Usurper

Usurper

    Alfonse leaned over the edge of the castle’s tower. The moon was nearing its end, and soon he would have to complete his task. He drank deeply from his bottle of wine for no other reason than to drown his conscience. Pulling his grey hood tighter to his cheeks, Alfonse braced himself against the northern winds. With drunken eyes he examined the fortress where he’d spent the majority of his life. It was unlike any other in the land; it had been carved entirely out of a granitic mound. During the day, the sun’s rays would ignite the fortress in a fiery glow, but at night, on this night, the moon’s dim light colored the granite a deep crimson. He glanced to his right as petite arms wrapped around his waist, and a delicate chin rested upon his shoulder.

    “Why are you so morose this morning, my love?”

    Alfonse rolled his eyes at the woman he was soon to marry. Like all men in the city, Alfonse found her beautiful, but he saw her heart’s innermost desires. She wanted power.

    “You don’t belong up here, Belinda, especially at such a late hour.”

    “The hour is early. And besides, this very afternoon you will become Prince Alfonse, Steward of Alkaria. Finally, I will be your princess!”

    “That is your wish; to become the princess of a realm of snakes and rats? For that is what we’ve become.”

    Her small arms squeezed tighter and she kissed his hooded cheek. She whispered, “You know I didn’t mean it that way, darling. You can’t expect me to be reserved. Of course I’m excited. Finally my family name will rise above the knighthood, becoming royalty, and I will be looked upon with envy by all the women of the kingdom!”

    Alfonse turned to her and pushed her away. He gripped her arms tightly and gazed into her eyes.

    “I am not royal blood. I will never be a true prince. And this kingdom? This kingdom is a monument to all my sins!”

    “Not your sins, Alfonse! Your brother’s! This was all his doing… you could only ensure your safety; and our happiness.”

    Emotion began to tint his cheeks a shade of red, so Alfonse turned and began descending the spiral staircase to the prison cells below. Before he was out of earshot of his princess-to-be he responded to her last words, “…yes, our happiness. Get some sleep, Belinda. Your exhaustion causes you to speak of silly things.” Then he thought, Do all women have such a ravenous appetite for prestige, or is it just the beautiful ones?

Alfonse found himself looking upon a silver dagger his brother had given him before their treason had begun. He held the dagger by its blade, just as Sigemund had done when he gave it to him…

    “What is this, brother?”

    “It’s a gift, of course, Alfonse. You are my brother, and besides, you’re Captain of the Royal Guard. You need to look the part. So close to royalty, yet you look as a foot soldier would. It’s embarrassing, really.”

    Alfonse took the blade, sheathed it, and tucked it away in his belt.

    “Why, Sigemund?”

    “Must I always have motive to be nice, brother?”

    “…Yes, that’s generally the case.”

    Sigemund hung his head playfully in mock shame. He raised his eyes to Alfonse; a devilish smirk now graced his pale face.

    “There is a war coming, Alfonse. I can make it bloody… Or you can make it peaceful.”

    “What do you speak of, Sigemund? I’m in no mood for your games.”

    “Haha! Always so serious, Alfonse. A trait you must have emulated from father. But, to be serious, I’m taking what’s rightfully mine. Our kingdom’s entire military is at my every beck and call…”

    Alfonse seized his brother by the collar and brought the silver dagger to his neck.

    “Rightfully yours?! You arrogant bastard! Can you think of any reason I shouldn’t gut you now for even mentioning such a plot?”

    Sigemund shrugged his shoulders and hung his head once again. A loud, barking laugh echoed from his thin lips.

    “Hahahahaha! You have to ask such an inane question, brother? Let’s see… I’m the King’s REAL son.” Sigemund shoved Alfonse away from him; a show of his equal strength. “I’m the one those ignorant peasants will believe. Did I mention our benevolent father bestowed upon me the title of ‘General?’ My plan is already in motion, Alfonse. Now choose your side! Truthfully, I thought of killing you, but you’re too valuable. The people love your tragic tale! You’re a resource, my dear brother!”

    Alfonse gripped his chest and shook with rage. He fought his body’s urge to lash out at the jackal in front of him, but every word Sigemund spoke was true. If a plan had been set in motion, then Alfonse and his miniscule Royal Guard were powerless to stop it. His eyes glazed over, soulless. He couldn’t help but grind his teeth.

