Our Story

By Nikole E. Galant

"This is our story . . .
. . . and it is one worth remembering."

In a world of royalty, dazzling balls, true love, and revenge, fate drives two hearts to find each other.

Enraptured by the raw mystery written across one another's bodies, lies play out, secrets are fabricated, schemes are constructed, and mischief is made.

Playing a dangerous game, a celebratory night befalls the players, unveiling the flaming truth and setting the dominoes falling, damaging the hearts and souls of those close to the mendacious royals—including themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228876625

Nikole E. Galant

Nikole Galant is a high school student born in Ontario, Canada. She enjoys reading and loves a good classic rock song. She lives with her brother, parents, and three cats.

Book preview

Prologue

The maid had scolded me and taken my hand, for it was far past my bedtime. Together, we hurried off towards my bedroom. If caught, we both knew my parents would not be happy if they found me out of bed at such a late hour.

The maid quickly, but efficiently, washed and tucked me into bed, blowing out the candle before leaving.

I was alone then, with my own thoughts, replaying the wonderful day I had had over and over in my tired head: swimming in the pond, chasing the butterflies, running through the castle halls.

Thunder boomed through the dark sky, lighting it up in a patchwork of deep blues and magnificent purples. And, just as my heavy eyelids began to close, a murderous scream tore through the castle; startling me and sending a chill through my bones.

I threw off the covers and jumped out of bed. Bounding towards the door, I opened it with such force that I fell, face first, into the hallway. Standing quickly, I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me to my mother and father’s bedroom; scared beyond belief.

My wonderful day lost to the sound of the scream.

As I reached their bedroom, one of the guards blocked me from entering. I tried several times to get around him, but the guard was too quick for me. I could hear pained voices and stifled cries coming from within, and without a second thought, I bit the guard hard on the leg. He wailed in pain, and I sped past him into the room before he could recover.

As I wandered deeper into the room, many people made to grab at me–to hold me back–but I avoided their attempts; making straight for the large group gathered in the middle. I pushed my way through their huddled bodies and saw my father.

He was kneeling over somebody; his eyes glistening with unshed tears. I touched his shaking shoulder, unable to see who was lying on the floor, but I could tell it was a woman; her beautiful, white nightgown slowly turning crimson.

My father turned and, as he looked into my frightened eyes, I saw, over his shoulder, that the woman on the floor was my young, beautiful, loving mother.

She didn’t move as my father cradled her limp head. She appeared unnaturally pale. I bent to touch my mother’s hand but quickly withdrew. Her skin was ice cold. Hesitantly, I looked into her kind, storm grey eyes, which revealed no sign of life; unseeing in a way that made her resemble a doll of sorts. Tears threatened at my eyes, and I moved closer to my father; needing the comfort of his still-beating heart close to mine.

I once again went to touch his shoulder, to comfort him as best I could, but as I raised my hand, I saw that it was coated in that same crimson solution. I realized, not nearly soon enough, that I’d been kneeling in my mother’s blood.

And, as I warily looked across my mother’s still body, I finally noticed the silver dagger protruding from her once beating and loving heart.

A year later, miles away in another kingdom, a baby princess had just fallen asleep.

Part One

Never Everlasting

Chapter One

Nineteen Years Later

Fabian Averitt

Ash drifts towards the blazing ground, falling like white puffs of dull snow. Embers spark, flying high above the raging flames. Blood flows through the cracked cobblestone of the fallen kingdom, flooding the streets, extending like red cobwebs. It soaks through the ashen grass, turning the smoking snowflakes a vivid red.

Unbearable screams ring out over the roaring fires. Horrible, heart-wrenching screams that could wake the dead. Wounded warriors crawl and limp across the battlefield littered with discarded weapons, arrows, and dead bodies. Swarms of flies already take refuge in the dying skin of the fallen.

And, as I lay dying on a cot, falling in and out of consciousness, complete regret washes over me. Dread, sorrow, rage and disgust begin to suffocate me; coming to claim my life in their miserable arms. I want nothing more than to be rid of this world, to fall away and be forgotten.

But they won’t let me. Not yet.

Through a sea of deafening fog, light footsteps pad towards me, stopping beside my cot. Their face is blurry as my eyes briefly drift open, only to close shortly after.

"Today is not the day you die. This will not be your resting ground," I hear the person say beside me. I cannot tell if they’re trying to convince me or themselves.

Hands press down on my chest and a warm, wet fluid gurgles forth; leaking out onto my skin. The fluid trails down my ribs and stomach, pooling in my bellybutton, enveloping my cold body in a warm hug. Cold, I think to myself. A chill races up my sides, burrowing deep into my bones. I tiredly wonder what my skin feels like beneath the person’s hands; if I feel like a dying body, or if I already feel like a dead one.

My eyes lazily flutter open again, only to be faced with hell.

