Who Would Ever Want to be King?
"Revolutionaries wait
For my head on a silver plate,
Just a puppet on a lonely string."
-Coldplay
Boots tapped against the polished tile flooring, one after the other, rising in cadence. Lucas restrained himself from breaking out into a run, always maintaining one foot on the ground, but the tension in his shoulders and the furrow between his brows exposed his emotions to the world. The servants looked on from the corridors, slunk back into the dark corners of the eerily lit castle. News traveled fast among the staff despite the vast size of the walls around them, hidden passageways to avoid contact with the nobility enabled it to be so. Lucas himself had weaved through them in prior years at the encouragement of his elder brother, Arran. Arran. Always the risk taker, always the first to draw his sword should the opportunity present itself, always causing some sort of raucous in Kreonis, Tyriens, and even Vanir. But now, for three years, not a word of him, not even so much as a whisper of a brawny, handsome fellow with hair like blazing fire and eyes like thinning ice.
The crowd might as well have tied up the elder prince on the pyre with Marsali for both of the twins died that day.
Lucas' scowl deepened. Three long years he followed his parent's command, straightened his spine, drowned himself with work to comprehend the very beginnings of how to run a nation, and how to do it better than his father. Three long years he reconciled himself with the fact that King Myron had caused the death of two of his own children. The young prince's anger festered like an untreated wound, the infection spreading fast through his veins while bitter pus seeped from his lips. Lucas knew it would one day be his own bane, but he failed to stop feeding into it. He indulged in that anger, not as Arran once had. No, Lucas dared not draw his weapon on anyone, or truly speak his mind for he refused to wear his heart on his sleeve. It left him vulnerable, exposed the cracks in his carefully manicured façade. Instead, he watched and waited, taking his turns, moving his pieces, biding his time.
The tapping continued, and a door swung open.
A few ambassadors lurked around the king like starved wolves awaiting their scraps. Sooner or later, they'd tear Myron to pieces, and Lucas could not say he'd mourn his father. He'd loved him once, long ago, as a starry-eyed boy wishing to one day make the man sitting upon the throne proud. Never had he pictured himself sitting on that very cushion, that had always been promised to the elder Savos prince, and when Arran vanished, his parents dangled that role under his nose, their honeyed lips whispering promises into his vulnerable ears, and he foolishly bought into them. It seemed they were empty promises. Not even just out of reach, no. King Myron and Queen Nerissa ripped that bone completely out of his sight.
Lord Nikolaus of Tyriens had told him that morning.
"The Ambassadors called a vote," the little man had said, an intrigued smile toying at his lips. He raised his chalice to his mouth as though to conceal the expression with a sip of blood of the grape imported from some far off foreign land.
"And?" Lucas fiddled with his thumbs, his heart thumping against his ribcage. Blue eyes watched the man who had adored his brother and sister before the Trials, had even aided in their tutoring when they stayed in his family's estate. Arran and Marsali were practically that man's own children, he'd treated them as such anyways.
The smile slipped off of Nikolaus' features, a rare solemn and apologetic expression taking its place, "They've called to reinstate your brother as the heir. The vote passed, the king made it so."
Lucas drew himself out of the memory and honed his attention in on his father. Once a strong, proud, and handsome man – if the stories proved true – Myron Savos, the sixth of his name and king of all Draiocha, was now a mere shadow of that man. His stern features thinned until they coated his bones in a sheet of white parchment, his cheeks hollowed, and there was an odd glimmer in his eyes. Rumors flitted around the nation that the Witch Trials drove him to insanity: a mad king for a mad princess. And yet Lucas had watched as the ambassadors ripped his spine from him, vertebrae by vertebrae. The throne Myron had built for himself crumbled to ash and remnants floated in the air, the bitter taste serving as a reminder for all he'd lost and all that could've been.
Yet he'd dug his own grave, and sooner or later the people would force him to lie in it.
