Rulers of Veistanlu

My Savior

Before this, he must have had a better reality. A well-developed clan, a caring father, a loving mother, a warm home. Maybe siblings, too. However, years have passed since then. It had been such a long time, and all he could think of now was domestic duties. His body, capable of practically anything, had only known feet swirling around a mansion and hands flowing back and forth, searching for the tiniest dust from particulate matter.

He tried to find a well-paying job and one that suited him, of course. Not only that his current job gives him nothing but a single penny or two at every sunset, his Lord had an ineffable behavior— and that person of Nobility was the first reason he wanted to leave. The thing was, he was not alone in this ‘home’. If he had to escape, he would have to bring his fellow serfs, or his years of protecting them from their Lord’s wrath will come to vain.

Onyx’s body was capable of practically anything, and besides chores, he tanked every soaring glass bottle and hefty hands from his Lord, nightly. Everything, just to leave others unhurt.

He could unsheathe his sharp claws and slam the Lord's neck into the earth, putting an end to it all. He could use his extraordinary abilities to end their misery. But there was this one member of the clan that he fought alongside— after a time, his name faded into the depths of his hazy memory— who prevented him from doing so. All he ever remembered was this:

Humans can be fopdoodles. Even so, we mustn't lay a finger on them with the intent to kill, that member once, perhaps several times, had said. He was unsure if he was always told that in his forgotten past, since the same lines kept coming back to his present.

“Humans are fopdoodles,” Onyx murmured back, as if he were conversing with a real person.

Besides that, a boy as white as snow, tainted with blood redder than roses, somewhat kept his morals strongly intact.

While he was chopping off inches of grown grass with huge shears, a strong stench of butterscotch seeped in his nose, and his eyes shifted quickly to its direction. A pouring brown liquid glistened under the morning light from a bottle, to a bundle of blue flowers. Lord Dolian had a menacing grin, one that Onyx is too familiar with, while he declared death to his own blossoms.

He stared at him with stillness, his fists tightly curling the shear’s grip. No one would be happy to see someone muck up your hard work— especially Onyx, the one who nurtured the garden for years, a garden that's not even his own.

The same voice that reached him whenever he had the sudden rush in his blood to kill admonished him again. When Dolian threw the beer bottle on the lawn where Onyx was, leaving it to be disposed of by anyone but him, the voice admonished again— over and over.

Onyx dared to question, Why not?

He placed down his shears and picked the bottle after his Lord fled to the open gates, aiming it to where he could see through the flowers behind the brown tinted glass. He watched the ale drip down from the petals, to the leaves, to the soil. If a human only knew how to bring suffering, then why not?

Just as when he thought that the voice in his head was a real person from talking in oddly specific scenarios, it hadn’t answered back. After all, it had only ever known how to utter the same words in the same sentences. Besides making him calm down every time he witnessed Dolian do dreadful acts, the voice led itself to be questioned.

Onyx does not understand, and he might never do.

With the hopes of the blue irises to live, Onyx allowed the water from his small bucket to run through its roots, washing away the visible ale he saw, and until his enhanced sense of smell picked up the tiniest whiff of alcohol.

Onyx wandered around the mansion, which he admitted was beautiful solely because of his and the others' efforts. After working on the garden all morning, he figured that he could simmer down, even if he did not at all feel physically weary. He watched another serf approach him on the wooden bench with fidgety hands.

"There is new furniture at the front— Onyx?" Quillan, one of his workmates, was left confused behind Onyx who walked away. He immediately understood that Quillan was in need of assistance with heavy work that he hadn’t needed to hear more.

Quillan was a lot shorter— or Onyx was just that tall of a man. His frame was weak and physically inept to move weights, leaving him to observe Onyx by the front gates, carrying the wooden cabinet so easily off the carriage without a sweat.

"Where to?" Onyx asked with the furniture still in his grasp.

"In his room. Thank you." While Quillan was talking, Onyx took a quick glance at him. Fresh wounds on his workmate's small forearms caught his attention, causing his nails to carefully find their way to dig into the newly polished wood. He made sure the marks weren't that visible before recklessly dropping— or throwing— the cabinet beside Dolian's desk in his orange bedroom.

Onyx was confused how Dolian managed to hurt Quillan while he was around the house; he would have smelled the blood, he would have heard even the faintest whimper— but he hadn’t. He recalled Dolian earlier, and he was not under the influence. So, what happened?

Onyx's eyebrow arched with a puzzled look, and he brushed his index on his own forearm while facing downwards to his workmate.

"Ah!" Quillan covered his left arm with his right palm, as if it would remove the wounds' existence— but seeing Onyx's frown was intimidating enough for him to give an answer. "I was deep in the woods to gather stones for the garden's pond, and he saw."