Bodies, fires, ash, blood.

My God.

What have we done?

Riding over the hilltops, our castle in sight, my father, myself, and the long trail of wounded troops have at last arrived home from battle.

Although we dare not speak of what occurred in Levarine, I cannot shake the violent and horrid memories of the battle.

I had done a terrible thing. Something I wish I’d never done. But my father’s threats had been my undoing, and I was compelled to do that atrocious deed.

I will never be able to look at him the same way again. I will never be able to look at myself the same way again. But I know if people found out about what he’d ordered me to do, they would renounce us both, and so I swore to myself that I’d never recount that day to a single soul. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have things I need to discuss with him.

Father, I begin, what happened in Levarine, what you told me to do–

Is something that isn’t worth discussing any further, my father, King Percival of Aurelian, quickly interjects. Save your breath and move on with your life. There’s no use dwelling over what’s in the past. There are more important things to worry about, and more important things to celebrate. He glances sidelong at me. If I’m not mistaken, I do believe a special occasion is soon to come.

Yes, I suppose there is.

In light of recent events, I’ve nearly forgotten that my birthday is approaching. All of my birthdays, thus far, have been quite extravagant, seeing as how I’m my father’s only child. However, there’s much more relying on this birthday compared to others.

This year, I’m to select a bride.

I suppose there’s a part of me that intentionally pushed away the thought of my birthday. To be brutally honest, I don’t want to be married. At least, not right now. Although I’ll be twenty-five in a few short weeks, I believe I’m still too young to be bound to another person for life. I want to be free and live my life the way I want to, without my father constantly looking over my shoulder and telling me what to do.

I want to marry because of love. Not because of obligation.

Ever since the death of my mother, my father hasn’t been the same. He tells me what I will and won’t do; the events at the battle are a prime example. He doesn’t allow me to dream my own dreams, make my own decisions, or even speak my own mind.

I know I must tell him about my concerns involving this marriage soon.

Today, however, is not the day.

*     *     *

When we finally reach the castle, my father and I dismount our horses, and the stablemen lead them to the stables. We don’t bother grabbing our belongings; that’s a job for the maids and servants, as my father would say. So, I keep my head down and flash apologetic smiles when my father isn’t looking.

The castle is well-prepared for our arrival. Candles and sconces are lit in the foyer where we stand, and the smell of a roast being prepared fills the air. I greedily breathe it in, savoring it. The months of living off charred rabbit and smoked fish have at last come to an end.

As I breathe in another lungful of the delicious aroma, one of our many maids, Mabel, comes around the corner.

Welcome home, Your Majesty, she curtseys to my father, and you, Your Highness, she says with another curtsey to me. Dinner will be ready in an hour.

Of all the maids and servants in the castle, Mabel is the one I adore the most. After my mother died, I wouldn’t speak to anyone, not even my father. I had become mute the months following her death. But, as Mabel was tucking me into bed one night, long after my mother’s death, I asked her why people die.

People die because their time on Earth is over. They have fulfilled everything they needed to fulfill in this life, and it’s time for them to start a new one. I had then asked what my mother had fulfilled. "Your mother, Fabian, had to marry a loving husband, give him a loving son, and the kingdom a worthy prince."

From that night on, I would go to Mabel whenever I needed advice or guidance. I began to see her as family, rather than just the help.

Thank you. My father’s words pull me out of my trance. You’re dismissed. With a final curtsey to us both, Mabel leaves, and my father turns to me. Fabian, why don’t you go upstairs and rest before dinner. It’s been a long journey home and I’m sure you would enjoy some peace and quiet. I will have someone prepare a bath for you, if you so wish.

What I would give to have a bath at this moment. My muscles ache and protest in agony, merely by standing here. So I say, Thank you, Father. I would like that very much.

No need to thank me, boy. After all, you certainly deserve it. You’ve made me immensely proud, staying by my side and listening to my orders like a true warrior. I only wish your mother were here to see what a fine young man you’ve grown into, and what a fine husband you’ll make. Now, go upstairs. I’ll have someone fetch you when your bath’s ready.

I give my father a tight smile before marching upstairs.

However, on my way to my bedroom, I cannot help but worry that my odd behaviour may have caught my father’s unwanted attention.

You see, in my father’s eyes, as a son, I’m nothing more than a burden. But as a warrior, I’m someone my father can bully about to do his dirty work. Regardless, I would do anything to protect him; and myself for that matter.

But inflicting harm upon others isn’t something I do lightheartedly.

As I enter my bedroom, I notice that my belongings have been brought up. I decide to empty my trunks and put my things away while I wait for someone to come for me. If my father could see me putting away my things, he would have a fit. This is, again, something the maids and servants should be doing, not a prince.

After spending ten minutes putting my belongings away and cleaning up, another maid arrives to tell me that everything is ready for me. I give her my thanks before she leaves.

