No matter how much he tried, he could not shake off the feeling of weakness he felt in his dream. The ceremony and everything around it felt real, down to his unimportance in attendance, but He paid that no mind. What Cormac couldn’t forget was the impending cloud and all that it was bringing to him. It felt like death given form. A smoky cloud rolling through the valley, eating and transforming whatever it may touch, whatever it may devour.
A chill ran down his spine from the thought. He had little trouble picking the lone small tomato with his fork, as his hands shook with trepidation. Only at the glare of his mother did he regain his sense of space. He was home, he was eating breakfast and he lost all that might have made him a valuable asset to the family. His hands calmed with the cold anger brewing in his chest.
He felt no anger yesterday, he expected this outcome. He was frail for his age, short and weak. He portrayed none of his father's qualities his mother loved, nor shown signs of the gifts that were supposed to run in the family. Well, he knew they did run in the family. Eamon managed to order a pack of bandits to slit their own throats, when he was on the hunt with him. He was twenty then…
He was twenty?
Cormac's confusion caused by the dream only seemed to deepen as time rolled on. He knew bits of information he wasn't supposed to yet. He knew of things that should happen in time. He knew them like he lived in them, through them. He excused himself when he was done eating, he couldn’t eat much anyway. His mind was a lake of swimming questions, devouring all other thoughts.
He had to test this, he decided. Whatever might have happened, it would have significance only if proven real. And Cormac knew exactly what he would try.
His mother kept a diary he had found when he was hiding from his sister's onslaught of potential brides. But the diary ran all the way back before he was even born. He could not read it before to the fullest, as he has been found out, but there was much he wanted to learn about his dear mother.
He couldn’t go there right away, as his mother was still in the mansion. She might have been in her solar, gossiping and planning with her other lady friends, but his mother had a nose for catching Cormac unawares. He would not put it past her to have someone keep tabs on him.
Cormac started walking through the mansion, thinking about what to do. He could trade clothes, try to disappear into plain sight. Most servants were on their duty now, he could squeeze into her chambers and back without getting spotted. But he would also need time, he couldn't bring the diary with him. There had to be no evidence of his intrusion, no sign of entry.
He was getting even more angry thinking about it. He had no strings to pull, no friends here to help, no station to order anyone. He was utterly unprepared for what he was about to do. If his mother found out, she would be furious. He could imagine her frown vividly. That was the last push he needed. The thought of his mother's wrath at his insolence.
He did not even try to hide it anymore. He straightened his back, changed his direction directly to his mother's chambers and walked on with a smile on his face.
It was that easy. He slipped into the room and closed the big wooden doors shut. The room was luxurious, the bed's frame coated in gold, the sheets crimson red, the same as her hair. A small armchair in the corner of the room, right next to an extensive showcase of books, in an antique bookcase. But Cormac knew exactly where to go for his booty. The bedstand next to the giant bed had a single drawer. He walked over to it, anticipation making him a little giddy. He grabbed the handle, expecting the drawer to not budge, but he opened it whole easily. His mother did not even bother to lock it.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The drawer was disappointingly empty, if Cormac did not know about the secret compartment, right under the fake bottom. He pressed down on the correct part and the bottom came off. Holding his breath, Cormac grabbed the thin plank and looked inside.
Nothing, it was empty. His disappointment was immeasurable and his day was ruined. Whatever little hope he might have gained from the dream, was lost. He hasn't seen the future, he wasn't chosen to change the world. He was nothing, just as his mother always told him. With a sigh, he placed the fake bottom back into the drawer. With a click, the compartment was full again.
He turned around, ready to leave the room along with the last chance for himself he saw. When the handle started turning. Suddenly, Cormac became aware of his surroundings. A muffled discussion was on the other side of the door. Someone would go inside sooner or later and find him dead to rights, sneaking about in his mother's room. If he had a bad reputation now, it would not hold a candle to what he would be known for later.
Quickly, he jumped underneath the bed. The expansive covers hanged over the edges, which gave him some amount of confidence in his hiding spot, but the cobwebs and dust made him itch.
The sounds behind the door stopped and light came pouring through the door. Someone came inside, but it was not his mother. The boots were of fine grey leather and were recognizably for men, although they stretched to his knees. The figure walked through the room, stopping at times - maybe to appreciate the lavishness of the chambers. Then the man walked over to the bedstand and pulled out the drawer. Without a second of hesitation, he pulled the fake bottom out, then he pressed a knob, that Cormac had not noticed, and pulled out a book from the space. Not a book, a diary.
Suddenly, a new coat of dust fell on Cormac as a weight settled on the bed. The little particles flew around Cormac's face and as he breathed, he felt an urging need to sneeze, as the dust flew through his nose. He stopped the natural reaction with difficulty, managing to halt the sneeze in its infancy. The man stood up after a while of flipping pages, releasing another wave of dust from the bed.
Seemingly content with what he had found, the man opted for the exit again. Cormac breathlessly watched the man as he left. He had long brown hair, wore a black suit with grey pants to match. As he closed the door, Cormac exhaled with relief and crawled out from beneath the bed. When he heard a lock.
Cormac stopped dead in his tracks, his heart pounding quick and strong. He slowly moved over to the door, tested the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge.
He was locked from outside, inside his mother's chambers.
This must be what waiting to be executed feels like. Cormac thought as he laid on the bed, watching the ceiling. He spent the first thirty minutes searching in vain for a duplicate key. Then he was looking for secret passages like a madman, pressing random stones that seemed to be protruding just a little too much from the wall. Then he had to accept even through his stress, that he was at his wits end. All his efforts were wasted, as there was no way of getting out the room. Tired from his frantic search, Cormac laid on the bed, gathering his strength.
He could pound on the doors and someone would surely notice. The question was who? Some of the servants took pity on him and they wouldn’t out him for this transgression, but others would do it instantly. From pure assholeness or for a hope of a reward. But Cormac felt his options slowly slip from him, until that one remained. He could think about it for as long as he wanted to, but someone just had to let him out. There was no way around it.
Steeling his nerves and praying more than he did his whole life, he almost knocked on the door. When he realized, the key was still lodged into the lock from the other side. A thought struck him, a thought so brilliant he might have to compose a song about it later.
He torn a page out of one of the books and slid the paper underneath the door. Then, he got himself a different paper and pressed it enough for it to become somewhat hard. Then, he pressed the paper against the key, which slowly slid from the hole, right onto the paper bellow. He pulled the paper back inside and thanks to all that was holy, the key along with it.
With a newfound hope he lodged the key into the hole, twisted it. Tested the handle in disbelief. It gave way. He could get out. He could get out without….
As he opened the door further, his mother's frown welcomed him. With no other thing to do, he stood there, gripping the handle. His face frozen in fear.