A full moonlight glimmered on a mountainous plateau. The atmosphere was dry, and yet cold still clasped the moor, without skin-sensible traces of air blowing down this place, but thick layers of snow engulfed this silent sector everywhere. A long river connected to the sea of the outer continent separates this cool territory from a nearby place which was not affected by its icy weather. Water ran ice-cold and dried out into chunks of slippery ice, inchmeal.
Time was close to midnight. It was total silence out there. Not even the chirps of birds came across the skies of this rugged realm, nor the noises their flying wings make and the rustling falling leaves.
A dark, tall shape of a man sat in a remote portion of the snow-bounded region; far away from the homes of its citizen, he was above a hummock with lesser ice.
A ray of moonlight shone down on his direction; his hair which was of side-parted style had itself exposed. It was originally black, yet three-fourth of it was sprayed silver, only leaving one-fourth of his natural hair color undyed. Armed with a sheathed sword tied around him at his left waist under his belt; he was wearing a trio of outfits, namely his outermost clothing which consisted of a cream vintage coat, whose buttons were all closed up and his pants of the same thick fabric and color and leather loafers. His hands were protected from the cold as he donned probably not only a single pair of gloves and then a long, white-trimmed black cape and golden crown on his head–not too big, not too small, covering the center of his natural black, side-parted hair.
Staring into the moon at dusk, he was often tilting his head down. His crossed arms were thrusted tightly into his abdomen–it was not the frozen weather that has been flooding him with chilly stillness; trying hard not to let his heavy burden deluge him with self-abandonment.
He appeared to have been sitting at the top of the hill for a couple of minutes and the cold did not seem to break through his body, thanks to the protection of his thick-textured coat.
Another dark caped figure arrived at the ground, pausing to his feet in a tick and glanced up high at the hill where this heartbroken man was spending his time in solitude. He moved on; avoiding sounds of his footsteps from being made.
He went too careful in walking the hillock. Steering clear of the leaning snow-covered shape of land that can get slippery if he had stepped a heavy foot on it. Little did he know that his disconsolate compatriot could not care less hearing any sounds.
He revealed his presence having reached the top–sporting plain white button-up shirt under an open maroon coat with five-striped sash of different kinds of blue around him, a black cape, a cropped trousers with long, white knee-level socks and a pair of black loafers and white gloves. Seeing no change in the latter–still a face with deep emotion sunken inside out. The only change occurred was that he was breathing overmuch now, his eyes closed and still seemed to be grieving.
The new arrival took off his white-trimmed black hat and was rather skeptical to approach the other man, yet he had to ascertain how was the lonely one doing. With his hat off, his medium-length, naturally shaggy dark brown hair with three-fourth shades of silver hair dye was exposed. Just the same as the hair-coloring format of his comrade.
"Prince Oreebis?"
All he heard was his continuous breathing. Not even startled out after spending more than half an hour in silence.
"Prince Oreebis, your Majesty," he addressed again. He held his hat with two hands, placing it stuck in front of his chest; he could feel the sadness the handsome Prince was going through now. "It is getting late now. The King has been looking for you, lately. Mind if I take you home?"
Oreebis still did not answer and was thinking of something different. No slight movements. His body acted frozen for the last six seconds. Then he blew one more cold air and leisurely turned his back on the distance. For a moment, he held the gaze of his informant.
He bent his head down and slowly walked pass the other. "What is wrong with me?"
"Your Majesty?"
His question was met by his compatriot with a look of curiosity, an eyebrow raised and arms crossed.
"What have I done wrong, Karydev?" he outstretched his hand. "I do not understand."
Karydev's mouth had gone crooked, too. "Your Majesty, are you okay?" Something was troubling the Prince.
"My daughter. I miss my daughter," Oreebis answered. "Five years went by already. I just want to hug my child again. She was never more than a year old to have missed the presence of a father's love." He felt his neck tightening; trying to control his voice from sounding hoarse.
Karydev padded closer behind. "Your Majesty," he realized he can do nothing to help the grieving Prince, but knew a word can console Oreebis. "A search would not be easier for the Prince of Tarska. Why don't you order a scouting party to go seek for the lost child? Anyone will do so for a royalty."
"Search. Here?" Oreebis' voice tensed lowly, looking up. "It won't be worth it," he said under his breath.