*     *     *

The bathroom is thick with steam when I enter. Torches and candles have been lit, and the pleasant smell of lavender clings to the air; overtaking the aroma of the roast. I walk across the porcelain tiles to the copper tub to feel the water. It’s surprisingly hot, and I recoil as it burns my fingertips.

Sticking my fingers in my mouth, I walk circles around the bathroom to pass the time; observing how the tiles beneath my bare feet continue to dampen from the steam.

Once the pesky pain in my fingers subsides, I loosen the strings on the collar of my tunic. It clings to my arms and back as I slip it over my head, and I fold it neatly for the maids to collect. I catch sight of myself in the foggy mirror, then, and I walk over to wipe away the condensation to peer at my altered reflection.

Brown, shaggy and disheveled hair settles just above my shoulders; cascading down my neck and curling around my ears. Storm grey eyes accompanied by a fringe of long, dark lashes that look too feminine for the rest of my features. A long nose with a slight bump in the middle of the bridge, and–along with my cheeks—touched by the sun for too long. My lips, although chapped from harsh winds, dry weather, and warrior screams, are full; a shade of sandy pink.

I am the haunting image of my mother.

Shaking my head, I shove away the sorrowful thought; turning my back on it.

Regardless, I continue my examination.

A strong jawline and muscular physique; defined from training and fighting in previous years, and from lugging equipment during the last few months. I stand in the mirror for a while longer, turning my body and flexing my muscles to arrogantly admire them at different angles.

The last things I look at, and the last things I want to look at, are my scars.

I’ve acquired a great deal these last few months at battle. But only a few stand out amongst the rest: five shared between both arms, two on my face, two across my back, and one along my ribs.

But the most visible one is the six-inch scar running down my chest; extending from my left collarbone to the bottom of my sternum.

Seeing it makes my stomach drop, the words that were screamed at me a constant ringing in my ears.

The scar isn’t fully healed, and it remains a raw pink. I don’t remember how or when I obtained the other scars, but I will always remember how and when I received this one. The battle…

Defeated, I pull my eyes away from my attractive yet sickening reflection.

Daring to test the water, I remove my excess clothing and step into the tub; slowly lowering myself into the water. It’s hot, but not hot enough to burn. I draw the curtains for some privacy and lean back, resting my head against the edge of the tub, and close my eyes. Sitting down as I am, the water settles at my chest, and as it soaks my body, the tension in my shoulders and the tightness in my back eventually fade. I roll my head to stretch the muscles in my neck, and I draw in the scent of the lavender buds, which grow more fragrant as they soak in the water.

A sense of calm washes over me, but the newly-acquired mindset is hastily ruined by my mind’s necessity to drift back to the short, eye-opening conversation I had with my father. You have made me immensely proud. Those are the words he’d spoken.

I’m disgusted with myself for what I’ve done, and yet, he’s immensely proud.

How?

Chapter Two

Clairice Danebridge

Focus, Clairice, my father advises. Keep your guar d up."

Balancing my weight on my left foot and dropping my hips, I deliver a powerful thrust of my dagger with my right arm.

I’m outside training with the Captain of the Guard. I’ve been learning to fight since I was four years old. Fifteen years ago, for my fourth birthday, my father gifted me my first dagger. For my little Warrior Princess, he said.

I recall his words as if they’d been spoken only moments earlier.

I sidestep, but not fast enough, as my trainer lunges for me; dagger outstretched. The tip of it grazes my gear, and the slight nudge of the blade paired with my already moving body causes me to stumble. I land with a thud upon the ground.

I was born an only child. My mother suffered from complications following my birth, making it impossible for her to bear another child.

My father loves me unconditionally, but deep down, I know he longed for a son; perhaps not anymore, but he used to. So, I’ve worked day and night to prove to him that I’m more than capable of taking on that role, to become the son he cannot have.

I roll onto my back and the Captain is on top of me in a flash. He grasps the hilt of his dagger with both hands and prepares to plunge it into my chest. I raise my blade to meet his, and they connect in a crisscross formation. My arms feel like dead weight, and they shake with the effort of pushing against his blade. He’s strong, but I breathe in, and, as I breathe out, I use the exhalation to force my dagger up; pushing his weapon away from me. I sit up and knock his dagger from his grasp, disarming him. While he’s stunned, I push off my knees, digging the balls of my feet into the ground, and tackle him.

Excellent work, Clairice. Very thoroughly executed. But you’ve forgotten one thing, my father, King Merlin of Kiyaysus, says.

The Captain of the Guard is pinned to the ground, my dagger resting against his throat. His dark skin glistens with sweat, and his perfectly cut hair is ruffled; whisps of chestnut tresses falling into his brilliant blue eyes.

What could I have possibly forgotten? I ask myself.

Unsure, I turn towards my father. He cringes as I meet his gaze. Suddenly, my feet fly from the ground, and I fall on my back.

