The Inept King

“Memorellia sub…”

“What? Wait, wait, no, don’t do that!”

“…mire.”

    Yaël finished formulating his command spell despite the man’s protest. Still, he promised himself not to pry too deep. Just enough to find the reason of that curious magic disturbance.

    The closest memories depicted that orange-beard man floating over the deck, over the captain of The Devourer. Perched on that curious creature akin to a cloud.

    Before that…

    Yaël needed to search for what happened while he was unconscious. The answer was surely there. So he did. And what he observed during that brief period of time gave him more questions than he initially had.

    The mutiny… The pirate who started that mutiny was the same as the one Yaël was scouring his memories. And he was many others. Something like that shouldn’t be possible. They weren’t him. But he was them at some point.

“A roaming soul? How so?”

    Magic could be the only answer, but Yaël needed to go further to understand.

    The depths of the airship… The cursed oven… Seveg… Seveg! This was the geman he was initially looking for.

    But how… Seveg did nothing to trigger that anomaly either.

    The deeper he went, the more Yaël got overwhelmed. There was too many things to understand, too many lives intertwined. Too many horrors. Pain. Sorrow. Loneliness.

    That roaming soul kept trying to become… a hero? He should’ve joined the Militia, then. Since childhood, Yaël always found them incredible. They were strong, classy in their uniforms, and they made sure people wouldn’t use spells too dangerous for them. Despite what others thought… this was all for Juweld!

    The memories kept rewinding.

    And Yaël got too far. He could feel a tear rolling down his cheek.

    He wanted to believe the cause of the Militia was still good… but that poor girl… the one Xantas had to sentence to death… She should have lived.

    Razzel Od Mithril wasn’t guilty either. The second prince everybody thought dead.

    How… Despite having done things worse than him, Razzel managed to become closer than he was to his ideal of justice.

    But other militiamen would arrive shortly. And, given the anomaly Razzel represented, the boy was spending his last moment outside. He would no longer be able to honour Peccelotte’s kindness. No longer able to keep his promise. After what she did for him? To let him be captured by the Militia would be too cruel.

    If they did a mistake, it was up to Yaël to make it right. Because he was part of them. Because it was more like the justice he dreamt of.

    And there was something he could do to allow Razzel to keep trying. Given how Peccelotte’s spell seemed to work, if Razzel died now, Yaël was confident that he’d end up in his body.

    This was the solution.

    Given how potent were the spells Yaël just cast, this should be enough… enough to dissimulate Razzel’s eerie magic emanation.

    Yaël felt himself falling to the ground. To his knees.

“Ahh… There’s no time left.” He raised his face to Razzel Od Mithril, making him recoil. “If I do nothing now, it’ll be too late…”

    His decision was already taken. He’d give him time, so he could keep his promise.

“Take this life which isn’t precious,” he thought, “and make of this kingdom one where the lowliest one is.”

𖢻 𖢻 𖢻

    I never thought opening my eyes could be so difficult. It’s like something is tied to my eyelids.

    Despite it, when they end up complying to my will, a ray of moonlight greets me back to life.

“…”

    Darkness. Darkness all around. The softness of the blanket beneath my fingers leaves me guessing that I am in one of the castle bedrooms.

“Olx.” I utter with a voice worn out by the years.

    And all the magic lamps in the room light up, thick ribbons of gold twirling in crystal spheres. It’s been long months if not longer that I didn’t go to this room, but I recognised it a once. There’s even a basket of candies on the table, left untouched.

“No… Ohh, no…”

    I shake my head in denial, my eyes roaming through my grandfather’s room.

    My eyes drop to my hands when I struggle to sit up in bed. Covered with wrinkles. The blanket creases over my lower half, as if wanting to keep me trapped.

“Not you…”

“I screwed up everything. I failed again, someone died again because of me… But…”

    Yaël’s memory echoes in my mind, impossible to ignore. This foolish boy sacrificed his life to help me keep my promise.

“After what you did… I can’t dare to lose hope now.”

    I hurry to stand up from bed, stumbling on my way.

    This body is weak.

“I have to fight.”

    I crash against the door, my breath ragged. Without having even tried to run, I can feel that dog with lung infection feeling kicking back in. It was like the night of my banishment, but for a few mere rushed steps.

“I have to return to the treasure room…” I mumble, turning the knob.

    Outside the room, I can hear echoes of voices in the distance, somewhere outside of the castle.

“They’re still fighting. I have to hurry.”

    Increasing the pace of my steps, every joint of my body protests when I begin running. Clumsily. Unsteadily. Ignoring my paper lungs, I retrace my way to the core of the castle. My long beard shaking messily.

    Smash.

    But I can’t keep running straight, and my shoulder ends up hitting the wall, slowing me down as I struggle to keep my balance.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry to do this to your body.”

    My steps irregular, limping because of a left leg threatening to cease responding, I try vainly to grip the air for support.

“Grandpa… I’m sorry I didn’t come to visit you more often.”

    A corridor… Just a corridor further…

    After hitting the wall when trying to turn at the corner, I push away from its possessive hug, resuming my way. The loose fabric covering my body floats behind, revealing a body with sharp angles.

   Short of breath, I end up stumbling again. From the tips of my fingers, I manage to push the ground away, only to hit it metres away.

