|Hi there! This is KnightingaleSong, and I'm a frequent writer of BL, Yaoi, or gay themed original stories that are mostly pictured in a fantasy setting. I've been writing as long as I've been drawing (which I also do rather frequently!). So you're gonna see boys everywhere!|
Asriel watched the children play out in the golden wheat field, a fiery sunset painting the sky and clouds pink and yellow with a certain glow of warmth that reflected onto the farmlands rolling hills. The tall golden grass around him swayed as it was kissed by a warm breeze that stole his sigh away.
“They’ll be fine, Asriel. Didn’t you see the pride in Callum’s eyes?”
He lifted his gaze to the clouds for a moment, then rested it upon Aunt Denise and Auren, both smiling reassuringly. “Are you certain?”
“The children will miss you dreadfully,” said Aunt Denise, “But once your training is completed, you’ll be able to visit. Besides, you’ll be speaking with us all every day until then, yes? I expect so, since such a fancy Seer Mirror is in our living room!”
Auren nodded in agreement and bit into one of the muffins he’d made. A moment later, he flinched at the shout of Gale from inside the house, quite a ways away. It could’ve been anything, but Auren’s look of alarm meant he sensed that Gale and Laurie were screwing up dinner.
“Excuse me,” he growled in urgency and got to his feet, sprinting off back towards the house.
“Something else is bothering you,” Aunt Denise spoke, then, meeting Asriel’s eyes. “It’s Clovis. Isn’t it?”
His heart skipped, “Laurie hasn’t spoken to you recently, has she!?”
“Calm down, my dear. It’s not as though I’m going to make fun of you,” Denise smiled. “Now what has you depressed?”
Asriel looked down at his lap, brows furrowing. “The King is . . . surprisingly fickle.”
“About his affections?”
“‘I like you’ he said,” Asriel muttered, “But then he told me he didn’t want to look at me. I don’t know if I said or did anything to incite that.”
“Hm! Fickle indeed! He said nothing else after that?”
“He did . . . say he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. I cannot fathom what that means, Auntie.”
“Huh. Well, it doesn’t sound like he suddenly decided to dislike you. Hmm . . . I suppose even kings can become nervous.”
“Nervous . . . ?”
“Yes. It sounds like the time my sweetheart, long ago, ran away from me as if I were the plague. See, we weren’t courting then, just friends, but when we finally did enter a relationship, he told me something rather silly. ‘I was going to kiss you!’. He was a proper gentleman, you see, and thought that I’d been interested in someone else. When he thought he was going to do something entirely inappropriate, he bolted! Ah, silly man, I miss him.”
Was Tryston going to do something foolish, then?
He was already going to kiss Asriel . . . He has done so many a time before without a single moment of hesitance. Tryston kissed him every time with an unmovable resolution, almost as if his kisses were scheduled. What a silly thought.
What was it that you were going to do, Tryston?
What an awful time to at last recognize that man!
“Your Majesty, with all due respect, you out of all of us should be the most cautious,” King Gemora spoke up irritatedly in his gruff voice. “Your kingdom is small, and located right below the coast of Ceazarath. You will be the most vulnerable if you extend your armaments to their aid.”
Queen Raihge scoffed from across the large, white round table. “My good king of Gemorea, I’m not afraid of vulnerability! Ceazarath is crying out for aid against the Untamed - when the smallest kingdom responds with ferocity, what does that say about the larger kingdoms?”
“Are you not concerned for your own people!?” King Gemora nearly yelled.
Tryston, who’d been circling the table and the Council of Powers, stopped and put his hand on Gemora’s shoulder gently. “Your voice rings out just as well when you are calm, James,” said Tryston.
“Clovis . . .” Gemora grumbled. “Will you not share your position on this?”
“My position is to be the mediator. You know that.”
“Surely you have your own opinions, Clovis,” King Saiel chirped up from beside Queen Raihge, painting his nails blue. “Perhaps you may help us decide with that, rather than keeping the peace. We’re all friends here now - we’re even concerned over each other’s people for goodness sake - we can keep the peace together.”