As I slowly force myself to stand, brushing off the dirt and catching my breath, my father says, Thank you, Zavier, that will be all. Zavier stands, bows to my father, and stalks off. What am I going to say, Clairice?

You’re going to say that I turned my back on my opponent, Father, I reply, frustrated with myself for forgetting such a deadly rule, but annoyed with my father for interrupting my process and being the cause of my distraction.

You’re quite right, my dear. Clairice, you must understand, a fight is not over until–

One of you is dead. Yes Father, I understand. But surely you must know I wasn’t going to kill Zavier. That would’ve been inhumane, I whisper in a faux, disturbed manner; trying to cover the disappointment I feel towards myself.

He chuckles. I wouldn’t have dreamt of you killing poor Zavier, Clairice, but you must remember to keep your guard up. You never know if a second attack will be attempted.

I’m sorry, I mumble, diving into a confession. I was just so excited that I finally unarmed him. Hoping to explain the reason for my hasty performance, I proudly supply, Zavier bet that I wouldn’t have him disarmed until next month. I was eager to prove him wrong. Please, don’t be disappointed in me, I plead.

Disappointed? Oh, Clairice, I could never be disappointed with you. Look at all you’ve accomplished, and at such a young age. You’re an extraordinary young woman and an even more extraordinary warrior. I’m so proud of you, my dear.

I love you, Father, I say, relieved as he pulls me into an affectionate embrace.

And I you, my little Warrior Princess.

The castle is nice and chilly when my father and I enter. While my father asks for lunch to be served, I go in search of my mother, Queen Arabella. She was resting when I left to train this morning, and I figure she should be awake by now.

Along the way to my parents’ bedroom, I pass by the library, and notice a flicker of light seeping from the slit beneath the doors. I push against the heavy wood; curious to see who lies within.

Apart from training, riding my horse, and passing time in Wildeley Meadows, I’ve spent a fair amount of time in the library. And although I come here often, it never fails to take my breath away.

The walls are lined from floor to ceiling with wooden shelves encasing thousands of books and volumes. The floors are marble, and streaks of gold slither throughout the stone. Three large windows allow light to shine through, and the minuscule flecks of diamond in the floors sparkle under the sun’s beams. High above, the ceiling is painted with a majestic mural of the Heavens. Nude, curvaceous bodies, golden lyres and olive branches, crimson and plum shawls draped across intimate areas, angelic souls floating amongst the billowing clouds as a dreamy sunset—or sunrise—filters through the condensed sky. Tiny, white wings sprout from delicate backs, glowing halos encircle curly haired angels. Parted lips and peaceful expressions.

A wide mezzanine separates the lower bookshelves from the ones climbing towards the painted ceiling, and iron stairs—tucked behind rows of standing bookcases—lead up to the balcony. On the left side of the library, a limestone fireplace juts out from the wall; a blazing fire already burning within. The logs pop loudly in the alcove.

In the middle of the room, my mother lies on her chaise lounge, reading a book with a hard, burgundy cover. She wears her favourite gown, violet and loose, and her hair is braided back into a small bun at the nape of her neck. Her lips are pursed and her brows are furrowed as she gazes down and studies the written work settled in her lap.

As I stand in the doorway, I can’t help but eye the similarities between us.

We have the same dark brown copper hair; thick and lustrous. I share her high cheekbones, light dusting of freckles, and heart-shaped lips. My nose and ears are my father’s, and my cheek dimples are entirely my own, but my eyes are unmistakably hers. Amber eyes, spectacular to begin with, but when the sun touches the irises, they turn into magnificent pools of honey.

My mother looks up from her book to find me standing in the doorway. My goodness! she yelps and places a hand over her heart. You startled me, Clairice. How long have you been standing there?

Only a few moments. I’m sorry I frightened you—it wasn’t my intention, I say with an apologetic smile.

Oh, no worries, dear. Come. She pats the chair beside her. Sit with me and read a while. Perhaps you’ve read this one. She indicates to the book in her lap.

Which one is it?

"‘The Serpent and The Locusts Tree.’"

Ah, yes. It’s quite good, isn’t it?

A tad confusing, I dare say, my mother laughs, patting the chair beside her again. Come, sit and rest. You look exhausted.

I shouldn’t, I say, though the thought of slumping into a delightfully comfortable chair is enough to make me take a laboured step forward. I catch myself before I dare another. I’m sweaty and sticky and completely disgusting. I wouldn’t want to dirty the cushions, I say, trying to convince her—and myself, more so—that sitting right now would be a bad idea.

She eyes me from head to toe, just now noticing my attire, the sweat that coats my face, and the strands of baby hair that cling to the moisture. Oh yes, you’re right. These cushions are much too fine to be dirtied. She smoothes her hand over the fabric. No offense, my dear.

