11 - In Captivity

It felt a little weird to be in this situation.

Amovishel sat on the damp grass, his hands tied behind his back. It was the morning after the disastrous entry into the Forester settlement. He hadn’t slept much, being constantly disturbed with the snores of the white-haired Forester woman last night. The villagers were preparing somewhat of a celebratory feast with whatever scraps of food they had, and obviously, he as a captive was not invited. Not that he’d be missing out on much. He experienced many foods in his life, from the pitiful military rations to the grand banquets in the royal palace. All he would lose was a chance to fill his stomach.

And frankly, he was quite hungry at this moment. Not that it was the first thing on his mind yet, though.

Those cowards. Sure, they might’ve risked him dying had they all rushed towards the woman in an attempt to rescue him, but whether he was killed or captured in battle, they were all equally responsible. After all, he was the Crown Prince. The high command would execute all the officers without question. He knew his kingdom’s military reserves weren’t exactly the most competent, but his expectations were surely exceeded. Without their general, they were just a mob who happened to wear military gear.

Maybe he should’ve given Arael a little more credit to gather so many semi-professional troops and order them in a relatively efficient manner, compared to himself who was used to commanding professional veterans, ones raised straight from the capital. Not that he could give any credit at this point, considering Arael was now nearly reduced to ashes on the pyre, the same as all the dozens of soldiers who unfortunately perished in this fiasco.

He sighed. If only the King could see the absolute state of his own military.

His stomach grumbled in agreement.

‘I wonder how Barheila and Tarigen are doing…’ he mumbled to himself, staring at the tree canopy high above his head. ‘Eh, should be fine. They’re not stupid.’

‘Hey,’ a voice called. As Amovishel looked up, a piece of hot bread was stuffed into his mouth.

‘Mmph…!’ he cried in protest. The white-haired woman looked at him in curiosity, no different than one towards an animal or slave after feeding them a meal.

Then, as if finally realising he was tied up, she knelt down… and stuffed the entire piece inside his mouth, forcing it down his throat.

‘Ack— cough!’ he gagged, pushing the dry wheat product into his stomach, relieving him of the pain.

This must be some twisted kind of torture.

‘There,’ she said calmly. ‘I thought you might need some food.’ Noticing the crumbs on his robe, she reached forward and dusted them off with a kind of softness unbefitting for a battle-hardened warrior.

The two acts were quite different in attitude.

‘Huh,’ he replied perplexedly. ‘You’re more compassionate than I thought.’ Was this really the same woman who effortlessly slaughtered Arael and those soldiers last night?

‘So you can speak.’

Right. Amovishel had never spoken a single sentence since his captivity until now. It was a sort of tactic to stop interrogations, and it had worked somewhat last night with the villagers and the woman’s incessant questions. But it was also a shock that none of them used physical force to make him speak. For a race with such an ingrained warrior culture, they seemed a lot more civilised than he imagined.

An even bigger shock was that they didn’t know his identity. As the only well-known mixed-blood in the kingdom (well, at least until that woman), added with the title of Crown Prince, surely it didn’t make sense for none of the Foresters in this settlement to know him.

‘Are you still hungry?’ the woman asked.

He nodded.

‘Tell me your name,’ she demanded. ‘And then I’ll get you some more bread.’

‘Tell me yours first.’

‘Elethien.’

It was a surprisingly elegant name for a Forester. Perhaps she was named by the non-Forester half of her family.

‘Tell me, Elethien, who named—’

‘Tell me your name,’ she interrupted.

He sighed. Now that it was practically confirmed he wouldn’t be tortured, he might as well show at least some respect.

‘Amovishel,’ he said.

Seemingly satisfied, she departed for a while before returning with a full basket of bread, with a few villagers following behind in curiosity.

‘We’ll be leaving the village after this,’ she mentioned as she held out another piece of bread. Without as much force as before, she stuffed it in his mouth, letting him take each bite as slowly as he needed.

If not for his tied hands, he wouldn’t have thought he was currently in captivity.

‘Say, Elethien,’ he said as he swallowed his food. ‘Is this usually how you treat a captive?’

‘Is this not how people usually treat captives?’ she answered. ‘Keep them alive and near until they can be ransomed for a fee?’

‘Well…’ His voice trailed off. He didn’t want to give her any ideas. She was surprisingly innocent on that matter considering the Forester culture for war. Which was born from the decades-old war and the kingdoms themselves.

He wondered if the Foresters would’ve acted far differently had they not been forced on the front lines. Well, Tarigen was an example, but he was a huge exception.

‘I’ve never taken a captive before, actually,’ Elethien added. ‘Yet as a king, I can choose to keep you alive now, even as an enemy.’

A king? Amovishel nearly laughed. Her tattered clothes, her dirty body, her voice… None of it was kingly. If there was anything remotely like a king, it was her leadership, her courage—

Yet those were two of the most important qualities in a king. Something he saw little of even in his father.

‘You’ve never taken a captive before, huh,’ he said, distracting himself from the thought. ‘Then why me?’

‘I find you interesting.’ Her answer was quick. ‘You have Forester blood. You look a bit like me, but you’re clearly an enemy. Well… I’m just curious about you.’

It was a very strange reason to capture someone. Considering Elethien’s need to materially sustain her rebellion, he’d imagine she had captured him for his wealth (well, he had the entire kingdom to his inheritance). If she knew he was the Crown Prince, the status was also an important bonus. Yet she sought none of these, only that he was ‘interesting’, whatever that might mean for her. Interesting enough that she who had probably killed hundreds of people chose to spare his life.

Amovishel was beginning to find her interesting as well.

‘I hope I’ll satisfy your curiosity then,’ he replied.