It was the first time it happened; Dolian with a sharp tool between his fat fingers marking skin with the sun out. The Lord seemed to be trying harder this day, and Onyx couldn't help but find it suspiciously unsettling.

Fine, he thought whilst walking his way out. I will have to try harder, too.

**

Onyx had a displeased look on his face.

Horse hooted and clip-clopped over the stony thoroughfare, a slim chill in the spring air; Onyx's eyes opened to the sight of a bustling street in Velemau. The creaking of carriages and the cacophony of people forced his thin lips to straighten shut.

Onyx was very aware of his aversion to people. Was it influenced by Dolian? Was it a result of negative events he couldn't remember? Or did he not develop any relationship, nor did he make any effort to do so— and then rushed to pass judgment on it? He's always had it, and being in the middle of a crowd doesn't help matters.

His lean body flinched at a sudden bang on the floor that rang his ears. He stared at a wooden box in front of him, sitting on the muddy floor and the edge of the wooden carriage. The widths were hanging on different ends.

Now that he had his eyes on the box, the old coachmen with pints of mud on his worn-out tunic looked at him. He looked too disorganized to be a commoner, so he must be a serf like Onyx, but under another Noble. Suddenly, the old man ran towards him.

“Wait,” Onyx stuttered as the old coachman remained running towards him in desperation. Both palms waved into the air, signaling the man to halt on his tracks. He can loudly hear the smallest sobs from the poor man on the verge of crying— still, the man wasn’t listening to him!

Onyx dropped a sweat, and said, “Stop on your tracks, old man—” but before he could ever finish, two wrinkled hands that looked like he never took a break from laboring under the sun, grasped on Onyx’s right wrist. To make it worse for the serf, the old hands clutched on his bare skin, making Onyx feel his rough, unwanted palms.

Onyx’s hair behind his neck stood, and he offhandedly exclaimed, “Ew!”

When he realized what he had said, his hand flew to his mouth immediately, as he watched the man let go of his wrist. Shame seeped inside his system as he felt the cold stares from Nobles. The old man looked sad, and possibly offended, and small crowds started eyeing them— some amused, some pitied. He must’ve thought that Onyx found him rather ugly, or Onyx was disgusted with his unkempt appearance, but it wasn’t the case at all. Onyx, too, appeared his worst and was poorly dressed, and he had no rights to speak lowly of others when he himself was placed in the lowest class of the hierarchy.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t like physical contact, or any of the sorts,” he explained, his voice much softer, but loud enough to be heard by the nosy commoners. This time, he prayed that the man would understand to avoid further embarrassment.

“Ah, I’m sorry, too! I understand. It’s unmannered of me to touch without permission,” the old man showed a crooked smile, nervously scratching his cheek. Onyx sighed in relief; he was lucky to bump on a forgiving man. “I saw how you looked very mighty, and as you see, I desperately need help in carrying my— oh my lord!”

Mid-sentence, the box fell entirely on the floor with a loud bang, jolting everyone in surprise, especially Onyx, since he heard it more than twice as loud as everyone.

Even knowing that the old man was poor and would trade nothing in return, he already felt obliged enough to lend a hand, since he was guilty of his impulsive reaction when he was grasped without malice.

He could have lifted it himself, but he didn't. He ordered five guys who were already around the carton to lift each side as quickly as he could; the lengths would be carried by pairs, and one would hold the other width, while Onyx would hoist the width behind the carriage. The carton sailed into the air with ease when the countdown struck three. Onyx got on the carriage and hauled the box back deep into the open carriage to ensure it didn't fall off again, while the others just assisted to make it appear as if Onyx didn’t do all of the work.

“You are so strong!” The old man praised Onyx after the wooden box was back onto the carriage, but he’s still too embarrassed that he left.

“Weird because I didn't feel like I was carrying anything.”

“I think it’s the tall guy who carried it all.”

“Maybe it’s because we’re six people so it was an easy task to do, eh?”

Onyx came far from the coachmen, yet his eavesdropping continued with the hopes that no one finds anything suspicious. He chuckled softly. Yeah, because we’re six people. He drowned their conversation by the street’s noise, until he could no longer hear them. Nothing special at all.

But my wrist still felt very icky, as much as Onyx wanted to voice his displeasure with his shivering wrist, all he had to say remained in his head. He returned his gaze to his exposed wrist, which he held in the air with curved lips, and saw how much shorter his sleeves were. Pulling it towards his wrists, the sleeves wouldn’t stretch and remained barely past his elbows. He realized that not only was his brown tunic worn out, but he had also outgrown it.

