Archive of Our Own

EIGHT

He knows. 

Eight year old Garroth enters the room hastily. In his view is his father, sitting on the throne that is positioned above the rest of the room. His mother is standing half way between the door and the throne, as if she is undecided as to where she wants to be. An unreadable expression is on his father's face, but his eyes hold a cold gaze that does not shift from his wife. From his position he cannot see the look on his mother's face, but he imagines one of fear.

He moves closer towards his mother, using the red carpet to muffle the sounds of his footsteps. A small part of him hopes to not alert his parents to his presence, but in truth he knows that they are aware. This does not stop their conversation.

"What Zane claims, is it true?" he hears his father ask. His voice is low, but his tone is filled with anger.

Garroth has reached his mother by now, which is why he can hear her faintly whisper, "yes." She flinches when Garroth puts a hand on her arm for support. There are tears staining her face.

Garte Ro'Meave does not express feelings often. He is a stoic, haughty man who values fame and politics over his own family. There is not a single caring bone in his body as far as Garroth is concerned. When his emotions do surface, it is usually through physical means, or yelling, of which his family typically bare the brunt of. After he communicates his feelings, he goes back to the status quo.

This makes it all the more shocking when Garroth notices a tear run down his father's cheek. 

"Why?" he questions, "what did he have that your family did not?"

A seemingly simple question. Even Garroth, as young as he was, could answer this. Any man is better than his father. Other men have love to give and physical affection that his mother has not felt in years. Other men are not Zane, whose personality is as twisted as a braid. Other men are not Garroth, who can recognise that he clings to his mother far too much. Other men are not this family, broken and bruised and unlovable.

Zianna clears her throat before she answers. "It is not this family. Irene knows that I love you and our sons more than words could ever say. I do not deserve that love returned anymore." Garroth squeezes her arm at his, trying to silently tell her that she is wrong. She grabs his hand in her's, finally acknowledging his presence. "I was lonely, and then I was selfish. I sought the kind of comfort that wives crave from their husbands elsewhere."

Garte uses his hand finger to wipe the tear away from his cheek. His eyes are still staring at his wife (and now son too) but he is not looking at them. The gaze goes through them. Garroth wonders if he is trying to pretend they don't exist. 

Feeling as though she has to fill the silence, Zianna continues to explain. "He was a traveller, in town for only a few weeks. I did not develop any feelings for him. My heart would never let me. Just my mind wandered astray."

"And your body, it seems." Garte sounds disgusted. Garroth does not understand what he means. His mother is here, in the flesh. Though neither of them could blame her if she had left.

"Oh Garte, it was only once. It was a moment of weakness. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry." Tears begin to fall down her cheeks once again, and her breathing quickens. It is not a sight that Garroth enjoys whatsoever. He regards his mother as the most beautiful woman in the whole of the world, and he loves it when she laughs her brilliant laugh and smiles her radiant smile. Puffy eyes and weeping does not suit her.

"You have made your own bed, Zianna, now you must lie in it. You will bear the child, then it will be dealt with." The phrase brings him a wave of nausea. 

Somehow, his mother begins to blubber more. Her hand lets go of his and moves to her swollen stomach. 

It was astonishing to believe that his father had not noticed anything before Zane had. Zianna had tried to hide her growing tummy by wearing loose-fitting dresses and larger coats, but any person who spent enough time around her would notice the bump growing over time. Garroth had realised long before it had gotten to the size it was currently. He isn't sure if it says more about his father's lack of attention towards his mother or his own overabundance. 

"Please," she says, "do not hurt this child. They are innocent in all of this. I'm sure there is someone who will be willing to adopt, or I can leave and raise the child myself."

"And leave your other sons behind?" Garte says. Concern for his sons is not present with his voice, but it is dripping with manipulation. "How would they feel if you abandoned them for this thing?"

Like I'd stay with you, is what Garroth would have said if he possessed an ounce of bravery.

Zianna makes an attempt to wipe her face, but it does not do much other than wet her sleeve. Guilt and desperation is evident in her expression. "There has to be some way, please, Garte. You are not a wicked man. You would not hurt a baby."

"It is a bastard. What right does it have to live?" The callousness in his voice shakes Garroth to his core. His father is cruel, sure, but to threaten a baby? Much less, his younger brother. An ugly, monstrous part of this man is rearing its head tonight. 

Taking a step forward, Zianna closes in on her husband. For a second Garroth thinks that she is going to slap him (a deserved hit), but rather than inflicting any injury, she drops to her knees less than a foot away from the throne. Her palms connect as though she is praying, and she learns forward, touching her forehead to the carpet.

"Please," she begs, "spare this child. Do whatever you must, but do not allow harm to come to this child. I will spend the rest of my days making up for my crime, and I will accept any punishment you deem necessary. But I am begging you, do not hurt my baby." 

Garroth's feet are stuck to the floor. Dread curls in the pit of his stomach. He cannot decide whether he wants to run as far away from this scene as possible, or pick up his mother and tell her not to degrade herself like this, or beg with her. Instead, he gawks at her kneeling form. Tears pool at the bottom of his eyes.

Garte is watching her. No emotions are present on his face as he watches his wife toss away her dignity. Who can guess what is going on inside of his mind? Is he seething in anger over the whole ordeal or is he enjoying tormenting his poor wife? Does he get some sick satisfaction from hearing her beg for his mercy for her child? Questions that will forever go unanswered, aside from speculation.

An eternity that seems like it will never end passes by, until it is broken by Zianna slowly rising to her feet. Her eyes meet her husband's briefly, and Garroth misses the look she gives. He imagines it to be one final plea. Then she turns around without a word and begins walking towards the doors at the opposite end of the room. On her way, she grabs Garroth's hand and guides him in the same direction.

Silence follows them.

TWELVE

Twelve year old Garroth sits quietly in his chair at the dining table. Uncomfortable, he shifts slightly in an attempt to get into a more agreeable position. No such luck, however, since the chair is part of an ancient set, used by many ancestors before him. It was so old, the Divine Warriors had probably dined on it once upon a time. The furniture creaked at any given opportunity, whether it be from heavy plates full of food placed on it, or if someone sits on it. Sometimes he thinks it creaks for nothing at all, just to taunt him, as if it is mocking him that it can make more noise than he is allowed to.

To his left sits his baby brother, Vylad, who gets less of a baby day by day. At four, he has passed the need for a high chair, and now sits on his own rickety chair. Beside Vylad is their mother, who looks weary and glum. The past few years have not been kind to her, tasked with the difficulties of raising an infant on her own. Garroth wants to take her struggles and lock them in a box somewhere, never to be seen or heard from again. He tries to help, but there is only so much a child can do.

At the opposite side of the table is Zane. His nose is stuck inside a book, probably about Top Ten Ways to Annoy your Older Brother, or something along those lines. Garroth spares him only a quick glance, then goes back to looking bitterly at the table.

