"Your Highness!" Before heading his title being called, King Edmund has been pacing outside the guest suite for the past seventy-two hours practically nonstop. Upstairs in one of rooms, hollowing agonizing moans and ear-scattering shrieks and dirty curses, which were heard not only throughout the entire large estate but the whole kingdom, the queen of Linphea-his beloved Lily-was going into labor and coming much closer to having their first child.
Since the news of the engagement was announced, friends, servants, and the entire kingdom have been in much anxious anticipation for an heir to finally be seated upon the throne.
The king himself could barely contain the excitement of finally becoming a father. The kind he always wanted but never had growing up: the type of father who wanted to spend time with his child or children, have fun with them and watch them grow up instead of seeing them only once or twice a year, and basically wanted to be there for them, supporting them. He couldn't wait for the moment when he would come inside, look at his darling wife who was worn-out but still very beautiful, and looking that beautiful baby in his arms, knowing the precious creature was a product out of their love.
"Your Highness!" Cordatora rose his loud voice to a near scream, snapping Edmund from his thoughts.
"How's my child! How's Lily? How are they both? What does the baby look like? Did she finally give birth?"
"YOUR HIGHNESS!" This time Cordatora full-out screamed in his master's face to but off his blabbing. He looked very tired himself, as if he hasn't had a minute of rest. That didn't come as a surprise to the king since Cordatora has been by the queen's side for the past three days since she gone into labor. Going through the not-so settle screams, the unpleasant sights, and the bone-crushing handgrips the queen give when she was going through her painful contractions and needed someone to hold her hand. As if it would make the unbearable pain be a tad less unbearable.
The more painful and stronger the contractions were, the more powerful and stronger the queen's handgrip. Up to the point where he could barely feel anything at all.
"I'm so sorry, Cordatora!" he quickly apologized. "She's been in labor for the past three days and I've been pacing around, taking to calm my nerves down. Which hasn't been easy, I'll tell you-"
Instead of yelling again, Cordatora cut the king's blabbing by smacking his beefy hand against the king's thin-lipped mouth, silencing him instantly. He waited and waited for a few seconds, testing the king's ability to hold in his excitement and baddling for awhile, before finally putting down his hand and began speaking.
"Your highness," Cordatora hesitated, something the loud-mouth and proud man has never done before, which immediately set the king's nerves on high alert. "I have both good news…and bad news. They both sort of entwine with the same thing."
Edmund's excitement quickly died down into nothingness. His blood turned ice-blue with fear at the hesitation and the uneasiness that suddenly filled the air. Had something happened to his wife? Did she lose the baby? Were they both okay? What had gone wrong?
"Good news!" He demanded. He wanted, correction-needed-to know the good news first to calm the overly-anxious nerves in his body. "Give me the good news."
"The good news is your Majesty has finally given birth to your first child," he started. "However, it was a very severe b-section that has taken a lot-"
The king barely gave the man anytime to explain. He was already running past him, quickly heading inside the suite to see for himself what was going on, ignoring Codatora's yells of something urgent he needed to know.
He quickly burst into the room and stood still for a moment at the sight before him.
An elderly, gray-haired maid wiping the queen's sweaty brow with a wet cloth she dipped into a washbasin of cool water every once in awhile, and the woman's two daughters were standing on either side of the bed, trying to make the queen as comfortable as possible. All of three of them wore small, proud smiles on their faces as they looked down upon the new mother lying in bed, but for an odd reasons had bits of sadness in their eyes he couldn't explain.
Being propped in her canopy bed with many pillows behind her back and head, looking completely drained of energy was his beloved wife. Her soft and long caramel hair hanging limply by her sides, her flawless tan skin paled to a very serious and sickish greenish color, her breathtaking face aging twenty years, and her bejeweled emerald eyes revealing all the weariness she was feeling.
Nevertheless, she was still the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
The only thing as beautiful, possibly even more, as his queen was the tiny, precious creature held in her arms and bundled in a soft white blanket. Eyes shut and head pressed against the mother's plump breast, rapidly sucking on the breast milk, the child was completely still and seemed calm. He took that as a very good sign.
The queen dropped countless kisses on the baby's cheeks, brows, and forehead, just as she was doing nonstop ever since the baby emerged. Though every inch of her body still suffered tremendously from the pain and after-shock of the birth and slowly broke down on her, she still had enough energy in her to smile down at the little bundle of joy in her arms.
When she looked up and saw her husband, she smiled softly and beckoned him to come. She then turned to the loyal maids who struck by her sides, gave them her thanks but through her eyes warned them not to say anything, and dismissed them with a nod and smile.
