own lips. In her concentration, she felt the lingering tug at the back of her skull and deep within her bowels. An electric spark that fused through her body and caused it to set alight with an energy that could not be tapered.

The fire begged to be taken out, like an iridescent light it was alluring, ambling, and lascivious. A thing which demanded and always took. It was not evil, however, simply like a woman happy and reaching in her zealous want for her lover to come upon her and take her in the snowy fields.

Another breath escaped her, icy and misty as she watched it rise from her mouth and dissipate into the air. A shudder ran through her, though not from the cold.

The energy came and left as she lowered her hand, feeling it crackle between widespread fingers and into the air. Then she smiled to herself serenely as a tune came to her throat and she hummed it, slow and gentle in the winter’s storm. A presence was by her, though she hardly turned her head to see him as he ambled, slipping a hand first over her hip in the way of a lover, then flitting over her waist before he reached and took a hand between his gloved ones.

“Don’t freeze, love, your lovely voice will be lost to the wind, and then who shall sing with me?” Rhys the Sweet slipped by her, his body warm and his smile warmer with mischievous dark eyes that danced over her face as a troubadour was wont to do. Dark brows raised and he raised a singular finger to caress her cheek, stroking a strand of hair from it.

“My voice is fine, you should worry for your own, I believe it cracked last time.” Gwendolyn slid herself away from his touch, though her smile was coquettish as she rubbed her hands together. He had warmed her sheets before, however, she had thought him insufficient despite his boastings. That, however, was nothing new. But to be tossed in such a way left Rhys scrambling attempting to make amends, first through insults and now through a second chance.

“Do you work on a spell out here?” he smiled knowingly, brows raised in a manner which caused her to forget how well he wormed within and struck hard at the heart when he found the thread which could be pulled to make the tapestry unravel. Her teeth grit as she sucked in. His smile vanished. “The King… I hear he does not do well…”

“It isn’t my doing.” Gwendolyn rose her hand and peered up. “I care not--”

“Well, my dear, I thought you would know by now that it matters not what you did but what people say you have done. And people, Gwenny, they say you have struck in blind jealousy.”

She snorted. “Jealousy? Of whom?” pale frozen fingers stroked over her porcelain cheeks. “Do they truly think me of the sort?”

“It is a woman’s sort.”

“Mm. You truly are a troubadour. And don’t call me Gwenny.”

“If you wish, Gwenny.” The mischief returned. “I have seen you angered, I believe we would have felt it if you had cursed anyone, personally.” His ease returned. He was rooting, looking for gossip to bring back to the other musicians, to the ladies and men he bedded in hopes of loosening their own tongues and showcasing his knowledge of the palace going ons. Already he had made a name for being the most knowledgeable of the little witch that had joined the court. He cared nothing for her. None here did.

Once she had a brother but he was a squire now and too young to worry over his older sister’s wellbeing. The king had once been her ally, one which was powerful and dominating. But now he lied sick and the fingers pointed towards her. She had meant to leave before anything such as this had come. They would not allow her leave now. Watched by every eye she was without privacy. A brow twitched and her eye turned.

“Mm… So you’ve come to support me then?” Her voice edged with sarcasm, she would not let them think her naive. She was no child or dullard. She knew where they stood. Where she stood.

A shadow, oppressive and strong, slipped over them as the wind drew up, pulling the braids from her hair and sending her dark tresses fluttering about. A scowl painted on her lips as she turned hard to him. He stared back coolly, stepping forward and taking a hand into his own. A kiss was pressed brazenly against her knuckles.

“Let us sing a song together, hm? I dislike you when you show so much animosity. Sing of your lost loves again, where has he gone?” Abruptly she yanked her hand away and turned sharply, placing her back towards him.

“Leave me. You have guests to entertain.” The wind howled hard and harsh. In the distance, there were the crowds of men and women speaking and mingling, flirting, and playing cards as she tucked her hands deep within her the coverings of her arms.

“Mm… You will not crash the feast then?” he asked.

