Shame Over Sorrow
Note: My entry for Yearly Esca's "Shifting Focus" prompt. The idea came from Radical-Rad 1986:
"You usually don't write Folken right? Him being introspective after waking up in Zaiback after the surgery? "
I experimented a bit with the style on this piece. I'm not sure how to describe it but it's different from my old stuff. I hope I did the idea some justice though!
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"You are not meant to be king."
The words echoed in his mind, endlessly repeated, leaving him no peace. He knew that the dragon had never opened his mouth to utter such words. No, the great jaw had been put to a more torturous purpose. But somehow, Folken Fanel was certain that the dragon had spoken these words to him.
For days, whenever he closed his eyes, he saw only the dragon's face, and that intense expression that he could never understand. At first, he had mistaken it for hate or anger. He was not so vain as to think that he, a human prince, had struck fear into the heart of so ancient and noble a beast. But there had been something else there that continued to plague him, even as he embarked on this strange new life.
One moment, he had been bleeding profusely, clutching his shoulder where the dragon had mangled him, resigned to an early death. And then, he was miraculously spared, and he somehow awakened, blinking into a nearly blinding light, his body laid out on an operating table, and a machine where once there had been flesh and blood.
Ruined by one monster only to become a monster of a different kind. He did not know who he was anymore.
He spent the next weeks trying to reconcile what he had to leave behind and who he had to become.
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He had failed in the succession ritual, and so broken a tradition upheld for generations, and disgraced his father's memory. There was still some hope for Goau's legacy to continue, but that burden was now passed to Van, a burden Folken would never have wished on his gentle brother.
This was hardly unprecedented. Others had failed before him, royal lines had been irrevocably broken, and new dynasties had emerged. He had studied his history; but none of this knowledge brought him any comfort. He had failed, and he would have to live with that shame.
But there was no going back. The dragon roamed free, and there were no rematches for the throne.
Besides, even with a mechanical arm, he no longer felt inclined to fulfill a destiny which, as the dragon had made perfectly clear, was never meant to be his.
He had survived, but he could never hope to return.
This had not been an easy decision to reach. His first instinct was to flee this cold, metal place, full of men in dark cloaks and a benevolent but suspicious stranger. He was grateful to the old man for saving his life, but he knew that such kindness came at a price. He would have to stay.
He told himself it was better this way. He finally admitted that he had always been averse to war and destruction, and everything that the ancient Fanelian customs represented. By failing to live up the expectations placed upon him, by disappearing into the shadows, he was finally free. Free to pursue a destiny of his choosing.
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But they would mourn for him. It broke his heart to think of his mother and brother, of Merle, of Balgus, of his people who had put their faith in him, and whom he had so deeply disappointed.
They would be happy and relieved to know he was alive, but he could not bear to return, not only a failure but also sporting a mechanical abomination. He would bring disgrace upon them all, and that would only hurt them even more. It was better this way.
Sorrow they could recover from in time. But the taint of shame would endure.
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Some words found carved on a stone where the prince was said to have fallen:
Where now the heir of Fanelia?
Gone, without a trace,
Never to return.
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Folken Fanel is dead.