As if Tryston could truly believe that. History has shown that, whatever it is - alliances, wars - once opinions diverge, so do “friends.” They may be calm and friendly now, but only because Tryston contacts each and everyone of them personally before they convene for a meeting, to soothe their tempers. It seems they’ve forgotten that horribly hectic meeting last year before King Haez died . . .
“Oh, do tell us. This is bound to be interesting,” Queen Julisa Haez smiled at Tryston with a wink.
Tryston closed his eyes for a moment, then looked to the high ceiling, covered in murals and sigils of light. His opinion is a powerful one - it mustn't be abused. As soon as he announces that he will share his opinion, the Council of Powers will look to him as if he were a mother duck. And they will become the ducklings.
It’s not their fault. His is the largest and most powerful country and he comes from a line of Royals that have been famous for their wisdom, intellect, and strategic minds. As a King of Clovis, Tryston must govern all of these traits.
His father would scold him for what he was about to do.
He took a breath and -
A boy’s voice rang out cheerfully. Not again.
“Ugh,” Tryston pressed his hand to his temple, where a sharp, persistent ache weighed on him.
Julisa stood from her chair. “Clovis? Are you unwell?”
“Goodness, when you’re ill, just tell us,” Saiel huffed. “Don’t startle us again like you did that day you collapsed.”
“I’m not ill - it’s just a headache,” Tryston sighed.
“Perhaps we should reconvene?” Queen Raihge suggested.
“Yes, we’ve been discussing this for two hours now,” said King Daeis, checking the time piece in his hand. “Clovis, you ought to rest more.”
Tryston looked over the Council as all the other members nodded in agreement.
He lowered his head and chuckled. “How extraordinary that we can unanimously agree on something out of concern for one another’s well being. My grandfather would be proud. Have it your way, my friends. When next we convene, I will share with you all my views on Ceazarath’s crisis. And my thoughts on what should be done. With that - please, enjoy the rest of your stay in my city.”
Tryston fell to the cool sofa and sank into it wearily, kicking off his boots and pulling out his hair tie, letting the long raven locks fall free.
“Do you need anything, Sire?” Captain Wae asked from the threshold to his study.
Tryston shook his head, closing his eyes. “Just wake me in two hours. I have a meeting with the councils.”
“Wouldn’t it be best to cancel? I heard from Queen Haez that you’ve been having headaches.”
“I cancel nothing,” he mumbled. “Two hours, Wae.”
“Yes, my King . . .” Wae relented, though he wanted to argue. He closed the doors to Tryston’s study, leaving him to dream restlessly about an awful time long forgotten, forced away in the back of his mind.
The chilling wind whapped him in the face but he didn’t care how much it numbed his cheeks or tousled his hair into knots. He was just happy to be away from his uncle and his studies, of which he has had absolutely no interest in for the past month.
“Prince Tryston!” a jovial voice rang out above the howling winds rushing through the trees. Ripples in their pond, dubbed Clovis Pond, were as endless as the winds, causing discontent for the cold little fishes fluttering beneath its clear waters.
Tryston looked over his shoulder, spotting his friend, a boy with wild, dark blond hair and large, large and sad deep blue eyes. Somehow, they remained sad even when he was grinning silly.
The boy dropped down abruptly beside Tryston, a tiny, ratty leather book in one hand and an envelope in the other. He gasped elatedly, “Tryston - Tryston, I know how to read!”
Tryston smirked. “Hmph. Of course! I taught you, dummy.”
“Actually - I don’t think I’m a dummy anymore!”
“No duh. What’ve you got there?”
The boy (damn, what was his name?) held out the letter to him, smiling with those sad eyes. Somehow happy. Somehow dreadfully melancholy. “It’s from your papa. See, Kiinnnng . . . Clooovis!”
Tryston flinched as he saw his uncle’s bandaged hand raise high, ready to strike him.
“It was me!”
He snapped his gaze to the boy, his friend, who ran out in front of him, shouting more loudly and strongly than he has ever shouted, with a ferocity that Tryston didn’t know he was capable of.
“It was me! I did it! I destroyed your stupid stuff!”
Uncle Grey’s face contorted into a horrific, rageful snarl.
No. You damn, dear fool! What are you doing!?
“Enough of this,” a fourth party spoke up, entering Uncle Grey’s office, “The Prince is not staying in a hostile environment.”
