indents

indents

       Morning came, and Rory flicked the spiders off his chest, killed some maggots in his leg, and limped his way over to the testing grounds. Entering the testing building, he gave his identifier to the proctors.

       "What is your name, little sir?"

       "Rory. Rory Lamadu, if it pleases you."

       "Well, Rory, today you are Rory Abex Vyncis. Congratulations."

       "Vyncis?"

       "Yes, a lucky one, you are. There's no Hellbram without a Vyncis, they say. Not as strong these days, but the Vyncis' are still powerful people. Where'd you learn your numbers so well, Sir Abex Vyncis?"

       "Ah," Rory said sheepishly, "my mother use to teach me maths every day." That was certainly a lie.

       "Good on your mother then. Come with me, we'll need to freshen you up. You are coroneted as a vassal of the Crown in a few days. Don't worry, I already know about your leg."

       Rory followed him out and onto the streets, where, after roughly half a mile of hobbled walking, they reached a small, tidy shop in the richest area of the city. Rory entered, amazed at the pristine surroundings. For almost two weeks now, he'd been roughing it in the grime of the streets, and for more than a year before then, he'd been situated in a decrepit building, filled with dirt and on the verge of collapse.

       "Good day, dear Doctor. How goes?" the proctor said, greeting a sinewy, thin man, with slightly greying white hair and dull features worn from age.

       "Good, good. Who's the lad?"

       "A Vyncis, he is."

       "Oh, a bright one then."

       "Yes. Not within my jurisdiction, but I'd heard he'd had a perfect score."

       "My, my. Bright indeed," he said, nodding his head thoughtfully. Then, he turned towards Rory. "What's your injury?"

       "My leg, my lord. I believe it's fractured and possibly infected."

       "My lord, eh?" he laughed, clapping Rory on the back, almost tipping him over. "You're every bit a lord I am. Just call me Viz. Let me take a look at that leg of yours."

       Rory pulled the leg of his trousers up, showing Viz his wound, whose gaze grew into that of a hardened professional. After roughly ten minutes, his inspection was complete.

       "My, my. Quite serious. What in the world happened, lad? Almost as if—no, sorry. That was inconsiderate. You’ve no doubt been through tough times.”

       The proctor coughed.

       "Oh yes, you may go. I'll handle him. First, sanitize the wounds. Then we'll bathe him."

       "Thank you, Viz. I'll have his clothes prepared in an hour."

       With a wave from Viz, the proctor took his leave. He then called for his wife, a rather plump woman, whose hair had not quite begun greying but was still clearly of considerable age.

       "Dear, could you have the servants draw up a bath for the lad here?"

       "Of course," she answered. Then she turned towards Rory before heading off. "You must be an Abex. Best thing the last king ever did, I'd say. Start the Abex programs."

       "Rory. You'll still need surgery. Too old I'd wager for it to heal on its own. We'll disinfect the wound first--it'll hurt--then we'll give you a bath. Need to be clean beforehand. We'll knock you out before. Then I'll have to line up the pieces of your femur. Put a splint on it. It'll hurt like hell for a few months, but you'll have full use of your leg within a few years."

       Rory just nodded; broken bones were a common occurrence in his time, too. He was just a little worried on the quality of the surgery... but he couldn't really complain, either. The doctor seemed as well trained as any in this period. Viz lead him to a room in the back, filled with his various instruments and concoctions. He took out a bottle. "This is alcohol. It'll hurt, but it'll make your wound safe."

       Rory was a little curious. "Sir, how does it work?"

       "God if I know," he laughed, "it just does." Evidently, knowledge of micro-organisms has not quite reached this period. From a box on a shelf behind him, Viz took out a piece of cloth. He gently poured some alcohol onto it, and set upon cleaning Rory's leg.

       An hour later and Rory was looking down at himself. The proctor, true to his word, brought a fresh suit of clothing; a fresh, dark green tunic and leggings, along with the noble cloak. It was strange to feel the soft cloth, uninterrupted by layers of dirt. It was strange that he felt no stiffness when he turned. It was strange wearing leggings--that was something he'd never done before.

       He heard the Doctor's croaking voice from below. "Rory! There's a guest here for you."

       A guest? Was it Loria? He didn't exactly know anyone else... Upon reaching the lower floor, he did not, however, see Loria, but a man no younger than the doctor. Unlike the doctor, however, he had sharp, almost aquiline features, with a pair of fierce, piercing eyes.