Karydev noticed Oreebis had been keeping himself drunken in the dumps. "Your Majesty, if you want my advice," he wished to touch Oreebis' shoulders to show his compassion, but shied away from doing so; suspecting the Prince's thoughts of what he might think of Karydev. "It is Minka whom you should be concerned. You have her for a lover right now. You are getting her ready to be a certified Princess, and at the same time you are showing her the ways and proper behaviors of a monarch."
Oreebis did not fully turned back. The turning of his head stopped before his chin could even touch his left shoulder; his eyes not meeting Karydev's. His brows giving a slight frown, but this short movement indicated that there was a verification of truth in Karydev's advice, and any Tarskan fanatics would take his word anytime for a lesson. In the way he frowned his eyebrows, something was deep inside Oreebis that he disapproved of his fellow's lecture to some extent, but he did not answer back as he was bothered too much by the gloom shadowing over him.
"Time flies, my Prince," he added. "We grow older each year. I am pretty sure that your daughter is in good shape, today. She will grow up, your Majesty. And who knows you might able to cross paths someday once she finds out that the leader of her House's future self is her own father."
Oreebis, frowning lightly until now, still did not reply. His eyes moved, now frowning in a manner that something unusual came to his mind, which he will find realization in such thoughts. Waiting for more words to come if Karydev had more. And he did.
"I suggest you give it a rest first, your Majesty. You cannot spend the rest of your days thinking where the child has left off. The future of the House lies in your thoughts for it, and it is a big one. Isn't it the duty of a Tarskan royalty that his or her world should spin around on the House alone?"
Oreebis' face hardened. Anger arose in the Prince facially and inside him. "Take it differently for a father like me," His deeper, toneless voice quavered. "Nothing hurts a parent more than the loss of the child they have made."
Karydev lowered his hat that he had been placing in front of his chest a little while. He slightly bowed his head in shame for the evident irritation in the way Oreebis delivered his responses. His advice did not work out for the Prince.
"You were right about my priorities," he turned around and faced Karydev. "But I guess you will never know what it's like to be a parent, until you have made a family. It is hard not having my offspring here with me. It is like... a part of me has died." Oreebis was carrying real pain with him.
"I understand, your Majesty," sighed Karydev.
"Come on," Oreebis ordered. "I should not keep the Royal Family waiting."
Oreebis padded down from the top of the hillock, with Karydev treading on the Prince's heels. It was not a long way down that icy slope, but thanks to their boots' spiky bottoms, it kept them attached to the leaning piece of land without slipping down.
***
A single sunray streamed alone on the ground the next day. The morning was bright, only that the feathery clouds were covering the sun's presence. Snow still thickened the Tarskan mountainous land, taking slower to melt due to sunlight's lack of exposure. The air was warmer and moister than last night, but the chill was still combined in the warmth of the morning.
Below the hills were a number of Tarskan people coming out of their neighborhoods. More men came out than women, and these Tarskan men were catching up to the near-ends of their extensive domain, which was marked by the long streamline that separated their borders from other territories. Group fishing was going on over there.
In a rugged upland, planted with single divergent pine trees, that was separated by a high fault scarp from the lower-grounded center of the Tarskan commoners' neighborhood, a strongly fortified, permanently garrisoned stronghold far away from the crowd of people down the slopes stood from the snow-submerged cliff.
Up above the balcony of the castle, red curtains with golden trims opened when a fair-skinned, elderly man with white fringe-up hair and short boxed beard in long, antique pajamas padded towards the curving railing after pushing the curtains sideward. He leaned his body with the support of the stone fence. His back crouched as he took stock of the Tarskan territory. The daylight uncovered the resplendence of his brilliant indigo eyes.
Everything seemed splendid in his eyes. Even from afar, he could see his people doing pretty well on their fishing jobs while the weather was fine. He reacted calmly to everyone's progress with the slightest smile. They never stopped despite the coolness of the weather.
He flattened his hair backwards with his fingers; straightening excess curls. He headed back to the tower. In a momentary pause, he stood by the entrance of the terrace door and held an affectionate gaze at a sleeping beauty by the grand double-bed with gold ends and support; just his age.
Even in the morning's absence of daylight, the enchantment of the aging woman asleep in coziness was exposed even before candle lights were lit up. White skin glowing in the day's room darkness, not pale as the dead; lips red as the rose and dullness shadowing over her long, wavy honey hair, but its colorful gorgeousness still battled the gloom as it shone.
