It’s the middle of November, so it’s no surprise, then, that the air outside is cold enough for me to see my breath. The night sky is barely visible through a hazy, thin shroud of clouds and smog from the nearby manufacturing facilities. I give a small nod of appreciation to the night shift workers as I lock the workshop door with my large bundle of keys, and kick the rusty metal slab at the base to make sure the lock didn’t catch on the edge of the slot in the doorframe.
It’s happened before, and the boss was fuming when he turned up to find the door wide open and a pigeon starting a nest on one of the CAD machines. Fortunately, I wasn’t at work that day, so my colleague was the target of the old codger’s wrath and earned himself a week’s paycut. Kicking the door is a habit we’ve all picked up, since then, even if it’s starting to leave a few dents.
I work at a speciality parts workshop as an apprentice turned formal employee in the outskirts of York. We do custom orders for companies, craftsmen and what-have-you, tooling out specialised components for larger projects which either can’t be found elsewhere, or aren’t quite up to task. It’s unusual work, with unusual shift patterns. Sometimes clients need 200 gears with a specific number of teeth made out of an equally specific material – other times we collaborate with other engineers to create more involved parts. The last big project we were tapped for was an electric buggy engine that needed to be as light as we could possibly make it, and we supplied the fibreglass chassis needed to house the motor. In the end the buggy didn’t take first place, but the driver was nonetheless satisfied with its performance, so even if we didn’t win prestige, we managed to avoid embarrassing ourselves. More than that we couldn’t really ask for.
“Hey Trenty-boy! You done locking up?” shouts my supervisor for the day, Adam, from behind the bike shed.
“Yeah,” I shout back, “All nice and snug. I’m gonna head home, I’m knackered.”
“Arright. I’m gonna go t’pub and get a couple pints. See ya on Thursday, yeah Trent?”
“Will do, man.”
Conversation over, I stuff the keys into my oil stained overalls and zip up my puffy green jacket, heading off to find my car.
“Nice night. Real brisk,” I mutter, giving the near-lifeless industrial estate a glance over, closing my eyes and taking a deep lungful of night air.
----------------------------------------
I exhale, feeling an unnatural itchiness along my sweaty back, and open my eyes to behold a light, gentle blue sky. Fully formed clouds drift past a bright sun, along with a gentle breeze.
It takes me a moment to realise that I’m lying down, and a little longer to realise that I’m in the nude, bare as the day I was born.
Slowly, my mind begins lurching into motion. As it does, a strange feeling of numbness permeates my body, save for a persistent needling itch along the skin in contact with whatever I’m lying on. I think its twigs and leaves, from the feeling. A glance slightly back brings the tip of a stout, white tree branch devoid of foliage, into view to lend credence to the theory.
I don’t know how long I spent lying here, feeling the chill on my skin, watching clouds roll by as feeling slowly returns to my body. It starts with my toes, then my fingers. Concentrating on it causes a twitch here and a twitch there over a few minutes of effort. I take periodic breaks to recover a little from the strain. Time continues to pass, and eventually, I can curl my fingers, flexing them while breathing sharply through my teeth. I’m starting to get pins and needles. Blood is starting to flow back into my extremities. It’s extremely uncomfortable, but I grit my teeth through the itchy pain.
What feels like an hour passes, and I manage, albeit with great effort, to pull myself up to where I can sit cross-legged. My back feels like someone gave it a wax peel, from how sore it is. All-in-all, this is hands down the worst hangover I’ve ever experienced. Point of fact, it’s the only hangover I’ve ever experienced. I’m not a drinker, like Adam. I know all too well what depending on alcohol to deal with stress can do to a person, and I’ve made it a personal motto to avoid any and all potential substance addictions. Except for coffee, because some days I need the caffeine to function, cliché as that sounds. Having said that - long, irregular hours spent focusing on not botching a project - whilst on a deadline - is incredibly exhausting, so I admit and accept my hypocrisy on this one - and only - occasion.
