Once Upon A Spring Night

Crimson Storm

The horror of the past night left a harrowing wreck in all the lands of Andalusia.

Countless still clutched to the fear of the aftermath as many more tremors came with each passing hour of the day. Quietude bid farewell, as it seemed, nothing more but becoming the old days’ dream and a man’s deep desire if one got to toss the coin and could make it face up on the wishing well.

Dumbstruck—when every citizen had to go on with their routine when the sun rises. It was still the moments of the aurora, painting the sky the colors of blood instead of the welcoming orange and gold. The lines of red and rust in the atmosphere somewhat foretell the coming of an omen. The kingdom of Delombre, the land of many green pastures and prideful warriors of the bygone years—honorably plastered on their emblem. The realm was known for its mastery of armor and war compared to the neighboring houses, but despite such a dark title, the folks were, in fact, very welcoming. There was an openness to them, especially for foreigners who were new to their lands. With this good disposition, the kingdom became an ally to the Cipreon kingdom, which is the seat of justice and a bounty of wealth. The two houses were like blood brothers as they went hand in hand when they battled against the Moors for years before.

Now that the wars lay low, the kingdom of Delombre leisured on the peace they gained. With more time in their hands, Delombre indeed became a success. They grew their exports and strengthened their bond with their allies.

As dawn made its way to rest, King Sandalius was made aware that the invading soldiers had successfully infiltrated their gates and the entrance part of his kingdom. A soldier also reported that these invaders, who rampaged his land, bore the crest of King Joaquin’s royal house. The old King Sandalius felt baffled by this grim revelation.

Inside his council room, he and his men rushed to have a meeting, discussing what to do with this horrible assault on their kingdom. The majority decided to crush this treason before Delombre's land would fell apart. While the king was discussing, a soldier came in anxious, frenziedly reported to the monarch about the latest happenings, “Your Highness, the Cipreons,” His eyes bulged, visibly horrified with the terror that was already unraveling in their domain. “The Cipreons were massacring the civilians!”

“What?” King Sandalius became alarmed.

Straight away, he ordered his men to gather and prepare to fight. Soldiers marched to the façade area of the kingdom and readied themselves to cross swords with the soldiers from Cipreon. King Sandalius stayed at the palace for a while, rallying up more of his soldiers—ordering them to protect the center lands by surrounding it to prevent the invaders from permeating the kingdom’s heart.

While suiting up his armor, the king felt downhearted. How come his brethren let this be? Why did Joaquin suddenly want to conquer his kingdom? He knew not but to speculate. “What did I do wrong?” He pondered deeply, almost losing his mind wanting to put himself in Joaquin’s head. But the reality they are now was like a storm undetected.

“Ease your mind, your Highness. There is now a battle ahead that needs your attention.” Señor Pablo nudged. “I wonder, as well, what has gotten to King Joaquin that he came to attack us.”

“The tides of the seas changed, so does the course of the wind… We are only human. the only constant in this world is changing.” The king dolefully mourned. His face instantly aged as his brows wrinkled, constantly thinking with the thought of Joaquin’s treachery.

He remembered those younger days when they were still boys from the royal academy. They were active, rough, and rumbustious boys that caused headaches to their tutors. Not until the great General Baltazar would enter and punish them by undergoing strenuous military training that older princes were required to undergo. The pain and stress did shape them into men of wisdom and strength. The two became inseparable. The Heracles and Perseus of Andalusia.

King Sandalius also remembered those happy and tragic times they shared. Their win after win of war against the Moors, especially their most treasured one—defeating King Ismael, the great ruler of all Moors of Andalusia. But all of it had become tales to be told every night.

If truth be told, it had been years since they had a proper exchange. Sixteen long years, to be exact since the last letter arrived from King Joaquin. He remembered the joyous tone written in his letter. A momentous stepping stone for his dear soul brother that he is now finally a father.

“The first rose!” Wrote King Joaquin, “Primarosa—her eyes were like my darling. A hue of lilac was yet more vivid, reminding me of my mama’s crowned jewel. Hope that you can come to the christening, dear brother. But I do understand that a more urgent matter requires your presence. Que Dios te bendiga, mi buen amigo.”

He wholeheartedly remembered, unknowingly, that it would be the last endearment from a friend.

“I have no clue that it would end up to this point, Joaquin.” He mumbled, tightening his hold on the hilt of his sword when done suited in his battle gear. “This was never what I hoped. I pray that fate could still turn things around after this.” He continued as he strode away on the wind-swept palace halls.

During the high noon, reports came instantly about the increasing deaths of his subjects. The unexpected rampage catapulted for King Sandalius to formally forget all the goodwill between his kingdom and the kingdom of Cipreon shared. Young and old, rich or poor—none were spared from the wrath of Duke Gervasio. If one can remember the wild beast from the cave, the dragon that fought Saint George—that was becoming of the young duke. Riding on his horse, he slashed and thrashed those who came against him–he was like a feral on a haunt, a plague drawing away all that was good. The duke’s monstrosity was finally revealed in his sharp eye when sanity left and raged burned deep within his core.

There was no care for the innocents as the Cipreons advanced to the capital. Mercy was not the choice on that b****y day. ‘Twas the day the devil paid them a surprise visit with tears and pain along his wake.

On the meadows of Delombre, alas, the king and the duke met. In between the two houses was the rising tension, burdened more with the beat of the war drums and banners carrying their pride. Every drum beat and every battle cry of the men lays the implication of chaos and disarray. When the horns were, at last, blown–onward, they charged to see whose fate would reign supreme. The lion of Cipreon and the warrior of Delombre clashed, a reminder of the ancient epic when a certain land burned down, all because they openly received the horse.

The aura turned into a hellish scene. A sway of unbending self-worth and gyrating wrath—an ugly farewell to the lady spring as death was about to fertile her soil.

Blood spilled on the battlefield, painting the whole greeneries crimson, as men continued to destroy each other. Who would it be? The lion or the warrior? Only one can know after this war.