Chapter Text
Once upon a time there were two brothers who had an ordinary life filled with long days of laborious work, too much sun, and barely enough food. The elder had hair as dark as the night and skin so light it seemed sculpted from the marble filling the king’s palace, while the younger was warmer in color, skin always golden as if it had absorbed the sunlight and a round face still filled with an innocence hardly found anymore; it was as though the elder had a soul wounded by arrows to leave his brother untouched.
Together they lived in a small, papyrus colored wattle and daub cottage, its oaken framing growing soft from perpetual dampness, and its walls thinning and breaking. The cottage, though tiny and haphazardly standing over the uneven ground, was still a home to the two boys. It was snuggled up against the wall surrounding the king’s land, cramped in a tiny area that never quite saw the sunlight as it was cast in the shadow from the king’s castle. The brothers’ part of town was dark and dank, but it was where they grew up. They had a certain fondness of the ashen cobbles that never dried after a rain and the air chilled from the cold.
The boys felt isolated in their outskirts, however. They felt alone.
It was hard for two young boys to grow up on their own – to find work at such a young age. They didn’t ask to rise with the sun only to complete every wretched task thrown at them until the sun slipped down the sky. They didn’t ask to choke on soot and grow numb to the burns from the forge. They didn’t ask to go to bed with growing pits of hunger in their stomach as they tried to find comfort on the uneven floor.
They didn’t ask for their parents to burn in the raging flames that still torment the king’s land years later.
It was hard for two boys to mature at such a young age because their parents were buried in the flames of ruin and destruction – the flames of the previous king’s past mistakes. They were overworked, trudging home with tired muscles and dirt smudged across their noses. It was hard for the elder to give his younger brother the life he deserved, but he tried every day through every changing season. Even after fourteen long years, when the elder had reached twenty-one in age and the younger nearing the close of his nineteenth year, their dynamic hadn’t really changed, even when times grew rough.
“Mikey, I’m so hungry,” the younger brother murmured to the elder, his voice weak and breathy. His eyes were fluttered closed, eyelashes casting long shadows across his cheeks as his face grew taught from pain.
“I know, Cal, I know,” Michael said sympathetically, his voice barely a whisper so as not to disturb anything in the small cottage. He laid a cool rag on his brother’s warm forehead, relief filling his heart upon seeing Calum grow minutely relaxed.
Calum was laying atop their only bed, mostly dry straw heaped into a bundle of linen, covered with every meager blanket to be found in the small room. His forehead felt like the fires that plagued the city far too often, and his skin was growing nearly as pale as the walls. Michael tucked the blankets around his bleary eyed brother before whispering reminders and reassurances Calum was bound to forget.
“Hey, Cal, I’m going to see if I can find something – anything – to help you get better, okay? Please just stay in bed and sleep. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
And with that, Michael placed a light kiss onto his brother’s head before heading out into the dim street, shivering at the touch of the cool night air. His tattered tunic did nothing to fight back the chill as night transitioned into dawn. He searched around desperately for anything he could afford to purchase or barter to get for his brother, whether it required every meager coin he had saved or the clothes from his back. He needed food, clean water, or potions and herbs that could heal Calum.
As he stepped lightly across the street’s worn stones, his footfalls seeming loud and out of place in the hushed night, Michael saw a piece of damp parchment with a declaration from the king hanging from a pole that held up an old flag with the king’s seal. Both danced limply in the breeze, tattered from the harshness of nature. Michael approached the paper cautiously, his fingers gently wrapping around the corner of the soft flyer before he pulled it from the post. He moved towards the single torch that lit the street and squinted to make out the words as the flame’s light waltzed over the page.
Michael began to read a rough translation of what was being announced, the vocabulary of the nobles and the elaborate lettering making the process exceptionally slow. Eventually he ascertained that there was a challenge proposed by the king: any and all able bodied men were to go to the king’s palace on the following day, therein which the king would select one worthy man to go out and defeat the dragon plaguing the king’s walls. As Michael read further, he saw nothing barring the peasants from joining the king.
He began wondering what would ever compel anyone to show up at all – not contributing the great honor it would bring the knights and nobles – until his eyes fell upon the last line.
Should the selected succeed, the king will provide him whatever his heart desires for doing such a noble service for the king.
Michael traced the sentence time and time again. Whatever my heart desires, continued to repeat in his head without cease, always followed by his final glance at Calum before he ventured out to find him refuge for his illness. I have to try, otherwise there’s no hope for Cal. And with that as his deciding factor, Michael hurried back to the small cottage tucked up against the wall and hastily placed down the flyer near Calum’s bed, hoping it would provide enough information to explain his absence.
He then changed into his best clothes, which were hardly nice at all, but he couldn’t do much better, before he laced up his boots and was set to leave. He cast a worried glace towards where Calum was sleeping fitfully in the driest corner of the cottage and stepped back out into the drafty street.
The walk to the castle was a long and tedious one, filled with pushing his way through people whom he’s never seen before, climbing up seemingly endless sloped streets, tripping over loose cobbles, wrong turns, and longing glances at food he might never be able to afford. Michael hadn’t truly ventured far beyond the small reaches of his corner in the town. Where he and Calum lived, everyone experienced the same squalor – the same malnourishment and inability to find work. It was their own community knit together by their being ostracized from those above them. Passing beyond the confines of such comfort, though, left Michael feeling insignificant and out of place.
Nevertheless, despite the laborious and wearisome trek, Michael eventually reached the king’s castle as the sun rose to midday. The gates stood three times as tall as Michael, the structure itself towering even larger than that. Michael had thought the castle was impressive from a safe distance away, but this was – Michael was as intimidated as he was impressed, to say the least.
He tentatively followed the crowd of nobles through the vast gates and across the well-kept green fields to a long queue of men. Michael felt small despite his height, the essence of power reverberating from the well groomed men frightening him slightly. They were all clothed in gleaming armor with brightly colored family crests emblazoned on their chests. All of their clothes were hardly tainted by signs of true labor, used more for outlandish displays in such a gathering of their competitive counterparts.