Doesn’t change the fact that I still feel like shit. I may have forced myself to sit up, but I’m struggling against collapsing like a sack of potatoes. The only reason I don’t just fall back down is that I’m hunched over in such a way that my weight is leaning forwards instead of backwards, with my crossed legs keeping me just going face-first into the dirt.
Looking around, It looks like I’ve woken up in the middle of a forest. Not a particularly dense one, but that’s hardly relevant. I can’t see my clothes nearby, either. So that’s just fantastic, yeah? Next, you’re gonna tell me my hair has turned from blonde to pink and I’ve got a tattoo of a dick on my ass.
I joke, but I can feel my anxiety rising rapidly. And I don’t have my medication with me. Got to stay calm, I don’t want to rile myself up into a panic attack and pass out again. That is not what I need right now, think productive thoughts.
I take a couple deep breaths, eyes tightly shut. Plan of Action. When you’re freaking out and confused, organise your thoughts and circumstances into a list. Pretty much the only advice from my old therapist I took to heart. When faced with chaos, impose structure. Structure, order - they’re comfortable, easy to understand. Fear and stress build up in response to unknowns.
“Let’s...” I try to speak but my voice is weak, and immediately turns into a coughing fit, “…Let’s start…with me.”
Throat feels like its got bugs crawling over it. Need something to drink to get rid of the itchiness, but the best I can do is rub my neck.
“First…” I cough once, shortly, then try to clear my throat, “Am I Safe and Healthy?
I spend a few minutes inspecting my body. Near as I can tell everything’s fine, even if I reckon I know what rigor mortis feels like now. That’s fading a bit faster now that I’ve gotten past the worst of it though. I think.
That’ll be a ‘Yes’ down for healthy. Probably – not like I know what this stiffness is about. As for safe, I’m naked in the middle of a forest. So that’s a solid ‘maybe’, leaning towards a fat “hell naw” for that category. A grimace forms on my face.
“Whatever…” My voice is picking up strength, but its still like breathing through sandpaper, “Next…Where the fuck am I?”
I start coughing again, and look around me for anything familiar through watery eyes. No dice. Just randomly spaced trees as far as I can see. I don’t remember anything after locking up and leaving work, and there aren’t any forests for miles around the industrial estate. It’s not like I feel as though anything is…missing…either. That’s probably the most disconcerting part about it. I don’t feel like anything happened. One moment, I’m trying to remember where I parked my shitty old ford, the next I’m collapsed, naked, in the middle of fucking nowhere.
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
“Third, and..finally,” I wheeze, speaking is still hard, “What now?”
It goes without saying, really, that I can’t stay out in the woods, naked and thirsty forever. If nothing else I should take a long look around the area, just in case my clothes turn up – and even better, my phone, so I can get a clue as to where I am and how far it is to the nearest road so I can call a cab or catch a bus back home. Whatever. Failing that, I still need to figure out where I am and get something to take the chill off. If I turn up to a village or farm or what-have-you, I doubt the locals are going to look kindly upon my streaking wonder. I’m proud of my looks, sure, but not enough to get arrested for public indecency. That’s just going to be embarrassing for everyone involved, not just me.
Also, I still need that drink. My throat is parched and scratchy, but I don’t feel too hungry yet. Although I’m sure that’s soon to follow. Which, if I can’t find my shit or civilisation, is going to become a really big problem, really quickly, because I know bugger all about wilderness survival. Just vague trivia I’ve picked up over the years reading about other people doing it. Which is a poor substitute for proper training, honestly. I didn’t understand a thing about CAD software until I got my hands on the machine and interface, for example. Not to knock the textbooks, I learned most of what I know reading every textbook and encyclopaedia I could find in the libraries where I lived and went to school, but information without context is little more than nigh-worthless trivia for people that want to come off as smart. Which I am, at least in part because of that wealth of half-remembered trivia, but that’s beside the point.
The point being, that I’m screwed if I don’t solve this problem quickly, and the stress of not having a solution is only going to make things worse as time goes on, especially without my anxiety meds to keep me going too far off the deep end. When it comes down to it I’m just hoping my survival instincts trump my fatalism.
Worst case scenario aside, I feel like I have enough strength to stand. Might just stumble and fall back down again, but I’m not going to get anything done sitting around pondering what I could be doing when I could be doing it.
