Wern, Fir of Marla: 28 Xiven

“Why can’t I sit down?” Kayin muttered, jostling himself from side to side to try and release some of the pressure on his feet.

“Not for much longer,” said Aunt Aayin. “Stand tall. Look proud.”

“But I’m not proud.”

“Then pretend.”

All the kids in line were cranky, loud, complaining, floppy. Some kids a few hundred yards away, in the back of the line, sat on the road and refused to move like stubborn cattle. At one point in crawling forth in this pointless line, Aunt Aayin directed Kayin to step around a kid that was blocking the road. She just lay there, yelling at her parents that she didn’t want to be there, that she wanted to go play. And Aunt Aayin just moved him along, encouraging him to ignore her.

It wasn’t quite yet dark, with Harash, the day, still keeping everyone relatively warm in the cold wind. There were maybe three dozen kids in line before Kayin, marking the space from the village proper to the massive gate, taller than two adults on top of each other. The hefty, wooden doors were open for the first time that Kayin had ever seen, and if he stood on his tip-toes, he could see over the crowd and into the courtyard.

A road of stone led from the wooden gate, split and circled around a lone tree, all the way to the steps of yet another giant door. Burly guards with pointy swords and leather armor stood, just as tiredly, leaning against stone walls. Lanterns hung from the oak tree, illuminating where the king sat on a simple, sturdy chair and a set of three metal-clad guards stood at the ready. Tidesa knelt before him, her eyes closed and hands encased around the hand of a skinny kid with spotty skin. There was a bench right there, not being used. Kayin had to physically stop himself from rushing up to it to sit down.

“Not this child,” said Tidesa as she opened her eyes and returned to her bench. Another sigh went through the crowd as the family scurried away, eager to return to literally anything other than this. Kayin stared in envy until Aunt Aayin prodded him to move forward.

Kayin returned to exploring the castle with his eyes, looking at every stone window with a candle in it, at every rampart at the top. He heard rumors there were secret farms, just for the nobles, on the roof. Were there farmers up there? Were the archers also farmers when they weren’t at war? The castle was massive enough to house all the nobles from anyone royal to any scholar or strategist or knight. They would need a private farm now, anyway, if Wakino just took half of theirs.

“My King,” Tidesa said suddenly. Kayin leaned over to see past the girl in front of him. Tidesa continued kneeling in front of the skinny girl before her, holding her hand as if it would break if she moved too suddenly. “May I present your future Queen of Yatora: Sepik.” Sepik? Bratty, snotty Sepik? While everyone else let out sighs of awe and relief, Kayin scrunched his nose at her. The little girl had more mats than locks of hair, and she had to wear a second shirt over her first one because of how tattered it was, but no one in her family had the ability to mend clothes, so she just piled them on top of each other instead of sewing them together.

Kayin’s mind swirled while the crowd of people animated, stepping back and away from the girl that the king, himself, now bowed before. It was quite a sight, to see those silky, purple skirts touch the stone, to see that golden crown tipped forward enough so that everyone could see the bald spot it circled. Kayin was hardly aware of Aunt Aayin pushing his shoulder to make him kneel onto the dirt; he kept staring at the way Tidesa stood while everyone else bowed, how Sepik looked around, wide-eyed all around her. Her cheeks were so much more sullen than the last time he saw her playing in the woods; maybe it had been that long since she’d eaten, too. Maybe it was best for her to get to be queen, if only for some edia tonight.

In a blink, Aunt Aayin pulled him back to his feet and he clapped, though he couldn’t feel the meeting of his palms. Sepik had both of her parents right beside her: older, bent, just like Aunt Aayin. Her father kept his eyes concealed behind a blindfold not unlike the one Dania gave him just yesterday, and the old man clicked his walking stick around in front of him. Sepik’s mom, lanky and shaking, pushed her daughter’s shoulders forward.

“How much?” the woman croaked. “She’s yours. How much do we get?”

The king hardly managed to sit himself in his chair by the time the woman repeated herself again, but he paid her no mind. One of the metal-clad guards grabbed for Sepik’s arm and began to pull her to the steps of the castle, but Tidesa halted all commotion with a hand.

“One is grand,” she said, her voice almost too quiet for Kayin to hear, “but two is grander.” He glanced up to Aunt Aayin, questioning her with his eyes. She didn’t seem any clearer on what that meant, until she looked back down to him.

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Her voice almost came out in a whisper, “Oh. Kayin…?”

“What?” What did he do? Why did it feel like he was in trouble all of a sudden? The hairs stood on the back of his neck; his feet prickled like he needed to run, but he couldn’t see any danger. Kayin looked to the crowd around, suddenly silent, staring at him.

“Kayin,” Tidesa said finally. She held out her hand to him, all the way from the oak tree while he stood maybe a hundred yards away. He just stared. “Kayin, you will join Sepik in bringing upon the people the Golden Age.” Staring at her didn’t bring any clarity. Aunt Aayin white-knuckling his shoulders didn’t make anything sink in any further.

