Young Writers Society

Author's Notes: 2,092 words.  I'm going to follow one of Buggie's suggestions and post these by segments rather than 2k word parts.  That means the word count might vary substantially from this point onward, but I can connect related ideas and preserve my overall coherency.  In this case, it's only coincidence that the rest of the segment is just over 2k words, thanks to infodumping.  Yeah, watch out for that. <.<

“We have no idea what it is he does,” said Uncle Franz. “My son tells me that he’s panicky, he tends to throw whatever he’s holding at anyone who asks him questions, and only says that he’s from the north – assuming we can understand his accented speech at all. We only use him to get rid of our junk. You, my King, are worthy of more, and your policies and desire for the well-being of the people, under the guiding hand of our key ally, mean that you have more you can and will do.”

It was pointless arguing with his uncles, so Wielde desisted. There was some applause among the gathered soldiers as the young king and his uncles passed through the space and turned to travel down where the wall split through the city. The young king sighed as the trio continued in almost perfect silence, his uncles marching in perfect tune to each other. A few other guards along the path saluted before grimly staring at the abandoned streets, markets, and weathered buildings that marked the so-called Two Thousand-Year Capital.

Capital of what? Wielde contemplated. This desolate and withered city of Wyandanch was his home, and he was not satisfied. Few people wandered beneath him on the streets, and those that did looked starved, destitute, and in rags, aimlessly shambling in the hopes of finding whatever few resources might keep them alive. Many of the homes and shops had been abandoned, as their exposed roofs, moss-covered walls, and shattered windows indicated. Torches on tall sticks lit spots besides the few open stores in the area, where purveyors of goods and weapons and other such items beat on rugs with sticks, covering themselves in the dust that pervaded the air. The purples and reds of a distant sunlight looming in front of him as he approached his quarry was blocked by humongous black, hexagonal spirals that towered almost infinitely into the sky, these Pillars suffocating the city in darkness. He felt it an apt metaphor, to be crushed by one’s own decaying history.

It stung that this was all that he owned. It stung more that he did not truly own any of it. At least, not yet. The King was now almost 18 years old, so it was likely that he would be coronated within this year or next. Or, however long it took for him to master his training in the magics and see that his white hair turn into blue – dyeing it did not count. It wasn’t as though the rest of the world had chosen to ignore him in the meantime; for instance, he had recently received a favorable letter from the prestigious kingdom to the west. The Eternal Queen had been unable to write, and her beloved adviser had apparently been in one of his “episodes,” meaning parts of his letters had been disregarded. The message had been dictated to him by a minor diplomat a week ago. Something about goodwill, cooperation, the destruction of the Alliance, and a half-mumbled message about ignoring the malevolent voices in one’s head. However, Seres, ever the true center of attention, had received a far larger letter on military strategy and friendliness.

By now, Uncle Franz had taken a temporary detour to embrace and talk eagerly with a young woman at the head of a brigade. She was charming, with a clean (though almost eerily pale) face and a strong-looking body, and dressed in light armor adorned with the symbol of Wyandanch. Her short-cropped white hair now had tinges of blue, and the King could see sparks of electricity dance on metal gloves as the young lady displayed her prowess to her father. The axe strapped to her back poked out from beneath the piles of hair and her beaming face as she, despite the large bags under her eyes, laughed and talked eagerly. Wielde huffed and seemed to shrink in size, feeling weak and frail in comparison to his own cousin. Why couldn’t she, with her credentials, military strength, and reputation, take the throne? Alternatively, wouldn’t it be simpler to marry her and let her rule? As much as he wanted to become a King, he felt plagued by his own comparative incompetence and foolishness.

The uncle returned to the gathering, which proceeded in earnest. Wielde simmered in the stew of his own discontent as he trudged along the long path. Heavy outfits did not befit him, as almost everything in this place did not; it did not help that he was full-well aware that he was barred from traveling to the rest of The Confederacy - that which he, in theory, “ruled”. Honestly, what point was there to life when he was trapped in a prison without even the key to free him from the chains that binded his hands? Even if he did become King eventually, Seres, as his only major advisor, and commander of the military forces in the city, would keep ruling. Seres would keep treating him like a child, keep ignoring his policy suggestions, and keep him as far away from a public that he still knew looked at him as a spoiled brat. And here he was, slowly heading for yet another part of his dreadful existence – a visit.

The long, wide wooden bridge that dug itself into the stone wall on one end creaked under their feet as the trio proceeded to a small, spiraling tower encircle by a segment of that wall. The bridge was merely there as a defense mechanism in the event of the wall’s control by the enemy, though Wielde always worried it would be used too quickly and against the wrong side. Still, despite standing by two men in suits of armor, the ageless bridge held. Several guards on the other end stood aside, saluting and bowing as they pointed imposing spears away, allowing Wielde to thrust open the damaged, slightly charred wooden door. Its planks held barely together by rusting metal, which also composed the hinges. The young king pushed himself up a flight of stairs in the narrow corridor as the uncles stopped and worked to put the door back into place.

