(№5.2)

The Weeping Monarch, which was the title given to the king after her passing, one day stopped shedding tears or having feelings altogether, that couldn't fit the bottom of a pint, his bastard son was being mildly disliked until he reached the age of boyhood, remnants and features sprung to life too differently to be of the king, where his entirely different background of origin was discovered and a light sigh of wind turned instantly from a brazing breeze to a tornado compacted with a volcano and the boy was abandoned, meant to walk the earth astray, tending to the shadows like his true kin did before him.

His brother on the other hand, the sunshine, the sunbeam, the bundle of pure joy, the apple of the kingdom's eye would spend his entering boyhood completely different.

In this land, at these times, people were accustomed to celebrate two particular anniversaries more progressively than others by the respective passage of rituals:

At the age of seven, you'd leave grey infanthood and enter the stage of more sex oriented courses concerning family typical studies. It was the hazy debut of one's boy or girlhood which was heaven's forbid only celebrated in the most profligate manner possible: Depending on status and riches, the child would let it be woken up by the sun itself, regarding whenever that time would be, sun rays tickling them to wake up. To proceed, girls would be plaited prettily, intricate braidings, interlaced with golden threads depending again on status adorning their heads like crowns, while boys would wear their finest clothes and have a sword for the first time attached to the hip. They'd only get the finest, ripest fruits to eat and the best parts of the meat. The ones stepping over this threshold also were to celebrate their anniversary by drinking their first drop of high-percent alcoholics, mixed in a special tincture with donkey's milk, honey and mediterranean herbs to have the child get used to the harsh, flushed taste of burntness, and they'd drink it to hoping  some luck and good chances were bestowed to mar the way of the rocky, steep future. The rest of the day, the children may enjoy their gifts or time with their beloved until tomorrow hard labour would follow, as one shouldn't be two comfortable, too well-seated in one position, for work and effort were inherently to aspire after in this life.

The other age selected to be celebrated in particular would be of much more importance though: One would break the veil of childhood to enter the rocky, steep path of bitter adulthood at the age of seventeen. On the anniversary, the newly-made adults would find themselves waking up early before dawn, to bathe alone in a crystal clear source of water. Some areas might not be opted with such, so a lot just went to the nearest body of water, any it could be, which would have to suffice. On their lone way, there were to speak no words, to intercept no family or friends and to reflect on their previous path of life, as such is required by their almighty, absolute Goddess that watched the people of the forest kingdom with a fierce eye and an even stricter sword, speaking whenever it cut or chopped but the uttered words of righteously true justice. It was rather an eager blade, drawn to the scent of weakness and insatiable lusting for the taste of blood, privy to execution.

The young man or woman might also think of the profession they want to essay to gleam with excellence. Girls or rather women now normally confronted themselves with the upcoming marriage and their tedious tasks to tend and care for their husbands in every possible instant, to bear the village many blessed children. After bathing, the village would awaken to hand over a small, sharp blade made out of the purest silver as a lucky charm, a token of finality, though the girls usually were advised to consign the knife to their men at the wedding ceremony. At breakfast, where they were to feast only on freshly-made bread and honeycombs, men would receive fittingly short-hair, abandoning the long locks of their youth and women were equipped with more or less rare jewellery. It was also the day, where their guardian angel consisting of the recently passed relative could finally move on to the greater beyond and they were under the capricious mercy of the holy Goddess, just as everyone else. Following their belief, the guardian angel's task was to protect and care from the other side for their blood-bonded children, to make sure the cuts their knee caps endured during playing and tumbling wouldn't infect and how miraculously old, gnarled branches in the woods wouldn't crush them with their weight when toppling down. But it was gravel work, to look out for a young soul and sometimes the eyes of a guardian conveniently would glare the other way, when their despised nephew was balancing on the edge of a cliff and a mischievous breeze caught in his hair...

The loss of one's place in generous afterlife though could be endangered in many more crooked ways, as this was the most important thing at stake. For instance, the choosing of breaking one of their three forbidden virtues was a matter just as crucially important, where - until the clock would strike midnight - the young adults were to finally enter adulthood by committing to three forbidden vices: The first kill (animal or human to that matter indifferent), the first time where sexual lust could be acted upon or the first sacrifice to their Goddess.

It may sound cruel to foreign ears to force such things on the most unwilling, but since the iron law insisted this is how it's done, so it shall be decreed upon these people.

