“…you are here for but an instant, and you shouldn't take yourself too seriously.”

-Edgar Rice Burroughs.

“One must first learn to know himself before knowing anything else (γνῶθι σε αυτόν).”

-Søren Kierkegaard, 1835.

“Your Grace?” Mira knocked. “Your Grace, the Queen has requested you to eat your supper.”
I didn’t even have the strength to look up from my bed.
“Shall I slid it under your door then?”
“…Yes,” I gave a halfhearted response. I knew that I’d catch the queen’s ire for slighting her, but how could I force myself to eat when I was already full? With hopelessness?

It was always Mira, a Renérian half-elven servant and my only friend, who’d spare me from another night of an unsolicited scolding by taking my cold dinner to the usual spot: that was the royal kennel. “Sliding under your door” was a secret phrase we shared between us in case there were any prying ears nearby. There usually was, especially around me, the only heir of House Ingelrii.
Dad always had two guards from his personal retinue following me around and posted outside every room I entered, even when I was using the privy, but I didn’t have to worry about Sir Galahad or Sir Ian snitching on me. I could be dying from bloody flux and they’d still wouldn’t give so much as a nappy. I swear, they wouldn’t care whether I even breathed at all. I hated them both a lot; all the more reason to have them banished from my court once I was crowned…
No. I didn’t want to think about that right now.
I turned over and laid back on the soft covers of purple silk, thinking about mom’s apple pie of all things. In hindsight, I think a lifetime of eating that disgusting bowl of beef and lentil stew Mira was about to serve me was better than living a million miles away from Eriu.

“Hmph,” I sulked. “Well actually,” I sat up and corrected myself, but in a mock imitation of dad’s stern voice whenever he was in one of his volatile moods: “Angevin is only 21 miles away from Eriu across the channel. A blind idiot would know that already, but you cannot even read a map. A damn map!”
My loud voice shook the stonewalls of my room for a moment like an earthquake, before it got swallowed by silence. And still nothing from Sir Brainless and Sir Braindead outside my room. Figures.

I was lucky today. Dad was too tired to give me his backhand. Again.

Huffing bitterly, I fell back on my bed, my head still pounding from today’s pointless lessons about dad’s mighty kingdom that I would inherit tomorrow. The scholars he had picked to tutor me, or more like torture me, had them literally nailed into my head least my “idled youthfulness” slips them out, but I couldn’t forget them even if I tried. He named me after my own people after all, Prince Æthel, but I never told him that, or else he’d take it for back-talking.

How did the mentor’s lecture go? Oh yeah: the breadth of the kingdom of the Athelings is great by 20,000 leagues, spanning across the Isle of Angevin and the continental territories across the sea that precariously borders the rival kingdom of High Cimbria, soon to be an empire. Every noble house under the rule of His Majesty swears unyielding fealty to the ruling House of the Ingelrii Dynasty, even House Camlann, the family of our Prince Æthel’s stepmother, another Atheling household of prestige and influence as well. The history of House Ingelrii is one of rich traditions, and sagas of saints, traders, builders, and kings dating as far back as the Old Cimbrian Empire, fifteen hundred years ago, in the Year of our Holy Mother. The great kings of the Athelings of our line are most renowned for their prowess, as well for their piety. Under the leadership of His Majesty, King Hark II had defeated the Orc Confederation in the Battle of Eerie-Waters in 1066, converted their chieftain Kuthrum to Trinity on Winter Solstice’s Eve; before recapturing the capital from the Dwarves and established a boundary between the Athelings and the Dwarf kingdoms—peace remained between our great monarchies ever since. Not only wise in war but in wisdom as well, King Hark II strengthened his kingdom’s defenses by creating a series of castles throughout conquered lands; built ships against Fomorian sea attacks, so reforming the Atheling navy; had lexicons from Old Cimbri translated into Common and promoted learning; founded monasteries; and commissioned the writing of the Atheling Chronicle to record the historical achievements of our mighty kingdom. Many songs and ballads of how this domain was hard won by sword and silver tongue are aplenty, and all worthy of yada-yada-yada.

Ok, so maybe it did matter to me once, or rather the idea of it. Once, I’d give anything to live in a great palace with many knights, servants, and wives at my beck and call. I’d give anything to ride into battle on a big, white charger slaying orcs and goblins; building castles and towns named after me. But now, all I wanted was to go back. All the songs and swords of a kingdom I would inherit tomorrow didn’t matter to me anymore, not if it meant forgetting about Eriu and all my friends, my family, and my mom. My own mom. My real mom.

