THE PRODIGAL SON.

The door creeps open, hinges groaning from the old wood. Hems of a silver dress drag on the floor as footsteps prod against the stone floor as Queen Ophelia enters the chambers. Her blue hues gaze at the items around the room—a bookshelf stacked with books, a suit of armor, a chest along with a crimson banner with a gold dragon embedded in the stitching. At the bed in front of her lay three lumps on a king-sized mattress, covered by silk sheets. Ophelia huffs, bringing her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She turned, her eyes gazing upon the dresser beside her, where a bottle of wine sits with three chalices. She approaches the dresser and grabs the bottle, lifting it. She gives it a small tilt; a red teardrop drips from the opening and lands on the carpet floor, staining it.

A heavy sigh escapes from the queen’s lips as she places the bottle back onto the dresser. She turns her head and approaches the embrasure window and removes the crimson drapes covering the glass. Sunlight pours into the room, dismantling any signs of darkness and shadow crept within the chambers. Queen Ophelia peers out into the courtyard, drifting onto the snow covered ground; the sounds of clatter echoes from the smashing of metal from the blacksmith, no doubt in the process of making his next masterpiece. Soldiers stand amongst the walls, guarding them from the lower levels below. Her eyes gaze to the training grounds, where a seasoned knight stands amongst the circle of soldiers, teaching them how to fight.

The queen’s focus is shattered at the sound of groaning and shuffling. She turns, watching as the bed shuffles. A mop of fiery ginger locks rises from the silk sheets, resting over mocha skin.  Ophelia folds her arms, glaring distastefully at the young man as he groans and sits up, placing his back against the headboard, forcing the sheets to fall over his bare, toned skin. He blinks and stretches, rubbing his tired eyes before dropping his hands in front of them. He cranes his head, Ophelia’s icy blue eyes lock with his ambers.

“Prince Draco,” Ophelia says, tone sharp like the blade of a knife.

Prince Draco just grins, yawning, “Mother.”

“Late night?” Her head turns to the wine bottle sitting on the dresser.

Prince Draco looks at his Mother, then at the bottle of wine, then back at his Mother. “How’d you guess?”

“Mother’s intuition,” she nudges her head to the two women beside him. “What of the women?”

He shrugs. “What about them?”

“Who are they?”

“Just some servants.” He folds his arms behind his head, resting them on the board behind him. “Why does it matter?”

            A disappointing sigh escapes her lips. “Do you know how dangerous this is?”

“I’m just having fun,” Draco shrugs carelessly.

“Fun?” She places her hands on her hips. “Do you want a child out of wedlock? A child you cannot properly raise on your own?”

“Isn’t that what servants are for?”

She sighs with disagreement and rubs her forehead. “When are you going to grow up?”

            “What?” the question stunned him.

            “You’re a prince, Draco,” she states, “of the greatest nation in our realm. You’re about to turn eighteen in a few months and with it comes your coronation. And your right to You need stop acting like a child. Stop drinking; stop fucking women and get your ass in gear. Act like a fucking prince and not some harlot from the brothel!” His Mother’s voice rises with each word escaping from lips, shocking the walls of the room. Prince Draco remains silent, eyes wide and lips parting. She sighs and rubs her forehead.  “Just…get up and get dressed. You’re late with your training session with Ser Cedric.”

            His Mother stares at Draco and runs her hand through the locks of her long, blonde hair. She says nothing more before she turns and exits the room, slamming the door shut on her way out.

            Draco sits on the bed in silence, mind and heart racing. He slouches back onto the mattress and stares at the ceiling, as a single word falls from his lips.

            “Fuck.”

***

            Prince Draco stands in the middle of a group of soldiers, a broad sword in his hand. His right leg is bent forward, while his back leg and sword remain behind him. In front of him stands his opponent in the same stance, sword pointed outwards. A cold wind blows between them, slapping their gear; their cotton shirts flapping from beneath the armor.

            A gruff voice speaks suddenly from within the crowd of men, “Again!”

