JON

Hot! It’s so hot!

He was at the end of the world. He was at the end of his world. The darkness which engulfed him, the vast sea of black that took his vision, his eyesight away, and the sense of everything the world used to be to him, told him all he needed to know. He was dying. He was lying somewhere dying and no one, not a single person was coming to save him.

How? Why? He knew how and he surely knew why. It was all his fault, all his doing. No one had forced him into the burning building, no one. He had jumped in himself, of his own accord, to save people, to save those that were trapped in the fire. How well it worked out for him. He had managed to save no one and now nobody was coming to save him as he lay beneath the wooden frame that had come crashing down on him. He lacked the sight to see what was happening, his eyes would not open, but his nose did nothing to betray him. The fire had grown too much, he could smell it, along with the burnt smell of sizzling flesh mingled with smoke, and he had no doubt that his own was one of the many things being burnt, the torrid pain he felt would not let him have such a doubt. If only… if only…

His tears dried as quickly as they rolled down his cheeks, the scorching heat doing him nothing that could be called a favour. Until now, he never thought to think of how much he would miss the feel of tears rolling down his cheeks if he was never able to cry again, maybe the heat truly did do him a favour, now he could see how much he missed it, how much he missed the comfy warmth of tears as it streamed down his cheeks, he wished he could feel it again, but even that had been lost to the fire, the only thing he had left was his sense of smell and breath, and even those had begun to flicker. He was like a dying ember, and his body had begun to feel so light, almost as though he was a feather falling from the sky, swaying and dancing in the wind, only he felt lighter, and he was not a feather, he was not swaying and dancing in the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze of the wind, he was falling in a choking darkness, deeper and deeper, he was losing himself more and more, his life, and he could neither call for help nor hope for one.

All he could do was wait until he dropped to the end of this darkness like the falling feather he was. He could not crawl his way up nor could he force his way down, he just had to wait and then… and then… his life would end…

His eyes flung open with a sharp inhale. It was air, he knew, one devoid of the smell of smoke and burnt flesh. His lungs opened up to take in more, he was not done, he needed more and he breathed in more. It felt as though he had not had a fresh breath of air in centuries, as though he had… Wait.

His vision was blurred at first, but now it was clearing up, and at the same time, so did his mind. He had died, that he was sure of, so what was happening? Was this death? Was this how death felt? His eyes cleared completely now and it was greeted by a thick foam surrounding his mouth. There was no thick foam anywhere near his lips before, he was burnt, burnt to death, and he sure as hell did not remember his tongue having any metallic taste tinge it, this was not… Jon gasped, his chest tightening abruptly as he saw a reflection on the small metallic bowl that was flipped over before him, and he wasted no time before he pounced to his feet. He turned to look over his shoulders but he saw no one, then he turned back at the sturdy wood table he had jumped up from and leaned closer to take a better look at the face he saw on the bowl. It was still there, he waited for a while, then turned sharply again to catch a sight of whoever might be behind him by surprise, but he saw no one still.

It can’t be… he thought to himself as he stood up straight with a sharp inhale, then suddenly he lunged his face closer to the bowl once again. He turned his head right, the reflection followed, he turned it left and it followed again. “No,” Jon muttered with a nervous exhale. “Damn death’s playing tricks on me. There’s no way. There’s no way that’s my face.” He pointed at the bowl as though he was accusing it of some crime. “My hair’s black.” True, the person in the bowl had hair as blue as the clear sky on a summer’s day. “What? Silver eyes? Me? Is it even possible to have such?” That too, the person in the bowl had silver eyes, pale ones. “And,” Jon scoffed, “what’s up with his face, why is it so… handsome or beautiful? Which one? Of course I was handsome too, but what is this?” He would not say he wasn’t after all, but even he knew how much his own features closed to this person’s own. This one had a sharp jawline narrowing down to his chin, and accompanied by his pale silver eyes and blue hair… so much for his own handsomeness to this person’s.

