[When he was young, there was an annual boxcar competition that many sons and fathers participated in. One year in the midst of summer, the race was be held on the top of their hilly street, right in front of the children's home.
The fathers and sons would take their creations up the hill and arrange themselves at the starting line.
In an excited fashion, the sons would then sit down in the cramped little vehicle and the fathers would step back with pride.
The countdown would start.
"10. 9. 8...."
He looked outside the open window upstairs with the other children, envy and suspense swirling in their eyes.
"7. 6. 5..."
The boxcar engines rumbled low throughout the hot summer's day. On the sidewalks, people held onto their cheers, awaiting the glorious moment that held at the start of a race.
"4. 3. 2..."
Stillness was an antagonist to the moment.
"1... GO!"]
~
Wind whipped wildly passed his face. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. He finally could understand why people could laugh and scream while riding roller coasters in his old world.
Feeling as if he was about to fall off, he tucked himself lower on the broad back and let the old horse gallop off to wherever she was heading.
It felt like she went from zero to sixty in less than a second.
First, there was a gut-wrenching neigh and then the world was tilted on it's side. Ulfstead swore he was about to fall as Fathima reared on her hind legs.
In a life-saving effort, he pulled the reigns back, confusing the mad horse even further. The old mare bucked, screamed, and shook her head in agitation.
And before he knew it, the two of them were speeding through the field straight for the grove enclosing the pastures. In the distance, faint yells called for him, but Ulfstead had no way of assuring them of his safety...
'Why did horses not come with brakes?'
With an agility he didn't even know she had, Fathima hurtled over the fence and straight into a grove of short trees. Branches and brambles brushed up against him, but like a tick on a furry dog, he held on.
'Damn it... should I jump off?'
Looking down, reality said the height wasn't too far, at most it was one and a half meters...
But Fathima barely gave up any speed as she galloped further and further away. In fact, she even seemed to be going faster.
Soon, the grove turned into a forest as the trees grew taller and the Prince no longer had to lower his head. The problem now was the fact that his bum hurt from his bad riding posture and while holding on for dear life, his hands were cut from pulling on the reigns. Looking closer, something seemed to be embedded in the ropes...
More than likely, this was another specially planned accident.
Recognizing this, Ulfstead carefully let go of the ropes and crossed his arms around the thick neck. The hair was wet and sticky. Sure enough, the smell of horse's blood filled the air.
For a few minutes, the two rode onward; he was sure that, at some point, Fathima would tire down or his guards come after him...
Yet, as time went on, his eyes started to blur and drowsiness started to overtake him...
Gritting his teeth, it seemed he couldn't hold on any longer... There was no pussyfooting it; jumping was the only option. In his haze, he drunkenly looked for a safe place to land when something in the short distance caught his eyes.
On the trees of a low hanging branch, a child older than him hung upside down with outstretched arms.
His face was a blur as with everything else was around him, but Ulfstead could hear his instructions clearly. "Raise up your hands! I'll catch you!"
The voice beseeched his senses and he surrendered to the unknowing faith. In a single moment, the hands clasped his wrists perfectly and Ulfstead was lifted off the horses back. His hands were slippery with blood, but the other boy didn't let go as they dangerously swung back and forth like a pendulum.
Ulfstead looked up to his savior; the eyes that met his were as dark as the abyss. It was as if he was looking at death itself. A chilled shiver ran down his spine, but there was no fear in him...
In fact, there was nothing in him as all too soon, unconsciousness overtook his mind.
~
"Brother!!"
"You Highness!!"
Lyfette was on the opposite side of the field when the incident occurred. In order to not startle his brother with his crazy riding, he made sure to keep a distance. Who knew that this distance would come to bite him in the ass?
On the sidelines, shock befell upon everyone's faces. Everything seemed to be going perfectly well when the Prince's horse started to go crazy.
Within this beat of bewilderment, only three people were able to react. At the first sign of peculiarity, the ones quickest to take action were Ales and the two guards.
By the time the horse reared its head and His Highness nearly fell, they were already in action. Heilin and Joan took hold of the reigns of the nearby princesses, depositing the crying tenth and eleventh girls into the arms of the female instructor, while Ales opened the gates.
When the two had cleared the fence, the ex-soldier had organized the entire scene. With sharp eyes piercing the eyes of all present he barked, "NO ONE HERE IS ALLOWED TO LEAVE!"
~
Their destination was more than a hundred meters away and getting further. Who knew that the grey horse His Highness had become attached to was so fast?
A faint shout echoed in the distance, but the sound of galloping hooves and heavy breathing didn't allow them to distinguish whether or not it was the voice of the Prince.
After most of the bramble was cleared, Joan and Heilil finally caught. But what awaited them nearly gave them a heart attack.
The royal son was lying still on the ground. Even from a distance, they saw how his clothes were tattered and bloodied. If it weren't for the fact that the child still had a rising chest, they might as well have just killed themselves on the spot.
"Your Highness!"
"My Prince!"
Leaping down from their steeds, they quickly over saw the injuries. With no response from the child, the two brought the boy back. All the while, they prayed to the God above to save their Prince.
When they left, the boy with eyes as dark as ink jumped to the ground. Looking down to his sleeves, he saw scarlet blood staining his clothes.
His tongue clicking in disgust as he rolled them thrice. Then, right as he was about to follow the direction of the palace, a gleam of something caught his eye.
Picking it up, he saw it was a golden pendent heavier the contents of his coin purse. Thinking back to the pretty face of the young prince, a thought of something passed in his mind. A sarcastic sneer formed on his lips.
Tucking the pendant into his pocket, he laughed lowly. "Seems like another dirty secret to uncover. That dumb old man better pay me extra."
And with a turn of his feet, he set off in the direction of the grey horse.
~~~
In a place far from the Capital, a hundred man convoy solemnly trekked southward; their bodies caked in grime and dirt. Haggard faces and empty stomachs morphed them into locusts traveling across the desolate plain.
It was nearly summer, but there was nothing to eat. They moved like nomads with nowhere to rest. From time to time, the convoy would pass remnants of a deserted village, the scenes very much similar to their home… the home they had lost.
The fields were overthrown, houses burned down to the foundation, and bodies decayed slowly under the cool sun. In many instances, the explicit features of the dead were kept as clear as statues.
The northern state may have suffered a loss but the common people had suffered a tragedy.
The King of Hellebore. The King of Hellebore. His name was a joke when facing destruction and chaos. How many were killed? How many were slaughtered like lambs?
Their intestines and bowels dragged on the floor, their carcasses at the ready for animals to feast. The people begged and bargained to the skies, pleading to God to save them.
In a sorrowful song, orphan children cried.
Through a quick succession, they watched their family, friends, and neighbors all die.
A woman's hand was reaching a hatchet a few feet away. Flies ate the putrid flesh and gave birth upon her skin. Her clothes were torn into rags, revealing the naked breasts. The young body she had chastely kept was no longer beautiful. Her temple was desecrated by beasts pretending to be man, but through death, she would never see the perpetrators receive their punishment. Her eyes were filled with rage. Fear. Hatred.
There was no peace.
The people were hungry. They were tired. They were angry. The King of Hellebore. Why did he not save them?