As they left, Edmund took slow, uncertain steps toward his wife till he finally reached the bed and stood beside her. Back and forth, he glanced at his wife and the tiny baby in her arms, unable to believe this was actually happening.
"I can't believe this is actually happening." He murmured quietly to himself, trying not to wake the baby.
The queen nodded in agreement and gently prey the ravish child away from her breast. There was a drop of breast milk dripping down her cheek, and the young mother lovingly wiped it off with upmost care. "Look at her, Edmund. Such a delicate, beautiful jewel. Our precious flower," She nuzzled her nose against the baby's, making such a beautiful smile crack on her face and soft giggles to escape her lips. "She's perfect."
"A she you say?" For some reason, the king had been expecting it to be a boy all these months. Particularly because given the pains the queen suffered and the baby's strong kicks, he was sure the child was going to be a boy. But nevertheless, whether it was a boy or girl, the child was here, appeared healthy, and he was glad she was finally here and that was all that mattered.
The queen nodded, keeping her eyes on her beautiful baby girl. She could already tell her daughter was going to make such a wonderful princess, beautiful and kind and caring. She shook her head as she felt blackness creeping into the corners of her vision, becoming bigger with each second, and looked at Edmund, knowing there was at least one last thing she wanted to see.
"Hold her." She slowly handed the baby over to her husband, who seemed terrified but still accepted his newborn daughter into his arms. For a moment or two, the king was still and completely awkward while the baby squirmed a bit in his arms, but sooner enough she was relaxed like she was in her mother's arms, which put a smile to his face and he held her closer to him.
He already saw the baby was a hundred percent like her mother: same tan skin, same cheekbones and nose, same beautiful facial features, and same golden-brown hair. And, as the baby slowly opened her eyes and looked up at her father, he saw she had the queen's breathtaking emerald eyes.
"She's beautiful," he whispered, tracing her cheek with his finger and watching her smile grow bigger. "So completely beautiful. And perfect." He tore his eyes away from his baby for a minute to look at his wife, who somehow looked much weaker with each passing second, but still had that peaceful smile on her face. "But what should we name her, my dear? Daisy? Rose? Your name?"
Lily wrinkled her nose, shaking her head. Although there was nothing wrong with naming the baby after herself and she did like the name Rose, she still felt they aren't the right names for her daughter. She wanted the perfect name for her. Something very gentle and beautiful, something that definitely had to be flower-related.
"Flora," She eyed her daughter again, seeing the name suited her perfectly. "Flora will be her name."
"Flora?" The king let it sink for awhile before finally agreeing the name definitely worked. "Flora. I like it."
He quickly pecked Lilac's sweet lips for a moment, tasting her sweetness and letting his lips stay there for awhile, before holding her hand in one hand and holding his daughter in his other arm. Before he thought he was a lucky man, with his kingdom and the perfect wife by his side. But now he can really see he was luckier than ever before. He finally had a child, a beautiful and perfect little girl whom he swore he was going to be the best father he could ever be to her.
"Thank you, my love. For giving me the best thing I can ever hope to have." The king was too busy gazing at his little girl to even notice her majesty didn't even respond to his comment. Too swept up in the baby's smile to notice her hollow breathing kept coming slower till it finally stopped. Too wrapped up in his daughter's sweet laughter to notice the queen's hand went dead limp in his as he squeezed it and slipped from his grasp.
The wise and great Linphean king wasn't feeling so great and wise at the moment, being held up in his study, sitting at his desk and drinking shot after shot of scotch. He had been up here for hours now, ignored the knocks and cries of servants wanting to know if they can help, and spent the whole time thinking about the past as well as the present.
Which all connected to his daughter.
He remembered the day she was finally born. How happy he was, how happy the whole kingdom to have a princess, and how happy his wife was when she finally had a daughter. It was day that was both a celebration and a tragedy, because he gained a beautiful daughter and lost a beloved wife within the same hour on the same day. And, ironically enough, the queen died the same age his daughter was now.
Sighing heavily, he poured himself another drink and gulped the whole thing down in a second, ignoring the buzzing feeling in the back of mind. Nothing mattered to him at all, knowing he was entirely at fault for his actions and he was feeling so worthless right now.
She hated him.
His own daughter, the only connection he had left to his wife, the only thing he loved and cared about more than anything else, and the one he swore the moment she was in his arms he was going to be the perfect father for her, actually said loud and clear she hated him.
And the odd fact of the matter was he honestly couldn't blame for her that.
