The terrified eyes of the scarce onlookers became fixed on Ossian and his brave—though some may say brazen—opposition. His eyes bound in an unbreakable lock upon the king he proclaimed a tyrant, his spirit as indomitable as his stance. The chilling terror fled from them, for hope and inspiration enshrouded them like a blanket in the winter. He was, in their eyes, a hero.
“No.” A single word, carried out from the throat of the king, astounded every soul gathered upon this street. A single word which struck like a tower bell, tolling a shock which shook all things to their core. Its vibration instantly shattered the gaze of all eyes upon Ossian, ghastly drawn to the source of that single word. Their faces petrified, standing in horror for the continuation of their king. King Raphael keenly stared down the dumbfounded expression of Ossian, well-aware of the reaction which his single word wrought. The king stands there, hands gripped in anger, and declares aloud, “Dias is to each of you as alcohol is to a drunkard: an influence which brings you comfort but deadens your senses. Your devotion to him and his ideals simplifies your lives. There’s no need to dictate your own beliefs, much less think for yourselves. Even genocide and slavery are easier to consume, all because Dias claimed it a righteous act. I can’t blame you for thinking me a tyrant, just like I couldn’t blame a drunkard for fighting the one who takes away their bottle. The Hero King is a disease, and like alcohol, he needs to be removed before the afflicted can be cured. That is why I’m not going to kill you, Ossian. Solasúians are as much enslaved by Dias’s ideals as humankind was.”
The king’s words frighteningly stirred the burning atmosphere, and like a boiling kettle, the shock and emotion overflowed. His refusal to take Ossian’s life in the wake of his betrayal was a strike to the face of a Solasúian’s ideology, for their kind prided themselves in honor and oaths and the principles surrounding them. Ossian’s shock fell to rage, for Raphael spat in his eye. His teeth bared like fangs, his face twisting into something closer to a beast. The king noted the change, finding himself strangely off-put. Surely his logic was sound. Surely his reasoning was fair. But logic and reason had no place in the heat of madness. Ossian reached across his torso, angrily unleashing the sullied mace at his waist.
Regardless of the impossible circumstances, Ossian was prepared to die in the defense of his beliefs. And so, he charged, the steel of his sabatons thundering down upon the decrepit floor; heedless of the bodies ahead of him. He had to kill the tyrant. For the sake of all his brethren, he had to kill Raphael. His act like a jolt of energy to the stilled heart of the rioters’ revolt, and the stunned rioters suddenly came alive. A formidable force of rioters assaulted the knights who encased the king, coming at them with the aggression of a pack of feral dogs. The number of them was overwhelming, and the sea of raging rioters tore the knights apart from each other…and from their king. They fought frantically to return to his side, forced to slice through the living flesh of their own brethren. But the rioters were truly pious to their cause, voluntarily paying the blood-price if it meant the death of King Raphael.
And so it was that the king was confronted by the face of the people he was meant to govern; a black, indignant scowl. It was the same beast he had slain time-after-time again. It was his curse to battle this monster. It was his fate.
Ronan’s eyelids sluggishly separate. It’s been happening more often, recollecting memories not belonging to him. Nay, the boy wasn’t even alive to witness that day. His dreaming consciousness wandered. With its outstretched hand it grasped, for a moment, upon the unobtainable. But something, be it his own subconscious or perhaps some greater power, expelled him like a caught thief, casting him back into the ocean of reality. He lies now upon the shores of awakening, left alone with a most mysterious puzzle in his mind. His throat dry as sand, emitting a croaky, drowsy grumble as he attempts to awaken. His head lifts, sliding out from a slick puddle of saliva which clung to his cheek. His face, however, coils up with displeasure, for the right side of his neck stiffens and stings.