Michael seemed out of place with his porcelain skin, grey colored clothes, and lack of armor. His rough hands were coated in a fine layer of soot, and his skin never warmed in color at the touch of the sun. Pulling his arms across his chest, he closed in on himself to appear smaller. Despite his thought that looking frail wouldn’t help him stand out against the other bulky and arguably more physically equipped men when it came time for the king to select his champion, Michael was far too overwhelmed to unfurl his hunched posture.
Soon the murmur of conversations fell to a hush, pulling Michael from his worrisome thoughts, as a man came striding across the field, his choice of apparel more extravagant than even the wealthiest of men. Michael found it to be the most grandiose statements of wealth he had but seen, scoffing to himself at the man’s self-lauding, but as the figure grew closer, Michael found his offhand remarks quieting.
Michael’s posture straightened upon reflex, whether due to the presence of a noble of such class or happenstance Michael couldn’t say, but his worried features smoothed out as he focused on the man. Aside from elaborately made armor, Michael could make out a rich navy blue tunic peeking out from underneath the chainmail, the man’s family crest embroidered in a fine silver thread.
That, however, wasn’t what had caught Michael’s attention, but rather the softness of the man’s features; despite his stern and calculated movements, his face was young and relaxed. His eyes were the color of oceans Michael could but dream to see, quelled with a calmness, almost – but not quite – masking the worry behind them. Even the man’s lips were smooth save for a small circle of ebony metal interrupting the left corner, with no hint at a frown tugging at them, and his blond hair wisped up from his forehead, creating an artfully unkempt look. Michael definitely considered the man a picture of perfection.
Michael’s eyes then trailed down his body, once again resting on the family crest. The intricate design grew familiar to his mind; rearing horses mirrored one another as two silver crowns rested adjacently on the sapphire of the quarterly divided shield. It wasn’t until the man halted his pace in the center of the crowd that Michael was able to recall him. He was the king. King Luke.
Fuck, Michael thought, a pained expression seizing control of his features. He wanted nothing more than to hasten off and pace around while tugging at his hair; he wanted to comprehend the sudden realization he’d had, but the king began speaking and all thoughts were pushed aside.
“Men,” King Luke began, his light voice suggesting a kinder heart than his title might have suggested, “Thank you for gathering here today under a noble cause as such. We are united under our desire to put an end to the plague that seizes our city. The great dragon, Ardens Anguis, has spent far too many years lighting fire to my fellow subjects and friends, and I shan’t let him burn any, whether they be men, women, peasants, or nobles.
“It is my desire that I can but select one of you worthy men to seek the great dragon and cease its violence. As I have outlined in the summons that brought you all before me, I plan to go around and eventually decide upon the savior of this kingdom. He who completes the task shall be given rewards beyond his wildest dreams.
“Now men, gather yourselves in a queue of an organized fashion. I will make haste along it to observe those who have placed themselves before me. Do not fear should I ask questions of you; I need to determine who is fit to be my champion.”
With that, King Luke walked briskly towards one end of the long and desultorily formed line of men – the one nearest to Michael, much to his disdain – and strode along it with a determination in his step. Occasionally he would shake hands with a man whom Michael assumed the king knew, or offer a nod on another’s direction, but his feet never slowed for long. The king was giving everyone a passing glace at best. Or so it seemed.
Upon reaching Michael’s place in line, the king hesitated before stopping his progression entirely, his navy cape falling to bunch around his feet. There was a slight shift in King Luke’s demeanor, how his broad shoulders grew minutely relaxed, how his face changed from scrutinizing to curious, how his cheeks flushed, and Michael was unsure as to whether he should feel honored or terrified. Michael was well aware of his being the only peasant to attend the king’s palace, which served little to help him blur into the groups of men queued on either side of him, but he hardly thought that would gain the attention of the king in such a way.
“Prithee, what is your name?” the king asked, but his voice was soft, hinting at genuine interest. It shed some of its authoritative rule in favor of kindness.
“Michael Clifford, my Lord.”
“Please, bypass the formalities. I’m Luke,” the King rushed, brushing away the title with an absent wave of his hand.
“Of course, my Lord,” Michael responded politely, having no intentions of showing any semblance of disrespect towards the king. Despite King Luke’s outward demeanor seen as being leagues kinder than previously thought, Michael wasn’t one to drop his guard so quickly.
King Luke had an amused look on his face upon Michael’s reply, not quite hiding the disappointment at how he was still addressed by his formal title. “Why did you come here? Why volunteer for such as task as this? The infamy? The ascension in social status?”
“No, my Lord, none of those,” Michael said with knit eyebrows, hardly fathoming as conceited a motive as such. “It’s my brother, you see. He’s starved to the point of illness. He’s dying, to be blatant, and I can’t do much more to stop death from taking hold of him. I was just thinking...”
“Thinking what?”
“That this is my last hope. Maybe I’d finally be able to afford even the most meager of food, potions, or pure water should I be victorious. I just want to be able to care for him.”
“What of yourself,” King Luke inquired, studying Michael’s face with a mixture of appreciation and concern.
“I’m not nearly as high ranking in regards to importance.”
Having said that, Michael saw the king set his jaw as his façade smoothed seamlessly over his face, but once again his eyes betrayed him as they filled with a sadness. Michael sympathized with the king, for he had to live with knowing his subjects were starved throughout his kingdom. Unlike his father before him, King Luke actually wanted to save his people, not let them fend for themselves. The news that Calum was dying and that Michael cared so little about his own wellbeing must have knocked down everything King Luke built up; he had done a lot for his kingdom, but not enough. Not yet.
“But you’re so young. You’ve much to live for,” the king argued after a moment’s hesitation, his voice skillfully measured and even.
“As does my brother, my Lord, and I’d rather know he lived through his years happy than not have lived at all.”
“If you do go to fight the great dragon, Michael, you could very well die.”
