♛ The Prince, ⚔ the Soldier, & the Gifted ☀ #2

[Ranger of the North]

lies

[Winchester's Wolf]

>:C
Bella didn’t deserve it >:C
now I shall go cry in my corner

[~Teya~]

lies

thats only slightly possible

>:C
Bella didn’t deserve it >:C
now I shall go cry in my corner

[~Teya~]

ՏԱИѺГѦ: 19
Chapter nineteen

Ѧlthough the glass door’s outside view was obscured by the pounding rain, she could make out figures crowding by the railing off to the right about thirty yards away.
Her hand froze and grew rigid, fingers clutching the cool handle leading out onto the balcony.
It stopped.
The frenzy of stomach sickening, brain squeezing emotions that had been so strong and terrible were . . . gone. It had suddenly grown distant, and then faded altogether from her mind. Wrist turning, almost unconsciously, the door opened.
Grip slipping, a gust of rain stung her face with icy drops and the door swung back, glass shattering in a loud bang in sync with an ear splitting crack of lightning. Rubbing her eyes as the shower of rain pelted her fur and taking a blind step forward, her drowning eyelids were forced up. Ears twitching, a low rumble similar to that of thunder caught her attention. Looking up, her mouth dropped as she watched dark planes roaring through the gray sky, only seen in brief, white impending flashes through the heavy clouds. Whenever she thought she saw the last one, more would be illuminated going in every direction where the city lay, including towards her.
She paused, remembering why she was out here and spotted the group of viscets out of the corner of her eye. Examining the group that appeared to be having a heated discussion, her heart skipped a beat when she saw the largest figure in the crowd with shades of dark green and purple.
Enojado stood with a group of palace guards standing by the balcony rails. Their speech was incoherent in the heavy rain, but she didn’t need that to sense how they felt. Everyone seemed confused, frightened even—at what, she didn’t know.
But Enojado, he was something else. He seethed with fury as he continued his onslaught of disjointed speech, lifting his arms up into the air in exasperation with teeth bared and snapping as he talked down to the viscets. Their heads pulled down in a fearful bow, cowering when he singled them out one by one. And that’s when she realized what the others were so afraid of.
“Enojado!” Sunora announced loud and clear over the bellowing storm. Her throat tightened and body grew stiff, but her eyes held resolutely as Enojado paused for a moment and turned.
His mane, large and typically curling up proudly hung low and stuck to his dripping face. The tall, greenish blue horns protruding out from near the top of his head and arching up now appeared sharp and sinister in the semi-darkness littered with shots of bright white lighting up the gray ocean and clouds. His soaked clothes were gnarled with aggressive tears and faint traces of blue and red blood, almost washed completely away by the rain. A cold, black pistol illuminated in his hand as a strike of lightning clapped overhead, and for a moment the raw fury she felt could be seen in his dark red ringed eyes, only to melt away in a blink when their gazes connected.
“Where are they?” Sunora questioned, strangling the violent trembling in her dismayed voice. Enojado didn’t respond.
Darting her eyes to the group of palace guards staring at her, her breath caught at the streaks of black on their taut faces still edged with fear. Dye the color of each of the viscets fur streamed down and dripped onto their uniforms as more black was revealed, the black tattoos of the FFA.
“Enojado . . . what have you done?” her entire body felt weak with dread and wanted to shrivel under his chillingly even gaze. With a sideways nod to the other viscets, he spoke.
“Wait for me inside.”
“But Chieftain—”
“I said wait for me inside.” Enojado ordered, giving the brown viscet who had defied him a deadly glare. With a slight bow of his head, the brown lead the group of viscets past Sunora with a sideways glance to her and assumedly into the hall, though she dared not turn away to make sure.
“Come closer.” Enojado said calmly and leaned his weight on the railing. She swallowed, feeling like his words were more of a smooth order than a polite suggestion. Taking a once over of the open balcony to her sides and seeing nothing, her bare feet dragged across the polished ground reluctantly towards him. The wet surface reflected a blurred version of herself in front of her as she stepped forward, obscuring it further with her wavering steps and drops of persistent rain urging her ahead.
“You’re the new leader of the FFA, aren’t you?” quivering, her voice was more level than before, and she wasn’t sure if it was due to the shock of the situation or a genuine calm she had somehow mustered. “Their Chieftain.”
“Yes.”
She flinched, not expecting such a straightforward answer from him. Her heart gradually sank deeper and deeper at her next words, “What did you do to Belleza and Arathorn?”
Enojado paused, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the railing as the dying rain continued to nip at the both of them until its last drop. She felt heavy, but not because of her drenched clothes and fur.