He lost his temper. For a moment his anger really blew up at her and she was just there, a target that was making his anger worsening till he finally lost it. Whenever he saw that image in his head, him yelling such awful things at her, his hand swiftly connecting with her face and her face whipping around, and the stunned look on her face as she looked up at him, such horrible shame fell onto his shoulders like a heavy hundred-thousand pound load.
What was worse than him losing his temper at her was the reason behind it: because he was so upset she refused to marry Prince O'Neil. He gotten so angry she wasn't willing do what was best for the kingdom, that she would actually resign from her duties than do whatever it's necessary become queen, and…and…
His highness pushed away his empty glass, done for the night with his drinking. He thought opening up his liquor cabinet and having a drink would help solve his problems, but five drinks later, the only thing drinking was doing was giving him a throbbing headache. He got up from the chair and walked over to the portrait of his wife, the only picture he allowed to be hung in the whole castle while the rest of the photos were stuffed into boxes that haven't been touched to this day.
The portrait was the last one, also in a way the last photo, taken of her before she died. The portrait was beautifully painted at her rose gardens while the queen was eight months pregnant with Flora. Leaning against her favorite weeping willow tree and radiating in her pregnancy glow, she was a vision of beauty dressed in her favorite rose pink dress, long hair tied into a tight bun and her pink and white diamond entrusted crown bestowed on her head, and her green eyes bright as the smile on her face as her hands rubbed her pregnant-stomach.
What, in the good name of Linpea, would she say if she were here now and witnessed what happen at dinner?
If the king knew his wife as well as he knew himself, he knew well enough she wouldn't hesitate for a moment and would ask the question that has been spinning around in his head all night.
Why would he ever force his daughter into marrying someone who she clearly doesn't even like?
Actually, knowing Lilac, she wouldn't ask the question. She would flat-out yelled right in his face the second they were alone, demanding an answer.
Prince O'Neil, she'd say, was someone completely wrong for their daughter, and he honestly couldn't disagree on that point. He was rude and arrogant, careless and conceited, and, from the gossip going around his circle of friends, a tyrannical womanizer. And yet, that doesn't make any sense he wanted that type of man to be married to be his Flora. Doesn't explain why he want such a man to be the new king to his kingdom, and really doesn't explain why he given her the choice of either her marrying him or him disowning her.
None of this was making sense, he concluded. And drinking all that whiskey and scotch really wasn't helping either. Something…something happened…at dinner…that had to be it-something happened during dinner that made him desperately want the marriage. But what?
He remembered trying to be fair and giving the Prince time to explain himself when he invited himself to dinner. Him not liking what he was seeing as the Prince was showing his arrogant side. O'Neil becoming angrier and angrier when he wasn't getting what he wanted. O'Neil coming closer to him before he had the chance to call guards, placing a hand on his shoulder and forcing him to look into those smug eyes of his.
Those eyes. So cold and empty like the coldest ice. Glowing so bright and did something to him.
There was fear in him, the king remembered, as he looked into those eyes. The fear was so great, he wanted so badly to run or at least turn away. But something, something in those frightening and glowing eyes, held him in his seat and made him continue looking into those eyes despite his fear.
The prince said something as he had him in his grasp, something he repeated back to him and was now all in a daze to him.
After that…after that…he suddenly wanted Flora to marry him.
Unless…he thought, but soon lost his train of thought when he heard a knock on the door.
Finally, after staring at the door and listening to the person knock nonstop for half a minute, he decided to answer it and smiled when he saw it was Mirta.
Mirta was a young fifteen year old maid, who, like most of the young servants and maids, was a homeless orphan seeking work with good pay at a nice kingdom. She was such a cute little thing as well. Barely 5'2, she had pale skin that drastically contrasted with her dark crimson-red hair cut in a short bob, dark eyes, and adorable smile that went perfectly with her adorable face. With her charming yet shy personality, innocence, and height, she quickly came to everyone's liking and became the little sister they all wanted to protect.
"Hello, my dear," He knew he wasn't looking his best at the moment, not with his eyes puffy and blood-shot from the drinking and his breath reeking from the liquor. If she noticed the eyes or smelt his breath, she seemed to make no note of it, which he was graciously thankful for. "What can I do for you?"
"Master Cordatora wanted me to go over some issues concerning some of the new butlers today," she handed him over a clipboard stuffed with many, many notes written in Codatora's sloppy handwriting. Holding it in both hands, his dark hazel eyes skimmed over notes the man highlighted, underlined more than once, and written a mark here and there, which were practically covering all the pages. Pointing to a particular one that had more than several underlines, Mirta continued, "The one he seems to have a lot of issues with is Butler Cults, a recruit from Eraklyon. As you see here, the first sentence of the sixth paragraph, section A, shows-Ayeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
She cut herself off with a loud, agonizing squeal the very moment a sword was slashed into her back, through her chest, and missed the King's head only by an inch.
