Author's Note: So to my own surprise, here is chapter five! I am happy to say I completed its edition faster than I anticipated. I hope you all enjoy this installment. The plot is moving forward for all our players!

A big thanks to MrsTolan for another wonderful review! Thank you for always sharing your feedback and thoughts. I appreciate them. Haha, I am honored to be your 'fanfiction angel'. :) And I am happy to hear you are back home safely. Continue to rest!

Disclaimer: The Slayers © Hajime Kanzaka, Funimation, and J.C. Staff. Any original characters belong to me.


Troubled Waters

Chapter 5

Divided

The opportunity was a feast in his hands.

The hallway was silent. Everyone retired for the evening. Accompanied by Phil, Lina and Gourry were under arrest by the urgency of the letters. And as far as Zelgadis knew, Vonzelle went to her rooms. Or anywhere else a lady of her age and status would go in the early hours of the moon's domain. Which guaranteed Amelia's time was not occupied and that he could ask for her aid in a private setting.

Revealing the chest's contents may have been a formidable dead-end, but it was one worth taking. He had nothing to lose. If there was nothing to benefit his quest for a cure, nothing would change. But if there was something inside… He couldn't rouse himself over the prospect too much. Over the years, he numbed himself to the blow of letdowns. Any internal analyzation would only bring noxious pain. He only hoped Amelia's own excitement would not ignite his sleeping yearning.

With a deep breath, Zelgadis stopped before her door. Flickering candlelight peeked its way through the door's bottom gap. She was awake. His curled hand raised inches away from the door. He hesitated.

Here goes nothing.

He gave a solid rhythmic three-beat knock. His wait wasn't long.

"Who is it?" Amelia's light muffled voice floated behind the door.

"It's Zelgadis," he answered.

"Come in!"

He froze midway upon his entrance, still clenching the doorknob. She sat perched before her crisp white desk, busy at work. A champagne nightgown flowed over her petite figure. The sleeves fell to her wristlets adorned with ruffled trims. Her dark tresses smooth from the bristles of her brush. Her peach skin glowed and her hair shined violet shades against the deep warmth of candlelight.

"I'm so happy you came by Mister Zelgadis," Amelia beamed with a full smile.

He closed the door for privacy and came toward her. "I need to ask you something," he came out with it. He paused and observed the inky dipped quill in her grasp. "You were in the middle of something," he acknowledged.

On the desk was a long detailed written piece of parchment. By the formal tone and the language, Zelgadis surmised this was Amelia's humane slaughter proposal. For the last month, she had been working on its' revision tirelessly. But Amelia was like that. Not necessarily a perfectionist, but a soul who sought out to consider everyone and everything's needs.

And the evidence was abundant. Underneath the parchment, were what appeared to be scribbled out first drafts and— was that her handwriting? Zelgadis scrutinized the lines and curves over her shoulder. No. Amelia's swoops were elegant and legible. This was legible but carried a blunt stiff style. The work of a man. Zelgadis read half of a sentence with the words 'land' and 'negotiate' to conclude it must have been King Henry's writing. Phil mentioned Prince Derek was there as a delegate on behalf of his father's wishes. After hearing Phil's anticipations of the impending meet and greet, Zelgadis wondered how Amelia would handle negotiations with a militaristic man such as him.

Amelia blinked down at her work. She noticed her friend's intense stare at the strewn papers. "Oh, I've worked enough for tonight," she dismissed with a wave of her hand. "The rest can wait until tomorrow. I'm nearly done, and Daddy told me Prince Derek probably won't be back for a couple of days or so. So, I've got time to adjust my proposal and hear his terms." She placed the quill back in its bath of ink, stretched her arms above her head, and yawned. "Now that you're here, I was hoping we could finally catch up."

"There's not much to catch up on," he countered. He wanted to get to why he had come by. The distraction of a furry tail swishing on Amelia's loveseat rendered his action.

He met slit green eyes. "Hello, Gingersnap," he acknowledged. She returned his greet with a slow blink. Her paws kneading a nestled piece of fabric between her claws. Zelgadis squinted. "Is that my sock?"

"Sorry about that," she said, biting her lip. This wasn't the first incident of theft despite Zelgadis's presence or absence. "I was going to return it to you," she ensured. "She must have missed you. As much as a cat can miss, I mean."

They both focused back onto the content feline. She paid no heed to either of them, even when Zelgadis drew closer with dubious eyes.

His lips curved down, unsurprised. "Perhaps not."

"Maybe she likes your scent?" she offered.

"Or it's something new for her to play with," he resolved.

He searched for a chair to relieve his feet, but Amelia beat him to it. She dashed past him and plopped onto her queen-sized bed. The gauze of her pale pink canopy brushed against her rosy cheeks like a bride's veil. Her petite feet swung against the coolness of the night air and she patted the empty spot next to her. He hesitated to join her. Her bright smile only grew, and his body stiffened. She patted the bed again, her child-like tenacity overshadowed his will to dismiss. He abided.

