It is said in ancient folklore that every creature bestowed with power and purpose is not born like a normal being. They are not birthed simply from a womb; they arise from their true element, bequeathed to those who deserve such a gift.
A special child came to a Prince during the month of Shade, which was the country's fourth godly month. The prince, a younger man who had just begun his life of duty, came to find one day, after retiring to his chamber for the night, a little baby nestled on his pillow. The window was wide open, the doors blown off the hinges, as though by some unyielding gale. It was his only hint as to the origin of the babe's presence.
The prince was filled with deep charm and love for the little one almost instantly. It was hard not be charmed by the little boy, actually; his round-cheeked giggle was heart-melting.
He was a paternal man to his very core. He, who had lost his love to plague, could only see a potential son and feel only glee.
The little boy had eyes as blue as the sky, and as watery as they were, he did not cry. He merely gazed into the prince's, as though he recognized him from some past life. It was a strange thing, to have his gaze rest on him. It brought no fear; quite the opposite, it was quite adorable to have him smile in the innocent way he could manage. The prince, obviously seeing this as a sign from the Gods, adopted him as his son without a moment's notice.
The boy would be known as the Heir.
The child of wonder, with eyes opened wide, was the star of kingdom quickly. Even the Queen found favor in him, for the short time that she saw him. Once his powers were deemed worthy of the throne, she forbade his presence. This was not uncommon in their culture. Queens were worshipped just as the Gods were, and if she ordered that she not see her son or grandson, it was to be so. It pained the prince on a deep level that was masked by his greater love for the blue-eyed Heir. It was as if he had a face of blankness when referring to the Queen, and his discontent with her cowardice was plain. The Heir was just a boy, after all. What harm could he cause?
Anyways, back to the boy. Yes, the boy was quiet, like a gentle breeze, and his father cherished him more than he cherished his Gods… which, in hindsight, was his ruination.
But that will come in time.
As one has already guessed, what one is witnessing is the classic hierarchy of royalty, as petty as such a thing is. Just as there was a family of royalty, richly blue as the rare strip of sky, there was its brother family. While the royalty were more scholars and intellectuals, the brother family was a collection of warriors whose banner was a brilliant, passionate ruby. They trained to defend the people, and, most importantly, the royalty, and did so with a skill unparalleled in any other nation.
The leader of this family, whose name really doesn't matter, would come to discover his own son during the month of Heat and Snow- the final month of the godly year. As he sat, contemplating the workings of a sonnet the prince had given him, a terrible shriek erupted from the hearth along with a tower of flame. There was a hiccup, and then a loud, heart-wrenching sob that echoed in the air. When this nameless leader investigated, he found (to very much his surprise) that a baby lay among the embers, seemingly unharmed despite the scorching heat. It was as if the child was born like a phoenix from the fire, with eyes as red as the twilight sun.
And oh, how the boy wailed. It was like he was witnessing Hell through those eyes. He howled in terror and agony on a daily basis, and no amount of coddling and calming music could soothe him. Doctors examined him, sacrifices were made on his behalf, and even the prince took a close look at the poor thing. Nothing was wrong, and yet nothing worked to ease his suffering. Eventually, the leader grew weary and annoyed at the child instead of piteous, denounced him as a son for fear of shame, and called him his brother instead. He was not educated in the ways of affection as the Heir's father; in fact, in his eyes, such affection was pathetic and unwise. However, as he was the prince's guard, his brother would become the Heir's. He, the servant and guard to the Heir, would be his Knight.
From the very beginning, the two boys kindled a strong bond. The moment they were introduced as infants, the Heir toddled over to the Knight and sat next to him, pulling and playing with his tiny tunic as he wailed and squirmed. Without any warning, the Heir clumsily hit him, mumbling infant talk. It was then that the Knight, after two years, finally stopped crying. It simply faded, leaving the blonde to stare at the other in puzzlement.
Suddenly, to the father and leader's delight, they giggled and wrestled, clinging to the other when they grew too weary. Their relationship, despite concern, was not merely servant and master. Their relationship was of brothers, ones that would rather die than harm the other. Having no other names, they referred to each other as "Heir" and "Knight", and in their eyes, it was quite all right.
Ironically, as time passed and the two grew, their personalities were swapped. The Heir became animated and loud, smiling like a hound in the midst of play, while the Knight became almost sobering in personality, calm and collected in nature.
Never, however, in the Knight's many days did he show any sign of discontent around his prince. If anything, the Heir was his second god, whom he looked up to with all his adoration- or rather, down, being that he was a tad taller than the other. In the hour where witches crawl on all fours, he would steal away from his room on the farther side of the castle to see the Heir, deliberately disobeying his brother. Into his room he would creep, and then into his bed he would crawl, curling up next to the other for warmth until the blue-eyed prince awoke to greet him. The Knight loathed waking him from his dreams; they were very dear to his prince, he knew, and he could never bring himself to ruin the serenity that dwelled on his face.
