Of Blood and Roses

Epilogue

The banished prince knelt over, pressing sweaty palms to his trousers. He had been running for weeks. After being forced out of the palace the night he tried to free Princess Ophelia, it'd been a blur of running and hiding from men that he once commanded. At first he'd been worried about the princess, but he had managed to learn she was alright. Pierre had allowed her free.

King Pierre.

Something that, it was said, was only allowed because he knew of the secretive attack that had already been launched on Rosailles. One that Jourdon had not been aware of. Silence had resonated from the Rose nation since then, one that grew harder to ignore with each passing day. He had no idea if Ophelia even survived after returning home. If only he had tried harder, snuck down there sooner to get her out. She could have made it home before the attack.

He couldn't help but feel relieved the marriage likely would not come to pass now. Ophelia needed someone that reflected her desires, ones that were very different from Jourdon's own. He was happier with friendship... if that was even possible now.

Was she even alive?

A mixture of emotions ran through him as he braced himself against a tree. He had finally made his way out of Garnette, but it hadn't been easy. He hadn't seen the moment his brother killed their father, but he had heard the shock. Seen the soldiers, the slack jawed confusion that overtook their faces. Even the ones leading him away had hesitated for a moment, unsure about the task they were given. Uncertainty has permeated their postures, but in the end they continued.

His brother taking the throne had only made his banishment more urgent. Especially when days later, his banishment became a kill order. Jourdon was to be murdered upon sight. It seemed, despite multiple witnesses, Pierre had managed to convince the majority that Jourdon was the one that killed his father. After that, Jourdon kept a low profile, forced to travel mostly on foot through the country he had been destined to rule.

He had no coin to buy a horse, and only the clothes on his back that thankfully were still the dark, nondescript clothes he had used to impersonate one of the King's Guards—skilled assassins who he had trained amongst. Assassins he was sure were on his tail, even now, after managing the deadly journey through the icy peaks of the Golden Mountains.

Rosailles would have been the closer, easier option, but with the rumored attack, he had no idea what kind of circumstances would greet him there. As tempting as it was to seek out Perle, which was separated from Garnette by an inlet between the mainland and the island which would add needed distance between him and his brother, the nation was still considered loyal to Garnette. I they discovered they harbored the rumored patricidal kingslayer, they would likely capture Jourdon and serve him to Pierre on a platter for fear of creating any tension with the unpredictable new king.

That left him with one option, Cristaney and, hopefully, a Queen that would hear him out. That was his plan, after all. To seek out an audience with the Cristanian Queen and tell her the truth, how his brother gained the throne, and seek her help. He knew little of the Southern Queen, ties between Garnette and Cristaney tumultuous at best. Though the matriarchy had once sided with Rosailles during the Great War that followed the Divide, they had kept themselves out of much of the politics that followed. It was hard to say how the queen would react, but Jourdon had to try.

First, he needed to rest. His lips were dry, his eyes bleary. He had been in the mountains for days, lost, cold, and starving. There had been little to eat, and he'd hunkered down in a cave for days as a storm passed through. Wolves and other beasts had haunted him at every turn. When the ground beneath his feet had finally started to decline, the air warming as he moved further south, he had sent at prayer to gods and Angels he had never even believed in.