Prologue - Stranded
Under a blazing afternoon sun, stood a thought-fastened man infront a large tree, situated at the top of a high hill. Full of resolution, he darted his raging fist into the tree's aged trunk. His knuckles connected with the course wood; the force of the strike spread throughout the branches and dropped a few, loose leaves.
Though, the tree barely dented.
He elegantly struck the tree again, without a flaw in execution. The trunk stood without a cavity in sight, appearing as lustrous as it priorly was. He immensely pulled his swing further back and darted straight ahead with his entire body behind the punch.
To no avail.
Though, nothing stopped the ardent man. The tree extruded a particular charm to him: it pleaded to be struck down dozens of times without mercy. The charm was odd indeed, but it mattered not. A tree ahead of him was to be put down with nothing but his bare fists. His master promised him a dinner-less night had the tree remained rooted. The thought of an empty stomach haunted him.
He struck the tree again, and again. Each time with a different technique. A new technique. His body always moved the way it wanted — he could feel the distinguished connection betwixt his bleeding, tearing knuckles and the rough trunk. Each sweat-inducing swing and jab felt different. They became slightly robust than the previous.
His heavy panting dragged as his whole body warmed up with every passing moment. He desired to senselessly persevere. And he could feel it, a distinct feeling. That no amount of years of training could second to the sheer strength he put behind each punch. His body obeyed the simple motion: primary foot ahead of the other, the firm swing of the waist, and ultimately the beautiful jab of the arm. But his body played around with this rule; switching the order at times and negating the flow completely. Except, he still produced a strike as powerful as the previous.
His vision blurred a bit, but his body moved however it wished — as unconventional as the movement proved to be. Until, a refreshing feeling at the tips of knuckles called for his attention . . . he persisted through the harder layer of the tree. An opening. A fissure. The sight of progress.
Muffled voices then echoed from afar. They could have belonged to his peers — nothing but distractions.
‘Finally’, he smiled. The slight opening fuelled his soul with a rush like no other. A proud smug from his master, coupled with a steamy dish of roasted fish and steamy bread for dinner was all he ever needed.
He recklessly dove in a barrage of jabs that slowly broke away at the thick layer, and eventually revealed the tree's fresh insides. His chiselled wads excitedly darted into the fresh wood to their contentment.
A mysterious sap-like liquid splattered onto his face the deeper he dwelled. Though, he paid no mind.
The muffled voices loudened; transitioning from distant mumbles to disoriented, tangible words.
Thoughtlessly, he continued striking.
The liquid splattered.
Voices loudened.
The mumbled words eventually came into fruition. Resonating a warning of some sort as it dragged behind a fearful tone. His ears could finally fathom what those words cried out to him.
“Murderer!” the multiple voices screamed in unison.
The man's stranded eyes — lost in between a hazy memory and reality — finally unfolded.
“King Lykke is . . . he's a murderer!” an old woman squeaked.
She pointed out towards Lykke, who remained kneeling as if though rooted to the ground. He looked up to the woman, before darting down to the fading warmth he felt between his thighs.
The lifeless body quietly laid below him with what was left of its head, at the very least. Like a spilled glass of wine, the woman's head's remains were spread out across the ground. Everything that was, was no more, for they laid far apart from one another, on the cold and dusty floor. Her nose, her eyes, her lips. Her life.
Blood dripped from Lykke's cheek and hands. Trembling and quivering, he slowly turned his hands around, and noticed his bloodied knuckles. The trickling, dark blood wasn't his: it was more foreign than the sinking feeling he felt. An unwanted realisation. A revolting actuality.
His unstable hands, Kingly apparel and riddled face were all drenched in blood. He noticed that he did not endure an out-of-place reminiscence of his past, for his movements felt too real. What he senselessly punched through was not the trunk of a stubborn tree. It was not the tree's sap-like fluids he felt splatter across his face. Not the gentle breeze whistling past his ears.
He curiously looked behind him, and noticed the trail of bloodied corpses. The numbers only forced him to avert his quailed gaze. He wheezed from the disbelief that overwhelmed him — the walls of the small street's houses were covered with an elegiac shade of red.
The old woman shouted out once more, netting the attention of the nearby townsfolk. They all rushed in towards the unholy scenery. Taken aback by the atrocity they came across, a dozen call for the nearby royal guards.
“Your Highness! How could you . . .?” a local pleaded.
“It cannot stand. By all that is holy, it cannot! Right? Pray tell, Your Highness! Speak, Your Highness!” another cried out.
“Ah! They must have been criminals. The worst ones you could find. 'Tis the truth! F-For you to end them like this!” doubt echoed behind another's tongue.
Lykke froze up.
All his thoughts dissipated into oblivion, for not a single memory came to mind. All he could recall was the last night's bout: the run-of-the-mill dinner with his family and nothing else.