“They’re dead.”
Sunora blinked, staring at Enojado blankly. The brick of anxiety in her chest swelled to a stone wall and she ceased breathing. Her throat locked. Her arms hung loose by her sides like stiff rope, deadly unmoving. With nothing to hold on to, she barely managed to stay upright as her mind began spirling away from her.
“You’re . . .” her voice trailed off, unable to finish her sentence. You’re lying. How could she say that when she knew it wasn’t true? The abrupt end to the war of unimaginably strong and torturing emotions of pure distress and pain wasn’t a coincidence. She’d felt such things happen before. In death.
Without realizing, Enojado had walked over and was now standing close.
“I am aware of the shock you must be in, but I assure you—soon you will understand.” His voice was low and reassuring, dripping with a cool, compelling tonality. It was like a drug that numbed her of the pain and even the thought of the horrors of today and left her with only blissful indifference.
Eyes closing, his hand brushed across her face to sweep a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.
“Understand?!” Sunora exclaimed in a half gasp, pushing him away by hitting his shoulders, only for him to barely move. Her stomach twisted inside out at the abrupt realization of what she had moments ago been willfully sucked into, “You’re sick! This whole time it has been lie after lie to get to Arathorn and Belleza—” shaking her head and looking off into the dark clouds, she couldn’t bring herself to look at him, even glance without being overwhelmed with betrayal and anger. “I thought we were friends, I thought I knew you, I thought—” her voice broke and eyes glistened, “We knew each other,”
“We still do.”
“How? How in the hell can you even claim such an outrageous lie!” with every fabric of her being Sunora burned with a passionate hatred for this “Solanae” she used to think of as someone she could trust.
“True friends do what is best for you and are willing to do what is necessary at all costs. That is what I am doing.” Enojado reasoned with an expression disturbingly close to deadpan in its matter-of-factness.
“Where are they?” eyes locking with him, her hands balled into trembling fists and the fury in her voice lay unmasked, “If Belleza and Arathorn are dead, prove it to me.”
Enojado’s jaw tensed, “I don’t think that’s exactly wise—”
“I said show me!”
He paused, “I think you already know where they are,” he said, and Sunora shifted impatiently. “Why else . . . would you have come here?”
Sunora’s gaze held with Enojado’s, boldness draining from her body and suddenly overcome with dread. She was too afraid to move. To speak. To think. Why had she asked? She was a fool. Her already shallow breathing slowed further, and her rigid limbs refused to move. Finger flinching, she could’ve sworn she felt the bones creaking against each other in her stiff hand. Rain flowed steadily under her bare feet, but there was one problem with that.
It wasn’t raining anymore.
All at once her mind spun back and looked down, hardly able to register what her eyes saw. She knew it could be fake. An elaborate facade concocted from Enojado’s own twisted imagination. But she knew that wasn’t true.
A dark red stream of blood ran under her feet, still scarcely warm. Jumping back and letting out a gagged scream, it stuck to the bottom of one foot momentarily before releasing. She slipped, landing on her elbow and quickly kicked herself away in a wild frenzy of thrashing arms and legs.
Both hands flew up to cover her mouth, staring in indescribable horror as lightning struck over the two lifeless and bloodied bodies of both Belleza and Arathorn.
Vision blurring, her nails dug into her muzzle before sliding back and catching herself in an attempt to get to her feet. Trying again and leaping up dizzily, her gaze held on them. The haunted face of Arathorn clutching to his mother with blood running across his face and eyes still open sent a wave of sickness to her throat as she stumbled away, hugging her stomach. She couldn’t look away, as if strapped to a chair and forced to stare at the nightmare of sight. Running blindly for the exit, she was finally freed—only to be captured by another nightmare. Crashing into a blurred figure of a viscet and being pulled back by a number of dark hands in the same moment, Sunora fought viciously to rip free of their grasp and screamed.
“Let me go you bastards!” she yelled in a fever of panic. Their faces flashed before her in the dim light mixed with bolts of lightning in the hall as she writhed and scratched, twisting her body in every which way with tears unrelenting.
“Take her to her room to calm down,”
“Yes, Chieftain. Right away.”
“And use the sedative.”
Her eyes widened, swinging her head around just in time to see the gleam of a small spray can in one of the soldier’s hands. Wrist fighting to wrench free as the canister raised to her face like the barrel of a gun, with one swift, desperate movement the silver can went flying over their heads behind her. Stifling a pained gasp, the soldier’s gripped both her arms again extra tightly and partially dug their fingers into her arm, forcing them behind her back and snapping cuffs on her wrists.
