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Asmalen King of Thieves chapter two! |
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2…Death of a Prince
He woke to the familiar sound of rain tapping the low leaking roof of the inn and distant thunder rumbling over the mountains enclosing them. He knew, by his deep, late sleep, that he must have indeed been worn out from the previous night. In fact the young prince, for the first time in years, had to force his body to a sitting position on the thinly stuffed bed. His every bone ached with the effort of his escape only the night before and his hands, blistered and dirt filled,becoming infected, stung with the slightest bit of pressure applied. In all truth his arms had never felt so dead since the first time he had swung a sword for hours on end with Gran teaching him steps and technique. Some of which Akistu was sure he would never remember. The young prince slide his legs until his feet, still mud stained from his night of running barefoot through the village, were able to lower down to the creaking wooden floor. He was used to the almost ghost like howls and echoes of shifting wood the inn made in strong wind and when a guest creped around the halls to visit lovers in other rooms or perhaps even to find their way outside to the toilets. As a child in the castle those stone walls were filled with odd noises. The whispering of the wind as it echoed off each stone wall until reaching human ears and at times even the utter silence of the castle was chilling. In fact the creaking of wood was comforting compared to the sounds of the castle. At times his ears had even deceived him into believing a young boy, sounding close to his age, was calling out in the night. The rain had strengthened by the time Akistu stretched high into the air, the baggy sleeves slipping down from his wrist to the bump of his elbow. He groaned when his back cracked, however wonderful it felt after curling up for warmth in the drafty room, it gave him a shot of pain when the sound reached his ears. His arms fell to his side again, swinging ever so slightly from the short drop and as he brought down the cuffs of the peasant shirt, off white in the dim light pouring into the room from the sun trying to escape the clutches of clouds thick with water. It was then that there was a knock on the door, more of a pound and the clatter of metal boots that had caught his attention. He had assumed the much too loud, uncalled for banging on the weak door was more of a wakeup call from the knights of the castle seeing as all they had left behind, slide under the crack of the door, was a piece of parchment stamped with the kings wax seal. Quickly the prince scrambled over to snatch up the yellow tinted paper, running his fingers over the lumpy red seal. He was more afraid to open it than anything. He had thought he was found out. In fact when he first heard the familiar sound of metal boots he had thought they were coming for him. It was only hearing the grunts of displeasure from the early waking of a hung-over man in the room beside him that persuaded the prince to open the letter. For he noticed it was not only his door that the knights had stopped at, but also every door before and after his own. He ran over to the one window in the room, knowing that if it was not bad news brought to him in his first waking in a new life that it would only be good. Rain had blown in from the deep breathing of the storm’s cold breath to his floor and so his feet became wet and cooled, for already the day was hot and muggy. He stood before the window, tilting the paper as close as he could, avoiding the cold drops flying in, or at least trying to do so without making the paper unreadable with smudged ink. No one had come, he realized and indeed was quite annoyed to find out, to light his candles when the sun had rose in the gloom day. Now he was forced to use the tanned light of a grey day to read what the paper before him said. By order of the king of Asmalen, It started in the elegant hand writing his father spent years of his youth as a prince perfecting. People of all ages have been ordered to attend the funeral for the sad passing of young prince Akistu who was kidnapped and brutally murdered by none other than the guild of thieves. It ended and the prince knew if it was one mistake he had made it was this. Brutally murdered? He thought, looking in horror at such a mistake. He didn’t think through what would happen if such an announcement was indeed made to the village and the guild would indeed get a-hold of a copy. What would they do? He thought, letting the letter fall to the wet puddle bellow the window made from the breaths of a storm shooting it through his window. “They might tell.” Whispered the prince to himself, fear stabbing at his every pore. The guild loved attention, he could tell by the letters after the king put up hunts for their leader or anyone helping the guild in anyway. They always thanked him deeply for making their name more widely spread, and for showing the villagers that didn’t know the monster he really was. However they hated lies, for always they scolded his father for lying to his people, and they would most surly not want the mention of the death of a royal, however badly they want them dead, on their heads. The very next knock on his door made the prince jump and quickly whirl his head around to gaze at the crack bellow the door. The shadow there, cast from the lights of the candles lighting the windowless halls, was of one person, one for each foot. “W-who is it?” He managed to call, thinking it might have been better to remain silent as the dead. What if it’s them!? He thought as he watched the handle to the door turn, still not the slightest whisper of an answer from the other side. What if they find me? His mind raced, still the young prince couldn’t believe he had made such a stupid error and now he was running from the two most powerful groups in Asmalen, the guild of thieves and the Royal guard. “Breakfast’s down stairs sweaty.” came the chirping of the old woman’s voice as he head poked in from the door, a seemingly perpetual smile on her face. The grey hairs tucked neatly under what looked like a white cloth that tied around the back of her neck like a bandana and her rosy, chubby cheeks reminded the prince of his mother’s nurse. He had only seen the old women once before when the queen came down with a dreadful cold. He felt his shoulders drop at the sight of the squished face of the maid, and his lips curve in a smile. If he wasn’t afraid of looking mad he would have laughed in joy as well for being safe for the morning. “Y-yes thank you.” He spoke, a smile flashing oddly white teeth for a peasant in an almost charming smile. She left than, squirming from the small opening and shutting the door with a dull click behind her. As Akistu approached the door he heard her soft knock on the other drunken man’s door, and as with the guards, heard his grunt of disapproval. When he was put to bed the previous night he was already dressed in the one pair of clothes given to him and not even a comb was given for mornings so he walked into the hall already seeing the difference in the nights and mornings of a peasant’s life. It was quieter for one and few people were slowly making their ways into the halls, following the thick smell of thick porridge waiting for them. The prince couldn’t attend breakfast