Chapter Text
The Phantom Mountains used to be a horrible and treacherous place. When viewed over the horizon, they appeared as a row of knife-sharp teeth of some horrible creature. Indeed, to scale those mountains was much akin to walking willingly into a lion’s gaping maw. Though the Phantom Mountains held treasures beyond the wildest dreams of mortal minds, and magic flowed as freely as air, the thing one was most likely to find should they choose to brave those perilous peaks was an early grave.
When one inevitably met a tragic end, the sheer faces of jagged stone would not mourn their passing. Rather, they’d laugh heartily at the demise of yet another so-called “adventurer” naively seeking some form of glory in a place that so dearly loves to watch them fail.
One could’ve asked any person of this world, and they’d have said this: “Death is everywhere in the Phantom Mountains, and to traverse those cursed lands is to accept your fate.” This statement was widely agreed as nothing but the plainest statement of fact, and to argue against it would be a quick and effective way to subject oneself to mockery and ridicule.
But then, so gradually people hardly took notice, that simple truth began to change. Nobody was quite sure how it happened. All they knew was that one day, a great many years ago, a brave and charming young man decided to settle on those mountains. With his own two hands, he built for himself a cottage of wood and cobblestones, and made himself at home amidst the chaotic, outright-hostile environment and countless swarming monsters.
Some called him an arrogant fool, others insisted he must be mad, while others still pleaded with him to retreat to safety while he still had the chance. He did not listen. He stayed on that mountain, stubborn as anything, and it was as if the world itself shifted to accommodate him and reward this bravery.
The Phantom mountains themselves began to change, transforming from a land where one could perish in twelve different ways the moment they step out of doors, to a safe haven where all were welcome. Gone were the abrupt and unpredictable streams of rocks which flowed like water and crushed any person in their path. Same to the storms, magical in nature, that rained a barrage of fire and blades upon any unlucky to be caught up in their fury. The beasts and monsters that populated the mountain range like vermin retreated deep into the caves, where they were quite easy to avoid. Even the mighty and fearsome dragons took to the air one day, flying off into the distance never to be seen again.
While none could conceive of how these changes had come to pass, all agreed that the newfound safety was owed entirely to that young man who possessed both the courage to construct himself a home surrounded on all sides by dangers of every manner, and the skills and wit not only to survive in this place, but to do exceptionally well for himself.
For when he had settled atop of the central (and indeed, most hazardous) peak of Phantom Mountain, he had been the first human being in a good many decades to spend any meaningful length of time there. As such, the magic of this place, which danced excitedly through the land and sky like a playful kitten, greeted him with great joy, as it would an old friend returning from a long journey.
Having gained the fickle affection of wild magic itself, it was no wonder the man developed quite the gift for spells and enchantments. A gift he put to use first and foremost protecting all of the people who, over the years, followed in his footsteps and made their homes among those jagged peaks. It was for this he earned himself a name: the Enchanter. In fact, a good many believed that it was with this profound magical affinity that he had single-handedly driven away the mountains’ many dangers.
Quite rapidly, the small and disconnected group of brave individuals who forged lives for themself atop the formerly-deadly mountain range grew, from a village to a town to a city to a settlement with a population so large it was a wonder it hadn’t become its own kingdom. Indeed, the people agreed that they required a king to unite them and to reign over the Phantom Mountains.
The Enchanter was their obvious choice, for many reasons. He was seen by the people as something of a heroic figure, with many a legend spun by excitable bards about how he must’ve driven off the dragons with his blade, or commanded the boulders to rest where they sat rather than rolling in those terrible rivers of death, or bent the very sky to his will to cease the storms.
He was a very kind man, almost to the point of fault. Indeed, a good many took advantage of the man’s kindness to convince him to part with his belongings or to impart on them his enchantments for scarcely anything in return. Luckily, this was well-balanced by those who liked him well and provided him with a steady flow of gifts and offerings so that he may never fall into poverty.
He was also charming, with dark hair like the boughs of a mighty oak and a smile so bright and radiant it could make the sun ashamed of itself. His laugh was the fire of a hearth, warm, rich and full. It was said that when he spoke, the subject of his attention would feel they had been gilded with the purest gold and inlaid with thousands of diamonds, that in those moments they became something unspeakably valuable and precious under his gaze.
In short, his reputation was nothing short of exemplary. The Enchanter was adored by all. Everyone agreed that if anyone was to be king, it most certainly ought to be him. When this idea was finally brought before the Enchanter himself, he graciously agreed to accept the crown, and with it the responsibility for the lives of all those who had chosen to follow him to these lands.
