月の恸哭 [One-Shot]
Not to jinx it, but I think I might be getting back into short story writing. This is a one-shot I worked on whilst in Spain, and is inspired by Tsuki no Sakazuki by D. The single has jump-started my creativity, so I may explore a couple of the other songs in the future.
As for now, enjoy the split tense and first person narrative: side-effects of typing into a phone at 1:00 in the morning. The title reads Tsuki no Doukoku / Lamentation of the Moon. Comments are wow.
月の恸哭
I
I've never looked death in the face before. Being a prince, it's not something that's expected of you. The title is a shield. Blue blood should not mix with the common red, lest it be tainted for the rest of eternity.
Yet there is a first time for everything; a time when even death must show its face.
Never did I think that face would be my own father's.
I watch him, a crumpled shape in the centre of the courtyard, unmoving. The arms lay limp by the sides, and the head is twisted on its side, the pale skin only made paler by the moonlight that falls across it. The crown lays upturned a few inches away.
It's difficult to describe the emotions that hit me. Anger, fear, guilt. Confusion. I was always told that death is beautiful, a cycle as natural as birth. But there is no beauty here. My father's face is twisted, his eyes wide and unseeing, his mouth open as if crying out in silent agony. Hands that once held me, commanded chess pieces with such power, now clutch at nothing. Zwölf Schwarzschild, King of Marthiel, is dead.
I allow that revelation to repeat itself in my head a few times. It fills me like poison. When I look up from the body of my father, my eyes fall upon a second figure on the other side of the courtyard. A cloak wraps around his shoulders, and his fade is obscured by a hood. He doesn't move.
It takes me a few seconds to summon my voice.
II
A dinner party. A meeting of vassals and family alike. The room is filled with laughter and smiles, an evening of memories in the company of the king.
A full moon...
But what is this? There is a traitor amongst our ranks. He hangs at the back of the room, one hand concealing the petals. Cersis lunis. He passes them over the king's cup...
III
“Show your face.”
The command comes out with less conviction than I had intended, but the night carries it. I have to remember who I am; in this moment, I am not a son, but a prince. A man of his title.
The figure remains silent, unflinching. I will myself to take a step forward, but stop before I can move. I try to speak again, more forcefully this time.
“If you do not reveal your identity, I shall treat you as an enemy.”
For a second time, there is silence. Then, slowly, the figure raises a hand and pulls his hood back a little, exposing the lower half of his face to the moonlight. His mouth opens. “Do you not already see me as such?”
His words take me aback slightly. I shake my head. “Did you kill my father?”
No reply. My hand tightens into a fist by my side. Despite the silence, I can tell what the answer will be. There is no other way it can be.
I am facing a murderer.
The figure is the first to move. Turning sharply, he makes a dash for the wooden doors on his side of the courtyard that lead to the rest of the castle. It takes me a few moments to break from the new waves of nausea I can feel building up inside me and sprint after him. I try not to look at my father's body as I pass. My eyes are locked firmly on the figure.
I manage to catch him just before he can turn the handle and disappear. As my fingers wind into his robes, I feel my nausea turn into hatred, and my fear turn into sickening, blinding rage. In all my years, I've never felt such an emotion before. It's as if the anger has replaced my very body, nullifying my thoughts, all except for one: the desire to exact revenge on my father's killer.
The man twists and lashes out, striking me across the face with his fist. My hand comes loose from his cloak, and I stumble slightly, giving him the chance to raise a leg and bury it in my stomach. The force is too much for my balance. I feel myself lost my footing, and then the cold stone ground meets my back.
Dull, throbbing pain spreads through me, but I try my best to ignore it. My eyes flick up to the figure. He's turned back to the door, fingers around the handle. Clearly, he doesn't see me as enough of an obstacle to silence completely. Gritting my teeth, I pull myself to my feet and take a hold of his cloak again, this time pulling him back completely. He doesn't fall, but he's knocked off balance. I use the moment of confusion to wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze.