“What?” he asked. Tidesa blinked, adjusting herself, and repeated herself a little louder: “Kayin, you will join Sepik in bringing the Golden Age to our people. Come here.” She gestured to herself, to the blue dress that didn’t have a speck of dirt on it even though she had been outside all day. Kayin tried to take a step back, into his aunt’s muddy arms.

“You need to go, Kayin,” Aunt Aayin said to him, voice taut like when she scolded him, but too high to show any anger.

“N-no.” Apparently, Tidesa wasn’t used to that word. Nor the king. Nor the metal guards that surrounded him, nor every neighbor that suddenly stared at him like he just threatened them.

“This is how it is,” Tidesa said, straightening up. She looked impossibly tall, even all the way over there, by the squinting king and the guards that now had their hands on their weapons. Kayin’s heartbeat stole his breath with its fluttering. Tidesa continued, “I saw it years ago, when I saw your future.” When she said he would be a carpenter and a dad? What, did she just say all of that for fun? Kayin shook his head at her instead.

“Little one, you have to.” But why? Why, when he felt cold tears drop onto his head while Aunt Aayin clutched him?

“I don’t want to,” he answered to Tidesa. His vision blurred, now. The sound of thumping would have made him turn around, if he was able to move. But now he felt Aunt Aayin’s head press against his back, the sounds of her sobs accompanying her collapse. He wanted to turn, to hold her, but her hands pushed him forward, still directing him by his shoulders.

“G-go, Kayin,” she uttered behind him. But her permission only made his tears fall. His feet remained rooted.

Tidesa glanced to one of the two remaining metal guards beside the king. The man began to march forward. His sword hushed the whispering crowd when he pulled it out of its sheath. His heavy boots on the crumbling stone. Why was he being approached like some sort of villain? Now everything was blurry and swirling, and Kayin's stomach lurched so much it ached.

“No—” he started, looking up to the metal helmet. He couldn’t see any eyes from the shadows.

“P-please, Kayin, go.”

“You dare defy the king?” boomed the guard that now stood, sword-first, in front of him. Kayin couldn’t catch his breath, tears freefalling down his cheeks. He choked on his words.

“No—no, no, I-I don’t!” He hoped he could be heard, but now his sobs were louder than anything in the courtyard, echoing across the stone.

“Go.” Finally, the grip on his shoulders disappeared and pushed him past the suit of armor, to the open doorway between the village and the castle courtyard. Kayin’s feet were too numb to tell him if he was walking on his own accord, or if Aunt Aayin’s shove really was that hard. But now he approached Tidesa’s smooth, stern expression, staring into her eyes for any sort of answer as to what was happening, why his stomach felt so much colder than the air around him, why Aunt Aayin crumpled into tears.

He felt her grab his arm, then his hand, and position him beside Sepik on the steps of the castle. He could almost hear the girl's bones clatter with how hard she shivered.

“The Kingdom of Yatora presents the Crown Princess Sepik,” croaked the king form his seat, “and Crown Prince Kayin.” He didn’t use a Voice Enhancer Potion; he hardly shouted, yet Kayin knew everyone heard every word. The only sound other than his fancy words came from the metal clanging from the guard that stole Aunt Aayin from the audience to force her beside Sepik’s parents.

“Wait—” Kayin tried to say something, but his voice only came out in a squeak.

The king continued his speech, “By all creed and law, Crown Princess Sepik and Crown Prince Kayin are my children, to rule Yatora’s next generation, until a new one is born unto this family.” Aunt Aayin hardly stood on her own two feet, but Sepik’s parents were sturdy. Aunt Aayin always knew more of what happened than anyone else did; her fright made Kayin struggle to make his muscles move.

The king continued with a speech, something about legality and lineage, royalty and respect, but Kayin only stared at the two metal guards that stood on either side of the three guardians. Why were they making them kneel? Did they get titles, too? Kayin’s throat choked back the hope.

“Do you accept the highest honor bestowed upon you, by your King of Yatora?” he finally asked. Sepik’s parents were enthusiastic in their agreements, “Yes, my King.” But why was that sword still out, if they were being rewarded?

Aunt Aayin hesitated, her eyes on the ground. Kayin could only see her mouth, “Yes, my King.”

“Wait—” Kayin’s voice was a little louder, now, but no one paid him any attention. “Stop!”

He tried to shut his eyes. He didn’t want to see. He knew, even before the guard surprised Sepik’s mother by dragging his sword across her throat—before he moved on to Sepik’s blind father, before he reached Aunt Aayin. He knew that this was the last time he’d see her face, tear-stained and calm, accepting, sad. She didn’t look up at him. Not when she grit her teeth at the metal against her throat, not when the blood poured out of her in rivulets, not when her body slumped, twitching, choking.

Among the sounds of her life’s essence slapping the stone was the sound of applause. Cheering. The people of Yatora cheered. It wasn’t until leather-clad soldiers forced him into the castle doors that he could make out what they said: “Long live Princess Sepik! Long live Prince Kayin!”