On one particular night, when both boys were on the cusp of adolescence, the Knight dashed to the Heir's room, long legs giving his steps a soft, flight-like pace. That night was the eve of the Heir's birthday- and, as per tradition, that very next day, the gods would grace him with a new name. The Knight craved the chance to be the first to hear the Heir whisper his name. Therefore, like he had so many years previous, he snuck into the Heir's room, disregarding the loud creak of the oak wood door.
The Heir was still awake, writing swiftly in a small, black book, the shadows under his eyes stating he'd been awake all that night. Upon hearing his door open, his head snapped up, round, blue eyes widening with alarm. However, upon seeing it was merely his crib mate, he smiled gleefully, placing his book away.
"Evening," He greeted, voice a tad hoarse and drifting from lack of sleep. "I think it's much too late for you to be here, boy. " His smile was mischievous, eyes twinkling with boyish mirth.
The Knight rolled his eyes, the corners of his lips curling a tad. "Your name will be bestowed to you tomorrow; how can I not wish to see such jubilant occasion? Enough teasing, friend, or that gambit of yours will be punished," he chastised, also having a lighthearted tone to his voice.
"By who- you?" The Heir retorted, brow rising.
"Absolutely." The Knight leapt onto the other's bed, causing them both to bounce and collide with each other. Both let out a groan of pain, the Knight clutching his head and the Heir holding his jaw. After a moment, however, they burst into a fit of giggles. "Ah, forgive me, my friend. I shouldn't hurt you as a birthday gift. In fact, I will make it up by delivering you a present twice the girth of the one I hunted-"
"No, no. Don't bother, Knight. I don't believe I can survive another one of your 'pets'," He interrupted quickly. Though he treated each gift with the respect it deserved, he couldn't help but feel uneasy at the thought of another stuffed kill.
They fall into a small quiet, the Heir using the Knight's back as a pillow. "…Tomorrow, my name will be known to all… It causes me to tremble with anticipation…" He lifts his head, the Knight turning to listen. "…What… what if my name is foolish, like 'Figglewort'? Or even 'Habersnapper'!?" He sighed, obvious, honest worry gracing his features. Only around the Knight did these concerns grow so plain, for his life required an almost statuesque façade of cheeriness.
Cupping his jaw with both hands, the Knight leaned forward, forehead pressing against the other's. "I swear, you will have a name so splendid, all the land and sea will speak of it in song."
The blue-eyed prince hummed, smiling thankfully up at the other. "Gods, I give thanks for this level headed boy to guide me," he mumbled, laying his head upon the Knight's shoulder. "…What say you, my Knight? What would you name me?"
The Knight flushed light pink, nuzzling the Heir's thick locks. "Oh Gods, do not question me with such things. I'm definitely not gifted with intelligence, Heir. Besides, I am merely your vassal. My word means nothing to you, save for the ones I give in the face of war."
Appalled by his out-of-character speech, the Heir scoffed, frowning. "You are a liar! Hold your silvery tongue, for I am the only one who speaks true here- your presence is not merely one for the sake of my security. You are my brother, whom has loved me more than any other." His eyes softened, orange undertones from the candlelight giving the color a deeper shade. "Hear me now, or forever be deaf- tomorrow, my life is to rest in your hands, just as I have yours resting close to my soul. Promise me I will never hear such blasphemy from you again."
The Knight sighed softly, head tilting to look away from the other. He felt utterly moved by the other's declaration; however, at the same time, he felt a sense of sadness. He knew his place, for it had been burned into his mind countless times. He was merely the sword that did the royal's bidding- nothing more, nothing less. He loathed lying to the Heir, but he simply could not bear to tell the other the truth about their society yet. "Yes…" He trailed off. "I do so solemnly swear." In a sudden burst, he smirked. "Besides, I jest. How could I not see myself as your equal? In fact, perhaps 'equal' should be saved for when your height is equal to mine, eh?" He teased, shoving the Heir playfully.
The Heir responded in kind to him, tackling him and attempting to pin the other until both were too exhausted to move another inch. Faces flushed and sleep weighing heavy on their bodies, they grasped the other's hands as a silent oath boys tend to make. By the time the candle expired, both boys were sound asleep, hands still loosely clasped.
Morning peeked quickly, thankfully. Birds began to sing praise of the importance of the day, and the preparations for that night began as quickly as the servants could awaken.