None taken. It’s my turn to laugh. Well, I best be off. Lunch should be ready soon and I need to clean up, I say. Before I leave, I add, Oh, Mother? I was planning on going to the meadows tomorrow morning. After training. Would that be alright?

Yes. Just be careful where you go and mind your time, please. The maids and wives tend to do their laundry around that time of day. You don’t need people pestering you about the non-existent gossip that goes on behind these walls.

Last year, there was a rumour that my father was having an affair. One of the servants had begun this rumour, and he told many others that my mother and father wouldn’t sleep in the same bed anymore. Obviously, this led many to believe that my mother found out about this so-called affair. In actuality, my father was sick and didn’t want to pass the illness to my mother. Nor I, for that matter. He stayed in a separate bedroom until his fever passed.

Yes, Mother, I reply, beginning to unfasten my gloves. I turn around and close the doors; a hollow feeling shooting through my chest.

The next morning, after another training session with Zavier, I change and go down to the stables to retrieve my horse, Epona. Despite what I told my mother yesterday, I don’t plan to go to the meadows.

There’s a more spectacular destination that I have in mind.

Pushing off the ground, I mount Epona, and we begin our journey to The Hidden River.

Chapter Three

Clairice

The river flows through the heart of Byhollow Forest; the largest forest separating the two kingdoms. The river is extremely difficult to find, which is how it came to be called The Hidden River . Nobody knows where it begins or where it ends, which only adds to the mystery of its destina tion.

The story goes that whoever finds the river and bathes in it will find true love. Of course, I don’t believe said legend, for I’ve bathed in its waters multiple times and have yet to find an ounce of true love. Alas, it’s rumoured that the only soul to ever bathe in the river is the great hunter, William Digna.

When he returned home from spending a day at the river, he came upon a maiden being hassled by a grimy thief. He saved her and sent the pestering man to prison. The hunter and the maiden fell in love and were married the next day. At their celebration, William spoke of the river, and soon, everyone in the kingdom believed the river responsible for his happily ever after. After that night, many attempted to find its whereabouts so that they, too, could find true love. But none were successful.

Until I came along.

Breaking through a dense collection of bushes and tree branches, I finally arrive at the river, dismounting and tying Epona’s reins to a branch.

Stopping a few feet from the edge of the water, I begin to remove my clothes.

I unlace the front of my dress and slide my arms from the sleeves. It pools at my waist and I gather the material in my hands, guiding it down my thighs and over my knees. I let it drop to the grass, step out of the circle, and set it aside. Kicking off my footwear, and removing my slip and undergarments, I lay them on top of my clothes.

Lastly, I remove my necklace. It belonged to my great-great-grandmother; a gift from her husband on their wedding day. A gold necklace with a single citrine pendant at the end. It’s of enormous sentimental value to me and happens to be a family heirloom. One day, if I should bear a daughter of my own, I will give it to her.

With heartfelt tenderness, I set it carefully atop my pile of garments.

Unclothed, my body completely exposed to the non-existent humans around, I dip my toes into the river. Perfect; warm enough with a satisfying chill to it. I stride into the deep blue water until it settles just below my ribs. My hair is long enough that it covers my bosom, and the ends dip into the water; floating momentarily, before succumbing and sinking.

For many minutes I stand still, content with swirling my fingers in the water and creating ripples; relishing the feel of the water on my hot skin. As the ripples settle, I can see tiny minnows swimming around my legs and torso; tickling me when they brush against my skin.

The river is one of my favourite places; the pure water holding countless memories of times long ago. Long blades of grass encircle the water, tall trees tower overhead, full berry bushes hide amongst their trunks, and moss-covered rocks stand strong in the steady water. Birds call from their nests in trees, little creatures scurry up their trunks, and butterflies and bees fight over the nectar within flowers. It’s beautiful.

I would often leave the castle to come here; to think things over or clear my head. It was an oasis when my parents argued, or when I was frustrated with everyone. Growing up, I never had many friends. My lessons took place at home, and it wasn’t proper for a princess to play with the children in town. This was the only place where I could truly be free.

With one last twirl of my fingers, I take a deep breath and plunge beneath the water. I swim below for a few strokes before resurfacing a few yards from where I started. Smoothing my wet hair back, running my hands over my face to rid it of excess water, I close my eyes and listen to the rhythmic sound of water droplets dripping from my hair, my nose, my fingertips.

I lean back in the water and allow my body to float weightlessly; lightly kicking my feet and moving my arms to stay afloat.

*     *     *

Beyond the trees, I hear the sound of rustling leaves. Suddenly alert, my ears perk up and my eyesight sharpens as I sit up and study my surroundings.