He wondered, how was it possible for him to grow when hadn’t eaten any protein since meat was costly? For years, he had to make do with bread and cheese to conserve pennies. Plus, Dolian doesn’t even feed them at all!

“Ah, whatever. It still fits somehow,” he said, and was now conscious of the fact that his tunic embraced his whole toned torso tightly.

The scene strayed him away from his current task in the street which was to simply buy bread, and he wished that it would be done for. However, this day wasn’t looking forward to Onyx finishing it; more people asking for assistance in carrying things after the commoners saw and praised his actions earlier, and some picking others weaker than them for absurd reasons. Even if the thought that he wasn’t in the position to fix everything was imprinted in the back of his skull, he knew the scenes, he heard it, he saw it— smelled, even. Shame will bite back at him if he had knowledge about certain things, yet place not even a fingertip.

Fortunately, he received free bread and money from some of the people he helped as trades, and that was enough to drive himself to spare time on making things work without any physical contact and lending much words.

Moments later, he stumbled upon three men beneath an old lady in her stall. His attention raced towards them after hearing insults and threats to rob the lady.

“Hey, s**t hag. How about you lend us some juicy treats? If you do, we won't harm you at all.”

“Your fruits were harvested nicely and all, but it would only taste fuckin’ good if it’s free.”

Onyx placed his palm in his face, and gripped it. How had these ill-mannered kids even entered the borders of Nobility? He swore that this would be the last one that he’ll lend a hand to.

“These sorners,” Onyx mumbled, dropping his hand back to his side while approaching the troubled stall. “Let the woman sell in peace.”

He remembered the irritation that piled up from dealing with unreasonable, thick-faced people that only knew how to cause problems daily— and he let it all out with a grunt, similar to an animal’s. The men were unfazed, until their neck stretched high up to see who made the low, aggressive sound.

“Ah,” the word escaped from one’s shivering lips. “W-we’ll be just leaving.”

The one who spoke tugged away his partners with chills on their spine. They tried to act like they weren’t just speaking ill of the old lady, but they were scared. Onyx knew, as their prideful expression changed to a fresh face of fear for him.

The old lady exhaled softly, her shoulders falling from stiffness. Unlike the old coachman, this old lady was neat and clean enough to be part of a Noble family. With a shaky voice, she insisted, “Please pick from any of the food as my thanks.”

Onyx relaxed when he eyed the wooden container on the ground with various fruits and vegetables. He looked through it as though he was searching for a specific thing from the good offer.

Finally.

"Can I have some strawberries, please?" He asked. His tongue craved for the fruit for a long time, and wouldn’t miss his chance to eat it this moment.

"Of course. Let me prepare for it, son.”

His annoyance had subsided. It was a cycle; he would experience any emotion, and then it would die quickly, only to reappear when he was reminded of it. As the bright berries wailed as they dropped into the plastic, Onyx focused on its calming sound.

And then there was a roar of trumpets.

Shortly, Onyx’s ears deafened, his slump posture jolted straight by the unexpected blasting trumpets that floated across the kingdom. His palms pressed his stressed ears from the ongoing shrill accompanied by clopping of white, black, and brown horses.

“That s**t harmed my hearing,” he mumbled.

A newspaper folded like a closed paper fan from the old lady’s hand smacked against his wrist that still shivered. It was a strong swing for an old folk, but Onyx felt no pain, so he was surprised instead. She scolded, “I know you helped me, but those who curse will be devils as they die!”

Onyx was urging to say, I already have horns anyway, but in my teeth, to compare himself to a devil, but that would make an argument, and arguments meant more talking, so he remained quiet.

Without even asking about what was going on, the old lady lent him information after her scolding, “This means they have some good or bad news to announce.” It was only there that Onyx’s enhanced hearing was useful, since he could perfectly hear the old lady despite the blasting trumpets with his ears being completely covered. The old lady seemed to be used to the loud trumpets, since she wasn’t bothered at all, making Onyx think that his ears were weak compared to hers.

Onyx stared at the road with wide eyes, tracing over the amount of neighing horses under men in silver, metallic attire, slipping through the steady carriages that halted to make way. Some horses ran until the exit of the borders of Nobility, on their way to the borders of the Commoners and the other regions of the kingdom. Neither of his experiences within the streets were this ear splitting and urgent, leaving him bewildered.

“Greetings to the citizens of Velemau,” A Knight pulled the reins of his white horse just meters away from Onyx.

To relieve the ache in his ears, Onyx gritted his teeth, letting his hands fall back on his sides as the trumpets ceased, and glided his foot sideways. He wanted to step away with disinterest, but the old lady stopped to listen to the announcement, the strawberries remained still in her grasp. Sighing, he decided to wait. After all, it’s not every day that he gets free food from scaring bad guys away.

