“Come, let’s get you home.” His mother tried to ease him up from the floor. He slapped her hand away, his body stiffening at her touch. She looked at him in saddened shock at his refusal of her help. Mensu pushed himself standing on his own, brushed off his clothes, and composed himself.
“Mensu? Baby?” His mother tried to get in his field of vision. “You’re going to be alright…”
He stared past her, not seeing her caring face any longer. His gaze settled on that of the dead noblewoman. She lay exactly where she had been when he first set eyes on her. He was entranced by her decaying corpse, no longer afraid. No longer weak.
As his mother led him away, he noticed the name engraved into the stone below her body.
Lyta Farthrax.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“A man is not what he makes readily known. In truth, he is the sum of all that he hides.”
--Excerpt from church homily, Father Oswin Morigar, 77th Winter, YG740
“How did you sleep, Your Highness?”
Emperor Roann squinted as Dr. Thal directed sunlight through a small lens at his eyes. He really wished he’d just quit already. His head was pounding, he was exhausted, and was moments away from throwing his physician out of the room out of sheer irritation.
“How do you think I slept? Between you and my mother waking me up every hour to make sure I was alright, I didn’t really have a chance for quality rest. This has been going on for days; I think you can leave me be.” Roann swatted his hand away.
The doctor recoiled at the young man’s biting remarks. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to offend. I am merely attempting to make a physical examination. You suffered a concussion, and it’s my duty to make sure you’re recovering normally.”
“Just make it quick. I’d like to be left alone.”
Thal pursed his lips into a scowl as he finished his exam. Roann huffed as he checked his pulse, changed the dressing on his head wound, and listened to his heart. The emperor saw it as a complete waste of time, and didn’t feel much like cooperating any longer.
“Are you finished?” Roann was on the verge of losing his patience. He wanted them all to leave so he could suffer from his unrelenting headache in peace.
“For now.” The doctor put his instruments back in his medical bag and bowed. “I’ll be back this evening to check on you.”
“No, you won’t.”
Eilith gasped from across the room, Roann shooting her an irritated look seconds later. Thal scurried away silently as the former empress rose from her seat, her face flushed, her eyes piercing.
“I can’t believe how you just treated the man who brought you into this world!” Eilith rarely raised her voice, but Roann didn’t really care that she was upset.
“He’s annoying me—you both are. I’m not a child. I think I know my own body well enough to realize when something is wrong, and this isn’t one of those times.”
Eilith fumed. “Roann Vrelin, you’ve been irritable and moody since your father’s death. I know we all deal with grief in our own way, but I don’t think it’s fair that you take it out on poor Dr. Thal—or me.”
“I’m very stressed. You’ll have to forgive me if I’ve been snippy.” He tried to make his voice seem at least a little sincere.
Eilith sat down next to her son, patting his thigh. “It’s not like you to act this way. I know that you’re trying to deal with your father’s passing the best you can, but I’d like you to stop and think before you speak. You’ve got an image to uphold, and mistreating your physician or other members of the offices isn’t going to help you. They can only chalk it up to grief so many times.”
Roann rolled his eyes, well aware that his mother could see his reaction. She immediately furrowed her brows in disappointment.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me! I don’t know what has come over you, but for your own sake and for the sake of your reputation, I suggest you nip whatever it is in the bud and move on. We’re all grieving—don’t make it harder by being an ass.”
The young emperor laughed, his mother slapping his cheek seconds later. He rubbed his stinging face with a smirk.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. I’m leaving. You had better take this time alone to adjust your attitude.” Eilith stood with a huff, and stalked away from her son, not even bothering to kiss him goodbye. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Roann sat alone in his den, thankful he had finally been left alone.
~~~
“Oswin, I’m not bothering you, am I?”
Father Morigar turned to face the empress. Setting his holy book on the altar, he walked toward her with open arms. “Of course not, Your Highness. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”
Eilith extended her hands, which the priest took in his own and kissed. “The chapel is looking lovely. I’m amazed the flowers from Artol’s service are still so fragrant.” She leaned over to sniff a blossom.
“It’s my honor to keep them fresh as long as possible.” He motioned to a pew, and invited the empress to sit. “What brings you by today?”
“It’s Roann…” She sighed as she sat, adjusting her flowing skirt underneath her. “I fear for him…he’s not dealing with his grief, and I believe it’s tearing him apart.”
The old cleric nodded solemnly. “We each have our own ways of coping with the passing of a loved one. Granted, not all are conducive to healing, but we need to let him grieve on his own terms, and in his own timeframe—however long or short that may be.”
“But, he’s so distant. And when he is present, he’s downright mean-spirited. Today he snapped at Dr. Thal, all but banishing him. He got horribly mouthy with me and I…I slapped him. I’ve never in my life raised a hand to Roann; I don’t know what came over me. His disrespect just made me so…angry.” She began to weep softly, dabbing her eyes with her worn lace handkerchief. “I fear that I’m losing my son.”