The breaking and destroying of their innocence was crucially important, for moving on from childhood required such sacrifices. It wasn't though a thing you really could have a say in, as those who went for the first two were heavenly frowned upon and shamed, although you needn't disclose your chosen lost virtue, people ascertained it eventually, considering how another person, or the survival of a creature was always involved. Killing specifically anyone, whether animal or human was deduced to be the work obliged only to the lowliest people in this town, for their beliefs to the forest Goddess prohibited overall taking one life, even in defence and attack alike. Rather to die imbued with a pure heart than to live on a sinner.

Notably, the aspiring adults ought not to be sanctioned for their immoral deeds, as such the Goddess claimed had to be done to eternally slide over to chagrined adulthood and in itself that was punishment enough. Of course, they were always free to opt for the third choice, donating a portion of their flesh in a ceremonial burn offering, so she could indulge and engulf it wholly and would win either way. Rightly listened, their sacrifice consisted of cutting off a finger digit or a toe to burn for their lady, maiming the body terribly to alter the mind mature. They also could pass through a long process of hour-long bloodletting, where the aspirants had to bleed silently, still moving over a field of white lavender, the special symbol of this ethereal entity, so she could ease her cravings for flesh and be forever united by her willing sacrificers.

Children were never allowed to offer to her a piece of their flesh and parents who attempted to please her with such unimportant disturbance would immediately place the fate of bestowed madness over their heads, as dumb, clueless children of their own would never acquire the concept to injure themselves to an invisible force, which could not be felt nor comprehended nor really talked to, would endow favour upon them.

Not that she was all too content with a rule that would set an entire age group hair lengths out of her influence, but some rules were just unbreakable, some vows just greater than oneself selfishly could break for nothing noble at all, besides selfish delight.

The older brother anyway had already made up his mind how he would sacrifice the smallest toe of his left foot to the fire in a couple moon cycles. He sometimes feared with the burden he soon would be placed, yet pleaded with himself to live in the here and now, as mysterious plagues and famines always regularly would snatch in a heartbeat good, healthy souls and place the order of death on their heads as it must be. The future should be a matter handled precariously, and only when it gradually simmered to be presence, rather than worrying about his occupation, how often the king's mood swings would temper and let it out on his bastard son, threatening to throw him out of the castle on each little whim. At least he had somewhat of a plan who to take for a wife.

He even was on his jolly way to her now, long before the sun impatiently would wake his younger brother to enter a new, adventurous, wonderful state of his life. For her father was the blacksmith of the town planted at the foot over the castle and he would be the one to make his brother his first ever bronze short sword, that - given - wouldn't be war-trustworthy or was even last a year without fatalistically be smudged by strange powers who'd let the blade go dull and stain it with blood-like smears, although if everything would go to plan, as the goddess intended, his brother would never even scratch so much as a human with the tip.

Honestly, if it wasn't for her, the woman to be his, he'd probably get hold of a much more suited blacksmith for the future king of this kingdom, regarding the nature of her treacherous father who rather would steal like a dishonest the coin of his customers than produce the quality their riches would deserve.

He spotted their little cottage close to the sprouting river with the fuming slot and moved a little faster, his rivalling heart beating a little too rapidly.

Her hair was the colour of the smoothen night sky when grazed with the stars, her brown warm eyes shone with a spark as wise as the first fire to be kindled and her skin was the golden afternoon one would meet on the longest day of summer.

Goldbar, would be her name translated to the tongue the reader might speak as of right now, because she was such a trinket in any way, every right thinking man would want to possess her and her suitor-situation had only worsened after she entered womanhood a couple weeks back, yet her father was not unreasonable. It was undeniable what fondness passed through both sides, so he greedily proclaimed he would consider that the personal disgrace of the crown could possibly have her, for the right price and amendments prepared, that is. And he gladly would convinced of the arrangement if that meant she would be as equally joyful as he was and she would be protected from all unworthy men who were gazing at her ankles a little too long, those breathing in her neckline when twenty of yards away.

He was on the line of the front door but continued to walk until he arrived at the smartly hidden back door of her private chambers, nestled neatly invisible into the bleak facade, where he paused and - the motion practised by many instances where he had sneaked over - knocked the door in the agreed rhythm and pace and was greeted by the creaking door, swinging ajar, a puzzling confusion written on his face. It wasn't like her to not close her doors as immaculate night insects might find their disturbing way inside the same way lusting human-faced creatures would.

He was no man embarrassed by decency, so he gently knocked with his knuckles upon the door, pushing the timber door further upon to enter.