“And if I don’t Calum is sure to die.”
“Is that his name? Calum?” the king asked quietly. His features softened once again, breaking the mask he so frequently wore for others. Michael was intrigued as to why King Luke was both well versed in the skill of hiding his thoughts, but also grew relaxed around him; his transitions between were so smooth that Michael wondered if the king even realized of his schooling of his expression. Perhaps it could have been Michael’s inferiority to the king, but he hadn’t the courage to ask. Instead he just nodded in response to the king’s question.
“Is Calum the only reason you’d venture to fight Ardens Anguis?”
“The great dragon burned my parents many a years ago, and ending his life would avenge the loss of my parents and all those who were slaughtered under his terror,” Michael said carefully. He began to notice the other men surrounding him mutter to each other about his extended conversation with King Luke. “But I wouldn’t venture so far as to say vengeance is the single motive.”
“How long ago was that particular bout of terror?”
“Fourteen years, my Lord.”
“You were at the age of how many years? Seven?” King Luke mused aloud, pausing for Michael to nod slightly before continuing on. “And Calum was of what age?”
“Not yet six years.”
“The both of you have managed to care for yourselves thus far? I, myself, was just a young boy at the time of that attack, frightened beyond all belief. I am rather impressed with your fortitude, Michael,” King Luke commended, with the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips. He quickly suppressed it by pulling his ebony ring between his teeth.
Michael felt a flush he so desperately tried to fight down rise to his cheeks as he offered his thanks to the king. The voices of the surrounding men grew louder with snickers mixed into their clamor, giving Michael reason to bring a hasty close to his conversation with the king. The scorn and disapproval sent towards Michael hardly affected him, yet Michael didn’t wish it to fall onto the king; he was nearly of the same years as Michael, if a few moons younger, and yet was already under great disapproval from his late father’s peers.
“Perhaps you ought to continue with haste through the remaining men,” Michael suggested in a soft voice. “It appears that our extended conversation has caught the attention of others.”
An embarrassed flush passed over King Luke’s face as he glanced about in his peripherals. “I hadn’t noticed they were talking about– It would be unideal if they– I can’t–,” he let out in a rush before taking a moment to breathe and calm his speech. “Thank you for notifying me of this matter.”
Michael nodded, smiling to himself at how the king’s regal air had returned in an instant. He watched as the king addressed the men he had spoken to prior.
“Men, head over to the soldiers’ training area off yonder. Once I am done with the rest of these men I shall make haste there myself. I wish to test your abilities in fighting,” King Luke called loudly before turning to Michael again. “You, as well. Go try your hand with a sword.”
The king stepped past him before Michael could but respond, hesitancy and concern filling him as he walked towards where the other men had congregated. He saw the odd looks cast in his direction but elected to pay them no mind, choosing instead to pull a sword from the meager racks of ones provided.
The best sword Michael could find was severely lacking, an estoc with its long blade warped and its balance off. The blade of the longsword was overcompensating for the weight of the handle, and its curvature caused it to veer ever so slightly towards the right. Overall, it was poorly suited for fighting, for even the edge of its tip was dulled and tarnished. Should Michael even be able to pierce through the chainmail of his enemy and mar their skin, all he would do is render them ill with infection after a great passing of time. He feared for the fate of the kingdom should the knights’ weapons be in the same state as Michael’s.
Nevertheless, Michael gripped the hilt tightly with both hands and began to practice, warming up his muscles as the swordsmanship techniques he learned from long ago resurfaced in his memory. He was striking at the invisible enemy cast before his eyes, left foot gaining advance of the other as his rigid arms held him defensively, Michael deflected hits and parried. All of the movements were ingrained in his mind, and, although he hadn’t wielded a sword in years, he had never felt more confident with one in hand.
Perhaps it was the newfound sunlight bathing his skin in warmth or the breeze that whispered across the king’s vast lands as opposed to that which tunneled through his narrow street screaming. Michael could taste the sweetness of a more pleasant life for himself and Calum, and the key to achieving it was held in his hands.
Michael continued to practice, brandishing the estoc and testing the greatness of its sweep, seeing if he could still achieve the more skilled strokes should he be met by an opponent with greater skill than his. He relaxed into the movements, working with ease as the sun continued to warm his fair skin and the breeze cooled it down. Getting lost in what he was doing, Michael hadn’t noticed that King Luke had finished striding over to the practice area, gleaming silver sword in hand. He immediately started up a duel with a fellow noble, quickly overcoming the man as he knocked the weapon from the noble’s hand with a final blow that felled him.
Taking a moment to catch his breath, Michael watched as the rest of the midafternoon carried out with King Luke selecting someone to fight with, quickly overcoming whomever he chose. There were some matches that came close, yet no one was able to surpass the king’s abilities. Unlike Michael’s dull-edged longsword, King Luke wielded broadsword, its sharper blade narrowing to a point. Thinking methodically, Michael decided that he should assume more of a defensive position, utilizing the reach that his sword had over the king’s to maintain distance between the sharp blade when his time to duel came.
Michael became lost in thought, contemplating techniques as he resumed his solitary practice. Not soon after, the sound of metal clashing around him quieted down, pulling Michael from his focus. He looked up to see the other men gazing in his direction. Scanning the field, Michael saw King Luke striding up towards him. The king stopped a safe distance away with a neutral expression on his face, eyes bright with excitement, as he said, “Raise your sword.”
Michael did as told, clenching his jaw when he heard the small laughs and jeers from the crowd of men stopping to watch them; it sounded as though the nobles were pleased to watch such sport be made from his duel with King Luke. Michael refused to give them what they desired. The king shot him a peculiar look but said nothing, instead raising his own sword to the level of Michael’s to signal the start of the duel.
King Luke immediately pressed forward, forcing Michael into the defensive position he was anticipating. The king laid on attack after attack while Michael focused all of his attention on blocking the strikes, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet backwards to avoid the advances. He tried to remain at a distance where the king had to work to maintain offense, deflecting the king’s sword away from his body.
