Cursed

1The Best Adventures Are The Least ExpectedIt hurts. There isn't a way to describe a stab-wound that justifies it, so that'll have to do. It was a close call – being pinned down to the floor like an insect to a ruddy scientist's board, nor was it an experience I'd recommend. If it wasn't for Jethro, once the metal entered my skin, it would've been over within a heartbeat. Glimpsing Farthan's smirk but unable to hear his words as he screeched—a brittle sound—was enough for me. It’s been days. Days since the b****y squeals of arrows, chains, and pullies… like the gateway to hell started, and I’d be lying if I’d told you it hasn't been pandemonium. It’s hard to remember where we came from or where we’re going, King Jethro, the troops, and I as we cower between the only thing between us and Farthan: a rock wall not a meter thick. Every time the sun is snuffed out, we see nothing; rock behind, death ahead. Having Farthan gut me like a fish last night made me wonder – There wasn’t anything else. The rest of the narrative was splattered with far too much blood for comfort. Crimson stains seared away the rest of the lettering like a burn charring flesh, little droplets here and there dotting the i’s for Rowan as a favor. It was the last thing the man had written since the demolishing of Bishopthrope Citadel. Like most stories, good had won in the end. Shortly after Rowan’s death, King Jethro had been able to rally his troops to victory against Farthan and the army he'd bred himself. Orcs hadn’t been used as an asset of war since ancient times, but Farthan had figured how to change that quickly. The library was a greasy place. That's probably the reason why Aldor never got into books. He hadn't thought it possible for firelight to look sticky, but the torches lining the walls of the dungeon-like athenaeum certainly did. Books. Crackling. Papercuts. Old ladies. Ugh, definitely not the best place in the world. Aldor closed the script gently and shoved it behind the counter again. Two things got him the special privilege of having access to the real archives hidden in the library: being Rowan's son and having Prince Jonathan as his best friend. Some people argued that Aldor was only Jon's friend because of the benefits, but seeing as Aldor didn't have the guts to interact with anyone else, that speculation dissolved quickly. A good eighteen years had come and gone since his father had passed away, and now all Aldor could do to be sure Rowan existed once was stare at his blood drippings that dotted the manuscripts. Despite the wounds carved into the teeth of mountains and the marks searing the moors, it was like Eldoran had fallen asleep. Orcs hadn’t been seen in nearly two decades and civilians were off their guard. It was like a curtain that had briefly encircled the world was thrown back. No one second-guessed another’s intentions, the smog of war rendered the north completely untouched. His heels slapped the library floor, the echo of his footsteps strangely satisfactory as he strode through the corridors. The light poured in now and poked his eyes, having to adjust to the brightness of the world above ground. Aldor was pleased to say that he had more to life than studying ancient scripts. Aldor lived in Dagon, a northern agricultural realm, for longer than he could remember. Glen, his nurse from infancy, told him so. His world was composed of the empty plantations stitched together by hedges and nothing else. The hunger for change burned in his belly whenever he saw the guards ride into the forest that enclosed the tiny bubble he called home. He hated it. He hated the feeling because it couldn’t be contented. His head was too busy to notice much of the market, so all the faces, sounds, and sights were only smears of memory. The market stood in a vast, cobblestone square, circled by dense forest on all sides. The Castle is a bit monstrous with gargoyles to match, looming several thousand feet high, its spirals tickling the sky's underbelly. Shops crowded around a dense sea of bodies and noise. There were no gaps between the stalls. The mingling smells of sweet blood from the butchers, sweat, and spices could've been overwhelming if Aldor wasn't so used to it. “Oi! Watch it!” Aldor dipped his head apologetically, slipping through people making him stagger. “Sorry, sorry!” He slunk along the edge of the town and out of way, moving into the forest. Noises of a different life set apart from the turmoil of the city enveloped him as he shifted into trees. It was soothingly dark, the harsh eye of the sun cast a glare on the trees which absorbed it into a dense canopy. The forest, though mostly feared, was often taken for granted as a sort of protection. It kept things out. The natural wall was thick, and no one ever ventured in there—except for Aldor, Jon, and the king's patrols, which was a rare thing to see in these days of plenty. The blue thread of the river gushed through the woods nearby, slicing Dagon neatly in two before moving on to join the River Everlasting farther down. Parts were more lax than others, and that was exactly where Aldor found him. The heavy sword on his belt made Jon look more intimidating than he really was. He was a princely figure. Literally. Jon hated being the king’s grandson, but that wouldn’t stop his ceremony of becoming admiral. A ceremony which was to take place that night. Aldor was proud of himself because he hadn’t forgotten. “Aw, you bothered to show up after all.” Jon already strode ankle-deep in brown water, bow in hand. Aldor rolled his eyes and parted through the bracken toward his friend. “Long story. Let's leave it at that.” “You look terrible.” “Wow. At least I can always trust you to be honest.” Jon grinned as Aldor bent to lift the bow Jon brought for him off the ground and followed the prince's example quietly. A flicker of silver caught his eye, not to be missed in the messy fluid of brown. He noticed Jon turn at his shoulder, l*****g his lips and praying that Jon would keep his mouth shut. Apparently, that was asking too much. “You're doing it wrong.” “Shut