Times were tough, and through reading deep tomes of how events had played out long before his birth, these droughts, these depressions, and these diseases plaguing the land would continue well after he was old. Antonio Carriedo was a humble man, living with his parents in an equally humble home. This home was large, but only large to accommodate the inn inside of it, the only inn in seven horizons. Many people came to stay within their walls, people of all sorts; travelers, huntsmen, noblemen, soldiers and if the conditions were right, royalty. Such conditions were predicted by the soothsayer by the well, preaching to anyone who would listen that a storm from God would rein down upon them so mightily that not only would the dried, parched crops be watered, but flooded.

Antonio and his parents feared the man and ignored his hallucinations. His mother said once as she dished out a watery soup to the small family that he was a scum to the streets and they'd all do best to stay away from him, for he might carry a disease or two. Their life was reticent, indeed. The inn also housed a tavern that his father worked in when the time was right, and he doubled as a chef, mainly cooking meats they could not afford themselves for the weary travelers. Unfortunately, his mother was falling ill to a fever and while she resided in bed, he took up the job as being the servant to the inn, washing the linens and putting them back on. He felt run ragged, yet, with all of the struggling his family had to do, he would do it all again no matter what. He was proud to be a Carriedo, and he could tell they were, too, although somehow it didn't shine as through as bright as he would have liked. He liked to think he carried their name through a battlefield with pride and honor.

He was a quiet young man. He was cunning and still slow for his age of seventeen, not knowing how to read properly and faltering on reciting the scientific method. He hadn't the time for tutoring or schooling. Antonio had his mother's hair, traveling down to his shoulders and often held back into a tail with a dulled white ribbon. It was brown, curled, and waved like an ivy bush. He shared his mother's eyes as well, a dark, rich green that shined with every new morning. His father sometimes felt ashamed to look at his son and see the wife he had failed, but saw past the resemblance of his dear love and saw a strong man he had helped raise and teach all these years. He worried if he fell ill, too, if he could handle it. He felt guilt.

Come one autumn evening when the soothsayer's prediction came true. A storm unlike any other shouted at their dwelling, howling like a wolf to a full moon in the dark. His father had gone to bed and Antonio had been tending to the bar, knowing someone would wander in for lodging and he'd be the one awake to do it. He hadn't slept very soundly in a week, and he'd be ashamed to admit that he wasn't as alert as he'd like to be. He was indolently polishing a flimsy bowl while a burly man at the bar dropped his share of coins and a very miniscule tip. He heard a wooden shutter clatter against the stone walls and sighed, digging deeper into his pouch.

"How much for a room, tonight?" He grumbled, and Antonio blinked at him, confused until the sky lit up outside and thundered. "Boy?"

"Forty-six silver," he told him, wiping his eyes with his forearm and blinking awake, taking the man's money when he counted it out and securing it in the box below the bar. He fetched an iron key from the rack below and a readied a pitcher of water, as with every guest he took. "I'll take your mule to the stable." He told him distractedly, and opened the room to the modest room, a darkly lit bedroom with a wide, soft bed and a leaky window, a candle lantern on an offset nightstand that held the bowl he'd put the pitcher in and lay out the Bible, just as such.

"What I wouldn't do for a maiden, too," the man muttered, and began to undress. Antonio wished him a goodnight, thinking nothing of his comments, and left to walk into the pouring rain to lead the distressed mule into the warm, dry stable.

It was numbingly wintry for the fall, the night was, and he regretted not bringing his cloak with him so he could shield his head from the rain. He muscles ached, his eyes burned, watered up, and brought on tears from the chapping wind. A tremor ran through his body and he patted the mule's broad neck before heading back out into the rain and back into the residence for some hard-earned sleep.

- o -

Many noblemen across the kingdom would agree that the promise of a fine life to each subject were corrupt. Yet, it didn't seem a problem to them. They did not have to pay the harsh taxes inflicted on the peasants dwelling in small villages and they could eat, laugh, make love, and be merry without a care in the world. The king was like this as well, only sitting at his throne with his lovely queen, kissing at the lips of the occasional mistress and making sure his sons were well.