There was a slight shift on the king’s face when he saw how well Michael was responding to the sudden onslaught of moves. After a passing of time, King Luke paused momentarily, allowing both to catch their breaths from the fast pace of their brief duel.
“You’re doing surprisingly better than anticipated,” the king said to Michael, voice breathy as a grin slowly filled his tired face.
“As are you, since you’ve already dueled with others far better suited than I am.”
“Ah, but I– Is your sword bent?” the king asked, his attention quickly shifting.
“I–,” Michael started, taken aback by the sudden change in the conversation. He had to take a moment to remember if there was a curvature to the longsword in hand. “Yes, it is. It keeps veering slightly towards the right.”
“You’ve fought so well,” the king commented absentmindedly, confusion lacing his voice.
“I had practiced overcompensating for the error in the blade, anticipating the imbalance before I go to move.”
“That, Michael Clifford, is rather impressive. You’ve not ceased to amaze me today,” King Luke praised, pulling his ebony ring between his teeth. Whether he was suppressing a smile or in thought, Michael didn’t know.
“Thank you,” Michael mumbled quietly, lowering his weapon slightly because he was more focused on deflecting the embarrassment he felt from the king’s statement.
“Don’t let your guard down,” King Luke smirked, coming at Michael with grace and agility in his step. It took Michael hurried and rushed blocks to evade nearly every advance the king made, but his movements were filled with lethargy – he couldn’t make up for the late start he got.
The distance between Michael and King Luke was shorter than before, giving the king a slight advantage what with his closer ranged weapon. With his lack of armor, Michael couldn’t support his blade more defensively with his hand towards the point, relying on the strength of his fast weakening arms to assist him.
The King then thrust forward, restrained in his movements so as not to injure Michael, but with the intent still there. The strength behind Michael’s counterstrike fell below par, allowing him to force King Luke’s blade away enough so it grazed along his right cheekbone.
Michael felt warm blood trickle down his right cheek, the side of his face stinging through he refused to let the pain grow apparent. The nobles around him dampened their sporadic talking, as though everything had grown still, yet all Michael focused on was how King Luke’s lips parted in shock at what had happened. Concern began to fill his face, yet he didn’t make an effort to mask it.
Seeing the opportunity opening, Michael started forward, taking advantage of the king’s momentary hesitation. Pommel forward, Michael struck at King Luke, both disarming him and sending him to the ground. He quickly flicked the broadsword up from the grass and raised its point towards the king’s neck, his own estoc finding a vulnerable place in the chainmail near the king’s underarm.
“Don’t let your guard down,” Michael mimicked, the smirk filling his face cut off by pain.
King Luke’s face grew pallid, eyes widening, but a slow smile grew across it as he nodded slightly at Michael. At that signal, Michael lowered the weapons and set them gingerly to the ground. He then tentatively offered his hand to the king, who, to Michael’s surprise, accepted it willingly and rose back to his feet.
The king stepped close to Michael as if to inspect the cut across his cheek, but his eyes bore into Michael’s as he started whispering, “We shall dress that with haste, but in a short while. Whatever I’m about to say, don’t take it to heart. I will explain everything in due time, but sometimes people are unable to handle truths they don’t wish to hear. Okay?”
“Yes, of course,” Michael replied unconvincingly, his voice lilting up into a question.
With that confirmation, King Luke resumed his act of seeing to the wound before he turned to face the crowd of astonished men, Michael lingering slightly behind him. With all that had happened, Michael hoped to once again hide in the background, so as not to draw more attention towards himself. It was a rather drastic deviation from his quiet life in the far reaches of the town.
“Men,” the king said loudly, “It appears as though we have found the kingdom’s savior.”
King Luke swept his arm backwards towards Michael, looking more filled with worry than the relief he should have felt, but it disappeared quickly. A murmur of collective disapproval carried throughout the men, the king waiting patiently for it to die down before continuing.
“I had anticipated this dissent, but let me go on to explain. This man is but a peasant, as I’m certain you have been able to ascertain. In regards to this kingdom’s defense, he does little – I can’t lose my nobles and knights should this war with the great dragon be perpetuated. He’s just a laborer though, likely working odd jobs in the small recesses of the kingdom. Should the dragon kill him, it would be of no great cost to us. He’s proven himself physically. He would make for a good starting point in this war with the great dragon. Men, do you now agree?”
The king then earned a few nods from the many who had offered their disapproval beforehand, a few “aye!”s resonating out from the crowd. Although there were still a few skeptical faces amongst the crowd, King Luke had quickly managed to sway their previous positions. Michael, however, felt the warmth of anger spreading in his chest. He immediately attempted to bury it deep down and ignore it.
“Should there be the need to find another man, I shall call every man back to these grounds and discuss the matter, but in the meantime, go and return to your homes and families. Thank you for taking time out of your day,” King Luke finished, waving them off before smoothing his palm across Michael’s lowering back, pushing him gently towards the castle.
The walk from the guards’ training grounds to the inside of the castle was hardly long, but gave the opportunity for the two to strike up a conversation. Michael elected to remain silent, though, the king’s words swimming in his head and the feeling of his palm burning into his back.
Michael knew he was to disregard what the king had said, but he found it increasingly difficult as the anger seethed inside of him. How could he be so openly belittled and mocked before a crowd of such esteem? He was nothing more than expendable in their eyes, a notion so heavily reinforced by King Luke’s statement. Michael was deeply wounded by the king once more, confusion clouding him, but he had the decency to wait until they entered the torch lit hallways of the castle before confronting him.
“What the hell was that?” Michael asked loudly, voice echoing throughout the empty passageway as he turned on King Luke. Malcontent was bursting out of him, and he was unable to dampen it any further.
“Michael,” King Luke said, sadness tinting his voice, but no trace of patronization. “I advised you not to take what I would say to heart.”
“Then how was I supposed to take it, your majesty?” Michael pressed bitterly, the sneer attempting to fill his face reaching his voice. He flinched slightly at the pain, but maintained his resolve. There was no restraint in offending the king.