She snorted. “I believe the royal majesties would prefer not to see me, eh?” A piece of dark hair fell into her eyes as she stared out across the courtyard twisting away from the burning brand of loneliness and into the spiteful hold of rejection. After a moment, her visage smoothed as she turned an eye back to Rhys. “Go on then, enjoy the festivities my little songbird.”

His eyes were alight again. “You call me such? Oh, am I forgiven?”

“You will not be if you continue bothering me.” She said sharply. “Go on then, I would part with nothing faster than your presence.”

“Oh, the lady doth sting like a scorpion.” He held his chest in mock pain then stepped back and turned from her. Once again she was left in the comforting lonesomeness of the ever-growing winter’s touch.

 

[pointmango]

The low wintry afternoon sun sent shadows from the cedar bouts, lighting up the snow at the edges of the castles ledges. The castle itself had a scarcely disturbed aspect of antique solemnity, which gave off a startling effect. Kol walked on the gravel across the courtyard. The snow still lay in islets on the grass and stone. It collected in masses on the boughs of the great cedar and the crenelated coping of the stone walls. The door he sought was walled with limestone which was broken and fretted and learned its soft grey powder to dark lichen. Positioned by the side of the wall were large windows, mimicking the same shape of the arches from the chapel.

Once inside he was granted access to the King’s room. Kol was there upon the King's request. A steward, who had been feeding the King, looked over Kol dangerously, but the King whisked him away. “Leave us,” he croaked out in his sickly air.

With the steward gone, Kol carried himself forward to the King, “King Damien,” he bowed his head. The man who once stood so tall and proud. The wisest man Kol had ever known. He went up and found him stretched on the bed pale and silent. Weight had begun to lose around his face, and his hair greyer than just weeks ago. “You requested my presence.”

“Yes,” Damien gripped the young man’s hand weakly with his long thin hand, “Do you remember?” He uttered.

Kol felt like he could see the King’s gaze moving in and out of focus, but he nodded, “Yes sir,” he made sure to speak deeply and clearly. He was like a sick bird, with languid eyes and ruffled plumage. His senses seemed dulled to the sights and sounds around him.

“They speak of you,” Damien muttered now, a cough came from his lips. “I knew then, I know now. It is you.” A knock came to the door. Damien broke into a severe fit of coughing that willed Kol to stand closer, and he remained close until the coughing ceased.

Kol did not understand anymore, “King Damien, I do not understand.” Kol’s voice was subtle but desperate, he never understood why the King took him from his mother. The knock came again, more aggressive this time. “Please, explain it to me.”

“It is you,” the King muttered again, and the door opened, it was the doctor. Kol stepped away from the King’s bed, and the doctor moved in, immediately performing his exam, the King muttering nonsense. He had heard rumors, the King’s states of being sentient and being mad. The delirium tore at the hearts of the Queen and the townsfolks alike. But now he was experiencing the moment for himself. Kol had no choice but to leave the King’s chambers and head to his own in the servants quarters. He sat down on his bed, trying to remember that day, it came to him often in his dreams, but figuring what the King had meant was new. What did he mean? It is you. Kol laid back on his bed.

His mother laid with men of all different backgrounds. He remembered her true craft. She would mutter in the night, and gift others crystals and rocks, hand customers vials and tell them to only tell those they trusted. That craft did not feed them. So she turned to a brothel, that was how she provided for him. He recalled that clearly now, he didn’t quite understand then. Some men paid more, the nobles always did, they provided generous tips for her services. The men who just saved for a lay for period were often the most brutal of her clients. Alcohol on their breath and were always too rough and too fast. It was on those nights afterward she would hold him and weep into his dark hair and tell him they would leave soon.

"I promise baby." She would whisper after cries would come no more. "We will find somewhere so much greater than here. I will make sure you do not spend your life here." She would tell him. "I hold your heart just as I hold your hand, my son," she assured him.

Kol did not understand what his mother meant, why she would weep. The other women in the house would not weep like she did after the men came to them all. Some did on occasion, but never the way his mother did. She worked nights often, but would also have to work during the day when prompted. When she said they would leave soon, where would they go?