His father ripped his eyes from the Ambassadors, finding Lucas marching towards him. He waved the men off, and though they'd begun to scatter, the prince didn't wait. He raised a finger, his lips drawn back in a near snarl, "It was one mistake. I made one mistake." Lord Nikolaus paused, eyebrows disappearing beneath his mop of dark blond hair, and Lord Tristian watched with a certain smugness Lucas had no doubt his older brother would've punched right off his face. "You don't even know if Arran is alive. He abandoned the crown, abandoned his familyand yet you deem him a better candidate for the throne than me?" A cobalt flame consumed the prince's usually peaceful irises, and even his mother appeared taken aback by the sudden outburst.
Lord Florian of Yaeil opened his pompous mouth, his face flushed from his morning cup of wine, "Your Highness, I do believe –"
With a raise of his hand, the prince cut him off, "All due respect, Lord Duvet, I was not speaking to you," the light from the chandeliers hanging above them danced across Lucas' dark auburn curls, accentuating the red all the Savos children were famous for. Matched with the dark expression, his resemblance to his elder brother was unmistakable. Florian's mouth flopped shut with an indignant sigh for he'd learned not to challenge the temper of one Savos boy, he need not learn that lesson again. King Myron watched his son, his frailty barely concealed behind the crown. Skeletal fingers curled around the arms of his throne as though he attempted to absorb the strength of his ancestors, and his pale lips parted, some pitiful excuse formulating in his poisoned mind.
Yet before he could so much as utter a word, the click of the doorknob and the sudden bang of the doors colliding against the walls echoed through the chamber, followed soon after by a familiar deep voice that made Lucas stop cold. "Would someone like to explain to me what the fuck is going on?"
With a glance over his shoulder, the second prince's mouth dried and his jaw went slack. There, standing before him, was a man coated in dirt, his clothes hardly acceptable for court, and yet undoubtedly his older brother. The vibrant color of his hair had always been enough of a crown for Arran Savos, and even dressed as a commoner, he commanded the attention of the entire room. Soon enough, the news would spread like wildfire and their two remaining sisters would storm into the room. But until then, Lucas gawked. Arran's shoulders were tense, his fists curled at his side as he met their father's eyes for the first time in three years. A dense air settled around them as Nerissa and Myron's eldest child ripped open a haphazardly closed wound. He did not bow before the king, did not so much as dip his head in respect – any he had was lost in the fire that killed Marsali, or even before then when the order for their sister's arrest had been placed.
Myron hauled himself to his feet, taking a step forward to get a better glimpse at his son as his vision began to fail, "Arran?" he asked, and a muscle in the runaway prince's jaw clenched, "my son, is that truly you?" The king raised a hand out towards him and Arran recoiled.
"Don't you dare touch me," he spat, a hand extended to mark a barrier between them and blue eyes burning with a hatred far more intense than Lucas could ever imagine. The carefree, though sometimes aggressive, boy the court knew was gone, and they could not find so much of a trace of him in the man before them. A flicker of unmerited hurt passed over Myron's features and he glanced back at the Ambassadors, searching for some sort of support that this wasn't a mistake. He found it in Lord Tristian, the one Lucas had come to convince himself was the root of all of this. The Ambassador of Corrac gave the king a curt nod, and Arran intervened before any words could pass between them, "I'm here upon mother's demand, but I want to know why."
Color returned to Lucas' cheeks as he began to accustom himself with his brother's sudden appearance, "That makes two of us," he said, projecting his voice so that he would not be ignored. Arran's head swung around, eyes wide as they settled upon Lucas. His throat bobbed and the fire calmed, but the younger prince hardened and as it seemed their father was still at a loss for an explanation, he turned his accusations on his brother, "So, after three years without a word, mother calls and you just come running back?"
"Lucas…" The king tried to reprimand, but his opinion lost much of its weight with anyone and both sons ignored him entirely.
Arran's guard slipped back up and he forced a tone of nonchalance; however, the prince had never been skilled at concealing his emotions. Him and Marsali bore their emotions for the world to see and left the task of trickery to him and Lysandra, and it was a burden the two younger royals tried to bear for they did not have the same luxury of running from their problems. Lucas' callousness had caught his brother by surprise, but he seemed to quickly come to terms with it, one he may have expected but still stung, "It was that or be run through by her guards."