“Now you look here,” King Luke said, voice stern but eyes kind, pushing Michael up against the cool stone wall with his forearm. The king’s broad frame and strength were greatly overpowering Michael, rendering him unable to do much but hunch into the wall. “You cannot fathom how tentatively I must approach every aspect of my decisions to create balance on such unstable grounds. My place here might be revered, but it’s like walking neck deep in water; one wrong footing and I slip under the waves, bringing everything I stand for to drown with me.”
“My Lord, you denounced a great many people to such an influential crowd,” Michael exclaimed, wide eyed as he looked up to the king, who had since stepped backwards. He felt that his outrage was just.
“Influential crowd,” King Luke laughed, looking away with a slight roll of his eyes. He tugged his arms across his stomach, shoulders curving inward. “They are greedy – sponges soaking up their falsified glory and riches. My soldiers, mine, are more well-equipped for any task, but these are desperate times. I’ve no one of the ranks left to spare.”
“So you summon corrupt men to accomplish such a necessary task? You intend to rely on them? Only to select me, of all the abler bodied men so willing to sacrifice themselves, yet you justify your decision so indecently?”
“Those men,” the king began, eyes bright with enmity, “Are my father’s friends, not mine. The mutiny that would occur should I displeasure so many! The resentment they feel towards me already for assuming my father’s role? I’m playing a game against so many, knowing full well I’m going to lose yet I keep trying.”
“Why bother, though?” Michael inquired, his shoulders gaining indentations from the stone, despite the king’s having fallen back against the mirroring wall, giving Michael free range of movement. Michael felt infinitely smaller than he had before. “Why feed them lies?”
“Why lose the only true support I can gain? I haven’t the strength to gain their spite. So I tell lies to far too many people. I’ve managed to excel at it some short time after the beginning of the practice, as much I loath to admit. I like to think of it as empty promises.”
“You’ve support from so many below you, my Lord. You’ve made an impact on this kingdom, whether you or the other nobles refuse to see it,” Michael replied. The change in the nature of their conversation felt rather heavy. “This land is filled with empty promises.”
“Is that something you actually believe?”
“The empty promises that things will all be well – that you can fix things, that you know what you’re doing,” Michael started, pausing as the king’s face fell and his gaze dropped to the floor. “Telling the people you love that you’ll be alright when you know in your heart you won’t be. Even the lies you feed yourself, trying to believe in what you said.”
“I suppose this land is consumed in empty promises. Empty promises and lies. Aren’t we all corrupt?” the king agreed, laughing with no amusement behind it, shifting his eyes back up to Michael. “Christ, your face.”
The king then stepped forward, hand raised to gently touch the wound beneath Michael’s eye. Michael flinched slightly at the contact, in part because the cut still stung, but also because the king’s fingertips were as cold as ice. At Michael’s response, the king lowered his hand slightly, having it hover in the small space between them. Michael could still feel where the king’s fingers had been.
“I’m certain it’s hardly as bad as it might appear.”
“Meanwhile, I certainly don’t believe you,” the king said, a soft smile on his face, traipsing backwards down the corridor. “It needs to be cleaned and dressed. Then we can decide if it’s as bad as it appears or not.”
Michael made to follow but hesitated, standing rooted in his tracks, barely pushed off from the wall. He vacillated between calling out to the king or staying silent. After a moment though, King Luke stopped and turned back to Michael with a confused but patient look upon his face.
“Michael?” King Luke asked softly, concern etched on his face. Michael wondered why the king wasn’t as guarded around him, but decided to table that question.
“My brother. I really must go make sure he’s alright. I’ve been gone all the day,” Michael offered, stepping slightly backwards from the king.
“Then perhaps we ought to journey to wherever your brother is residing and bring him to the castle? That way I and a close few I trust can keep watch over his health? Rather live through one’s years happy than not live at all, yes?”
“Pardon?” Michael asked abruptly, highly taken aback by the king’s offer. “I mean–”
“I can’t let your ill brother stay where he is, Michael. Whilst you’re away I shall let him stay in the castle and take care of him, and, heaven forbid, should you never return.”
“How could I but repay you, my Lord?” Michael asked, astounded. The king looked genuinely earnest in his offer, which meant much to Michael.
“You’ve already offered to fight the great dragon plaguing our kingdom,” King Luke replied with an amused laugh. “That’s more than enough. If anything, you’ll cease using those formal titles yet. But in the interim, let us go and bring your brother somewhere that I can promise he won’t fall ill with malnourishment.”
With that statement of finality, King Luke opened the door they had entered in earlier. Michael quickly hurried to his side, the tiniest of smiles filling his face, for he knew that this promise given by the king wasn’t an empty one.
Together they walked back across the army’s training grounds, reaching the gate that offered entrance onto the king’s land. Two armed guards flanked the twisted iron, poised to protest the king’s leaving. King Luke shook his head slightly and pulled his finger across his lips, silencing them. Michael noticed the king’s hand never dropped from his mouth, fingers dancing across the ebony ring absentmindedly.
The sun was at their backs, dipping below the tallest battlements of the king’s castle as they walked down the cobbles towards Michael’s cottage. King Luke had been following Michael in silence, eyebrows taught in thought. If Michael was being honest, it was disconcerting.
“You need to stop thinking,” Michael chastised, glancing left at the king, slowing to a halt to face him. The king looked up at him, visage slowly smoothing out.
“There’s quite a lot on my mind,” King Luke admitted after a pause. He sighed and dropped his gaze.
“Should you need to talk about it, there’s quite a long journey before we reach Calum,” Michael offered, dampening his intrigue by replacing it with concern. “I’m not quite fit to live in this proximity to the castle.”
“I can’t fathom it being that easy to speak of, Michael,” King Luke murmured, starting to step forward despite not knowing where he was going. Michael gently touched his elbow to guide him down a side street.
