From Lost Prince to Commander

WHERE IS PRINCE LUCAS?

I only used to kneel before the seven graves, as I had every day since my feet healed, speaking to them in whispers and imagining they could hear me, smiling down upon my living soul. Strangely, it brought me peace.

They were arranged accordingly, from the biggest to the smallest, so I found it easy to know whose remains lay under which. Father, Mother, Big J, Modella, Darren, Little J, and Manila. Often, I thought about how I was supposed to be lying between Little J and Manila. If I hadn't struggled so hard to get out, then I could be there, and with them wherever dead people go when they die.

Many times, she comes with me, standing with her hands joined behind me without making as much as a sound. I like to spend the moments here with them alone, but she forces herself into the picture, and it's hard to remove her, not with that nasty scar shaped like a small island on her cheek.

I hate that scar, and for reasons more than the fact that it is a dent in her imminent beauty, a reason for the girl with white skin, flowing, black hair and deep green eyes to be called ugly. I hate it, especially because she got it from the fire that killed my family while trying to rescue me, so in a way, she has a right to be here with me.

“Prince,” she starts to speak this one time when we are at the graves, after an hour of silence.

“Lucas.” I correct her, not wanting to tie myself to anything that would remind me that I am of royal blood in our city, Como, especially now that I know that it is the reason why my family lies buried six feet inside the cold ground.

“Lucas…” she starts, putting an arm on my shoulder. “You never pray for them. Why?”

“God let them die. It doesn't feel alright to ask him to keep their souls.”

She says nothing, and I turn to look at her, even if I turn to the graves again because I'm shy and because I don't want to see the scar on Miranda. Sometimes I wonder why she never let me burn in the flames.

Miranda is three years older than I am, and fifteen. The artful hands of womanhood have left gentle curves on her, and I see how all the boys stare at her when she goes past them, ready to kiss her feet if she would ask. Yet, I don't know why she just won't leave me alone. I don't like seeing her, or that scar. It only serves to remind me that all of it is my fault, that she would be fine and I, dead if she never tried to save me that night.

Strangely, she is the only one I say more than a few words to, and actually have long conversations with. Her parents and grandmother — the old woman who treated me — follow in that ranking, as I feel as though I owe them for protecting me. They are also the only ones I permit to call me the ‘Prince’, and I do not tolerate any words from anyone outside their family. They do it in private, anyway, and I cannot hold it against them.

Again, I remember why they are dead.

My grandfather was Como's king years before, and long dead before I was born. Like my family, they killed him too — he was murdered by a group of men who decided they were liberals, and that Como deserved democracy. They put themselves in positions of power, and made everyone forget about us.

My father wanted nothing to do with royalty for this reason. He wanted everyone to forget that he was supposed to be the king, and to let him live in peace. He supported democracy when he could, and even if he was hurt that they killed his father, he did not show it.

Yet, the very thing that my father ran from would be the one to end him, to end us.

Rumors arose that the people wanted a return to the good old monarchy, and my father was the immediate candidate. I still remember how he used to tell everyone that he was happy and peaceful as he was, and did not want to be king.

The men in power did not believe him, and they decided to root the problem out once and for all. It was why they sent people to burn us alive, and almost did it successfully. Now, I am the only one left, and Miranda's family is hiding me.

“We should be going back home.” Miranda's voice says to me as she drops a flower on my father's grave.

I smile at her. Again, she is the only one who sees me smile.

Nobody else does.

Five years pass, and my visits to the graves are less frequent. Miranda still goes with me, following closely behind.

She's now a twenty-year-old woman, and I'm more aware of her than ever before. When she talks to me, of her boyfriend and how she's been getting through school, I only envy him — a bit — and how he must feel to get to touch her blossoming body or inhale the scent that dizzies me anytime she comes too close with her soft body pressed against mine while playing, forgetting that we are adults now, and no more children.

Her scar is still there, and I still hate it. The only thing is that the boys coming after her don't seem to see it at all, or they don't care about it as much as I do.

The old woman is still very alive, and so are her parents, all lively. My hatred for other children and desire to be forgotten by Como has made me insist on not going to school, and I follow them to their farm all the time. They agree on how useful I am for them, but worry about my future sometimes, expressing how they don't want me to be a farmer.

If only they knew…

The problem with Como is that her people never forget, no matter what, and when the democratic government starts to fumble again, they start to speak of the good old days of the monarchy. Worse, they remember me, and everyone asks the same question.

“Where is Prince Lucas?”