Soon his thoughts turned from sheer grief and sorrow into thoughts of fear for the future. How could he rule his kingdom on his own? She had been the source of much advice, much counsel that he had valued above that of all others in his court and council. She was now gone. What of their son, who was just passing into adolescence now? He would go into manhood with no mother, no woman to teach him the finer things in life. Leander briefly entertained the idea of what he would look like without his own mother, and he did not like the idea.
Why would you have done this, my love? He thought. Why? He thought back on his time with her, and he could not remember her being anything less than happy. He had been a good husband, to the best of his knowledge, never beating her like his father had done to his mother. He had strayed as far from his father's example as possible, and for her benefit alone. He had loved her with all his heart, and now she was gone. Dead.
"Shall I remove her body, your Grace?" came a soft voice, which Leander hardly recognized. He was too distraught to answer, so he merely nodded. He could not bear to look on her soft, pale face, filled with peace, any longer. It brought back too many memories. Workers began to lift her corpse--with gloved hands, so as to not desecrate her any further than her suicide already had--and to carry her away to the morgue, where they would clean and prepare her body for the tomb, the tomb wherein all his ancestors rested. She would go to the afterlife in glory, with jewels and gold to decorate her, he vowed silently. She was a queen, after all.
Then he turned and walked back into the castle, wiping his eyes with a sleeve. He could not show his pain to his people, could not show his weakness. No, he would go back to his rooms and mourn for her there, where he could do it in private. When it came time for the funeral he would stand tall and strong for the benefit of his citizens, all of whom looked up to him as an example for themselves. If he could not be strong in the face of catastrophe, who could? It would be more than painful for him, but he would do it all the same. It was his duty.
When he arrived at his rooms, he summoned his personal servant to fetch him his meals. He rested in a soft, cushioned chair, allowing it to swallow him and blanket his mind. Then, quietly and in the company of no one but himself, he mourned for his wife and his queen.
Prince Algeran struck the training block again and again with a wooden sword, mercilessly beating it to take out his rage. Chips of wood flew from it as he struck furiously, cursing aloud and with wild abandon. He had been down here for more than half the day, he knew, without having taken any breaks to eat or to drink. He would beat each dummy down to a broken pile of woodchips, and then he would demand that another be brought to him. Then he would destroy it, too, and the cycle would continue.
His mother was dead. She was dead. Dead. Not coming back ever. She could not help him anymore, could not be there for him to confide his secret pains and triumphs in. The thought was a difficult one to accept. He struck the block again to work away some of his fury. He had thought that he would grieve like his father, who had holed himself in his chambers for the last few days. Algeran would have expected to cry for his mother and then conquer his sadness. That did not seem to be happening, though, as with each swing his anger and agony only increased, until it was such a burden on his shoulders that he hardly could stand.
Part of his anger was against his father. Where was he, the king, in this time of tragedy? Hiding in his bedroom, weeping his eyes away and staining the bed sheets with his tears! It was pathetic. Algeran had always thought better of his father, had thought him a brave man. He had been wrong.
"Hold your sword, my prince," came a voice that Algeran did not recognize from the other side of the room. The Prince turned around, holding his wooden practice sword out in a challenging manner. Until he saw who he was facing, that is. A tall man, and broad of shoulders, stood before him, wearing a green tabard over a steel breastplate and chain sleeves. He wore a fine rapier at his side, but he did not touch it. What drew Algeran's attention, however, was the insignia on the tabard. A long, fire-breathing Wyrm slithered across it, the sigil of the great and terrible faction, the one his father had led him to believe was evil.
The Year of the Wyrm
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