"Lord have mercy!" King Edward exclaimed as he quickly jumped back, watching in horror as the young girl struggled to breathe, taking in slow and swallow breaths, with a sword through her heart.
"So, every sorry about that, Your Highness," Prince smiled mockingly. One hand was holding onto Mirta's shoulder and steadying the limp, impaled girl as she bleed out while the other hand was dipping the sword deeper and deeper into her back. He looked angry, he looked proud, but most of all he looked hunger for blood. "But then again, I don't regret doing whatever it takes to get what I want. Isn't that right, Riven?"
A young man, who looked about eighteen or nineteen, entered into the king's study and stood in between the prince and the king. He was tall, well-built with a very broad and muscular figure, had spiky magenta-red hair, and piercing violet, unreadable eyes narrowed coldly into harsh slits. He was dressed in a sleeveless white shirt, dark red pants that were almost the same shade as his hair, and red sneakers. He balanced a glowing, elegant red sword that shimmered under the office's lights on his left shoulder, and carried an attitude and scowl on his face that stated he meant business.
He gave the king an once-over, eyeing his plump size and short height, thinking of millions of ways he could easily take him down in half the time, before he turned back to the prince with a half-shrug.
"Finish the girl off for me." He ordered his slave.
Riven stood where he was, rubbing the tip of his sword, glaring coldly at the prince.
His silence didn't falter the prince's mood and brought a pleasant smile to his face, which was mixed with mocking. "Oh, that's right," he remembered. "You don't kill women, do you?"
The only response to that was a cold, thin smile. Riven was a man who served his master's wishes completely even if he couldn't stand him. And, besides being a loyal but sour slave, he was also a valuable assassinate who only killed when necessary but always knew ways to get the job done and quick. Killing was part of his job's description and was the only way to put food into his mouth and get clothes on his back, so he always killed whoever needed to be killed. However, harming a woman was the only line he draws at and wouldn't cross, even if it was a direct order.
Killing the brat, otherwise known as the unwanted child, that belonged to his master who was pushing his buttons on the other hand…
"Keep talking 'Your Highness'", he spat out the word in a dry, sarcastic matter. "For you, I'll be more than happy to make an expectation."
With the message received loud and clear, the prince decided it was enough time for jokes and onto a more important issue. Like getting his bride.
Withdrawing his sword from the girl's back, not even trying to be carefully and doing it quickly, he listened as she took in a quick, sharp that sounded quite painful to his ears. Then smiled as her wide eyes filled with pain and fear rolled to the back of her head before her body went completely limp and she finally died.
He stepped over the dead body, shoved Riven out of his way as he walked past him, and walked over to Edmund. Every step the cruel prince was taking forward, the traumatized king was taking back till O'Neil had Edmund cornered against the wall and his bloody word pressed against his throat.
"The great and wise King Edmund," he chuckled coldly at the anger yet fear in his eyes. "More like the greatly timid and tiny mouse."
One wrong move and Edmund knew he would stab. The thought paralyzed him for a moment, but then he glanced back at Mirta, who was lying face-down on the ground, lifeless and deeply wounded with more and more blood gushing from her stab wound. Sadness filled inside his heart as he thought about how loyal the girl has been to him, banishing the fear, then the sadness changed into anger, infuriating and enraging at the brutal way the girl met her untimely end. He turned his eyes away from Mirta, and found himself looking into the amused eyes of Prince O'Neil. Those eyes that once shocked him and brought fear, eyes that he refused to let him go, and eyes that seemed to be compelling...
Wait a minute-compelling? Compelling!
"Flora, I've made a decision. Since you are not capable of choosing a husband, I decided to step in and pick him out for you. And I've decided the lucky prince you will marry shall be the noble Prince O'Neil. My decision is final, so don't waste your time trying to change my mind. I will give you till noon tomorrow to make your decision. If you are truly my daughter and wish to be queen, then you shall marry the nobleman. If not, then you shall be kicked out from the castle and banished to the streets. Reduced from a high princess to a lowly homeless beggar."
Those were the words O'Neil made him repeat when he had him under his trance. And the exact same words he said to Flora when she was being difficult and lost his temper.
"You spelled me!" He quickly figured out when he finally put two and two together. But before His Majesty could blink, the prince lifted the small man up and slammed him hard against the wall, his hand tightly gripping around his throat. Pain, intense and sharp as a knife, burned from his head all the way down to his backside, and it was difficult for him to breathe, but he wasn't going to let things like that stop him. "How dare you spell me?"