“No,” she begged, shaking her head as she was whirled around with effort and watched one of the men as he picked up the silver canister.
Not again. She wasn’t going to sleep and become helpless once more. That mistake had already cost her far too much. Giving the canister a taunting shake and taking a step forward, Sunora flinched, clenching her teeth and straining her neck as far away from him as possible. The squeezing hands clasped around her jerking arms reminded her of coiling snakes. Eyes closing, the rapid pounding of Sunora’s heart pulsed through her ears like a war drum, soothing her trembling nerves and quieting her loud and blaring consciousness. There was something she was on the hunt for, a connection. She’d only done this once before on multiple viscets, and that was six months ago.
Confusion, anger, impatience, fear and so much more—they all coursed through her veins. But now it wasn’t just her confusions, angers.
Her breath caught, hesitating like one does before taking the leap of faith from a high rock to water. And the wave of entangled emotions and feelings of those around her almost slipping away with it. They would feel the sorrow she felt—the crippling devastation that made it a challenge to so much as stand, or think, or breathe.
Eyes flickering open, her gaze met with the soldier grasping the canister in front of her. He blinked, shaking his head slightly to rid it of his partial daze before raising the can up to her with his finger resting on the trigger.
“Sergeant! Do you think we have all day for your nonsense?”
Letting out a gasp, the Sergeant’s hand dropped to his side to hold his stomach and a metallic clang echoed onto the floor. Holding his head down shamefully, the Sergeant shook.
“The—the hell is wrong with . . .” the other soldier stopped and knelt down to his knees, eyes glistening and mouth wide in shock. Like flies each of the soldiers dropped or sought the support of the wall, finding themselves to be in a dumbfounded stupor of misery.
“Make it stop, please . . .” the Sergeant begged desperately with eyes streaming with tears and lip quivering. Staring down at his crumpled figure on the floor as he returned her gaze, Sunora paused and took a staggering step back, swallowing hard.
Glancing back at Enojado, the astonishment mixed with the smile of approval on his face sent another wave of nausea to her throat.
Without further hesitation, her legs carried her down the dimly lit halls and as far away from Enojado and the FFA soldiers as possible. Stumbling around corners and hastening down the long hallways, she kept turning back every few seconds to see if the large figure of Enojado was racing towards her. But there was nothing.
Her trembling breath echoed through the halls as she ran, the paintings hanging on the red and gold leaf walls and oak doors seen in a blur. She glanced back, bumping her shoulder into a large sunset painting in her carelessness and continuing down the empty halls in desperate search of the stairs.
A flash of pink and orange passed her line of sight. Skidding to a stop and gathering her harsh, erratic breath, she turned back. Narrowing her eyes at the painting of a sunset perfectly positioned on the wall, she recognized it as the same painting she had run into moments ago.
He was playing with her.
With a renewed sense of urgency Sunora sprinted, taking as many twists and turns in all directions as possible with the same outcome; she saw the sunset painting five more times, Arathorn and Belleza’s bedroom doors three, Murle’s twice, and her door eight separate times.
Gasping for breath and slowing, she glanced back with fists clenched.
“I’m not going in!” she shouted down the still hall. Breathing in deeply and placing one hand on the right side of the hall which was the side the stairs were located, and of which the stairs entrance had no door, she began again. Her feet picked up speed, feeling the smooth wallpaper beneath her fingertips.
Within minutes her hand fell, grasping at nothing as her hand went through the wall. Letting out a sigh of relief and waving both of her arms into the wall, she stepped through and saw the glorious sight of the golden spiral staircase in front of her. She smiled, heart leaping with hope and ran for the nearest step closer to freedom.
“I’ll explain everything, soon—but right now I have an important matter I can’t ignore—not even for you. I’m sorry for deceiving you like this, it was the only way.”
Whirling, Sunora saw Enojado in the doorway of her bedroom. Her eyes darted in every direction of the interior of her room that had moments ago been her ticket to freedom. Springing for the door as it swung shut, her hand seized the knob, twisting it violently and slamming her shoulder into the door.
“Enojado!” she yelled in a half choke of desperation. Banging her fists against the door as hard as she could and ignoring the sting in her palms and reddened knuckles, she swung one last spiteful hit before she collapsed to the floor in exhaustion, staring off into her new prison cell.