Their father is late. Dinner is supposed to begin at six in the evening, but the clock reads twenty minutes past. The food is slowly going cold on the table, and the rest of the family are getting impatient. Garroth can tell by the way Zane is tapping on the cover of his book, and by the way Zianna keeps sighing. However, they cannot start eating until all members of the family are present. 

Vylad is staring longingly at the plate resting right in front of him. On it lay a hearty chunk of chicken, an array of vegetables and enough gravy to drown himself in. Garroth thinks he can see the young boy drooling a bit. If he could, he would have eaten the entirety of the food and then some in the time it has taken Garte to arrive. His stomach is seemingly an endless pit that grows hungrier the longer it goes unfilled. Zianna swears she has never known such a small child to consume as much as he does. His favourite are peas, of which he could probably eat for every meal for the rest of his life and still never be satisfied.

Someone's stomach grumbles. As if summoned, their father finally enters the room. He slams the door before storming over to the table and taking a seat across from his wife. His face is red, a clear sign that he is in a foul mood. Zane's book is now hidden under his seat and Zianna has stopped slouching. Nobody greets him.

The look on Garte's face is one of wrath. Judging by his expression, Garroth guesses that today has been a particularly rough day for the Lord of O'Khasis, filled with long and boring tasks like reading letters from neighbouring villages, dealing with disgruntled citizens and ensuring that trade is going well. To prepare him for the future, his father makes him spend one day every week helping him with these tasks. He dreads it every time.

Uncertainty hangs in the air. What anybody is waiting for is a fool's guess. Everybody has arrived so the logical next step is to begin the meal. For whatever reason nobody makes a move to start eating. The unpleasant aura surrounding Garte makes them hesitant to move, frightened that one wrong motion will provoke his anger to be taken out on them. This is not an unusual occurrence in the Ro'Meave household.  

Vylad is the first to break the awkward atmosphere by reaching forward to grab his fork. He stabs in into a roast potato, grins, and shoves it in his mouth with all the grace of a newborn horse. As if granted permission, the rest of the family follow suit and start their meal.

The food is delicious. Their chef is the most highly regarded cook in all of Ru'aun. It makes the wait somewhat worth it and provides a pleasant distraction from the annoyance radiating from their father. Vylad lets out an exhale of relief now that his stomach is being filled, which causes Garroth to smile. There is a mess of food all around his younger brother’s face and he can’t help but chuckle at the sight of it.

Before he can hide his amusement, his father notices. "What's so funny, son?" An innocent question asked by anybody else, but from him it is comprised of malice and ire.

Garroth doesn't dare make eye contact. Wiping the smile quickly off his face, he tries to feign a contrite look. He lowers his head in a slight bow, attempting to communicate an apology. 

There had never been a spoken rule that silence was expected at the dinner table, but it was something all three sons and their mother understood. Even Vylad, barely old enough to no longer be considered a toddler, knew that he had to be quiet, even if he did not understand why. They had to be mute in order to give the Lord of O'Khasis the peace that he needs after a long day's work. The rule had been born out of courtesy, in an attempt to not cause more stress to an already strained man with childish, noisy banter, but it had developed into a necessity. Somewhere along the years, it became like a law in the household, something used to protect the children and wife from his rage.

Often, Garroth found it hard to speak when eating at all. Whether it be a lunch with just his mother and brothers, or a snack while around peers, he found himself muted. Times like now helped him understand why he was this way.

"Please share what you find so amusing," his father prompts, pushing for an answer. By now, everyone has set their utensils down, food half uneaten, eyes on the situation unfolding. 

Anxiety fills the space where food should be in Garroth's stomach. All the food he had already consumed no longer sits nicely in his belly, but turns as heavy as lead. His heart is pumping the blood around his body at lightning speed. Breathing becomes a difficult task. 

Just as he opens his mouth to explain, he is interrupted. A childish voice says, "It was me." 

Four pairs of eyes flick to the small boy to Garroth's left. Vylad has determination all over his tiny face, along with an excess of gravy. "I made Gar laugh by making a mess." Zianna makes an attempt to hush him, but he carries on. "Don' be mad with him."

Garte rises to his feet and slams his palms down on the table, causing a terrible thump, along with the rattling of dishes. The table groans underneath his weight. "That's enough out of you, vermin. Leave the dinner table." His eyes flicker between Garroth and Vylad.

"Garte," Zianna begins to protest, "they're just children."

"Why is it that they should be excused for disruptions because of their age? Zane is a child, is he not? Why is it that he can be respectful at the table and these two can't?" Garroth can imagine the look of pure smugness on Zane's face. He knows that he is everyone's favourite. Ever the golden child; he only speaks when spoken to, keeps up with all of his studies and is a dutiful son. A better fit for future Lord of O'Khasis. 

Zianna does not reply to her husband, which only seems to anger him more. Before anyone can react, Garte is standing over her. His large hand reaches to grab the collar of her dress and he brings her to meet his face. She is not quite standing up. "Tell me, woman. What's their excuse?" 

She does not meet his eyes. Her dress is being pulled in an awkward position that forces her to look up, but she refuses eye contact. 

Garroth has seen this scene more times than he can count. He had asked once, why she won't look at his father while he acts this way. She tried to explain that when she looks into his hardened eyes, she is reminded that the sweet, kind man she loved is not there. In his mind, he told her that he has never been there. Garte Ro'Meave has always been a terrifying wolf that wrapped himself in sheep's clothing when it suited him. The caring, doting husband had only been an act to lure in his prey. Now she was trapped in the wolf's great jaw. To her face, he stayed silent.

Unsatisfied, Garte pulls his wife closer and yells, directly into her face, "Well, tell me!"

Three boys watch the scene with varying levels of fear. Zane's hand has moved to grip his shirt. Vylad's eyes are brimming with tears and he has edged closer to his brother. Garroth is frozen, unable to move his eyes away from his parents or do anything to stop the situation.

Zianna's voice is meek as she says, "That's enough, love." 

With a growl, he shoves her back, releasing his grip on her shirt in the process. Just in time, Garroth manages to seize control of his muscles and pulls Vylad out of the way. She lands with a sickening thud, her head hitting the chair where the young boy had been sitting a second before. Even Zane, who usually does his best to avoid conflict, stands to check on her. Fortunately, she doesn't appear to be unconscious. Her eyes are staring at the ceiling, a look of despondency painted across her face.

"Out, all of you," commands Garte. His arm has returned to his side. There is no indication that he poses any further threat. 

Knowing better than to argue, Garroth stands up from his uncomfortable chair and moves to act as a barrier between his parents. He still holds Vylad in his arms from when he grabbed him, and judging by the tight grip that the boy has on him, he'd be unable to put him down. Shifting one arm under his brother’s bottom to continue supporting him, he reaches the other out towards Zianna. Accepting his hand, she uses it to pull herself up from her position across the chairs and stands up. She takes the lead when they begin to leave.