Zelgadis pushed back the canopy tresses. His fingers released the thin netting, entering the manor of her resting place. He bent his knees and sat down with careful ease as if an explosion would occur if he did not show restraint. Amelia leaned her upper body forward. Her left shoulder raised to her neck, noses inches away from touching. Zelgadis laid his hands on the bed to where only fingertips graced the fabric. He turned away, concentrated on his legs and the floor beneath. He knew she was only giving him her undivided attention. Still, the closeness left him a bundle of mingling nerves.

The silence was killing him. From the corner of his eye, he could see Amelia raise an eyebrow in wonder. Zelgadis stumbled in his thoughts. In a mental scurry, he debated when to squeeze in his little inquiry. The idea of asking for a 'favor' on her bed felt like he was overstepping his bounds.

"So, I see you were able to free yourself from your grandmother's company," he decided to go with.

"Yes," the princess sighed. She dipped her chin down. "She went to bed about an hour ago. I know it's not nice, but I'm thankful she didn't keep me too long after dinner."

"I can see why. She's certainly not the definition of congenial by any means," Zelgadis commented. If one was to open a dictionary, Vonzelle's picture would befittingly illustrate invasive, manipulative, suppressiveAnd that was just the start of the list.

"She can be a bit judgmental sometimes," Amelia admitted, biting her lip. "She's… very set in her ways." Her voice was comparable to one stepping over and through set booby traps. She sighed again. "At first, I thought she was visiting because we hadn't seen her in so long. But at breakfast, she admitted that she's only here because of the letters."

"Your father mentioned that," Zelgadis replied. His lips clamped shut before he had anything else.

Better not mention what he had in mind to combat dear old granny… he abated. He imagined Amelia's reaction would consist of aggravated gasps, a turned-up nose, and speeches on a women's rights.

"She hasn't mentioned how long she'll be staying," Amelia elucidated. Her face fixed with an assertive stare. "But if she's going to stay, the least she could do is treat you, Miss Lina, and Mister Gourry with respect… and Daddy."

But that waging battle was likely to persist.

Zelgadis snorted. "I doubt that very much. She had no problem hiding her plain dislike of me. It seemed she couldn't wait for you to go to that garden walk with her after you suggested for me to join you."

If Amelia's expression was anything noteworthy, it went unnoticed. Zelgadis gave himself a mental slap. Internally, he played a monologue of neurotic debate.

Did I just say me? I didn't mean me alone. I meant Lina and Gourry too, of course. Yes. Amelia's grandmother didn't like them either. She wouldn't even shake Gourry's hand… It wasn't personal it was just— her.

"Well, that's probably because she wants me to get engaged and doesn't want anyone in the way of who she has in mind," Amelia rectified.

"She already has someone in mind?" Zelgadis balked. He pushed back the thought that Vonzelle may have considered him a serious threat to her plans.

What was wrong with everyone? While he understood the mechanics of political arrangements, he did not care to endorse them. Amelia was no pawn to check and mate for anyone's better existence. And he could not conclude that Phil would believe so either. If anyone was a potential suitor, it was for appearances and to appease Vonzelle. However, Zelgadis very much doubted any suitor would take the revelation lightly. They would make certain Phil would be on the receiving end of their squashed pride. He could not hold out on arranging a marriage, or at least an engagement for too much longer without an upheaved mob of 'dignified' men.

Ensuring his kingdom and his daughter was in safe capable hands was something that required serious consideration. If Phil wanted to create a tenable illusion, then he'd better take the reins and make his decision fast rather than be at the mercy of Vonzelle's selection.

"Yeah," Amelia replied with slouched shoulders. "His name is Lord Esmour Bardolf. He just became the duke of Ula'ree in the Outer World."

Zelgadis ran through his memory bank. His time in the Outer World was brief. "Never heard of it," he said.

Amelia shrugged. "Me either. She was adamant about me meeting him though. She even went has far as to tell him that I wasn't engaged to anyone yet."

That was a big yet.

"And now Daddy has been swamped with all these letters that I'm afraid he's going to insist on someone too."

Well, she beat him to it. She already carried heavy suspicions but even so, Zelgadis wasn't about to confirm that not only her father was downstairs sifting through letters, but that he made it a late-night forum with her closest friends.

"Well, perhaps your father will choose someone for their character rather than status," Zelgadis answered carefully.

Amelia shook her head, gripping the bedspread beneath. "It won't matter. All the nobles I've met are pretty much the same. Conceited, spoiled, arrogant…"

"Then what? You don't want to get married at all?"

"Oh, I do."

"So, you're not ready then?"