------

#LookWhoJoinedTheScarredForLifeFam

[Ranger of the North]

*marches off to Discord*

[~Teya~]

𝒫𝓇𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒜𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓃 𝒮𝒾𝓇𝑒𝓃𝒶
Chapter twenty

𝒯he faint wailing of a dismayed seagull circled from above. It drew nearer, before suddenly the blaring squawk rang in his ear and a sharp peck bit the back of his hand.
Retracting his hand with a surprised gasp and fighting to open his eyes crusted with sand, a rush of feathers flew off following another angry squawk.
Raising his head from being face first in the sand and coughing violently, the feeling of coarse sand mixed with saltwater scratched his throat as he tried not to gag. His lungs begged for air and he tried to breath in, only to be stopped by more saltwater. Spitting out what he prayed was the last bit of liquid from his lungs, he took in a breath that felt like his first.
Rubbing his eyes of the grains of sand sticking to his eyelids, he inhaled deeply. His semi dry fur and clothes were sticky with salt and reeked of fish. A thousand tiny needles stabbed his skull as he rolled over and made it halfway to a sitting position before falling back. Breath trembling with pain, Arathorn was forced to lay there and get a hold of his bearings.
The clear blue sky could be scarcely seen amidst the hoard of volcanic rock surrounding him like a deformed sea of thorns.
A blur of white flashed over his eyes and there came another irritated wail from a seagull as it swooped down inches from his nose.
“What’s your deal?!” Arathorn exclaimed in exasperation with another cough and momentarily forgot his pain to swat at the pesky bird. Circling back to him, the gull flapped its wings before perching on a rock almost directly above him. Staring down at Arathorn with its judgmental beady yellow eyes, he ignored them and put his efforts into getting a better look at his bleak surroundings. Placing his hands flat in the sand and raising up slowly, his arms quivered with effort. Head pounding, his entire body was aching and bruised, and stomach felt queasy; no doubt from a collection of both sucking in saltwater before going unconscious and the brutal blows Enojado had dealt him.
Enojado.
Mother.
Arathorn sat there for awhile, resting a hand on his chin, completely silent and still. Staring down at his hands, red stained his skin and pink fur. Gaze refusing to look away, his breathing stopped, rubbing one hand against the other to be absolutely sure that the blood was real. Blood that wasn’t his own.
He swallowed hard, looking about the cramped inlet with only a small beach before steep volcanic rock bordered around him on three sides, and the ocean on the other. After all that had happened, it appeared that he had only prolonged his suffering until the inevitable.
A single, piercing squawk broke through the mournful air.
“dammit—shut up, you insufferable bird!” Arathorn yelled and snapped his teeth. Spotting a rock to his side and quickly snatching it up, he threw it up at the bird with all his might.
A surprised half squawk came out of the gull before being cut off by a dull hit from the rock. In a cloud of pale feathers it fell from its perch and landed in the sand next to him.
“Are you happy now?” he growled, lashing at the gull. Jumping back fearfully, it hopped away while aggressively wailing at its enemy. “You’re a sorry excuse of a life,” he added bitterly and brushed away a stray tear. “Pathetic,” he whispered with a slight quiver as he stared at the gull. The gull was silent, staring back at him thoughtfully. It cocked it’s pale head as it looked at him, before preening one wing that the gull had been holding out where he had evidently hit them. He swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said lowly and shook his head, “You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.” Closing his eyes and face digging into his knees, he listened to the familiar swish of water nearby. He just needed time to think; his heart was racing almost as fast as his scrambled sanity plaguing his mind.
Warm water splashed at his still damp shoes and quickly soaked them. The flapping of wings could be heard after a short squawk and the gull had presumably left him alone.
His sore muscles relaxing and letting out a controlling breath, weariness took him over like a comforting blanket. He just needed time—to rest. The calm waves crashing against his ankles were soothing.
Just a little more time. The waves grew gradually stronger as they rose higher up and to his chest. It was nice.
The water mixed with sand sucked in, and a loud wave reached his ears before whacking him to his senses. He coughed, staggering to a stand, head throbbing with a salty sting. The waves were getting stronger and coming farther in, and that only meant one thing.