I guess if there was any goddess or saint to be thankful to, it was for Mira. She was always there when I needed to hide my crying face, or tell me the stories again that mom used to tell me. I hope dad will let her stay as my servant when I’m king, it was the least he could do.
From my bed, I turned and gazed through the open window as the orange sun burned its last light after the rainstorm had passed, though I don’t really know why I did that. Maybe it was because some small and yet dumb part of me was hoping to see green sails coming over the horizon, and then I’d see mom and Uncle Daryl, dad’s brother the Duke of Emain Macha, in his shining mail coming to bring me home. All I could see, that were remotely shiny, were stars unveiling themselves one by one and glistening across the dark blue canvas above the whole world. Mom taught me that chief among the constellations was Lugh, the ancient warrior king of Eriu from ancient days. I could see his long, celestial spear that reached protectively over the three Northern Isles as they were called. There was the big island of Angevin where I was unfortunately, the archipelagos of Dannebrog to the Northeast, and the green island of Eriu out West. Mom once told me that the islands were once inhabited by the ancient fae eons ago, though I didn’t know what eons meant.

Must’ve been like a million years ago.

I stood up from my bed and stared back at my reflection through the mirror. My people were fair skinned like me; generally one foot taller than the four footed dwarves from Dannebrog and the Continent, had pure human ancestry in our blood, and either wore red or gold or rare black of hair. My own hair was tousled blonde with a mousy shade, yet hair alone wasn’t any true indication of heritage, so mom’s tutelage also learned him. As certain as I was that the air I was breathing was as clear as the coming night sky, I knew that my family came from at least one of the Three Northern Isles, but I believed that, with all of my heart, I was of Eriu blood.
I sighed and shifted my tired gaze at my royal doublet. It was dark green, golden trimmed, and piled messily in the corner of my new room. I would have to wear it for the coronation tomorrow morning, but in truth I wanted to throw it into the fireplace if I could get away with it. All I could think of for the last six days was wanting to go back home, but when thinking of home became too much, my mind would wonder on what I’d have to face after the coronation tomorrow. There would be a lot of new faces that I’d have to greet, as well as memorize, in my future kingdom.
My people aren’t violent to other islanders, not like our distant ancestors in the dark days of the Isle Wars during the Dark Winter, but even so, hospitable shouldn’t be mistaken for gentleness. I figured that out for myself when I met my stepmom for the first time, Queen Cartimandua, upon arriving not six days ago. All I did for what felt like half of the day was standing around, with dad and his nobles, in the Queen’s courtyard talking and talking with her and her royal magnates. What we were really doing was sizing up one another with our bodyguards at our sides, called húskarls. Dad’s men were tough and all, according to him they were the best that coin could buy: mail shirts and spears glistening like eyes of wolves, bearded axes like the reaper’s scythe, and shield rims gnawed by berserker teeth. It was a tradition deeply rooted in the island’s warrior culture: a roof was only as strong as the pillars that held it. I only wished I remembered to bring a chair.

But today, for the first time in my life of seeing him always scowling and grumbling, I actually saw dad looked so surprised at seeing the Rüzgârians at the Queen’s side. Pagans. House Hesilrigde, loyal to the Queen, was their employer.
Everyone kept saying how scandalous it was for the Queen, a devout Trininite, to associate with pagan mercenaries, but I had to admit that they looked amazing, if maybe a little bit scary. I didn’t have the guts to go near them, I knew the stories. They say they were more beast than men; barrel-chested and taller than even my five foot kinsmen. They were practically naked, expect for their heavy boots and patterned loincloths; their armor were only armguards, pauldrons usually worn on their right shoulders, and battered horned helms. But best of all, they had curved swords! Curved swords! My household’s armory had great weapons and armor and all, but I’ve never seen anything so bizarre, and yet so cool in my life.

That was, until I saw those creatures they had latched on their leather harnesses. At first, I thought they were strange looking pheasants because of their long, golden tails, but they also had short wings and long claws on their feet like hawks. After a second glance, however, I saw that the creatures had lizard snouts on their faces. There was no mistaking them for anything else but the Úath. Dire dragons!

What’s worse is that my dad’s allowing them to stay in the same castle! If these pagans were going to be like anything like I had heard about in those old Cimbrian stories growing up: savages with skulls for cups, blood rituals, and an unhealthy pastime for kidnapping and vandalizing women, beef and lentil stew every night would be the last thing I’d have to worry about. I might as well have been two million miles away from home.