The elderly man realized it was about time they both got up. Early morning will pass sooner or later now. He pulled two ropes one by one by the terrace door downwards, pulling the curtains to the side either and leaving an open door bestowing enough morning sunlight entering the majestic bedroom. The red curtains got in touch with the ropes and automatically folded upon elevating when he ceased dragging the ropes.
Sun shone directly to the grand bed, offering it to the sleeping lady. She sensed a ray of sunlight bringing her warmth when she felt it touching her closed eyelids. Heat energy's touch awakened, she opened her eyes unhurried; only to be slowed down by the morning illumination.
Multiple knocks sounded from the couple's door, six meters away from them. Putting the old couple off from what would have been their amorous juncture. In the first place, the gaffer did not want to have had someone interrupting this rarest moment in their life now that they were elders, until he had this thought of following what was in the mind of his wife. He looked at her with eyes in an occupied manner.
Constant knocks have gone that it sounded urgent. "Go ahead. Let the lad in."
Not in her husband's heart and intention to answer the door, he would not keep his wife waiting by ignoring the call outside.
"Enter!" he convincingly invited in.
The rustic door creaked and a dark figure approaching entered. He revealed himself to be Karydev as soon as he had himself shown in the direction of the sunlight. Karydev spent a moment to acknowledge their majesties with respectful social gestures. Fingers outstretched, he curved his right arm positioned in front of his left chest, bent his half upper body and simultaneously bowed his head to them.
Before Karydev could give his message, his Royal Majesty spoke first. "You were knocking to your monarchs, perhaps you should do it rather gently." Just a reminder, he was not being so hard.
"My apologies, King Tip." He straightened his body. Now that he learned to save his air from panting too much, Karydev went straight forward to his news: "Sire, parlous report from the competition overseas," he started to puff and blow over again. "Tarskan partition sentries detected Ardajan snoopers making every effort to get past our borders. An action must be dispatched at once!"
Tip held the Tarskan messenger's eyes a moment longer. Then he turned around when he felt his fury already growing worse. He tightened his fists and moved five steps past his and his queen's bed. He stared into the sunbaked portion of his kingdom's territory where even the first thinnest layer of ice had not even melt yet.
In two ticks, he turned his black stare to the ground. "The Ardajans!" his temper got his reckoning names. "I knew they are starting something up! Those snitching heathens kept breaking the peaceful rule of the Tranquil Feud!" He moved around close to the corners of his bedroom; as if he knew not where he was going to, wishing to throw a tantrum when he could not in front of Karydev.
"So, what do you propose we do now, your Majesty?"
"Forward the news to the highest military exemplar!" adjured Tip with stern eyes. Karydev rushed in a trice, "Oh–and Karydev!" only to be stopped by the king's late addition. The informant paused and looked back on the male monarch, still willing to hear him out again as Tip changed the subject with the simplest of question, "Where has Oreebis gone yesterday night?"
"Oh, your Majesty," Karydev thought for words in a split second, not changing his position nor drawing back completely. "I offered to take him home seeing him alone on the hummock close to midnight." Speaking fast, "Well, too bad that he is still asleep when it is about time he should have his breakfast with you."
"Queen Garinka and I will worry about that," said Tip. He was not interested to hear anything happened to Prince Oreebis last night. "Go now, for a possible battle might happen."
"Yes, your Majesty," Karydev bowed his head once more and went on his way out of the bedroom.
He exited the tower encountering two armed stoic Tarskan guards securing the royalties' entrance door. Karydev encountered a butler crossing the stairway to the bedroom, while the latter was heading the opposite direction. The herald himself and the formally-dressed male servant acknowledged each other with a mumble of greetings and nodding of heads as Karydev hurried downstairs.
Minutes later.
Their majesties came out of the bedroom in different outfits; Tip clothed in a long-sleeve, glossy orange coat who had plump short sleeves contained orange-and-gold stripes. From the end of his upper arms, the texture of his sleeves that stretched down onto the end of his forearms were thin. The second layer of his orange coat was a dark blue surcoat tied by a black, leather belt. His bottom was a silky white trouser, whose lower portion appeared to be cropped when it was actually inserted inside his two black leg-length boots. Additionally, he also wore white gloves and of course, a red-capped crown of pure gold that had a cross atop a ball, with multiple tiny jewelries around the band and a circle of fleur-de-lys that centered a slightly bigger jeweled cross.