Morigar took her tiny hand in his and squeezed gently. “Eilith, that young man has just lost his father. He’s trying to rule this country, take care of you, and make sure that Artol’s memory lives on. He’s stressed, and has never faced a demon such as this before. Now, I don’t want it to seem like I’m making excuses for his behavior, but I want you to remember that he’s human—we all are. Roann is kind-hearted and intelligent, but that doesn’t mean he’s not without flaws. I think we’ve come to expect perfection from him—especially since he demands it of himself—and we lose sight of the fact that, at the end of the day, he’s just a man. A man who has devoted his life to his country and family. A man who needs to let off a little steam every now and then.”
“Yes, but he’s never acted this way—ever. I’m worried that he’s…I don’t know…” She held the handkerchief over her mouth and cried.
“Roann has lived so long in his father’s shadow. It’s now time for him to make a name for himself.” The old man smiled warmly. “We’re bound to see changes in him. We have to nurture and encourage him so he makes the right decisions.”
“I know. It’s just so difficult to watch him suffer—and I know he’s suffering. Call it mother’s intuition, but there’s something troubling him, and its much deeper than his father’s death. He’s changed, Oswin.”
“We all change, grow. Artol’s stroke put him in a position of power that, even though he handled with grace unheard of in a young man his age, he more than likely wasn’t ready for emotionally. He was only twenty-two years old, a time in most men’s lives where they’re just beginning to decide what they want to do with their life. But Roann—he was suddenly an emperor. Yes, he had been groomed to take his father’s place one day—but he was thrust into it way sooner than anyone could have ever imagined. He was never given a chance to explore who he really was.”
“I know your words are meant to be comforting, but I still can’t help but feel like something is amiss. Will you talk to him, please? I trust your judgment, and if you think there’s nothing strange, that it truly is just ter
rible grief, then I’ll take your word for it and move on.”
“I promise you he’ll be just fine.” Morigar smiled and leaned forward to embrace Eilith. There were few people she allowed such an honor, and he felt blessed that he was one of them. She rested her head on his shoulder and cried.
~~~
Morigar knocked on the heavy wooden door for the third time. The vase of flowers in his other hand was getting heavier by the moment. He knew Roann was in his private apartments, Casmit had told him as such. Looking to the antique clock hanging at the end of the hall, he contemplated returning later. He had an evening mass in a few hours’ time, and still needed to finalize his sermon. Just as he was about to leave, the door swung open, producing a stern-faced emperor.
“Father Morigar, to what do I owe the honor?”
The cleric regarded him closely. He seemed to be physically fine, aside from the small bandage secured to his temple. But the sarcastic greeting the emperor had bestowed on him was very out of the ordinary. Roann’s eyes didn’t sparkle like they once did, and his posture was stiff and uninviting. He decided to proceed with caution.
“A friendly visit. We haven’t really had the chance to speak since your father’s memorial.” Roann’s eyebrows furrowed at the mention of Artol. “May I come in?”
The young sovereign hesitated for a long moment, silently watching the priest, before allowing him entry. “Let’s talk in the den.”
“If that is where you feel the most comfortable, Your Grace.”
Roann turned without saying a word and walked deeper into the residence, expecting the priest to follow. Morigar looked around the apartment, noting the absence of light. Roann had always enjoyed his abode to be bright and cheery, with either the drapes thrown open to allow natural light in, or dozens of lamps to bathe the rooms in their soft glow. Yet here they were, just after two o’clock, and the rooms were dim and claustrophobic—very atypical of the young man’s former preferences. The curtains were drawn, the lamps left unlit.
“Does your head hurt, Your Highness?”
“Of course it hurts. I hit it on my desk and bled all over my rug.” The tone in his voice was condescending, something Morigar had never heard from him before. He crossed into the den, not bothering to hold the door for the cleric.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I only ask because you’ve extinguished all the lamps, and the curtains are drawn. I thought perhaps light is giving you a headache.”
Roann huffed and plopped down onto a plush chair. “Can’t a man sit in darkness without being questioned about it?”
“Your preferences are your own, Grace.” Morigar followed Roann’s actions and sat on a small sofa, facing the former prince. Placing the vase of blossoms on the table, he smoothed out his white robes before speaking. “I thought you might like some of your father’s flow—“
“My mother sent you, didn’t she?” Roann stared directly into his soul.
Morigar instantly felt very uncomfortable. The young man had never looked at him in such a manner, and certainly would never interrupt. The old cleric was beginning to think Eilith wasn’t imagining things. He sighed and decided to be honest. It was apparent that Roann was in no mood to be trifled with. “Yes, she did. She’s worried about you.”
“Why? Because I was sick of Thal quite literally being in my face?” Roann threw his leg over the arm of the chair, lazily draping his arm around the back.
“She says you’ve been very distant since your father’s death, and irritable.”
Roann rolled his eyes. “I’m assuming you’re going to give me a lecture about how everyone grieves differently and that I should try and be nicer to those around me, right?”
Morigar couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The kind, sweet prince he once knew had been replaced by a sarcastic bully. He wanted to believe the young emperor was just overtaken by grief in the wake of his father’s death, and didn’t properly know how to deal with it. Folding his hands in his lap, he inhaled deeply, considering his words carefully before he responded.
