Hello hello, all! Becky/ruffwriter here. It's been a while, but the Original Fiction Drabble-thon is once again underway! I hope you'll be able to join us
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By the time their grip of fear and tension had reached its breaking point, the king's son was not nearly two years old. The news of his strangeness had soaked into the streets like water to a sponge; terrible curses and omens were uttered, and the color red fell fast out of fashion for the second time since the long-ago wedding. The uneasy acceptance of the daughter, who had looked so much like her father it was uncanny, had been shaken at the sight of near-white hair and red eyes. When word got out that the boy would not babble or speak, there was little the king or his support could do to calm the rising unrest. Least of all the queen, who simply laughed and pulled her son away from the window and such things.
The bloodline had been contaminated by something that no one could fully comprehend, and it was only made worse by the queen's insufficient answers to any complaint or concern. Demands were made, threats were whispered, and the king held council longer and longer each passing month in attempts to give the fearful their voice and offer them the solace that wouldn't satisfy, no matter how he spoke it.
The last bargain before the split seemed fair to nearly everyone who suffered on both sides of the fight. It was asked that the right of rule be passed to the daughter instead of the son; one rule was broken by wedding the wind, they said, so why not bend one more rule to keep the people happy? Give the girl the crown - or any son that looked as mortal as she in the future - and send the boy away. Send him to the holy people in the north, whose power could keep him safe and understood. He was more like them than us, they said.
But the king would not have it. His son was innocent and worthy, just as any other, he said. It was treasonous talk to say otherwise.
They accepted treason and wore it as a badge of courage and honor as they gathered up their belongings and packed their carts. The procession was more somber than a funeral march, for none who left shed a tear, and those that stayed watched with stony faces hiding their wrath and sorrow. If nothing else, everyone agreed the king had chosen his tainted blood over the unity of his kingdom and the honor that came with their scale and scope. Word was sent quickly of the shrinking of Tüknor, and hungry ears pressed as close as they could westward to catch word of the fate of the defectors, but their trail was lost at the edge of the Shurris Badlands. Death, some said, but others wove stories of the exiled taming the savage sands and designing a realm greater than the one they left, hidden and safe from the sacrileges that had sent them there. One day, some said, they would march out of the desert and reclaim their abandoned home and shape it the way they saw it fit.
They would march, Viyle knew, but the circumstances would be most unexpected.
Girl, I am so in love with your style when it comes to writing fantasy - it's so lush and epic. Your awesome worldbuilding really shines through here, too. Viyle!! ♥
The bloodline had been contaminated by something that no one could fully comprehend, and it was only made worse by the queen's insufficient answers to any complaint or concern. Demands were made, threats were whispered, and the king held council longer and longer each passing month in attempts to give the fearful their voice and offer them the solace that wouldn't satisfy, no matter how he spoke it.
The last bargain before the split seemed fair to nearly everyone who suffered on both sides of the fight. It was asked that the right of rule be passed to the daughter instead of the son; one rule was broken by wedding the wind, they said, so why not bend one more rule to keep the people happy? Give the girl the crown - or any son that looked as mortal as she in the future - and send the boy away. Send him to the holy people in the north, whose power could keep him safe and understood. He was more like them than us, they said.
But the king would not have it. His son was innocent and worthy, just as any other, he said. It was treasonous talk to say otherwise.
They accepted treason and wore it as a badge of courage and honor as they gathered up their belongings and packed their carts. The procession was more somber than a funeral march, for none who left shed a tear, and those that stayed watched with stony faces hiding their wrath and sorrow. If nothing else, everyone agreed the king had chosen his tainted blood over the unity of his kingdom and the honor that came with their scale and scope. Word was sent quickly of the shrinking of Tüknor, and hungry ears pressed as close as they could westward to catch word of the fate of the defectors, but their trail was lost at the edge of the Shurris Badlands. Death, some said, but others wove stories of the exiled taming the savage sands and designing a realm greater than the one they left, hidden and safe from the sacrileges that had sent them there. One day, some said, they would march out of the desert and reclaim their abandoned home and shape it the way they saw it fit.
They would march, Viyle knew, but the circumstances would be most unexpected.
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