Jon’s mind wobbled, his heart raced and he began to pace about the room, his eyes still not thinking to look about it and see where exactly he was, he wanted to know what was happening first, he wanted to… He stopped his pacing and began to stare down the table he had jumped up from. Ink from a fallen inkwell was spilled all over it, and along with the water that he suspected had poured out from the bowl he had used as his mirror, they made a mess of the table.

Maybe the afterlife gave people new faces, Jon thought. He knew he surely died, there was no doubt about that, but his mind was bringing some other option that was not death, an option he deemed too queer to consider, but maybe if he…

He buried his boot into the leg of the table, and it no doubt went the other way from what he had expected. “Shit. Goddammit.” His toes were hurting so badly. He was not dreaming, that was for sure, and he felt pain, the pain he had lost when he died, it was all gone then, so how could he feel it now again. Could it possibly be…?

Just then, Jon noticed something tightly shut in his left hand, and at the same time he took notice of the attire that fell over his body. He was wearing something queer, something that he had only seen worn in movies. It was a golden velvet coat that fell all the way down to his knees, with a black leather belt that was fastened to his waist. His legs were covered by black leather boots with high heels and pointed toes, and it was embellished with golden threads.

Maybe he was in a movie. Impossible…

Jon removed his eyes from his attire and swept it across the room, taking it from one end to the other, his eyes devoid of any glint of the understanding he sought and wanted to have. The room was ancient, medieval-esque ancient. The walls of the room were made of mortared stones polished beautifully with granites and marbles that glittered. The table and chair he had jumped up from, stood to the right beside a hearth made of the same stones as the walls, and a golden banner designed with the sigil of a raven standing atop a diagonal sword, hung just above it.

He took his eyes further to the left of the room from where he stood, and there was a large bed lavishly draped with curtains with a bedding made of fine silver silk there. Beside the bed, the only window in the room, set in the wall, its shutters adorned with white and blue stained glasses, which less doubt did their job of casting colourful patterns of light across the room. While the floor was covered with a large grey woven rug designed with the same crest as the banner that hung just above the hearth.

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Is this really the afterlife…? Jon gasped sharply as he was taken aback. He had only seen such things in movies and read about such designs in books, so what was this? What was all this? Was he dead? Was he not? He did not know anymore. Amidst all the confusion that stormed his mind, he suddenly recalled that his hand was curled into a fist and something was in it. He immediately clocked back to his tightly shut hand and as he unlocked it he found a piece of crumpled paper buried within.

Poisoned… the paper bore this singular word as he unfolded it. Shit. Jon understood. He actually was… he actually… The pain, the air, the sense of touch, everything he lost had returned, just like in those books, the ones he had read. He actually had transmigrated, and it was into a body that had been murdered; the paper in his hand, that he looked at in disbelief, bearing proof that the body he had come into was indeed murdered, and it as well had the cause of this person’s death. He clenched his teeth grimly.

“My lord,” a voice called out suddenly from behind the large wooden door of the room, startling Jon and almost sending him down to his buttocks as he reeled backwards as though he was ready to run. To where though?

My lord?

“Who’s there?!” Jon voiced in return.

“Apologies, my lord. It is I, Flynn Claymore,” the voice said, and after a short while of awaiting a reply from the startled Jon and receiving none, the man spoke again, “may I come in?”

Jon’s eyes, without delay, stumbled back to the paper in his hand and its substance.

“Poisoned…” he muttered.

Would it do me good to let him in? Jon’s eyes glanced at the door as he sunk deep in his thoughts. He had done a lot of sinking and falling in the last few hours, and he suspected there was even many more to come. He did not even know where he was at this moment and how the hell he was to react.

“Is everything alright, my lord?” Flynn questioned, regathering Jon’s seemingly lost attention to him.

“W-What do you want?” Jon’s voice quivered slightly, almost unnoticeable, as he asked.

“I have come to gather you for the enthronement, my lord. The members of the court are gathered in the royal hall and await you,” Flynn replied.