however, and neither could anyone else. It was made, but none that slept in the inn were up to the exigent task of picking their throbbing minds out of the clouded daze of dreams. More people made it the first step on the start of a long, rainy day. Most, he noticed, carried with them the very notice he had read and left to ruin in the puddle by his window. None looked saddened however. After all why would they feel grief for a child they did not know? Why show sorrow for the son of your greatest enemy? They rolled their eyes. Some even shaking their heads in disapproval and murmuring curses under their breath. Ones Akistu had heard often in the guards quarters. “There you are!” Came the excited voice behind him, and a rough hand pulled back on his shoulder as he turned around to see the inn keeper. “I got afraid when I went ta check on ya and found that room empty.” She nearly laughed and it almost seemed, to the prince, that she was ready to pull him into a tight embrace. Her clothing were different this time, and he had to admit the dress from before was much better than the dismal thing she wore now. The other made her stand out amongst the rest of the women of the village. She was wearing something darker now, close to black with ruffled long sleeves and a high collar. This gown fit her better however. Instead of hanging above her ankles it reached her toes, making her seem to float on air if she walked half as graceful as the women in the castle. Once again the woman’s eyes seemed drawn to his hands, as they were the previous night when he reached for his bag of silver and gold coins. Still he was thankful for not having to use any as of yet. “We should care for those hands of yers.” sighed the inn keeper, walking closer to him, but only to take into her rough hands his wrist. He winced while she poked at the blisters, trying to get clumps of dirt that survived the scrubbing in the ally last night. “Well it ain’t too bad.” said the women, letting him pull back his hand that burned more like fire after she so roughly handled it. “Nothing a good washing and some centaury can’t fix.” She walked on and pat his back to nudge the prince forward to the stairs. “We have to git to that brat’s funeral though, than we can be fixin’ ya up.” Akistu couldn’t help but cringe a bit to hear first hand the judgment others held of him just for carrying the blood of a man they hated. Their short walk was silent for some time, he knew he had to get free of her soon for if he were to go to the funeral without a means of disguise he would surely be caught. The villagers might not have known what the prince had looked like, but the guards, his father and mother surely did. “You know?” Asked the inn keep, and the prince had just noticed her large chocolate eyes were watching his every careful step, studying, it seemed, his every movement. “Fer such a small boy ya sure do walk like one of them royals. Guess it comes with growin’ up in them walls.” It seemed like a test, the prince could only think. It seemed as if the one he had trusted up until now was suspecting him and he knew if she did than others would as well. “Don’t compare me to them.” He spoke after a short period of mental preparation. He wanted to avoid speech when he was out in the open. There was a certain way that a royal spoke, proper speech, it was called and it was the only way he had learned to speak. Most would be able to distinguish the difference and his only hope now was that she would do as she just did, assume he picked it up while living with his dead parents in the castle. “I walk nothing like those rich bastards.” The prince made the edges of his speech jagged, trying to mimic the language and roughness of Gran and the other knights. “I walk how I walk, but they walk like this.” said the prince, pulling back his shoulders like his tutor used to make him do and stiffening his arms to his side. The women laughed as she watched him walk like a toy wooden soldier and she witnessed the first childlike smile from this new comer as his shoulders hunched once more and his arms relaxed. “Yes I suppose yer right.” said the inn keeper in between a giggling laugh. The silence came back while they walked down the narrow stair well. The prince was more surprised when seeing everything in order, tables standing on four legs, a set of warm colored wooden chairs at each. The floors looking newly washed and counters from last night held plates with brown bread with creamy butter spread over it’s surface instead of cups of spilled ale and broken glass. With the dull glow of the candle light on each wall and a candle stick at each table it appeared to be a completely different place. Last night he could hardly tell it was a room with so many people tripping over one another and tossing glasses around. Before he could hear music, but not know where it came from and now he could see a wooden platform raised above the ground with three steps leading up and a railing around it’s boarder. “Nice when no one around ain’t it?” asked the woman with that same warm chuckle and he noticed that people were indeed no where around. Only few were sitting at the counter, munching on the small breakfast before the time came to leave. He nodded his head, but their eyes did not meet. He had found that corner again. The one where that black robed figure sat. The prince felt childish for believing that it would possible still be sitting there. As if some sort of prop or life sized doll. “Did you know him?” The question forced his eyes to hers again for it was his first time hearing the smallest bit of sympathy while referring to his old self. “The prince?” she asked, the prince guessing that it was his long wait before he answered that made her think he had not a clue what she spoke of. “I…didn’t know him.” Answered Akistu, shifting his gaze forward while they walked to one of the many tables set up for dinning. “No one knew the prince.” He continued, not being able to keep a distant look in his eyes and a ringing tone of grief in his words. The young prince would not look up to her a he spoke. Simply down at the bread just recently put before him by the very old woman who brought the cold water for his quick bath, but Akistu could tell, by the careful way she listened that she wanted to catch him like this, and even still he could not keep something so involuntary away. “He wasn’t allowed to be around filth like me. They didn’t even let him outside.” “That’s horrible.” Answered the inn keeper and as if just realizing the forlorn expression he wore, held up his chin and cleared his throat. “The poor boy must have been miserable.” She sighed and The prince only wished to agree and tell her just how miserable it was. “You can’t keep young men locked away, they need to run about, break a few things, have fun.” As she spoke she rose both from her seat and in volume. A few of the hung over men grumbled as they glanced over at the women. “Quite impossible in the castle.” Akistu chuckled, all seriousness coming back as she sat back in the seat across from him. Her hard working hands lifted up her plate and he watched her dump her own brown bread onto his plate. “Livin’ in the castle with yer mom bein’ a cook I bet you never had any bread like this.” She laughed at him, once more standing, but this time walked over to hover over one of his shoulders. “I grant it taste better than any of that flavorless white bread in the castle.” Her strength