As quietly as one can in a body of water, I swim to hide behind a large rock; still watching the tree line that surrounds the river. But, just as suddenly as the rustling started, it stops. Holding my breath, I strain to hear through the thick of the forest. The chirping and flapping of birds, the scurrying of squirrels, and the buzzing of bumblebees drown out all other surrounding sounds, and I quietly curse the beautiful creatures for being too loud.

Believing myself paranoid, I begin to relax and glide out from behind the rock.

But, just as I clear its rough surface, I hear the faintest mumbling of voices; barely discernable. Unconcerned with being quiet, I thrash through the water, causing it to spray and fly with each slap my legs and arms make as they break through the surface.

The voices grow closer as I fumble with the laces of my dress. Frustrated with the uncooperative material, I throw it onto Epona’s back. I don’t bother putting on my shoes either, and I tuck them securely beneath my dress.

I untie Epona’s reins from the tree branch and mount her for the second time this morning. With an urgent squeeze of my calves and heels, and a quick snap of the reins, she lurches into the forest. The sound of her hooves pound against the forest floor as she gallops away from our unexpected visitors.

And, just as she and I round a cluster of trees, I turn back to see two silhouettes emerge from the tree line; exactly where I was only moments earlier.

Chapter Four

Fabian

The next morning, I go to the training grounds to visit Edmund who’s recently been named the Commanding Officer of our kingdom’s regiment. In Levarine, he proved himself a noble warrior when he fought alongside my father, and his efforts didn’t go unnoticed. My father presented him with the title of Commanding Officer the night we retu rned.

Edmund and I have been friends since we were young boys. He was abandoned as an infant and, years after my mother died, my father took him in; just after his tenth birthday.

When I asked my father why he did this, he recalled to me the day he met Edmund:

"I saw him in the town square one afternoon while on my way home from a distant kingdom. He killed four large stags and was attempting to sell them. Having little to no money, he desired a high sum for each. When a potential buyer approached him, offering half the price for the stag, Edmund lost his temper and attacked the poor man. Within seconds, he had the man pinned against the cobbled ground with a knife to his throat.

"At that point, I stepped in and pulled the boy away from the man. I led him over to a far wall, hidden from the crowd that had gathered to watch, and asked him why he had done such a thing. In a tone overflowing with rage, he told me he killed them himself and deserved what he was owed. In that moment, I knew he would make an impeccable warrior."

He had paused for a moment before adding, Unlike you, Fabian, Edmund has a real knack for the art of fighting. A true natural, that boy is. You, on the other hand, Fabian, are absolutely nothing compared to him.

A sly way of telling me that I was, and will always be, nothing more than a burden on his royal life. A waste of space in the castle, on the battlefield, and on Earth. A mundane confession that he’d rather have Edmund as a son over me.

When I reach the grounds, Edmund is busy training the new troops. He demonstrates a skill on one of the hay-filled dummies and performs it with exceptional technique. Although it’s a simple skill, I watch in amusement as some men fail to complete it.

My father taught me that, when learning to fight, there are three main things to keep in mind: agility, momentum, and most importantly, guts. Or in other words, courage.

Once you’ve learned a skill and performed it on any non-living object, it becomes child’s play. But, once you’re out there, in the real world, fighting to stay alive, that’s when you need courage. When you’re face to face with death, you need to have the courage to end another’s life in order to save your own.

Memories from the battle flood my head, but I quickly push them away as Edmund makes his way over to me.

Enjoying the circus? he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Immensely.

These buffoons have no clue what they’re doing.

Perhaps ‘clowns’ is a better choice of words, considering the circus theme going on, I reply with a smirk.

Fitting. A pause. Would you like to join us? We could use the extra assistance, and I’m sure they would benefit from seeing you demonstrate some skills.

What do you mean by ‘you’? I ask.

He rolls his eyes. Oh please. You’re obviously the best warrior this kingdom has seen in a long time, Fabian. Some say you’re better than your father, and that’s saying a great deal.

I simply stare at the ground, at a loss for words. Part of me is honoured to be viewed this way, but another part is hurt—being compared to my father in such a ruthless manner. I may be a better warrior than my father, but Edmund is the true soldier. He’s the one who can stomach the battles and the amount of death that comes with them.

Listen, Fabian, those are their words, not mine, he says, drawing me out of another trance. I know you don’t like being compared to your father.

I slowly nod my head. I don’t say anything, but the motion is enough for Edmund to know that we can move to other topics.

So? he begins. What do you say? Care to show off those spectacular skills to these amateurs?

Clowns, I correct him. But not today. Perhaps tomorrow, or later this week.

Alright. But I’m going to hold you to that, he says, brandishing his sword at me as he walks back towards the training grounds.

I’ve no doubt you will. Then I add, Before I forget, I came down here to see if you wanted to go for a ride to the forest? I know we’ve just returned, but I need to get away. From the castle and training and… I pause, thinking. All of this, I finally say, indicating to anything and everything representing battle or royalty. I think it would do us well to take a break.

