THE CLANG OF METAL WAS FIERCE and pounding on the stone steps descending into the underground chamber as the sandal-boots of kingsguards met with the floor. Marsil stood chained upright but heard the booming sound loud as the lash of thunder in his ears. He was never one to fear and waited with open colorless eyes for the men bounding down the flight to the cellar. He had been discovered...
The approaching officers had arrived the White Keep; grand residence of House Cranmer few minutes before, and their brazen entrance had attracted the attention of the Manor's houseguards. The home officers accosted them by the gates while a handmaiden went to fetch the Lord of the signory, Geralt Cranmer. The man was awakened from his sleep by the one person he couldn't murder for disrupting his rest; his fourth daughter, Aleah.
The fair-skinned maiden was birthed to him by his third wife, Rebelle. She had her mother's deep brown eyes and her skin was like a mixture of both her parents; his white complexion and her mother's bronze coloring. Aleah however did not possess Rebelle's curvaceous body. Where her mother was soft and full, she was lithe and slender. It was no hidden fact that she inherited her father's stature. Her pretty face however covered up for her boyish figure.
In all his four girl children, Geralt loved Aleah the most. He loved all of his daughters but he reckoned his favorite of them was Aleah. He loved that she took the graceful quality of her mother and Rebelle's exotic eyes. Even though he never said it out loud, Geralt hoped to marry off Aleah to one of the twin princes someday. Maybe Taroth; he was less roguish as opposed to his brother, Tranin.
Geralt hoped he could finally merge House Cranmer's name to the crown. The union would quell any gossips about their house being a bastard lineage. He hated when the rumors whispered about.
Aleah waited in his bedchamber while Geralt put on garments in the dressing room. He emerged and she looked him over. Walking close to her father, she straightened the lapels of his flowy robe, smoothing over the creases of the tunic.
"Now, you look lordly," she said with a smile.
"Whatever shall I do without your delightful presence to guide me," he played also.
Aleah laughed and took his hand as they walked out the room. She towered over her father's frail stature but neither of them cared. Such was the bond between Lord Cranmer and his daughters. The man could single-handedly carve out a piece of Syveria for them if they so wanted it.
With no boy child in sight, Geralt squandered all his love on his four daughters. From a young age, he had showered them with the finest silken skirts, the most ornate jewellery, gifts of pure gold, and whatever delight they so desired. The girls had being spoiled to an inch of their father's money.
Yet, deep under their golden mansion was a young man who'd never felt a single drop of such love. Marsil didn't even know his real father. Arlon was all he had.
As soon as Lord Geralt eased into the sprawling entrance hall of the White Keep, Commander Latchlon and his men were ushered in by the houseguards who had kept them in wait. The Commander was not subtle in showing his dislike for the officers delay, and as soon as he walked in, he pinned Geralt with an open glare.
Latchlon never really liked the man. He had been his father's best friend. Lord Geralt had shared all his father's notions about Latchlon's 'sickness'. Till this day, the man looked on him like a swine. Latchlon had considered having The Bleeder, Illishan, assassinate Geralt but he knew Arlon would never forgive him.
This singular reason kept him back from ending Geralt's existence. The man was already old enough anyway.
"State your business here, son," Geralt gritted out, his voice scratchy and raspy, like the striking sound of broken glass.
His tone was sarcastic on the final word and his eyes spit hideous pity at Latchlon. The Lord still saw him as a pitiful excuse for a soldier. A soldier who sucked other men cocks. A disgrace to the entire male race.
Geralt felt the Commander belonged in the Temple's dungeons, where the Graces could correct whatever demons inspired such sin in him. Latchlon couldn't care less what the old man thought, and he met Geralt's gaze with equal fire, limitless ire showing in his blue eyes.
"Clear the room!" Latchlon thundered.
At his fierce words, everyone went scattering. The houseguards of Lord Cranmer, his own Blue Cloaks, and the few house servants in wait. Aleah however stood by her father's side, watching Latchlon with level unsure eyes.