The tide was coming in.
Another wave came hurtling up to his knees and thrust him back, hitting him carelessly against a rock wall. Arathorn gasped, frantically looking around the hidden inlet. The sandy beach was completely gone, and all that remained were the steep volcanic rock faces.
His jaw dropped, watching in horror as a wave that was at eye level came roaring towards him. Darting his gaze to the nearest escape route, he spotted a large eroded hole with a number of others above it. Digging his foot into it and reaching his hands up in search of grips, a blast hit his back before his hands had a proper hold—sucking him back into the rabid mouths of water head first.
Holding his breath and opening his eyes through the bite of salt, a blur of white foam and bubbles was all he could make out before bursting to the surface.
Hands clawing desperately for any sort of hold, the water seized control of him, beating Arathorn against the walls of rock with fingers fighting for a grip only to slide off clutching seaweed and a mouthful of foamy saltwater.
The walls were narrowing as the water continued filling them up fast.
His breath caught, seeing a part of the rock face sticking out and hastily grabbing it with both hands. His feet slid, unable to find a hold.
Blinking the spray of saltwater out of his half closed eyes and reaching for another hole, his foot swung up and found a small dip that was just enough to propel his hand to find an even better overhanging rock.
Foot slipping and forcing him to dig his fingers deeper into the rock, he grimaced painfully before finding the foothold again. His arms burned as he continued to make his way up the rock with the booming sound of the unforgiving waves below fueling him.
This was not going to be where he died—not without a fight.
He wasn’t quite sure how long he was climbing for, anxiously darting his eyes to one hole or protruding rock to another and trying not to think about what would happen if the holds ran out.
From the shadows he climbed, heart skipping a beat when he spotted sunlight reflecting on the rocks ahead. Fingers trembling with excitement, his hand reached into the light and his second was swift to follow. Reaching up, one hand laid flat on the top of the rocks above. Arathorn held his breath, carefully maneuvering his feet.
Hoisting his other arm up to the top, he watched helplessly as the last bit of strength in his arms gave out and they both slid back down as the rock holding up one of his feet made an audible cracking sound. Seizing the nearest hand holds again, he stared down at the roaring beast of water spitting white spray below.
Only now did he realize just how far up he had climbed.
His hands clung to there holds, but found it to be impossible to carry his weight with them.
Slowly, his foot stepped up, and then the other, and again. Multiple times they slipped on wet rock and scraped his legs, but he pressed on.
Pulling himself up with his knees and immediately collapsing onto the top of the jagged rocks, he huffed in partial gasps. Attempting to get a hold of his ragged breath, his dry throat lingered with the faint taste of blood.
Glancing at his hands, Arathorn’s palms were skinned and bruised while the tips of his fingers that he had used most were cut deeper into the flesh, infused with saltwater that ignited all of his open wounds.
Reluctantly sitting up to get a better view at where he was, ocean filled his vision with distant city beyond. The palace, shining in the warm light, looked to be a good quarter to a half mile away from him down the beach below. He couldn’t help but think the golden palace appeared a little “different” than usual, and in the process lost completely the comfort and feeling of grandness its sight usually brought him. Arathorn hesitated, stifling the urge to run across the rocks the whole way home and storm the palace with no weapons nor a plan.
Turning away from his home with downcast eyes and looking for a way off the rocks, a clump of thin trees signaled the end of the cliffs. Walking haphazardly and using the rocks for support, a faint rumbling caught in his ears.
A helicopter had lifted off from the palace and was coming this way.
Legs stiffening beneath him, his movements became more urgent as he hopped from one pointed rock to another, quickly glancing back as the whistling blades of the helicopter drew nearer. Leaping to the sand and running for the trees, he toppled into the sand behind the nearest tree. He watched tensely as the helicopter came thundering nearer and passed overhead, soon out of sight.
Breathing a sigh of relief and staying by the tree for awhile just to be sure, Arathorn continued through the sand in search for the outskirts of civilization.