Thinking too much finally pulled me out of my bed, until I decided to sit by my writing desk. At my request, the servants left my wooden trunks unpacked, but I knew I would have to take something substantial out soon before the Queen caught me slacking. I unpacked my spare clothing, and the sword Uncle Daryl gave me for my tenth birthday, but I was too hurt to move a muscle afterwards; not only the physical hurt from dad’s lambasts, but a deep hurt of the mind that mom often mentioned. Tonight, I only managed get my blank journal from my knapsack, along with the ink pot from the bottom of the smaller trunk that messily held copies of academic notes, and put them on the writing desk that stood between the fireplace and my bedside.

The journal itself was nothing special really: soft parchment bounded in leaf-colored leather. There was, however, an enchanted silver chain that kept the book closed when not in use, and the only key to its release was a word that mom told me that only I knew.

Tomorrow was going to be another day of rehearsing the steps before the ceremony. That was definitely not something I was looking forward to doing. But as mom had always reminded me: never shirk preparations, no matter the occasion.
“Well,” I said to himself, “I guess I’ll try writing to her again.” Suddenly, I remembered that I had forgotten to ask the servants for spare parchment. “Ah, crapper snappers!” I swore under my breath. The last thing U wanted to do was to tear anything out from my journal. “Then again,” I thought, “I can just keep whatever I write in there safe.”
I sat back down by the desk and whispered the secret word. The silver chain unfastened its unbreakable link by its own accord, allowing the leather cover and the soft pages to unfurl together. The question now was what to write about?

I already sent letters to her telling about the pagans, the coronation practices, and the horseback riding lessons. I didn’t know what else to say. “Hmm,” I pondered, “what if I faked cutting off one of my fingers and delivered that to her with a ransom note? Then, maybe Uncle Daryl will change his mind and send his army to come rescue me… But, will it not bleed all over my letter? How can I even fake a bloodied finger?” I snickered a bit at the absurdity of my great plan. “Never mind, too complicated,” I sighed.
My ink set didn’t come with a quill; not that I needed one. Carefully, I dipped the tip of my right finger into the ink pot until it was coated with enough ink, and placed it at the bottom edge of the left page. After whispering a linguistic incantation, I closed my eyes.

The day’s date, July 4th, 1093 Y.III.S, slowly bled into existence at the left-sided top of the blank page, in a well enough eligible way that I could imagine. It was my mom’s parting gift to me: a magic spell to help me overcome my word blindness.

She told me in one of her stories that the first Trininite Saint in Eriu, long ago, converted the native islanders to Trinity when he first casted the Ink Touch spell to help them keep a record of their histories that had been past down, through word of mouth since ancient days, that could still be remembered. All I had to do was say the words which began the incantation, and focused with my eyes shut, and then my mind was free to put whatever I wanted to say in written form, in any style and structure of any language I knew on any writable surface. My first entry started from left to right, as was my people’s way of writing.
Congratulations to me, mom, I wrote after imagining his entry with an elegant letter “C”, The fact that I am still here in the worst place next to the abyssal planes cataloging the next episode of my life means that I’m one giant step closer to surviving until my next birthday. It was not that long ago when father would not bat an eye at my scrapped knee, not after that one time I feel off of Charger when he got spooked by a field mouse during the deer hunt. Now, my existence has become a matter of life and death to him because I’ll be king—after he is gone. That is all he seems to care about. The only reason why he’s being nice to me right now.
I paused. I know you don’t me to say anything bad about him, I continued, but if I was someone else’s child, I swear he would’ve left me for the wolves. Sometimes, it does feel like I am someone else’s child. But in all honesty, well, it did feel nice to be appreciated by him for once—even if its only temporary.
Speaking of which, you would’ve been proud of me if you were here. I’m getting better at remembering our people’s history, especially in class today. See, when the teacher was talking the early History of High Cimbria to me and the other noble’s children in class today, and asked us what the seven year long Imperial Invasion of Renéria was all about, no one lifted a hand. Not one! You would think that given that everyone’s mother and father in the room claims to have had a friend, who has a friend, and more friends in the Empress’s court would know something about High Cimbrian history and culture. That was when I got up before the whole classroom, began with the massacre of the elves at Castle Rašāda, and ended with the Imperial Peace Treaty of 793 Y.III.S. The other children looked at me as if I was the maester. Pretty soon, everyone wanted me to teach them in our maester's place, with no homework. I was flattered, but I told ‘em I didn’t work for free.
I couldn’t help but smirk at my own cleverness. I especially prided myself at remembering where to put the correct accents in the word Rašāda.
I’ll bet that no one in class knew that over 8,000 elves were slaughtered during the war, so maybe that’s why not many are around today. Except for Mira I suppose, even though she’s only half elf. Anyways, after Cimbrian Language and Mathematics class were over, we went to eat in the royal hall at midday, and then I saw something that was a bit strange, depending on how you look at it.
I saw Galahad. You remember him, right? One of father’s royal guardsmen. Today, he was passing by the hall before leaving by the door leading to the servant’s quarters, but he wasn’t supposed to pick me up for sparring practice until the afternoon. I was nervous that he was still sore at me for (I didn’t do it) that beetle that someone put in his helm. It was a pretty nasty fall he took from his horse, I’ll say.
Well, I knew I was supposed to leave only when excused by the maester, but whatever. I followed him down the spiral steps and to the straight hall leading to the scullery at the end. At first, I thought he was just going down there to cheat on his diet by sneaking a leg of mutton and a sweet bread, but as I peaked out from the corner, I thought I saw Mira lending her ears to him while she hid behind the door. Like she didn’t want to be seen. The last thing I saw before I left was him passing her a potion. At least