There was much joy and revelry on the day of his coronation, with festivities lasting long into the night and even ‘till the late hours of the next morning. It was on that day that his common moniker went from “the Enchanter” to “the King.”
Half a decade after the King ascended to his throne, a fearless young man by the name of Martyn enlisted in the ranks of his royal guard. He’d moved to the kingdom only a year prior, and had been possessed by an incessant curiosity upon hearing the countless rumors surrounding their mysterious king. Were the stories to be taken at face value, the King appeared as something much larger than life. Someone infallible, whose courage and charms were matched only by his incredible wit.
Martyn did not doubt that the King was a good man. A great one, even! However, he found it more than a bit difficult to believe all of the wild and grandiose tales the kingdom’s people parroted in earnest. Each time he heard yet another bard religiously singing their monarch’s praises, his desire to meet the man intensified. He was inquisitive by nature, and wanted nothing more than to tear back the veil of idolization and gossip to see the true shape of the man underneath. Eventually, Martyn found himself no longer able to silently bear the festering weight of his many questions, and so decided that he must act.
He had passable skill with a sword, having previously worked as a horse-driver for merchant wagons. Though security wasn’t meant to be his role, when a wagon would get caught in a bandit ambush every person capable of holding a blade did their utmost to defend the valuable goods within. After only a few months of training, he managed to enlist and acquire a job defending the castle from any who may wish harm upon the King. (Though, considering the great reverence with which every person spoke of the man, Martyn faintly wondered whether a security detail was even necessary.)
Though he may have managed the impressive task of officially joining the castle staff, Martyn was under no illusions about actually receiving even a brief moment of the King’s valuable time and attention. After all, Martyn was but a lowly traveler that happened upon this kingdom four and a half seasons ago, and just so happened to be lucky enough to get plucked from a group of hopefuls and offered this somewhat-prestigious position in the first place.
At very least though, Martyn figured he’d likely get the opportunity to catch glimpses of the legendary king, perhaps even to hear how he speaks on occasion. It wasn’t much, but he figured it’d be enough to soften the edge on that burning curiosity. Even if the King never spoke a single word to him, hopefully he’d at least manage to learn something.
Those beliefs of the distance between himself and the monarch firmly entrenched in his mind, it could not have come as a greater shock to Martyn when, just three months later, he was selected seemingly at random to accompany the King on a daytrip into the capital city.
It was several long moments before Martyn had managed to grasp what was happening. This news had been so utterly surprising that his own mind couldn’t comprehend it, the very idea refusing to fit inside his head as though it was a rope and he were trying to coax it through the eye of a needle.
Only a few brief hours later, and he was actually seated across from the King about whom he had heard so very much. The King explained the plan. He was intending to dress in commoners’ garb so that he may walk amongst the people undetected, to grant himself a better understanding of their living conditions. Martyn attempted to hide his surprise upon hearing this. He’d heard much talk of the King’s dedication to his people, but to witness it first hand was another thing entirely.
Though his first priority should probably be to dutifully listen to every single word out of the King’s mouth, Martyn couldn’t resist the urge to ask him something. Anything, really. When else would he have such a perfect opportunity?
“Permission to speak, your majesty?”
“Granted.”
The King now gave Martyn his full attention, and the knight momentarily froze. He could dedicate his life to becoming a scholar and study every work of literature ever written, and still would not be able to find the words to describe this feeling. To look into the King’s eyes was to stare at the sun, for they had such a captivating beauty that could only be described as something greater than life. Yet in the very same way those eyes burned straight through Martyn’s skull and into his mind, his every thought reduced to naught but a useless puddle of nonsense. He quickly lowered his gaze.
“I, er- That is- Umm… My apologies. I- It’s the nerves” He laughed, a strangled noise laced with discomfort. “What I meant to ask, your- um, Your majesty, was- Well I suppose I just wanted to ask why.”
The King frowned ever-so-slightly, and Martyn told himself the sinking in his stomach was nothing but fear for the possible consequences of displeasing such a powerful man whose word was law and whose decisions would never be even momentarily questioned by any of his adoring subjects.
He still couldn’t bear to let their eyes meet, and so Martyn kept his focus fixed on the rather extravagant necklace the man wore. It was a gorgeous thing, of freshly-polished silver and inlaid with ten large rubies, expertly cut to resemble hearts. It matched rather nicely with the grand fur-lined crimson cloak that rested around the King’s shoulders.
“Sir Martyn,” The King’s tone held confusion, but thankfully Martyn detected no trace of disappointment or frustration. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the question you mean to ask of me.”
Martyn blinked, thinking back to his own words. Upon recalling the stream of gibberish he had spouted rather than any of the eloquent and well thought-out questions that had been stewing in his mind for months, the knight winced. He’d truly made a fool of himself, and in front of the King no less. The idea of burying himself beneath the earth never to emerge again had never seemed quite so appealing.