A bitter chuckle reverberated in the back of Lucas' throat, and his head twisted to the side, "By the gods, Arran, we both know that would never happen." Even if they tried, Arran's skill with the blade rivaled that of a Draiochan regiment. He was always the brawn to Lucas' brains, the first to demand combat while his younger brother strategized, allowed the country to consider him a malleable fool. Better to be underestimated than overestimated, he'd learned that lesson from his mother.
"Perhaps," Arran folded his hands in front of him, standing his ground.
"So, why then?"
"I was not quite in the mood to have her send capable men after me. Those two blubbering fools were enough to last a lifetime." A shadow passed across both prince's faces as they examined the other. Lucas, dressed in all of his finery, the perfect image of royalty, and Arran, his admirable sinew only exacerbated by the years away, forced to survive on his own. Two worthy opponents, the nation would say, each with their own personal method of combat.
It seemed the news had reached his sister's ears at last because the doors swung open once more, Lysandra's skirts swishing around her storming feet as her lady, and Tristian's wife, Guinevere, hurried to keep pace. Arran followed Lucas' gaze and the noise, turning around so the princess could lay her piercing eyes upon him for the first time in an eternity of sorrow she'd fallen into. A ragged gasp passed through her lips and she covered her mouth with her palm, staggering back in shock. Guinevere reached out to grab her in hopes of stabilizing her lady. "The rumors were true," Lysandra finally mustered, tears brimming in her azure irises, "You're really back, you're really alive…" She blinked furiously, her flaming hair whipping around as she turned to Lucas to affirm that she wasn't hallucinating.
Arran seemed to be in a similar place, his hands were no longer curled into fists, though his fingers shook just enough for Lucas to notice. For the first time, the younger prince realized that just as they all figured they'd never see Arran again, their brother had never anticipated facing them. "Lysa," he whispered, his shoulders slouched as their father's presence vanished from his cares.
A single tear trailed down the princess' cheeks, yet the promise of more spoke plainly across her pale face. She stumbled a few paces in his direction, diminishing the space between them to only a few feet rather than an entire room. Drinking up his features, Lysandra's attentions never broke from him. Then a crack ricocheted against the walls, and Arran's head jerked to the side, the blood rushing to just beneath his skin in the shape of a hand. The very same hand Lysandra still had raised. Arran touched the mark with the pads of his fingers and bowed his head slightly, "Okay, I deserved that –"
"You son of a bitch!" Lysandra screeched, all regal teachings of elegance tossed out the window. She placed her palms on his chest and shoved him back, deaf to Myron and Lucas' attempts to quell her. Arran stumbled at the sudden exertion of pressure with a defeated expression, not so much as trying to hold their sister back. Her tears flowered faster, turrets strong enough to wash away a village, "I thought you were dead! You let me believe it. Not a single letter from you, nothing to at least tell me you hadn't gone and gotten yourself killed, or even done it yourself." Arran had the decency to look ashamed, he couldn't even look her in the eyes as he took the verbal onslaught, and didn't bother to stop her as she'd begun to pound her fists against his chest. "I," she breathed between sobs, "hate you!"
The rest of the court present watched with wide eyes, some of the ambassadors making mental notes to avoid crossing the princess, and eventually Lysandra tired and clutched to Arran's shirt like it was her life force, like if she let go he'd vanish again and this time never return. Her face burrowed into his shoulder and Arran wrapped his arms around their sister. Something tugged in Lucas' gut, some childish desire to join in on the embrace, to feel the comforting grasp of the man he'd so admired years ago.
But under the circumstances, Arran's return tasted of betrayal, and try as he might to swallow it, and push it aside, it threatened to come back up. Lucas bit his lip. Formidable opponents they were, indeed, and perhaps the past three years had given the younger of the princes a slight edge over the other. Steeling his resolve, Lucas shifted his body back to the king who'd retreated back into the sanctuary of his throne as he watched two of his children. "Father," he said, addressing the king for the first time since Arran had rejected his touch. Myron tilted his head in Lucas' direction, balancing his chin on the top of his fist, and Lysandra untangled herself from their brother. Two pairs of Savos eyes latched on the man that created them, while the firstborn's were focused on Lucas himself. Yet he didn't allow himself to be deterred, "If you truly believe Arran to be better suited for the kingship, at least allow me the chance to prove you wrong." His stomach reeled, knowing full well what his next words condemned himself and his brother to do.