Lovino was the oldest and deemed heir for the throne. He looked like his father, although not as well rounded and not as passionate for his methods of ruling the kingdom. He had his father's hazel eyes and his mother's hair, and it was always cut in a clean fashion to his Adam's apple, never knotted or dirty and frequently tied back with a single silk ribbon. Everyone knew what he looked like and he was seen as a public figure, known for his outspoken ways and his passion to defend every subject in the realm— and not just the ones that mattered. He detested lavish things but accepted them, anyway, was as close to God as his feet were to the ground, and often composed speeches on the spot at the dinner table, accusing his father of doing unjust tasks as his family ate their evening meal together. He was often ignored, but he knew it wouldn't be long before he would be able to say what was right.

One day, his mother and father entered his quarters, seeing his nose buried in a book no doubt written by previous kings or their ancestors. He looked up at them, confused by their presence and wordlessly turned back to his book.

"My son," his father began, smiling effortlessly at his obdurate heir. He loved that he interested himself in studies, but he should have been with a tutor practicing his languages. He sat in a chair, his fist supporting his temple, avoiding eye contact. "You are of a decent age, are you aware?"

"I'm almost twenty years old, yes." He mumbled, his voice absent from the conversation. His father cleared his throat and Lovino slid the ribbon that was once in his hair to mark his spot, staring at him for him to continue. "Plenty old to rule."

"You will rule in your own time." His father hummed, taking the hand of his beloved wife and leading her forward. "My son, you know I love your mother very much." His son's eyes widened, confused and a little afraid. He clutched his book and stood up from his crumpled position in the chair to face them.

"What is this, father?" Lovino demanded, setting his book aside. "What are you trying to say to me?"

"It has come time for you to marry," the king told him clearly, clasping his wife's hand. "We have called all eligible women of royalty from the surrounding kingdoms. They will be present on the anniversary of your birth… we have planned to have a ball in your honor, and there, you will chose a maiden to be yours."

His father winced and sighed when Lovino cried out in disbelief, unable to cope for a brief moment of what was to come. "I only have one night to chose?" He clarified, flabbergasted. "You expect me to chose a woman in one night to be my queen?!"

"Not exactly, my son." He calmed him, walking over and being stopped when he shot up his hand to halt him. "If you show a little interest in perhaps five, maybe four? We will have them stay with us and you may decide further. Please, give it a chance."

Lovino collapsed back onto the chair, his hands hiding his face. His mother tutted once she knew what he was doing. It was only clear to his father when an arching sob lifted from his chest and twisted its way out of Lovino's throat like a dull knife. The king began to say something, but his son screamed instead. "I do not wish to marry a maiden! I only wish to concentrate on ruling the kingdom, not lackluster tasks such as mingling with daft women!"

His mother gasped, nearly hiking her skirts to her knees to go over there and strike her son into reality but couldn't bring herself to. "Lovino Vargas!" She exclaimed, batting her husband away when he chided her to calm down. "If you think all women are daft, then I regret to inform you that half of the kingdom you wish to protect falls under that category!" The queen nearly cried, and found that she did in fact have the courage to hike her skirts up in her arms to storm over to her first born and rip his hands away from his face to make him look at her. "My child, your father did the same when he was younger than you. To rule, you must have a queen." She told him in a much smaller tone, caressing his face and wiping back his tears staining his cheeks. "That is tradition."

"But, Mother," he began. "What has our kingdom been like with tradition for the past decades?"

"It is tradition." She stressed. "We'll do best to follow it. When you are king and we are gone, then you may decide what to do with our heritage." Her son began to object again and she spoke over him, her voice commanding. "You will attend the ball on your birthday tomorrow and you will choose a handful of maidens. You don't have very many companions, maybe one will emerge."

"A woman companion," Lovino laughed half-heartedly.

"Do you mock your parents?" She demanded, and his smile faded just as quickly as his chambermaid turned away to make his bed. "Your father and I have been companions for twenty-five years. You'll do best not to mock your own kin, Lovino."

"And you'll do best not to detest your younger brother if we decide to make him the heir with your attitude." His father added. Lovino's face truly sank. "He is an eligible heir, as well."

"He's eleven years old!" Lovino cried out. "Have you ever witnessed a child at the throne so young? He has not the knowledge or skills I have acquired to rule a kingdom!"

His mother lightly tapped his face and walked away from him, huffing. "Then you'd best be on your highest behavior for the ladies who come tomorrow night. A servant will prepare you at dawn to take you to the tutor to revise your manners." As she spoke, she laced her arm through her husband's and left his room, her nose as wrinkled as her son's vile countenance.

Yes, Lovino felt he was fit to rule a kingdom, but he was not as avid to be responsible for the left hand of a woman for the rest of his life.