“Then let us speak of something else. Tell me of the ebony that pierces through your skin,” Michael suggested instead.
“That was but an act of brazenness,” the king said with a laugh, pulling the small ring between his teeth before continuing. “It was my trying to demonstrate how I am not the others. It only served to ostracize me.”
“You’re not like the others of your class,” Michael agreed, a stoic air around him. “But that hardly demeans your rule or what you stand for. Now you look like a foreboding, but no less excellent, king.”
“I suppose it is a tad foreboding. I vanished from the castle to coerce a blacksmith into crafting it for me. The pain was unimaginable. Were it not for alchemists and physicians, an infection would have rendered me severely ill.”
“The greatest of fortitude seen in our king,” Michael commended, amusement lacing his tone. “That must have made for quite the tale. Adventure throughout his kingdom, slipping life held in such a precarious balance, it’s a wonder you’re king and not the scribe of such great stories, my Lord.”
“You dare play with delights and humor, yet still address me with such formalities,” King Luke wondered aloud, filled with intrigue. With a dark passing over the town, Michael could hardly see how bright the king’s eyes were, how they were teeming with a sadness his voice masked. “It’s as if I’m my father. I’m not my father.”
“Are you stating truth or trying to convince yourself of the notion?” Michael asked carefully, voice slowing to perceive the king’s reaction. Michael focused on the king’s shadowed face, blue eyes paled and filled with distraught. King Luke looked more of a common person than a king, vulnerable than shielded, earnest than falsified.
“My father,” the king began, quiet and hesitant, “Was a selfish bastard. He was so caught up in combatting the burning dragons that he cared little of anything else – his family, his friends, his kingdom, his subjects. He left them all to fend for themselves while he embarked on noble quests. The dragons were murdered, their blood staining the ground, never to be fully washed away. My father found joy in ending their lives.
“Then he heard of a clever dragon, Ardens Anguis, whose eyes glowed like a smoldering fire. He was the last dragon wreaking havoc on the realm, so he sought out to kill him, but in the end he burnt my father. I know that the great dragon is deadly, having lit the city on fire many a times, but my father’s wits were not with him. So I was left to take the throne at such a young age of seventeen, to clean the rubble of a kingdom my father left me. I was left to build everything up from the ruins left on the ground. I was left to care for my immediate family, after being a foolish young boy before.
“As I walk around, I see how bad the kingdom is; I see the poor conditions the common people live in. I thought I’ve been doing much to help, but it’s hardly placed down a foundation to rebuild everything. Michael, I feel as though I’m failing as a ruler, only serving to reduce more to dust. I’m to help everyone, and yet the nobles – my father’s friends – are the only ones well off enough for a contented life.”
Once the king had finished speaking he grew a bit deflated, tense posture relaxing as his shoulders fell. Michael grew concerned that the king was truly disappointed in himself despite his wanting nothing more than to foster better lives for the people of his kingdom.
“Luke,” Michael muttered, the king’s lips parting at the name. “I beg of you, don’t think ill of yourself. Not to speak poorly of your father, but you’ve done more than he ever did. You aren’t filled with pride or vanity – you don’t act on impulse to further your reverence – rather yet you care for how those living in your kingdom are. You care for their wellbeing.”
“My appreciation, but these attempts have been all for naught. There are still people living in squalor.”
“I can assure you that people here are happier and healthier than they ever were. Trust me when I say this: you’ve made a great impact, even if you can’t see it. Conditions may pale in comparison to the life that you live, but people are genuinely happy. There’s food to be eaten and jobs to be done. They’re more content with this life of labor than the one they had many years back.”
Luke opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by Michael – a defiant act that Michael assumed would have resulted in great reprimanding – but Luke made no movements to stop Michael. He, instead, tried once more to protest, but was interrupted by Michael pulling him into a hug.
The king tentatively brought his arms to encircle Michael’s waist. He was warm in Michael’s embrace, broad yet small, strong yet fragile. Michael was ever intrigued by the king.
“You’ve made my life infinitely better, even just in this short time today. I promise,” Michael murmured, hoping it was a promise worth believing. “Let’s go see my brother. Then I can prove to you that you’ve saved yet another innocent soul.”
Michael then broke from the embrace and started walking briskly down the street once more, not pausing to gauge the king’s reaction. They were carried through the empty streets, Luke lingering slightly behind Michael. A content silence enveloped them.
After a short time, Michael stopped in front of his cottage, Luke nearly stumbling into him. His cottage was in greater disrepair than the others they had passed, appearing as though the faintest of breezes could cause the small building to go tumbling down. Michael opened the door with no hesitancy, though, knowing well that it was sturdier than its exterior exhibited.
They entered the single room, the furnishings sparse and lacking. Calum looked frail under the blankets heaped over him, his chest rising and falling shallowly. Michael elected to disregard the bare spot on the dusty floor where he slept. Some things were better left unmentioned, so he looked fondly on towards Calum.
“Michael,” Luke whispered, glancing about with a concerned look. He seemed more worried about how Michael’s living conditions were hardly uncommon than being in a place of such filth. “How could you live here yet still have that sloppy smile about your face.”
“I’ve nowhere else to go, so why let it hinder my mood?” Michael countered. “Although, I’m particularly happy because Cal is still here, sleeping more contently than when I had left.”
Michael stepped towards Calum, slowly bending his knees until he was in a deep squat in order to make out Calum’s features in the dim light. His dark chocolate brown hair was trying to curl up above his forehead but couldn’t from the sweat and dirt that was weighing it down. His eyebrows were pressed together slightly and his lips were held taught in displeasure. Calum’s appearance was very disheveled; Michael could barely make out Calum’s expression through the layer of grime and dirt.
Luke sunk to his knees next to Michael, studying Calum for a fleeting moment before his gaze rested on Michael. Michael felt his cheeks start to burn from being under such scrutiny, electing to not look towards the king.
“Would you mind helping me lift him up?” Michael asked quietly after a moment, finally looking towards Luke. Luke’s mouth turned up into a slight smile, eyes kind.