Together, they pass Garte. No words are shared, no apologies or excuses are uttered. He doesn't even turn to watch them go as they walk towards the door, left open in Zane's hasty exit a second before. Garroth hadn't even noticed him leave.

Zianna closes the door softly behind her once they're all out of the dining room. Her eyes are trained on her two remaining sons. An hushed apology falls from her lips. Then she walks away, presumably to attend to the wound that becomes visible once she turns to go down the hall.

Garroth heads in the other direction, towards his room. As soon as he's inside, he collapses against the door. 

Vylad, silent until this point, begins to wail. The noises are muffled by Garroth's chest but they still sound terrified.

Garroth wants to say thank you, you are the bravest person I've ever met, or I'm sorry that I'm not a better big brother to you. He lets these things go unsaid, and hopes that Vylad understands everything he feels through his silence.

FIFTEEN

Fifteen year old Garroth knows the hallways of the Ro'Meave residence like the back of his hand. He has walked them a thousand times, learned which floorboards creak so he can avoid them. Only a trained spy could match the level of stealth he has learnt to traverse these halls with. 

Shoes in hand, he scurries from his bedroom in the west wing of their home towards Vylad's room in the east wing. He uses extra caution when he passes the penultimate door, the one that leads to his parent's chambers. Holding his breath, he slows to a snail's pace as he recalls the spaces that will give him away. He imagines them as puddles on the ground that he must avoid in order to reach his destination dry. 

One step, silence. A second step, silence. The third and forth bring the same results, so he allows himself a quiet breath before continuing through the metaphorical wetland he has placed himself in. Puddles are all around him as this part of the house is old. The floorboards are loose from decades of being walked on. Even the carpet has done little to soften the impact time and use has had on the poor floor. 

Finally he reaches the door to Vylad's room. It's slightly ajar, something the seven year old tells Garroth helps to limit the noise they make. He is far too smart for his own good.

Pushing the door open reveals a scene that Garroth hopes he remembers for the rest of his life. In the centre of the room is Vylad, green eyes shining despite the darkness and a huge, cheeky grin on his face. He looks as though he hasn't a worry in the world. It is brilliant. 

It hits him a second later just how much his brother has grown. He is nowhere near Garroth in stature, but he is a far-cry from the toddler who could barely pronounce his name, and even further from the baby that he remembers bouncing up and down in an attempt to get the wailing to stop. His light brown hair had gotten darker over the years, and when once it had been shoulder-length yet easily brushed and styled, it was now an unruly mess of curls cut short for convenience. Most of his chubbiness had disappeared and left behind a lean body, but some had stubbornly stayed in his face. Elderly ladies that visited their home loved to pinch his cheeks while telling him how cute he is. Sometimes Garroth feels like doing the same.

Vylad gains his attention when he comes to stand in front of him, giving him an expectant look. Garroth returns a quick smile, then turns around and bends down so that his brother can climb onto his back.

They developed a system months ago when this first started. It starts by deciding if they will be able to sneak around throughout that night, and giving one another a signal. Two hours after their parents say their goodnights to Garroth, he makes his way to Vylad's room, where he piggy-backs his brother to the side door. From there, they race through the garden of the Ro'Meave estate until they reach a conveniently broken fence, big enough for them both to slip through with relative ease. So far their plan has not failed them.

Theoretically, it should not work. There are guards positioned all around the estate at all times, especially through the night. This is to deter thieves and those who want to harm the Lord’s family. One would think that the guards would stop two of the members of a family they are supposed to be protecting from sneaking off into the danger-filled night, but Vylad, small and sneaky as he was, had surveyed the entire estate for multiple nights in order to find where the defence was weakest. Another testament to his intellegence.

Trying not to buckle at the weight of another person on his back, Garroth heads down the large staircase in the central hall of their home. The steps are hard to see in the dead of night and he briefly worries that he's going to miss one and send them both tumbling to their demise. Fortunately, his concerns are for nothing as they reach the bottom without incident. 

Feeling a shift in Vylad's position, he bounces the boy so that he is more secure on his back. From here his task is much easier as the floor is made of marble rather than creaky floorboards. Socks soften his footsteps as he goes through the hallway leading from the central room. This leads the two into the kitchen and finally their escape is in sight.

He lets his brother off his back. They both put on their shoes, Vylad needing help to tie the laces properly so they don't slip off while he's running.

Fresh air hits their faces as they open the door that the servants thankfully forget to lock. It is very welcome, allowing them to take a breath neither realised they were holding. They step out onto the stone staircase on the other side of the door. A younger brother takes one look at his elder brother and takes off sprinting down the grass.

Garroth doesn't allow him the head start and soon is far in front. He loves Vylad, but feels a responsibility as his older brother to keep him humble. Winning makes the brunette gloat for months. He once won a tadpole race and did not let anyone forget it for an entire year. 

Sprinting through the garden grants Garroth a sense of peace. Here, he is free from the responsibilities that await him at home. There are no laws to recite until his throat is hoarse, no talk of politics that makes him want to rip his hair out in confusion and no reliant citizens looking to him like he has all the answers in the world. Most importantly, the looming figure of Garte Ro'Meave cannot catch him here as he hurtles through the grass, away from all the expectations that continually crush him. 

They reach the gap in the fence with record timing, and he has to catch Vylad before he goes slamming into it, breaking it completely. Disaster avoided, they take it in turns to crawl through. 

Beyond the fence is the ever-growing city of O'Khasis. A place they're both very familiar with, but don't feel much real attachment towards. To them, the city feels like a maze of meddlesome people. During the day, villagers will watch the Ro'Meave family with an unrivalled nosiness. Zane has compared it to feeling like a caged animal in the zoos he's read about in his books. Garroth has no clue what he means, but if it's along the lines of feeling insecure at all the eyes boring into him then he's inclined to agree. At night, the streets are a lot more bearable. Most people are fast asleep in their homes by the time they leave the house and the ones that are out are usually too drunk to know where they are, let alone realise the boys walking past them are sons of a Lord.

Where they are headed is a quiet part of the city, day and night. If Garroth had to choose, it would be his favourite part of O'Khasis. The locals consist of mostly elderly people, who sleep like the dead. For once, the brothers don't have to watch their level of volume. As they walk through the streets, Vylad can talk and laugh and sing as loud as he wants, as any child should be able to. Garroth can listen without worrying about the trouble they might get into. It is their own slice of freedom, away from the silence of home.

"...And Mummy said that Zane was just being silly. My tadpoles just went to visit their family and will be back soon." Vylad is telling a story from earlier that day. Garroth is trying to listen as he is searching for a key, but keeps zoning out. It isn't under the plant pot that he had left it under the last time they came. 

The missing key opens the door to an abandoned home located in a tight alley in the part of the city he likes. In colder months, they come here rather than walking through the freezing weather. It has become a home away from home for them. Inside there are beds and a sofa, along with a few other random pieces of furniture. Not perfect, but enough for two boys who need an escape from their life. A few of Vylad's favourite toys have found their way here, including a stuffed wyvern he has named Raven. 