"And what do you propose, your highness?" Lord Tristian Doreau asked, his tone mocking while his attentions flickered between the prince and his wife, still standing by the door. His hauteur remained well concealed behind a thin veil of polite mannerisms, but private conversations and a former friendship exposed the inner workings of the ambassador's mind. Being the youngest to come into the position, the only other Tristian feared was Jon Cossa, if only for the rumors of murder that Myron blinded himself to. Jon of Illyria, the man anyone would be stupid to underestimate or consider themselves capable of defying. To everyone's relief, he had not made an appearance.
So, Lucas ignored the undertones of hostility and finally met Arran's eyes. A look of realization dawned on the older prince as he managed to decipher his brother's plans. His eyes widened, pleading, and his head shook just enough for Lucas to notice. But the one they called a puppet clapped his hands together, "Well, Lord Doreau, I figured a Selection would be customary, would it not?"
King Myron leaned forward in his throne, "You mean to go against the ambassadors' rulings, challenge your brother to the throne, and initiate a Selection?" The noblemen shot looks between them, some like Tristian and Kerys Rouai of Astaveron who did not bother hiding their dislike for the second Savos prince frowned in blatant opposition, where others like Florian and Lord Philippe Levasseur of Liraces, men with flairs for extravagance and the dramatic, seemed giddy at the prospect of the first Selection in numerous years. Queen Nerissa, after all, had been a political alliance given Myron had no brothers. Then, there was Nikolaus. The clever little man's expression remained ever so unreadable, though the prince knew better than to doubt something brewed beneath the surface.
Feeling a surge of confidence, Lucas rolled his eyes, "Yes, your majesty, that is indeed what I said."
Myron scrutinized his two sons before falling back into a more relaxed position, "Very well, I accept your proposition," he waved a hand at one of the servants, "Send news to the cities at once. The Selection will commence as soon as possible."
Later that night, Arran indulged himself in a chalice of a rather copious amount of alcohol, the queen of Draiocha unable to tear her eyes from her missing son. Irritation ticked at the corners of the prince's lips and Nerissa knew it to be a sign of a storm brewing within the boy. "He thinks I want the throne, believes me to be undermining him for something I renounced years ago," he raised his eyes to his mother, "Why did you have to call me back. I have no desire to be king, you know that. Lucas knew that but now he despises me, considers me an enemy." Tipping back the cup, he washed down the hurt, letting the wine settle in his stomach and blur the emotions swimming inside of him at a volume where they drew dangerously close to drowning his organs.
"Myron demanded it," she said, reaching out to place her hand over his, relishing in the feeling of her firstborn son's skin. The last time she'd spoken with him, she, like him, assumed it to be the last. Their plan was to hide Marsali and Arran away until the world forgot about them and they could sneak onto a ship and travel to some foreign country, "My options were limited, it was either send some men to retrieve you discretely, or he'd send out the army in search for you, and it would only be a matter of time before the men pieced together where you and your sister had been hiding. You know just as well as I what would happen if they found Marsali. There would be nothing we could do to protect her."
He chuckled humorlessly, bowing his head as though he found the grains of the wooden table captivating. "He'd have her burned. No bag to fool the world this time, and I do believe I'd get a lashing for concealing her at best."
Nerissa winced, her contempt for her husband growing by the second. A foolish girl she'd been all those years ago, falling underneath his charm. Myron as a young man was just as much of a witch as their daughter, his confidence standing firm, but years of paranoia wore him down. The demands of his people settling into a weight he could not bear and left him vulnerable to the whims of the ambassadors. Their corruption seeped into his marrow and took the reins. The king of Draiocha now ruled by the pressures of the court, not for what would best benefit the nation as a whole. Her heart twisting in her chest, Nerissa poured herself some wine, "What of her now?"