A low, guttering growl leaks from the figure's chest. We're around the same height and build, though it's clear to see I have the advantage. I tighten my grip. Maybe if I pull hard enough, I can force him backwards to the ground and take the fight from there. I'm just about to pull, when something flashes in the dark. A dagger. He must have pulled it from somewhere in his cloak. The blade races towards me, and I'm forced to let go.
The figure stumbles back a few steps, coughing and gagging. His hood has fallen off to reveal his face. He's an older man - twice my age, at least - but his features are darkened by an overarching vacancy. It's a dangerous look. I ready myself for the next strike, making sure to keep the hand holding the knife in my peripheral vision at all times.
The blade swings towards me. I twist my body back, just avoiding its path. The second time it swipes at my face, and I dodge again. The edge catches the tip of my hair, cutting loose a strand or two. My heart is in my throat. I look around wildly for something with which to defend myself - a loose stone, a branch, anything - but nothing comes to hand.
The third time the dagger comes towards me, it's too late to avoid it. My left hand juts out and catches the blade, just before it can bury itself in my shoulder. The sharpened edge cuts into the palm of my hand. Warm blood wets my fingers and drips down my wrist, but I clench my teeth and stand my ground. The figure's strength is proportionate to his years. As his arm bares ever closer, I swing my head forward as hard as I can. Our foreheads connect, and whilst I only experience a dull pain, I can feel him shudder against me. The dagger flies from his grip and lands a few feet away.
I take my chance. Pulling back from the figure, I spin sharply and launch myself towards the dagger; yet no sooner do I have my hands around it, something takes a hold of my boot and drags me back. At once, I am assaulted with a flurry of fists. I twist onto my back, raise my forearms to defend my face. A pair of hands tries to wrench the dagger from my grip, but I clutch the handle until the skin turns white over my knuckles. I can't let go. With the lack of physical training I've had, this blade is the only way I have of defence. Without it, my chances of escaping alive are close to zero.
I cry out as a fist breaks through my forearms to my face. It seems the man has given up trying to take the dagger my force, and has turned his efforts instead to wearing down my stamina. I can predict his next move. As he raises his fist for another strike, I reach up with my free hand and latch onto his face. The blood from the wound on my palm makes it hard to grip, but eventually I manage to push my fingers where they need to go - two in the eyes, thumb beneath the jaw to hold the position. Then I push as hard as I can.
A scream escapes the figure. The very sound is enough to make me recoil, but I don't pull back, pushing my fingertips deeper until I can feel the warmth of blood rise up around them. The figure wrenches his head away sharply. His arms fly up to clutch at his punctured eyes. I see the opening. His head is tilted back, his throat exposed through the robes. So I sit up, raise the knife and cut it open.
IV
...and drops them.
A poisoned mind to match a poisoned drink. He smiles at another and raises his own cup to his lips.
The evening continues.
V
Blood pours over me in a shower. A few seconds later, the weight of a body falls across my chest.
My face is dripping. I can taste the blood, thick and coppery and sickening. When I try to move, I am weighed down by the figure strewn across me. Slowly, I reach out a hand and press it against the shoulder - to check for movement, if not to cement the doubt that I can feel mounting within me - the disbelief that I have killed someone.
I've killed someone... The words don't seem real. Yet when I look at the lifeless body before me, feel the dagger between my fingers, taste the blood against my tongue, I know there is no doubting it. This is my doing. In that moment, I acted upon instinct, but now I see that I am no better than the killer I sought to eradicate.
Wrapping my hands in the figure's robes, I push him to the ground, then roll onto my front. My arms are trembling, my left palm raw and stinging. One of the punches must have split my bottom lip, because it makes me wince when I pass my tongue over it. The dagger is still clutched in my hand. Suddenly overcome with a deep disgust for the weapon, I use my last remaining strength to raise my arm and thrust it across the courtyard, as far away as I can. It lands out of sight.