"I'm ready right now." His eyes widened at her confidence. "It's just…" As her voice trailed into silence, her shoulders shrank close to her neck. How could she explain it without giving anything away? She turned to him with shimmering cobalt eyes. "I'm not going to marry someone I don't love," she resolved.

"But who's to say you won't love this Lord Bardolf or anyone else they might have in mind?" Zelgadis challenged.

"I just won't."

By such sheer yet vague adamancy, Zelgadis could see why Phil was beside himself. And he could only imagine how Vonzelle would handle what she'd call her granddaughter's 'defiance'. Without meeting Lord Bardolf or reading any of the letters, a striking flash of certitude confirmed her heart would not be swayed.

The commitment of marriage was not the catalyst to her refusal. So, was her heart already dispersed to another?

"Anyway, you wanted to ask me something?"

Zelgadis whipped his head back up and stared at the princess. There was a thought, a question surfacing in his jumbled mind. It was there but remained undeveloped.

Zelgadis closed his eyes and opened them. "Amelia, I… I need your help."


Late into the night, when the moon was at its fullest, Derek arrived home.

He handed the reins off to the stable boy and gave Valentine a solid pat on the side before venturing towards the donjon of the castle. The wind whipped up and the back of his neck became laced with goosebumps. He raised the collar of his cape for blockage. It wasn't much help.

There was little difference of the night's greeting to the castle domain. The walls in the foyer and into the dining hall, were covered in hand-laid dark granite stones. Lit dripping candles were dispersed in a single row down the long dining table. Their flames illuminating and coruscating slender shadows onto the distant wall where a fanged sable dragon head hung. With such a welcoming, he almost missed the stark white vibrancy of the Seyruun palace.

There were no occupants at the table. Only the remains of licked-clean bones and maids collecting the dirty dishes left behind. He wondered if any remnants of the day's last meal were left in the kitchen for him. In front of the extensive roaring fireplace splayed the family bloodhounds. Between paws, they gnawed and feasted on picked-over bones.

Derek didn't bother to stop for the fire's heat. Instead, his tired feet carried him up the winding staircase to the third level of the castle floors. His father's study was stationed at the end of the hall where he was to report back. He would keep his findings short and brief. Heavy eyelids and aching muscles yearned for the salvation of the covers on his own bed.

On the top of the landing, a dim cast of light beamed its way into the hall. On tiptoes, a woman ghosted out of the bedroom to his left. Derek's feet planted themselves on the final step of the staircase. Their eyes met. Her alert gaze and raised thin brows were invaded by disheveled brunette locks. Curly ringlets cascaded onto a bare shoulder and to the middle of her exposed back. He could feel the wavering intensity of passion in her eyes. His attention diverted down to her bare ankles. She released a flirtatious smile and tugged on the loose sleeve of her wrinkled dress. She advertised a deeper extension of her shoulder in hopes of provocation. He kept his gaze locked in place.

A wash of relief drenched over him by an abrupt intervention. A hand emerged behind the door and curled sensual fingers beckoned her return. It was Derek's older brother, Peyton. He poked out with equally rumpled hair and a smidge of crimson lipstick at the prickly corner of his mouth. He proceeded to give her boots and shawl with a chivalrous hand. A set of giggles ensued followed by distinct lip-smacking.

Derek permitted himself to glare at the canoodling pair. Wrinkles claimed Derek's forehead as dark eyebrows narrowed. His physical disapproval carried little effect. The wet kisses and interlocking tongues persisted until he purposefully adjusted his throat. A string of spit broke as the woman turned from her lover. Her soft fingertips teasing Peyton's open palm as a final farewell for the night.

Derek stiffened as she walked past him, moving his shoulder away from any contact. Once she exited, he came to the top floor and confronted his brother. He blew a heavy huff from his nostrils with scrutinizing hazel eyes.

"Oh, don't give me that disapproving look, brother," Peyton finally spoke. "You're hardly one to object to late-night liaisons," he joshed with an all-knowing smirk.

Derek remained unaffected. He folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not the one who's married."

"I am no more guilty than any other man. Besides, Marigold doesn't know—"

"I'd reconsider that assumption, Peyton," Derek warned. He leveled his brother's cocky gaze with his own cautionary sternness. "Take a walk through the city sometime. You may find that some of your clandestine meetings produced children who bare— an uncanny resemblance to you. And you know what happens when there are too many people claiming to be rightful heirs."

There was a satisfaction stirring within him. Peyton's smug grin fled by his brother's sharp bite and so transferred onto Derek's. He did not revel in scolding his brother's infidelities, when his sister-in-law and her children were at the receiving end of his inexcusable deceit. But the ability to intimidate a sibling who had done nothing but torment him all his years of childhood was, in a devious way, self-gratifying.

With satisfaction, he swiveled on his feet. His triumphant march faltered by Peyton's sudden mocking tenor.