was made known as she pat his back where wings would form if a human could spring them from their flesh. “Eat up.” She ordered. “Than git to that funeral I have some work to attend to before I go.” Akistu nodded to the direct order, and planed on doing all but eating the bread. He was too nervous to eat, to busy to find the time to stuff his mouth sticky with his nights rest. A plan now was needed for the young former prince of Asmalen. He had not a means of disguise and yet it was a must that he was to go to the funeral. After all it would be a challenge to hide when the peasants would be herded like sheep to the funeral. He glanced about the room, looking for a large jacket or a hooded cloak to cover his clay colored hair, and at that moment he could only think how he wished for the large cloak the one in black had the other night. It was from the corner of hic eyes that he saw what he dreamt for, or at least something close enough to it. A man walked in from the rain, a gust of wet air following him in before, with mild strength, he fought the wind and managed to shut off the sound of a waterfall of the storm outside. It wasn’t the man that was particularly interesting however, but what he was wearing over his shoulders and head. The black cloth was so wet that it clung to his back and neck as dew did to grass He started backing away from the door, turning as he walked along to the counter, were black berries from the fields had just been put out beside the cooling bread, as he removed the large hood from his head. Akistu now had his target. Slowly the prince stood, taking the plate of bread with him as he inched to a closer table just as the man sat down and started to peal the drenched cloak from his equally wet cloths. He was talking with the other men also sitting down to eat after along night. The young prince was close, but not near close enough to hear anything but a few bouts of laughter and the deep mumbles most seemed to be using in the gloom early morning of Asmalen. The problem was how was he to mimic the artistically nimble fingers of the thieves and swipe the wet cloak out from under the man’s nose. He nibbled on the brown bread as he watched the movements of the man. His head thrown back in laughter, arm rising up and fingers wrapping around handfuls of black berries. He watched the man beside him tell jokes and stuff his face with the very same dark bread he nibbled on now and slowly when both of their gaze was well away from him he stood and started inching closer. At first his movements were slow, planning as he moved closer, than as he continued they were forced to speed up to a normal walking speed. After all if he were to be seen sneaking around he would be caught. Then his chance came as the man’s elbow bumped the edge of the chair and his wet cloak plopped in a heap to the floor. He didn’t notice, the prince saw and so quickly he walked over. Dare he not bend down and risk being seen. Instead he kicked one end up with his foot as he passed and scooped it into his hands. He kept walking, hoping he wouldn’t be seen as he rolled the rest up into his arms and walked out the door into the pouring rain. The great pressure of wind and water was pounding down on is shoulders and head when he walked from the warm calmness of the shelter. It was almost like a hammer and he was the nail being forced to sink through the ground. Just seconds he was standing out in the rain, against the closed door of the inn and his new clothes were back to being pasted against his fair skin and his hair, starting to become long, making it difficult when he tried to see past a blind of clay brown wherever he went, was plastered to his face, the rain making it a shade darker than normal. “Good day to be dead.” Grumbled the prince as he swept his hair back from his eyes and slicked it on top of his head. It was probably the only time his face was fully shown, when his dusty hair was wet enough to smooth over the crown of his skull. Very carefully he un-rolled the black cloak from his arms. It was longer than he would have liked, but it only gave him creative rule over how much of his body would be shown. He looked back once to the window of the inn happy to see the man, seemingly the only alive one on such a gloom morning, managing to eat breakfast, laughing and nudging the one beside him. When the prince looked back to the curvy road he managed to travel down in the darkest night, the only night, he had ever explored, he saw ahead two guards shoulder to shoulder. It was luck alone that they parted to pound hard on two doors, warning the people that the funeral would start, that they must go, and thus their eyes did not catch him as he sat there in the open, uncovered before them. It would be odd, he had thought, to see such a small boy hiding himself in a black cloak too large for him. His eyes were forced to stop watching the guards as he whipped the wet cloth over his shoulders, hands taking the bottom corner and holding it up as he ran to where an empty barrel of last nights ale was propped against the wall. He glanced back, saw them talking to whomever it was who answered the door and saw them slowly backing away, mouths still moving with their king’s words. Their eyes were still to the window and he guessed they were making sure whoever lived inside was indeed following orders. The young prince looked back and ran over to the barrel, pushing it over onto its side and slowly raising himself up, using the wall for support. Now he was not too short but too tall he was and the guards approached. The hood came up as he leaned his back against the wall, feeling the barrel shaking underneath him, grinding in the mud. As he had seen last night on the shaded figure, his hair and eyes were covered by the cloth, but he wondered now if it was looking to him at all for he knew, or thought, he could only see down. The guards were nearing and still his problem with being too high was unsolved. Slowly he started bending his knees, hearing the crate creaking under him and quickly he fanned and bottom of the cloak around him and he found as the guards walked before him and his eyes instinctively gazed up, the most peculiar thing. The cloth, though thick and dark, was see-through and cast everything in a darker light. “Sir!” He heard the guard yell and resisted the urge to jump. In fact he showed no response but a lift of his chin to make it appear as if he was trying to look at them. “Will you speak?” The other asked and slowly he shook his head, wishing he had the proof of the old man in the castle prison cells that had his tongue cut out for lying to the king. “Is it that you can not speak?” Asked the guard while the other elbowed him hard in the side, for it gave the prince an easy escape as he nodded his head. The guards were supposed to be careful to look for guild members when in town. Things they were to say were to be limited and so Akistu had thought himself lucky when thinking this young male must have been a new guard either that or unable to hold his tongue. “It is a matter of interest if you plan on going to the funeral today.” The second guard mentioned and right away he felt as if he was trying to be snagged into an inescapable trap. He nodded his head, but it had only disturbed his already upset balance and with fear in his unseen eyes he felt the barrel nearly slip from under him if he didn’t plant his feet firmly in the wood and his shoulder blades