A short story that popped into my head whilst I re-read Trickster's Choice.

Fears of a Rittevon

by ElspethElf

'I w-w-want an h-heir,' King Oron said through trembling lips, not for the first time that morning. He looked away from his bedroom window where ten veteran guards stationed below, vigilant – on his strict orders – against any suspicious activities.

'Did you hear me, Hazarin?' He demanded, raising a shaky finger. 'I said I – '

' – Want a heir from me, yes I heard, father.'

Prince Hazarin, the sole remaining son of King Oron's first marriage, sighed and closed his eyes. His heavy bulk slumped deep into the cushioned chair that protested against his weight. As an heir to the Rittevon throne, and as a man in his mid-forties, Hazarin was a sorry sight to behold.

His six feet one inch would have gained him advantage amongst the court had his height not impaired by his excessive flesh. With the sun shining against his body, his round face and equally round belly glowed with the glistening fat and flab that rippled with every movement.

'I dreamt the dream again last night,' the King began, his voice hoarse and shaken. 'A flock of crows soared above the castle, laughing and shrieking as they gauged on my dead body. Then, the whole court attended my funeral, smirking as they tossed my crown from hand to hand. I tried to see their faces, but they blurred…' The old Rittevon King drew a shuddering breath and sank into his bed.

'Really father,' Hazarin shook his big head cheerfully. 'You shut yourself in your room day and night without ever opening the window, you never eat unless you have every manservant test it for you. Its no wonder that you are having bad dreams when –'

'My dreams are what keeps me alive!' King Oron screamed, hammering his bony hands against the bed. 'And if you had any speck of intelligence in that dense head of yours, you would act your role instead of stuffing your fat mouth with food every second of the day. You would have had an heir by now to carry my line.'

Hazarin frowned, his big lips seeming to pout. 'Now that wasn't very nice father, about my size. I do try, you know I do.'

'With gods-cursed whores you consort with in the pleasure districts when you have a wife! Gods know even then you are still childless.'

'I'm sorry father.'

Hazarin lowered his eyes, shame-faced like Prince Dunevon caught in mischief. He sighed slowly with a pained expression before closing his eyes again. He could not understand his father's deep, paranoid fear of everyone and everything, nor his constant stabbing at him to produce an heir. In any case, he didn't want to be king. Not if it meant having to watch your back constantly, contemplating who was a friend, who conspired against you and who chanted deathspells behind your back. He didn't understand why King Oron could not make Rubinyan king, when it was clear that his brother-in-law was a much better ruler.

All Hazarin wanted was to enjoy his life, talk amongst good friends and die peacefully. He hated the secrecy, the petty game of spies against spies, the hushed-up conspiracies and alliances that changed far too quickly to keep track. To be king, he might as well sign his own death warrant.

'There are spies everywhere,' King Oron hissed as his clouded eyes rove suspiciously around the empty room. 'Spies, assassins, traitors… everywhere! They are all out there. Waiting for my blood, plotting for my death, rooting for every chance to kill me. What was that?'

King Oron's head spun towards the bedroom door as a loud thump sounded outside.

'Guards! Guards!' The King screamed, running to his bed for his sword. Prince Hazarin hurled himself off the chair with great effort.

The door opened, admitting two luarin guards fully equipped. 'Your Highness called?' one man asked.

'There was a noise!' The King shrieked, pointing his shaking fingers towards the open doorway. 'A thump! Like someone landing.'

'That would be my sword, Your Highness,' the same man spoke. 'I left it leaning against the wall when it fell. That must have been the sound – '

'You,' King Oron hissed, his eyes quite unstable. 'You spy against me. You did that on purpose.'

'I beg your pardon,' the guard said, alarmed. 'It was just my sword, Your Highness. I was guarding your door like you ordered.'

'You knocked your sword as a signal to other conspirators! You were signalling for them to kill me!' the King, the madness of his terror taking root, screamed at the guard. 'Take him away! Take him and lock him up for treason!'

'Your Highness, please,' the second guard spoke as three men-at-arms appeared by the King's call. 'Kmeej here speaks the truth. We have been in your service for over ten years. We would never dream of betraying you.'

'Take him as well!' The King raged, his mind quite beyond reasoning. He watched with beady eyes as the men-at-arms lead the unfortunate guards away: Kmeej pleading for him to reconsider as he went.

In the silence that followed, the old Rittevon King made his way to the bed where he sank down. Shaking, sword still in his hand, his head twitched in small spasms as he stared unseeingly into space.

'Father?' Hazarin ventured to ask, only to be met by silence much to his relief. Quietly he left the room, closing the door carefully after him. He would wait three days, enough for his father to calm down and forgot about the incident, and then he would order for the release of the poor luarin guards. Mithros knows, they can't afford to loose any more men just because the King thinks they are all after his blood.

But for now, Prince Hazarin thought as he patted his stomach. For now he was hungry, and he craved for his daily coconut curry.

At least father's visit is over, he thought.