"I take it things didn't go well with Philionel?" Derek turned back to face his brother. When he failed to retaliate, one corner of Peyton's lip turned up, shaking his head. "Figures as much," he snickered. "Pursuing a career as Captain of the Guard might be best for you. Leave the politics to the intellects, won't you?"

He had enough stamina left from the day to challenge Peyton's remark. Alas, his better judgment kept his tongue silent and his fists at his side.

The walk from Peyton's not-so-secret love nest to his father's study released therapeutic benefits in blowing off surfacing steam. At Derek's age and with his experience, there was no justification stooping to the same level as one who reeked of impropriety. Still, it was all he could do to remain calm. The savagery of frog squishing, unprovoked wrestling, closet-trapping malfeasants, and disparaging jeers complied ample action of revenge.

And Peyton was the one to inherit the throne! The order by birth facilitated such rulings. Peyton took pride in his impending fate, often lounging in his father's own throne despite earning a plentitude of condemnatory eyewitnesses. But he was blinded by opulence, rapacity, and lust to care of people's warranted opinions.

Derek liked to call those 'opinions' fears. If his father ever bore similar apprehension, he never said it aloud.

The tasks amongst the two princes were dispersed evenly. Their duties and when executed with success brought Henry glowing gratification. As of late, however, Derek couldn't help but think his workload carried a much heftier yet delicate weight. After all, did Father call upon Peyton to take charge of the land agreement? Derek's tactfulness, assertion, and dependability demonstrated him as a promising leader. Perhaps, even ruler. But he knew where his place lay.

Inside the study, the moon shone through a large glass harlequin mosaic window. The array of hues shimmered by the impeding moonlight. Upon entry, Derek spotted two lengthy shadows cast onto a gray wolf skinned rug; there was an unidentified visitor and Henry. Seated in large leather chairs their backs faced the prince. He hesitated in the dim light of the entryway, fearing his intrusion. His ears pricked at unintelligible murmurs of a nasally voice to that of his father's thundering baritone. He tried to listen closely, but nothing could be made out. All he followed was the animation of the shadows and body language of an ambiguous clove-covered hand that moved with casual ease.

He did not recognize the enigmatic guest nor the purpose behind their visitation. A closer look he needed. But when his weight shifted on an oak board, a wincing creak dispersed, in which the whispers ceased.

Jumping to his feet, a salt and pepper haired head peered over his chair. Henry spotted his youngest son hanging back in the darkness of the room. He almost looked like a child again; holding his newly acquainted slippery mucus ridden aquatic friend he captured by the garden's pond.

Henry cleared his throat and motioned with his hand for his son to come out of hiding. "Well, I think that will be all for now," he announced to the stranger, while still fixed on Derek. "We will be in touch soon."

Henry shook the stranger's hand and gestured towards the door. A mirthful smile bloomed upon the stranger's face, rising to their feet. It was a man. Derek did not recognize him from any past or present memories. Based on his attire, Derek suspected he was a priest. A roguish priest…

As surreptitious as the stranger's whispers were their movement. With staff in tow, they floated by the prince with ease yet quick in their steps to where it was as if they vanished right out the door.

Once the door clicked shut, Derek turned to his father. "Who was that?" he asked.

Henry braced his son's shoulder and led him to the unoccupied chairs. "A valuable resource. Now, tell me, how did things go with Philionel?"

He gestured for Derek to settle in while he partook in a glass of ale from the drink cart. When Henry offered one to him, he declined.

"We couldn't come to an agreement. Philionel is unwilling to budge," Derek said, seating himself.

Henry inhaled the citrus spice of the ale and swallowed. "Much to be expected."

"He tells me his daughter has her own plans for the pasture, so all negotiations were off the table. He wouldn't say any more on the matter himself and I was unable to speak with her."

Derek kept his focus on his father, waiting for any sign of a response. The silence dragged on. He wrung his hands, fixated on the back of the king's head. Was he displeased? When Henry assigned him to the task, his iron-willed personality expected a steadfast result. Derek knew why and so, with his trip abortive, he panicked his father misjudged his capable hands.

Derek came to his father's side. Henry did not budge as his son's taller shadow loomed over him. Derek's eyes begged for a glance. "I'll try again, Father," he promised. "Perhaps if we write up a new proposal that's more appealing to Seyruun's needs I, will not only be able to ensure an agreement, but I can have an audience with the princess."

Henry did not respond for several seconds. He swished the addictive liquid in its glass and staring off as if deep in thought. Finally, he spoke. "How is Philionel?"

"He seemed preoccupied," Derek informed. "The princess has many prospective suitors."

Henry pressed his lips together and his thin groomed beard was stroked by slow fingertips. "As to be expected," Henry snorted. He poured himself another glass. "I'm sure Princess Amelia has become quite the commodity as of late. He'll need luck marrying her off. She's branded herself as somewhat of a contemporary."