            Prince Draco charges forward, kicking snow from into the air. He swings at his opponent, releasing an animalistic growl from his throat. The blunt blades clash, their sounds echoing through the courtyard. Draco moves on the offensive. He pushes forward, thrusting his blade over his head and then from side-to-side. His foe stumbles, struggling to keep up with Draco’s wild barrages. Draco swings his blade so hard; it knocks his opponent’s sword out of his hands. He advances, side-stepping and lunging his elbow into the soldier’s gut, forcing him to fall in the snow. Prince Draco releases another monstrous battle cry, lifting the blade high above his head, ready to clash.

            “ENOUGH!” the voice bellows from within the crowd.

            Prince Draco stops suddenly, lowering his hands. He turns, heart pounding and heavy gasps escaping from his lips. He faces the crowd, removing his helmet as a figure emerges, cloaked in silver armor from head-to-toe, a crimson cloak draped behind him and a golden dragon insignia stitched into the cloth, standing taller than any man he ever knew—including his Father.

            “Why’d you stop me, Ser Cedric?” Draco asks, arching an eyebrow. “I wasn’t finished.”

            Ser Cedric stares ahead, blinking his brown eyes. He scratches his fingers against his charcoal skin and folds his arms. “Your enemy was defeated.”

            “Defeated—not dead.” Draco counters.

            “Not all enemies deserve death, my prince,” Ser Cedric says, deep voice booming like a thunderclap. “While true, on the battlefield it’s life or death, you must remember we are human; you must show compassion and mercy, but most of all—restraint. A good soldier never lashes out in anger. As a King, it’s something you must learn to do as well.”

            Draco says nothing, his mother’s words ringing in his ears. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I didn’t mean it.”

            Ser Cedric nods, “Your apology is accepted, Your Majesty. Now, let’s go again, but with me as your opponent. Put your helmet on.”

            Draco nods and places his helmet on. He takes his position as Ser Cedric stands in front of him, sword drawn.

            “Now,” Ser Cedric breathed, “Come.”

            Draco retakes his stance, breathes for a moment, and charges. He swings. Ser Cedric remains calm and collected. In a swift movement, Ser Cedric blocks and counters. He sweeps his leg underneath Draco’s and sends him plummeting to the ground. Ser Cedric approaches Draco and places his sword to the prince’s throat.

            “Yield.”

            Draco looks up at his mentor, gasping. “You…cheated…”

            Ser Cedric grins deviously. “There’s no cheating in war, Your Majesty. You bring whatever you have to on the battlefield.” Ser Cedric holds out his hand; Draco wraps his hand around his mentor’s and hauls him to his feet. “So, Your Majesty. What’s today’s lesson?”

            Draco stares up at his mentor in question; his eyebrow arches and his mouth hangs open before he finally answers. “A King’s quality must contain compassion and mercy?”

            Ser Cedric nods. “Very good, Your Majesty.”

            Draco gives a toothy grin. He opens his mouth to speak, but his words are silenced by crunching footfalls. Their heads turn to an old man dressed in a burgundy tunic and stockings and like the others, carries a golden dragon emblem on the chest.

            “Beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” the old man croaked, his voice hoarse and rasp. “But the King requires your presence in the War Room immediately.”

            Draco nods and faces his mentor. “Guess training is over.”

            “Indeed.”

            Draco removes his helmet and hands it to Ser Cedric, then stabs his blade into the snow as he follows the old servant.

            Draco follows the old servant back into the castle and into the Great Hall. Warmth erupts from a fireplace within the center, crackling a lit fire. A beautiful archway—made of stone and wood—are held by stone pillars with soldiers post at each one of them; crimson banners draped and bellowed behind them. Servants in silver and burgundy went about their daily chores of dusting and cleaning, only stopping to bow at the young prince as he makes his way. Draco’s eyes capture the four thrones in front of him, one of them grander than the other—the King’s Throne made of gold and dripped with gilded wood.

            The old servant leads Draco through the corridor until they pass a doorway and lead him down a hallway. A rainbow of light shines through colorful glass windows on his left. To his right, oil paintings of past Kings mount the walls with their names underneath.  Only one of them catches his eye. He stops and stares at the image. A muscular of a man with caramel skin marked with tattoos and a scar on his eye—Drakko Kensington, the First.

