“War is an art. Strategy the brush and your army the paint.” I sit across from Samir in a grand study at a large desk made of dark oak. He’s sprawled several textbooks, maps and diagrams out and has been diving deep into the fundamentals of war. Everything from logistics to formations, he describes each in excruciating detail. War has never been a subject I’ve wished to know intimately. But circumstance and bloodline require it.
“Hungry soldiers will not fight for you. And neither will depraved savages. You must keep them fed, healthy and entertained on the frontlines. Else they betray you. After all, those that benefit most from war sit behind closed walls. So it is in your best interest to keep those fighting for your profit substantially motivated.”
“You didn’t join your men on the front line?” He leans onto his elbows with his hands clasped together.
“A King’s place is not on the battlefield.”
“Yet you asked your fellow men to sacrifice their lives, when you’re not willing to even risk your own?” His eyes narrow.
“I will excuse your naivety. My life was at threat near constant. My enemies lived not on the battlefield but in the shadows of my very own home. I cherished my men and their sacrifices, I gave them food, shelter, praise. What more could I have done?” My blood boils in contempt for this man. All royals are the same kin or not. Throwing meager rations and haughty women at their servants. Forcing them to murder brothers and fathers while they sleep under silken sheets. Expecting praise.
“Why start a war in the first place? Why force those that never asked for a war to fight it for you?” He sighs deeply, squeezing his eyes shut. I’m bothering him. Good. I’ve never liked his kind. He rises out of his chair and paces to a large elaborate bookshelf behind him. He examines the many tomes as he gathers his words.
“As you know, I reigned in an era of peace. Until we were forced into war by the cult.” His eyes carefully read the title on each spine. “When the cult rose up against us, Lucen fell into disrepair. Fear spread like wildfire in the hearts of my people. As my soldiers defended the kingdom from the horrors of the cult. I fought the war within.” He reaches out with a finger and pulls a slim black leather bound book from the shelf. He holds it by the spine and examines the intricate patterns on the cover.
“War brings far more than just death and destruction. War brings profit. And with profit, the purest evil of men is revealed. Countless acts of treason plagued the inner walls of Lucen. Politicians and merchants greased their palms with ill gotten gains. Deals done in the shadows brought the cult within our walls.” His eyes glaze over for a moment. Lost in a nightmare. He jerks his head toward me and tosses the book onto the table.
”Every drop of blood spilt by those monsters bathed those pages.” Cautiously I reach for the book and slide it towards me. The cover of the book has a silver skull embossed into the leather. The words Memoriae Sanguinis below it. I open the cover to the first page. A list of names written in crimson. The next page is the same, as with the next. Hundreds of pages containing thousands and thousands of names scrawled in blood.
“I penned every casualty of the war with my own blood. To remind myself of the men and women who gave their lives for Lucen. Who believed that I would save them.” My heart sinks in guilt. All my life the kings and queens that rule my home have done nothing but take and savage the land and its people. But here before me, stands a man of honor lost to time.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” He raises a hand to quiet me.
“Your hatred for the crown is not misplaced. Many of my allies fell to the corruption of the Noxbleum. And gave their people over to the cult.” He ponders the nightmare of war a little longer before continuing. “I do not wish for war like so many of my peers. But it is a craft I have reluctantly mastered to protect my people.” He returns to his seat the desk and leans forward with a fierce sorrowful expression. “But if you will allow me. I will teach you how to destroy the Noxbleum cult.”
---
That night I meet my father in a small cottage, in an even smaller village. The outside walls of my family's home are painted in grief. I have not seen this place whole for many years, the sight of the thatch roof and the wooden exterior stings my heart. As I enter, memory expects to see and hear the joyful shouts of my brothers and sisters running through the house. To smell the aroma of my mother's cooking drift through the air above them. And hear the soft lullaby of my mothers voice. But the memory is quickly disappointed. The cottage is quiet and lonely. No mess from the children lies about the floor, no sign of life except for my father. Sitting quietly at the family table by the window. He stares aimlessly out towards the field behind our home, searching for something that will never come.
"Waiting for the sheep to appear?" I ask. Taking a seat across from him. His trance breaks with a chuckle and his sad eyes meet mine.
"Do you remember when I put you in charge of the flock?" His voice pains me to hear. The words balancing on a knife's edge, just a small misstep from breaking. I nod and offer a smile at the memory. It was not the fondest time of my life, but it was far from the worst.
"You cared so much for those sheep. Even gave them all names." I try entertain his fond memory, though I do not share the same sentiment.
"I remember you berated me for that." I say. Careful to keep a joking tone. He laughs mournfully and shakes his head.
"I was afraid that your tenderness was weakness. A weakness easily exploited by the cruelty of the world. I admired your kind heart, your ability to see through the facade of people. To see the good in them. But I let fear govern my life, let it choose my words and my actions. I wanted to make you all strong." He purses his lips and scrunches his face to fight the tears and turns his gaze back to the fields. My father never shared his thoughts in life. His words now relieve years of guilt that I wasn't enough of a son for him. That my every action was a mistake. But he was human, just like me. Protecting his family in the way he thought best.
"I cannot hate a man that wanted nothing more than to see his family safe and cared for. And though I wish I could've heard these words while you still lived. It is good to hear to them now." We sit by the window sharing stories and memories until the fire dies out. I tell him of my expedition to find the Black Rose Coven and the misadventures that followed. As our words begin to dwindle I can't help but feel a strange sorrow for my father. How lonely it seems, to be a sentient consciousness. Trapped in the deepest parts of another human being. This version of my father is one that I had always hoped for. Perhaps that is because in my mind... I made him this way. But what makes him different from Corvus and Samir? I stare silently at the man across from me, he shares the same features and memories as my father. But it is only just an imagined fragment of him.
"We should turn in. We can't eat here, but we can sleep." He stands and walks towards the fire, setting another log and stoking the coals back to life. "I've made up the bed in your old room for you." I thank him and make my way towards the room. He stops me in an embrace as I walk by. "It's so good to see you."