Her chambers unfolded forward, just as he always remembered them:

Everything held in brown, enriching, warm colours, might it be her curtains to shield unwanted lights or her cupboards or shelves. Every blacksmith who's at least a little worth something knows the art of feisty fabricating furniture, so her father had made her bed and rack all by himself, out of the dark polished oak wood, gathered in clusters on the outskirts of the forest. For as long the villagers would tend to the fragile health and wealth of the forest system, they were free to cut down old trees and ill young trees after heavenly preparing them for their death: Prior three nights to killing one, they had to sing and talk to the tree, making sure the it would not be afraid: Anxious and sad wood always would stick out just like green sheep did with unstable creeks useless in planned use for any construction site.

He always thought of her rooms like a hollow friendly cave of a brown bear, warm and lulling, her scent marred in cool gusts of air, lavender blended with myrrh.

Today was though the stench of something stronger in the air: tension, as thick as neck tendons were craning and sticking out, pulsating, the air shivering with great emotion. He released an uncomfortable sigh, feeling weirdly strained, on edge, shocked by coursing electricity but at the same time waterboarded over and over and over again. He turned around a corner to find the source of all these itching unpleasantness:

She sat at her proudest possession, alone her sturdy back raggedly pointing to him, at a long table carved out of the bottom of an austere tree which was already very old when found dismembered in a creak and it was bare mercy to have it used in an object of daily need. Goldbar though did seem distraught, quite contrasting from her usual jolly appearance and attitude, bubbling and kept in constant tremors to share with the world her zealous front. He stopped dead in his tracks, unable to move, perplexed by the image taking shape in front.

Her hair was in all rounds, glinting so dully, so flatly around her head, her neck was oddly reddened, her gown only hastily, carelessly applied to her body, her eyes devoid of all contentedness or the vestige of present consciousness, dark rings claiming the place beneath her sunken-in eyes and giving her the look of being the living dead. The sword for his brother lay in front of her, the edge blood-smeared.

But he wasn't looking at a cheap, replaceable sword.

He was only looking at her, his heart paining, this restless pulse beating in his throat, attuned to the one whose owner seemed shaken by a myriad of spite, seizing her mind: It understood the imminent arriving danger in the current better than he did. In these first crucial seconds, he was certain a man had attacked her and left her in this shambled form. Perhaps he really was to kill after all to be bereft of his innocence.

She whispered his name like a melody, like an enchantment spoken by the priestesses in the east where they sacrificed in a manner related to polytheism, sacrificial religion to many gods, not much unlike theirs. She seemed headless, hopeless and utterly broken to shards.

Finally, his unnecessary ban of stillness was lifted, as he hurried to sit across from her, taking in her cramping, veiny hands in his, as tender and sweet as he had picked a feather from the forest soil.

"My love, what is it? What happened to leave you in such a state? Who?", he asked, full of worry, keeping his incensed rage in check, for he knew yet not who to slaughter, comfortingly squeezing her hands showing he was here, presently hearing her demands.

Goldbar shuddered and trembled, her eyes shifting back and forth when they finally seemed to perceive his face.

He opened his mouth to further note his inquisitions, but she interrupted, her eyes as stern as an eagle's beak, her words as determined as an arrow aimed at the throat of one's arch enemy.

"I had a vision last night, gifted to me in a dream. A prophecy". She gulped with uncertainty and looked at him, her eyes filled with the hollowness of anticipated tears that would not fall down now, but in a dire and brutal future for yet unknown reasoning to him.

Naturally, he knew about her prophetic gifts marking her somewhat of a seer and they always carried a good laugh about the ridiculousness the visions allowed her to prosper about what was to come, ranging from the butcher chopping off his fingers in accident to the priest picking his nose intensely.

Sometimes the angels were silly like that with their presents.

"So, what did our Goddess show you?" Pause. The air shifted and the customarily darkness of her attached cabin didn't feel like a sanctuary, no more like a safe space where one might hide from monsters and men, yet rather a centre for the bad specimens to prattle and schmooze, to skin the limbs of children under the table and sharpen their claws for the night stalk. It felt like the walls were too close, too near, at the verge of swallowing him away. It didn't feel good, he felt pressed, suddenly wanting to leave, to flee as far as his legs ought carry him, atwain from this creature across he yet had to meet, leering for his death.

She shook her head, unable to meet his piercing trustworthy eyes, her features radiating all the badness, all the gloomy, dark hopelessness that could crush an army of people, that would eradicate any spark of goodness and simple love. Goldbar's face twisted under the burden of high knowledge, as if hate and anger had won the constant battle and they all were to bulge out, distorted, poisoned by negativity; The demons lurking in gallows and corners at long last would not only consume all of them, they had stripped her of any hope long before, and she was to live long enough to see them all fall. They had made her akin which was much more worser than dying because of what was to happen.