The brothel head was a crooked man, with a crooked smile and a firm hand. It was late one evening and the crooked smile was no longer visible, he approached his mother. He gripped Mira’s chin, “This one is paying the best I’ve ever been paid… gave him what he has paid for.” He shoved her some as he released her and nodded as the tall burly man stepped inside.

He was of noble descent, that much was clear to Mira, perhaps even of a greater value. So why was he here? He could afford better whores than her. But the look on his face was not hungry, nor lustful. In fact, he barely even looked at her body. “Cover up.” the man spoke in a very deep tone as he handed Mira her thin robe. When she recognized his face, her stomach sank.

Mira wrapped herself tightly now, not wanting to be exposed at all as she didn't have to. There was almost an understanding of the man’s face as he spoke his next words, still a harsh exterior, but it was as if he understood something. “I will give him a better life. He is not safe here.” He began, and at that moment Mira knew this man knew exactly who she was, and who Kol was as well.

“It’s not that simple.” She spoke nearly trembling.

“It is. For now anyway. He is young. I will take him to the north. I have some handmaidens who can help him until he is grown. He will take labor, the stables…. Perhaps a blacksmith. If suspicions are low, perhaps even a position in my court.” He told her. “He is not safe here.” The man repeated.

Mira glanced behind her, where her room was, where her son sat, oftentimes she knew he heard the noises that came from this room, but she did not know if he understood them. Perhaps he did. He did deserve better than this. She raised this boy, and held him each night, and spoke encouraging words to him, letting him know he would do better than this. Here was his opportunity. She knew who he was, and he sought to protect her son, and give him better than anything close she could ever provide. She nodded slowly, tears welling in her eyes. “I won’t ever see him again will I?” She asked, very softly.

“No.” The nobleman spoke. He stepped forward, “I will give you some time now. But I shan't stay too long. Suspicions will grow. I promise to make sure he is alright.” He told her.

Mira nodded, and she began to turn towards the other room. “I will give you a small sum of money,” the noble began, “I urge you to leave here, start a new life for yourself, away from here,” he spoke to her, and his eyes glanced towards the door, almost as if he was referring to the crooked man.

Mira moved to the back where Kol sat, he was drawing some figures in the sand with a short stick and she moved over scoping her son up and sitting on the bed with him. “Why are you crying?” Kol asked her carefully, her tears weren’t like the weeps before. These were soft, much sadder almost.

“I love you, my son.” She whispered. “I love you so much. Our hearts will always be together, I promised you a better life baby.” She whispered as she kissed his head. “It’s time.” She told him.

Kol could see the silhouette of the man in the other room now and the small boy looked to her now. “Where are we going?” he asked her carefully.

Mira shook her head, “You are going to go North. You will be taught so much more than I could manage for you here.” She told him.

“You’re not comin'?” Kol asked, now understanding more of what she was saying. “No.” He spoke quickly, for a small boy he was bright. “No, I want to stay with you.” He spoke and more tears fell from his mother's eyes. “Please, I do not want to, please.” He whispered to her, his own eyes beginning to water.

The man came to the doorway, “It is time.” he spoke to the pair of them.

“When can I come back?” Kol asked quickly. His mother now looked away and it infuriated the small boy.

“You will not see me again.” Mira clutched her son in a hug, her lips on his head, “Promise me to be a good man, Kol. I love you. You will be better off.”

The man stepped forward, taking Kol’s hand and tugging him away, “Come now boy.” he spoke. When Kol resisted, the man clutched him harder and then he knelt down. “Be strong for your mother boy. She’s been strong for you. Hold it in.” He told the child. Kol’s resistance faltered now and he followed the man out of the whorehouse and into his carriage waiting.

Sixteen years he worked as a stable hand. He was raised by kitchen cooks and maids and held the smallest room in the servants quarters. He was given an apprenticeship working with the blacksmith two years ago, and worked there some days as well, although his most daunting task was that he was given time with the King’s sons tutor once a week while he was growing. It was odd, none of the other young boys who worked for the House were permitted to learn. King Damien took him from his mother when he was six and had always told him it was important he learn how to write, understand battle complexes, although Kol never understood why. Damien always refuted questions, simply stating he promised the son's mother a better life, a better life was a literate one. King Damien justified this act to others as a potential diplomat, since many travelers were killed with rising tensions, sending his sons would not always be the most probable option.

