Disclaimer: I don't own Roswell.
Author's Note: This is my companion to Unnatural Born Leaders, explaining what happened in Antar and how things fell apart. It'll be an adjunct to some of the future chapters of Unnatural Born Leaders but you don't need to read either of them to enjoy just the one. I hope you guys like this – this is just the prologue, kind of setting the scene for what happens later on and explaining some of the emotions, etc. This might be a little dull, few action, but it does get a lot more personal and action-y later on. It was sort of necessary to explain some of the political alliances that get formed later on. Hope you guys like it, enjoy it all!
Antarian Intrigue
I
The day the heir to the Antarian throne died there wasn't widespread devastation or weeping, misery or overwhelming grief passing through the lands; nor was there outward celebration. That would have been tasteless and cruel towards the Antarian Royal Family, but most of his subjects did feel relieved. He hadn't been liked. He tended to wear a smirk, he was an outrageous flirt, he had a terrible reputation with women and men alike, he spent weeks on end inebriated and even if he had charm, it didn't save him from his own reputation.
His family was devastated. His little sister, who had loved him and idolised him, cried for days. His baby brother, who only knew him as someone that gave him treats and little random acts of kindness, mourned him. His parents, knowing of all his good as well as all of his flaws, were desolated. His friends grieved for the loss of a friend who would come through no matter what, who would be ready for a laugh and equally ready to console a hurting friend. His wife lost a loving husband who had, despite his reputation, remained faithful to her. They mourned him as none of his subjects did.
The diplomats lamented their loss too. Whatever image the public may have had of the heir, their own opinion had been high. He had been gifted, exceptionally so. Without being obstinate or stubborn, he had been persistent about what he had demanded. He had held no illusions about his own world or theirs, about their respective standings and the sway of the powers. He had been willing to support missions that would advance his own world's powers, remained loyal to the worlds that had been loyal to him, but had also had a strong shrewd streak in him that had made him astute and a force to be reckoned with. Yes, as a diplomat for his mother, he would be difficult to replace, if not nigh impossible. They mourned in public, as did the Antarian subjects and the royal family and his friends. But they also mourned in private, like his family and his friends did; the public looked forward to a different ruler, one that would not give them cause to blush or feel shame.
The day of the burning came. It had taken days of preparation, of security being tightened and timings arranged, appropriate clothes made and suitable flowers ordered and it was by the sea that the burning was to take place.
His parents took his body to the place as dawn broke, surrounded by the guards assigned to them this day and the personal servants who had loved a most mischievous prince. Tears were already slipping down the Queen's cheeks silently as her husband stared down at his dead son's face blankly. Their two other children arrived next; the younger one hushed and overawed, the older child with trembling lips and poorly concealed sniffles.
The second sun had risen when the diplomats arrived, sombre, respectful and mourning. He had been laid out by now, dressed in clothes of vibrant colours, the kind he had loved to wear and the public had deprecated. (After all, how could one take him seriously when he wore clothes of such bright colours when many others wore subdued colours like purple and red and green and silver?) The logs were being placed around him and the lump seemed to be choking his sister, as sobs rather than sniffles now escaped her lips.
Some of the public arrived soon after, a significant number of them arriving out of consideration. The other members of public that came had some inexplicable desire to see royalty, to see the heir, albeit in death. Others were merely there for show.
And several hours after the public had arrived, his friends arrived, with his widow. They were watched with great interest by those who had seen them afar at most, others who had seen them only from images dispatched as the general knosel that each member of the planet was entitled to. They scrutinised the friends, wondering who would retain their influence and power when the new heir came into his own, appraising who would change their lifestyles, now that the corrupting influence of the prince was removed. Others focused on the beautiful widow, face impassive and her carriage graceful, pitying her for all that she had presumably suffered when married to such a blemish to society as the prince and relieved for her sake that she had to endure it no longer.
Two other pairs of eyes watched them closely; a pair of dark eyes that thought a few of them looked vaguely familiar from the occasional visits they had made with his brother. A slightly older pair, red-rimmed, watched them closely, recognising several of them as friends that her brother had been close to, had brought home repeatedly and had introduced to her. She recognised the one with the silver hair, the one who made really funny jokes in that dry and sarcastic way she had tried to copy and failed at. She recognised the blonde girl by his side, the one who always looked a little sad but who had always smiled sweetly at her and had, on more than one occasion, given her sage advice. There was the one with the dark green hair that looked inky in dark with the charming smile and the even more charming being, and just looking at him, his eyes dark and his lips set into a thin line, her hearts began to beat a little faster. He'd always teased her, sometimes flicking her cheek with a careless finger, sometimes offering her wholesome compliments that frequently brought blushes to her cheeks and left her wondering just how serious he had been. He didn't look at her once, his eyes trained on where he lay, dressed in flamboyant colours and surrounded by dry wood of differing shades and origins. Her eyes rested on the widow, her eyes wide and green and dry, completely dry. For minutes, as people shuffled tiredly or nervously, as her parents continued to look only at the body lying down, she looked at the widow, dressed ever so elegantly and ever so expensively, the white of her skin accentuated by the white mourning clothes she wore.
And then, the words were whispered, along with the prayers and the fire was set alight by the hands of the parents. She was staring at her brother now, at what her brother had been and could have been. They stayed there for hours, as the first sun set and then the second, as the first moon rose, the second. And, before the third moon had risen, the fire had finally burnt itself out and she turned her eyes to the widow again, still standing, still looking impassively at where the fire had been slowly burning lower and lower with beautiful, dry green eyes. It was at that moment, looking at those beautiful eyes looking at what her brother had been that all of her pain and desolation, her loneliness and longing, solidified into one emotion – hatred.