Chapter 3: A Father's Scorn

"Sir!" a Bern soldier yelled, racing in to Desmond's throne room, clearly out of breath. "A report from the south guard."

"Can't you see I'm busy?" Desmond barked, not looking up from the papers he had laid out in front of him. "Whatever the problem is, take care of it yourself."

"But, sir. It's Zephiel. He's headed here at this very moment." Without another word, Desmond jumped up and ran out to meet his son as quickly as he could, not waiting to hear all that the soldier had to say. It wasn't until he had stepped outside and begun to survey the horizon that he allowed himself to catch his breath.

"Where?" he said to no one in particular. "Where is Zephiel?" There was only one way into the castle on foot, yet Desmond could see no one approaching the castle, let alone his son. After only a few minutes of waiting, he barged back inside.

"Sir!" another soldier said. "Prince Zephiel has arrived has asked for an audience with you."

"What? Where is he?"

"In the courtyard, milord."

"How?"

"On a Wyvern, sir. How else would he get there? Surely not on foot. After all, Bern is surrounded…"

Desmond couldn't believe it. He hadn't even begun training to ride a Wyvern until he was twice Zephiel's age. It took him him two and a half years to stay on for more than a few minutes, and another four years to finally master it. His instructors always told him that he was progressing incredibly fast.

"You're at the top of your age group, milord!" they would say. "You're even better than some Wyvern Lords. You're sure to become the greatest Wyvern rider in the history of Bern."

Was it all a lie? Desmond wondered. Did they just tell me what I wanted to hear simply because I was the prince?

"King Desmond?" the soldier said. "Are you alright, sir?"

"Return to the courtyard," Desmond said as he walked back to his throne room.

"And do what, sir?"

"Tell Zephiel that I do not wish to see him."

"And what should I say if he asks why?"

"Tell him I'm busy."

"With what, sir?"

"Make something up. Just get him to leave."

"And Guinevere?" That one name caused Desmond to stop dead in his tracks.

"What about her?"

"She's in the courtyard with Zephiel."

"How long?"

"They've been talking since he showed up."

"What!?" Desmond yelled, quickly closing the gap between himself and the soldier before hurling him against a wall. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the soldier said, clearly out of breath. "I didn't know you would be so bothered by it. I'm only telling you because she wished for me to ask that you give Zephiel an audience."

Why would she make such a request? Or is it Zephiel trying to manipulate her?

"S–sir?" the soldier stammered. "Do you still want me to tell Zephiel to leave?" Desmond's eyes narrowed on the Bern soldier who couldn't have been more than twenty years old, the same age Desmond was when he took over as the King of Bern.

"No," he said in a flat tone. "I will talk to him." Then he will never think to come here ever again.

"So where's my present?" Guinevere asked, pulling on Zephiel's arm. "Huh? Come on, where is it? Did you hide it somewhere on your wyvern?

"I would have brought it," Zephiel said, "but it would have been difficult to do so on my wyvern. Just wait a little bit longer, okay?"

"Aw."

"Don't worry," Zephiel said, playfully messing up Guinevere's hair. "I promise I'll bring it next time I come to see you."

"But I don't know when that will be. And why do you have to leave at all? And where is Mother? Why did she not come with you as well? And why are you two not staying here anymore?" It was at that moment Desmond showed up, much to Zephiel's relief.

Still, the young prince though to himself, I would like to know the answers to those questions as well.

"My soldiers tell me you asked to have an audience with me," Desmond said.

"Yes."

"Guinevere," Desmond said, turning his attention to his daughter.

"Yes, father?" she said meekly, partially hiding behind Zephiel's wyvern.

"Go inside and wait for me to finish conversing with Zephiel."

"But…I want to stay here with him."

"Go on, Guinevere," Zephiel said.

"What? But why?" Zephiel looked at Desmond, then back at Guinevere, wondering how it was that his excuse of a family could possibly be put together.

"Don't worry," Zephiel said, gently grabbing Guinevere's arms and kneeling down so that he was eye level with his sister. "You and I will see each other again soon. I don't know when that will be, but I promise it will happen. Just don't lose faith in me, alright? Can you do that for me?"

"Ok," Guinevere said wiping her eyes. She went inside the castle with four soldiers quickly huddling around her as if they were all attached at the hip.

"Well then?" Desmond asked after Guinevere was out of earshot. "What is it? What is so important that you felt the need to disturb me, hm?"

"I wanted to ask you to allow me and mother back into the castle so that we may all be a family."

"You? And that wretched woman? In my castle? Forget it! I'd sooner have Bern go to war with all of Lycia. I could care less what becomes of either or that woman you call your mother."

He doesn't mean it, Zephiel told himself.

"And if I ever see you around my daughter, it will be the last thing you ever do."

Why would he? He's just stressed, and he's taking it out on me. That's all. I know he cares for me. He just isn't sure how to show it.

"Now get out of my sight and never return here."

I will convince him to change his mind about mother and me if it's the last thing I do. He will accept us. I just know it.

"Do I make myself clear?"

"Of course. Please tell Guinevere to stay safe." Without another word from either, Zephiel got on his wyvern and headed back to the manse.