It was then that Tryston was grabbed, being dragged away, to leave his friend alone with Grey. Absolutely not. Stop, stop!
“STOP!” Tryston shrieked, kicking and hitting. “Don’t leave him!”
Those hateful words. Must. Have to. Damn them all.
The man that ensnared him threw him over his shoulder with ease, taking him out of the mansion, throwing him inside the coach. Away from someone precious.
“Osaric!” Tryston cried in rage and desperation, imagining all the horrors Uncle Grey would inflict upon that boy, cementing the sadness in those big, strange blue eyes that Tryston had fervently sought to replace with joy. Happy eyes. Eyes that actually smiled.
How can he do that if that dear person is dead?
The doors of the coach were locked with sigils, and no matter how much he kicked, threw fire, and cried, they would not be destroyed. Osaric, stoic, sat across from him in a peaceful world of his own. The uncaring bastard.
When the coach lurched forward, a horrible, destroying emotion instilled itself inside of Tryston. He scrambled up onto his seat and tore away the deep red curtains to the back window, peering out down the road to Grey’s Mansion.
He could no longer breathe when he saw his friend running down the gravelled path, stopping, then waving his hand up high.
Are you . . . saying goodbye!?
“KEEP RUNNING!” Tryston shouted, and gulped in a breath when he saw one of Grey’s brute henchmen come bolting from behind the boy with a club raised.
No, no, no -
Tryston yelped and covered his mouth as he witnessed the club come down upon the boy’s head. That precious person crumpled to the ground like a little puppet with its strings cut.
“A . . .” he choked out in a sob, “AESRY!!”
Tryston woke with a gasp, eyes snapping wide open. They stared, fixated, up at the ceiling as he reached and touched his cheek. His fingers came back glinting faintly in the dull light of his study. He blinked and more tears slid away.
He bolted upright then, taking his sleeve to his eyes as an ache came flooding and roaring into his skull. Tryston wished he could tell his own damn mind that it was too late to suppress those memories again.
“Aesry?” he hissed-muttered. Is that what he called Asriel - Aesry? The Illueseon word for “gentle?”
The two names sound awfully close.
Tryston closed his eyes, then instantly thought against it, for he knew he would see that morbid, wretched image of that small boy, Asriel, crumpling limply to the ground.
How did that boy manage to live and grow to be a man?
And who, who made the sadness in those eyes give way to happiness? Perhaps yet another reason why Tryston couldn’t recognize Asriel.
Tryston bent over then, a familiar, destroying emotion ravaging him from the inside out. It was a sharp guilt and shame. The same horrid word inflicted upon him when he recognized Asriel, seeing the deep red clear away in those eyes to give way for a deep, strange blue. There was too much following that utter guilt; he felt that, if he had stayed near Asriel, he would have ended up doing something unsavory, likely to stumble over himself trying to form words, an explanation or an excuse. Perhaps he would have demanded from Asriel an explanation as to how he was alive.
Then demand that Asriel remember their few months together as children.
All this is exactly why he didn’t even want to look at Asriel. Still, so many questions boiled up, he couldn’t concentrate one bit the rest of the evening. All he could do was stare at Asriel until his childhood friend left the ball.
“He told me to tell you ‘I won’t say goodbye. I know we’ll see each other again soon. Thank you for the invitation’,” Markolv had informed Tryston.Perhaps . . . that little boy Aesry waved goodbye because he thought they would never see each other again?
Dance to the Nightingale's Tune Part 1Dance to the Nightingale’s Tune
As far as the government and the economy is concerned, Great Britain is living up to its name. Perhaps only so few have room to say that as they turn a blind eye to the issues that have arisen as quickly as the Industrial Revolution had. Sure, the monarchy remains stable and limited, with Queen Victoria and her many years of rule trailing behind her, and not to mention the riches that are flooding into Great Britain from its many colonies. Gold, cotton, diamonds, coffee, pepper, and dyes come from the foreign lands of India. Our rule in a slice of China provides silk, iron, and porcelain. And South Africa yields copper, platinum, coal, and lead.
Britain occupies many more lands on top of that, and with all these riches and resources, it has also become ever more powerful. From any viewpoint, such a thing is a guaranteed sign of a good economy. Alongside that would be our superb trade and banking.