* * *

It wasn’t long until he had left behind the low cliff the palace stood atop and down closer to the city, being careful not to venture into open areas.
Brushing past a thick cluster of tropical bushes with leaves almost as tall as him, Ciudad Amarilla appeared in front of him—and his heart dropped.
The colorful city bustling with chatter and life was reduced to a forlorning silence.
There was a grocery store to his right, its parking lot occupied by a few cars with the windows smashed in and turned over grocery carts. To his left were a collection of different shops, all of which he had been to and some he even knew the owners of. The sidewalks were empty, and the road was dead.
All was abandoned.
And just like in La Gula, Inkina’s village—it was his fault.
Out into the desolate road he went, possessed by the silent streets he walked through in distraught search for another soul.
“Hello?” he yelled through cupped hands into the towering business complexes above. A voice, a door slam, the sound of beating feet, anything. Even a seagull would do.
Turning a corner, a gray haze filled the air and he wrinkled his nose, continuing forward more cautiously. A pickup truck was in the middle of the road—or what once was a pickup truck and was now a collection of bent metal pieces and plastic only recognizable by the bumper and headlights. Smoke curled out of a two-story building at the end of the street, causing his pace to hasten past the scattered wreckage.
The pastel blue business of some sort was left with nothing but a few large, gaping holes in place of almost its entire front.
Hitting something metallic with his shoe and hearing it roll away, his ears shot up and glanced down at the unknown object. His eyes widened, scanning the sidewalk littered with gun shells. Swallowing dryly and proceeding into the smoky building, he pulled up his shirt collar. Slitting his eyes as they began to sting, he scoured the remains of the shop unmistakably battered by either tank fire or heavy duty explosives; that had probably been the trucks brutal fate as well.
The wall directly in front of him was charred and black from a fire that was thankfully gone, and now only a faint stream of smoke remaining.
“Hello, anybody?” Coughing, Arathorn spotted the entrance to the second floor. Working his way past the splintered wood of book shelves, books, and ripped paper laid strewn over the ground leading up to it, he made it to the stairs of the second floor. He tensed, floorboards creaking under his feet as he made his way up in the dim light.
“Hey—anyone up here?” he questioned and barely managed to raise his voice this time. His jaw tightened, looking about the dark room illuminated by a few small windows.
Hand brushing against the wall for a light switch, his ears perked when there came a faint sound.
Finding the switch and flicking it on, he was greeted with a regular looking bedroom. A double bed with a patchwork quilt, a quaint little desk with papers placed neatly on top in a holder, and a large white wardrobe in the far corner tipped over on its side. Edging further in, there appeared to be no sign of life. Slitting his eyes at the fallen wardrobe, delicate paint strokes of wildflowers adorned its sides.
Sucking in a quiet breath at the sight of a shoe lodged under the wardrobe, he tried to calm his racing heart as he moved to peak to the other side. He paused, unable to shake the thought of a lifeless body awaiting him if he took another step.
He couldn’t take it—not again.
Mustering up the courage to look, Arathorn outstretched his neck and took a step forward.
“Please, soldier, if you have any compassion—leave me to die. I’m no good at this age anyway,” came a low, subdued voice of defeat. Jumping back at the sudden voice, his face lit up.
“I’m not an FFA soldier, I swear,” he began, peering over the wardrobe to the viscet trapped underneath.
“You’re—you’re not?” the viscet answered hesitantly with eyes squinting up at him, his cream yellow features hardly daring to perk up with hope. He looked to be somewhere in his late fifties.
“No, and I’m going to help you,” Arathorn added with a soft smile. Looking down at what he would be dealing with, he winced slightly at the viscet’s leg being pinned under the weight of the wardrobe.
“I’ve been trapped under here for hours! And I was too scared to call out for help,” he confessed, lowering his gaze with his stubby ears pulled back. “Say—where’s that fishy smell coming from?” He wrinkled his nose.
Arathorn laughed a little. “Unfortunately, that’s me. Long story, I doubt you’d be interested.”
“I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,”
“May I ask what your name is?” Arathorn inquired to steer the conversation away while bending down to examine the wardrobe and his leg.
“Names Kal Murry,”
He paused for a moment. “Murry,” Arathorn repeated quietly as he stared down thoughtfully.
“What’s the matter?” Murry questioned, tilting his head. He found himself holding with the other viscet’s gaze for a second too long.
“Oh—nothing. Just reminded me of a friend’s name,” he said with a dismissive wave.
“I see,” Murry responded with an understanding nod of his head.
Clearing his throat and striding around to the other side of the wardrobe, he heaved open the door.
“What are you doing?” Murry asked, perking up a bit.
“I figure taking as much weight out of this thing before I try to move it will help,” Arathorn replied as he began throwing out jackets and other items of clothing.