His round, innocent blue eyes glance southernly, realizing that he is seated at a table. He racks his brain thoroughly, recalling not being so foolish as to rest his head upon a table. Regardless, a hand breaks from his side. Its frigid flesh flattens against the lively warmth of his neck. Ronan’s right hand is...
unusual
. Rather,
‘unusual’
is putting it mildly. Its color as white as winter, starkly contrasting against the summer tone of his skin. Irregularly, irrationally, it fidgets, twitching sporadically like a corpse. But it is clearly not of death, for it turns on the boy as if an enemy. It refuses to abide by Ronan’s commands, manifesting its resistance in freakish convulsions. But the boy, without panic, puts it in its place, pinning the out-of-control appendage down with his other hand. A tiresome pocket of air exits Ronan’s lungs as his right arm’s restlessness fades like a phase. It falls into a dulcet slumber, allowing the boy to rub his eyes to fully emerge from his grogginess.
As Ronan’s consciousness clears of its haze, the air shutters with unexpected excitement. With swift enticement, the young boy’s ears perk up. The outside world penetrates the cold stone walls—the deafened tones of cheering and elation. It unrests the unnatural immaculateness of his surroundings, unsettling perfectly straightened objects along the wall by but a hair. Moreover, it unrests the usually idle mind of Ronan, who eagerly springs to life to satiate his curiosity. A quaint, dustless drawer blocks access, which he quickly, albeit somewhat hesitantly, pulls aside.
Thick curtains of dull burgundy, so straightened that they seem like a single entity, tear asunder. And in an instant, vivid shafts of light pierce into the dark, soulless interior of the house. Ronan’s visage shrinks with immediate regret, flinching as the unfamiliar daylight burns brightly into his retinas. A forearm instinctively rises to his eyes like a shield, retreating into the shadows. Stunned by sunlight, yet the growing volume of the outside world tickles his curiosity. He slowly, very cautiously lowers his shield. The sunlight, which initially ran through Ronan’s eyes like a volley of javelins, now greets him with a peace treaty. And he accepts it, relinquishing himself to his curiosity. He bounces back and peers through the window like a child gazes into a toyshop.
The outside world rushes into every facet of Ronan in this moment, filling him with wonderment and joy. As beautiful and as intriguing as the work of a master artist, an innocent, wide smile lengthens the boy’s face. Invigorating light stands uncontested within a cloudless domain, reigning above the gathering below. An energized, mirthful mass packs every inch of the ground below. There is no shortage of joy—the outside world as Ronan’s young mind had pictured it. It was everything he expected and dreamed.
Ronan's left hand then pulls off from the glass. His index finger then points to one head in the crowd, then leaps to the next, then to the next as if counting them. His right hand helps him tally up the count, raising a finger for each head he counted.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
He then closes his hand as if to reset his fingers, then he follows:
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Ronan devotedly carries on with his count until he eventually hit a number he didn’t know how to count from. The street trembles like a quivering heartbeat, seemingly sharing the bounteous elation of the people in the crowd. Despite the overcrowded nature of the area, there appears to be a notable gap straight down the middle of the street. Its cobblestone lies bare and exposed to the sun, reflecting its light with a dull complexion. Not a single naysayer or simpleton treads upon it, appearing to anticipate something.
Ronan’s eyebrows then shoot upwards, witnessing as the charged air suddenly ruptures with pure ecstasy. His face flattens against the glass as his eyes frantically seek out the source of the change. His eyes cross over to the right…and he finds it. She stands amidst the crowd, smile wide upon her face. She wears the glorious daylight like a dress of gold, dazzling and resplendent. To the young, uninformed mind of Ronan, she appears like a fictional character in the books he’s read. She truly is the encapsulation of what authors picture when they describe a character as ‘picturesque’ or ‘breathtaking.’ But it’s not for this reason why this untold number of people find themselves upon this street—though that might be the case for some.
“Queen Meliora!” the crowd exclaims. “Your Grace!”