Arran scratched the back of his neck, "I went into town before we left, bought her one of those wigs that older women with their thinning hair believe they need. To hide the red, it tends to give everything a way, doesn't it?" his mother chuckled, knowing the curse of her family's hair quite well, and the prince continued, a small shadow of a smile toying on his face, "She made up a pseudonym – Maeve – and is currently staying in the outskirts of Kreonis. She knows to stay hidden, only come in sight when absolutely necessary. People won't remember her face well, but with they might with the hair."
The amusement washed away, replaced with a somberness the Savos family had become far too well acquainted with, "She misses everyone, dreadfully," his hand wrapped around the handle of the pitcher and he poured a generous amount of wine into his cup, his face scrunched up and his head shook, "Despises the thought that everyone thinks her dead. But what can she do?" He tipped it back, letting the bitter liquid slip down his throat, silence hovering over them as he swallowed. His blue eyes shifted out of focus as he fell back into the memories of the past three years, "If she surfaces, King Myron will kill her, and any new person knowing about her heightens her risk of discovery. It's a miserable existence, mother, one where you're dead to the world but news of your survival would only bring more heartache. Living with that nearly killed the both of us."
Nerissa swirled her remaining wine around in the cup, busying herself with some other motion to prevent her mind from dwelling on the suffering her husband forced upon her children. Off in his own little world, Arran said nothing else for several minutes, and even under the influence of several cups of alcohol, the tension in his shoulders never quite faded. It gave the queen the opportunity to reacquaint herself with her son as she'd tried to focus on his words rather than his features. Thankfully, he had no new visible scars, nothing to show a threat to his life, even if he still bore the mark along his right cheek. But scars were not always on the surface. The energetic, troublesome glimmer in his eyes that shone like a mine rich with aquamarine had all but vanished, they'd hardened into glaciers, strengthened and sharpened by the horrors of the world. Staring into them sent a shiver down her spine for glaciers were a rather inhospitable environment. Of course, the changes in him were not all bad. After a bath, Nerissa learned that the years had been kind to Arran's features. He'd filled out his tall, lanky form and had grown into his nose. She'd always known him to be a handsome boy, before the Witch Trials, Marsali had teased him for constantly needing to swat away skirts. She smiled softly, reaching out to tuck one of his curls behind his ear, and in the process drawing him from the recesses of his mind.
His brows furrowed and he tilted his head to the side, voicing the question that plagued his mind since the moment he stepped out of Frieth, "Why reject Lucas as the heir now? What happened?"
Nerissa shifted in her seat, gathering up her hair and draping it all over one shoulder, "The official story, and the one Myron insists on telling me is that Lucas did not quite demonstrate the courage and aptitude for the kingship. Too soft hearted, they all said." The irony of it all left Arran scoffing, but he continued following his mother's story, "Of course, then there was the fact that Lord Tristian found Lucas and his wife, Lady Guinevere, together. No one aside from Lucas, Lady Guinevere, and Lord Tristian knows precisely what happened, and of course, Lord Tristian's ideal world would be one without Lucas in it, and Lady Guinevere refuses to speak of the matter, so the only person that truly holds weight with is your father. But of course, that's all that matters, isn't it?"
Further confusion deepened the lines between the prince's eyes, "Wait, but weren't Lucas and Tristian inseparable as children? Why the sudden change of heart?"
The queen shrugged and pushed herself to her feet, "I couldn't tell you, but don't worry your pretty little head about it, alright?" Arran followed suit and embraced his mother, the smell of oranges lingering around her soothing him like nothing else could, "I've missed you so much, my son. Now, go get some rest. It seems your days as an unmarried man are numbered. Preparations for the Selection are to commence immediately."
Aaaaand there we go! Chapter 2! To be clear, there was a time jump. I didn't feel like talking about the journey from Frieth to Kreonis, figured that would be boring. I also apologize for any typos, I may go in and fix them later, but for now this is what we've got.
For those of you who don't know, on my profile I have a story trailer that I made posted, so please feel free to take a look at that if you wish! I'm quite happy with how it came out.
Now lastly, I'm gonna keep this AN brief, now that my exams are over, I will ask for those of you who haven't finished up your characters to do so relatively quickly so I can get this story going.
Thanks so much, I hope you enjoyed!
-Hailey