“Oh, I’m- I’m truly sorry. What I meant to ask is- Well, I actually have a great many questions, but I’ll not burden you with the lot of them. Allow me to clarify what I previously… Attempted to say. Why do you personally go in disguise to check on your people? Would it not be easier to order someone else to do this for you?”
“Indeed it would, Sir Martyn.” The King nodded. “But I ask you this: How can I truly understand the lives of the people I govern, unless I bear witness to them with mine own eyes? And however could I be a good ruler if I did not even understand that which I preside over?”
Martyn felt faintly awestruck, both by the authority and confidence in the King’s words, and the sound reasoning behind them. He realized that the King really was as wise as the people said, even despite his relative youth. It made him wonder what other rumors and tales about the man might prove true.
The King laughed, and Martyn found himself stricken upon hearing it. It invoked a feeling of warmth and comradery, and so thoroughly captivated was he by the magical sound that it took several moments before Martyn thought to wonder on the source of the monarch’s amusement.
“I’d say a good majority of those rumors are based upon some level of truth, though most of the tales of my ‘valorous deeds’ are greatly exaggerated to the point nearly becoming pure fabrications.” The King explained, an amused (and rather charming) smile gracing his features.
It was only then that Martyn realized he must’ve spoken his thoughts out loud by mistake. Face burning with unfettered humiliation, he had to physically restrain himself in order to resist the overwhelming urge to bury his head in his hands and hide from the world, which seemed to be place populated by nothing but an unending series of opportunities for Martyn to make a complete and utter fool of himself.
“I’m starting to believe I may not have been properly prepared, mentally, for speaking one on one with a monarch today.” Martyn lamented miserably.
This drew another laugh from the King, and the genuine grin that accompanied his laugh was so good-natured that Martyn found he couldn’t feel upset even if he tried, despite the fact the man was laughing at his misfortune. A smile tugged at his lips unbidden, and Martyn allowed himself to join in the mirth. It may have been at his own expense, but as they shared in a bout of laughter Martyn didn’t feel in the slightest that he was being mocked.
Their trip into town had actually been quite lovely, despite Martyn stumbling over his words several times. He’d heard countless tales of the man’s charisma and kindness, but had somehow never expected the King to be so personable.
Despite the fantastical reputation that painted him as something untouchable and nearly-divine, the King really was just a man. An absolutely remarkable man, with a voice like fresh-baked cinnamon bread, eyes that Martyn had no doubt could calm a rampaging dragon with a single glance, and a charming aura that made him all but impossible to look away from, but just a man nonetheless.
As undeniably wonderful (and honestly surreal) as it had been to spend practically an entire day speaking with the monarch as though they were the best of friends, Martyn had no further expectation. Sure, perhaps some tiny part of him yearned desperately to be back at the King’s side, engaging in that easy banter, where he could easily place himself between his ruler and anything that sought to bring the man harm.
That didn’t matter, though. Martyn, despite the impression his many embarrassments in the King’s presence may have given, was no fool. He knew that allowing himself to hope was a dangerous game. He would think realistically, reminding himself that as soon as their little moment ended he went back to being just another random guard. It was with these pessimistic thoughts in mind that Martyn allowed himself to fall into a restless slumber.
He awoke the next day to find an innocuous slip of paper folded neatly in half, its pale cream color a stark contrast to the deep gray stony tile that composed the flooring of his quarters. It appeared to have been slid under the door frame while he slept, though he hadn’t the faintest idea by whom. Gently retrieving the paper, he unfolded it to find a note written in elegant looping cursive.
Seeing as you’ve proven yourself to be fine company, I’ve seen fit to promote you to a post within the royal dining hall, effective immediately. You are to report during mealtimes and when called upon.
I look forward to conversing with you further.
-King R.
Ah. It seemed he’d been incorrect in his assumptions about where he stood in relation to the King once again. Martyn was fairly certain he’d never in his life felt so glad to be proven wrong. It was with a wide grin and a bounce in his step that Martyn headed off for the dining hall, promptly becoming lost within the castle’s maze-like hallways and having to sheepishly request directions from another guard.
That was hardly important though, when he’d been specifically transferred posts in so that the King would have greater opportunity to interact with him. Maybe the comradery Martyn had felt the day before wasn’t quite so one-sided as he had assumed.
When the King finally made an appearance, the very first thing he did upon entering the room was to give Martyn a warm greeting. It was nothing more than a friendly wave and smile, but it ignited a candle flame within his chest, flickering and fluttering with a gentle warmth at the simple acknowledgement. He attributed that feeling to the giddy sort of excitement to receive even a fleeting chance at a friendship with someone as undeniably incredible as the King.
