Lycaon Valdemar

He was sitting under the tree where the warm morning air was creasing his exposed skin. Lamentably, extracting the grass from the ground, he watched everyone placing flowers at his mother's grave. As long as he remembered, he's watching this death ceremony ritual which happens every year on his birthday. This day was always celebrated by curses, sadness, and hurt. Seeing his drunken father coming towards him, he disquietingly stared at the ground. With a leather bottle in his hand, dripping wine from his mouth, he stood in front of his son. Crude curses leaving his mouth with every sip of the drink. Hurtfully, he averted his moist eyes from his father.

"Look at me you murderer." He spilled the wine on him, blaming his son for the death of his wife.

Wiping his eyes dampened by the tears, he raised his head to face his father. A prince will never bow down his head- was the only reason he held his head high.

Arching over him, his father threw the bottle on the grass "You filthy little monster-"

"His majesty, it's time for us to leave." A soldier came to inform, distracting his father's gaze from him. Turning towards the soldier, he walked away from his son.

A black horse-drawn carriage stood in front of them with two horses and a coachman. Unsteadily, his father, King Valdemar, the king in the West stepped in with woozy steps.

"Lord Prince." The coachman outstretched a hand toward him.

The ride back to the castle began. Not to face his father who was sitting exactly in front of him, he slid open a little wooden window of the carriage to view out. When the wheel passed over a stone acting as a hurdle, the carriage jumped making his unconscious, drunken father slip from his seat. He glanced at him to help him back on the seat but, preferred to ignore as he wasn't strong enough to pull his huge, fat form. Small limbs of a seven-year-old were unable to do that. Carriage abruptly halted when a woman with a baby in her hands fell on the ground in front of it. Gaining a little sense on the sudden stop his father shouts from inside in a harsh and barely understandable tone.

"Who stopped it?"

"It's a woman with a baby." Coachman replied.

"Push her away." He yelled again in the same manner and adjusts himself back on the seat.

When the carriage starts again the boy threw a gold coin out of the window. Picking up the coin, she bowed at him. When they reached the castle, he quickly jumped out before the king could say any more curses and entered the enormous hall of the castle. The glass floor was making it appeared like frozen water. Glass chandeliers were hanging from the wooden ceiling with lighted candles. Wooden torches were placed in a row on either side on the walls, which wasn't lighted yet. And a throne exactly in front, where a large picture of his mother was hanging on the wall behind it. The picture was an embroidery work, a work made my linen threads on a thick brocade cloth.

Walking close, he stared at the picture. Because she died giving birth to him, he's living hell. Every year, staring at the picture he wished. He wished, he would have died rather than his mother. Living a hereafter life in heaven was better than living the hell in this life.

An unsteady voice of his father alerted him. "Isn't she beautiful?"

Glancing at his father who bought another leather bottle of wine, he again looked at the picture. Taking a sip from the bottle his father sat down whilst staring at the picture along with him. After babbling among himself he stood up.

"You shouldn't have come in our life." He again started cursing him. "You took my wife." He took another sip.

Every year facing the same thing was shattering him alive. Finally, after many years he replied to his father. "I can bring you another wife."

Catching his son's neck he began. "Can you bring her back?" Turning towards the picture of his wife, he forcefully turned his son's face to the picture. "Look at her, bring her back. I can trade you for her return." He was hurting his son.

Seeing his father who's willing to kill his son, the little light in him vanished. "Then why don't you kill me?" He replied irefully.

His anger and hatred grew more on his response. "I should have killed you the moment you were born." He said throwing him on the wall.

Every day of every year living with the blame of a murderer, he is used to living a cursed life. Standing on his feet, he peered over the hall for a lightened torch to burn the picture. The anger burning in his heart was growing every day. He wanted to burn the picture of his mother. When he couldn't find any lightened torch, he came close to his father who was lying on the floor, unconscious again.

Taking the sword from his father's waist he held its point at the picture. He wanted to tear it apart if he couldn't burn it. Gazing from the top to the bottom he traced the sword on the picture to find a joining thread, unable to figure out from the bunch of threads he then turned towards his father. He changed his target from the picture to the king. Holding the sword in front of his father's neck he was staring him furiously. 'Kill him! Kill him!' The only thought was hanging in his mind. Gulping hard he pressed the point of the sword on his skin with shaky hands. He then let out a nefarious laugh on his own action. The sound of his laugh and his hammering heart was the only audible sound in this huge silent hall. His heart didn't allow him to kill, where his mind was running against it. Why can't he kill him when killing him was better for a peaceful life? He again pressed the sword, this time a little deeper. He was afraid.

Breathing heavily, he moved back and dropped the sword from his hand. The sound of the falling sword made his father cause some movement. Moving away he falls back over his father's legs and his gaze found a man standing at the corner of the hall. Worried by the fact, what might he saw? He knew the man saw him holding a sword against his father. When the man beckoned him, he stood up and walked towards him. With each step, his heartbeat was drastically increasing.

He was a young man with brown hair, messily sling aside. Leaving some flicks on both the side of his face, covering his ears and hiding his nape under it. He has hawk sharp eyes and a little beard. He was wearing a silver armor covering his whole body except his head and hands.

"Who are you?" He asked the man.

"I am a knight." The man calmly replied and asked. "What were you doing?"

Without replying he turned to walk. The man held his hand. "Don't prove your father's words."

"What do you mean?" He turned to face him.

"Don't be a murderer which you're not."

His word hit him causing moisture in his eyes.

"Your kingdom needs a better ruler than your father." Letting go of his hand, he turned to walk away.

After seeing what happened a while ago. The man didn't make any scene instead, he advised him. He called the man to halt.

"Be my adviser."

"I am a knight, not an adviser." He turned again to leave.

"I, Lycaon Valdemar, the prince in the West and the only heir of the family Valdemar with a family name and family blood command you to be my adviser."

The man looked at Lycaon through his shoulder. Kneeling on one knee, he kept his sword on the ground. Keeping his both the hands on the other knee, he looked up at the prince.

"I, Zorion with my first name offer you my service." He said.

"Vow," Lycaon commanded.

"I vow to serve you from this day.

Till the day my veins run out of the blood.

Till the day I escape my last breath.

Till the last day of my life until I die."

"I accept you in my service.

You shall have a place at my place and food among my food.

You shall stand by my side.

And guide me until the end of my life." Lycaon continued his side of vows.

"You may rise."

Picking the sword from the ground he stood on his feet.

"From now on you'll be called as Herr Zorion, a knight and an adviser of the prince."

He bowed to leave but Lycaon stopped him again. "I didn't ask you to leave."

He again turned to face him.

"You saw me holding the sword at my father?" He asked.

"Indeed," he replied.

"Being a Knight, it was your duty to protect the king. Why didn't you?"

"Holding a sword doesn't mean killing someone," he replied.

"Answer a question Herr Zorion." He commanded where Zorion gave a nod.

"When will you kill a person?" He asked.

"When a person is guilty and you have the proof of it." He replied.

"My father is guilty of imposing a crime on me which I didn't conduct. He's guilty of not being a father or a proper king." He paused and continued. "Can I kill him?"

"I am afraid you cannot Milord." He replied.

"I wished I could." He said and added. "Come, Herr Zorion. Teach me how to hold a sword, properly."

•••••••••

Hate, Revenge, Forgive. 

Hate will turn you into a beast.

Revenge can never let you sleep.

Forgive, you'll find peace.

LOCKHART