Queen Garinka was even more ravishing in her formal attire. Her gown bore a shining, appearance with golden trims and some furry fabrics attached to it–chasing fireflies, which was periwinkle, glittering the shapes of stars due to the countless decoration of real, micro-small diamonds, spangling her dress. So was her crown which had the same design as her husband's; only their caps' colors differed from the other for Garinka's was purple.
Meanwhile, Oreebis made an unexpected arrival making his way up to the tower. He showed up down below and was off to head into the spiral stairway straight to the elderly couple's bedroom.
As Oreebis rushed and in concert when the monarchs went down, the Prince himself came to a halt upon crossing paths with the king and queen. He ceased dashing to the tower and had shared a moment of glancing with them, but he was not the first to bid them a morning greeting. Just silent as if Tip and Garinka themselves flabbergasted him.
"Oreebis," greeted Tip, "my son. What a surprise you were deficient in your sleep!"
"Good morning, dear son," Garinka crossed two three threads down to give Oreebis a cheek-to-cheek kiss, but the young man had no reaction to her tender interaction of parental love, then the queen took three steps back again to stand beside Tip.
Together, Tip and Garinka smiled at their son.
"The herald mentioned you went home hours pass dusk," Tip jogged Oreebis' memory.
Oreebis stayed calm; unseeing the joy in his parents' face and tone to the point that they were seeing him. "Yes. That is true."
"Well, just in time," said the king. "Now that you are awake, join us for breakfast."
"Sure," whispered the Prince.
King Tip and Queen Garinka walked passed Oreebis, with the latter following them behind. They moved on deliberately.
***
The royal-blooded parents and son reached the grand dining room, only to witness that delectable main course dishes and dainty breakfast breads were already laid on the lengthy wooden table. Quite spacious that the four corners of the diagonal section were decorated with one living chair each. And some guards have always been present on every quarter in the Tarskan castle.
Their tablemates caught sight of them; they courteously rose to their majesties' arrival. Among those at the table was another male with suited formally, with a silver crown that had lesser ornaments compared to the three royalties. He was delighted when Tip, Garinka and Oreebis came. Unable to keep himself from beaming, and so did he kept his greeting to himself to observe royal formality within the dining room.
A few minutes marched and the royalty, along with the rest of their trusted officials, had been eating in a while now. Having observed formality fully at the time of their breakfast.
Dishes continue to rattle in behalf of everyone taking every bite cut from their food. With everyone's mouths zipped at the table, Tip took this as an opportunity again to talk to Oreebis when his right eye caught sight of the Prince's fork-holding hand moving.
"Son," Tip carried on munching the food in his mouth as he continued to slice meat and veggies on his plate. "These are dark times for our House," he went on to his son.
Oreebis rarely looked into the king's eyes; he had a sip from his glass of champagne. "Why did you say so?"
Tip wiped his mouth with a plain napkin. "Karydev apprised me of a probable seeds of feud that the Ardajans might sow. Jaghar, the inheritor to their Ardajan throne, sent some night watchmen sneaking into our borders."
"What do we do now?" Oreebis did not seem to care.
"You will be helping organize the Tarskan military." Tip eyed him thoughtfully. "As Prince, you will be the one to send them that order."
"What about the Ardajans–" Oreebis looked up into Tip's eyes at last, while pressing an egg with his fork that the yolk itself spread out.
"That is what I am telling you," interrupted Tip. "Let us let those animals cut through. I will have our warriors preparing secretly to throw a party for them."
The silver-crowned gentleman sitting to Garinka's right heard everything from the conversation. "But, it is too dangerous!" he chipped in. "A gathering is to happen next week. Shouldn't we hear out whatever Jaghar has–"
"Sagan," silenced Garinka, eyes with insufficient emotion in the look she threw at the other young man. "It is your brother whom your father is talking to."
The interruption of Sagan did not matter to Tip. King Tip rested his stainless utensils on the table for a moment. "Leave him," he said to Garinka. And to the other Prince, he continued to where the latter last left off, "If they keep breaking the tranquility of this bloodless conflict, then why mustn't we take the initiative?"
Sagan looked down and replied no more. There came a decrease in his appetite; leading up to barely touching his food.
"Out of our four adversaries, the House of Ardaja are the shameless and most prideful intruders," Tip spoke wisely. "It is better to be prepared than not. We cannot always get away with encountering fierce opponents like them. We live in territorial disputes."