FELIKS
Upon returning to the throne room, Feliks found himself lost in a crowd of consorts and advisors, each lining up before his father to kneel and make their pleas and advice. His determination slowly dwindling, Feliks watched awkwardly, unable to speak.
Stepan returned to his side in the fray, and escorted him to his seat at his father's side. His chest heavy, Feliks rested his head in his hand, unable to look anywhere but into the blackness that consumed his busy mind. There was a chance for him to save his country, to rewrite his mistakes. But could he do it?
"You look troubled, moi Tsarevich," said the kind voice of his guard, "I understand that this is difficult news."
"I can do something about it," said Feliks, and he looked up weakly, "I spoke to my mother."
"You spoke to the Goddess?" Stepan looked shocked, "I did not know you were able to do that, your highness."
"I did not know either," he smiled, "but she told me. She has blessed others. She needs me to find them. With them, I will be able to find Dimitri, and return him home."
Stepan startled, "that is a big task for you, Tsarevich Feliks. You know that you are too unwell. Your father would never allow it."
"But he would allow us to be driven from our country?" Feliks sighed, "we were given this land. It is our own, given by the Gods. I was given by them, too. My purpose is to protect Aulitia, and who am I if I cannot save it?"
Stepan rested a calloused hand on the Tsarevich's shoulder, "it does not fall to you. Your father's men are sent to protect our land. They are well and able, you are not."
"And whose fault is that?" exclaimed Feliks, "I was the one, too weak to stand against Vorig. I could not fulfil my destiny. And now I have a chance to, and... and I am too scared."
"It is the fault of the Ollossians, not you," said the guard, gently, "you were only a child. You were not given the chance to learn to protect us."
"And yet my brother could."
"Your brother was a mighty warrior. You were a mighty healer. None of us expected you to fight off an Orcish army. You are too harsh to yourself, moi Tsarevich," said Stepan, "I do not believe that setting off into the unknown is a good idea."
"Neither do I," admitted Feliks, "I... I am scared."
The guard smiled gently.
"Then leave it to us," he said, "we will protect Aulta with all we have. And if we fail... we can bless another land. With your kind rule. With our unrelenting optimism. We can start again. Doesn't a life without war sound wonderful?"
Feliks thought for a moment, before nodding quietly, "...I suppose you are right."
The guard smiled, "now, rest, Tsarevich Feliks. You have had a rather stressful morning."
Stepan then stood to the side, looming steadily over the throne, and Feliks watched the room. He saw row after row of desperate consorts and generals, men in military uniforms with various golden badges pinned on their fronts with pride. They looked war-worn and hopeless, pleading to the Tsar for more time to fight. No-one wanted to give up their home, the lives they had built, and neither did the Tsarevich. His heart ached with it.
As the day wore on, the sun slipped from the sky, painting the landscape in a burnt orange. Feliks watched from out of the huge windows- another day gone. Who knew what the Ollosians were planning, where they were. Who knew how soon it would have to be before they made their decision- flee, or fight?
Eventually, the dinner bell rang, and the remaining consorts took their leave. The Tsarevich walked heavily to the great hall, followed by guards and his father. As he walked down the marble hall, an arm entwined around his.
"Did you speak with Sukei?" A musical voice asked him. Yulia's soft arm settled in the crook of his, and he smiled, troubled.
"I did," he said, "she says... that we are connected."
Yulia's eyes widened, and then she smiled, "I always knew. You are like my brother."
Memories twined through Felik's mind- of the Tsarevna Izgnaniye, a girl who showed up at the grand entrance of the white palace with her father, her eyes weary from travel, her body shaking from what she had seen. He remembered the way she had greeted him, seeing him leaning on his brass crutches, as though there was nothing odd about him at all. He remembered the looks they had exchanged during dinner, the way they had stifled their laughs despite the war raging on behind the city walls.
"And you my sister," he said, quietly, "my mother said she has blessed you."
Yulia grinned, "with eternal beauty? I'm aware."
Feliks rolled his eyes, "with a power. Something in your heart, that connects us."
They slipped through the entrance to the great hall, walking quietly as they reached their seats near the head of the table. Yulia slid into a seat beside him, staring at her empty plate for a moment, the expanse of silver cutlery.
"So I'm a Demi-god?" She asked, after a time.
The Tsarevich startled, "no. I mean... no. That's not what she meant. I think she has cast a God's blessing upon you. Though I'm not sure what."
"So we truly are made for a great purpose," smiled Yulia, "so what do we do? Does she advise we go to the front lines? Because I'm afraid I have not received my custom-made armour just yet."
Feliks stifled a laugh. His father sat heavily at the head of the table, Tsar Vladomir joining him with a solemn look on his face. The two began a low discussion, their faces grave.
"She says there are more like us. She urged me to find them, and... then we will be strong enough to find my brother."
Yulia's eyes widened. The first course was delivered by a group of servants, who quietly served fish and buttered potatoes on each plate, before filling each glass with sweet kvas.
"An adventure!" Squealed Yulia, "how thrilling! Shall we do it, Feliks?"
Feliks sighed, "I... do not know. I'm afraid that... I am not strong enough."
"You are strong," pouted Yulia, "you walked all day without your crutches."
"And that was simply a day," shrugged the Tsarevich, "every day is different. Maybe... maybe we were meant to immigrate."
Yulia stared at him, a forkful of fish close to her mouth, "that is ridiculous. Even for you."
"And an adventure isn't?" Questioned Feliks, "I do not know how I will even find these people. My mother gave me no clue. And... I cannot leave my father. What if my legs give in again and I have no bedroom to go to?"
"Then I will carry you," said Yulia, simply, and she turned back to her fish.
The two ate in silence for the rest of dinner, their fathers' conversation murmuring gently in their ears, lacing their minds with the impending threat of danger which loomed, closer than ever, above them.
*************
In the depths of the night, Tsarevich Feliks had a dream.
He was standing in the heat of the battle. He was heavier than before, taller and stronger, not weak the way that he had been, not thin. He was battle-scarred and bruising, his hair shaved clean off of his scalp. Leather armour embraced his body, the kind that Feliks was unfamiliar with, the kind that was only given to common citizens for war. He held an axe. An old one, a huge one, one brought from home.
Dust clouded, and rifles fired. He was faced with the faces of thousands of Ollosian warriors, their monstrous faces bared in front of him. But all he could seem to see was the terror in their eyes- the fear as they advanced, their weapons and shields in arms. The gunfire resounded, and blood spattered. He screamed for his fallen comrades, and he charged. Blood was on his hands.
The battle faded, and he was walking home. But home was not the white palace. Instead, ahead of him was a small thatched cottage, near to a huge red barn. He walked up the dirt path, his hands shaking. He hadn't been able to wash the blood from them.
And home was beautiful. A large expanse of green grass, yellow corn. His favourite cow, Bessie, who was patched brown and white. He drank milk from the bottle, he ploughed the field with the oxen, he kissed his mother's forehead as she cried. She had thought he would never come home.
But despite being home, a place etched forever into his memory, every nook and cranny, there was one place he would never escape. And when he looked at his large freckled hands, he swore he still saw the blood.
Tsarevich Feliks jolted awake. Desperately, he stared at his hands. They were small and pale white, no blood upon them. But before he could think of the dream he had, he heard them.
The church bells ringing.
Feliks had only a moment to process before his door was slammed open, the oak cracking against his marble walls. Horrified, he watched as the Tsar Izgnaniye entered the room, his face perilous, the darkness of the night casting shadows over his stricken eyes.
"Tsarevich Feliks. You must come."
"The neighbouring village has been invaded."