    “What do you want from me, Sigemund?”

    “Oh, elation! How I knew you’d come to reason, dear brother! What I want from you, Alfonse… I would love nothing more than to make you my right hand! A true Prince of Alkaria! But first… See that beautiful dagger I had forged for you? Yes, that silver masterpiece. You must drive it deep into our father’s chest. Won’t it be glorious!?”

    Sigemund stuck out his hand. Alfonse knew what he wanted; complete and utter submission. Nothing less, or Alfonse would lose his life. His head began to spin. He had two choices, but he knew only one ensured survival. The right choice made bile rise to the back of his throat. He swallowed it down. He looked at Sigemund one last time in defiance; soulless eyes now aflame with vengeful fury. Sigemund smiled cunningly as Alfonse fell to his knees. The latter took his brother’s hand in his own and kissed the royal seal upon his ring.

    “Yes. Now, Alfonse, let us gather my men and show our father a wonderful surprise!”

    Sigemund walked off in the direction of the barracks, and Alfonse followed suit, staring at his dazzling, silver dagger…

Alfonse took another drink of his wine, and sheathed his brother’s gift; his father’s demise. He came to the bottom of the spiraling steps. His stomach churned and he felt its betrayal. Whether it was shame or alcohol that had made him sick, he couldn’t say. He bent over and spewed red wine across the crimson, granite walls. Alfonse wiped his mouth and continued on until the tunnel gave way to the dungeon’s cells. The man he once called father sat in his damp cell with his head hung lower than ever before. This prison held none of the comforts of his previous home; the castle his sons had seized. There were no braziers to give the King light nor to keep him warm. Suddenly the former king looked in Alfonse’s direction; the torchlight reflecting in his eyes. “Which traitor visits my new castle?” he asked mockingly.

    Alfonse began walking toward the dingy cell in which the wise man sat caged. The torchlight glittered and gleamed off of the damp, granite walls that entombed the old man’s pit. Even the walls reflect blood on this morning, Alfonse thought to himself again.

    “Who’s there?”

 Alfonse couldn’t find words to respond as he approached his deposed father, but soon the old man recognized the crest he wore on his breastplate: a crimson lion. It was the sign of the royal family. 

“So it is one of the bastards I fed and raised! Show me your face that I may spit upon it!” 

Delicately, Alfonse holstered the torch in its place on the wall and untied a rucksack he had been carrying. He then slowly pulled back his hood, revealing his face to the old man. The young guard was barely twenty-five; always clean-shaven with his long, brown hair slightly covering his face. He smiled sincerely, as he always did at his adoptive father, “Yes, my King. I’ve brought you some bread and water.”

“Poisoned?”

“No, Father.”

“I’m not your father. Did you not see him die?”

“I apologize, Your Majesty. But no, the food is clean.”

    Alfonse shook his guilt-ridden head. The bearded man got up from his bed and slowly made his way across his cell. Alfonse looked at him with shame in his heart. To see this once strong, mirthful king locked beneath the castle sickened Alfonse. Alfonse still didn’t understand Sigemund’s greedy justifications, but this seemed too cruel. King Otto was a benevolent ruler. It was this stalwart man before Alfonse that had plucked him from the streets of Alkaria as a boy, raised him as his own son, and promoted him to the Captain of the Royal Guard.

    The scent of rusting iron wafted into Alfonse’s nostrils, reminding him of blood. The same smell that had led him to King Otto. 

When he was only ten years old, Alfonse had been shaken from sleep by the screams of his mother. Peeking into his house’s main room he watched Royal Guards brutally rape and butcher his mother. Warm, sticky blood found its way to Alfonse’s small toes. As his eyes followed the source, he found his father’s dead eyes looking up at him; a gaping wound in his neck the source of a crimson spring. The thick smell of iron filled his nose, and he grew nauseous. He scrambled to the back of his room, clambered out of his window, and sprinted into the dusty streets of the city. His lungs burned as he ran through the streets until he slammed hard into the side of a horse. As he looked up, dazed, he heard a young boy speak, “Look at this peasant, Father! His feet are covered in blood. Did a simple pickpocket go wrong, Dog?” The prince spat on the younger boy beneath him. In response a thundering voice silenced all other conversations, “Bite your tongue, Sigemund! Your arrogant judgment is growing old. You behave as if I have taught you nothing!” 