After digging inside the soil of the plant pot, he finds the key. He doesn't know how it found its way there instead, nor does he care. Unlocking the door, he ushers his brother inside and shuts it behind them.

"Zane doesn't even know what he's talking about anyway," the young boy continues, "you can't kill tadpoles! They're immortal, just like Lady Irene." Garroth chuckles. He hopes that Vylad can stay this innocent forever. Nothing should ever corrupt something so precious.

Hours fly by as they talk about nothing important. No fathers or irritating brothers are mentioned. During this time, they are just two normal children staying up far past their bedtime. Titles or futures don't mean anything in this house. It is a cathartic feeling for them both. Vylad tells his made-up stories of the adventures of his tadpoles, and Garroth tries to tell stories of knights and princesses, unimaginative as he is 

Exhausted but happy, they lock up their abandoned home and make their way to the Ro'Meave residence. Half way home, Garroth offers to carry Vylad the rest of the way, which he easily accepts. Begrudgingly, he stays awake until they arrive at the fence, but once inside the garden he falls asleep with his head resting on his brother's shoulder. 

For a while Garroth stares at the side door. So easily, he could turn around and walk away. Walk away from everything he knows, leaving behind a city with no heir. He would travel until he physically cannot anymore, until he is a world away from this undesirable life of his. Take Vylad away from the cruelty of a man and half-brother who refuse to acknowledge his existence unless they get to hurl insults at him.

They could find a nice village. A cosy house with a sofa and beds and all the toys that Vylad could ever want. Garroth could train to be a guard, to earn money and protect his brother. Every night they could stay up late chatting about nothing important. They could eat dinner together and talk as loud as they want, and not learn to avoid creaky floorboards. The slice of peace they have now could turn into endless cakes of peace. Happiness could rule their lives, silence far behind them.

There is only a single reason he hesitates from following this dream. Mother. Leaving her behind, damning her to this miserable life while they get to enjoy each day; it would make him as cruel as his father. 

In the end, he opens the door. Silence wraps its chains around them once again.

SIXTEEN

"You stupid boy! Why would you even ask something like this?"

Sixteen year old Garroth has just finished campaigning to his father why he should attend Guard Academy. It is an idea he's had for some time now. To convince Garte he has portrayed it as a fantastic opportunity to learn more about what the people he will one day rule over go through. It will allow him a glimpse into the life of the average guard. The fact he'll be a fully fledged knight by the end of his stay at the Academy is an advantage too, as it prepares him for any wars he may face as Lord. Before he becomes Lord he can use his abilities to protect his father and the rest of the family. 

In reality, it is an excuse to escape the insufferable silence that plagues the Ro'Meave household. He wants out, even if it's only for four years and then he has to come back. That will be enough.

Garte sees right through his facade. "What do you need to understand your people for? You are a Ro'Meave man, not a commoner. We are the leaders of common people, not their friends. And I have guards! I do not need my son to protect me." A hand slams on his desk, the other point at Garroth. He roars, "Do not ask again."

Zane must have heard the commotion from elsewhere in the house, as he leans his head round the doorway just enough to peek inside. Garroth only spots him in his peripheral vision, but it is enough to sour his mood even more.

A wicked grin forms on his brother's face. Determined, he enters the room. "Is everything okay, father?"

Anger is still evident in Garte's voice as he says, "Your brother has requested to attend the Guard Training Academy."

"Why?" Zane sounds disgusted. From being a child, he has always expressed disdain towards those who he considers to be below him. His superiority complex has made him an unpleasant person to be around. Even as a fourteen year old, he has no friends nor does he speak to anyone outside of his family unless it is absolutely necessary. When speaking to his family he is usually standoffish or condescending to everyone other than his father.

"He says it's a good learning experience that will help him become a compassionate Lord. It is foolish."

An idea has formed in Zane's head, judging by the way his blue eyes wander around the room for a moment and how he crosses his arms. The wickedness of his smile transforms into cunning. "Forgive me father, but I'm inclined to disagree. This idea of his is very smart. He'll be able to understand how our people think and feel, and this will allow him to base his future decisions as Lord on empathy as well as logic."

Garroth is now scrutinising Zane's every move. They have never agreed on a single thing. Sometimes Zane's opinion changes just so that he can argue with his brother. 

"Are you implying that my choices are not made from a place of sympathy, Zane?" Garte tests, an eyebrow raised. He is not cross anymore, instead he is curious.

A hand unconsciously finds its way to grip onto Zane's shirt. A sign of fear, Garroth notes. Rarely does contradicting their father end well. Bedroom doors stay locked for long periods of time, stomachs go hungry and scars are formed weeks later. One faded white line visible on Zane's arm is evidence of a time he had dared to disagree.

Feelings aside, Zane's voice is unwavering. "No, that's not what I mean. Your way of ruling is perfect. You have years of experience to base your decisions on. I think guard training will help Garroth gain a little of the wiseness that you possess, father. It may mature him." His eyes flick to his brother, awaiting a reaction to his well disguised insult. Garroth does not rise to the bait.

As if pondering the idea, Garte's strokes his beard. He hums, then asks, "And what about the lessons he will miss out on while he is away? Four years is a long time."

"Well, you can teach him when he comes home. Make him work four times as hard, for each year he has missed." 

A look of conflict flashes across their father's face. Both of them watch intensely, waiting for any sign of approval. It is not given to them. Instead, he orders, "Leave. I need to think."

Neither of them hesitate to exit the room. Garroth watches the satisfied look in Zane's eyes as he closes the door to the study.

Over the course of the short conversation, he had worked out his brother's motive. He thinks that getting rid of Garroth will heighten his chances of becoming the next Lord. It is all he's ever wanted, to be named the rightful heir to the throne. While his big brother is away at training to be a guard, he can worm himself into the position and earn his father's favour.

Garroth is fine with it. He'd pass the title over in a heartbeat, given the chance. Never in his life has he wanted the title of heir. He knows that he is not fit to run a city, especially one as big and powerful as O’Khasis.This can benefit both of them.

However, it does not sit right with him, just how easily their father's opinions are swayed by Zane. Minutes earlier Garte had given Garroth a decisive no. With a few words his view was completely changed. It speaks volumes of Zane's manipulative nature.

As he walks away, he hears, "You're welcome."

No thanks has been earned.

EIGHTEEN

Eighteen year old Garroth's knees are tucked up to his chest. His shaky hands are covering his ears in an attempt to muffle the noise coming from the opposite side of the wall his back is against. Young men and women are shouting and cheering as swords clash together violently and wooden shields pound against one another. Chainmail armour clinks and clanks as training guards move excitedly, trying to get a better view of the mock-battle taking place. Wind is rushing through the halls of the Academy, making a horrible howling sound that could easily be confused for a werewolf. It whips against the trees, causing the branches to thwack against each other.

