“If we do not seek them out, they will prey upon us, Raphael,” Meliora remains steadfast, insisting with unnatural evenness.
“I will hear no more…” Raphael seethes under his breath.
But Meliora did not cease in her charge, continuing ahead, “If not upon us, then upon our successor—our daughter. If we do not—"
“I will hear
NO MORE!
” the king then finally bellows amidst the queen’s words.
The deafening vigor of his fury coerces the silence of his queen, who stands bitterly frozen. Raphael’s dismissal then crawls up Meliora’s spine with a malicious chill, freezing her in a flash. She faces her dear Opposite, yet his expression and voice twists into something unfamiliar. The dying light of the dusk only accentuates Raphael’s menacing disposition, which has seized the room like permafrost. Mindlessly, the king’s back suddenly lengthens, appearing taller as if to threaten and intimidate the queen. She is a fool who dared to awaken a sleeping dragon, its eyes cracking open with unyielding furor.
“You, Achernar, this entire council—all of you speak, quarrel, and bicker
at my pleasure,
" speaks Raphael with a fury like fire billowing from his throat. "It is
my voice
which governs this country. I—
and I alone!
—hold the Passage of Power. Neither you, the council, the entire Solasúian race, nor even the old god possess a smidgen of significance, for it is
my hands alone
which builds Utopia! As Your Empyrean, you will not dare
speak
of your damned phantoms and ghosts before me ever again!”
The wrathful flames of Raphael’s indignation gorges Queen Meliora, body and soul. Her refinement and composure lay now upon the floor as a smoldering pile of ash, helplessly cast into the wind. Her face so visually impacted, etched with complete and utter disbelief. Not a mumble passes her trembling lips, for her voice has fled like the color in her skin. The umbrage in Raphael reaches a frightening height, for his clenched fists begin to quiver as if with malicious intent. Its view catches the disheartened eye of his dear friend, the protector Daevarro, who reacts without hesitation.
Indeed, one second’s gander upon such a sight arouses a response from Daevarro like an instinct or perhaps an invocation of wrath. Daevarro breaks from his guarded stance, breaking this mold of dutiful knight. He steps in front of his queen as if to protect her, breaking her from the king nigh of the warpath. Indeed, Daevarro was no stranger to warfare, and this argument afore him was as two adversaries upon the battlefield. Yet Raphael seemed to claim victory, for his words struck like a mordhau; a violent, merciless seizure of life. Daevarro’s heart skips at beat as he stands up to his unfamiliar friend, for truly Raphael’s situation could turn such a simile into reality.
“Raphael, stop!” urges Daevarro with vigor, gesturing his hand as if with censure. “This isn’t like you. Calm down!”
As Daevarro’s final words become history, Raphael’s acrimony seems to break like a trance. The past begins to invade his awoken mind, turning his blood-red vision a deep shade of blue. The sharpness of his glare dulls, widening with shock. His face shrivels up with the bitter taste of imminent regret. Hastily, he beams around to face his queen, yet she does not acknowledge his sudden and unusual change.
“That is not how I feel,” shaking his head with thoroughness, Raphael immediately rejects his past words. His legs buckle as they hesitantly step forward, yet she still does not react to his approach. “Meliora, listen to me… Forget what I said. Those are not my true feelings!”
“…It is evident that those are your feelings, candidly,” finally, moments of agonizing silence later, Meliora speaks. Her face, dismayed yet sullen, turns away from the sight from her dear Opposite, King Raphael Divus Barn, and quietly, she adds, “Indeed, I was a fool to proceed with such reckless abandon. However, I’d not risk myself so if there was no warrant for it… But to you, there is no value in my gambit. It matters not to you what causes I am willing to stake my life upon. They are…unworthy of your time.”
At the end of her words, the queen conjures a sudden strength. Her eyes catch the shape of her king, torso hanging over his feet as if despondent. She recomposes herself, forcing an encouraging smile to retain her distinguished persona. “…After all, you’ve a war to wage. You must lead tens of thousands of loyalmen and bear steel upon our western enemies. I understand this, of course, so I will pester you with these children’s bedtime stories no longer.”
“Meliora, please…” Raphael continues to plea, urgently motioning towards his lover. “Those are not my truest feelings. Surely you know me better than this!”
“On the contrary, my love, it seems I do not,” Meliora laments, then gestures him an elegant, mannerly curtsy. Raphael languishes at the sight of the queen’s humbled position, hearing her voice offer, “I beg pardon for my discretion, but I must depart.”
The courteous imploration of the queen hangs in the air with deep sorrow, jolting Raphael with urgency. His hand lunges forward, desperately stretching out to his dear Meliora as she quietly escorts herself out from his presence. She turns away without any further sight of him, stray brown strands of hair veiling her disheartenment. Her hands fold into each other and she walks away, wincing at the keen sting of her dear beloved’s words. She may appear bright-faced and without fret, but she is truly, at this moment, as a flooded field of soil. The unintended illness of his words seeps through her, sinking into her composition deeper than any mortal blade. The pain disheartens Daevarro, who follows her loyally towards the door.