“Of course,” Luke replied earnestly, shifting his weight to better support Calum.
Together they gently lifted Calum from the mattress and into Michael’s arms, taking the multitude of blankets with him. With a soft nod, Michael motioned to Luke that there was nothing left to do, and they exited from the cottage, retracing their steps until the light of the castle’s torches could be seen once more.
Their return was filled with a comfortable silence, only the soft sounds of the night and their footsteps echoing throughout the streets. Luke strayed slightly behind Michael, seemingly lost in thought. Michael grew wary that he had fallen behind until he heard the king trip over uneven cobbles. He waited until Luke was by his side before continuing back to the castle once more.
“What happened to my asking you to cease your thinking?” Michael asked softly, not raising his voice to keep from disturbing others during the dark of the night.
“It’s not done with as much ease as you might think,” Luke replied sadly, head tilted town towards his feet as they passed across the closely trimmed grass surrounding the castle. “I’ve been taught to overthink.”
“You need to focus on something else, then.”
“Such as?”
“Focus on my voice,” Michael suggested quietly and uncertainly, the pitch of his voice raising into more of a question than a statement. “Every word you hear me speak pushes out on a thought that is cluttering your mind. Focus not on the eclectic thoughts floating around in your head, but of the words that emanate from me. You need to calm yourself. I know not of what you worry of, but you have made this kingdom a better place even from your short time on the throne. That, I can assure you. Please promise me that you won’t let this get to you.”
“How do you know it won’t be another empty promise?” Luke wondered, his voice growing ever more even from Michael’s words. Neither of them seemed to understand how such simple acts produced such effects. Perhaps it was because they were two gentle souls living in a world on fire, and they had yet to stumble upon such kindness and caring until then.
“I trust you.”
Luke’s face grew slack from shock, peering at Michael as though he was filled with sorcery; his words seemed to push all unease from Luke’s face. Never had Michael been able to calm someone in such a short time.
“I promise,” Luke said, his face filling with a youth and innocence that he embodied, completely shedding his façade of king. “And I make this promise with all I have.”
Michael smiled at Luke, but said nothing. Somehow, Michael knew he need not respond.
They quickly made their way into the castle from its grounds, once again entering the hallway they had argued in. Luke led Michael throughout the expanse of long passages, the darkness and emptiness he had first seen in the castle giving way to lavish decorations.
Great tapestries were hanging from the larger rooms they had passed, while the narrower hallways had lines of windows interrupted with rows of stained glass interrupted by thin designs of lead. Michael could hardly fathom how beautiful the king’s castle would be once it filtered in the sun’s rays. The colors would be greater than anything he had seen working on the dusty streets back home.
Eventually they came across a room with light seeping up from under the doorway. Luke walked ahead, knocking slightly in request of entrance. A soft voice called out, bleary from a tiredness that drew from the more outspoken quality it seemed to possess.
“Ashton, might I ask of a favor?” Luke asked upon entering the room, addressing his cousin, the slightly older boy with the mop of light colored hair and soft features who was staring intently at a book placed on his lap. He was sitting cross-legged on a lavishly made bed, posture straight yet with his head down.
“Lucas, I am not in the mood to assist one of my uncle’s friends again. Perhaps you should take up this problem with someone who cares more than I,” Ashton replied, not once glancing up from his book. He didn’t seem irritable to Michael, just weary and apathetic towards the nobles that the king so greatly despised as well.
“This isn’t for one of father’s friends, Ash.”
Luke’s statement struck Ashton’s interest, causing him to look up to see what brought Luke to seek his assistance. Confusion passed across Ashton’s face like a shadow, his eyes flitting between Luke, Michael, and Calum resting limply in Michael’s arms.
“Luke,” Ashton tapered with concern. “What’s happened?”
“I’ve selected Michael as the man to defeat the great dragon. His brother is very ill, so I’ve promised to care for him while Michael is away. We brought him to the castle, but I need him to stay with someone whom I know can be trusted. Ash, please?”
Ashton opened his mouth to speak, but no words sounded, as though he had reconsidered what he had intended to say. After glancing between Michael and Calum, Ashton let out a heavy sigh. He only seemed mildly bothered, looking longingly towards his book for a fleeting moment before slipping to the edge of his bed, feet softly hitting the floor.
“Lay him here, Michael. Luke, you need to go fetch a bowl of warm water and a few rags. Perhaps even some dressings and ointments from the physician. Michael’s face is a disaster,” Ashton instructed calmly, his face showing a hint of amusement.
Michael walked over to the bed upon which Ashton was sitting, gently setting Calum down to avoid any jolting movements before kneeling upon the cold stone floor. He heard Luke quietly exit from the room as he began to smooth blankets over Calum and push his damp hair from his forehead.
“Michael,” Ashton said softly, hand reaching out to nearly still Michael’s own. “These meager blankets hardly suffice. Please, use one of mine instead.”
Michael opened his mouth in protest, filled with the intent of arguing such a gracious offer, but Ashton had already carefully dropped Michael’s own blankets to the floor, laying his exquisitely made ones over Calum. They showed no sign of wear, appearing to be filled with a soft down that would be of greater warmth than Michael’s.
“Pray tell, Luke selected you?” Ashton inquired after a moment, embodying an innocent interest. He smoothed the back his hand across Calum’s forehead, frowning before glancing towards the door Luke had left from.
“Yes, it seems to be so,” Michael replied, more words of answer not forming across his tongue.
“You’re worthy,” Ashton offered shortly, casting an earnest glance at Michael.
“Pardon?”
“Luke doesn’t make decisions without reason, and you’ve certainly more reason for this fight than any of those who offered their services,” Ashton began, cut off by Luke’s quiet reentrance. They both turned towards him as he peered at them wide eyed, saying nothing.
He padded across the floor before kneeling on the ground next to Michael to set the various items he had carried back down. Once he finished, there was a wooden bowl filled nearly to the brim of water and an abundance of cloth sitting between them. Luke handed one already soaked rag wordlessly to Ashton.