Not for the first time, he is left yearning for the silence of the Ro'Meave home. Guard Training Academy is not at all how he envisioned it. Where he had expected civilised conversations with his peers, he had gotten rowdy teenage boys who screech and shout all throughout the day including dinner. Classes were not listening to an elderly professor and writing down what he told you to, they were long, physically draining training sessions that ended with him bloodied and bruised. The expectations he thought he would escape by coming here increased tenfold. What he had thought was an escape was just another prison.

At Guard Academy there was no slice of peace. Gone were the days of his childhood where he could leave his responsibilities behind for a few hours each week and talk about nothing. His home away from home was miles away, sitting in a big city abandoned and all alone. 

In an attempt to get away from the noise, he runs towards the Academy's barracks. His bed is in the second room of the boy's section. It is a thread-bare mattress resting on the bottom of a metal bunk bed frame. In the two years he had already been in attendance, his body had never adjusted to the uncomfortable mattress and the tatty blanket he used to cover himself at night. His pillow had been stolen sometime in the first year and he'd never been bothered enough to find it.

The only thing worth going to the barracks for was his locker. Each student has a space to keep their personal belongings, in a small lockable cupboard. They are in rows at the far end of the barracks. Inside his locker he keeps all the letters he has received from Vylad and his mother, and some paper and ink so that he can reply to the letters when he gets a rare chance to.

Each letter is engraved into his brain since he has read them so many times. They provide him with a comfort he can't describe with words. 

He unlocks the cupboard and grabs the pile of letters. The barracks are empty as it is the middle of the day. It should stay this way for a few more hours, since everyone else is busy watching the mock-battles taking place in the courtyard across the Academy. 

Resting on his bed as comfortably as he can, he takes the letter on the top of the pile and begins to read.

'To Gar,

You've been gone for so long now that even my tadpoles came back before you. They brought a friend home with them and I named him after you. You should be honoured.

Please come back soon.

From, Vylad.'

A recent letter. Garroth had smiled the first time he read it, then he read it a second time and guilt had consumed him for weeks afterwards.

When he had come up with the idea of Guard Academy, he had been thinking selfishly. He wanted a quick way to escape from his overwhelming duties. Not for a second had he spared a thought to Vylad and his mother, who he would be leaving behind to deal with Zane and Garte alone. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree when it comes to the Lord of O'Khasis and his sons. They are cruel creatures.

Wiping away the tears pooling in his eyes, he shuffles the pile of letters. He picks out another to re-read. It's another recent one.

'Dear Garroth.

I hope that you are looking after yourself. Remember to eat three meals a day, wash behind your ears and get at least eight hours of sleep each night. Caring for yourself is important, if you don't, how are other people supposed to depend on you? 

Nothing of note has happened at home since my last letter to you. Your father and brothers are doing well. We all miss you dearly.

Vylad is turning ten years old in a week's time! Can you believe it? He's grown up so much since you've last seen him. He keeps asking if you are coming back for his birthday, even though I've already explained that you've got to stay at school for now. I don't think he properly understands that you aren't able to come and go as you please.

I remember when you were his age. What a good boy you were. You always helped me get through my hardest days with that sweet smile of yours. I do miss that smile.

Stay safe, my darling boy.

Love you endlessly,

Mummy.'

She had a way with words that filled Garroth with warmth. Every letter she wrote seemed to be crafted with all the care in the world. Her handwriting is something even Irene herself would be jealous of. 

Reading Zianna's letter has calmed down his anxiety. The wind doesn't sound so loud now, and the chanting seems like a murmur from far away. His hands have ceased their shaking. He takes a deep breath as he reaches for the next letter on the pile.

'Gar,

At Guard School do you get to fight bad people? I want to be able to do that as well to protect mummy. When you come home will you teach me how to fight like you? We can protect her with each other.

Someone fixed the hole in the fence so I can't play with raven anymore. We can fight the person who fixed the fence too.

From, Vylad.'

This letter was from a year ago. At the bottom was a poorly drawn picture that Garroth could not decipher at all. In a response home he had asked Zianna if she knew what Vylad had drawn in his previous letter, and she said it was supposed to be him teaching Vylad how to be a knight. He supposed it explained the long lines attached to a bunch of squiggles and an oval shape, but it didn't make the image any easier to understand. Poorly drawn as it was, it was still one of his most treasured possessions.

Enjoying the small period of peace and quiet he's found, he reads through the rest of the letters with a smile on his face. He misses his brother and mother so much that it hurts, but their words are enough to get him through the difficult days. Knowing that once his four years are up he can return home to see them once again is his motivation. He tries not to think of Zane and his father being there.

When he is tossing and turning through the night he thinks of his mother coming to say goodnight and kiss him on the forehead before she goes to sleep. During rough training sessions he imagines Vylad running through the quiet, dark streets of O'Khasis singing a chorus he's heard the drunkards at the tavern shouting as they walked past. If he finds himself at the top of a watch tower at the Guard Academy on a particularly tough day, the thoughts of the day he returns to O'Khasis keep him still. In his imagination, they run to him and tackle him to the floor to give him the warmest hug he's ever received. He comes down from the tower using a ladder instead of a ledge.

Soon, he'll be home in their arms.

TWENTY

Twenty year old Garroth slowly swirls his wooden spoon through the oatmeal he is eating for breakfast. In the dining hall at the Guard Academy, all the students are at their quietest for the day given that it's early morning. He has learned to appreciate these moments, where all the noise is at a low murmur. During the next meal it will be back to the regularly scheduled shouting from rowdy teenagers.

He is in no rush to finish his breakfast. For him, there are no commitments after this. Last month, he graduated from the Guard Training Academy at the top of his class. The graduation ceremony had been a boring affair. Most other student's families attended the event, so for many it had been an emotional day filled with reunion and smiles. The Ro'Meave family were too busy, according to the letter Garroth received from his father (a letter he had later burnt in the celebratory bonfire held for the newly trained guards, then forgotten about within an hour's time with the help of ale).

Garroth had been asked to spend an additional month at the Academy in order to help prepare for the new students due to arrive. Without a second thought he agreed, relieved to have an excuse to not return home right away. Once that month had passed, a member of staff at the Academy had approached him to ask if he was interested in teaching some extra training sessions for some of the struggling students. The answer had been an easy yes. He wasn't ready to face his father and the rest of O'Khasis yet. He wasn't sure if he would ever be ready.

A commotion near the window of the dining hall is quick to capture his attention. One group of first year students were poking their heads out of the window, pointing at something off in the distance, towards the front gate. Curious, more students attempt to get a look at whatever it is. Soon, most of the people in the dining hall are surrounding the available windows trying to get a peek. The level of noise is being raised by their excitement, so Garroth has to cover his ears.