They traded light conversation as the King ate, and Martyn allowed himself to simply bask in the man’s presence. Every time the King gave even the slightest semblance of a smile (which was quite often, as he was a rather cheerful fellow) Martyn greedily hoarded away the memories in his mind, cherishing them like precious gems.
The next couple months continued much the same, with the knight absolutely thriving in his new duties. Martyn relished every moment he got to spend with the man, and the way they could now speak to one another with easy familiarity never failed to make him smile, a wide and painfully honest grin overtaking his features at the mere thought of the unspoken bond between them.
The two only grew closer with each passing month. There were certainly some important milestones, though neither of them could really recall when exactly they’d happened. Each new development in their relationship felt so obvious and natural, it was almost hard to believe there’d ever been a time before.
At some point, the King must’ve invited Martyn to sit beside him and share in his meal for the first time. Now, it was merely habit. The servants in charge of the King’s meals always brought two plates for that very reason.
At some point, Martyn must’ve made the decision for the very first time to follow the King out of the dining hall, trailing alongside him as the monarch went about his daily business. Now, it was quite rare you’d ever manage to catch one of them without the other lingering within a few paces. Martyn was highly reluctant to leave his king’s side whenever it could be avoided, and it was quite plain to anyone who knew the monarch in question that the feeling was mutual.
This was one that they both remembered: the King had officially granted Martyn a second promotion, from a mere guard to his own personal knight. Martyn was officially his right-hand man, acting as an extension of the King’s well. The pair’s bond was sturdier than steel, as years flitted by in an eyeblink and they continued to make the choice every day to stay at each other’s side.
Martyn could scarcely believe he’d been at his king’s side for five years now, as it felt like only yesterday that they had first met. Five entire years since Martyn had joined the royal guard, driven by a rabid curiosity and, though he’d never have admitted this back then, a sense of admiration towards the famous ruler of whom everyone spoke so very highly.
It felt like the years had flown by, yet at the same time Martyn found he could not imagine a life without his King. Not that he would wish to. The King was his closest friend, the single person that Martyn trusted most in the entire world. Despite his rank, the King never treated him as anything less than an equal. The two were practically inextricable at this point, the trust between them solid and true.
At least, Martyn thought this to be the case. He trusted his king, really, and he’d never try to imply otherwise. However… The longer he remained in the man’s company, the clearer it became that the King was keeping something from him, and something large. Martyn would not lie, it stung horribly to know that there was something important that the King felt he could not be trusted with. They were closer than anything, and had been for many years. Martyn wasn’t sure what more he was meant to do to prove to his king his eternal and undying loyalty.
Martyn tried to put his worries to rest, to convince himself that the odd things he noticed about his king were but mere coincidence and the only thing he had to worry about was his own overactive imagination. Even still, it was becoming increasingly difficult to feign ignorance towards the King’s strange behaviors.
The King’s strangeness had an odd regularity to it, moods ebbing and flowing with the predictable regularity of the ocean’s tides. He would spend several days growing increasingly closed off and tense, and avoiding interaction with other people as much as possible in favor of isolation, locking himself within his chambers sometimes for days at a time. Then, as though nothing had ever happened, he’d return to his regular cheerful self again for the next few weeks. The King never once acknowledged this odd pattern, no matter how Martyn may try to subtly shift their conversations in that direction.
It was after a great many sleepless nights spent pondering the subject that Martyn finally allowed himself to give in to that same clawing curiosity that had brought him to the castle in the first place. Martyn, he decided, would stop dancing around the subject and question his king directly. They were indescribably close, and so surely the King would illuminate the situation and put Martyn’s concerns to rest once and for all.
It was at dinner that he finally spoke up, voicing the question that had clawed at his mind for so long.
“My liege, I have been wondering for quite some time now. Why is it that your temperament fluctuates so, with a rhythm so consistent and precise as the number of minutes to an hour?”
The ornate golden fork slipped from the King’s hand and onto his porcelain plate with an awful clatter, causing Martyn to startle minutely. The monarch stood abruptly, pushing himself from the table in a sudden hurry. Martyn’s teeth dug furrows inside of his cheek, and it was then he began to worry he’d made a terrible mistake.
The King didn’t seem cross with him in the slightest, but the wild fear swimming in his king’s eyes hurt Martyn much worse than an outburst of anger ever could. To know he’d caused this brought the knight great shame and guilt, such that he felt ill with it. He wished nothing more than to apologize, but by the time Martyn regained some semblance of composure his king had long since fled the room.
Both dinners remained untouched that night.