“Hear me out—please. I understand that losing someone dear to you is very unsettling. I lost my father when I was not much older than you, and to the same affliction. It’s something no one ever wants to experience, even though we know it is inevitable. But you must remember that you are the sovereign of the most powerful nation on the planet. You can’t just go belittling your physician—or your mother.”
“Are you going to slap me, too?”
The old priest huffed in annoyance, trying to keep his composure. He was quickly growing tired of the young man’s antics. “It worries me that you’re obviously not seeing the bigger picture. If you get too comfortable being so harsh with those you love, even in a time of grief, it may bubble over into your official duties—and I know for a fact that your father would be very ashamed of you.”
“My father is dead.”
The coldness in Roann’s voice sent a chill down the cleric’s spine. In that moment, he came to the terrifying realization that Eilith was more right then she knew. A mother’s intuition, it would seem, was never wrong. The young emperor was slipping from them. Morigar sensed that this went beyond grief, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how—or why. He suddenly wanted to be very far from the young man. But, his duty to the people included ensuring that the members of the royal family were taken care of—and he intended to help Roann come to terms with whatever was causing him to behave in such a disrespectful and ill-fitting manner. Sighing deeply, he finally found the words he was looking for.
“Your Highness, I know you don’t want to hear it right now, but you’re in need of guidance. If you won’t accept it from me, I urge you to seek it from Oleana. She can help in ways that I cannot.”
Roann laughed, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “Oleana? Since when has she been of any use?”
“She helps us live our lives to their fullest, guides us in times of need.”
“I don’t need anyone’s guidance!” Roann’s eyes bulged with fury and he leapt out of his seat, roaring at the surprised cleric. “I don’t need some moldy goddess to tell me how to live my life. She can’t help me—because I’ve never believed in her!”
Morigar sat, utterly stunned. Roann’s words cut through his heart. The young man that had dutifully attended services with his parents, who prayed along with him at his own coronation, who never once spoke ill of the Goddess—had just renounced his faith. Whether or not he never believed in the first place, or if it was a new occurrence, the priest did not know. He understood that in times of great grief, people had been known to abandon their religion, believing their deity had somehow wronged them by taking their loved one or bestowing tragedy on a family. But the way Roann spoke—the cleric suddenly realized the former prince had been living a sly charade his entire life.
In that moment, the priest knew no more of his words—if any were before—would be accepted by the emperor. He finally stood, hands shaking, face flushed. With Roann’s revelation, his entire world had just crumbled before him and he didn’t know what to do. He tried to diffuse the situation, still holding onto the small kernel of hope that the emperor’s enormous grief over the death of Artol was wreaking havoc on his mind.
“I…I can see that you’re upset, Your Grace. And that you’re obviously not thinking clearly.” Morigar began to back away. “I’m going to leave now, and I hope that you can get some rest.”
Refusing to acknowledge the cleric any further, he waved his hand dismissively and slumped back in the chair. He turned to face the wall with an irritated huff.
As Morigar hurried from the emperor’s apartments, the air temperature dropped, forcing the priest to pull his robes tightly around his body for warmth.
~~~
The deep snow of the mountains was a distant memory. Alchemist and warrior bounced on the wagon seat, the late-autumn sunshine warming their bodies. The central plains spread out around them, tall grasses swaying in the light breeze.
A small forest of trees grew in the distance, dotting the grassland with greenery directly in their path. Where arctic winds had taken hold on the north, the central portion of the empire enjoyed a temperate climate suited for comfortable travel year-round.
“You look really nice.”
Ryris admired Kaia in her new clothes. She sat beside him on the wagon seat, dressed casually in riding pants and a cropped jacket, looking every bit the part of a civilian. Gone were her armored boots, replaced by simple leather ones. Her shirt was light yellow, the color of her hair, her pants a deep chocolate brown. The coat was leather, adorned with a few metal buckles. She had pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail, securing it with a simple cotton ribbon. Her crystal suit of armor and under mail was safely stowed beneath the wagon tarp, away from prying eyes and greedy hands.
He had to admit, she was radiant. Ryris stifled the butterflies when she turned with a smile to acknowledge him.
“Thank you.” Kaia pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll admit I was weary of the fashion choices of your time, but I’m pleasantly surprised.” She adjusted her jacket, pulling it down to cover her hips.
“Must be nice, after wearing that armor for centuries.”
“I miss it, actually. The weight.” She sighed.
“I’ve never worn armor. I guess it would be interesting to experience it just once. Then again, I’d probably trip and make a fool of myself.” Ryris chuckled. “On second thought, I think I’ll be happy without it.”
“It’s definitely not something you can just ‘throw on’ and resume like normal. It takes training to be able to move in it. You might benefit from light armor at some point; most of the battlemages wore some form or another.”
Ryris’ mind wandered. A battlemage? Could he ever be such a thing? Would he even want to? The closest thing to war he had ever experienced was playing ‘storm the castle’ when he was a child. He and Grildi would take turns building forts from barrels, crates, tarps, and various other materials and then the other would try and knock it down. Grildi always won—but Ryris still enjoyed playing for hours on end.
The Alchemist: Dawn of Destiny Page 21