       "This, lad, is your new father."

       Rory immediately kneeled. "My Lord."

       The man laughed. "Get up. You're my son, not my servant."

       Rory obliged.

       "I am not that frightening, am I?" he mused, bringing a hand up to stroke his chin. "I am Pier Vyncis. Come, let us talk."

       They were situated in Viz's dining room, Rory and Pier sitting opposite of each other.

       "Quite fashionable you look. You'll be a full noble in short order, I'd wager," he said with a laugh.

       "You flatter me." Pier didn't exactly have the temperament he was expecting.

       "Oh, don't be so formal." After a pause, he continued. "Do you know the Vyncis family?"

       "N-no, I'm afraid not."

       Pier laughed again. "No, it's fine, lad. Ah, we aren't what we use to be."

       "What did you use to be?"

       "The second most powerful family in the Kingdom, of course! We were the right-hand man of the Hellbram's."

       "What happened?"

       "The men of the family were faced with the greatest adversity a man could face," Pier said, his face growing serious.

       "What was that?" War? Disease? Feud?

       Pier lowered his voice to a growl. "Down here, lad," he said in dramatic fashion, pointing at his crotch. He then burst into laughter. It took Rory a second before he understood, upon which he resisted the urge to bring his palm up to his face. "No, but really lad, the gods and goddesses of fertility have not been kind with us. We've only one child, a daughter of fourteen. My wife's dead now. I won't take a mistress. My time's coming to an end."

       "But I'm not officially your son."

       "No, no you aren't."

       "Who will inherit the estate then?"

       "Rosa, my daughter. We are not those barbarians to the west. Our women can succeed us."

       "What is my role, then?"

       "Rosa, well, she's..." He was interrupted by Viz.

       "I'm sure you two will have plenty of time to chat in the future, but Rory needs his surgery."

       "Of course, Viz," he said, standing up. "Rory, I shall take my leave. It was good talking to you."

       After Pier had left, Rory asked Viz, "How could fertility impact the family to such an extent?"

       Viz looked conflicted. “That is something for Pier to tell you, not me. Come, lad, that leg won’t fix itself.”

       The Royal Palace was surrounded by crowds of onlookers. Four children, today, would be coroneted as servants of the state. They represented hope for all the hundreds of thousands peasants that lived within the city; the hope to rise above their social status. They began to their walk down the great pathway that lead into the Audience Chamber, the most splendid of all the rooms in the Royal Palace.

       The most surprising, and perhaps the most inspiring, was a young girl, no older than 16. Her soft brown hair, though worked upon by many maids for the last few hours, still contained the rough edge of poverty. She was accompanied by three boys: a blond fellow of considerable stature, a brunette with an exceedingly delicate build, and Rory, a little black haired boy who hobbled on with a staff, his leg encased in cloth.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

       They each knelt before the King, an old but solid man, whose wrinkles and gray hair told not of weakness but of experience. His sharp gaze pierced each of them, causing all but the girl to flinch; she continued, proud as ever. The King stood up and began to speak, his voice bellowing far louder in their minds than it truly was.

       "Holy day! Holy day! Ayell, Tynell, Hywin, Vyncis. Today we honor you into our services. Do you swear, to forever serve, to forever fight, to forever protect the crown and the country? To keep the peace. To maintain tradition. Ayell?"

       The girl stood up, her head straight with confidence. "I swear, your Majesty."

       "Tynell?"

       "I swear, your Majesty."

       "Hywin?"

       "I swear, your Majesty."

       "Vyncis?"

       "I swear, your Majesty."

       "Very well. You four are the jewels of the kingdom, the brightest of the bright. May your wisdom lead to new greatness. Maintain tradition!"

       In Rory’s mind, the King’s last words seemed more a warning than anything.

       As Rory stepped out of the carriage, he looked on to his new home, and it did not disappoint. True to their heritage as one of the great families, the Vyncis Mansion was massive, bigger than any building Rory had seen in this time period par the Royal Palace itself. He was lead in by the driver, a servant of the family. There, Pier was waiting for him, along with a small girl.

       "Welcome, welcome. Rosa, this is Rory."

       "Good day, Rosa," he greeted. Rosa was petite; a girl of fourteen, she was only a year younger than he was now, but she was even shorter than he was. True to her name, her head was covered in rosy blonde hair.

       "What's wrong with your leg, Rory?"

       "Rosa, that's rude—" Pier began, but Rory interrupted him.