Somewhere up ahead, a door swings open. I raise my head to see a woman standing in one of the doorways of the other side of the courtyard. Kataria. Despite the hour, she's still dressed in her white maid'a uniform, and her face is the picture of shock.
Panic rises within me at once. She can't see me like this... In an effort to pick myself up from the floor, I extend one arm and try to prop up one shoulder, but it collapses beneath me, and I fall to the ground again. Exhaustion has overcome me. There's no use in forcing
myself anymore.
And then I feel soft hands against my shoulders, easing me upwards. With Kataria's help, I am able to sit, supported by my arms. She says something, but the words wash around me, meaningless. When she raises a sleeve to wipe the blood from my face, I barely register it, let alone protest. My eyes travel across the courtyard, to the shape of my father's body. Had I hoped to bring him back in avenging him? One part of me would like to think I have done a service to his memory, when I really know that all I have done is create two bodies for the servants to remove as opposed to one.
I feel Kataria kneel down on the stone beside me. I want to apologise to her for putting her through this, but know I won't be able to find the words. So instead I turn my eyes upwards, to the moon that hangs in the sky. It seems unusually bright tonight, a full circle. Somehow, looking at it makes me feel calmer, as if I am able to lose myself in its form for a few precious seconds.
Death is never beautiful - no matter what others say, no matter how natural it may seem. There is no beauty here.
VI
Next week, Dreizehn Schwarzschild is to be crowned the Thirteenth King of Mathiel.
It's a sharp decision, and heavily disputed; yet the country is at war, and a warring nation must have a ruler. People from all over the kingdom will gather, for good or bad, outside the castle to watch the coronation. Many will cheer. Others, no doubt, will empty their thoughts of the royal family for all the world to hear.
And Dreizehn will listen to them all. A prince no more, he will walk the path, climb the steps and kneel before the crown, say his vows, allow the crown to be placed upon his head. A perfect fit. For this is his country now, his people to protect. His life. His responsibility until the day he dies.
The memory of his father is in the remains, but it is in the past. Now he must forge his own path as ruler.
Raise your hand and bear your heart. The kingdom is yours.
Back to Index ↑
As for now, enjoy the split tense and first person narrative: side-effects of typing into a phone at 1:00 in the morning. The title reads Tsuki no Doukoku / Lamentation of the Moon. Comments are wow.
月の恸哭
I
I've never looked death in the face before. Being a prince, it's not something that's expected of you. The title is a shield. Blue blood should not mix with the common red, lest it be tainted for the rest of eternity.
Yet there is a first time for everything; a time when even death must show its face.
Never did I think that face would be my own father's.
I watch him, a crumpled shape in the centre of the courtyard, unmoving. The arms lay limp by the sides, and the head is twisted on its side, the pale skin only made paler by the moonlight that falls across it. The crown lays upturned a few inches away.
It's difficult to describe the emotions that hit me. Anger, fear, guilt. Confusion. I was always told that death is beautiful, a cycle as natural as birth. But there is no beauty here. My father's face is twisted, his eyes wide and unseeing, his mouth open as if crying out in silent agony. Hands that once held me, commanded chess pieces with such power, now clutch at nothing. Zwölf Schwarzschild, King of Marthiel, is dead.
I allow that revelation to repeat itself in my head a few times. It fills me like poison. When I look up from the body of my father, my eyes fall upon a second figure on the other side of the courtyard. A cloak wraps around his shoulders, and his fade is obscured by a hood. He doesn't move.
It takes me a few seconds to summon my voice.
II
A dinner party. A meeting of vassals and family alike. The room is filled with laughter and smiles, an evening of memories in the company of the king.
A full moon...
But what is this? There is a traitor amongst our ranks. He hangs at the back of the room, one hand concealing the petals. Cersis lunis. He passes them over the king's cup...
III
“Show your face.”
The command comes out with less conviction than I had intended, but the night carries it. I have to remember who I am; in this moment, I am not a son, but a prince. A man of his title.