There is nothing he can do about the crowd at this point. Any attempt at getting their attention will be drowned out by all the noise. Banging on his table won't help, and he can't raise his voice loud enough to be above everyone else's. All he can do is wait for everyone to lose interest and sit back down.

Despite the hands over his ears, he can still catch small words here and there. Words like 'carriage' and 'rich' and something to do with a 'Golden Heart'. From these he can piece together that it's probably a famous guard or some Lord coming to visit the Academy in order to visit a student or give a special lesson.

When he hears 'O'Khasis', his heart drops. Every muscle in his body seizes. Not yet, he isn't ready yet. They can't take him back yet.

Morbid curiosity guides him towards the back of the crowd. His tall stature allows him to have an easy view out of the window. The horse-drawn carriage comes to a slow stop just inside the gate of the Guard Academy. It is a familiar one. Garroth has ridden inside the thing hundreds of times before. He arrived at the Academy four years ago in it.

A guard positioned near the door of the carriage reaches up and opens it. A leg clad in white emerges first, followed by the rest of a blurry figure. Garroth doesn't need to be near to know who it is.

-

Zane has grown up a lot in the last four years. It takes Garroth a few minutes to get used to his appearance. He's gotten taller since the last time he's seen him, but not by much. He still towers over his younger brother. The softer features of Zane's face have sharpened harshly. His jawline is the same as Garte's. The rest of his face is almost the spitting image of Zianna Ro'Meave. Light blue eyes, small nose and pale skin tone. It makes Garroth wish that she was standing in front of him rather than his brother.

After he had come out of the carriage, Garroth had rushed out of the dining hall and hidden in his room that was now in the staff's barracks. Hiding hadn't done him any favours, since another teacher had led Zane to his room and had not left until Garroth unlocked his door to greet his brother. Now, they were standing in his room watching one another awkwardly.

The younger of the two breaks the silence. "It's time for you to come home now, brother."

Dread hits Garroth like a broadsword wielded by a master guard. Quick and heavy. If he thought he could, he would refuse to get on the carriage and someone would have to drag him kicking and screaming back to his father. However he is no longer a child, the days of throwing tantrums when he doesn't get his own way are far behind him. He must accept that it is his destiny to slowly rot away in the silence of the Ro'Meave house like the rest of his family.

In another life, Garroth grows up surrounded by love and warmth and attends the Guard Training Academy out of want. He graduates with a proud family in attendance at the ceremony. Then he is free to go out into the wide world and find a nice village to protect and form wonderful friendships. Maybe he finds a wife and raises a child, or maybe he dies young, a hero protecting his village. This is not that life.

Zane waits for a response, watching his brother with amusement. In the years Garroth has been gone, his cruel nature has not changed. He enjoys watching people suffer. 

Perhaps growing bored, Zane speaks once again. "He is dead," he states flatly.

Dread changes to confusion as Garroth takes in his brother's words. Surely, he means their father. Who else's death means that he must return home so suddenly? 

A thought crosses his mind that he would have heard the news about the Lord of O'Khasis' death long before Zane had arrived. It would have been a big event in Ru'aun.

Before he can ask, Zane answers for him. "Not father. He is alive and well, thankfully. I mean the bastard."

"Don't speak about Vylad like that." It comes out automatically, from years of defensiveness around Zane.

His brother smiles, although it doesn't reach his eyes. "You haven't changed. You don't have to pretend to care anymore. He's dead." 

"He's twelve, how could he have died? You don't need to lie in order to get me to come home. I was going to come anyway." 

Zane laughs at what he says. "Do you seriously think I'd lie? I don't want you to come home, I'm quite happy to let you spend the rest of your life in this cesspool. But Father thought you might want to attend the funeral, to keep up appearances."

"Stop joking around Zane," Garroth cautions, "It isn't funny. Vylad is our baby brother whether you like it or not. Wishing he was dead does not mean it's true."

"Will you just listen?" Zane snaps, voice raised. Garroth flinches; all he hears is Garte. The similarities between father and son extend beyond personality it seems.

"And why should I listen to you? You've always lied or made up stories to get people to do things for you. What makes this time any different?" he questions.

Vylad Ro'Meave is not dead. Garroth will go home and he and Zianna will be waiting by the front door to give him that welcoming hug he's been waiting for the last four years. They will visit their home away from home for old time's sake, and retrieve the toy Wyvern while they're at it. It can become a regular thing again. He'll train Vylad to fight like he promised, and maybe he'll teach him the few cooking skills he's picked up while at the Academy. Vylad will turn thirteen soon, and then fourteen and eventually he will become a man that Garrot and Zianna can be proud of.

"Fine. If you don't believe me, come home and see for yourself." Frustrated with the situation already, Zane's cheeks have started showing red. Another trait he inherited from their father.

Garroth cannot stall any longer. Soon he will be leaving the Guard Training Academy, moving away from the comfortable life he’d made for himself there. The fire of freedom he has lit will be stomped out by his father and he will be forced to live amongst the ashes while he watches the rest of the world burn on.

-

The ride home is silent, save for the sound of hooves and wheels hitting the ground, as well as the clanking armour of the guards surrounding the carriage. Neither brother has anything they want to say. Four years apart has done nothing to fix their relationship. 

Garroth has taken to staring out of the window. He watches the hills and trees pass by them as they travel through valleys and wooded lands. The distance he had placed between himself and O'Khasis is rapidly disappearing before his very eyes. It's a horrible thought.

Zane keeps alternating between watching the world pass by with him and scrutinising his brother. Perhaps he's trying to accustom himself to Garroth's new look. For all he had changed, so had Garroth. 

The curly blonde hair he had once fought with every morning to get straight was now allowed free reign. Guard training had required it to be short so he'd cut the majority of it off and found that it suited his face better than longer hair ever had. His pasty skin had tanned due to all the time he spent outdoors during training, which also changed his scrawny body into one 'easy on the eyes' (as Azura had described it while she was on her third cup of ale at the bonfire). It was muscly, more so than most of his peers because of the extra training he took part in when he had wanted to avoid people.

Some things were still the same however, like the sunken and dull eyes that made him look forever exhausted and the frown permanently etched into his face. His personality had not changed, still the same cowardly, cruel person as ever.

To ignore the anxiety plaguing his mind, Garroth has been replaying the imaginary scene of when he sees Vylad and his mother again. Joyful shouts and warm arms wrapping around him in his mind stop him from jumping out the carriage and running as fast as he can across the hills, away from the icy blue eyes staring at him.

-

The front door to his childhood home looms before him. All he has to do is push down the handle and take one step inside, it's so simple, but his body won't move. Zane is growing impatient behind him judging by how he keeps huffing.

Neither his parents nor Vylad had greeted him by the gate, unexpectedly. Garroth at the very least thought that his brother would be waiting for him to come back and would want to be the first to greet him. He can't blame Vylad for not doing this though, he had made the unfair decision to leave. Vylad has every right to be upset. It's up to the older brother to apologise.

With this in mind, he takes a deep breath and opens the door.