Not a single word could possibly save him.
“My . . . I . . . My h-hands bear no stain. M-My people, I am i-innocent! Believe me—” he halted.
In the back of the huddled crowd, were guards ruthlessly nudging people out the way. Only, they did not appear to be any regular instruments of protections and safety. Clothed in complete crimson-red robes, they were guards who rushed in without an ounce of amour, nor sheathed sword in sight.
‘The Elurae’, he gasped under his breath.
He stood up from his kneeling position, alarmed. If the Elurae, of all guards, got their hands on him, all hope would be lost. With orders — from his own governance nonetheless — stated that any dangers to the Kingdom beyond the average guard's power would be extinguished in an instant. Without a single thought in mind, an urge took over his body.
The urge to . . . run.
He scampered into the opposite direction of the revealing alleyway. While leaping over pools of blood, he ran down the passage as he forcefully averted his gaze from the paling cadavers below him. He held in his brittle breath.
“Stop! Flee any further and we will end you, criminal!” an Elurae demanded. Lykke continued, with the echoed tapping of his feet against the ground reporting his resolve. The three robed warriors darted ahead in unison, chasing the man whose death was their top priority.
He did not recall killing anyone nor leaving his resting chambers, no less. He only woke up to the aftermath of his godforsaken deeds. He should have been innocent had he explained himself. Had he pleaded for forgiveness.
Though, his dropped heart fuelled every large step he took. Every step that distanced him from the clutches of The Elurae’s wrath. Steps that distanced him from the faces his daughters and wife would make during his biased trial — and during the inevitable commencement of his public hanging.
“Stop! Now!” an Elurae said.
Lykke could hear their footsteps catch up faster than he could think. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, and he could feel it. His body could feel it, more like. The danger the three behind him posed. If they caught him, his life would end then and there.
He rushed past suspecting eyes and the idle, scurrying past and through them with great haste. He leaped over haystacks and swayed away from oblivious passersby, occasionally looking back. Two of the three Elurae fell behind, as the woman in the middle caught up to his sparking speed.
He hurriedly jolted to the left, and appeared beneath an underpass. The path to the Kingdom's gates lied directly above him — a clear way out. He continued down the pathway, until he saw the light of day once more. Above him, was the ledge of the bridge.
Stopping in his tracks, he completely turned back, to be met with an Elurae running his way.
Their gazes met.
She stopped in her tracks faster than his heart could drop to the sight of the woman ahead of him. “Vedere?” his crestfallen voice echoed throughout the now silent pathway.
“Lykke?” her brows narrowed. “You murdered those poor people? Tell me it isn't so . . .” her open palms clenched into fists, enraged fists.
His mouth only trembled, for all the thoughts in mind begged for a mere utterance, but he remained silent. He bent his knees, and with all the might in his body, thrusted himself up into the air. And in an instant, he grabbed the edge of the underpass, pulling himself up onto the empty road.
Lykke ran down the carriageway, and followed it all the way to one of the main gates of the Kingdom. Vedere came to grips with his every move, ableit, fell short in speed. With the immense gap between the two, she resorted to performing the Kingdom's forbidden: Kunst.
Standing directly in the middle of the carriageway, she fell to a knee while her arms were extended outwards behind her back, with open palms. Her hands heated up as dark-emerald, small orbs materialized in the middlemost areas of her palms. Robust, green flames blasted from the orbs' centres, launching Vedere into the air. She zipped towards the gates, with her eyes set on Lykke.
Without a second thought, Lykke reached for one of his daggers and tossed it straight for the rope that kept the gates open. Precisely so, the dagger sliced through the already weathered rope, unravelling it into chaos. The jaggered underpart of the gate dove down into the ground before Lykke leaped outside the walls. And just before Vedere could make it out, the gates closed shut.
She stopped herself before safely rolling to soften her landing. The cavities between the gate's structures were far too narrow for her to slip in through. Panting and sweating, they both looked at each other from the opposite sides of the gate.
They shared a wordless glance one more time.
Mountains of words and emotions negated one another, bounced back and forth and bitterly embraced one another through their momentous gaze. A pair of brown eyes met with a pair of emerald: behind them were thoughts that begged to explain themselves, as behind the others only dared to assume the worst of Lykke's deeds. Until, their silent stares were interrupted by the other Eluraes shouting out to Vedere.
He silently wandered off to the nearby stables, to seek out a horse for his imminent absconding. She silently watched him.
“Master Vedere! He escaped!” one of the two exclaimed.
“A fast one he is that one. Did you manage to see his face at the very least?” the other added.
She noticed him head up the route that lead into the nearby woodlands. A bitter taste lingered at the back of her throat.
“I did . . . 'Twas King Lykke. Gather the Royal Council. We must see to this matter at once.”