He stared at the smoothly carved black steps. Many of the most prestigious buildings of the city had been carved from the quarries stationed within the Pillars. No one knew what materials were in the Pillars, or if it was entirely safe to take chunks out of them. Still, the blacksmiths under the dominion of the first Lord of Wyandanch, Wyn, had found the flames of a dragon’s breath allowed for the melting and recasting of sections of the Pillars. In the wake of the House’s union with the dragons, this proved quite a boon, allowing for structures such as these, beloved for their immense strength, rich colors, and existence as a status symbol, due to their rarity and value. Of course, when the dragons had grown tired of the kingdom and made their leave, their construction had become more of a lost art. Regardless, these ancient, dust-covered steps were more admirable to view than the artfully colored tapestries over his head. After all, he was not invigorated by seeing past kings and their successes, and he did not want to see his dead father’s face beaming down at him.

“My daughter!”

Wielde cringed and shuddered in a fit of anger. The young king stared hard at the ground, breathing in and out as he resisted the urge to make fists, and then walked his way up the last few steps to face his mother.

The lady was sitting gracefully in her bed across the small, circular stone room. Smelling faintly of scents that Wielde had no interest in focusing upon, she stared up absentmindedly to the ceiling, where her bed curtains, adorned with the ever-familiar shape of a dragon, frowned right back at her frail composure. Atop a pile of faint blue and green pillows, a blue blanket draped up to her chest, her milky eyes looked about the room until they spotted him. She smiled, revealing yellow and coal-blackened teeth. “My, you’ve grown so quickly!”

The young king slumped to the ground and bowed reverentially. “Madame de Duches au Austliere,” he said in a quiet and intensely frustrated voice. He let his fiery gaze fall upon the stones. “Yes, it has been so long. Yes, I can now talk.”

The Queen of the Confederacy fiddled with the hairpiece in her long white hair. She seemed baffled by these questions and rose slightly, propping her spare hand against the bed as she did so. “How did you know that I was going to ask that?” she said, eyes scanning the room as though she were both looking for nothing and everything – some distant bit of memory clawing at her, perhaps. Her eyes lit up with happiness and ounces of confusion as Uncles Franz and Emmerich squeezed in, one at a time, beside Wielde. “My loveliest brothers! Zin and Emmy, you’ve aged! I had though only I would grow old with….” The lady looked confused, now staring at everyone to carry the thought for her.

After a few seconds, Wielde grumbled out, “My father’s demise from the wrath of the Uncrowned Queen.”

His mother nodded in approval, a frightened expression turning into only complacency. “She is quite the smart one,” the lady remarked to her siblings. “And how is your daughter, Zin? How young is she? Still five?”

“Rose, what our brother—” began Emmerich upon seeing Franz frown and grit his teeth (though not as powerful as Wielde’s seething rage), but the other man held a hand in front of his face.

“Twenty. She’s twenty, Remdé.”

A store of tension exploded its way across the room, consuming everyone in a wave of panic and surprised, all emitted from the Queen. “I…,” she began, laying herself back down onto the bed. “H-h-h-ow have these years been passing? Is this but a prank?”

“If it is,” snapped Uncle Franz, “it has been going on for far too long. Do you think I am happy explaining to you every week why my daughter is six, seven, eight, nine--!” Emmerich clamped his hands down on Franz’s shoulders, and the two stared at each other angrily as they descended the staircase backwards with the pace of a snail, watched attentively by mother and son.

Wielde rose and grasped the bedframe, picking up his mother’s worn, wooden staff. The old lady stared at him with a mixture of panic and distrust on her face, shifting her gaze between him and the two men disappearing down the narrow steps. “You must keep your body intact, by healer or otherwise,” said the young king, restraining his frustration, while his mother edged towards the corner of the bed and reached with frail hands towards the outstretched staff. “We will walk.”

Right before she reached the staff, the lady hesitated. “Are you true when you say I am your mother?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

Part of his mind proposed the already-questionable theory of seeing if being as blunt and honest as possible would force her to change, would launch the both of them out of this evil that was slowly consuming his mother. He was angry – upset more at the specter of illness looming overhead than the poor, sad old woman whose only love was dead and was convinced she had given birth to a daughter. Or, that was all he could say to snap out of his spells of hatred and help her in any way he could, however futile. Also, as he thought, no matter what he did, she would continue to cast aside that narrative and expect a new one during the next visit. So it had been, and so it would always be.

Wielde sighed and pushed the staff into his mother’s hands. “Yes, you will always be my mother. Your brothers may have been pranksters as children, but they certainly have never lied, and they have not now. Have no worries about it; walk with me.”

By the end of a minute of silence, the young king was leading his mother, Remdé Wynsitar, gently down each of the long, blackened steps into a desolate kingdom, passing under the tapestry image of his father. One hand of the Queen’s held onto the staff as the other clutched the young king’s hand and, warily, they temporarily escaped the haunt, Wielde fearing the past and wondering of the future. He wondered if his mother felt the same.