"Sounded like he was looking for luck," the prince verified. He shook his head and meandered to the blazing fireplace. He released a smile of unbelievability, resting his toned arm on the mantelpiece. "He was crazy enough to inquire if I was interested. I turned him down of course. The thought of—What is it, Father?"

Henry slammed his glass onto the drink cart. He twirled and flashed baring teeth, dilated forest green pupils, and a throbbing veined thick neck. "Why in the Gods' names would you turn down Philionel's offer to court his daughter? Where is your head, Derek?!" he bellowed.

Derek straightened his posture and held his ground. His eyebrows furrowed and he crinkled his nose. "Because I don't want to," the prince emphasized.

The king released a disgruntled sigh and turned his back to him. Derek bristled and threw his hands up in air. "I have my duties to think about," he defended as his voice raised an octave. "I hardly know her for that matter and you just said yourself she'd be a hard one to sell. Besides, we aren't exactly on good terms with Seyruun. Yours and Crown Prince Philionel's views they're too... divided."

"And that's the problem." The king's voice quieted.

Derek tensed as his father grabbed his drink once more and joined him by the fireplace. "Derek, my son, can't you see what a golden opportunity this would be for our nation?" he fantasized, as if the unoccupied space before them was their fertile playground. "An alliance by marriage would be to our benefit. Despite Philionel's beliefs, Seyruun is a powerful nation and you would be our gateway into every power they hold. Imagine! With you as the next king of Seyruun and your brother, who would rule after my passing, our two kingdoms could become one superior country! Think of all the possibilities for Ralteague, Derek! And we can finally settle that ridiculous land dispute!" he boasted, slapping his thick hand against his son's sturdy shoulder.

Or to further steal their precious recipes, Derek thought sardonically.

The prince's eyes followed his father's footsteps. He wandered away from him and crashed comfortably into his chair. Derek placed his hands on his hips and cocked a brow. "But who's to say Philionel would even consider me a candidate after I rejected his inquiry?" he threw back.

"Philionel easily forgives," Henry dismissed with a wave of his hand. "His pacifist nature, as soft-minded as it is, can be used to our advantage."

Invading the Seyruun royal family's riches by means of the bed-chamber wasn't what Derek called a foolproof plan. He didn't need to look over his shoulder to know he ruffled a few royally perturbed feathers. Yes, Philionel may very well forgive his abrupt and brusque dismissal. But forget was another story. Though the crown prince did not concede problems could be solved by violence that did not mean his peace-loving philosophy was ignorant to mendacious plotting.

A wagging finger broke Derek's inner thought. He followed the finger back to his father, who wore a nefarious smile. "Besides, it's not just Philionel you're going to have to convince. He's allowed his daughter the freedom of an objective mind. You should concern yourself with winning the princess over. And a meeting alone with her is the perfect opportunity. It would be a good excuse to brush up on courting techniques… and to utilize your good looks from me to your advantage."

The prince cringed at his father's blatant hubristic attitude. Derek abhorred the idea of cajoling. The promises those words would carry would be empty degrading acts of flattery. Of all the princesses of their era, Amelia was a rebel. Which someday would be marveled by more women of advanced time. It was logical to conclude she would not be easily persuaded.

"If she's a contemporary I don't think the average courting techniques or physical attractiveness will be of much use," Derek contradicted.

"True…" The king nodded. "I suppose you will have to appeal to her 'heart' then." He stifled a laugh. "What is important is for you to sire the next future king of Seyruun."

The pink hues in the prince's cheeks flourished. "I think you're getting ahead of yourself, Father. I would prefer to know the princess before discussing the idea of consummating heirs."

"Preferring to know is unnecessary in arranged marriages," Henry argued. "The match would be a political feat."

"But I have no interest in marrying Philionel's daughter," Derek asserted. His adamancy was as intransigent his body.

"And you're basing this off your meeting when you were what— ten, eleven? Do you even remember the girl?" the king challenged his voice trenchant against his son's recalcitrant stance.

Derek pooled over the fading memories of his mind. The imagery was fuzzy with only distinct characteristics lasting over the years. A little girl with big blue eyes, no more than five, was all he could recall. His excuses were as sheer as a cobweb.

"No," he admitted reluctantly.

"Then you shall get to know her now, won't you?"

"But Father—"

"I recognize your hesitation, Derek," Henry cut to the chase. He motioned for Derek to fall silent, which he abided by. "I have given you the time that you so desired. But enough time has passed. You will make certain that you will get engaged— again."

The prominence of the word 'again' stung him like a bee's needle to skin. His pulse raised, splaying his fingers over closed eyelids. "What about my other obligations?" he tried once more. "I have my training to consider—"

"You do not need to worry yourself with any more training— Captain."