It takes a couple minutes, a lot of grunting and swearing, but I stagger to my feet, only to be hit by a sudden wave of vertigo as blood rushes to my brain, only to then radiate outward to the rest of my body like I’m hugging a cactus.
“I’m alive. I’m alive…oof,” I grunt, steadying myself. My legs wobble at the knees a couple times before I relax into my normal standing posture. But something feels…odd. The numbness is gone, so it’s not that, but I definitely feel like something about the way I’m standing is just ever so slightly off.
The answer hits me when I straighten up. My natural slouch from years spent sitting down studying is gone. In fact, come to think of it, my glasses are gone too, and yet I can see just as well as I can with them on, if not better. The puzzling revelations don’t stop there: Looking down at my chest I can see my old scars are also completely gone, and so is the small layer of fat I was trying to work off with my new morning jog routine. I’m not just healthy, I’m healthy. That bothers me a lot more than waking up alone and nude in the woods, somehow.
People don’t just go on a drunken bender and wake up to find all their physical imperfections fixed. I mean, sure that kind of sounds like something that might happen in some myth, but not something that actually, y’know, happens. If I was suspicious before, this has got all the imaginary alarm bells blaring at full tilt. I take a deep, deep breath, then sigh.
“The hell kind of fairy tale bullshit have I gotten myself into?”
----------------------------------------
I see nothing.
But on the edge of my awareness, I feel a presence. It says something, but I can’t quite make out what it is. It repeats the noise. All I hear is a faint buzzing in my ear, whilst Desamine’s taunt echoes through the darkness. Repeating. Drowning out this other noise. I can’t hear anything but the soft whisper of my sister’s voice. It’s maddening.
Something rocks my consciousness. No, my body. I’m alive? I can’t feel anything, but I know I’m being shaken. Desamine stabbed me in the liver, the blade no doubt poisoned. Who taught her? Where did she ever get the idea to murder me in cold blood from? How could she do it so calmly, without me catching on?
Nothing makes sense. The only truth is that I’m dying. No. I won’t die. I am the First Prince. This castle, this life, the lives of the nobility and every last one of the common rabble, are MINE. I don’t know what you’re playing at, little doll, but I don’t play games.
Anger swells from within, growing, spreading. I am the First Prince. I will not be beaten. I latch on to the torrent of pride and indignation, then pull, with everything I can muster.
The rocking, tremulous motion doesn’t stop. I feel. The voice, barely discernible through the rage and echoing taunt, achieves clarity. I keep pulling, climbing to the surface. I am the First Prince. Anchor it deep. Form the foundation, break the ocean’s surface.
“Kallum! Getcher arse off the floor, I know you’re not dead, I can still see the colour in your cheeks. Ah, come on! Wake up!”
The voice gives me a direction to move to, it’s familiar. Is that…Ackery? What is she doing here? Almost there. I am the First Prince. Almost. There, my eyes flicker, the void of black stutters as a crack of light breaks through, blinding me.
“That’s it, boy, Old Salt’s not going to have you for supper today. Already lost most the rest of ya, no thanks to that ungrateful brat,” Ackery's yammering on as if I didn't just survive an assassination attempt, “I said get up. The castles a mess, and if you don't get up, one of the Princess’ men are gonna come to collect your body and that'll be that.”
I groan, pushing myself up from the floor, “Ackery…Your dulcet tones are remarkable in their ability to raise the dead...”
Ackery smacks me across the head, “Don't give me any cheek, boy,” I'm 26, you old hag, “Be glad I saw fit to check you were still breathing. Now listen up because I’m only going to say it once. You are the only survivor. Your parents and brothers are dead, the castle is under your sister's control now, and so are some of the upper nobility. That means you're the rightful king. Not like the kingdom knows any better, and if Desamine has her way you won’t have the chance to claim your birthright.”
I grunt in pain, the knife wound is nothing I haven't felt before, and I regularly dose myself with poisons to build up an immunity, precisely for circumstances such as these. Like as not the only reason I’m still alive. That twisted doll underestimated my constitution, to my benefit.