I stopped. Something in the back of my mind was telling me not to assume such things about Mira, even if it was just in my journal. It didn’t seem right to end on that note, so I imagined a line streaked across the last two words before I went on.

At least I don’t know. When I tried to tell the Queen about it, of course she wouldn’t listen. She said that I had committed a deep sin bearing false witness against one of father’s trusted men, not once mentioning Mira, and that I had left the hall without being excused. I begged her not to tell father, but she did anyways, after he returned from the physician. I hid in the cupboard in the kitchen, until Sir Ian found me and dragged me before father
I quickly pulled my finger back. Shuddering, I couldn’t help but rub the back of my neck again. I inhaled deeply before exhaling a deep sigh that pulled those bad memories from my mind, like a dark cloud through the window. There was still some ink left on my finger, but for a moment I didn’t know if I wanted to go on much further.
I went back to my room, I put my finger back on the page, skipping everything in-between. I hate the queen. I hate father even more. I am so tired of him putting me down with his condescending lectures about being a man, tired of him always reminding me that I am not half the man he is, or ever will be. I’m trying to remember your promise, but when things gets this bad, it feels like you’re in some place that I can’t reach you. I don’t know. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but maybe doing some studying will clear my head. I love

A knock on the door stopped me from finishing. “Who is it?” I called out irritably. I had almost forgotten that Elena was due to help me get ready for bed.
“It’s the maid with your—your choccy, Sire,” came Galahad’s deep but embarrassed voice.
“Choccy?” I suddenly smiled. Deviously. “Hehe.” After noticing dad’s somewhat better treatment of me, I asked him to demand Galahad to call my evening drink of blended milk, shaved ice, rare Mokha beans, and honey chaw-key. Not for any real reason, but I just thought it sounded funny with his thick, Atheling accent whenever he fumbled in saying it correctly. You see, he tended to pronounce the o as au instead.

“Oh dear, my what now?” I pretended to be hard of hearing.
“Choccy!” Galahad practically screamed.
“My what now?”
“Choccy!” His voice shook the door like a violent wind.
“Oh, okay,” I stifled a laugh, “let her in.”
The heavy door swung open, and I could hear the sound of my evening drink clattering on the wooden serving tray. Elena was always pretty clumsy and shy, but I liked her too. “Just put in on the desk for me, please,” I said before I looked up.

“Seeing that it was Mira pushing herself through the doorway caught me off-guard.

※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※

“Uh–hi, Mira!” His hand fumbled for his journal and quickly closed it shut. The chain wrapped itself back around the leather on its own accord. “Uh—how are you?” Prince Æthel smiled awkwardly, if not bashfully. Mira quickly noticed his startled disposition before he could hide it.

Having olive skin and braided hair of black neatly tucked away beneath her white coif, Mira was what many humans pejoratively deemed as one of the disordered race of half-breeds. The graceful features of her Shinar-Sylvan blood that her kind would normally possess, long and slender ears being one of them, had been greatly debased by her human ancestry. It did not, however, deprive her of the same powers of perception.

“Is everything alright, your Grace?” she asked.
The boy was quick to answer: “I—I just thought Elena was serving me tonight is all.”
“I’m sorry, your Grace,” Mira bowed, “Elena had another accident in the kitchen, so I had to take her place. I hope that pleases you.”
Thinking quickly, the Prince attempted to say something flattering: “Oh–oh yeah, sure. I’m alright with that. You look tired, by the way.”
“I have been busy today, your Grace,” Mira smiled, though not fully. “And tomorrow will be just as busy for you, I am sure.” Her darkened face wore fatigued eyes and sun spots from the day’s labor, yet her voice was always softened by her elven side. A hint of an Isyrian accent from the great kingdom of the eastern desert lands touched her Renérian tongue, as though the shady winds of an oasis danced through a reed aulos as she spoke. “Mind if I stay here for a spell?” she asked.
“Sure,” Prince Æthel stepped to one side, offering her his ornate desk chair.
“Uh—that is not necessary your Grace,” she protested.
“It’s okay. I’ve been stuck on chairs all day, believe me,” said Prince Æthel “I think I’ll be fine standing up for awhile. Not that I need my dad’s permission for that.”