"For kicks," O'Neil pulled the king back a bit before slamming him even deeper into the wall, with ten times more strength than before. "You definitely took much longer than I expected to figure out the whole thing on your own. Why the people refer to you as a wise king, I'll never understand."
"You retched little-" King Edmund bit hard on his bottom lip as he felt a hard crack at the back of his head when he was slammed for the third time, then drips of something sticky and warm running down his throat. It was blood, he was sure of it. But as agonizing as the pain was and as much as he wanted to scream out in pain, the king would rather be damned than give O'Neil the satisfaction he gotten to him.
"What's wrong, dear king Edmund?" He asked. "Have nothing left to say?"
"Few come to mind, but two really stand out," Even at a time of distress; Edmund still spoke in a calm, quiet voice. "One, I will be damned before I allow my daughter to be married to such a cold, heartless monster like you. The day you take her, O'Neil, will be the day of my death and my kingdom faces destruction."
That comment earned him another hard head-slam against the wall, which was far more powerful and painful than the other three combined.
"Second thing is," he continued, even as the brutal pain intensified and it was difficult to talk. "If for whatever reason, you are not executed or imprisoned, I can assure you your parents, Lord Malcolm and Lady Antoinette, will be thrilled to punish you for your crimes."
"I'm afraid that's going to be quite a challenge."
"And why would that be?" Edmund questioned, but knew he immediately he regretted asking when he saw vicious delight glimmer like a bright star inside those cold eyes.
"For one thing, Your Grace, I somehow doubt you'll be able to comminute with them," O'Neil took his eyes away from the king for a moment, then turned to Riven.
Riven nodded at the look on the prince's face, and then turned back to the door and snapped his fingers. Right on cue, two men who were tall and built like Cordatora, dressed entirely in snow-white from head to toe with masks that revealed nothing but their cold eyes, entered into the room, each carrying a heavy steel container they set on the floor.
"What are in those cases?" The king cursed himself for allowing his fear to be heard, but couldn't help it.
Prince O'Neil released his grip on the king and dropped him onto the ground. Although he was freed, he still didn't move from his position. Not when O'Neil still had that blasted sword with him and there were skilled soldiers, and possible assassinates, near him. He stole a glance at the cold-hearted man who killed Mirta and caused him to strike at his daughter, and fear spread through his body, running cold, as the prince's cruel smile grew bigger and harsher.
The soldiers, moving in unison and automatically like robots, opened the container and brought up something that had King Edmund screaming like he witnessed bloody murder at the top of his lungs, the smile on O'Neil's face widening into a Cheshire cat's grin, and Riven's frown darkening into a harsh scowl.
The heads of Lord Malcolm and Lady Antoinette, mouth agape and eyes wide in fear mixed with pain they suffered, crimson blood raining onto the creme-colored carpet, strands of dead flesh hanging loosely.
"LORD HAVE MERCY!" He screamed.
"Unless of course, you have the ability to communicate with the dead."
Edmund couldn't talk because they were no words that could possibly describe what he was feeling. He couldn't think because his mind was blocked and mixed with so much, it was hard to untangle it all. He couldn't breathe, even though his lungs were burning from lack of oxygen.
All he could do was stare at the heads being dangled in front of him, and looked into the eyes of Lord Malcolm, one of his dearest friends. He had known the lord since the two stared in court together and been through so much. The fact that O'Neil was his son was the only main reason he considered the pairing between the prince and his Flora, because his bond with the father was brother-like and that strong.
But that same son murdered his own father and showing off what he had like it was great win.
"You vile, little monster!" Blinded by his fury and sadness over both deaths the prince caused, Edmund charged over to strike at him. Flashes of silver cut through the air, going fast as lightening, and Edmund was pinned against the wall, eight deaths stars targeted on his legs and arms. "You are never going to get with this."
"Really, because I think I just did. And this is only the opening act. The finale is going to be much better," He turned back to Riven and said "Ready my army and tell them to move on. Destroy the city; kill as many people if they get in your way. I honestly don't care, but bring me that wretched princess."
Even as the poor man was pinned down against the wall, death stars deeply thrust into his skin and causing blood to drip down from his wounds, held at the cold prince's mercy who could easily kill him or order him to be killed in a second, all he could do was think about his daughter.
How much it killed him to look her most of the time because she was the spitting image of her mother.
How much he regretted pushing her into this life-style and not giving her chances to make choices on her life like he should have.
How much he deeply, truly loved her and how much he wished he could say he was sorry for snapping at her. But most of all, tell her how sorry he was sorry he ever stuck at her.
Flora, he thought over and over again. My dear, sweet Flora.