As Meliora exits, however, her protector halts momentarily. His presence persists in the doorway—a hand fastened upon the doorknob—as he stares down his sorrowful king. Raphael’s eyes weakly stray from the sight of his dear friend, but Daevarro fixes on him with question and bemusement. There is clearly a conversation to be had, with plenty of questions needing answers. But Daevarro is a knight still, and a knight with a duty to fulfill. He promptly departs from Raphael’s sight, announcing both his and Meliora’s departure with a heavy thud. It somberly reverberated throughout this confounded prison, murdering all of Raphael’s hope of mending his mistake.
“Dammit,” Raphael bitterly growls in his queen's absence, face locked in a detailed grimace. A heavy, shaking breath surges up from deep within Raphael’s chest, and from it exhausts a question, “…How could I even say such a thing to her?”
Raphael finds himself alone in this vacuum of emptiness, his only company his disappointment and self-ire. A glass once half-empty becomes full yet begins to overflow. Raphael clinches his face so firmly as if ready to tear off this mask of his which he so despises. The night before him is crowned like royalty by the moon waxen and concave; a vexing sight just as he is, for it is never once the same as before. Bitterness, heartache, vitriol, puzzlement—a deluge of emotions sickeningly cycles through the king. He feels ill with himself, quick to catch his drooping body before it falls from imbalance. His plight drenched in the distant light of his city for all to see, yet his only witnesses are but the blur of birds flying by.
As Raphael’s perdition carries on for an eternity, it unexpectedly and inexplicitly ceases. As if by the universe’s ordinance, Raphael’s eyes suddenly drive beyond this lonesome council chamber. From up here, the city of Governanti appears like a starry night sky, with countless small but brilliant lights piercing through the tenebrous cloak of night. The sternum of the city—the market distinct—is a constellation, a vibrant piece to an otherwise ordinary sky. It lures Raphael in, watching its vivid glow illuminate a myriad of bodies. Bodies of people, people he knows of yet nothing about. As these people walk like a faceless band of question marks, the king can’t help but to consider Meliora’s words for a moment. What if there is indeed truth to her beliefs? What if there is the rebellion brewing amongst his people?
Another presence then occupies the space, a presence as primordial as night itself. An unnatural being, who fades into the room from the depths of nothingness. It appears as an ethereal mass of mist, pale red and foreign to this world. A creature—feminine in figure and as dark as a shadow—then somehow takes shape from the mist. It appears solid like flesh, yet confusedly retains an unusual translucence. Its head vague of defining features, save a pair of long, jagged ears, flaming hair like airy, pale red wisps of mists, and three frigid, piercing red eyes.
Raphael feels this being as it smothers the air with the weight of its presence. His eyes are attracted to it, yet its otherworldly, monstrous appearance does not faze him. He knows of it, and it knows of him. Lamia, divine mother of the slaughtered children known as the Gyermeki, appears before the king. They are bound to one another as if a body and its soul. He is her vessel and she is his ally, a union birthed fourteen years ago during his rebellion. Lamia then moves, floating weightlessly like submerged in water. She makes not a noise as she approaches the restless king, residing now beside him. Lamia’s lanky, elongated arm extends out ahead of her. Raphael is surprised then, barely but jarringly feeling a hand upon him. He lifts his eyes over to his left, finding Lamia’s dagger-sharp fingers lying gently upon his shoulder. The warmth of a mother seems then to envelop him. Lukewarm is its presence perhaps, yet still enough to comfort him.
“Truth seldom come without struggle,” the strange entity Lamia comments as if responding to his previous question, her voice bearing a hard, unmistakable accent. “’Tis not of thine own inception,
Palaemmir.
The heart is a sea which yields not to a master.”
“How could I not have control over my own feelings? They’re mine.” Raphael returns.
“
Dego, Palaemmir.
Thou art without authority over such matters, as is thou without authority over thy beginning and end.”
“So, I should merely accept these things as my own?” Raphael retorts like a criticism, his furor voicelessly spoken through the downward arch of his brow. “Nonsense! I bled for her. I laid with her. She is my queen, mother of my child! How could I feel such a way about her?!”
“’Tis as the words of mine past,” speaks Lamia, undeterred by Raphael’s escalating hostility. “Truth seldom come without struggle.”
In conclusion to Lamia’s words, another breath surges from Raphael’s lungs. His eyes home in on the outside laid out before him. Lamia lays witness then to Raphael as his unease lucidly churns on his face, wearing his composure thread bare. He stiffens like a board, tautly securing his arms around his chest. The heart in him skips like a chord off-key. He can’t fathom her words. No, he does not believe this truth—Lamia’s truth. He rejects it. He rejects it with every ounce of his being. He faces forward, and with a fist clenched in rebellion against such a fate, he utters a single name, “Calvin.”