He nods his head. We should be done in about thirty minutes. I’ll find you then.

Good.

Well, I best get back to my clowns. Teach them how to put on a real show, he says, now pointing and wagging his sword at the troops as he walks away; marching down a steady slope.

Does that make you their Ring Master, then? Because if so, you better start giving them tips on how to dodge tomatoes.

You mock me now, but when your father comes down here to see how things are going, it’s going to be my body on that stick, he yells back, gesturing to the wooden stick supporting the practice dummy. Now, get lost. I want the Royal Prince to be well rested before our journey this morning.

Yes, oh mighty Ring Master, I reply, and sketch a sarcastic bow.

Are you done yet? Edmund calls from beyond the bathroom door.

Almost! Keep your pants on, for crying out loud, I call back.

Five seconds pass before Edmund asks, Are you done now?

Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Edmund. Can I piss in peace, please?

You know, if your father heard you speak such foul language, he would personally cut out your tongue!

Maybe he should, I say as I exit the bathroom, drying my hands on my trousers. Maybe having no tongue will stop me from wanting to ask about the battle.

I thought he told you to stop asking him about it?

He did. But do you think I listened to him?

Obviously not, seeing as how you just confessed you’ve been trying to get him to fess up. He grips my shoulder, and, speaking seriously, says, Fabian, listen to me. It’s in the past, alright? There’s nothing you can do about it now, so just…let it go.

You know, you’re starting to sound a lot like my father, I inform him, annoyed that he’s taking this situation so lightheartedly. Besides, you think I haven’t tried to forget about it? I have, and it’s easier said than done. Stop making it sound like it’s no big deal. You weren’t the one who… My throat closes, the words refusing to leave. You’re supposed to be on my side, Edmund. Not my father’s.

"I’m your friend, Fabian. You know I’d never take your father’s side. He considers me for a moment, dropping his arm and letting out a long sigh. But you’re right. I wasn’t the one who did what you had to do. It’s not fair of me to belittle it, and I’m sorry. I just hate seeing you like this. You’re too good a person to carry this burden on your shoulders."

Thanks, Edmund, I say sheepishly. As we both sense the tension leaving the conversation, I state, matter-of-factly, "And yes, you are my friend. My only friend. And you better stay that way, so stop trying to piss me off every chance you get."

You really like the word ‘piss’ today, don’t you. I shove his shoulder and he laughs. Can we go now, please?

I just need to tell my father that we’re leaving.

I have to wait even longer now? What were you doing during those thirty minutes I was outside? Counting off words that rhyme with ‘piss’?

I was merely resting, as the wise Ring Master instructed me to.

"If I knew it was going to be this hot, I’d have tied my hair back, or at least worn something thinner. How much farther do you reckon till we reach the forest?"

Edmund and I have finally left the castle after talking to my father. I didn’t tell him that we were planning on going to the forest, though. My father doesn’t particularly like it when I venture far beyond the castle walls. He prefers I stay close to the castle where he can keep an eye on me, or have a guard watch my every move. That bastard is always looking over my shoulder. And if he isn’t, there are a number of guards he can assign to do so.

But, as the scorching sun blisters down on us, I regret abandoning the coolness of the castle. I glance over at Edmund and notice the hair matted to his skin. I can feel my own sweat racing down my forehead, trailing along my cheek, my jaw.

I’m not sure, but if I were to guess, I’d say at least half a mile, give or take.

Half a mile? he groans, throwing his head back to exaggerate. "By the time we get there, I’m going to be a puddle of flesh and bones. Can we please go faster than this?" he begs.

First of all: gross. Second of all: no. I don’t want to tire out the horses. We’re heavy enough as it is. It isn’t helping that they’re carrying an extra five pounds of sweat. I throw a glance in his direction. Maybe closer to ten for your horse, I say with a chuckle.

I don’t sweat that much, he counters as he touches his forehead, his fingers coming away glossy with the sweat he was so sure wouldn’t be there.

Whatever you say, my friend.

*     *     *

After fifteen minutes, we finally reach the edge of the forest. We travel a bit farther into the trees, hoping to find a more shaded spot with lots of vegetation for our horses. After another few minutes, we find a spot and climb down, tying their reins to a tree.

We begin walking.

Ahhh… Edmund sighs. It’s so much better in the shade. He undoes the collar of his tunic and uses the lace to tie back his hair. It’s longer than mine, reaching past his shoulders, but it’s lighter; a pale brown. He rolls up his sleeves and I catch sight of his own scars.

Although I’ve been training longer than Edmund, we’re still similar in build. His muscles are visible in his forearms, and his biceps strain against the fabric of his sleeves. His calf muscles flex with each step, and his trousers sit at a certain position on his hips that indicate he has a muscular torso.

In the few gaps of sunlight we catch between the leaves, his scars shine a bright white; aging his skin with years of battle.