painfully into the stone walls of the inn. For a second he had thought the guard, the very one who seemed so carefully to play with his words, the one who nudged the other every time he tried to speak, knew who he was and what he was doing out from the castle walls. He wanted them to leave, but both continued to stand before him, as if able to see through the cloth as he was able to see through to them. He could feel his muddy boots slipping on the slimy wooden barrel and he knew it would not be much longer until he would be found out. “Very well.” said the same guard and it was than that the prince noticed he had been holding his breath and was just now able to unclog his air way and breath once more. He saw their bodies, which had seemed like clay statues before, move from their place with a bow of their head and turn their back on him to knock on the door to the inn. Still he was not free and the prince knew this. With just his eyes he followed them; his breathing became heavy with nerves. His legs were starting to burn with his weight as he held himself in a half seated position against the wall. Slowly still his feet were slipping on the barrel and it even started rolling further from the wall. “May I help you?” He heard the meek voice, trying it’s hardest to strain to be heard against the rain. “Just a reminder to-“ Started the guard as he was cut off when the empty barrel slipped out from under Akistu and the prince let out a yelp as he was tossed back into the mud. He sat up quickly, hood coming off his head. When he looked over at the three faces gazing back at him he felt frozen despite his fast movement. To them it would have only been a glimpse of his face before he tore the muddy hood back up and was running off in the direction of the main roads. He didn’t look back as he ran, but he could feel eyes on his back for the older of the two guards, the oldest, he had just realized, he knew quite well for he was one of the knights working close to Gran, but never had he shown he enjoyed his lower position to a disobedient knight. “What are you looking at?” The prince thought he heard over the creeping storm after he dove down a smaller street and pressed his back to the stone wall. “Nothing…” This one was harder to hear over the waterfall of rain. “I just thought I saw…” It was inaudible after this and so the prince wasted no time in getting as far out of sight as possible. He situated the hood back on his head and reached down to the bottom corner of the cloak to wrap around his neck like a scarf. With his deer skin boots now able to walk along without fear of tripping over spare cloth he started at a run, only to remember he had not an idea of where he was. The path before him was a winding mess of allies and dead ends. Larger roads always branched off into three or four more that only hade more paths leading off from them. If he hadn’t known better he would have thought to be sucked into one of the ancient temples of the gods. It was hopeless. He had thought, knowing there was nothing he could do but listen for the guards and hope at avoiding them in a game of cat and mouse. Thunder was now being heard behind the monitions and in between the banging of the storm’s drums he heard his name called out. It was enough to make his heart feel suffocated. After all in the village the only one who should know who he was, was himself, unless…they noticed. The thought struck him and with ghastly eyes and looked back before sprinting off to the closest street. The voice vanished, but it was as he was about to turn down a smaller street that he heard the voice louder. It was hard to distinguish who it might be over the downpour of water, but it sounded as if it could belong to both male and female. He stumbled back when hearing it a second time and ran again to a larger street. This game continued on in fact it seemed to be leading him through the winding of streets, past dead ends and straight to one of the most popular areas in town, thought the prince did not realize this until he stumbled out onto the main street as the rain became nothing more than a drizzle. His hood had fallen off, hair that was once plastered on top of his head now starting to fall in thick strands before his grassy eyes. There in the ally as he looked back from his spot on the ground, for he had been running at such a speed that the cloak managed to find his feet and trip him as he ran, rewarding the prince in re-opened cuts in his hands and new wounds on his elbows and knees. He rolled over to look back at who had been chasing him from his spot on the ground as horses from farms and carriages started carrying people to the castle. There standing with a thin lipped smirk on its face was the very same black robed figure as before. He watched it, chest moving high with his deep breath, eyes wide with the fright a child would have after a nightmare, as the person walked past him and into a carriage that had just pulled up behind the prince. He dare not look back as the tapping of horse hoofs hit the stone and the wheels clicked against the cracks, but over the drizzling rain, and over the storm he heard that person laughing at him. The prince stayed frozen in the street until the clapping of horse hoofs was far from his keen ears. He waiting until the rain was heavy again and the streets started to become bare of life as peasants dressed in dark colors pants and skirts of morning marched off to a funeral they didn’t want to attend, to the death of a boy they hardly cared to lose. All the long while he sat there, thunder getting louder as it inched closer from its home over the mountains, all that time thinking they knew my name, they knew my name! Never before had the prince ever felt so much like a fox trapped in its den, with fire on one end and the hunting hounds on the other. His eyes, still wide from fright slowly watched the streets ahead of him. In the distance he could still see a small group of people making their way up to the castle. In fact he was sure they were simply going in hopes of a meal or maybe because they feared their life. His hands had ripped open again, mud and small pebbles imbedded in his popped blisters and his skin would have felt like fire if he hadn’t been so numb with realization of his lies catching up with him. One of two places such a person could have been from and not one held any good news for him, one being the guild and another, his father, the king. “Hey you!” The voice nearly made the timid prince jump from his skin. A guard, he thought by the second words uttered. “What are you doing down here! Get up to the castle!” And so he listened. Without glancing back, for if he did he would have been seen, been found out, he took off at a run down the road until his feet splashed against the mud of the dirt road he traveled down only hours ago in the dark. He passed the green field that helped hide him when the guards had passed only now he could look out further, see the grassy hills, the boarder of woods seeming to frame the bottom edge of the distant mountains playing hide and seek in thick grey clouds. He pulled up his hood as he approached, seeing the draw bridge down, the torches managing to stay light to a small flame in the steady rain. He was hesitant in a way. Just the other night he had escaped these walls and now willingly he was inviting himself back in. If he were caught it was all to clear the ease the knights would have in