“Be careful with that!” Murry gasped with eyes rounded. Arathorn paused, glancing down at the silky white dress in his hands. “It’s—uh, my wife’s favorite.” He fiddled with a button on his shirt and didn’t look up. Nodding silently, he carefully placed the dress on the top of the pile and continued pulling items out.
Once finished, he circled back around to Murry’s side. “Now, lets see how we can get you out of here, Murry,”
“Please—call me Kal,” Murry—Kal, broke in.
“Alright, Kal. I’m going to try and move it by myself, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll have to figure something else out.”
“Sounds just dandy to me,” Kal said with a visible nervous gulp as he braced with his arms.
Placing his hands under the wardrobe by Kal’s leg and slowly attempting at lifting it up, he grimaced, grinding his teeth together painfully at the realization of his wounded hands. Breath holding at the wardrobe raising slightly, his fingertips throbbed and hands pressed harder into the wood.
“It’s coming, it’s coming!” Kal exclaimed eagerly and started wriggling his leg from under the wardrobe. Arms shaking, it gradually lifted up more and more.
Leg slipping out, an ear splitting thud sounded no more than a moment later. Arathorn gasped, panting hard and slumping back against the wardrobe.
“Thank you,” Kal said with a faint quiver and looked up at him gratefully. Arathorn smiled wearily in response, still catching his breath. Cradling his leg, he winced as he removed one hand, revealing the damage done. “Could be worse.” Masking his grimace of concern at Kal’s large purple bruise on his lower thigh with traces of dried blood, he glanced around the room.
“Do you have a medicine cabinet or something?”
“Yeah, over there.” Kal beamed and pointed across the bedroom to a mirror. Gradually getting to his feet, he headed for where Kal had pointed.
Opening the mirror and quickly spotting a box of bandages and ointment for the wound, his eyes landed on a picture. It was a Polaroid of Kal and a woman he assumed to be his wife, their carefree faces looking back at the camera. The woman was giving him a peck on the cheek while laughing, stray curls in her hair getting in the way of her face and wearing a sunhat big enough to fit both of them under it. Reluctantly peeling away from the loving photo and back to the present, his gaze dropped and closed the mirror.
Kneeling back by Kal and dumping out the box of bandages, Kal gazed at him now with a weird, knowing look in his eye. Ignoring his starring the best he could and popping off the cap of ointment and pouring it on a folded up piece of bandage, he dabbed the bandage on his leg. Kal stiffened, but didn’t complain.
“Your friend—did you lose them in this . . . attack?”
Arathorn glanced up, flinching when he met with Kal’s kindhearted gaze. Looking back down to his work as he thought, pouring a little more ointment on the bandage and patting the wound some more, he sighed softly.
“No, not this specific attack,” Arathorn paused, unrolling fresh bandage and wrapping it around his leg, “but . . . I lost someone else, in this attack.”
“Two separate friends? Oh my—I’m very sorry,” Kal responded in a mournful whisper.
“No, no. Don’t be,” Arathorn replied slowly, his tone lowered as well. “And they weren’t just friends. One was my best friend, and the other—” his voice trailed off, continuing to spin the bandage perhaps too tight. “The other was my mother.”
Speech eluded the two for a moment, and the pair sat in silence.
Kal opened his mouth to speak, only for it to fall closed before he tried again. “Words cannot console such unthinkable horrors, so I won’t try. But if it is even a sliver of solace to you—” Kal hesitated, rubbing his chin musingly, “what I should’ve said earlier, about the dress, is that it was my wife’s favorite,” his eyes darkened. “I guess—it’s just easier pretending instead of facing the truth sometimes.”
Finishing up the bandage, Arathorn turned to Kal. “Yeah.” He bit his lip, managing to ward off the sting in the back of his eyes. “Think you can walk?” he asked and Kal nodded without hesitation. Arathorn got to his feet. “Alright then. Take my hand.”
He paused, glancing around the floor. “Do you see any glasses around here? They must’ve shot off when the wardrobe fell from that tank. I’m close to blind without those things.” Kal chuckled half-heartedly. Scanning the floor and spotting a reflective shine under a chair, Arathorn picked up the round framed glasses with thick lenses. He handed them to him and his face lit up. “At least they’re not completely broken,” Kal remarked, holding his glasses up to the light and inspecting a sizable crack in one of the lenses. Rubbing them a little with his sleeve, he daintily placed them on the bridge of his nose. “My—that’s much better!” he said as Arathorn took his hand and heaved him up. Eyes widening rounder than his glasses when he laid eyes on Arathorn again, his mouth dropped open. “P—p—” he stuttered, blinking an almost comical amount of times. “Prince Arathorn?!”
Arathorn laughed nervously, only now realizing why the man had been utterly clueless to his identity. “Correct.” He almost wished he hadn’t found the glasses.
“But you—you’re supposed to be dead!” Kal exclaimed in awe. “The—the soldiers, they were chanting about the death of you and the Queen in the streets—” he stopped, his growing enthusiasm halting and his features sombering, “the Queen really is dead . . . isn’t she?”
He could only nod.
“What happened to you?” Kal asked, barely above a whisper and filled with deep-set alarm and concern as he looked him over up and down.