up.” Aldor's fingers slid into place in the curve of the bow. Perfect. The sluggish creek hissed around his waist now, but he didn't stir. He utterly focused on the dark outline of the fish in front of his nose. So close, yet so far. “Come on,” his scruffy lips yearned. “Just a little closer.” Aldor's shot was hindered by Jon's disapproving monotone. The arrow cut through the water and out of his vision in a flash. “You know that was my dinner, right? Just making sure. . .” Jon's shrug was apologetic but smug. Aldor had never seen Jon flustered before, and today was no exception. “You took too long,” critiqued Jon. “No, I was distracted.” Aldor crossed his burly arms as he watched his friend swagger effortlessly through the water. He squared his shoulders as Jon grew closer, emphasizing their obvious height difference. Aldor has Rowan's build, but not his confidence. Aldor's ragged beard, which he'd struggled so hard to grow, buried lost traces of boyhood. Dark locks completed his stubble. Piercing blue eyes flickered along the lazy creek's bank to the Dagon River surging not five yards away. It seemed as though the only thing Aldor got from Rowan were his looks. It wasn't a lot. Even though Rowan had been revered as a hero, Aldor hated to admit that he didn't know much about his father at all. It was why he was desperate enough to break into a library. Glen, the caretaker who'd raised him since his father died, didn't speak of Rowan very often. No one did. There was a squelch as an arrow snapped into a nearby cod's belly. Aldor chuckled as the fish wriggled out of his grip, making him hug it closer than he'd wanted to. He and Glen would be eating well. The smell of raw fish made his mouth turn sour as the blood continued to run. “Not bad,” said Jon, holding Aldor's gaze. One look and Aldor knew that this wasn't sarcasm, “for a last catch.” Aldor froze and met Jon's stare full on. His stomach sunk to the tips of his toes; he knew exactly what was going on. No one was supposed to find out. “What do you mean?” Jon raised an eyebrow. “I've known you for eighteen years, Aldor. Don't toy with me.” “How'd you guess?” “That's not the point.” Jon watched him with a look of hurt, but he didn't seem surprised. Aldor yanked the arrow from the fish and broke through the water. Guilt made his head throb, and he investigated the forest again. He knew he was trying to justify himself, and to be honest, he was failing. “You're leaving.” He wouldn't know what he'd be missing until it was gone. Aldor had been planning to leave for a whole year. The only thing holding him back was Glen. The instinct to protect her was beyond his to control. Fear and a twinge of confusion at leaving home, the only place he ever knew, swelled within him. It was hard to keep his voice from breaking. “I can't stay here, Jon.” “Why?” “it's not home. it's time for me to move on.” “Why?” Aldor rubbed his face; he wouldn't expect Jon to understand. “Because I'm not happy. I want to see things, Jon… Maybe I have family farther south from where I used to live—you never know.” “Aren't Glen and I enough? You don't know what you'll be giving up if you go.” “it's time to find out.” “You don't mean—?” “I sure do.” Aldor stood. The conversation steered into brittle silence as they faced off on the bank. Jon didn't falter. This was exactly what Aldor had been afraid of. He dreaded telling Glen he was withdrawing, also. This was going to be hard. “Please don't stop me.” “I never said I was.” The c***k in Jon's voice said it all. “Don't go too far, idiot.” Aldor smirked. “Don't get sappy yet. I'm going to your ceremony first.” “I look forward to seeing you there.” Jon clapped him on the back and retreated, happy, though emptyhanded. Aldor's mouth muscles twitched, and he couldn't help but grin as he watched his friend part through the green with ease. The pads of Jon's footsteps slowly faded away. Aldor lingered for a few moments more, a bit overwhelmed if he was completely honest. The flashes of cod rippling through the water were no longer appealing. Jon had a harsh point. The trip home was taking longer than usual, Aldor aware that he hindered himself on purpose as he enjoyed the deafening noises of life in the forest's core. He was so wrapped up in thoughts of home, he didn't notice the motion of someone slinking through the tree— someone too impish to be human. He followed the creek breaking off from the main Dagon River, eyes tracing the leaves running along the current at his pace. The forest was a peaceful place, if one knew the spots to find. Most of Rorick feared it, sticking by the walls of the city, the children often f*******n by parents to enter the trees. It turned out isolation could be a defense mechanism, and in Rorick's case: a weapon. What would he do? He'd always known Dagon wasn't the place for him; he had a faint idea of sightseeing, but after that… Jon didn't—more like refused to—understand. There was no l**t for adventure where the prince was concerned—he was a slave to duty. A pang of regret ran through him. As social as Jon was, Aldor was the prince's only real friend and they'd both be alone. While Jon's path was all planned out for him, Aldor’s was a blank canvas. The thought that his lack of trade skills would hinder him homeless for a few years was mind-gripping. His line of thought was snapped in two by the familiar sound of someone trying too hard to stay quiet behind the trees. He froze; he wasn't usually followed into the forest by anyone other than Jon, and that was when the prince wanted to get even with him for a stupid prank. He knew that it wasn't Jon—Jon was a lot more discreet. It sounded rushed… Desperate. He wouldn't have seen the dark figure if it wasn't for how its cloak shimmered. Dragon skin. But there were no weapons drawn, instead hands held open wide in the universal symbol of surrender. That didn't stop Aldor from gripping his sword with clammy fingers, standing erect and pulling a false face of bravery. Cloaks made of dragon skin were extremely rare—only a scarce few existed. This was no normal visitor.