The figure remains silent, unflinching. I will myself to take a step forward, but stop before I can move. I try to speak again, more forcefully this time.
“If you do not reveal your identity, I shall treat you as an enemy.”
For a second time, there is silence. Then, slowly, the figure raises a hand and pulls his hood back a little, exposing the lower half of his face to the moonlight. His mouth opens. “Do you not already see me as such?”
His words take me aback slightly. I shake my head. “Did you kill my father?”
No reply. My hand tightens into a fist by my side. Despite the silence, I can tell what the answer will be. There is no other way it can be.
I am facing a murderer.
The figure is the first to move. Turning sharply, he makes a dash for the wooden doors on his side of the courtyard that lead to the rest of the castle. It takes me a few moments to break from the new waves of nausea I can feel building up inside me and sprint after him. I try not to look at my father's body as I pass. My eyes are locked firmly on the figure.
I manage to catch him just before he can turn the handle and disappear. As my fingers wind into his robes, I feel my nausea turn into hatred, and my fear turn into sickening, blinding rage. In all my years, I've never felt such an emotion before. It's as if the anger has replaced my very body, nullifying my thoughts, all except for one: the desire to exact revenge on my father's killer.
The man twists and lashes out, striking me across the face with his fist. My hand comes loose from his cloak, and I stumble slightly, giving him the chance to raise a leg and bury it in my stomach. The force is too much for my balance. I feel myself lost my footing, and then the cold stone ground meets my back.
Dull, throbbing pain spreads through me, but I try my best to ignore it. My eyes flick up to the figure. He's turned back to the door, fingers around the handle. Clearly, he doesn't see me as enough of an obstacle to silence completely. Gritting my teeth, I pull myself to my feet and take a hold of his cloak again, this time pulling him back completely. He doesn't fall, but he's knocked off balance. I use the moment of confusion to wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze.
A low, guttering growl leaks from the figure's chest. We're around the same height and build, though it's clear to see I have the advantage. I tighten my grip. Maybe if I pull hard enough, I can force him backwards to the ground and take the fight from there. I'm just about to pull, when something flashes in the dark. A dagger. He must have pulled it from somewhere in his cloak. The blade races towards me, and I'm forced to let go.
The figure stumbles back a few steps, coughing and gagging. His hood has fallen off to reveal his face. He's an older man - twice my age, at least - but his features are darkened by an overarching vacancy. It's a dangerous look. I ready myself for the next strike, making sure to keep the hand holding the knife in my peripheral vision at all times.
The blade swings towards me. I twist my body back, just avoiding its path. The second time it swipes at my face, and I dodge again. The edge catches the tip of my hair, cutting loose a strand or two. My heart is in my throat. I look around wildly for something with which to defend myself - a loose stone, a branch, anything - but nothing comes to hand.
The third time the dagger comes towards me, it's too late to avoid it. My left hand juts out and catches the blade, just before it can bury itself in my shoulder. The sharpened edge cuts into the palm of my hand. Warm blood wets my fingers and drips down my wrist, but I clench my teeth and stand my ground. The figure's strength is proportionate to his years. As his arm bares ever closer, I swing my head forward as hard as I can. Our foreheads connect, and whilst I only experience a dull pain, I can feel him shudder against me. The dagger flies from his grip and lands a few feet away.
I take my chance. Pulling back from the figure, I spin sharply and launch myself towards the dagger; yet no sooner do I have my hands around it, something takes a hold of my boot and drags me back. At once, I am assaulted with a flurry of fists. I twist onto my back, raise my forearms to defend my face. A pair of hands tries to wrench the dagger from my grip, but I clutch the handle until the skin turns white over my knuckles. I can't let go. With the lack of physical training I've had, this blade is the only way I have of defence. Without it, my chances of escaping alive are close to zero.