Her voice cracked and flowed knowing all ideas portraying greatness, all creations, all of them would be crushed by greedy ethereal time and nothing anyone would do, could change anything. Sometimes the angels were cruel like this, gifting mortals with a shard of their wisdom to have them suffer and be informed of pestering terror, but not of an inkling to a solution, to stop the impending doom, and seeing it, experiencing it everyday, unto only be freed by letting action take seed.

It was a chill far worse than winter winds, rather equal in watching your children die or your house set ablaze by the fire.

"It wasn't our Goddess that attempted communication, yet this fact doesn't null or void it in the slightest; In fact, its importance for all our future has only increased".

He watched her half-amused, half-stupefied. What other gods were there to talk with her causing such grand reactions?

Her body started to tremor, but her hands and eyes were steady as she leaned in closer, her breath a cold puff on his cheek, as she intently looked in his eyes.

"It sounds utterly ridiculous and delusional, but your brother by choice, the prince of our kingdom, has to die. Tonight, before the turning of the new day breaks loose. It has to be tonight, by this blade and by your unhesitant hand". Another pause, now letting hell break loose and entities tatter, and gods weep.

A voice that didn't seem to belong to her body went on for both of them, speaking equally of contempt and chagrin.

"You need to kill the future king of this kingdom and poison your father with red mulberries collected at the river bank flooding inside the deepest pocket of forest. You are to be king, and the prophecy is fulfilled, a dozen lives protected and saved by dangerous laws, and..."

"No". The simplest word in their language, besides the opposite of negation, being the converse of saying yes, escaped his lips as easily as taking the first conscious breath each morning.

He was not a particularly good person: He had stolen the jewellery he fancied for her, had expropriated fascinating story-telling books of his father and a drawing of his mother when she was his exact age. He lied and scampered, when it fitted his goal, after all the end really always justified the means and he had no business ruling over a kingdom or for one to destroy the only not despicable thing in his life: The only one who loved him really unconditionally. His little ray of sunshine, his baby brother who would experience life in every aspect and would be the best, the fairest sovereign to ever be born. Though he himself wasn't made to lead an Empire, to siege in victory; He might only be bested by the weakness that ailed his mother, made her temptations surge and her thought on hold as she crushed into her counted days mercilessly, with him in tow as spawn and a night of terrifying, twitching agony, until her soul had leapt to hell for her crimes. He was greedy, selfish and abominably unloved: He would only fail as a ruler, and didn't deserve a throne, could never think of wanting it.

"Why are you saying such things? I will not do this, I can't do this... For the love of our sacred Goddess, what evil spirit has wedged your heart apart and controls your mind ruthlessly?".

Her face distorted more in response to his outburst, eyebrows furrowed and in worrying to deter the hate and misery that was to follow by crafting it her tools.

"Just because you simply do not want to do something, doesn't mean you don't have too".

He shifted in his seat, recognizing the snake, the impersonation of evilness in front of him, looking ugly, self-consumed, sparking the fumes of hatred she tried to envelop him in as well.

"Fine, have it your way, I am incapable of cold-bloodedly murdering my little brother".

"First, you are not bound by blood and second we all are murderers, if we have to be", she snarled now, her mouth disgustingly poised, but her eyes shining with begging, with fretful conviction.

"I can't kill no one; I am barely scraping the periphery of adulthood and until then ought not to break one of my virtues". Triumph on his side, but real confusion on her side.

Had she really not thought of this point thwarting all sense to go on with this nonsense? Even if they were just jolly mortals doing whatever their hearts ached for, no one could sway away from the will and want of the Goddess without paying bitterly for it. Goldbar knew this, just as everyone else did. Check mate.

 His throat closed up, upon understanding dawned. What were they doing here? What were they even talking about? He didn't initially want to fight against her, always with her, yet blood was thicker than water, even she, the beguiling muse bestowed on Earth, the woman who claimed his heart with an iron fist could not count more than family.

"The law of the three virtues only applies to humans", she spoke slowly, beckoning how he didn't seem to follow her.

"Well, exactly".

"You really don't know, or are you simply pretending innocence?"

"What ought I to know?", he spit out now in fury, hands harshly gripping the table's edge. He didn't understand her game and didn't want to go her lane. Was it because the ill rumours proclaimed his brother was god borne? Better to not pursue her bitter path in creating logical reasons to her illogical behaviour.

"Fine, trust me by my right clavicle, the Goddess is definitely going to forgive you for this one crime".