“Thank you your Grace, but I must remind you to respect your ‘father,’” she gently reprimanded him. She was not troubled by Prince Æthel’s more lenient way of speaking the common tongue whenever he was not in the company of his “dad,” his “stepmom,” or their groveling gaggle of noble sycophants. Nevertheless, he needed to practice his decorum. “So, does that mean that you have found your footing here at last, your Grace?”
“My footing?” the boy asked.
“I mean—how are you adjusting, in regards to your father, your new home, your new responsibilities… and the Queen,” she hesitantly added. “Holy Mother bless her.”
“Uh–sure,” Prince Æthel shrugged. “To all of the above.”
“Sure?” Mira raised an eyebrow. “Is that a ‘sure’, or ‘not really sure?’”
He finally saw no point in beating around the bush with her. He sighed discouragingly before he took a swig of his evening drink and planted himself onto the side of his bed. “It’s the coronation. Dad said—I mean, father,—said that I needed to grow up and leave my past behind me,” he confessed glumly.
“Well, of course you must grow up, your Grace,” said Mira. “You will have a duty to rule your kingdom wisely, and without perchance to err.”
“It’s not that, Mira. He was giving me another lecture today.”
“I see. Was it about tearing down the woods and the gardens around Danu again?”
It wasn’t, but he nodded convincingly. Uneasily, he took another gulp of the sweet drink with a shaky hand, fighting back the rising urge to throw it across the stone room as heavy reminiscing crept back in. He recalled the morning lecture before his school time, his so-called “spying” on Mira, and his stepmother telling on him. “He said it was to build more castles and cities to expand my future kingdom,” said Prince Æthel, “but he thinks I don’t know the reason why. It’s my mother—my real one. I know he wants me to forget her, forget everything that I am, but I don’t know why. I don’t know why he hates her so much!”
Mira reached out and laid a soft hand on his shoulder; no longer speaking to him now as a king to-be, but as the child he still was. “Æthel, your father does not hate your mother,” she said. “Or who you are.”
“Yeah? Well, leaving her wasn’t exactly out of love either,” he retorted bitterly. “I didn’t even get to have a choice or a chance to say goodbye; he just dragged me away from her.”

“Because it was for your own safety-

“I don’t care! He can stay here and rot in hell if he wants, but I don’t have to live in this stinking castle in the middle of no… where…”
Æthel stopped himself before Galahad and Ian and the whole castle could hear him. “Sorry,” he shuddered, “I’m just…” He hung his head low, stifling tears that threatened to run down the pale ivory of his youthful face, and it was then that Mira’s elven eyes marked the red sore still lingering the back of his neck, put there by someone’s hard ring-hand. Time had not healed it.

Mira furled her lower lips into her mouth to suppress her anger. How could he, she thought, how could such a cruel man have sired someone like this precious boy? Cruel? Oh, no, they will say. He is simply troubled and misunderstood as all humans are; mutably constrained is his inner-violence by his love for his son. Well, if that is how these animals view themselves, then there truly is no justice in this world.

“Give me your hand,” said Mira gently at last.

Æthel scoffed. “I’m not a baby anymore, Mira. I don’t believe in that stuff now.”

“Just let me see it.” Mira persisted.
“No!”
“Please. For a moment only.”

He resisted her request at first, until he glanced back at Mira’s face. Her’s was the only soft, pleading, and warm face that was perhaps the only thing that could break down his stubborn defenses; not condescendingly cold like Cartimandua’s face, nor scornfully afire like Hark’s. Alas, he slowly reached out one free hand, and Mira earnestly took it.

Growing up on his mother’s stories back in Eriu, Æthel once believed that elves had the powers of a soothsayer, and that they showed the hero visions that foretold feats of glory and destiny, which only he could achieve should he proof himself worthy. In truth, Mira had not enough of her elven kin’s blood in her to test that theory, but Æthel was once so young and feverishly believing in such tales. Touched by his eagerness, she chose to indulge him, if only to distract him momentarily from his harsh upbringing so he would be non-the-wiser to the harsh realities of his ultimate destiny. He loved it so dearly until he now reached that dreaded age of eleven: the age of not believing anymore.
“Hmm,” she studied his palm, “a short lifeline, but one full of love... Oh, and this line means you will build a great monument, with your own hands, when you are king. A great… latrine.”
Æthel rolled his eyes. “Great. An Ingelrii Latrine.”
Mira chuckled thinly as her golden eyes returned to Æthel’s palm, and as she once did when Athel was younger, she made a show of such intense concentration until… “Hmmmmm... Well, that is funny…”

“What?” asked Æthel.