I cry out as a fist breaks through my forearms to my face. It seems the man has given up trying to take the dagger my force, and has turned his efforts instead to wearing down my stamina. I can predict his next move. As he raises his fist for another strike, I reach up with my free hand and latch onto his face. The blood from the wound on my palm makes it hard to grip, but eventually I manage to push my fingers where they need to go - two in the eyes, thumb beneath the jaw to hold the position. Then I push as hard as I can.
A scream escapes the figure. The very sound is enough to make me recoil, but I don't pull back, pushing my fingertips deeper until I can feel the warmth of blood rise up around them. The figure wrenches his head away sharply. His arms fly up to clutch at his punctured eyes. I see the opening. His head is tilted back, his throat exposed through the robes. So I sit up, raise the knife and cut it open.
IV
...and drops them.
A poisoned mind to match a poisoned drink. He smiles at another and raises his own cup to his lips.
The evening continues.
V
Blood pours over me in a shower. A few seconds later, the weight of a body falls across my chest.
My face is dripping. I can taste the blood, thick and coppery and sickening. When I try to move, I am weighed down by the figure strewn across me. Slowly, I reach out a hand and press it against the shoulder - to check for movement, if not to cement the doubt that I can feel mounting within me - the disbelief that I have killed someone.
I've killed someone... The words don't seem real. Yet when I look at the lifeless body before me, feel the dagger between my fingers, taste the blood against my tongue, I know there is no doubting it. This is my doing. In that moment, I acted upon instinct, but now I see that I am no better than the killer I sought to eradicate.
Wrapping my hands in the figure's robes, I push him to the ground, then roll onto my front. My arms are trembling, my left palm raw and stinging. One of the punches must have split my bottom lip, because it makes me wince when I pass my tongue over it. The dagger is still clutched in my hand. Suddenly overcome with a deep disgust for the weapon, I use my last remaining strength to raise my arm and thrust it across the courtyard, as far away as I can. It lands out of sight.
Somewhere up ahead, a door swings open. I raise my head to see a woman standing in one of the doorways of the other side of the courtyard. Kataria. Despite the hour, she's still dressed in her white maid'a uniform, and her face is the picture of shock.
Panic rises within me at once. She can't see me like this... In an effort to pick myself up from the floor, I extend one arm and try to prop up one shoulder, but it collapses beneath me, and I fall to the ground again. Exhaustion has overcome me. There's no use in forcing
myself anymore.
And then I feel soft hands against my shoulders, easing me upwards. With Kataria's help, I am able to sit, supported by my arms. She says something, but the words wash around me, meaningless. When she raises a sleeve to wipe the blood from my face, I barely register it, let alone protest. My eyes travel across the courtyard, to the shape of my father's body. Had I hoped to bring him back in avenging him? One part of me would like to think I have done a service to his memory, when I really know that all I have done is create two bodies for the servants to remove as opposed to one.
I feel Kataria kneel down on the stone beside me. I want to apologise to her for putting her through this, but know I won't be able to find the words. So instead I turn my eyes upwards, to the moon that hangs in the sky. It seems unusually bright tonight, a full circle. Somehow, looking at it makes me feel calmer, as if I am able to lose myself in its form for a few precious seconds.
Death is never beautiful - no matter what others say, no matter how natural it may seem. There is no beauty here.
VI
Next week, Dreizehn Schwarzschild is to be crowned the Thirteenth King of Mathiel.
It's a sharp decision, and heavily disputed; yet the country is at war, and a warring nation must have a ruler. People from all over the kingdom will gather, for good or bad, outside the castle to watch the coronation. Many will cheer. Others, no doubt, will empty their thoughts of the royal family for all the world to hear.
And Dreizehn will listen to them all. A prince no more, he will walk the path, climb the steps and kneel before the crown, say his vows, allow the crown to be placed upon his head. A perfect fit. For this is his country now, his people to protect. His life. His responsibility until the day he dies.
The memory of his father is in the remains, but it is in the past. Now he must forge his own path as ruler.
Raise your hand and bear your heart. The kingdom is yours.
Back to Index ↑