It has not changed. The wooden staircase in the centre of the main hall is as grand as ever, covered up by the red carpet that runs through most of the upstairs of the home. Marble sounds strange underneath his leather boots as he strides inside. Unusually, the largest room in the house is deserted, of both peasants and guards alike. 

Zane comes to stand next to him. "Father will be waiting in his study for you." After he says this, he saunters away, presumably towards the kitchen or library.

Garroth briefly considers not going to see his father at all. He could search around the place until he finds his mother or Vylad, the people he truly wants to see. Afraid of the consequences if he does this, he decides that a few more minutes will not hurt after four years away.

The stairs squeak as he walks up them, groaning occasionally at his weight. He tries not to be insulted. With his armour on he's sure he is a lot harder to carry than he was as a scrawny sixteen year old.

Every step he takes leaves him wishing more that a woman with black hair or a young brown haired boy will intercept him with a hug or a greeting. It is weird to him that neither of them have heard the front door open and slam shut, or the floor creaking loudly as he walks down the halls. Garroth considers they might be waiting for him along with his father. 

Opening the door to his father's room reveals this not to be a case. Instead of two brightly smiling faces, he sees a man with violently red cheeks and a scowl. 

"What have I told you abou-!" His yelling abruptly stops when he recognises the person standing in his doorway. Garroth, his eldest son, his heir, is home. At long last.

Any other father would have rushed out from behind their desk to pull their son in a tight squeeze, showering them with praise and welcoming. Any other father would ask how his son has been keeping and listen excitedly as his son tells him about what he has been up to for the last four years. Any other father would not say: "Oh, it's you."

Garte looks disappointed. He makes no effort to move or start a conversation beyond putting down his quill and folding his arms. 

"Hello, father," Garroth tries to sound happy. What comes out is a flat, empty tone of voice that he barely recognised coming from his own mouth. He cannot bring himself to feel joy at seeing the man who forced him to rip himself away from a caring mother and brilliant brother. The same man that tormented his childhood and continues his rampage into his adulthood.

"Has Zane told you?" Garte quizzes, a hint of nervousness in his voice. His foot is now tapping against the floor rhythmically, as if he is attempting to soothe himself. 

Finally, they make eye contact. Impossibly, Garte looks like he has aged ten years since the last time Garroth saw him. His hair and beard have begun greying, and the few wrinkles he had four years ago have extended and new ones have appeared. Purple sits under his eyes, forming bags that indicate he has not been resting well at all. It appears the years of stress have caught up with him.

"About..?"

"Vylad."

How a simple exchange can turn someone's entire world upside down. Zane had not been lying after all. Denial has wormed its way so far into Garroth's brain that he has trouble processing the short conversation.

A memory flashes in his mind. Seven year old Vylad is standing in his room, an incredible grin on his face. Such a happy, innocent boy. He is wearing nighttime clothes, but his shoes are in his hands. His brown hair is messy. Green eyes watch Garroth with pure unadulterated joy.

In the next second, the image is gone. 

Staying silent is not on his mind as he sprints down the halls towards Vylad's room.

-

Two weeks have passed since Garroth arrived home. Out of all fourteen days, he has spent ten of them locked away in the bedroom of his baby brother. 

Some days, his mother would join him and the two of them would not speak a single word to each other. They would often simply lay side by side in the bed made to hold a child. Other days Garroth would hold Zianna in his arms while she sobbed and sobbed until she could not anymore. One day they try to talk about all the good memories they have of Vylad's short life. In the same hour they begin talking, both cry so much that it hurts to speak.

Food and drink is left outside the door once a day. Rarely does it get touched, normally it is left to go cold and stale. His appetite is non-existent, unable to bring himself to eat with the knowledge that his brother cannot anymore.

Grief is a funny thing. It messes with someone's head and makes their emotions raw and volatile. At first, Garroth stared at the door for hours on end from his position on the bed, waiting for it to open and reveal a small boy, safe and sound. He'd announce that it was an elaborate prank designed to make him feel bad for taking off for four years. The idea had seemed perfectly reasonable to him at the time, but as the hours turned into days he slowly began to stop watching the door. His brain was a messy mix of sadness, anger and guilt. His eyes stung from crying and his throat felt as though it was a land suffering through drought. Any time there was sound aside from his own breathing he would seeth in anger and occasionally he would shout at whatever poor soul happened to be walking past the room. He unreasonably blamed himself for the death of Vylad, and wished that he was the one to die instead. 

Zianna had informed him what caused the death on the seventh day. She had come into the room quietly, watching her living son lying in the place her deceased one was supposed to be. Then she sat down on the edge of the bed and cleared her throat.

She explained that Vylad had been found by a guard who was turning in for his morning shift. His small body had been lying on the marble floor all through the night, cold and undiscovered. The cause of death had been a knife to the back.

His death had not been a quick one. Assumptions were made and theories were talked about once the news reached the citizens of O'Khasis. Some said it must have been an intruder that caught Vylad at the wrong time, others thought that a poorly treated servant had done it as revenge, and a few disturbed individuals said that the boy did it himself in order to frame the great Lord of O'Khasis.

Zianna chose to believe the first theory. The thought that her son had been killed by someone he was supposed to trust hurt far too much and he was simply not capable of doing something like that to himself. Garroth tried to believe the same but he could not quite shake the feeling that there was far more to the story that neither of them knew.

On the eleventh day Garroth emerged from the bedroom late at night. His stomach was demanding that he satisfy its hunger immediately. Walking around the house late at night reminded him of the times the two brothers would sneak out of the house, so he ate a loaf of bread with blurry eyes and wet cheeks. He falls asleep nestled in the corner of the kitchen. When Zane finds him in the morning he calls him pathetic.

For two days after he locked the door to Vylad's room, ignoring any attempts by his mother to coax him out. Hours flew by as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Regret flooded his thoughts. If only he had taken one of the many opportunities he had to take Vylad away from this place. If only he had not selfishly gone off to the Guard Academy and left Vylad behind to fend for himself. If only, if only, if only…

In the back of Garroth's mind he thinks that maybe this was always destined to happen. Irene had damned his brother right from the start, having him brought into this world with the terrible circumstances surrounding his conception. During his short life, all he knew was unhappiness and suffering. It did not seem fair, the hand he was dealt. The Gods were cruel and unforgiving beings. 

The fourteenth day is the day of the funeral. Somehow, he musters the energy in the early morning to finally unlock the door. A rotten smell hits him the second he steps out of the room, causing him to gag. He realises that it's his own smell after two weeks without washing. He hopes that a trip to the washroom will fix the foul odour.

-

Funerals were Garroth's most dreaded event as a child. As family to the Lord of O'Khasis, he was expected to attend the funerals of important citizens, such as nobles. The first time Garroth went to a funeral he was four, and had taken one look at the many sobbing members of the deceased's family and cried so much that he was sick. For the second, he was seven and many lectures from his father beforehand kept him from empathising with the grievers. From that funeral on, he began to feel an overwhelming sense of awkwardness during the sad events. He felt as if he was intruding on what was supposed to be a private event for those who knew the deceased personally. 