catching him. For a while his foot were frozen still. He wanted them to sink into the mud to his ankles so he had an excuse not to walk over the deep mote. It had taken a good amount of his strength and a period of held breath to make him move forward to the draw bridge as the dark hood was once again taken up over his head and eyes. The only sound, for even the peasants seemed to feel threatened being so close to their king, closer than anyone normally went for he often kept himself locked away in fear of assassination, was his feet tapping the wood and like the fountain in the court yard, a place he often played, the sound of applause as water hit water, as the rain slapped the deep moat below his feet. It felt almost like it was congratulating the young prince for his stupidity of stepping back into his prison. As he walked it came to his attention that the thickness of the crowd was growing. He noticed the closer he got, the stuffier the air and the tighter the spaces were that he had to crawl through. The people around seemed bored, not sorrowful and he could not blame for they way they acted. After all so many of their loved one’s were killed, why should they mourn for one’s son who murdered them. “People of Asmalen!” The prince heard the roar of his father’s deep voice vibrate through the silent crowd. In fact it almost felt like it would topple over the lifeless clay bodies that he hide amongst. Not one person shifted from his or her place, not one child, or baby being cradled in their mother’s arms cried. He never imagined his funeral would hold such thick, nervous air. “I have asked you to come of this somber day to mourn with me the death of your prince.” Still, as this was said, no one moved, no one blinked. It made him feel as though he was standing out despite the black hood, like so many others hiding from the rain, pulled over his head. He was the only one that seemed to have any life, and emotion. Thunder rolled in and the prince felt oddly calmed by a sound other than his father’s voice filling his ears and lightning struck the air behind the castle. The king was standing by the temple door, for he was too frightened to leave the castle and visit the gods of the peasants. Akistu remembered his mother hating the temple, he remembered her telling him never to pray to fake god. He was dressed in a long purple robe, the pale blue cuffs from the silk shirt poking out. His golden crown, decorated in large rubies, rested over his raven colored slicked back hair. Everyone else, from the lowered draw bridge to the main walk way was covered in the black mourning garb of the peasants. His father didn’t even seem effected by his death, in fact his eyes were roaming the crowed. It had made the prince even more frightened that the black robed figure was indeed from his father’s guard. If it was the case his father would know by now his son was alive. Instruments started to play in the background, coming from the open doors of the castle entrance and, in one motion it seemed from where the prince stood, everyone’s heads slowly turned. Akistu had to push his way through the crowd, holding the cloth tightly to himself for he felt the gods were playing with him and would summon a gust of wind to tear away the cloak. He made sure not to be amongst the people of the front row in fear of being seen, but through the gaps of shoulders and necks he could see coming from the castle walls his mother and at her side Gran. For the first time since he had formulated his quick escape he felt a stabbing guilt strike his heart for even a knight as strong as Gran looked sullen. He saw tears in his mother’s eyes, saw water stain her brightly painted cheeks, and knew it to not be from the rain for she was dry until stepping from the castle walls, his casket, made to shine and decorated with bloomed red roses, standing out in the satin black cloth draped over the front. It was another sight that stirred the crowd, made them wonder, for in all royal funerals the body would be carried out on a bed of hay for all to see than set ablaze. He felt as if the peasants would think he wanted his identity to be kept from them, even in death. The music was loudening, the high pitched yet delicate whispers of a flute, as the knights holding the casket , following his mother, a black hood over her head and a dress to match her dark mood sweeping the stone steps behind her, soaking in puddles at her feet and gaining more weight with each drop it seemed to absorb. The crowd parted. He had not noticed it until it dawned upon him the air was no longer being stolen from him by other, larger men and women. He only noticed his position, standing out in the crowd when the casket turned and started down the path towards him. It was a mistake, he knew this with all his guilt filled heart and slowly turned around to glance behind him to see the cold eyes of his king, his father watching him, seeming to see right through his cloak. Without another word he whirled around and bolted into the crowd. No one would miss a young child. He thought as he pushed further and further back, thunder now at a deafening volume. He could still hear the music as he swerved in and out of people, looking down on his with annoyed stairs and looks of utter disgust. It was when he had made it to the back that he saw the draw bridge had been raised, and he realized he was trapped once again in his over sized prison. “We hope.” Continued his father’s voice, making Akistu look back the way he had came, almost expecting to see the knights with shackles ready and swords drawn. He had seen it done once. A member of the guild was tossed to the castle doors one night. Akistu had watched the black shadows place him there from his tower window before he went to sleep, and he watched from the allure as he passed to his lessons, Gran at his side to be sure he would not run again to play in the court yard, as the thief ran for his life through the very place he longed to be. The guards below were laughing as he ran, begged for his life, tried to push past the gates blocking off every stair well up to the castle. Akistu had tried to stop at that time to watch, but Gran pushed him along. The last thing he saw was the hunting dogs released, and the last thing he heard was the man’s screams. “We hope that my son, your prince will find peace in the after life.” The king bellowed out and the former prince only saw a glimpse of him, but it was all he needed to catch a glint of something flickering in those cold eyes. It filled up Akistu with the prickling heart clutching fear. Fear that he was discovered, but if that was sop, he knew, than already he would be ambushed. The draw bridge started to move at that moment while the rain showers, once again, started to dull and the thunder continuing traveling east to the mountains behind the castle, leaving behind thick air and a grey shadow smothering the kingdom. He watched as his casket was loaded into the chapel, watched his mother and Gran disappear with it and waited until the large doors closed to start his way across the mote. Once again, as he moved he could feel eyes on his back, a pair of two. Once he could recognize right away as the kings gaze, but the other was different, new. He avoided looking back, in fear thinking someone would be staring back, and he left that castle, leaving behind everything he once was. No longer would he be prince Akistu of Asmalen, he was simply Akistu.