“I don't see any…”

“Any what?”

“Castles.” She looked at him with intent eyes but laced with a soothing salve. “Not in Danu. Not a single one. Because you are wise and good, as all kings should be, and you will never forget who you are nor where you came from, but promise me one thing, my prince. That when…” her words here slipped briefly, “…when you are king, never forget what it is to be a wise king, a kind king. I pray that you will be better than your father.”
Æthel managed a weak smile, for her. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mira. Sir Brainless and Sir Braindead outside will be watching over me closer than two goblins with a shiny spoon, so that I don’t screw up. That is, until dad’s done parading me around before the final day tomorrow—that’s just like him. And he says I’m the bigger boaster?”
What? How did I—I-I see two humans with him. Women. Sisters. He is sitting on the… No!

Evidently, to Mira’s assurance, Æthel had not heard her last trailing words over the loud gulps he made: “Mmm!” His voice elated satisfaction as he smacked his lips on the lingering taste of the blended sweetness that masked the potion.
“…Is your choccy to your liking, your Grace?” Mira asked warily.
“Yeah, yeah it was…” Æthel suddenly felt faint. “…great…” The potion was at last working its spell over him. He felt a wave of darkness over his mind as he put a hand to his head, until he felt the strength in both of his arms grow weak.
Mira reached out a hand. “Will it help you sleep better?”
He answered her without thinking. “Yeah…” he sighed deeply with a rather stupid grin on his face. His eyes grew heavy as his breathing grew soft and shallow, his volition within him was becoming weak. He wavered in a dithering trudge as though he was tied down with stones, until the weight threatened to trip him off his feet. Mira gently anchored his wavering body to keep him from teetering off the bed. Darkness grew over his eyes. His knees finally lost their strength, wobbling at first before they went limp. Mira let him go as he slumped back onto his bed with a thud. The glass slipped from his hand. After what must’ve felt like moments, within the seconds that followed, she finally found the courage to lay her ear against his chest. There was no heartbeat within the boy.

It was a great ordeal afterwards to cover her tracks. First was the business of telling the other two conspirators outside to call for the physician. The next steps were throwing her dusty slippers into the lit fireplace; removing the grate on the window she had filed on previous visits when she was on cleaning duty; tying one end of the sheet to the bed post and hanging the other end through the window; and then putting on a pair of size nine men’s riding leather boots after stuffing them with doily clothes. The silly clothes were meant to keep her feet free of blisters, although it would be none the worse if they didn’t, for the main purpose was to leave footprints, plenty of footprints. A knight of House Hesilrigde’s footprints. She had the boots hidden under the Prince’s bed until it was time to execute the scheme.

Chances were, they would lead the King’s hunting party into believing that Hesilrigde’s assassin had escaped via the window, not through the secret exit behind the faux wall beside the bed, with perhaps the added bonus of them believing that there may be another saboteur in their midst; one who had such intricate knowledge of the castle grounds. How she would explain herself why she had possession of Æthel’s body would not matter all all. Soon, she would be far and away from Angevin.
The next great ordeal was carrying over eighty pounds of deadweight over her back down the secret exit. Being a long time since she was another mere serf from King Hark’s fields carrying sheaves of heavy-laden grain, she feared that her lax strength from serving trays for four years would delay her. Walking down a dark tunnel with no torch or lamp was no relief either. Being half human, she could not see as well in pitch blackness, but she knew that she could not risk any light. Her shaking hands were stretched out on both sides feeling for the encroaching stone walls as she trudged on. She stubbed her toe once on a jagged stone, yet the tunnel was deep enough to stifle her sharp hiss of pain. The feeling of getting caught suddenly gave her some renewed strength of fear for the last foot of tunnels that ran for a mile from the royal quarters. The welcoming sound of crickets, and the smell of the night air, told her that she was reaching the end of the secret exit.
She stopped. How her hand prickled and trembled back in the Prince’s room when she saw the vision with unsettled eyes… it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. It won’t be possible.

And yet, it seemed that in the tales of her people, even the ones that had been twisted by the insulting embellishments of human scholars, they had at least left some grain of truth in them. And now, what she saw within the boy’s palm, though the vision was brief and subtle and even lifelike in her mind, shook her steadfastness to the very core.