“Ughhff…”

    As if it wasn’t enough, a tinnitus-adjacent noise makes me deaf to any other sound around.

𖢻 𖢻 𖢻

    Each time he lied in bed waiting for slumber’s merciful embrace, Lorgoss Od Mithril couldn’t help it. His thoughts kept circling.

    In the end… what was different now from his days as a king? He thought that the change would leave him empty of something. But empty of what? The only void were his thoughts about it.

    Was being a grandpa with two grandchildren the same thing as a king? What did it even mean to be a king?

    This night again, unable to answer this question, Lorgoss fell asleep.

    But, unlike other nights, he awoke in the middle of it. A sudden jolt of his muscles made him open his mithril eyes. As if instincts kicking in.

    A silver brilliance.

    Leant over him, a man was holding a sharp dagger directed at him. A man in jester’s outfit.

    Eyes opening wide, Lorgoss’s heart missed a beat. Certainly not the only one it would miss, since he was seemingly about to be murdered.

    There it was coming! The jester approached his blade closer to the former king’s neck. He could feel its edge pressing against his skin. There was only confidence in his milky eyes, their bluish glow only adding intensity. Moonstone eyes.

    And still!

    Instead of cutting deep, the jester sighed. And, slowly, he moved his dagger back.

    Lorgoss, rather than using magic to defend himself, or calling the guards, asked one mere question.

“Why don’t you kill me?”

    To which, the jester shook his head.

    He lowered his blade, pulled his knee back against the mattress. And turned away to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I’ve been planning this moment for years. I joined the castle years ago as a jester, so that such an opportunity would one day present itself to me. But, now that you abdicated and gave the crown to your son, there’s no more meaning to it. It wouldn’t change anything.”

    Listening carefully, Lorgoss leant his hands against the mattress to sit in turn.

“Had I been such a bad king?”

    The jester scoffed.

“Just a useless one.”

“Ohh…”

    Somehow, it hurt more.

“You never did anything to worsen people’s life, but neither did you the contrary.” The jester took off his colourful hat, letting the rest of his dark turquoise hair unwrap and cascade down his back. “And thus it got worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Militia gained even more influence than before.” Hatred obvious in his tone when he spoke about them. “The gemans once were wild creatures, once were humans, and today they’re forgetting how to even be wild.”

    Lorgoss wasn’t sure what to say to it. He pondered a while. Then finally spoke.

“Is it such a bad thing that the Militia becomes more important? You accuse me of doing nothing, but at least they actively protect the geman folk.”

    The jester turned his head to glance at the former king, sheer anger in his eyes. Still, his expression remained unbothered.

“When was the last time you went outside this castle’s walls? The last time you visited Felbalia and its inhabitants? The last time you assisted an execution ordered by the Militia?”

“…”

    Lorgoss dropped his mithril gaze to the folds over the blanket. He was beginning to understand why he felt no different from his days as the monarch of Juweld.

“Sometimes, a king also needs to protect gemans from other gemans. Especially from those having still monster’s blood flowing in their veins.”

    A moment of silence followed.

“What do you plan to do, now? Wait to see if it changes with Arragiel?” Lorgoss asked the jester.

“He’s even worse. I already considered killing your son, but since one prince is a newborn and the other is three, the crown would just return you. Worse, if you died before the first prince is in age to claim the throne, it’ll only bring more instability to these lands. And I don’t wish to see what certain scavengers would do then.”

    A beat.

“Then,” Lorgoss began, “what if we made sure, you and I, that my grandchildren become princes capable of making of Juweld a better place?”

𖢻 𖢻 𖢻

“Don’t stay sprawled out on the floor like this,” a familiar voice utters, “I’ll end up thinking that you’re begging to die.”

    As the tinnitus-adjacent noise fades away, I rise my head to catch sight of the jester standing right in front of me. Kneeling down, he reaches out his hand toward me. A few long strands of dark turquoise hair framing his painted face.

“You…” I glance at his hand before taking it, standing up. A bone or two cracking in the process. “So this was what these stupid stories of yours were for…”

    This was why my grandfather offered me that damned jester.

“Now, now. This is not like you to…” He trails off. “Razzel?”

    My eyes widen.

“How…”

“Do you really think I wouldn’t be able to recognise my ohh-so-adored prince, after years trapped by your side?”

“Smartass.” I mumble.

“I guess that Lorgoss was right about you being still alive.”

“What?” I utter, taken aback. “My grandfather knew..?”

“He did. After that incident at Felbalia, Seraffel gave him a hint, so he used his magic to…” He trails off, noticing that I glance anxiously behind him. “But you’re in a rush, aren’t you?”

“I am… I have to save her. And Fufu is still there as well, in the treasure’s room…” I take a few steps forward, stumbling.

“There, there.” The jester catches me before I fall in a flurry of little bells’ sounds, placing an arm around my waist. “You won’t go anywhere without your favourite jester, now will you?”

    And, as I scoff, he helps me cross the corridor. It doesn’t take us long to come in view of an open door. A guard, asleep, laying in front of it.

    While me make our first steps into the treasure’s room, it doesn’t take me long before noticing my father’s figure. Standing now not far from Yaël’s corpse, he holds an amethyst heart in his palm.