A moment passed before Geralt gave her a small nod. She placed a light kiss on his withered cheek before she swept away. Latchlon was repulsed at this show of affection. He inwardly wondered why father and daughter were that close.
Latchlon couldn't help the sickening feeling that swept up his gut. Lord Cranmer and his daughter seemed a bit 'too' close. Knowing old men, he didn't put anything past Geralt. His own father, Vaster the Third, had loved young girls. He had also died for it.
Aleah disappeared round a bend in the wide hall and the Commander was left alone with his arch nemesis, the Lord of the White Keep. Geralt spoke not a beat later, his croaky voice like grinding stones.
"What is the meaning of this disrespect, boy. Barging into my house like some cheap brothel?"
Latchlon stayed silent for a while, before he uttered a single word.
"Bloodchild." Geralt petrified at his words.
All these events passed within the hour of the soldiers' arrival, and all these Marsil heard from his position underground. Geralt and Latchlon had engaged in some standoffish debate before Geralt had finally agreed to take him down to the cellar.
This was how Marsil learned that his father was indeed the king. The King of the whole Summerlands:
Arlon, son of Vaster the Third of House Pierran, ruler of the summerlands. The first of his name, Lord of the Ivory castle, and Defender of the White Throne; and that the man bounding down the steps towards him was his brother, Latchlon; the Lord Commander of the syverian host.
...He had been discovered, by the very enemy of his people—although, Marsil didn't know it yet. The clash of boots grew louder as the footfalls drew nearer. Marsil knew the moment they descended the final step. He could sense the reverberation of their bodies. Without even turning to look towards them, he could sense they were two men; Lord Geralt and his much disliked companion, the army commander.
Thanks to the fair Lady Hearst feeding him her blood, his body was renewed as a lion cub. His Faerie senses were sharper than a viper's, and he could feel the liquid rush of magic in his veins. Only the cuffs on his wrists spared the men from his rain of fury. Many years the Lord had chained him underground. He couldn't wait for his revenge.
The Lord Commander was new, and Marsil only hoped the man didn't hurt him—for his sake.
He turned when a flaming torch was shoved in front of his face. The heat scarred his skin but even fire could not stop the magic of his body. His skin immediately softened back to its pale tones.
Marsil lifted up his eyes to the men.
The man holding the torch was tall, bigger and bulky with a coat of silver armor. A dark blue cloak also hung down his wide back. He presumed this to be the Commander. The man undoubtedly shared Arlon's blue eyes. Beside him was the short frailness of Old man Geralt.
At the stare of his eyes, Latchlon paled a bit. The bloodchild's eyes were uncanny. Marsil, Arlon had called the vampire. Now, staring into the very white orbs, Latchlon could see why. The vampire's eyes were like the first moon after the harvest season, full and mysterious. A jarring sight to behold. To his credit, he only stood astonished for a few moments before he regained his composure.
Latchlon said nothing to the boy. Turning to his side, he looked to Geralt. The flames wavered in his hands as he spoke.
"We will need your most discreet carriage, my Lord. Possibly with dark veils to hide out the sun."
Geralt looked to Marsil, then back at Latchlon. He gave a small nod. Latchlon turned back to gaze upon Marsil and both men's eyes moved over his stunning spread of snow-white skin.
"Where will you transport him to?" Geralt asked.
"The Seer Towers, my Lord. The men are the next best thing to the Wytchers. Surely, they would know how to handle this...creature."
Latchlon gave his reply as his eyes burned like the flames glowing in his hands. A blue inferno. His tone was every bit as demeaning as his eyes, and he could not by the Seventh Flame understand why his brother loved the boy. All he saw was a pale-eyed devil with the caricature of an angel.
Marsil heard the men's conversation with bound hands. He heard the mention of words he didn't understand.
Seer Towers.
Wytcher.
He was glad he didn't hear Death though. With the powerful hate he could see in the Commander's eyes, it was clear that there was only one thing stopping the man from killing him.
Arlon, his King father.