            Draco stares at the painting for a moment. He reaches out, fingers brushing against the oil markings of his ancestor. Something ruptures through him in that instant. A small, animalistic growl bursts from the painting, shooting through the darkness of his mind as two orange-red eyes emerge from the depths. Draco pulls away from the painting, gasping for breath, quick and shallow boasting from his parting, shaking lips.

            “Keep up, Your Majesty,” the old servant boasts from several feet ahead. “Your Father is an impatient man; would not be wise to keep him waiting.”

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            Draco turns his head and sprints toward the old servant. He leads the young prince down several more corridors and then makes several twists and turns until they come to a spiral, stone staircase. They descend, darkness enveloping all around them; the only thing for light was the dim flicker of flames from torches hanging on the walls. The walk seems endless, with the air becoming staler, but before long, the two finally reach an old wooden door.

            The old man opens the door and steps aside. He gestures for young Draco, who enters. The door closes behind him, leaving Draco alone.

            Draco’s head turns from the door to the room. Cramped and dark, with only flickering candles to be made for light. Bookshelves line against the walls with scrolls and worn-out books. A large banner of the Drakonian Kingdom hangs on the wall with the words, “THE FIRE IN THE DARKNESS.”

            In front of the banner stands a man. Not a man. An ox. Or that’s what Draco thinks. A fur cloak drapes over broad muscles, connected by a golden chain laying across his silk tunic.  A golden crown holds down ginger locks, some struggling to escape over the edges. None other than the King of all Draknoia himself—King Tobias.

 Draco clears his throat and the man’s head lifts.  A smile appears beneath the thickness of his beard and mustache.

            “Draco,” King Tobias boasts, his voice strong and deep, yet calm. “Come, my boy…come.”

            Draco steps forward, suddenly insignificant in size. He stops in front of the table. “You wanted to see me, Father?”

            “I did,” he nods. He gestures to the table. “Tell me. What do you see?”

            Draco places his palms against the edge and stares at the table. A map lays sprawled in front of him. Several small statues scatter against the parchment—a dragon, a flower, an eagle, and the head of a minotaur. His eyebrows furrow and his nostrils twitch. He looks at his Father and shrugs. “What?”

            “Look closer.”

            His gaze returns to the map. His eyes travel, moving from the dragon miniature in Drakonia then to the eagle to the East—in the Kingdom Asteus in the Aryn Republic. There’s nothing wrong there. His eyes travel to the West—where the flower and minotaur miniature rest. “That can’t be right.” Draco’s eyes widen. He lifts his head. “Lothoria is moving on Thalia?”

            King Tobias folds his arms, the silk of his shirt rippling. “Yes.” He grabs a parchment, the ends curved inward. “I’ve just received this letter from your uncle and King Kenzo himself. Things are far worse than they appear…they’re requiring our aid.”

            Draco snatches the parchment from the table, eyes darting back and forth as he reads each Elvish word carefully. When he finishes, he sets the letter down, mouth gaping and chest heaving. He looks at his Father. “What do you want to do?”

            King Tobias sighs and walks around the table to his son. “King Kenzo is coming to Drakonia in two months to deliver his taxes.”

            “He’s coming here?” he gasped.

            “Yes. He wants to discuss a new treaty that will help drive the Lorthorians back into their own land.”

            Draco looks at his Father quizzically. “W-what kind of treaty?”

            “A unification of our two Kingdoms.”

            His eyes widened. “Unification…as in…marriage?”

            King Tobias nods. “Yes. If you accept, you will marry his eldest daughter, Princess Akari. When the wedding is over, we will send soldiers to Thalia to help with Lothoria’s rebellion.”

            Draco’s heart and mind races as a wave of anxiety washes over him. “W-why aren’t you asking Isobel? Isn’t she the oldest?”

            “Yes, but by law, she isn’t eligible for the Throne. And his eldest son is already wed.”

            “Oh…right…”

            “You don’t have to agree right away, but I do need an answer before he arrives.”

            “When did you say he was coming?”

            “Two months…”

            Draco remains silent as all taste leaves his mouth and his tongue becomes bitter. He lowers his head and stares at the map and parchment, mind racing. Would it be worth it? Could he give up his single life to a woman he doesn’t know—or doesn’t even love—all for the unification of their two Kingdoms? His Mother’s words travel in his head.

