Chapter 101

A Stage Beneath the Stars

“It was a tooth blemished in black, tiny, silver spots decorating its rough surface; I beheld it once, and I felt tremors shake my soul, as though the weeps of ten thousand Ghouls echoed out from within me. It is a ghastly thing, and should never be allowed to leave the Vaults.”

Strange Artefacts, Vol. II

Claire paced nervously around a narrow and stiff room, dulled with rotting wood and creaking doors and shabby-looking windows. The fierce flames of the dying candlelight did little to cradle the dark of the night and made the macabre world a few shades worse in comparison. She bit anxiously at her fingernails, the look in her eyes faintly demented, her short hair just beginning to grow back once again. From time to time she would stop and gaze out the window, out toward the cobblestone-paved alleyway full of dark and not much else.

It was well after midnight, she was certain; the moon was in the full swing across the sky, and the merry stars lit up the horizon. It was a beautiful night by all accounts, yet the haunting sounds of the toiling bells never left her ears or her mind. They rang for so long and sounded like weeps and wails of the mournful, and even the densest and the least interested soul knew what they meant: that the King had died and that the Crown had fallen.

Bryan had left just after, dolled up in the outfit of colors and bells singing the same tune hanging from him, and was yet to return. She knew well enough that the world within the walls of the Palace was maleficent, that many whispers within could change the course of the world within a day, and that many of the same walls within hid the eyes aplenty waiting to strike. She was worried, and regretted letting him leave; they’d only just reunited, after all. What worth would be her life should he never return?

Her worries, however, never came to bear fruit as, just a few minutes later, the doors to their home creaked open and the familiar silhouette came prancing in. She raced over and threw her arms around him, pressing her head against his chest as though to feel the sound of his heartbeat, to confirm he was alive.

Quickett stopped in place and looked queerly down at her, hugging her back in silence for a long while before she finally let go and looked up at him. She had been crying, he noticed, her eyes appearing bloodshot even under the cover of the dark. Her fingers traced over his cheeks, shaking all the while, until they’d reached his lips where they paused for a moment.

“You are safe,” she mumbled, sighing a low tune and pressing her head against his chest once again. “I’ve been worried sick.”

“You shouldn’t have.” He said, caressing her hair.

“How can you say that?” she shoved him away as they both entered the singular room of the house further in. “What else was I to do?”

“… sleep?” he smiled at her. “’tis what most of the world does when the sun sets, you know?”

“…” she grunted and rolled her eyes at him, causing him to chuckle. “It’s good that you are safe.”

"I was never in danger, Claire," he said, taking off the colorful and ridiculously large hat from his head, revealing a headful of light-brown, curly hair. "How long do you think I've been navigating those halls?"

“This is different, Bryan. It is not just another day in the Palace, with you poking fun at the adulterers and making them nervous. The King has died. That is too monumental.”

“… wrong,” Quickett said, taking a deep breath. “The King has not died.”

“E-eh? He’s not?”

“He’s been murdered.”

“What?!” Claire exclaimed as her eyes widened in horror. She stumbled back and nearly fell, barely holding herself up by reaching toward the downtrodden cupboard. “He… he’s been murdered?! Are you… are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have taken so long in coming back was it not to confirm it for certain,” he said with a sigh, slumping down onto the bed, his shoulder slouched. “We need to run, Claire. This… this is different. Bigger. Larger than either one of us can even comprehend.”

“… run? Why? Aren’t we the safest here?” she asked, sitting quickly next to him.

“… the King appointed me,” he said. “And now that he’s dead, I’d rather not gamble my life on the tempest-like mood swings of our dear Courtiers. For all I know, they’ll doll out my sentence to death first thing tomorrow. I’ve used the King as a shield to play many cards, Claire. That’s how I survived all these years. Now… now that shield is gone.”

“… what about that friend? The man who helped me escape?” Claire asked after a brief moment of silence.

“Him?” Quickett chuckled bitterly. “He might be the most dangerous of the lot. Were he not half a Kingdom away, I’d have chiefly suspected him to be behind this. But… even if he isn’t, he’ll be like a fish in deep waters. We… we are not, Claire. We’ll drown if we stay.”

“… then we leave,” she said quickly. “We leave, and we never look back. I… I’ve stashed a few pieces of jewelry I had on me, and I can sell them.”

"I know a few coachmen that can take us out," he said. "But I don't trust any of them enough to let them take us further out. I have a friend, stationed inside one of the border-castles. I'll have him help us temporarily with provisions until we become self-sufficient."

“It sounds—” the knock on the doors startled both, Quickett more so than Claire. He was always careful… always… except for tonight. He'd always change his clothes and remove makeup before returning home, all for the solitary purpose of never being found out. However, tonight's venture was too distressing, and too much was on his mind… that he'd forgotten.

“Hide.” He said lowly.

“But—”

“Hide, quickly,” he urged. “No matter what happens, no matter what you hear – stay hidden. You hear me?”

“Bryan—”

“Promise me, Claire,” he said as another set of knocks sounded out. “Promise me you’ll stay hidden, no matter what!”

“… I… I promise.” She said as he helped her duck under the bed. He quickly put the hat back on and took a deep breath before prancing toward the doors. Swinging them open, he nearly howled out when he saw the person standing across from him – the First Prince himself, Evon. He had a destitute and determined expression, his blue eyes glistening in the dark. A faint smile hung on his lips as he saw Quickett’s reaction.