Derek's hand fell to his side. His eyes popped open, wide with bewilderment. "Wait— What?"

Mouth agape, Derek stood bemused. He looked to his father for an explanation. The king ignored his son and ventured across the room to his desk. In the center top drawer, he unearthed a thick tarnished ring, containing several bronze skeleton keys. He fished through them, selecting one in the middle of the collection. The designated key unlatched an oak cabinet. Henry hooked his fingers around the hinges and paused.

"Your mother wanted me to wait until tomorrow so she could organize a celebration, but I suppose you might as well know now," he explained, the suspense building. "Captain Fairmond retired as of yesterday. You, Derek, are now Ralteague's Captain of the Guard."

Inside the cabinet was the ultimate prize. Secured upright, stood an untouched steel sword. The metal illuminated against the mosaic lights dancing into the room. An engraving of the royal family's crest swirled in smooth edges across the golden handle. Derek's eyes protruded. Words failed to form from his dry throat. His father removed the sword from its position and with pride placed it in his open palms. Derek fingers glided over the slick steel like skates upon a sustainable layer of ice. The reflection mirrored the eyes of a warrior. It was beautiful.

The title meant everything. The head of the castle's military force, the protector of the capital and of his own family. He would recruit soldiers, train, and eventually, command an army in combat. It was all Derek ever wanted. He basked in the glory of his imminent duties. But his mind was shrouded with a hurricane of worries. His age was a conflict. Several of the soldiers were older than him. They were men who had followed Fairmond's orders and fought by his side without dithering. Would they do the same for him so soon after the man's departure? Or would they see him as a callow soldier recruited only by nepotism?

Derek's eyebrows drooped. He lowered his arms, distancing himself from his reflection. "Father, please tell me you didn't make Fairmond retire by force. I wanted to earn the title—"

"And you have, Derek," he assured. "Number one in your regiment, extensive combat training, and knowledge in black magic... You're more than ready for the responsibility."

Henry's rarely dispensed praise brought a twinge of affirmation to Derek's insecurities. "I— I don't know what to say," the prince sputtered. A beatific smile blossomed, as his attention struggled between his father to his prized possession. "This is an honor— I mean— It's— I won't let you down."

He demonstrated his gratefulness with a bow of his head. Henry nodded in return at his son's deference and retrieved the sword's sheath. When he gave the sheath to Derek, Henry rounded back to his seat. He leaned his cheek into his tightened fist and the edge of his lip turned up. Derek's exuberance shined as his quick hands attached the weapon to his belt.

"And you shall not with Princess Amelia either," the king reminded.

Derek froze, midway through his knotted loop. "Wait—"

"From what I hear she's a powerful sorceress. Perhaps you can 'dazzle' her with your own impressive military lineage," Henry suggested, fondling his bearded chin in the ecstasy of his stroked ego.

A deep crease sat on the prince's forehead. He tugged and tightened the knot to his belt. He did not want to demonstrate ungratefulness. The bestowment was a clear enough warning in of itself. The determination running through his blood, however, was difficult to silence. As captain, he might as well start to stand his ground. Even if it was a challenge to the king.

"Father," Derek began, maintaining eye contact. "I mean no disrespect, but I can't court Princess Amelia. I won't go through it again—"

"I will not permit insubordination! Especially from my son," Henry warned, crashing a clenched fist into the armrest of his chair.

His demeanor shifted, riled by the indefatigable assertions. His thunderous command misfired in the attempt of petrified obedience. Derek's eyes dashed away, crossing his arms.

Henry leaned forward wagging an erect finger with a hiss. "Look at me when I speak to you, Derek," he commanded. The reluctancy to submit slowly receded. Derek still held his chin high and met his father's intimidating hold.

"This time it will be different. You will court Philionel's daughter and you will make her your wife. Am I understood?"

Derek's furrowing deepened. The silence stretched at a deadly rate, long enough for another eruption to overflow. He witnessed in the intensity flare in his father's eyes.

Derek breathed deeply out his nostrils.

"Yes, sir," he replied quietly.

"Now, for the last time, I assure you; you have nothing to worry about. I'm sure Philionel's daughter isn't so... licentious."

There was no comfort in his words. Derek held back a snort. No, he thought with a sarcastic bite. From what I've heard she's just a zany nonconformist with pacifist ideology! A spitting image of her father. Good God... If there is a legitimate comparison let's hope, it's not in looks!

"The matter is settled," Henry concluded. "You shall write to Prince Philionel this instant. I will inform the messenger to send the letter off tonight. Now, off you go, Captain."

Immediately, Derek was ushered out of the study and pressed to start writing.

The prince retired to his rooms, striking a match against stone for ample lighting. His fluttering eyelids wailed for sleep as the parchment rested under his weight, but he persevered. Every so often Derek's quill stopped in midair, and his mind wandered back to those not so long-ago hours.