- o -

Antonio soon saw a strong-bodied horse in front of the inn on his way back, tied up to the wooden post to the right of the door. A signal that a new traveler needed a room. He looked wearily back to the stables and his shoulders sagged, a small sob escaped him, and he made his way back indoors to see a cloaked figure warming his hands by the fireplace, glancing his way when Antonio entered.

"Do you need a room?" He asked, his voice cracked, but always welcome. The hooded figure nodded, and glanced outside when a crack of thunder echoed through the building. "I'll take your horse to the stables." He comforted him, although his words had been stripped to bare emotion, only reassurance there instead of his usual passion.

"Your finest room," the hooded man spoke, his lips only visible from the cover of the cloak. A slender, white hand fetched a deep purple velvet pouch of coins from a dark brown leather satchel. Antonio's words halted in his mouth and he looked, breathless at him as all the gold spilled out from the pouch like a never-ending waterfall. He looked quickly to see gold and rich metal rings on his thin fingers.

"Are you a thief?" He asked silently, his hand dumbly finding the dagger under the counter. "We don't take kindly to thieves, sir, I only ask you to protect my family. We are very poor; you see, there is nothing of interest for you to take—"

"I'm no thief." He growled. "I am weary and I wish to stay here for as long as I please. Will this be enough?"

"P-Plenty." Antonio nodded quickly, shakily taking a couple coins and putting them in the hidden compartment, leaving the rest he did not need behind. The hooded figure cleared his throat when Antonio rose from behind the desk and imprudently stared at him, the key in his hand.

"You only took two coins." He murmured.

"The room is only a couple pieces of gold a night, sir; you have given me over fifty pieces." Antonio laughed nervously. He was stopped when he was only stared at by the mysterious figure. "It is too much. What will you buy food with? What will you use for at your leisure?" He asked plainly, staring back.

The man thought of this and placed them back in his velvet pouch, pulling the gold string tight and pocketing it again. "Lead me to my room, then," he mumbled, and Antonio did as such, pouring another pitcher of water while his guest gathered his belongings. He hesitated. Antonio requested what was the matter. "I left a bag on my horse."

"I will bring it to you," he offered, and the man nodded, leading him up the stairs and down the corridor to their well-kept room, one that they had reserved for the more noble guests or ones willing to pay the price. The didn't want a bad reputation for a shady inn, so they kept a few in well order with a wider, longer, softer bed with a fireplace and the richest linens, as well as a wide, beautiful carpet on the floor so their feet weren't to be too cold against the hard wood.

The man snorted as he set his belongings on the chest to use at his disposal and Antonio placed the pitcher of water on the white, polished china bowl (an heirloom from his mother's side) and stepped back. "May I get you anything else?" He asked, and the man hummed.

"My bag." He grumbled, as if it were obvious, and it was, Antonio would give himself that. He nodded, forcing a smile through his tired demeanor and set the key on the table by the door to do with what he willed.

Antonio trudged back down the stairs, through the inn, back outside, and retrieved the bag from the horse's back, fastened with beautiful detailed iron buckles and rich, polished leather straps. He took a small moment to admire them while he was pummeled with hard rain, and then took the bag back inside, up the stairs yet again, to deliver them to his guest. He stopped just outside the room and battled with himself, propelled by curiosity to look inside it, expecting to see jewels and chains of gold and sterling silver, but only seeing the spines of three books, a corked bottle, and something cloaked in fur moving very slightly. He heard footsteps from within and closed it immediately, knocking on the door and opening when he heard no response. "Your bag, sir—"

Antonio felt his breath escape him and catch once he saw the man's pale, thin back, not as thin as he was, but gangling and spider-like. His brown hair was pulled back with a wide, blue ribbon. He felt as if he was someone familiar but the thought left as quickly as it came, because the bag's handle was taken from him at a stunning pace, the man's piercing hazel eyes met his in a fierce glare, and he was shoved out of the room with unexpected force. Antonio fell, a sharp gasp leaving his throat as he looked up in time to see the wooden door slam in his face with just as much boisterous noise of the thunder that shook the inn seconds after.

The young, poor man raised himself to his feet and dusted himself off, quickly leaving in a flurry of thoughts to fetch the man's horse and bring it to the stables before he saw a darker side of his newest guest. He wished for a short moment that he could be at the Prince's ball tonight with a striking young woman than running back and forth out into the rain fulfilling some affluent wanderer's demands.