Kol cursed himself then, for not asking about his mother. The King was on his deathbed and he may never receive answers now with his deteriorating mind. Kol made small wages, and he swore one day he would travel south. He would find the woman who raised him, his mother. Who he now understood raised him in a whore house so he could be fed. He would find her and swore he would provide for her this turnaround, he would find a job and make a sum of money so she could do whatever it was she pleased.

A knock on his door distracted him, “It is just me,” the feminine voice spoke. Kol opened the door and smiled weakly at Eilise. “Old nan let me in, proper elk, upon her request. None of that shit they pass for elegance.” She took a deep look over the man before her. She knew him like a brother. Her own father hunted for the King’s cook. They didn’t hunt in the masses like those who sold for the market, the perfect kill would be the only acceptable meat for the King. It was not often, but when they brought forth the kill a handsome payment was always met.

Kol sat before her now and Eilise knew her friend was deeply troubled, he also seldom spoke of his troubles, and so she sat down on the bed beside him, placing her hand over his. “Whatever it is, you will figure it out, you always do,” she told him.

*

“Your brother lacks the quality of a true King,” the steward between Marcus’ legs spoke, smirking up at the second son to the King. “Your… qualities are more suited,” the boy spoke and Marcus pushed the man’s head lower, he was in no mood to discuss.

“Rowan is curious, and willing to listen. He listens too much.” Marcus then decided about his pious brother. The steward lifted his head again to speak, Marcus pressed a long finger to the man’s lips, “Please, I need the distraction before I meet with my mother and brothers. No more talking.” He ordered, the man’s head falling into his lap once again.

The steward finished, and Marcus allowed him to stay as he dressed for his meal with his family. “Your brothers, do they have sights on others within the castle?” He asked.

“I know nothing of Rowan’s interests other than the Gods.” Marcus answered plainly, “Erac spends his evenings sneaking to the brothels, or pining over the servant women. Whomever he can take to bed. His most recent interest is my mother’s handmaid.” He spoke of the small Lady Alowin.

“Ah, yes, I noticed the stable hand eyeing her the other day as well.” The steward commented, now helping Marcus to fasten the coat of his garb. His nimble fingers moving over the laces.

“Shame, he is handsome,” Marcus commented looking over himself in the mirror.

“He does not enjoy the company of our kind,” The steward stated.

Marcus’ hand came to the stewards chin, and gripped it tightly forcing his gaze away from the ties of his shirt, and into the stare of his own eyes. “He does not know the pleasure our company could bring, Maxwell.” Marcus spoke intensely before dropping the man’s face. “Leave,” Marcus commanded then, wishing to finish his dressing in peace.

Marcus left his room once he was dressed heading for the dining chambers. Within the room he found Erac seated alone and Marcus chuckled below his lips at the occurrence. Their youngest brother was never first to arrive on any occasion, he likely wouldn’t be happy to have been waiting.

Erac waited, already sat within the dining chambers, dully pressing the tip of his fingernail against the edge of the mahogany table. He looked up when the doors opened expecting his mother, instead it was Marcus. “Brother,” Erac spoke wondering then where his mother and Rowan could be.

Marcus sat across from his most impulsive brother, his own ability to wait was more practiced than the other two, he thought. Marcus had a quiet staccato evenness about him. When people talked with energy and emphasis he made sure to watch their faces and features. Justice did not wait till the last minute to hear both sides, people told the truth in their eyes and their expression, and Marcus had no time to lose. "Excited for Uncle's return tomorrow?" Marcus pressed.

"Bold to label his arrival as returning." Erac commented.

"This place was once his home too," Marcus tried to read Erac, he was difficult to read, but Marcus thought this because he did not think there was much besides swordplay and sex within his youngest brother's mind.

"He hasn't been here in years."