A piece upon her head reveals her status, absorbing the sun so brilliantly like a crown of pure light. She is Meliora Melpomene Mundus, the 163rd Queen of the Solasúian race and 6th Queen of the Imperial Kingdom of Governanti. She strolls the streets as she frequently does, not by the traditional palanquin, but by the labor of her own two legs. Her effulgent smile like the moon to the ocean’s water, influencing men with its overwhelming power. Men become possessed, enthralled by so much as the mention of her presence. The occasional beggar and panhandler would blast rudely through the masses of people just to get to her; desperation abundant in their faces, in their eyes. Indeed, these men would willingly tread through an inferno to reach her. But the air would suddenly erupt with the clinking of steel as the beggars break from the crowd. Her loyalmen near-instantly gather into a tight, broad formation, proactively ripping deathly steel from their hip as if ready to kill. These knights clad in ornate black steel wavered not, allowing not even a breath to reach near the crown.
Yet the crown itself immediately melted away their steeled efforts, for Queen Meliora turned not the beggars away. She compassionately placed her hand upon the beggar’s shoulder, bestowing them an exchange of words and a giving of alms. The world is a cruel, merciless place, where acts of kindness are scarce. Meliora knows this truth all-too-well. That is why she desires more than anything to break the cycle. A gentle breeze of pinkish-red passes by the queen and the crowd. A brilliant assortment of pedals dance in the wind, cascading then upon the queen like a celebration. She ganders skyward, feeling the ephemeral touch of the pedals softly brush across her cheek. Her masterpiece smile abounding upon her face, absorbing this dream-like setting for just a moment. And that’s what it seems like: a dream.
The queen then exhales, returning her eyes to the mortal world below. She takes a step, then another, waving to her subjects. Her appearance seems as delighted and joyous as anyone could expect, yet her eyes play to another tune. They motion calmly, seeming to take in the moment. However, they examine the crowd with intent and purpose as if in search for something. Time moves with a broken hand, so much so that Meliora doesn’t even notice as the seconds become minutes. Physics falls on its sword, for the deafening, benign screams of the crowd become muted. Every face, every mannerism; not an act is too minuscule for the queen. It isn’t until a particular voice breaks through her hyper-focus before Meliora returns to reality.
“Your Grace!” the bass voice of a man penetrates the blaring chaos, catching Meliora’s ear the moment it’s uttered.
Like a seamless flow, Meliora snaps from her focus and returns to reality. It’s a skill she had mastered over her years with the pompous, autocratic nobility, becoming quite able to effortlessly disguise herself behind a mask. Noise funnels into her ears like storm surge into a tunnel, but it flinches her not. Without falter, she turns to the man, smiling brightly upon his dirtied face.
“Bernard,” Meliora recognizes, halting in her travels. “It’s good to see you again, my friend. How have you and Linda been doing?”
“We couldn’t be better, Your Grace,” raising his head, Bernard’s expression lightens. “We’re expecting our first child!”
The elevated tone of Bernard’s voice widens the entirety of the queen’s face. His news fills her with genuine elation, mimicking the very lucid nature of his excitement.
“Truly?!” the queen utters, then receiving a nod from Bernard to confirm. “That is beyond wonderful, Bernard! My heart is so filled with happiness and joy for the both of you!”
Queen Meliora continues to converse with Bernard like catching up with an old friend. Halted in place, her protectors take up a circular formation around their queen. And as bizarre as some of the commoners find, they stand with hands firm upon sharpened steel upon their waists. Cyan light burns intensely from the pitch black of their great helm’s eye slits, thoroughly surveying the field. One is especially protective of the queen, standing at her side without abandon. He appears himself not so conspicuously as one of the loyalmen, but his stance at the queen’s left is without question one of a loyal man. He wears a garb of charcoal black; not of steel, but of leather, linen, and wool. A vagabond or perhaps even a rogue, some consider, for he is a black sheep in a white herd. Yet one glance upon the exotic weaponry at his hip heralds the truth, sweeping those doubtful few into a gossip fever.
With a hand over her mouth as if not to be heard, one woman eagerly buzzes into the ear of another, “…Isn’t that Sir Daevarro?”