He wasn't interested in courting any princesses. Or any noble ladies for that matter. He thought he had made that more than obvious. For such a long time, he felt numb to beautiful women presented to him. And now here she was. The young lady in the forest. She had this— natural glow about her. She was pretty and feminine, yet self-reliant. She was… pleasant to talk to. Down to earth. Nice.

If only I had asked her name, he cursed in frustration.

Personal experiences concluded there weren't any princesses like that. Princesses were supposed to move elegantly, appear undeniably beautiful but empty-headed when looking out for their own wellbeing. No. The young lady in the woods wasn't a princess. If fate weaved a future to his liking, perhaps, he would run into the girl once more. That she was somewhere in the bustling capital of Seyruun… From his own deduction, she was a healer who worked at the apothecary or medical division for the Seyruun royal family. Or even a priestess from the temple. In any case, he dreamt he would fine her.

Still, he supposed, if he must court Prince Philionel's daughter, she couldn't be any worse… Cherry red lips, eerie humming, inky eyes, and restless hands searching, hungering to stroke and stir something deep within himself—

The prince shuddered.

Derek signed his full name. He read it back to himself. The letter was short but concise to elucidate his interest. He then firmly pressed a hot wax stamp to the back of the envelope. He watched the red wax melt and solidify.

Bloody droplets descended. His eyes narrowed.

He snatched the enveloped off the desk and went to the messenger.


She couldn't conceive what was happening!

As Zelgadis explained the chest's excavation and now his dilemma with it, ebullience festered and bubbled over inside the attentive listening princess. Amelia's heart fluttered when he, finally, asked for her assistance. Now her fliting eyelids were wide and on alert. There was no time to sleep!

She bounced up onto her knees. His hands cradled into hers and nearing her beating heart. "Oh, Mister Zelgadis, you don't need to ask! You know I'd do anything to help you!"

A grin pulled from her lips as she witnessed a faint tint of pink envelope his cheeks. She hadn't been this giddy in days nor could she have been happier for him! The chest fitted all the requirements a potential lead could bare; concealed— check! mysterious— check! abandoned— check! And to boot, it was magically sealed! Of course, there was the probable chance the chest's contents would be in vain. Even so, Amelia's optimistic outlook rebuffed any pragmatic conclusions. She was, after all, only thinking of Zelgadis's ultimate wish.

Without delay, Amelia snatched his hand and raced out of her bedroom door. Zelgadis stumbled under his feet. He grumbled in annoyance as she led him to his own rooms.

"We can wait until morning to unlock it, Amelia," he reminded tersely. He knew she'd react with enthusiasm, but he didn't expect her to charge right into action this late at night.

Amelia, pent up with eagerness, flashed determined eyes. "Why wait?" she asked, pumping her arms in the air. "Now's the perfect time to get to work! With it being nighttime we're less likely to have interruptions. Besides, haven't you ever heard the saying, there's no time like the present?"

"I suppose," he said.

Without stirring any commotion, the pair made their way into Zelgadis's rooms. Standing aside, Amelia hugged her arms around herself. She assumed the chill of the fall air must have infiltrated the sheerness of her nightgown. After all, she was now covered in goosebumps. But she wasn't cold before entering his domain.

Amelia took in her friend's personal space. If she walked into the bedroom without knowing where she was, Amelia would have identified it was Zelgadis's without hesitation. Nothing was out of a place. For one, he meticulously made his bed. Not a single crease or rumble rested on the top comforter. The top stitching was stationed to the head of the bed, covered by a single pillow and its white sham as if it provided an extra ounce of privacy. Amelia was certain that if she flipped back the comforter and top sheet, the mattress cover was pulled and tugged beyond its capacity.

Books dominated every available shelf. They were faced to show their bindings and titles. Strategically stationed by genre, subject, and type. On the far wall to the left, was a small collection of framed pieces. All were replicas of famous works of art, while one, stood out to Amelia. He must have newly acquired this piece. Behind a glass sealed frame were thin pins tacked into preserving specimens of butterflies. Amelia's feet carried her over to the collection. Her finger rose, slowly touching the center of the glass where the largest, most magnificent black and golden butterfly roosted. She admired the others. Each wing varied in length, color, and size. The scientific name posted directly under the matching safeguarded skeleton. She took in a breath of awe.

Her attention shifted and fell to the bay window. Amelia smiled to herself. He was truly making this room his home. Scattered rundown charcoals sat upon his table. An easel held a half-finished watercolor of the water garden outside. There was, as to be expected, his guitar and sword perched by his nightstand. His possessions were minimal, but still, the most valued of all.

Amelia pressed a finger to her full lips. There was just one thing though. The room was in desperate need of color. She would have to rearrange her schedule, but Amelia would find the time to implement a shade other than sky gray or muted blue…. With his consent of course.