“I . . .” he stopped and bit the inside of his lip, staring at the wall behind Kal.
“How could you have possibly cared about my injury? You’re positively covered!” he continued fast enough to make Arathorn’s head spin. “You’re in terrible danger. If the FFA find out you’re alive, you’re toast!” he paused just long enough for breath, “Oh my Gosh, the side of your head looks especially gnarly. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Eyes closing, his lip quivered. “No,” he said, clearing his throat in a vein attempt to rid it of its tremble. The sting in the back of his eyes rose to the surface. “I’m about as far away from okay as you can possibly get—” His voice broke at the end, unable to continue.
Arms wrapping around him, his breath caught in surprise. Laying his head on Kal’s shoulder and returning his warm hug, they stayed there for a moment—a wave of mutual understanding for the loss both of them had suffered uniting them in a moment of grieving quiet.
“We should go.” Arathorn hesitated before releasing from the embrace.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, looking up at him with eyes that understood. Smiling softly and dipping his head in a bow of thanks, Arathorn straightened. “My, I almost forgot! Over there.” Pointing to the wall behind them, a rifle was propped up on a stand. “That’s why I was up here in the first place when it all started.” Striding over and taking the rifle from its stand, Arathorn’s hands tightened under the smooth wooden finish. “Be careful, it’s loaded for emergencies.” He stayed there for a prolonged second, staring at the rifle in his hands. “There’s a box of bullets in the chest next to you.” Opening up the chest and spotting the small box amidst a slew of knick knacks and household items, the heavy bullets clinked against each other from inside as he picked them up. He flinched, placing the box in the pocket of his worn red dress jacket.
“Do you think you can walk on your own?” he asked, glancing at Kal’s injured leg that he was lifting up slightly.
“I can manage,” Kal said quickly, taking a half hop forward on his one good leg and hovering the other above the ground. Arathorn winced, scanning the room for a better option than Kal limping along and further injuring himself. Landing on the curtains of the window, he went over to them and reached up to the base.
“You don’t mind if I ruin your curtains, do you?” he asked with a sheepish smile. Kal shook his head and watched what he was doing curiously. “I need a hammer,”
“There’s one in that chest where the spare bullets were.” Limping over and digging into the chest, Kal pulled out a hammer and handed it to him. Taking hold of the wooden pole holding up the curtains and pulling at the first nail keeping it in place, one by one they all came raining to the ground. Wrenching the wooden pole from the wall and placing one end on the ground, it went up to his neck in height.
“It might be a little big for you, but it’ll make for a fine walking stick.” Handing the pole over to him, Kal blushed gratefully. “Now we can finally get going,” he said, holding out his hand for extra support.
“Now I’ll be able to get along just fine,” Kal declared with a satisfied grin and waved away Arathorn’s hand.
“Ah—so you don’t need me anymore,” Arathorn teased as he began walking to the door with Kal hopping close behind.
Making semi quick work of the stairs, the pair made their way down to the main floor of the small building. Kicking away a few books and splintered wood but unable to move the fallen shelves to clear his newfound friend’s pathway, he turned.
Staring out at the destruction of his home and business, Kal’s forlorn expression said more than words ever could.
“I opened this bookstore over thirty years ago, and now look at it. The acts of careless souls has stolen it away from me with the press of a few buttons and switch flicks,” he paused to bend down and took a partly charred book in his arms, hugging it close. “I beg to question if . . . they would care an ounce, if they knew the many memories and countless colorful stories I have shared here, with those I have loved.” His hands quivered as he looked down at the book coated in a layer of concrete powder, no doubt from the building itself when it had been partly blown away. “Tell me, honestly. What do you think those FFA soldiers out there love?”
Arathorn was quiet at first, not exactly sure how to answer. “I believe they haven’t experienced love—at least not how we perceive it—and if they have, it was long ago.”
Placing the book gently back onto the floor, Kal looked back at him, solemn.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said slowly with eyes glistening faintly. Limping along again with his gaze raised forward so Kal wasn’t looking at the ruin surrounding him, Arathorn proceeded forward with a slight delay in his absent minded steps.

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See ! ...Mixed in with the crippling horrors I can do nice things too. Don't @ me on that.
-Also I passed 50k with this chapter and I'm very proud. c:

[Winchester's Wolf]

totally not crying and trying to hope for the better that the queen and kal’s wife are alive and ok

[~Teya~]

totally not crying and trying to hope for the better that the queen and kal’s wife are alive and ok

You can always hope..

[Ranger of the North]

dad!Kal is best dad 😭 If he comes to any harm the retribution shall be great, warning you now 👍 XD

[~Teya~]

dad!Kal is best dad 😭 If he comes to any harm the retribution shall be great, warning you now 👍 XD

Oh boy, I'll keep that in mind X"D