       "No, no, it's fine. I did something stupid, and was punished for it."

       "They punished you by breaking your leg?"

       "Yes, I suppose they did..."

       "Hey, hey! Is it true you were a peasant?"

       "Uh, I guess?"

       Rosa's eyes seemed to sparkle in response to his answer. Why, of all things, did that excite her?

       "Can you tell me about it? Can he, father?"

       Pier laughed. "I think Rory needs to move his things in."

       "No, it's fine, erm, father."

       "You can just call me Pier if father is too awkward. You'll have time after, Rory."

       "I," he said, looking down at himself, "own no more than I wear."

       "Feel free to chat, then. Your room is the second to the right on the second floor. Incidentally, it's next to Rosa's."

       Confirmation given, Rosa lead Rory out into a little field behind the house. There, sitting under the idyllic sun, was an old oak tree, Rosa's favorite spot to sit.

       "So, what do you want to know?" Rory asked once they were situated under the tree.

       "What did you eat?"

       "Rye bread, usually. Rye porridge. Things with poor grain, basically."

       "Didn't it taste bad?"

       "Well, to be honest, it taste like nothing."

       "Did you eat any meat?"

       "No, not usually."

       "Does it make you tougher?"

       "No, if anything it makes you weaker. A proper man is built from a proper diet."

       "I heard that peasants were braver and more honest than rich men."

       "Who'd you hear that from? Don't romanticize poverty too much. Often, we were poor for a reason."

       "But you were born into it, were you not?"

       "...I was. But not all can be rich." Not really

       "Why not?"

       "…we’re bad at sharing.”

       "Where?"

       “Somewhere. A long time ago.”

       "How do you know?"

       "Ah, that's a secret," he said, giving her a wink. She pouted, but he refused to budge. Eventually, she gave up.

       They stayed silent for a while, leaning against the trunk and staring at the skies. A flock of birds flew overhead, flying in perfect formation. Rosa raised her hand towards them, and then weakly let it fall.

       "The poor are more free, are they not?"

       "Hmm?"

       "They can go where they want, wear what they want, do what they want... marry who they want. No archaic customs or rulings."

       "But we cannot buy the food we want, or buy the clothes we want, or pay to travel where we want."

       "But you can still marry who you want."

       "Yes, I suppose so. Unless your beloved is a noble."

       "You can become an Abex."

       "Then you once again have all the restrictions of etiquette."

       "So none of us are free, then. Not like those birds," she said, wishfully.

       Rory grew a sad smile. "No, not even those birds are free. In the end, they must land. Gravity chains us all, after all." And yet we’ve sent men to the moon.

       She stayed quiet for a bit. "How do birds fly? Do you know?"

       "The shape of their wings—ah, I can show you," he said, pulling out a piece of spare parchment he had tucked into his robes. His fingers, though clumsily at first, quickly began to remember the routine of folds that they had so often completed back at the academies. Soon, to Rosa's curious eyes, his hands held a paper airplane.

       "What is that?"

       He smirked. "Just watch." He gave it a quick toss, not wanting to tip himself over given the current status of his leg. Unfortunately for him, his movements were timed perfectly with a particularly strong summer breeze, which caused him to stumble, though he eventually up righted himself.

       Rosa stared, transfixed upon the little mock airplane, that seemingly, against all odds, was gracefully flying through the air, just like the birds she so admired. Only when it had finally hit the ground some 20 meters away did she look back at Rory; this time with admiration, as if he had cast some magical spell.

       "It's just a paper airplane. We use to make those all the time when I was young." I still am young.

       She stared into the empty blue sky, looking at nothing in particular. "Your smart, aren't you?"

       "I suppose so."

       “We are not capable of much, are we, compared to your lands.”

       He smiled. “We could create stars, move across the world in an instant, send men to the moon. And, by the end,” he said, looking down at his wrist, “stop time.”

       “You could create stars?”

       “In a fashion.”

       “Will you ever do that here?”

       “Maybe. With enough time.”

       “Rory,” she said, sticking her face near his.

       “W-what is it?”

       “You seem hesitant.”

       “Of what?”

       “Of everything.”

       “Perhaps… perhaps I am,” he resigned with a sigh.

       “Problems will not solve themselves.”

       “With enough time—“

       “They will only increase in severity.”

       “Rosa, you don’t understand. Time weathers everything. Time destroys everything.”

       “Including you. You don’t win with time, Rory. You only lose.”