"So, where's the chest?" Amelia finally asked.

Zelgadis lit an oil lamp and blew out the match. He pointed to the floor. "Under here."

He sank his knees into the tapestry rug beneath his bed. Amelia returned to his side, resting her hands on her knees. Her upper body bent forward, closely observing Zelgadis unveil the wizened trunk from under the bed skirt.

Amelia's doe eyes protruded. "I can't believe someone would leave behind something this big," she marveled. "I wonder how it got there… Where did you say you found this again?"

"On an abandoned road— well, it's more like a path now," Zelgadis corrected. "By the grave markers we found, Lina believes it was where the Payne family died."

"The Payne family?" Amelia gaped.

Zelgadis peered at the princess with an arched rocky brow. "You've heard of them?"

She nodded. "From castle gossip. I heard that Sir Gilliame Payne had close ties with the Ralteague royal family."

"What kind of ties?"

"I don't know. But we could always ask Daddy."

Zelgadis turned back to the trunk. "It was buried so whatever happened to them, it had been left for some time… Do you happen to know why they were going to Ralteague from Seyruun?"

Amelia pursed her lips in thought. Her age, at the time of the occurrence, impacted her memory. She was only a preteen and anything dastardly, violent, or salacious was often kept from her virgin ears.

"No," she eventually sighed. She wished she did. "All I remember being told was that there was a horrible accident. They all perished… Do you think this chest might have something to do with Ralteague?" she considered.

Zelgadis's eyes singled in on the lock. "There's only one way to find out."

Several minutes passed. Amelia wrestled to maintain her energy and concentration. The flow break was simple to cast, but difficult to prolong. Her hands visibly shook against the brilliancy of the energized ball in her control. Gritted teeth released faint winces between their minimal gaps.

"I— can see— why— this isn't— your average—lock spell!" she stuttered, the tension contorting her face.

"Give yourself a break, Amelia," Zelgadis urged.

Without delay, Amelia dropped to her knees and slumped. Her enervated hands collapsing onto the textured sewn kinks of the rug. Catching her breath, she studied his attention to detail into unraveling the lock's spell. The more he struggled with its understanding the greater his face tightened and grimaced. Amelia's heart panged at his illustrated frustration.

"Damn," he growled, throwing one solid pound of his fist against the chest. "I don't know how they manipulated the lock spell. It's possible they infused black magic but it's difficult to tell what type they implemented."

Amelia soaked in Zelgadis's words. A sharp pain soared from her left arm down to her fingertips. She blenched and held onto her wrist, gently messaging out the spasms. In an effort, to tame the discomfort, she stretched and relieved the tense muscles of her digits. As her fingers retracted and expanded her eyes brightened.

Maybe that would work…

Zelgadis, preoccupied with his methodical planning, continued to mumble to himself. "I suppose I'll have to test—" He stopped mid-sentence, caught off guard by the rise in Amelia's shadow. He gazed up at her. "What are you doing?"

She rolled her ruffled sleeves up to her elbows. "I have an idea."

Zelgadis squinted and frowned. He came to his feet, folding his arms across his chest as they switched places.

She raised her arms in a fighting stance. A curled fist settled near her right cheek. A blinding shade of white pulsated and swelled creating an orb that imprisoned her fist. Zelgadis's eyebrows rose. He held out a panicked pleading hand.

"Amelia, wait!"

Too late. She took one swing. Low and quick. Her blazing white fist like a meteor crashing into the earth's crust.

"Visfarank!"

The shamanistic magic-infused fist dealt with direct damage. The weather-beaten chest shattered. Splintered pieces of wood blew across the room. Zelgadis ducked. His raised arms protected his sight from the blow and the blazing white light. The wooden particles sprinkled adorning their clothes. Spurts of coughs erupted as dustings invaded the air. Zelgadis fanned the falling dust.

Amelia bit her nails, her eyes darting between a disgruntled chimera and the wreckage left behind. Yes, she had successfully and unconventionally unlocked the box. But as to its contents…

"Did I—?" she muttered softly.

Zelgadis hurried over to where the chest once stood and fell to his knees. Frantic powder dusted hands shoved and threw broken chips of crumbled wood. Then, his fingers were graced by a smooth hide. He gripped the sides and blew off the smothered substance claiming the surface.

Amelia's eyes widened and she leaned in. She swiped a strip of sweat from her dampened forehead. "What is it?" she asked.

Zelgadis stared intensely at his newfound possession. Rising to his feet, he brought the object to the light of the flaming oil lamp.

"It's a book."


A/N Cont.: The plot is on a roll! Thank you to everyone who read. :) This chapter was especially fun to write. Bringing original characters to life is always a pleasure, so it was engaging to flesh Derek and his family out further. Not to mention exploring the beginning of their scheme... Until next time!