---

They departed from the village. Amovishel sat behind Elethien on her horse’s back, the rope that tied his hands now also tied around her waist to prevent him from escaping. The horse would be ample for a farmer’s workhorse, but for a warhorse, it felt a little too small. He imagined she or her subordinates had stolen it from an unfortunate farmstead’s stable.

If not for his slightly uncomfortable position, this route felt quite scenic. The trees stretch towards the sky for sunlight, their thick trunks indicating lives far beyond any of their own. Birds and insects were chirping in the distance, creating ambient noises while the horse slowly trudged on. Compared to the fast pace of the capital and the stressful environment of the palace, this felt far more comfortable and relaxed to his liking. More so than the artificial ponds and gardens and the carefully-cultured plants. Unconsciously, he had leaned against Elethien’s back, her tall frame casting a shadow over him.

It didn’t even feel like he was currently living in a war.

‘Amovishel, was it?’ Elethien asked.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you know your parents?’

What a strange question to start.

‘Somewhat,’ he responded. ‘I think I know my father quite well, thankfully. As for my mother… I’ve never met her in my life.’

‘So your mother was the Forester?’

‘Yes.’

‘The same as me, then. Except I didn’t know my father.’ There was a hint of resentment in her voice, her body tensing up as the words left her mouth.

‘Don’t you want to meet him?’ Amovishel questioned. He was quite positive his mother had died, but the same couldn’t necessarily be said of Elethien’s father.

‘Yes,’ her answer was firm. ‘If he’s still alive, I want to kill him. Just as I do to any enemy of mine.’

‘Ah…’ Perhaps the whole rebellion was born of a personal vendetta against a Trelvenese parent. It felt stupid, but Amovishel could somewhat see where she was coming from.

‘By the way, how old are you?’ She changed the topic. ‘You seem young for a Trelvenese soldier.’

‘Nineteen.’

‘So you aren’t even completely adult yet.’

‘I already have three years of experience. In my circle, I am already considered an adult.’ The reminder of the traditional adult age in Trelven still rubbed him the wrong way sometimes. And he was just one year off.

‘Three years military experience?’

‘Yes. I joined the army as soon as my father allowed—’

‘Four years,’ she said, cutting him off once more. ‘Similar to you.’

‘And how old are you?’

‘Twenty. We are all sent to the Guild at the age of sixteen, at the beginning of our adulthood.’

It was stated as an obvious fact. As if all sixteen-year-olds had to join the military. From Amovishel’s knowledge, it was theoretically possible for professional soldiers to be that age, but they were few and far in between. Most would be in the reserves, called upon when needed in levies. Amovishel himself was an exception, being allowed in the regular army as a high-ranking officer right from the start due to being the Crown Prince.

‘Just how many sixteen-year-old Foresters were serving as mercenaries right now?’ he asked.

‘How many Forester sixteen-year-olds are there?’

Amovishel fell silent. Elethien’s back suddenly felt cold, her white hair freezing to the touch. Even with all the warmth felt earlier at the settlement, Amovishel was to be quickly reminded of the reality, reality that he realised he didn’t really know.

They barely talked until they finally exited the forest, welcoming the sight of empty plains before them. The horse slowed to a halt. Forgetting he was still tied to her back, Elethien leapt off the horse, dragging Amovishel with her. The two clumsily fell to the ground, dirt pressed against Amovishel’s face as Elethien landed on her back, her entire body weight nearly crushing him from above.

He heard footsteps. Many footsteps. As Elethien stood up, also dragging him to his feet, he saw a large crowd surround them, every single one of them with a pair of emerald-green eyes. There were hundreds, if not thousands of them, all armed and shabbily clothed. Many of them looked at Elethien, but some stared at him in shock.

He thought the rebellion only had around a hundred people. These hundreds… surely they hadn’t somehow recruited that many on their way here.

A young man carrying an oversized axe approached them, his face looking no older than Amovishel’s. His appearance was certainly intimidating, but there was something that made Amovishel feel at ease, the same way he did when Elethien fed him the bread.

The innocence. The naivety. This was becoming somewhat of a pattern.

‘Thank goodness you’re safe,’ the man said in relief, one step away from hugging her. ‘I don’t know how I did it, but there are more citizens for the kingdom. They all know you as the king.’ He spoke proudly like a child finding a bug and presenting it to their parents, something Amovishel found peculiar but not particularly surprising at this point.

‘And the battle?’

‘We fled from the camp,’ he admitted, kneeling down before her. ‘Too much was happening. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring victory as you have done for us—’

‘Fate has protected us, whether in defeat or in victory,’ she said, pulling him back up. ‘Even in defeat, you freed so many away from the enemy. This surely was Fate’s plan all along.’

Amovishel looked on in confusion. The way Elethien used the word ‘Fate’ was as if she was referring to a god. Yet as far as he knew, there existed no monolithic religion among Foresters. Many Trelvenese believed in gods. There were shrines dotted around various provinces, but no one ever surrounded their life on a single deity. It all felt very alien, as if there was a leader above their leader.

But he’d have no more time to think as the man walked by and his gaze turned towards him.

‘Hey, Elethien,’ he said slowly. ‘Who is this?’

‘I captured him during my confrontation with some of the enemy last night,’ she replied. ‘I found him interesting, so I decided to keep him alive. Perhaps this was also part of Fate’s plan for us.’

‘Do you know his name?’

‘Amovishel,’ she stated matter-of-factly.

‘I fought under his command before,’ the man said. ‘He even visited us and talked with us, unlike the other generals. I remember… They called him the Crown Prince of Trelven.’

‘Crown Prince?’ Elethien asked.

She really is clueless, isn’t she?

‘The one who will become king,’ Amovishel finally spoke out. There was no point in hiding it now.

He added, ‘The one who is taught what it means to be a king.’