Prince Janvier climbed the stone steps to the waterfall on the small ledge above him. The blue and gold of his vest shimmered in the afternoon sun, casting little dancing diamonds of light onto the faces of the Nobility and Peasantry watching below. King Boivin’s chin was raised high with pride as he watched his son ascend the stairs. Prince Janvier felt no nervosity. He had been born the heir to the throne, been carefully educated in the principles of leadership and the art of combat. What was there to fear? This day was his – he would finally rule the Kingdom alongside his father. With the air of determination and excitement he tread under the water.
Instantly his body started to change. First his hands turned into crystal, then it spread, rapidly, all over his body until his skin was fully made of glass. He could see his veins pulsing with blood, but they too began to harden. He raised his hands in front of his face, mesmerized by the transformation. He had known it would take place, but he could never have imagined how beautiful it would be. White beams of light reflected of his crystallized body and into the clearing below. He could not hear the murmurs of awe coming from the lines of assembled people, and he could not feel the raise of heartbeat his father felt out of love and pride. His body felt as light as a feather, and he realized he was floating several hand-length over the rocky ledge below. He spread his arms wide, as if welcoming the stream of water that cascaded over him. This is it. Prince Janvier knew that the second his heart turned to crystal, the white rays of light reflected off of his monumental body would change color – revealing the true nature of his rule. Red would mean power and expansion, green would mean a flourishing and fruitful reign, blue would mean calm waters between foreign kingdoms, yellow would signify a rule that brought fairness and joy, and purple would hint at a new discovery. Prince Janvier felt his heart turn to crystal and as it stopped beating, lifted his face to gaze into the sun. For the first and last time in his life he’d be able to stare into the flaming ball of fire without burning his eyes and risking blindness. The crystals of his iris reflected the light, and it became pigmented, scattering beams onto the Kingdom below.
For a second, everyone was consumed by confusion. Was it an illusion? Could this really be happening? Prince Janvier’s eyes widened as he looked into the sky, watching the rays he reflected spread out in front of him.
They were black.
A deathly, ghostly color. There were tales of this occurring, as it had occurred before, but only when the Waterfall was used to reveal the true nature of the Kingdoms greatest criminals and outlaws. Sons of the devil. Heirs to the throne of Hell.
But it was no mistake. Gently the rays subsided, and the shocked Prince found footing on the rock below him. He gazed at his hands, which materialized into flesh and bone again. And then he looked up, up at the bright, dazzling sun. It burned his eyes and face. The water of the waterfall crashed over him, soaking his back and chest. It washed away several of the golden leaves which had been carefully sown into his attire.
Ever so slowly he raised his head, and through the streams of water falling in front of him he saw the faces of his Kingdom gazing at him in utter horror. He heard their gasps over the rumbling of the waterfall. As if in a dream he slowly stepped out from under the shower and started to walk down the stone steps, spiraling towards the assembly below. He was afraid.
“Halt!” Boomed his father's voice. “Take no step forward!”
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Prince Janvier stopped in his tracks. His fear took over his person, flowing through his veins like dark poison. He felt the urge to run or hide, or to go back under the water and show the world that it had been a mistake, and that his true color was red, or yellow, or anything but black! But it was too late – what was done, was done. The decision had been made. The Ceremony was over.
“Prince Janvier Guillory Boivin,” his father said, his voice cracking as he addressed his son as Prince of the final time, “you are no longer a member of the Royal Family of Boivindon. I hereby outlaw you forever. Should you dare to stand foot in this Kingdom again, or speak with a subject of our lands, you will be sentenced to death by hanging.” His words rang over the clearing, the only sound expect for the flow of the water. Even the birds had fallen silent, and watched the scene unfold with their beady eyes.
“Father please-.” Janvier started, but the King raised his arm, signaling silence.
“Take him away.” Armored guards stormed up the rocky stairs, seizing the outlawed Prince. He was dragged through the rows of spectators and into a smallish carriage, where he was locked into a cage the back. On the way there the guards had stripped him of his Royal dress, leaving the vest and the embroideries behind in the mud.
The horses where whipped and off they sprang, pulling the outlaw and the Royal Guard with them. King Boivin watched them race into the forest, leaving all of the Nobility and the most loyal subjects of Boivindon in their dust. One of the King’s advisors turned to his Sire to speak but the King just shook his head. It was the single most painful day of his life. He’d had to outlaw his own son, and that without reason.
But rule was rule. And the dark, deathly colors that had been emitted of Janvier’s form promised a twisted soul. Janvier crouched in the darkness of the cage, hugging himself to keep warm from the streaks of wind that entered through the cracks in the wood. He was too shocked to cry. Too scared to shout, and too naked to feel anything but fear. For the first time in his life he did not know his place or who he was, he could not foresee his future and worst of all, he did not have a soul to turn to for comfort.
As the carriage bounced along the paths, gradually bringing the occupants towards the outskirts of the Kingdom, Janvier’s memories forced images onto him. His mind raced. And then it all slowed as an old memory surfaced, one he’d forgotten that he remembered at all.
He was just a boy. Six or seven years of age. He stood in front of the mirror, staring at the outfit that clad him from head to toe. It wasn’t comfortable, and it didn’t feel anything like the garments he usually wore. His father entered the chamber and laughed, scooping his son up from in front of the little mirror and holding him in his arms, allowing him to peep out of the window himself. “A true ruler does not see himself in the gold of his clothes, Janvier,” he’d said, “but instead in his land.”
How untrue it seemed now! Hadn’t Janvier done everything possible to train himself to protect that very land? And why did it matter so much what the waterfall had predicted, maybe it was wrong! For a second anger flared up in him, but it quickly gave way to sadness like a wave gives away to sand as it crumbles to shore. Perhaps it was exactly these thoughts, these selfish fears and claims that made him unworthy of the throne.
Nighttime had fallen by the time they reached the edge of his former Kingdom. The door opened with a crack and he was pulled out of the cage and thrown onto the forest floor below. The guards turned away with stern expressions and remounted the wagon. One of them stayed behind a second longer, and with a strict tone but empathetic eyes said quietly, “do not set foot in this land for as long as you can, there are guards everywhere expecting you to violate your exile.” With that said he turned away and, with a swing of his cape, jumped onto the carriage and ordered the horses to be spurred on.
Janvier lay on the floor, naked and shivering. The horses thundered off, back down the path he assumed they’d come from. His mind was a mess, and his heart was pounding. “I am no longer a Prince…” He said to himself. With these words the realization finally kicked in. “I am no longer Janvier Guillory Boivin…”