Just behind the king’s throne-like chair at the table of the Ruler’s Council lies a massive, intricate bookcase. Its dust-laden shelves practically burst with books and parchment, the countless records of council meetings since time immemorial. An unordinary-ordinary piece in this room without a doubt, until its wooden body begins to shudder unusually. The dust is disturbed, fluttering into the air like a cloud. A bizarre, thud-like sound emits into the air, followed then by some metallic clicking. Oddly then, another noise suddenly shoots out. The bookcase—rather, something behind the bookcase—broadcasts a rather abrupt, loud sneeze. In its aftermath, the hushed sound of infighting and mockery from the same area beckons forth Raphael’s ear.
“Way to go,
Yáatiq…
” mocks a voice poorly attempting to keep quiet, hailing from the gullet of a young man.
“
Legendary assassin Calvin Albertia was captured today after reportedly blowing his cover when he sneezed at some dust...
” a sharp-tongued, feminine voice captions the perfect story, scoring another hit on the pride of the one who sneezed. “Oh, the heralds are gonna
love it.
”
“’Ey! Shut yer traps!” the supposed
‘legendary assassin’
Calvin Albertia defensively reacts, his matured tone keeping a low volume.
The bookcase continues to shudder, yet one final metallic click halts it. Suddenly, from the left side, the bookcase begins to sluggishly turn into the wall, where a small, hidden cavity lies. The bookcase’s right side slowly swings outward, revealing a certain man of age. His expression winces with an almost exaggerated strain, flushing beet red as he squeezes his lean frame through the gap of space between the wall and the bookcase. He barely manages to get through, hanging over with his hands on his knees. He pants like having just completed a marathon. He then stands upright, wiping off some imaginary sweat from his forehead. He proceeds to slick his graying-golden hair back and straighten the unkempt nature of his long, black, sleeveless coat. Once ready, he presents himself to King Raphael.
“Boss,” Calvin uniquely acknowledges Raphael by an unusual title, but a meaningful one to him.
As his voice dissipates into the void, he aims to offer his total respect to his king and vessel of the being he worships. He falls willingly upon his knees. His torso bends forward, humbly pressing his face into the floor as if unworthy of Raphael’s sight.
Two other black-clad figures strenuously fit through that narrow passageway, closing it behind them once they are freed. Calvin’s apprentices and partners-in-crime, Noura and Yousef, seek then their master’s guidance. Quite conspicuously did it appear, observing as their master offered deepest reverence to the one blessed by their dear goddess. With it, they are swift to replicate his position, bowing lowly at Raphael’s feet.
“Is that how you mean to respond to events which warrant urgent action? With delay and foolery?” Raphael sternly judges, turning not to the humbled sight of Calvin.
“…Well, ta my defense, dat bookcase ain’t no pushover,” Calvin crafts his excuse, then momentarily lifts his head. “Seriously, ya ever push dat thing before? It’s-a whopper!”
Like a heated machine, the nostrils of Raphael exhaust a hard pocket of stridency. As it abandons his body, it frigidly shoots down Calvin’s spine. “Uh…sorry, Boss,” with urgency, Calvin apologies, expediting his return to the floor.
“Nevermind that. Tell me, what do you know of these rumours of insurgency? Is there anything to them?”
“Well, honestly, I ain’t been hearin’ much ‘bout it,” Calvin states as he lifts himself up off of the floor. “Sure, been some talk. But my spies ain’t got much else outside-a dat.”
Listening to Calvin’s response was supposed to ease Raphael. Yet the uneasiness turning his insides into a grief knot does not unwind. A feeling of disappointment strangely consumes him. Indeed, there is a part of him which wishes to hear a confirmation of these rumours, to validate Meliora’s belief. Hearing Calvin’s response, however, Raphael closes his eyes and exhales, “…I see.”
“Meliora seems convinced that there’s more to it than just some talk,” Raphael adds, bearing the tone of a cautious skeptic. “…Personal beliefs aside, it doesn’t change the fact that someone
did
make an attempt on her life. She mentioned that there were others who escaped. As long as there are indeed others out there, she can never be safe. Go. Find these snakes and bring them to me.”
Hearing his king’s command, Calvin’s face immediately widens with a peppy smirk. He springs to his feet in a single, clean motion, invigorated to get to work.
“Nice! Now dat’s-a great excuse ta stretch these ol’ legs!” Calvin excitedly exclaims, getting in some quick routine stretches to avoid pulling a muscle. As he works to get his blood flowing, he energetically turns to his apprentices and resounds, “C’mon, kiddies! We got ourselves a charge. Let’s git mooooovin’!”
Noura and Yousef then leap to their feet similar to Calvin, displaying high dexterity and skilled control over their body. Imparted and entrusted with this task most significant, the black-clad figures do not dawdle on questions. They instead head out, moving with almost unhuman speed. They seem to vanish into nothingness, with but a single soft click of the door’s closure to ever declare that they were here. Alone again, Raphael’s amethyst eyes reveal themselves again. His expression drops like a stone as the lofty gravity of his ambitions weigh on his mind. This situation afore him is no more than a troublesome malady, a nonsensical fear flogging him. No, he has entertained this cumbersome anxiety for far too long.