Enthronement? Royal hall? Don’t tell me… No one would of course, he did not need to mention it. And whereas, an enthronement and a royal hall only meant one thing, if his memory served him right, and it was a crown. Was he to be…? Jon inhaled sharply and straightened himself on his feet, he had to first find out where he was and the person that might have the answer to that was standing just beyond that door. And besides, he could not keep the man waiting outside any longer. It might seem suspicious.

“Come in,” Jon said as he crumpled the paper he held tightly in his hands, concealing its existence.

The large door of the room flew open, allowing Flynn passage into it. The young man walked in gracefully. He was wearing a flame coloured brocade coat with a raven wing pin on his heart. His auburn hair, which was tied into a ponytail, gleamed like marigold petals in the light of the sun that made its way through the opened shutters of the room’s window.

“My lord,” Flynn greeted, clenching his right fist and placing it over his heart as he bowed, the door closing behind him. After he was done bowing and greeting, he took sight of the mess the table had found itself in. “Ravens! What happened here?” Flynn exclaimed as his eyes fell upon it.

Jon knew better than to start spouting nonsense of how he had died and awoken here, and how he was not sure of where he was to this man he had just met, that was only for himself to know, not for any other, especially not when the body he was in had been supposedly murdered. He had to blend in, somehow, and figure out things himself. If only it was as easy as he thought.

“Nothing that is of your concern,” Jon said as he elegantly sat on the bed, trying his best not to draw suspicions to himself. He scratched his hair. “I seemed to have slept off and woken up with a bit of a headache. Enlighten me on yourself once again, and what you mean by enthronement,” he added, almost biting his lips due to how cringey he sounded. His question was a stupid one, but there was little choice he had. Asking was the best way to get answers, and he no doubt will.

Flynn’s eyes shifted from the table and fell upon Jon, his gaze seemingly sceptical, forcing Jon’s heart to race rapidly. Maybe the question had actually been a bad move. How could he have asked such a question? He wished he could just blink and awaken in his house, but even he knew how stupid that thought was. There was no doubt of what had happened to him. None at all. He was dead to his world and he might as well be stuck here.

Flynn’s eyes closed and a soft smile slowly spread across his cheeks. “Surely you jest, my lord,” he said. “I am Flynn Claymore, son of Reginald Claymore, the former royal advisor to the king and Lord of Mistwood. My father laid down his raven pin, stepping down as royal advisor, and resigning himself to his castle after the death of your father, the previous king. I have taken my father’s position and have become the new royal advisor to the king, which you shall become in a matter of moments,” Flynn told him, and it was quite a lot, so much that it surprised him. But at least he got answers.

That confirms it, I have transmigrated into the body of a prince about to become a king… Jon almost shook his head, his palms had become sweaty. He was completely shaken.

“Have you erased me from your mind so quickly, my lord. We used to play all the time in the royal courtyard as kids while our fathers were at court. We would bask our skin beneath the golden sun, listening to the maidens sing beautifully. Not that it matters any longer, I am now but a mere royal advisor in service to you, my lord.” Flynn bowed courteously, his lips curling up eloquently.

Jon’s heart was thumping a rapid beat in his chest now, but he knew nothing good would come out of being tensed at this moment. He sighed inwardly in an attempt to calm himself as he collected what he had heard, trying to put together the current situation he was in, still he could not seem to understand what was happening. He had been transmigrated, offered a new life in the body of a prince, but given the circumstances, it was nothing he was thankful for. There was a royal feud going on in this castle and he had been dumped in its midst. Why had he been given a new life if it was only going to be threatened again?

He took his gaze to the auburn-haired man who had begun to quietly inspect the messy table for some reason known to he alone. It was all stupid, everything, he thought as he watched the man. What was he to do now? He was not sure, and he might never be. Jon shook his head free from the thoughts his mind was clouded with. Nothing was going to come out of such thinking, he needed to see the positivity in this. He had been given another shot at life in a vastly different world, one that might even be more dangerous, and even he knew that his wallowing in thoughts would not be of any help, he had to find a way to protect himself or he might just end up dead again.