"Why don't you cold-bloodedly murder a child all by yourself if you are so fixated on seeing his dead body?" The hatred and impatience for her were boiling in his veins like something mad was to possess him, like the deepest darkest atrociousness crawled out of forgotten depths and attempted to take control, something seething in him that further fueled his blatant hatred, bitter ire. The brother wished to encase her throat and push hard, the motion of strangling even, shuddering her to senses, but something again in her gaze told him it wasn't only her he was talking to but a higher power.

She only shook her head and whispered even quieter: "He's already too powerful. You are the only one who might succeed, because he doesn't expect it's you".

He glared at her in disbelief.

"What do you mean he is oh so powerful? He can heal easy, light injuries , that's what he can do! How is that going to be helpful when being inflicted by a mortal, lethal wound, by being stabbed!" A breath of wind seemed to catch in his hair, in the all-still room, as the witch he chose to partner with smirked a small scary smile. Shivers travelled down his spine and for the first time ever, he felt disquieted by her presence, moreover this dire sentiment scraping the limit of fear.

"You know as clear as I do, that that's not what he really can do. It's the pretty embellishment, the petty label you endowed it with to calm the daft sheep you call subjects. He doesn't heal, he changes".

A breath hitched. He never told her, he had never told anyone, not even the present king, his true father knew all details. Then how could she know?

"Goldbar, what are you insinuating for his future, if I don't succeed with this still irrational, vicious murder, fratricide in law?"

The hint of ironic amusement gone in the blink of an eye, fixated moreover now to move the way for uncertainty, slender along the path of visions.

"There are no real details, all blurry possibilities, which may result in you finally believing my word to be true and consider ..."

"What. Did. You. See?! ". The shift went from a question to an order.

Flashes of humanity backed back in her flesh in the form of red stains adorning her skin, as the woman shifted uncertainly in her seat, now all her empowering confidence used up.

"It's fogged, clouded. But I see a lot of violent deaths. And darkness. And self-loath and lunacy and odium and animosity towards himself and others. And a war in very far times, caused directly by the crossing of paths with a ... no, I guess that's irrelevant, if we don't let it come to this. But I see the clearest... Blue."

"Blue?"

"A boat."

"A blue boat?"

"No, ... a ship".

Enough of this nonsense already.

He took with one mighty swift motion the sword out of her hands and stood, his lips pressed, his expression cold.

"You are entirely and completely lunatic and a lying maniac. I cannot wrap my mind around the apparent bad things I have done to you to merit such. I am going to eat now with my very breathing brother his morning breakfast and I will make sure he will remain this way".

Goldbar didn't shout or yell nor gazed him a moron. She looked like someone who was certain of imminent death and would be calm and collected, as nothing could be done to prevent it, as the wound was already inflicted and quaked, a body to be drained in minutes and there was nothing to stop the blood from flowing, to preserve this life, than to properly conclude it, by saying the final goodbyes.

Honestly speaking, he wanted her to fight back, to let fierce fire burn, but apparently, the fire had eaten all things beholding power and churned hungering for more, but doing so tranquilly. He attempted to turn around and leave, distraught and rejected, when she commenced to mutter silently, awe audible in her impressed voice;

"I believe you would make for a good king, fair and square, freeing us out of that tyranny we are enforced by the daft and spendthrift moron clamouring our taxes and claiming our chattel. No child of his could be better, even if truly being angelic or heavenly. I believe...you could change things. I believe in you".

He eyed her skeptically and impassively, desperately trying to berserk the image brewing in his mind and speaking to his deepest, most hidden desires, ricochetting with all might and disturbing him from his cause. It was too late, the seed had stirred, the poison was placed in the cup he greedily quenched his thirst with, the image of his with a crown placed on his head and a sceptre in the right hand, burned in his cornea.

He had lied, you know. He always despised his brother a little for being heir to power and influence while he was once again left with nothing but his status as a damned bastard loathed by their people, hence the vile blood running in his veins to better keep distance, before it spread his contamination. His visions, dearest wishes threatened to surface and ruin everything he ever worked for.

It was true he would make a bad king. But that didn't mean he didn't yearn for the throne nonetheless.

"You feed nothing but lies", he whispered resolutely, tears barely kept at bay by his dwindling anger and with that he turned and never saw her wretched, compelling face ever again, awakening the tiniest of envy he permitted to carry, even considering killing the smallest heir, his brother by choice, in cold blood to once again get what he wanted in secret.  

The entry to a kingdom of his and her delicate form seated on the throne next to him.