“The Phantom of the Barns?!”
sharply breathes the one beside the gossiping woman, wide of eyes. “No, Her Grace would never
dare
associate herself with that demon!”
“I heard he’s a ghost, no longer walking amongst the living…” another gossiper nervously spews as their teeth chatter in their head, adding then, “They say he died fourteen years ago while in service to King Raphael.”
“I heard he’s some kind of horrible faceless monster created by Lamian cultists to get revenge on the Barns!”
“W-wait…really?”
As their gossip frenzy grows in number and in volume, the black sheep whom they gossiped about awakens to it. Daevarro catches every bit of their ceaseless gum-flapping, angrily clicking his tongue at every absurd moniker and story. They scramble to recollect any rumor they had heard over the years, continuing to offer it upon this entropic altar of blabber.
It went on and on and on, another stupid story after another. Daevarro’s face writhes on his ire, emphatically denying every foolish falsehood made of him. He turns his cheek, attempting mightily to return to his duties. His head pulls to his right, but abruptly halts mid-way. His eye catches a strange reflection nearby, taunting him daringly. An oriel window protrudes towards him, showcasing trinkets and ancient curios. An old, dust-covered panel of glass, he finds himself gazing into him. His own eyes glare at him, tearing into his very soul. Hatred contorts his expression into something not of this world, shooting a bolt of ice down Daevarro’s spine.
Unnerved, Daevarro immediately shakes his head as if to wake himself up. He reluctantly looks back, finding a perfectly normal reflection of himself in the window. He stands stunned for an entire moment, unable to possibly explain what he just saw. An illusion? A waking dream? His imagination? Whatever the case may be, Daevarro did his best to carry himself ordinarily. He sighs a sigh of honest grief, tuning out the gossipers. Despite his annoyance, he could not find it in himself to harbor resentment. People – be they human or Solasúian – are all creatures which seek connection after all. They will speak, fight, and kill to retain and defend these bonds, just as he himself does now.
Daevarro keenly faces his queen, the one he simply must defend. And naturally, of course, she is as entrenched in conversation with one of her subjects as always. Like a spark of joy, Daevarro’s face illuminates with a faint smile. A flicker of humanity, of pure contentment, before it fades into nothing. He composes with renewed focus, stepping closer to the side of his queen.
“My queen,” in a hushed manner, the smooth, buoyant tone of Daevarro finds Meliora’s ear.
Without delay, the queen turns to her guard, halting old Bernard’s sentence in its midst. The minute he catches her attention, Daevarro motions his head towards the path ahead of him as if to move along. The queen closes her eyes and exhales a sorrow from deep within, recollecting the truth of their outdoor excursion upon this blessed day. She regathers herself as she returns to face the commoner Bernard. With a humble bow of her head, she pleads, “I must be off. Please forgive my discretion, Bernard.”
Bernard’s hands reactively outstretch ahead of him. “P-please, Your Grace, you don’t need to do that,” he insists, tautly waving her off. “…I know you must surely have more important affairs than talking to me!”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Meliora admits with a somber inflection before lifting her head up.
“Please excuse me.”
Finally, the queen departs and continues ahead. The yoke of a black-steel egg, Meliora returns to bravely face the world. A gentle smile broad across her face, offering the crowd a genuine display of her heart. Even still, the young boy Ronan remains practically fixed to his window. The distance between them widens. Her dazzling image grows steadily smaller and smaller. Yet he simply can’t bring himself to look away. The sight of the queen magnetizes him like a book he couldn’t put down. Something about her eludes, mystifies, and captivates him all at the same time. However, only moments later, the steel shell stops amid their parade-like route. Ronan cocks his head like a curious pup, scrambling all over his portal to the outside to get a better view. Fed up, he drags in chairs from the nearby dining room and begins ineptly climbing atop a drawer to catch a better view. A tower to ascend compared to his fragile, tiny frame, but he manages to reach the top.