“Y-Your Highness…”

“Surprised?” Evon asked, taking a peek inside.

“… shocked, mostly,” Quickett quickly recovered. “After the years of rejections, you finally reconsidered.”

“Perhaps in another lifetime, Quickett,” Evon said. “I’m afraid my visit this time around is more… business-oriented.”

“Oh?”

“Would you like to let me in? Or are you going to make your Prince stand outside your doors?”

“In many ways,” Quickett said. “Outside-my-doors is more worthy of my Prince than the inside.”

“When I was nine,” Evon said, ignoring Quickett and entering the house of his own volition. “My father tossed me into Weepwoods for six months. No food, six jugs of water, a hunting bow, and a knife. He'd told me he would never let me die, but if I was ever assisted as to survive, he'd never let me inherit the Throne. Naturally, I was long ways from knowing that he had no means of prohibiting my fight for the throne, so I panicked. My first night in the woods, I fell asleep crying. Then, day after day, I stumbled around like an idiot, growing hungrier, and hungrier. Fourth day in, I'd already gone through half my supplies of water."

“…” Quickett half-listened and half-observed the Prince, glancing between the bed and the man frequently, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

“By then, I realized… I was wasting time,” Evon stopped in the middle of the room and turned toward Quickett, a faint smile hanging on his lips. The light from the candle cast a strange shadow over half the man's face, turning the usually handsome Prince somewhat callous. "So… I settled down, and reached back to the teachings I received before being tossed. I started eating fruits and berries I knew were safe and ground numbing plants into medicine. I hunted deep-earth-dwellers by baiting them, skinned their casts, and made a rather primitive armor while eating their meat raw and using their acidic stomachs to guard against insects."

“…”

"When the six months flew by, and they came to get me, I'd lost thirty pounds, half my weight. I was skin and bones, paranoid, and tried to stab one of the guards as, in my eyes, he was a human-sized flesh-scrambler. It took me almost two years to fully recover, physically, and mentally. So, I imagine that a shabby home could be counted as a Palace for me, all things considered."

“… I never knew, Your Highness.” Quickett smiled nervously.

“The last living that did just died,” Evon said. “My men reported a bell-hanging devil scurrying about the Palace halls, listening.”

“I—”

“I don’t care for it, Quickett,” Evon interrupted. “Rather, I care little for whatever you’ve learned. I came here to reassure you.”

“Reassure me?”

“The same blanket that my Father provided you,” Evon said. “I’ll extend it. Your safety will be guaranteed under the Doctrine.”

“… why?” Quickett asked, frowning. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but I hardly got the impression you enjoyed my company."

“I didn’t. I don’t, really,” Evon replied with a chuckle. "But… I enjoy the company of plenty of others even less, and they still will continue to lurk. For all your queer flamboyance, you are a clever and resourceful man, Quickett. Shield or no shield, were you not as smart as you are, your head would have long since been hung up on a spear. You should have already realized that my Father’s death will have long-reaching consequences that, as ashamed as I am to admit, even I cannot fathom. In times like these, I suppose it is better to have as many friends as possible, no matter their garb.”

“…”

“If it sounds like just another lie spat at you,” Evon said as he saw the odd look in Quickett’s eyes. “Then, perhaps, my other request might ease your soul.”

“… your other request, Your Highness?”

“I need to reach two people,” Evon said. “One of them is the same man that had you deliver that letter to me.”

“Your Highness—”

“Spare me your false soliloquy, Quickett,” Evon interrupted. “I’ll find him, regardless of your help. You are merely just another, curious avenue. I am more inclined to believe you will be capable of finding the other man.”

“… what man, Your Highness?”

“A merchant,” Evon said. “Hasn’t been around for too long, from what I’ve heard. Flint Fyllun is his name. You should have heard of him.”

“I—I have, Your Highness,” Quickett did his best to maintain a somber expression, though was nearly at the point of ripping his hairs out in frustration. “If I may ask, what need you have of an ordinary merchant? If it is merchants you need, I know plenty, most far better known than him.”

“And far more overt and self-aggrandizing,” Evon chuckled. “Don’t worry about my needs for him. Should you locate him, simply let me know. Should you come in contact with him, feel free to tell him about my invitation. My motives… though may not be pure, are still within reason. I mean no harm to either of the two; rather, just like you, I’d like to become friends with them. With Father dead, you should well know that the vultures will start dropping from the sky, Quickett. I may just be a Prince, but I will not allow the greedy and accosted to rip my Family’s Kingdom apart and gobble up its innards as though it’s an animal’s carcass.”

“… I was certain you would have withdrawn,” Quickett said after calming down. “And bided your time until the Holy War.”

“I imagine that’s what most think,” Evon nodded. “As it sounds like the most logical step. And, perhaps if I were a wiser man than I am, I might have done just that. But… I am not, Quickett. Someone out there is trying to eat away at my Family, piece by piece. Though the Throne sounds desirable, it will be a hollow victory if it is at the expense of my entire Family. The Crown may hold the weight of the thousand stars, Quickett, but the arms of your own blood can hold a hundredfold. When the dark descends and the cold eyes gaze at the behest of the wicked, neither the Crown nor the Throne will stand in their way. Few things, and even fewer people, I’ve learned, will.”