As the Heir awoke, it was to the sound of the Knight's steady, gentle breathing, chirping, and a soft ringing in his ears. As he sat up, disturbing the other boy in his sleep in process, he contemplated the importance of the day with an odd sense that one gets when one dreams. The out-of-body emotion that renders the human numb, though the sense is a comfortable one, it pulsed inside him, reminding him that today, he had a name.
Yet… he could not recall it. Not yet. He pondered this conundrum, a deep set frown upon his face.
"Heir…do you know your name yet?" came a grumble from the pillow.
"…No."
"Hm. Well then… fuck."
"Aye. Well put."
Just then, the door creaked open, and in came the Heir's father, grinning dazzlingly and balancing a small cake on a silver tray in his palm. "I am assuming that the swear came from the one still asleep…?" He smirked good-naturedly, eyes resting on the twisted form that was the Knight. "I cannot recall allowing you a slumber party, sir."
The Heir's face flushed deeply, head turning downward in submission. "Th-The blame rests on me, my lord…" he murmured.
His hair was lightly tousled. "My boy, I do not condemn you for sneaking the Knight in here. I envy you for having such familiarity with him," He stated, taking a seat on the bed. "Wake, boy," he added, nudging the blonde.
The Knight, grumbling lowly, did raise from the mattress, hair a tousled, white-blonde mess and a pout set firmly on his lips. "Your father is a cruel man."
Ignoring him, the Heir's father offered his son the cake. "For you, son. I made it with my own hands," He declared, chest puffing out slightly with pride in his skills.
The Heir, however, was not impressed in the slightest. In fact, he groaned in displeasure. "Father, you know I hate sweets. You and the Queen eat it like they were your only sustenance, but I can't stand the taste it leaves on the tongue…" He frowned. "The bile-inducing aftertaste reminds me of… displeasuring things."
The Knight's grumpy expression softened into a confused, slightly worried one. "…Heir? Are you alright? Does something bother you?"
He received a gentle curve of lips. "Just upset that I'm not allowed to see my own Queen, once again-"
His father cleared his throat. "Enough of that, none of that. This is not a moment to bring past things up." He interceded quickly, standing with the same speed. "Boy, this will be placed on your table later. I expect you to eat at least a slice of it…If only to please me, would you?" He looked like he was both desperate and weary, and it wasn't even the afternoon.
"He will, my lord," The Knight answered, hand settling on the Heir's back. "…My young lord, I think it's best you begin your preparations for the festival today, yes?" He said in a low voice.
The Heir's smile suddenly grew three times its size, his darker thoughts abandoned. "Oh, absolutely! The one thing I love more than you is parties, dearest friend!" He teased, his grin practically glowing with mischief. His father's eyebrows rose high into his brow.
The Knight made several, rather strange choking sounds, his fist clenching the Heir's nightgown. Though they teased each other brutally in such a way constantly, it was very improper in the face of the Heir's father. "Forgive me, my lord, I have no idea why he said that. I'll hurry him along, don't worry," He stated in a rushed tone, rising from the bed only to bow. "Forgive me."
The king-to-be made a low, humming sound in the back of his throat. "…Alright then. See to that. Wouldn't want my boy to be late to his own party, now would he?" He turned on his heel, making his way to the door as though he'd been presented with strange, unsettling news. As he walked through the portal leading to the rest of the castle, he inclined his head to look at the boys. "…Please exercise proper behavior. We wouldn't want the Queen punishing us all, would we?"
The Knight nodded, though the Heir seemed befuddled. What did he mean by that? What was wrong with a little fun?
Without another word, his father left, and the Knight, his posture relaxing, went to quick work getting the Heir up, washed, face prepared, and clothed. He did so with practiced precision, having taken the place of all his other personal servants due to his lord's discomfort with anyone seeing him so literally naked.
It was at least half an hour later, however, that the Heir inquired about his father's strange words. "…There is…a certain social order in the world outside this room, friend," the Knight stated flatly, brushing the gentle curls of his companion's hair. "Two boys being so close is very… Unorthodox. It's best you don't really know the details of it yet, I think. But your father was merely stating that the way we behave around each other would not bode well with the queen."
"Well, damn what she says! If she wants to govern my relationships, she can tell me that herself instead of these hush-hush references to her. I'm tired of my actions being guided by an old woman I've never seen before."
"…Such words, said by any other, warrants death, Heir."
"…And will you kill me, then?"
The Knight's hands flinched. After a small pause, he shook his head, releasing the Heir. "You look pleasant, my lord," He complimented, voice displaying obvious nerves.
The Heir grinned, eyes holding a forgiving light. Even with such a tense morning, all was forgiven in his eyes.