Akistu was relieved to see the sun shinning brightly as he started down the dirt road to the village. It appeared to him that he was the first to leave. Aside from a few carriages and horses from farms he hadn’t run into anyone. The cloak he stole was soaked through to his skin and the bright sun shin was heating the black material to ungodly temperatures. How tempting it was to take it off, but he feared so terribly that if he did he would be caught. The path was still wet, every so often he would slap the puddles with his feet and have to pry it from the mud. Only once he had nearly lost his shoe. However when he was able to lift the cloak from his eyes the field around him was unlike anything he saw before. The water droplets on the grass seemed like carefully placed crystals. They seemed to shine as the sun peeked in on the world through the clouds. It gave the deep green of grass an almost enchanted feel. One he so yearned to be apart of, but at the same time would hate himself from ruining its beauty. He continued on, eyes dazed as he looked forward to see the stones lay out on the road and the village coming into sight. He was ready to be rid of his cloak once he entered the crowded streets of hard working villagers and merchants rushing back and forth to sell and be on their way to the next town. From where he was the town was a far greater sight than the castle. He had not but a hill to walk down, a steady drop in fact, but from the slightly aerial view he was able to see tops of roofs and smoke poring from each chimney. The town seemed so crowded even thought the prince had thought him to be the first one on foot to reach its roads. The sun was high when he passed the first oh small houses constructed of stone with hay roofs. He had heard it helped to deal with the summer heat. Akistu had always thought it nothing more than an invitation to fire. With great relief he was able to tear the hood from his head, clay hair once smoothed back in an almost mature way now a fuzzy mess on the top of his head. He witnessed his reflection in a puddle by his feet on the street and couldn’t help but jump at the sight. He felt safer with the hood on after seeing his appearance. Despite the cold he had felt before however the sun was quickly heating up the kingdom, evaporating water and replacing each drop of cool rain on his skin with sweat. The cloak was torn from his shoulders and he placed it down in a heavy wet heap beside him. The former prince knelt down beside the puddle, carefully smoothing down his hair. He rippled his distorted reflection when dipping his hands like a cup into the water and dumping it over his dampened hair. He thought it better wet than dry at the moment at least. That’s when he recognized a voice, coming up behind him. He dare not look up from his puddle for he feared the man who was recently robed of his cloak would somehow recognize him. “Who would steal from me!?” He shouted to the man beside him and Akistu watched in the reflection of the puddle as the man, and one other he had not recognize, passed by. Only when their backs were to him did he slowly raise and start to follow. After all he guessed they were going back to the inn and he needed to find his way back as well. Of course he remembered to bring the stolen cloak with him. Even if the man turned around and caught him he could claim to have found it lying on the ground when he came back from the funeral. “I mean don’t anyone know who I am!?” Continued the man with his rant and all Akistu could think was, the guild would steal from you. He thought if that was so the man wouldn’t be so embarrassed if he found out a small thirteen year old boy was the one to pull off such a task. “Well you know I would steal from you.” The man walking with him laughed, but in comparison to the first his voice was dull and weak. “Don’t be speakin’ like that in the open!” The hissed whisper peeked Akistu’s curiosity, made him want to dare to creep a bit closer as they leaned in close, as he watched them whisper to each other over the crowd. Both seemed to nod and both parted with a quick wave. Still the former prince continued to follow the one he had stolen from. After all they seemed to be going the right way by turning into a swerve of small streets and allies. The darker part of the village, he thought. A place where less sun shown, a place to hide from the many guards constantly patrolling the streets, looking for the guild who stole something new every day. The man seemed to speed up as they went deeper into the winding streets of grey. For a while Akistu thought he had been noticed, seen, but it didn’t make sense. If that was the case what was stopping the man from turning around and knocking him to the ground. He was stronger, and may have been faster as well. Akistu was nearly at a run now, trying to keep up with this silent game of hide and seek. He would make it around one corner to just catch as the man turned another. He was sprinting now when he saw the tip of the man’s fingers disappear far ahead, yet another corner. It was impossible. He had thought as he forced his legs to move faster. At this rate he thought he was being lead around, thought the man was playing with him. He grabbed the stone to quickly turn the corner, hissing in pain and retreating it back to be cradled against his chest. He had forgotten about the wounds again and now he could see the skin red with burning infection. His eyes darted up from his bleeding hand when he remembered the man he was trailing and much to his fear the man was gone. He ran forward, hearing his heart beating loudly in his ears. He was lost, he knew he was and as he ran back and forth, looking down other streets that branched off each other he didn’t realize he was running past the inn until he gave up and slumped to the floor and saw the sign swinging by his head saying in red letters, that he had to say looked more like drying blood over the years as rain and harsh weather chipped away at the paint, Moonlight Inn. He had to laugh at himself, slowly shake his head back and forth as carefully, using his back and leg strength to raise him from the ground for he dare not put his sore hands in the mud again, lifted himself from the ground. With the cloak under one hand he entered, dropping it near the coat rack as he walked in to be greeted with the same noise as last night while people sat around to eat. Gratefully he joined them, but only listened for he had no stories to tell of his own death. “Maybe the world be a little bright with another one of them cold royal asses out of the picture!” One man yelled out, ale in one hand and a piece of bread from the morning in the other. Akistu had just taken a seat with a bowl of porridge when the other’s all laughed and shouted their agreements. “I wouldn’t be surprised!” Another voice called out, female, from the sounds of it. “If the king killed the brat before history repeated itself.” There was another roar of laughter, but Akistu was having a hard time finding the humor in such dark jokes. It intrigued him however, for the very man who started the discussion pushed his way to the stairs of the stage. The musician didn’t seem to mind. In fact he helped the large man with his black bird nest growing from his chin and sand paper like skin, up to the stage, relieving him of his large ale as well when he started speaking. “I am sure you all know the story!” He shouted out and it seemed to bring all attention forward. “But I think we all agree that it is needed to tell again on such a glorious day!” There was applause, it made the former prince want to shrink away, but still he listened, for more were walking up to the stage, elderly, they looked with large sacks of wrinkles hanging from their eyes and cheeks, and all started telling their story.
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It was not so long ago that the king was but a young man at the prime of his youth. Unlike the late prince who so sadly passed away, he was well known throughout the palace and the village. In fact the prince had gone out of his way to ride on his large white steed in town square. He had a complacency to him as he walked own the streets. Daring to laugh at the many misfortunate, and yet when his father came out from his castle with the boy, he showed mercy, kindness. “I was there!” Shouted a women, interrupting the story. “I was there when he was born, that monster of a child.” It was said to be a dark day, a day such as today, when he caught his first glimpse of a world he sought to destroy. There were three other women in that room, that tower where the evil began, besides the queen herself. She looked pained as all women did when giving birth, but there was a distressed look in her eyes. When the child came out and the deer queen saw his dark eyes it was said at once she seemed to know his evil. The child was taken away from her, for a washing, for examination and the poor late queen only seemed distraught to find her child to be a boy. It was said she cried that night, the cause was unknown but soon after the queen became ill and unable to see her child in fear that the only heir would catch the sickness. The maids said they could hear her screaming at night and eventually they had to lock the door to keep her in the room at night. The king was aware that she had wanted to kill the child when he had gone to visit her. She told him, begged the poor man to kill their cursed infant. It only added to her illness. It was months that she was kept in that condition and the king locked himself away in his room, kicking out even his guards. Some said he cried while holding the evil son that unknowingly was murdering his wife. Years more passed and on a sad day the screaming had stopped. Maids went by the room, puzzled, thinking the queen well and in the early morning sleeping. It was noon time, lunch was to be served and it was noticed she was not in her room. The only thing leading to her pale corpse was a sheet tied to the bed post that hung out from the tower. The guards had pulled her dead body through the window. The queen had hanged herself and it was on that day that the prince learned his first word, murder. The king had scolded the servants, thinking they were talking about such things around his son, but all denied. All told truth.