Ackery’s lips twist into a grimace, “You can’t stay in the castle. You need to already be gone. So get up, a little prick like this ain’t nothing worth crying about you big baby.”
Says the woman without the dagger in their gut, “Could you back off a bit so I can get up, I can smell the fish you had for lunch.”
Ackery complies with a scowl, standing up and staring down her nose at me, while the smell of old fish lingers. It puts me in mind of my childhood somewhat. Ackery has never been one to respect personal boundaries or shy away from stronger smelling foods. The knife is still in my stomach, but the blade is short and thin, trading physical damage for subtlety and relying on the fast-acting poison coating to finish the job, so I can still move as long as I’m careful not to tear the wound open further.
“I doubt that she’s managed to turn all the nobility. I’m still First Prince, and Lord of the Western Border,” I say, standing fully, hand clutching the knife handle to keep it from moving, “If I can’t force her allies to give up through political pressure, it’s going to be a repeat of the War of Bitter Shadows.”
I’ve faced down truly despicable people, hungry for blood, pleasure and power. Never have I looked into an assassin’s eyes and seen such a deep abyss. If Desamine is allowed to rule unopposed, the kingdom will be ruined. Regardless of how she managed to organise a coup from her isolation in the eastern tower, her inexperience will ensure it. I, on the other hand, have been prepared my whole life to assume the role of King.
This is to say nothing of her apparent murder of the rest of our family and her attempt on my own life. At least publically, she must be held to account, even if in private that would mark me a hypocrite, given that my hands are hardly clean of blood, and the potential gains if I exploit the situation properly. That, and I’ve never considered myself especially close to anybody, family included. Maybe if I had put in a little more effort into watching my useless little sister I could have headed this plan of hers before it came this far. Alas, hindsight is an activity I should partake in less. Mistakes can be rectified.
After thinking through the next steps I should take, I turn my gaze towards my bookshelves, and walk back to my desk, “Thankfully, the castle’s original architect, in his infinite wisdom, saw fit to provide a means of escape should something of this nature occur,” I mutter, half-to myself, half to Ackery.
Clearing the papers off of my desk, I look for a small hole in the surface, reaching out of view for my pen. In a knot, I spot what I’m looking for, and stab the nib of the pen into it, and a small compartment, otherwise seamless in the wood, pops open. Dropping the quill, I take out a tiny key from the tray and shut the lid.
Ackery begins tapping her foot, “Quit yer dramatics and hurry up, boy.”
I roll my eyes and limp back to the bookshelves, running my finger down the third row, stopping on the spine of a book in the centre and tapping it. The book is nondescript, but it’s contents are surprising. I wedge my finger into the space above and pull at the top of the spine.
Instead of tearing the leather, the whole spine swings out like a little door to reveal a keyhole, which I immediately insert the tiny key into and start turning. Rather than unlock it, it’s more like winding up one of those strange music boxes from the empire. Releasing the key, it rotates back a few times before a solid thunk can be heard from inside the wall, and the bookshelf sinks into it, then twists to reveal a dark space, barely penetrated by the dim light filtering through the window opposite.
The castle sits atop a tall hill, and at the foot of that hill, is a wide, steady river. A dock was constructed in a hidden cove far beneath the castle to access it. From there, I can row out to safety.
A slow draft of stale air carries up through the opening, taking with it a smell of dampness. I retrieve the key and close the spine-latch. The mechanism is on a strict timer, the idea being that a speedy exit will deny pursuers.
“Then I...” I grunt in discomfort, as turning causes the small blade to shift in my gut, “…will take my leave.”
Ackery stares at me, silent, but impatient.
I descend.
----------------------------------------
I stare down the cocksure boy as he leaves, trying to look gallant as possible while fleeing his own home stuck like a baby Braul ready for the spit.
I lick my cracked lips, then scratch at the burnt stump on my left arm, an itch, flaming and raw where my hand used to be once upon a time. The bookcase shudders, then returns to place, repeating the loud thumping as it locks back up.
I grin.
“Looks like it’s gonna be just like old times, after all…” I cackle.