Æthel was there, no longer a prince but a king, awake and sitting upon the white marbled throne of his forefathers. His seat of power was guarded by the two women she saw before who stood by him—sisters, but not by blood—each of them she saw as two great cats. One, a cave lioness from the savage lands, bearing the Prince’s sword between her great, white teeth as she grinned. She was sinewy and jovial, and wore eyes that shamed the deepest sapphire. The other great cat was a watchful tigress from the east. Emeralds were her eyes and her smooth head was crowned with a wreath of black lilies. Her paw was folded over a golden spear which held aloft House Ingelrii’s sigil flying in the wind. Its field was embossed with the white head of a great bear upon a crimson field, akin to the same one the atheling crusaders flew over the ruined battlements of Rašāda, three hundred years before this very night.

Mira stared off in stunned silence. It could only mean that if it should come to pass, then the plan would fail. Her plan. She quickly composed herself, she didn’t have time to linger before the guards patrolling along the parapets spotted her.

She placed Æthel’s body upon the wooden wheelbarrow that she had another servant hide for a hefty price of 15 imperial silver. Greedy, indeed, but thankfully it wasn’t 15 imperial gold. Aside from the menial preparations that a scullery maid was more than capable of handling, Mira was glad that she would not have to make any mercantile sacrifices, not if she wanted to begin a new life far away. She steadily rolled the wheelbarrow away from the castle, across the meadow, and down the narrow, back-way dirt road where the castle servants would come and go from their own hovels in the nearby village. No moon was shining on this night as she leaned forward with her eyes peering through the dusk. For a moment, she worried that she would miss the designated turnoff that she would have to take. It was growing pitch-dark now. The road was soggy and muddy and thick with puddles, but she had anticipated as much. She’d planned for everything, including the weather.
There it was; the signal to make the turnoff was an upright stone in an unassuming spot on the side flanked by grass. It was marked with a white T to make a better distinction. As she pushed harder, the creaking sound that the loosening bolts on the beaten wheel made grew loud. Too loud. But she knew she had to keep moving. Seven minutes later, she made it safely past the tree line and through the woods.
The burial mound laid under the ruins of a primitive stone monolith, which was the last of many that once dotted the landscape of Angevin in dark ancient days. The one Mira was driving for held an entrance hidden by a veil of dangling ivy mirroring a dryad’s green tangled hair. Offhand, it frightened her to look upon it. To her vivid imagination, it was the head of a slain earth giant with his viridescent beard and jagged-edged crown of stone sharpened like stakes that brimmed with an aura of primeval power, especially in the gloomy, oaken woodlands of Angevin. She could not forget this dreadful place even if she wanted to, yet dear Elric once told her that these mounds of stone circles were built facing the general direction of the rising sun, which of course any fool knew was East, so finding her way here was not the problem. Ages ago, so Elric once regaled during one of her visits to his room when he wanted her company, there once lived the sun-worshipping dwarf clans of Cloch and Grēnā, who both lived in the upper world in peace before the coming of Man. And Orcs.
The true purpose for endeavoring in such architectural alignments was assumed to be ceremonious in nature, according to scholars, but such things were incidental to Mira. It was a pagan temple, meaning that no self-respecting Trininite, or even a superstitious fool, would enter such a place. It was, therefore, the perfect hiding spot for runaways and outlaws, so long if they weren’t priggish about ghosts or decorated skulls. The only problem now was, the wheelbarrow would not be able to fit through the narrow entrance.
She pulled Æthel off and dragged him through the gap of the stony mound. Her feet were growing numb and bruised, but the reward she kept thinking about negated all present discomfort. And with everything going well so far, there would be no need to halt and walk in pensive circles over fits of fancy and silly visions. There would be time enough to interpret what she had actually seen, or uncover what sort of enchantment had attempted to cheat her senses, but that time was for another day. When she would have her revenge. Everything had been going well so far, she would not be flat-footed by idled bewilderment.
As she pushed through the vines and trudged down the dark corridor, the first sound to greet her ears was the trickling of water vibrating off of the chiseled stoneworks. Entering a chamber, dimly lit by dying braziers, there was a fountain at the far end fed by an underground spring flowing from the Winding Blue, and above the fountain was a carved out opening in the ceiling where the monolith encircled. A small garden of ivy and many blooming flowers garnished the bubbling pool. Roses, lavenders, and snowdrops with strange tints of gold.
She laid the boy who would’ve been king close to the water’s edge. Reaching into the deep pocket of her apron, she then carefully prepared an elixir of Corsair’s Powder: odorless, tasteless, expeditiously soluble in liquid. Extensively used by wealthy merchants during long business travels out at sea, the concoction was somewhere between a sleeping powder and a physician’s anesthetic. The usual administrating process was to mix the content in water and then having the patient drink it, who would then sleep soundly, theoretically, without need for food or water for three months. Three whole months.
Assuming that his heart did not congeal.
Mira quickly tried to put that out of her head. She didn’t need that on her mind. Still, she had to be very careful. Deducing the exact dosage could be tricky for those with no anatomical knowledge of the human body, let alone an eleven-year old human, a fact that only now dawned upon her as she reached into her apron again. It was now time to utilize the instrument she required to properly administer the drug.
She had never seen anything like it before as she examined the tool in her hand. It was a plague doctor’s reciprocating pump which they called a syringe, a portable injection tool that came complete with a cylindrical glass tube and a funneled needle. Purely experimental. For something constructed from glass and a piece of steel, it felt unpleasantly heavy in her soft palms, and when she touched the metal ring above the pump, she felt an icy chill that the warm night could suddenly not alleviate. Her trembling, perspiring hands set the syringe down for a moment to set out a tourniquet.
She then held the elixir upright with one hand, the other pushed the tip of the needle through the rubber top of the bottle. Just as instructed. The tiny slit on the cylindrical glass showed her what the exact volume of the dose should be. Or—as she took a second glance back at the syringe—was that just a crack?
Her heart suddenly froze in her chest. She had already filled the tube. No one had instructed her on how to measure it, the fools. Or, in the midst of trying to remember every other detail in the plan, had she forgotten?
She tried to think—was it .25 milligrams per kilogram of bodyweight—or .25 kilograms per milligrams? Then something—something about tapping the glass to squeeze the air bubbles out—she didn’t remember that part. She was now holding the loaded syringe over Æthel. Goddess, she was now trembling all over. Through the haze of her indecision, she recalled the last bit of the instructions: hold it between a 45 to 90 degree angle, stick it in him and push the plunger. Simple.
And she needed to time herself over exactly a three minute period. No more, no less.
What in hell did that even mean? She was slowly on the verge of tears now.