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After the story had finished the room only increased in volume, and the numbers seemed to have grown since he had last looked around him. Some were clapping, despite the poor quality of such a slurred tale. Akistu himself could not believe such a lie. He was told that the late queen had died of sickness, not to mention he could not see how a new born child could have murdered his grandmother, how his father, at such an early age, already have rumors spread about him. The former prince did not blame them however. There was a certain air about the king, one that made your skin creep along your bones. Something in his eyes that made you think he was nothing more than a cold hearted murderer. There was a gentle tap on his shoulder, one most would not have noticed it was so soft, so gentle, but Akistu was alert for anything. He was hiding and new he was found out, that whoever that person in the black was knew his secret. He spun around quickly, seeing the inn keeper and watching her shock for he guessed she saw the small glint of fear in his eyes. “Didn’t mean ta startle ya.” She spoke with that smooth voice of hers as she sat before him. It was only than that he noticed the tray in her hand as she placed two bowls before him, one holding steaming soup and the other hot water with a small rag soaking in its scorching rain water. He started reaching for the soup, for despite the warm bread being quite tasty compared to the flavorless dough back at the castle, it was not near enough to fill him up. Before his fingers even had time to brush their tips along the spoon his wrist was swept up into rough hands and the inn keeper, with her other, reached for the rag, squeezing out as much water as she could. “The soup is a treat.” She said with a grin on her face. “For if ya stay still why I do this.” continued the woman as she brought the rag over to his hand. He winced, feeling a pinch of pain when the rag started gently brushing along the cuts and blisters, trying to take away the dirt embedded deep in them. He was surprised at how gentle she was being, for from experience he could not depict her at being so. “Looks like ya makin’ it worse with each time I let ya out of my sight.” Sighed the women, but still not answer from Akistu. He wasn’t really in much of a mood for conversation. His eyes were getting heavy and they had more of an interest for the soup rather than the work she did on his stinging hands. He nearly yelled, eyes torn from his food as she broke one of the blisters. He watched her scrum away the blood and pus that followed. “what are you doing!” He asked quite loudly, shocked when she chuckled and shook her head. “Getin’ rid of the infection.” Replied the inn keeper as he watched her take an herb, centaury, from a pocket in that hideous dark dress of hers. “Hold yer breath.” She had warned, and he knew well enough to listen. It was when he sucked in his breath did his eyes water as she pushed it into the mouth of his wounds and than tightly started wrapping it in an off white cloth. Quickly he had snatched his hand away when her tight grip loosened, still scowling at her when she laughed. “You can eat yer soup now.” Laughed the women before continuing with a softer chuckle, “but I need yer other hand, so don’t groan!” She warned quickly as he reluctantly held out his other hand. “I bring you good news for this.” She said, making him a bit more eager top listen as his bandaged hand took the spoon in his grip and slowly rose it to his lips. “We got a free room, meanin’ you can stay another night.” She was smiling now, ear to ear as she started with the same gentle scrubbing of his left hand. “We have another tale!” The same man as before yelled out, and Akistu had not even looked from his soup, but still his ears listened intently. The boy needed something to distract him from the pain of his hands. For he was sure his left was far worse than his right. “This one answers a question many have not an answer for!” His words were slurred again, more slurred, the prince noticed than, than before. “How did such a king love!? How did he receive a son when he has not feelings for anyone but his own reflection.” More laughter to follow, and this time even Akistu had to let out a stifled snicker for more than once he had seen his father admiring himself before the mirror.
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It was said that the king behaved strangely that day. He was easy on his servants, requested less service and even gave them a moments breath to warm up during the icy winter. It was always such odd weather in the kingdom. The summers had unimaginable heat that made you pray for rain, and the winters put a sheet of ice over everything. In a matter of months it went to a kingdom of ice to a kingdom of desert. To add to the kings strange behavior, and perhaps the only reason why people among the village still know what their ruler looks like in his old age, was that he decided upon himself that he would like to go out for a walk on the town. His servants were eager to dress him for the cold when hearing this. They dressed him in heavy robes and the thickest pair of cotton pants he had. It was a surprise that he seemed not to care what colors they dressed him in, He didn’t even nit pick about the feel of the material as he often did. He chose not a carriage, nor a horse to use on the stones of the village roads. For when his carriage first started bumping along the road he called for the diver to stop and let him out. “stay put.” He had told the man, and the driver bore witness to the strange behavior as well, for his king never even walked the length of the court yard. The longest he had ever walked was from the dinning room, which was the first place you walked into among entering the lavish elegance of the living quarters, to his bed chambers. He walked a long way throughout his kingdom, mostly staying on the main road for even way back when he was but a child he did not dare traveling far into the winding passages and streets of the maze of the kingdom. That is when his eyes were said to fall upon a young woman with chocolate hair, in light almost the color of the clay imbedded deep in the earth’s soil. She was stumbling from a washing house, carrying high a stack of winter clothes, and cloaks. Most in the village knew her as Meline. She was a very kind woman, yet very frail and shy. Other than that no one knew much about her. She lived a life of secrecy, and yet their king took notice to such a small women and went forth in his moment of pity and self loathing at seeing what his people were reduced to and took in his hands the heavy load of clothes. There was an exchange of words, that of which no one over heard for they were frightened some sort of sickness had taken hold of their king. Something that made him worry about his after life and so made him come out to redeem himself in the world. The villagers watched them walk off together, they watched him, for the first time, walk into the winding passages, moving deeper into his kingdom while still holding the bundle of clothes and all the while a serious look on both their faces as they spoke. She went back with him that night however. The few friends she had said it was for a dinner, and the night after she had went as well until one day she did not return to her little house in the allies and years later she was forgotten. Until there was the celebration of a wedding and the new life of a prince.