“Over the last six months, there has been thirty-three assassination attempts towards His Royal Highness, Prince Alvar of Veistanlu,” the Knight shouted, followed by the negative responses and sad wails of the people.

However, Onyx felt nothing about the situation, but he couldn’t stop himself from questioning why.

“We are currently looking for a combat butler that may protect the Prince. Due to the exigency, all are allowed to participate in the selection, regardless of class. If interested, please register at the outer gates of the royal palace until tomorrow.”

“Excuse me, good sir. How much would the wage be?” a man meters away from Onyx asked.

“A hundred pounds, monthly.” Like everyone else, Onyx’s mouth opened with surprise after the Knight answered.

He was very ignorant about everything in the Kingdom— from events, news, history, even basic information such as its regions or the rulers— and it only took a disclosure of large sums of money to catch his interest.

“Poor Crown Prince. He must be having a hard time.” He glanced back at the lady, while the Knights prattled away. His mouth stretched a smile when he got hold of the plastic that he ate one strawberry right away. The old lady continued, “The last time I remembered he was being targeted was New Year’s Eve. Luckily, he fought well against those black-clad bandits.”

So that’s why it was so noisy that time. Onyx remembered the people’s cacophonies back in New Year’s Eve that hadn’t entirely sounded jubilant— there were some periods in time that the screams were a combination of terror and anguish.

However, questions like, “A non-Knight Noble can fight?” and “Why was it just now that they had decided to seek for a combatant?” spiraled in his head, and it was no doubt that he was curious. Curiosity kills the wolves as they say, so he shook his head and forgot every query.

"He's pretty damn smart that he's not dead yet." While his canine burst through another sweetness of the fruit, he added a remark about the Prince. “Thirty-three is a large number in that scenario.”

”What did I tell you about cursing?! My, my, you’ll grow a sharp tail out of your bumhole soon.” The old lady smacked Onyx with her newspaper again. Receiving no reaction from Onyx, she hummed, as if realizing something. “You should consider signing up, son. It seems to me that you are very capable of so much more. Everyone flinches on my NP chop, except you!”

Onyx wasn’t a fan of the newspaper chop at all, but he was surprised about the idea of some humans flinching with fear from a hag’s swing. He wondered, How fragile could humans be?

Perhaps, he wasn’t hurt because: it was just a piece of paper, the swing might’ve not been strong enough, his pain tolerance was just really high, or peasants were just so used to facing heavy hands, always ready to hit them only to leave black, blue, and red marks. Sometimes purple, the only scenario where that color of great luxury wasn’t luxurious at all.

Onyx simpered, turning away from the old lady. He hushed, “I’m not involving myself in some Royalty’s scandal.”

He recalled the announcement from word to word as he made his way back. He hated to admit it, but he found himself considering the offer.

Onyx was always confident over his combat skills that were on hold for years, considering that his current job doesn’t require much kicks and swift punches. Although, there were two reasons, and the first was given.

The Prince had too many assassins trailing on his back, wanting him dead.

Onyx assumed that the Royalty had done something reprehensible like corrupting the flow of the kingdom’s money, or killing another with injustice, backing the fact that he was being tracked down thirty-three times with those times being in the span of only six months. Who knows how many were the assassination attempts in the Prince’s whole life? When Onyx became involved, people turned their hearts against him, too. For some reason, he wasn’t comfortable when he was the one being resented at, so that conclusion alone was enough for him to drop it.

His train of thought came to a halt when suddenly, someone on his eye-level bumped into him after he turned into the narrow alleyway, the final route back to the mansion. The collision of their shoulders was enough to trouble his unguarded body and grasp; the two plastic bags were let go to fall off the rocky ground. Fortunately, the bread had not fallen off, so he was able to at least give something to Quillan and the others.

However, the strawberries fell.

Onyx looked at the man with whom he had collided but paid no heed. His eyes were soulless, with no thought but anger behind them, his jaw clenched, and his legs wanting to run at the man dressed in maroon surcoat. Harsh words began to collide behind his mouth like, “s**t, what a waste!”, “Consarn it, I haven’t indulged much into the fruits I craved for so long!”, and more vulgar curses— but nothing ever came out.

The guy he ran into seemed to be a Nobleman, and despite his illiteracy on politics, it’s common knowledge that it's never good for a lower class to be pitted against an upper class because Nobles always gain victory and receive all the benefits. In the end, he could only stare at the Nobleman’s retreating back as he continued to walk away the alley.

Onyx suddenly heard a familiar, faint scream from the mansion. His wish to run was fulfilled— but he ran the opposite way from the Nobleman and the fallen berries.