For Albion
Logan stood alone in his chambers. Always alone. The light from the hearth danced across his increasingly gaunt and haggard features, but he did not register its warmth. He stared into the flames, remembering.
Springtime in the gardens of Bowerstone Castle. A young boy, plump and flushed with the enthusiasm of youth, running here and there, scaring the birds, attempting to scale the statues, played exuberantly as his mother looked on, smiling. The gardeners always groaned at his approach, afraid of what damages the rambunctious youth might cause to their leafy charges, but in truth, they were pleased. The boy's antics brought back fond memories of their own childhoods, when the exploration of one's own garden felt like a daring escapade, and every day brought a new adventure.
The boy gathered up an armload of smooth, flat stones, and made for one of the many small, ornate ponds adorning the castle's commons. Jubilantly, he flung the first of their number towards the surface of the water, only to watch in disappointment as it sank unceremoniously beneath the once-placid surface with a resounding splash. Screwing up his face in concentration, he hurled another. Sploosh! He hefted another stone gravely in his small, pudgy hand; he knew this would be the one. He pulled back his arm, swung it forward with all his might, released. The stone missed the water entirely, landing in the mud with an undignified splot! sound.
The princeling's cheeks puffed out in pink frustration, and he scowled as he heard his mother behind him, trying unsuccessfully to entirely quell her soft laughter. He spun around to face her, and she smiled at him sympathetically, scooping him up into her arms. He felt, at his wizened old age of five, that he had become too old to be held so, and informed the woman of this. Still, he was frustrated, and his mother's scent and gentle strength comforted him; thus, he clung to her, pouting, but unwilling to struggle free of her embrace.
"Mummy, where does Daddy go when he goes away?" The young Logan asked, resting his head against the queen's chest.
His mother caressed the child's brow with her graceful fingers, pushing his dark, sweat-matted hair off his pale brow. "You know the answer to that question, darling. He's off being a Hero."
Logan frowned. "He promised he was going to teach me to skip stones. I know I'll work it out one day very soon, though," he added hastily.
The queen's smile held a tinge of sadness. "Being a Hero or a King sometimes means doing things one might not want to do, giving up some of the things one holds most dear. And your father, of course, is both Hero and King..."
Logan's hands balled up into tiny fists. "I hate it! Why can't he let someone else do it? Why can't he just come home and play with us?"
"All of Albion is counting on him, darling. And he loves his people, as he loves us. Your father is a brave man, and a good one. He would never let something bad happen to his Albion while he still draws breath."
The boy scowled silently for a time. Then, he asked, "Does he miss us?"
The child's head still rested against the queen's body, and so he missed the emotion crossing her face. "Yes, darling," she answered quietly. "He misses us very badly."
"Is he lonely?"
The queen looked down, marveling at her sensitive son. "He keeps us in his heart, Logan. His heart is full of love for all of Albion, so he is never truly alone. The light inside him, that makes him a Hero? It gives him the strength to do what he must. But," The queen sank down onto a nearby bench, the weight of the conversation fatiguing her far more than the weight of the child in her arms. "Yes, Logan. Sometimes, he is very lonely."
Logan, King of Albion, stared impassively into the embers of the fire, betraying no emotion even in this long moment of solitude. And what had his time as King been but one long, drawn-out moment of solitude? His closest friends and advisors had deserted him. Even his precious younger sibling, his own flesh and blood! had gone away.
What stung him far more, though, was the knowledge that the people of Albion had turned against him. Everything he had done, he had done for them! Logan's lips pressed together in a thin line, the only sign of his inner fury. He knew they had no way of knowing his reasons, but the rejection by the people that meant so much to him, that had meant so much to his father, caused him, at times, to behave...rashly.
"Father," he thought to himself, "You were a great man. But you did not know how good your life was, how blessed you truly were. You had the love of your family, of your people. Circumstances have denied me this comfort. You had the gifts of a Hero to bring you strength." His lips pressed together even more tightly. "This, too, have I been denied."
"Where, then," he wondered aloud, almost desperately, "Might I find the strength to go on? To do what I must?"
The sound of his own voice echoing off the walls of the room startled him. Glancing about to see if anyone had heard, the answer quickly became clear, and he laughed at its realization, a ragged, mirthless sound. Of course no one else had heard. There was no one else in the room. He was all alone.
"Fine, then," he announced to the shadows of the empty room, traces of his childhood petulance lingering in his voice even now. "I shall fight back the darkness. Alone. I shall protect my people, without aid." His mouth shaped itself into a smile that spoke not of joy, but of hardness, without and within. "And I alone shall save my Albion...whether she likes it or not."