“Before you start to enquire,” Ashton began, gently resting the rag over Calum’s forehead. “Michael and I were, in fact, discussing you in your absence.”
“I should expect nothing less,” Luke smiled, turning his attention towards Michael.
Michael watched as Luke dipped one of his rags into the water, wringing it out until it stopped dripping. He raised it to Michael’s face and dabbed gingerly to clean off the blood that had dried there from before. Luke worked methodically, carefully avoiding the wound until it was all that was left to be clean.
Michael’s eyes fell shut with a grimace, the lukewarm cloth passing across his cheekbone. He felt Luke’s hand still momentarily before continuing even more carefully than before.
“I am honestly very sorry for doing this to you, Michael,” Luke apologized softly, his eyes brimming with sadness.
“I assure you, there was no harm done. I am honestly quite fine,” Michael responded, eyes still fluttered shut.
“I shouldn’t have–”
“It was a fair fight. You need not apologize to me,” Michael said, cutting off Luke’s protests. He looked at Luke pointedly, seeking any semblance of agreement, pleased to find no resentment at interrupting the king. Michael grew to realize that he was one of few able to contradict Luke.
A silence fell over the room as Luke took long strips of linen and bound them over Michael’s wound, tying them across the bridge of his nose to keep them supported. Michael studied Luke’s face as his fingers carefully worked in tying a knot to secure the linen. His brows were creased and eyes seemingly unfocused.
“I’ve discovered that you think far more than you should,” Michael said once Luke’s hands fell from his face, peering at his dressings.
“You state your opinion openly, Michael Clifford,” Luke replied, not acknowledging what Michael had said.
“If you wish for me to keep it to myself, please tell me. As of right now, however, you’ve given me no reason to not openly state what I think.”
“Most people wouldn’t dare state their thoughts in front of the king,” Luke countered – challenged – as his voice grew to a whisper, face flushing as he kept it turned from Ashton. Michael grew amused at the king’s embarrassment.
“Oh, but you’re not like the other nobles,” Michael commented while Luke’s muttered, “Although, you’re hardly ‘most people,’” grew lost underneath Michael’s statement.
“What makes you say that?” Luke enquired, genuine curiosity filling his voice upon making out what Michael had said.
“Your mannerisms show that you are very stern and commanding, especially through the set of your shoulders and the decisiveness of your walk. Your face – particularly your eyes – give away that you’re not like that at all. There’s a kindness to your features that leads me to believe you’re quite open to what others have to say. Upon first glace one could be frightened of crossing you, but that’s really not the case, is it?” Michael asked nonchalantly, openness in his statement. He didn’t fear any repercussions the king might have.
“I– I suppose there’s a truth to what you say,” Luke agreed after a moment. His speech became very measured as though he carefully chose each word.
“Oh, Lucas, we both know he’s entirely correct,” Ashton interjected, finally offering input on the conversation he had been listening to. “If you called me out on even half the things I’ve said to you, then I would be hanged already.”
“Ashton, you’re my family. That’s different.”
“It’s really not. You’ve too high of morals to make an exception for family. It would be an unfair judgement on your part. Besides, our family is full of liars. We betray each other all the time. Luke, you could have me executed in a heartbeat if you so desired.”
“Don’t speak of such things. I love you; I would never even think to see you hanged.”
“I love you too,” Ashton said with a slight sigh Michael didn’t quite understand. “Now, Michael, I’ll watch over Calum. You need rest, and with present company, here isn’t the best of places to stay.”
“Ashton, I’m greatly indebted to you. Thank you for your help,” Michael thanked honestly, nodding slightly to Ashton.
“You’re very welcome, Micha– Oh, thank you, ma’am,” Ashton said, addressing a servant woman who had brought a bowl of steaming broth, seeming slightly surprised. He looked to Luke who affirmed that he had requested it. “Luke, please take Michael to somewhere he might stay for the meanwhile.”
Luke smiled at Ashton before taking Michael by the elbow and leading him from Ashton’s brightly lit room into the dim hallway. They walked a bit away from the door before Luke began to speak.
“It’s hard to believe that I’m the king sometimes. Ashton sounds more authoritative than I ever do. I suppose his few years over me give him greater insight.”
“But he’s exceptionally kind. It’s as if he’s looking to help ease your burden by making simple decisions for you.”
“I honestly appreciate it. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend in the chaos that is my family. He can go from not caring in the slightest to helping me with every tiny thing,” Luke said fondly, turning around a corner to lead them to a set of double doors that marked the hallway’s end.
“What room is this?” Michael enquired, it’s location distanced from the more populated center of the castle.
“Mine,” Luke answered as he pushed open the doors. “There’s another bed in a separate section of the room. It’s almost like a small house on its own. I just know that from experience sleeping in this castle isolated from everyone is not conducive of great rest.”
“I cannot thank you enough for everything,” Michael reiterated, stepping into the room after Luke.
“You’re welcome, Michael. I can tell that you’re more than deserving of this assistance.”
“Honestly,” Michael said, looking up at Luke with a warmth in his eyes. “I’m eternally thankful, Luke.”
“You’re welcome, Mikey,” Luke murmured with a sleepy smile on his face.
It was a small change in their dynamic throughout the day, but it seemed to mean the world to Luke. To Michael as well. Luke was no longer his superior, someone to be danced around. He was no longer ranking above the others, no longer the ruler. They had become equals, filling Michael’s heart with appreciation and warmth. He had trust in Luke that he had never given to others before.
“Goodnight, Luke,” Michael muttered, moving into the other section of the room to sleep. He stretched slightly, turning around to focus on Luke.
“Goodnight, Michael,” Luke replied, the smallest of smiles forming on his face once more.
With that Michael quietly pressed the doors of his own room shut, slipping into bed with many worries eased from his mind. He fell into sleep peacefully, perhaps for the first time in his life. He could but hope for more days like such.