            “You’re a prince, Draco. Of the greatest nation in our realm. You’re about to turn eighteen in a few months and with it comes your coronation. And your right to You need stop acting like a child. Stop drinking; stop fucking women and get your ass in gear. Act like a fucking prince and not some harlot from the brothel!”

            Draco sucks in a deep, sharp and shaken breath, and straightens, knowing what must be done. He looks at his Father and seals his fate with two words: “I accept.”

***

            Night soon falls upon the kingdom of Drakonia. The skies blackened, but the stars and moon’s glow luminate the darkness. As the night continues, young Prince Draco prepares for bed when he hears a knock on the door. 

            “Who is it?” Draco calls as he pours himself another glass of wine.

            “It’s Isobel, can I come in?”

            Isobel. He hadn’t seen her all day and right now, she’s the last person he wants to see tonight.

            “What do you want?” Draco asks as he sips his drink.

            “Just to talk.”

            Silence. Draco twirls his challis in his hand.

            “I’ll stand here all night until you open the door.”

            “Then you’ll be standing all night.”

            “Come on. Don’t be a priss.”

            Draco sighs and stands from his bed, stumbling a bit as he walks towards the door. He unlocks it and pulls it open. Isobel, his twin. But if one were to look at them, they would think they aren’t even remotely related, for Isobel looks more like her Mother—the same blue eyes, same skin and blonde hair. She stands a foot taller than him, clothed in a nightgown.

            “You going to let me in, or you just going to stand in the doorway?” she teases, a curve smile slipping on her lips. Draco steps aside, allowing her entry, closing the door once she enters.

            “Where’ve you been?” he asks her, taking another sip of his wine.

            “Around.” There’s a tone of deviousness in her voice. Draco opens his mouth to speak, but Isobel cuts him off, “So,” she plucks a grape from a bowl of fruit on the dresser. “I heard the news.” She pops it into her mouth and sits on the edge of the bed.

            “How’d you find out?” he asks, sitting next to her.

            Isobel arches an eyebrow.

            “Yeah, well,” he bows his head.

            “Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s marriage. Not death.”

            “Feels like it is.” He looks at her. “How do you marry someone you don’t even know, let alone love?”

            She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never had to do it.”

            “What do I do?”

            Isobel stares at him. “I can’t tell you what to do; you have to decide on that for yourself.”

            Draco lowers his head, twiddling his thumbs.   

            “Hey,” she shoves his shoulder playfully. “Look at it this way—at least you won’t have to buy women anymore.”

            “I don’t buy women.” Draco snaps.

            Her eyebrow arches. “Sure. Then how’d you get those women into bed last night?”

            “Uh,” he falters, cheeks burning bright.

            “Yeah, exactly.”

            “At least I get some… which is more than I can say for you.”

            She folds her arms over her chest. “Who says I don’t?”

 “What man would want you?” He teases.

            Her lips spread, wide and sinister. “Who said it’s a man?”

Draco’s mouth opens, jaw dropping to the floor. He looks around, nervously—as if the walls have ears—then whispers, “Do our parents know?”

            She shakes her head, lips pursed into a smile.

            “Who is it?”

       She places her finger to her lips, then asks, “You won’t tell, would you?”

      “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

        “Good. Because I would hate to tell our parents about your little visits to the brothel.”

        Draco only smirks and takes a sip of his wine.         

        “So, what are you planning on doing?” Isobel asks.

        “ What do you mean?”

         “I mean, do you want to do this?”

          Draco shrugs. “What else am I supposed to do?”

          “You don’t have to go through with it, you know.”

          “I think it’s already too late for me to say no. Besides, it’s for the good of the kingdom, isn’t it?”

           “If you that’s what you think, Drae.”

            He cranes his head; a puzzling look on his face. “What do you think I should do?”

            “I think you should do what you think, and feel is right. Regardless of what anyone thinks.”  Isobel stands from the bed and gives Draco a small peck on the forehead before heading to the door. She reaches for the door handle but stops and faces him. “Remember what I told you, little brother. Only you can make the decision.”  She gives him a small smile, opens the door, and exits.

            Draco stares after her for a minute before lying back and staring at the ceiling, thinking about what Isobel said. A question lingers in the back of his mind as his eyes drift into a slumber—can he go through with it?