This time he was not the one intruding. The funeral of a son of O'Khasis was bound to be a large event, but it seemed as if the entire of the populace had turned up. To their credit, the citizens of O'Khasis were being as respectful as they could be towards the grieving. No one speaks to the Ro'Meave family outside of apologising for their loss or to claim that they will pray to Irene for them. When they are expected to, their low murmurs die into silence. People are weeping for the dead boy and many have brought flowers.

None of this changes the fact that all Garroth wants is to scream at them. He wants to shout until his throat is hoarse for them to leave, telling them that they can't grieve for a person they don't know. Anger dwells in him for most of the morning and early afternoon 

In his mind, a small voice tells him that he has no more right to be here than anyone else in the crowd. He abandoned his brother when he needed him, left him behind to suffer while he got to move on with his life. If Irene had been unfair to Vylad, Garroth's treatment was utterly inexcusable.

The Ro'Meave family sits near the front of the Church, just before the altar. Behind them stands a crowd, separated in two where the carpet runs through the Nave. Many, many more people stand outside in a similar hoard. Garroth can't bear to look back, keeping his eyes trained on the statue of Lady Irene behind the altar or on his mother.

Zianna is seated in between her husband and eldest son. She is wearing an expensive black dress that compliments her beautifully. On her feet she wears similarly coloured flats. Around her neck she wears the symbol of O'Khasis. Resting on her head is an ornate silver crown, symbolling her position as the Lady of O'Khasis. It's an item she does not wear often, if ever at all. Before now she has said it makes her seem far more important than she truly is, like a Queen rather than just the Lady she is. Despite all of the lovely things she wears, the look on her face is one of pure misery.

Garte and Zane are wearing black suits, the same ones they don to all other funerals they attend. Their faces express indifference, though Zane’s has a twinge of something like annoyance every once in a while. The Lord and second Son of O'Khasis wear crowns too, gold and silver respectively. 

Garroth is wearing a suit. In the morning he had panicked, crying to Zianna that he didn't have any clothes to wear other than his Guard uniform and some sleeping clothes. All the clothing he took to the Academy he had outgrown years ago. She told him not to worry, and an hour later returned to him with a suit that once belonged to his Grandfather who was of similar build to him in his prime. It's uncomfortable and restrictive.

The crown on his head is just as unbearable as the suit. It feels heavy, like it is cutting into the top of his head. It is gold, the same as his father's, signifying his position as heir. He is being constantly tempted to take the thing off and throw it full force at the crowd behind him.

The procession has taken place already. Members of The Jury of Nine were trusted as the pallbearers. As they had carried the coffin through the church, Zianna cried silently. At some point she had leaned against Garroth and he had put an arm around her back in an attempt to provide comfort. Judging by the tears still trickling down her face, he was not doing a good job.

The ceremony begins with the High Priest of O'Khasis leading it. An old, frail man, his voice struggles to be heard by much of the crowd in the back of the Church. Though Garroth is in earshot, he tunes out the drivel. His mind is elsewhere. 

Vylad would have hated this. As confident as he was, he hated crowds of people. At their father's celebrations he was always found hiding under the buffet table or he would not be in attendance at all, having snuck away to watch his tadpoles in the pond of their garden. Garroth can imagine him now, sitting respectfully in his seat next to Zane, thinking of the best way to make his escape. 

Automatically, he looks to his right. There is no brunette scheming. All he sees is his only living brother looking bored. 

This must seem like a chore to Zane. In the twelve years of Vylad's life, they had spoken less than a dozen times. Before he had even been born, Zane had vowed to never treat the boy as a brother. He had thought of him only as a bastard, an abomination that had torn apart their parents. A mistake on his mother's part. Garroth wondered sometimes if Zane actually knew Vylad's name.

He had, of course. Zane had once been capable of kindness, a long time ago. Garroth had caught him at six years old watching their newborn brother with curiosity shining in his eyes. He had reached his hand slowly into the crib as if frightened he would hurt the baby. The smile on his face when a tiny hand grabbed his finger had been something of amazement. Zane had been the one to teach Vylad what tadpoles the day after a particularly bad family dining experience.

Somewhere, deep down, hidden under piles and piles of hatred and bitterness is a boy who just wants to learn and teach others. Garte had been the one with the shovel, with a mountain of darkness ready to bury his son alive.

The boy suffocated many years ago.

A violent cough brings Garroth's attention back to the ceremony. The High Priest looks far more exhausted than he had at the beginning. He is using the altar that holds the coffin to support himself. In a raspy voice, he announces, "Now, the Great Lord of O'Khasis would like to say a few words."

Garte stands up from his seat. He takes a deep breath before heading to the front. Garroth watches him walk with an anger stronger than anything he's ever felt before. 

The Lord addresses his citizens from his position in front of the coffin. "Thank you all for coming today. It is with great sadness that my family is gathered here today. We have suffered a great loss." Garte pauses as if he is at a loss for words. Perhaps he has realised he had nothing to say because he did not know Vylad Ro'Meave at all. Garroth imagines he is feeling the same awkwardness that used to plague him at the funeral he attended as a child.

"Though he may not have been my biological son, I loved him like he was. Before he was even born I made the decision to adopt him."

"You will bear the child, and then it will be dealt with."

"My wife and I raised him as we did our other sons. Together. This is what makes today so hard."

The past few years have not been kind to her, tasked with the difficulties of raising a small child solely.

"He was a wonderful child. A good boy, didn't give us any trouble. He was very quiet."

Vylad runs through the quiet, dark streets of O'Khasis singing a chorus he's heard the drunkards at the tavern shouting as they walk past.

"He will be sorely missed. A hole that can never be filled has been made inside our family. We will remember him fondly and all the memories he gave us. I'd like to share one particular memory today-"

Garte stops his speech when his eyes land on his eldest son. The heir to O'Khasis' throne has risen to his feet. He is watching his father with pure, unadulterated rage. His jaw is tight, held together in order to stop the anger from spilling out. 

In another life, where Garroth is brave like Vylad was, he opens his mouth and twenty years of bottled up feelings are released for the whole of the Church to hear. Deep secrets are shared and reputations are ruined. The chains of silence are ripped apart. 

However, he is a coward.

Without a word, he sprints out of the Church of Irene. Behind him, his mother shouts his name but gets no response. He runs away from the Church, away from the crowds of people attending the funeral, away from the walls of O'Khasis and into the surrounding forest. His feet do not stop moving until he is sure he is lost deep in the trees.

A few weeks later a patrolling guard wanders across the golden crown that belongs to the Heir of O'Khasis deep in the woods. She brings it to her Lord and is rewarded handsomely. A statement is circulated the following day:

Garroth Ro'Meave is dead.