Æthel. Isolde. Forgive me.
Deep breath.
Without further hesitation, she slid the needle into Æthel’s left arm. She quickly pulled it out and then checked his breathing. Just to be safe, she held her own breath to hear better. And she waited.
Thank the Mother. He’s alive.
She sighed deeply, but then gave him a few, gentle slaps on his face to test his reaction. There was only the repressed breathes of air seething from his nose and open mouth. He didn’t seem to have a care in the world now.
The wheelbarrow outside also carried her other provisions that she hid in a sack. She quickly returned inside the mound with them, knowing that time was of the essence. She pulled a clean wash rag from the sack, held it out longways and tied it over her eyes until she saw only the pitch blackness. The small space of the mound assured her that she did not have to do much or walk far, so long as she watched her footing. She could not afford to fall into the pool herself, not without a dose of the Corsair’s Powder at least, but even then she would not last long. First, she carefully removed all of Æthel’s royal raiments, then unraveling the black loincloth she took from the sack, she rolled him from side to side, lifting and lowering his feet, and wrapping him in it until he was dressed like a pagan from ancient days. He needed to look the part for this plan to work; any attire out of this century could raise suspicion.
She then pulled off the blindfold. Her task was almost complete. She then bounded his hands behind his back and tied his ankles together with a few ropes from the sack, keeping his body straight as an arrow as though he was a sacrificial lamb upon an altar. Next, she looped the last of the ropes around the bonds between his legs and tied the other ends to a grinding stone she had also ferried in the wheelbarrow. With the spare cloth she used as a tourniquet, she gently placed it inside his mouth, and with the blindfold, she tied it tightly over his closed lips in order to keep the water out of his lungs. He could not be in there for more than an hour if she was to be any judge on the strange and sinful machinations of pagan magic. She only needed a few seconds.
The poor reflection of the pool shimmered like pyroclastic rock. She hoped that it would not be that deep. Once she had pulled him a few inches to the pool’s edge, Mira lifted the stone that his ankles were tied to with some strained effort and, ever so gently, she released it and watched the stone vanish beneath the dark surface. She allowed weight and gravity do the rest as Æthel’s whole body slid off the bank and dipped under the surface without so much as a splash. As she leaned over to watch his quick descent to the bottom, the journal she took with her slipped out of her apron.
All it did was cause a little spray of water, but a spray was all that was needed to make her jump back in fright. She twirled around in a frenzy, quickly frisking herself as though she had a snake under her dress. After a few moments, she breathed a sigh of relief to find that her clothes and skin had not been touched. Not an inch.
That was, save for a sprinkle of golden spots near the tip of her leather boot. How they shone and glistened like the sun under the dying light of the braziers…