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By the time the story had finished both hands had been bound and the woman had left with his empty bowl of soup and now chilled water once used for washing his hands. He was slowly shaking his head as he lowered it to rest on his arms, folded one over the other on the counter. It hadn’t been the first fabrication of the story he had heard. There were many versions spreading throughout the castle. None were believable, but far more so than the one he had heard tonight. For his father never once stepped from the castle drawbridge, never once felt pity for the cruel things he did, the inhuman punishments given to those who were otherwise innocent in most eyes. Despite it being merely mid day, or at least only a few hours past he had found that the warm soup, mixed with the stress and fear, enough to strain a young boy for one day, had made his eye lids heavy, his limbs weak, almost numb. He hadn’t realized his exhaustion until after the soup consumed and after he let his head rest on his arms. There seemed to be another story being told, in between blinks he witnessed a small woman being helped up, saw her lips moving, but could not for the life of him focus on the sounds she made. Sleep was taking hold, and he dare not fight it. With time Akistu had fallen asleep on the counter of the inn bar, letting the laughter, and noise of the peasants skip over him. He had escaped, for at least a few hours into innocent dreams. It was when the sky was dark and the candle light that he was finally shaken from his gentle sleep. People he remembered from the other night were starting to come in, few already drunk on the night air and beer. The inn keeper was smiling down on him as his grassy eyes became slits of exhaustion and he looked up at her with a dumfounded look. At first he had forgotten where he was, what he was doing, and he felt like he did as a child when he was granted permission to eat with Gran in the knights room. He had snuck a cup of beer and woke up the following morning feeling like lead, as he felt now. His arms were heavy and so were his legs he came to notice as he stood. “I think it’s time you git to bed.” She had to shout over the music, but it sounded no louder than a whisper to him. He simply nodded, after letting his eyes wonder around, trying to make out exactly where he was in the bar of the inn. She took hold of his elbow, for it would not be wise to grab a hand when still it was healing, and slowly helped him from the chair. He stumbled a little, trying to re teach his feet to walk, his legs to support his weight. “You all right?” Asked the woman and he simply nodded his head once more. “Were crowded tonight.” she explained while pulling him through the crowd, towards the stairs. In fact he felt quite lucky that there was a spare room for him again that night. He was pleased to find the stairs less cluttered than the dinning area downstairs. A few people sat about, talking and laughing for all the tables and chairs downstairs were taken or thrown about on the ground. It was when they were towards the top did an older women ran at them, calling out someone’s name. She was an older woman, but he couldn’t tell by her speed or flexible movements, but by the wrinkles and visible veins in her hands. It seemed an odd chain of events at the time. One minute they were completely apart, he was close to one end and she the other, but when they were only steps apart the gap between had vanished and both collided. He was tossed to the side, feeling her arm and long black braid hit his entire left side. He watched the women, simply look back at him with her grey eyes, looking familiar in an almost eerie way. He slumped against the wall, still feeling drugged with exhaustion when the inn keeper ran over to help him to his feet. The last he saw of her was her feet as she jumped into another’s arms before they vanished up into the silence of the sleeping quarters. “You have the same room. Aint that lucky?” She laughed, but he was not awake enough to share her gratification. When they approached the room he was quite pleased to find it open, for he did not want to have to dig into the deep pockets to try and find his key. “Now I don’t have ta git ya a new one.” This was mentioned, though not heard to Akistu for once the door was open from him to stumble across the floor and tossed his body to the bed. In mere minutes he was sleeping, shoes still on and cloths still damp. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~,~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It seemed that late night had fallen to the castle earlier than normal. The queen had locked herself away in the tower room, once her dear son’s and Gran had stayed with her, at times simply guarding the door when she requested to be alone. She was too grieved to even attend dinner, and as luck would have it for the cooks not even the king would attend for he was attending to personal matters, however not one knew where he had went. With no Royals to attend to, no fires needing be lit, the castle had an abandoned echo to it. Not a foot walked on the stone halls, not a drop of a pin was to be heard for all were resting, all were listening for the first shout of command, something to break such deafening silence. Unlike those in the town, workers of the castle had known the prince, or at least some, mainly guards who befriended Gran, and the personal servants of the queen. They knew he was not the incarnation of evil, but an eager young boy with an eagerness to please that they only wished their own son’s would have. It was about midnight when the first of steps could be heard in the halls, when guards looked out from their post as night watch and servants from their rooms. All were pleased, and yet terrified to see walking, the note from the night of prince Akistu’s disappearance tightly clenched in a large decorated hand, the king dressed as he was during the funeral. He wore a smirk on his face, quite an odd look, one would say, to wear after so suddenly losing your only son. Not one had seen were he had come from, for it appeared that he had materialized from thin air. When he was spotted however things seemed to buzz back to life in the castle. “Trackers!” yelled out the king in his deep voice. “Get me my trackers!” He shouted again as he threw open the doors to his thrown room. They were a small group of men unique to Asmalen only. Specially trained knights used to find escaped slaves, missing people, but mainly they were on the endless search for the guild’s hide out, and the guild members. Their highest goal was to find the guild leader. As he walked over, fanning out his robe as he sat upon his large chair and three men, dressed in the cloths of peasants, for to find people of the village one must look like them. They bowed low to the king thought he quickly waved them up when holding out the paper. “My son is not dead!” snarled the old man, tapping one plump finger onto the writing. “There is not one spelling error on this paper and see these lines!?’ He was nearly yelling now as they looked up. “No ink blotches, no drops! It is too perfectly forged! He was kidnapped by the guild!” All were listening intently, all thinking the king was indeed more grieved by his son’s death than he let on, but none dared to tell him this. “I want you to find the guild!” He shouted and continued. “They had taken him away, they are using his against me! Poisoning his mind! Find him! Find the guild, but keep it secret for now. I don’t want them to know we are looking.” He finished and with another flick of his wrist they stood and walked from the room. It seemed crazy, their king seemed to be going mad, but all were too frightened to speak this aloud. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~,~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aki112 · Tue Jun 19, 2007 @ 02:12pm · 0 Comments |
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