The Knight, despite his seemingly low intelligence, did have an artistic quality that aided the Heir greatly when clothes were involved. Today, he wore his finest; a silk tunic, color as blue as his eyes, with silver thread woven around the sleeves and ends to resemble to wind from which he was born. Underneath, he wore a white wool turtleneck to hide improper body lines, and white leggings underneath. The sleeves to his undergarments reached far past the ones of his tunic, stopping at a slope to show his hands, which were adorned with white leather gloves. On his feet were slippers of the same blue, silver thread and jewels embedded into it, the toes slightly curved in a somewhat ridiculous manner. It was a very ridiculous outfit, in actuality. His was a tamed, curly mess, his bangs pushed back and held back by a silver circlet.
"Ah, but wait…the final touch," The Knight declared, procuring the Heir's most prized possession from his pocket- the Heir's spectacles. Without them, anything more than ten meters away from the royal boy was completely blurry. "Very fine, Heir." The blonde bowed, smirking a tad. "Now everyone can see your squishy face."
The Heir's so-called "squishy" face lit up with embarrassment. It was true- just as he'd been thirteen years ago, his pale face had roundness to it that the Knight lacked. While the Knight had high cheekbones and a thinner jaw, the Heir's was more of an oval. His father assured him he would grow out of it, and the boy counted down the days until that occurred.
"Just go and get changed, you harpy," he snapped, a definite pout set on his lips. "You tease too much." And no sooner had he said that did he realize the irony in it.
The Knight caught it as well, and it brought forth a snort from him. "And thus the pot calls the kettle black, eh? Fine." He let out a huff of air, nudging the other on his way out. "Fine. I'll be going, then. Big Brother is probably worried sick about me. I'll see you at the fair. Try not to-"
"-Fall down the stairs, yes, I know." The Heir smirked. "You say that every time you leave me, yet you seem to fail to practice what you preach." Such words came in reference to the Knight's notorious clumsiness, naturally; as a boy, he'd fallen down different sets of stairs so many times it was a wonder he hadn't killed himself early on. Perhaps luck was to blame. Or, rather, the lack of unluckiness, considering having luck is generally the sign of oncoming doom.
"…Yes. That," The Knight agreed, his own face growing a little pink. "…Don't come to me unless you have a name, twit."
The Heir merely grinned toothily. The Knight, eyes rolling for the umpteenth time, quietly shut the door.
A few minutes passed with the Heir merely standing in front of his tall mirror, examining his form with a sense of curiosity. So, this was the Second Heir to the throne…? He hardly seemed like much. He barely even knew how to use magic. He was short, a tad flabby, and even a bit dopey. It was forced upon him that the Knight was of lower intelligence, but he had underlying doubts of that. The boy seemed inexplicably bright; even more so in comparison to the Heir. He hated that the other had such an impression. Social class forced him to belittle himself in favor of the Heir's own self-esteem, but all it did was leave a sour taste in his mouth.
He'd always wondered about the Knight. He was mildly aware of his lies, harmless as they were at times. He never asked about his relationship with his guardian. However, he did ask about the occasional limp that the Knight had, the small bruises he had on his face and body on a weekly basis. "Training sores", he called them. He always assumed he spoke the truth about that. They were merely bruises from righteous training. However, the Heir began to suspect that story wasn't entirely told. He never answered how he received them.
The Heir felt a sense of duty to the Knight, as previously established. Though the Knight was worried for the Heir's physical being, the Heir worried for the Knight's mental. As kind as he was, as playful and clever, the prince couldn't help but feel as though that was the mask he was given, and he was choosing to wear it dutifully. He began to ponder the possibility of his real face ever showing, and then the possibility of the face he's seen being that real one.
He sighed deeply, shaking his head as he moved away from the mirror. Gods, if began thinking too deeply about such things, he would have to fake his glee. And, naturally, the Knight would see right through him with his intense, red gaze…
Blast. Once again, his mind drifted. Enough, he thought to himself. Enough of this pondering about your friend. This is your day, Heir. You deserve to be as selfish as a court member's daughter.
He giggled softly, sighing again with a much lighter emotion. He was merely lonesome. He did always become thoughtful when he was lonesome…
He stood by his door, alone in his bedroom, ready to take his leave. As he did, it finally dawned on him that today, as it so happened, was his birthday. And as it so happened, today, he would finally have his own name. He was intrigued- what would his name be? Something silly, like Barfsmelcht? No, no. Much too silly.
As he stood alone, in the quiet of his room, a gentle breeze came through his always-open window. Somehow, on that gentle breeze, his name came with it.
With a tearful, joyous expression, he realized his name.
Zillyhoo- the Warrior God of the Winds.
Oh, how utterly fitting.