I have fought in battles before, but Edmund has fought in too many to count. Almost the moment he was able to properly wield a sword, my father sent him to the battlefront—where all the death and destruction accumulates. I never understood how someone could throw a boy, of such a young age, into something like that. And if Edmund is haunted by his past the way I am, he does an excellent job hiding it.

His skin is extremely tan from hours of training outdoors, which makes his scars stand out all the more. And just like mine, his skin is red with sun; making his freckles stand out even more than they typically do.

To this day, people continue to question if he and I are related; the most common of the assumptions being that he and I are brothers. He’s three years younger than I, and I’m sure I would have noticed a little boy running up and down the castle halls, screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night when he needed to be changed, tipping over vases while learning to walk, and stealing our sleep. There’s no explanation for their assumptions. Edmund and I are close, it’s clear to anyone who pays enough attention. Maybe their questions stem from mine and Edmund’s years of training together, and how long he and I have known each other.

But I can’t be sure.

As I feel the humidity laying over me, I imitate Edmund and roll up my sleeves and pant legs—my own scars now visible and illuminating under the sun’s beams. Copycat, Edmund says, glancing at me sidelong.

I was going to do this anyway. You just beat me to it.

Shaking his head, a toothy grin stretching across his rugged face, he says, What a liar.

He bumps my shoulder with his own and we carry on, walking in silence. With Edmund, the silence is never awkward. We’re both comfortable in each other’s presence without having to say anything. Sometimes, the act of small talk is harder to endure.

We walk quietly for some time before Edmund asks if I’ve talked to my father about this inevitable marriage that I’m extremely eager to avoid.

Nope, I state plainly, my face stripped of emotion.

He stares at me with a flat expression, but his voice says otherwise. Fabian, you dimwit. You need to tell him before it’s too late.

Evidently, I know I must tell my father soon. But if this is how Edmund’s reacting to something so small as me not telling my father about my preferences, then I’m nervous to see how my father will react. You don’t think I know that?

No, I know you know that, he offers. So? Why haven’t you told him?

Because. I stop there, but at Edmund’s silence, I know my answer is insufficient, and it’s only a matter of seconds before he ups and pesters me again. He’s been proud of me since we returned home, and we’ve barely been home for two days. That’s the longest he’s been proud of me since my mother passed, and I would like him to stay proud of me a little while longer. When I tell him, I know for a fact he’s going to kick my ass.

You’re no doubt an idiot, Fabian, but I can’t begin to express how glad I am that I’m not in your position.

I thank you immensely for your moral support.

Anytime, he states sarcastically. So, when you do tell him, which better be soon, what do you plan to say?

Edmund asks the question I’ve asked myself a number of times. It brings back all the memories of rehearsing my explanation in my bedroom, writing it out on paper and crumpling it when I believed it no good, walking back and forth in front of my father’s closed door, reaching and withdrawing my hand from the handle multiple times, before surrendering and retreating to my room. I even prepared a bag in case he disowned me and threw me out like the previous night’s leftovers.

The truth, I begin my answer, shrugging. I’m simply going to say that I believe I’m too young to be married. I leave out the part about not wanting to marry if there’s no love involved. Love isn’t something Edmund and I talk about. We prefer to stick with weapons and training.

Well, if he does kick your ass, don’t expect me to stand by and watch. I have more important things to do than witness that horrid display.

You wouldn’t even come for moral support? I flutter my eyelashes at him, pouting my lips. He punches my arm.

Would you really want moral support from me, of all people, during such a time?

Touché, I reply. As we continue our walk, we hear a series of noises coming from somewhere ahead of us. We ignore it. How far into the forest do you think we are?

I’d say midway. After all, we’ve been walking for a while. Why? Do you want to turn back already? Edmund asks, a hint of disappointment in his tone.

Not a chance! The longer we’re out here, the less time we have to spend back at the castle.

As we laugh, attention elsewhere, Edmund trips over a rock. As if in slow motion, I watch as he falls towards a tree. His skull connects with the trunk, and I hear a distinct ‘clonk.’ I laugh even harder.

Grabbing the trunk for support, Edmund slowly stands and braces his second hand on his leg. Don’t laugh, Fabian, it’s not funny. That really hurt! he says, though he cannot hide his own smile.

I continue to laugh, nevertheless, and his eyebrows knit together as he winces. He removes his hand and blood comes away on his palm; uncovering a gash at the side of his knee. Blood seeps from it and travels down the rest of his leg. At once, my laughing comes to a stop.

Shit. Quickly but carefully, I place my hand over his wound and apply pressure, hoping to stanch the bleeding. Are you alright?

Of course not, you imbecile. Do I look alright to you?

Thinking fast, I remove my hand and place his own over where mine had been; pushing his hand down, causing him to wince again. I apologize, wincing as if in sympathy pain. I fumble with the hem of my