10 years ago

gyldenheim

He could hardly feel his pale blond hair as it swung in front of him, frozen stiff at the edges and crusted with red. He couldn’t feel anything anymore. He covered his nose with the dull violet scarf that was wrapped around his neck, knowing the effects of frostbite all too well. 

Were those snowflakes or pieces of someone? Was it ash, or snow? White, or black? He didn’t know anymore. There only seemed to be four distinct colors in this world. The white powder that covered the hills, the black smoke in the air, the grey clouds above, and the red streams beneath his feet. 

It was silent.

The forest was a maze of dead trees, their branches like twisted black hands, snagging his clothes as he pushed past them and up the steep side of the mountain. He stumbled over mountains of dead bodies as he climbed uphill in the frigid weather. There were so many dead bodies... Their limbs were twisted and stiff as frigid hands reached for the blinding light of the sun. 

The boy looked away, trying to picture running through the halls of the castle and tripping over rugs rather than pieces of people. He had done it so often it was easy to slip back into the memories that brought him here. 

Pink light danced playfully across the grey stone floors as the young prince held his hand to his stomach in pain. Large, arched windows held glass of different colors and shapes in the hallways of the keep, reflecting the moonlight down the corridor. It was beautiful, but it made it harder to stick to the shadows as Jonathan slinked behind his older brother like a rat, gripping his larger hand tightly.

His stomach growled loudly, echoing in the hall. Jonathan and his brother froze in place, waiting to hear shuffling footsteps. The pain was excruciating. Jonathan wanted to claw into his own skin to get it to stop-and it wasn’t because he hadn’t been permitted to eat in the last three days. That was normal.

Every step they took, he feared he would hear their father’s voice. Not only would Jonathan be locked away, but his brother would be ripped from his hands. And he didn’t even want to think of what would happen to the crown prince behind closed doors after defying the King.

“It’s just around the corner, little bird.” His brother whispered, smiling as he put a finger to his lips. “Try to control it, if you can.”

Jonathan nodded. His brother led them down another corridor without any windows as Jonathan finally let go of his brother’s hand. He had never been more grateful for the lack of light. Finally, they reached their destination.

A servant's kitchen. Small, unnoticed, tucked away in the dregs of the Keep where the lesser staff could prepare their meals. Rats scurried along the floor, carrying crumbs of stale bread. It was perfect. Charlie lit his fingertips on fire with a snap, giving them a better view of the small room. At last, their eyes found the pantry.

The princes pried open a pantry with a hushed giggle as Charlie passed down bread and cheese from a higher shelf. Jonathan tore into the stale sourdough eagerly, closing his eyes as he savored the taste.

Charlie averted his eyes. Jonathan was never quite sure why, but he had always appreciated it. It made him feel less like a scavenged animal as his brother slowly chewed on his own piece, flicking stray crumbs away.

Jonathan nodded to him when he finished his loaf. Charlie shook his head.

“We didn’t come all the way down here for one loaf of bread. Take as much as you’d like, and then take more for later.”
“What about the servants? Don’t they have an inventory? What if-”
“Enough, Jonathan,” Charlie said, cracking his jaw. “Just listen.”

Jonathan nodded and turned back to the pantry, reaching to take another loaf on the tip of his toes. 

He had forgotten in his moment of bliss, how loosely his linen shirt hung over him and how, when he reached up, it left part of his side and ribcage exposed.

The room erupted in violent orange light as Jonathan immediately moved to pull his shirt down, a loaf tucked protectively to his chest, and held his back tightly against the wall. He knew what was there. A large, snake-like scar and ugly bruise.

“I was sloppy, too slow; Father was just trying to teach me to be quicker-”
Charlie moved to pry Jonathan’s shirt from his fingers, lifting it up to see the worst of it, and rolling down Jonathan’s sleeves to see the bruises on his arm.

The pain in his stomach worsened, tightening like a hot coil. Maybe it would have been better if he had stayed locked away in his room with his books.

“That bastard, that evil, slimy, twisted-” He snarled, and fire erupted from his hair and down his back, casting flickering light throughout the room. “He deserves to rot in the lowest ring of Letum’s hell.”

“He’s our father, Charlie; He knows what’s best for us. He loves us. And he’s the King; he knows what’s best for the empire as well.  I am learning how to be his weapon; it’s only natural for me to gain a few bruises along the way.” He laughed weakly. “Think of it like roughhousing!”

There was no mirth in his brother’s eyes. Only green pools of visceral hatred, burning so brightly that Jonathan was afraid he was going to flip a table again.

“If he ever-” He warned. “Lays a hand on you, or Charlotte again...” 

Jonathan flinched as his fingers tightened into a fist.

“I will burn his empire to the ground.”

Jonathan had always been powerless to fate.

And now the ground was thick with blood. Some of it dried; most of it mixed with dirt and frozen slush, creating small red streaks down the mountain or freezing into red crystals. It was so cold. So, unbearably cold. Jonathan shivered as he stepped on another man’s leg, hearing his boots squish and tear the decaying tissue. Even in his warmest memories, there was nowhere else to retreat to.

Between the barren trees, the mountain of rotting bones, and the frozen tundra all around him, there was no trace of life. There was nothing. Nothing had survived the war, not music, or revelry, or love. Everything had died that day, everything had frozen over. There was no life, no color, no joy. Only the smell of death and the cold. Jonathan could not hide in the shadows here, and there was no one left to hold his hand

He knelt down and let his fingertips brush against a single red rose from a decaying thornbush, feeling its brambles tear his soft fingertips as he gently stroked the last remaining living thing in his home. The only other survivor. 

Then watched as it withered instantly upon his touch, its crumpled petals dissolving into golden dust in his hands that would be scattered by the wind.

 It would have been better if he had never seen it at all.