Alfonse had turned toward the authoritative command. The owner of that voice wore a crown atop his head. Alfonse dropped to his knees, “Forgive me, King Otto. I didn’t mean to…” He couldn’t finish his apology before it ended in sobs and whimpers. “See, Sigemund. Cutpurses don’t weep…Tell me, boy, what’s the matter?”

“Please! Help…my parents…they were killed m-minutes ago, in our house!”

“How do we know HE didn’t slit their throats himself, Father?”

“Sigemund! Must I teach you silence in public?!”

“…No, Father.”

King Otto lowered himself from his horse and walked over to the crying child. The king brushed the tears from Alfonse’s cheeks and held up his chin, so their eyes could meet. “Who committed such an injustice in my city? Do you know?” The king asked in a kind, fatherly tone. Alfonse choked as he spoke, but his words were understood, “They wore…the tabard of the Royal Guard.”

“…he’s clearly lying now, Father.”

King Otto turned toward his son’s horse and stomped away in that direction. The King grabbed his son by the collar and put his mouth near his ear. After a few seconds of King Otto’s reprimanding, Sigemund, clearly afraid of punishment, nodded in final submission to his father’s iron will. The strong, energetic king leapt onto his own horse and looked around at his own Royal Guard.

“What do you men know of this? Could this boy speak the truth?”

The leader of the escort pulled ahead on his stallion. His breastplate shone brightly in the morning sun, and he spoke with a tone of authority that rivaled King Otto’s.

“I would like to believe it untrue, my King, but we recently discharged three men for dishonoring our order with rapacious behavior. We thought shaming them in public would convince them to leave our city-”

King Otto cut him off abruptly, “But apparently they weren’t finished dishonoring your order. We will speak of this later, Captain Ulbrecht.” He then turned his attention back to Alfonse.

“What’s your name?”

“…Alfonse, Sire.”

“Take me to your house, Alfonse. Your family will be buried with honor, and those who have wronged you will be brought to justice…”

    “…Alfonse. Boy!” the king repeated, releasing Alfonse from his memories. “Do what you came to do, and leave me to my thoughts.” The young soldier stepped to the bars, passing the king a loaf of bread and a small, corked pitcher of water he had brought with him. 

“My King, forgive me for not respecting your wish for solitude, but I must be allowed to explain my actions.”

“You mean your treachery?”

“King Otto, please! You’ve given me everything. I only betray you now, so I may serve you later!”

 His eyes looked up at Alfonse, sunken and bloodshot. “How can you serve me after I am dead, Alfonse?”

“Father! Sigemund holds your military, and I have but a handful of elite men. I stood no chance in defying him! Had I killed him when he first spoke of his treason, you know as well as I that your kingdom would have ordered my execution! I am not of your bloodline! What was I to do, but hope to avenge your death?” 

King Otto wore his shame on his face. His bitter ignorance had blinded him to the true conspiracy. He now saw that Alfonse was playing a delicate game of chess, but even though Sigemund had taken his king, Alfonse did not plan to lose.

“I should have expected as much. I taught both of you well…too well. In sooth, my heart told me you were not to blame. Fear has taken me, my son. I have examined my entire reign these past few days. I know not what I did to make Sigemund think so little of my rule.”

    “Nor do I, Father. I believe he truly thinks he can conquer the other kingdoms of our continent. He believes himself a tactician without peer.”

    “He has a peer, Alfonse. I made sure of that. Fate sent you to be his counterbalance. He may command an army of swords, but you command a squadron of minds. This is his game, but I believe you will be victorious.”

    “You are too kind, my Lord. I am a traitor. He has ordered that I be your executioner, and that I must be. Death is what I deserve, not praise. I am a roach to be squashed beneath your foot.”

    The King looked at Alfonse with disappointment in his eyes, and confusion creased his brow. He took the young man’s hands within his own. 

“No, my son! You are just. When you found the men who murdered your family you chose wisdom over revenge. Ostracism was neither angry nor vengeful. I believe in your judgment, Alfonse. I should have put my faith in you from the beginning. If only you had been born of my blood …”

    Alfonse looked at his father and nodded his head slowly. Relief came over his depressed spirit, but could not force his melancholy out. His mind was still full of regret for past and future transgressions. The men sat in silence for a few minutes. It was a quiet moment of understanding, and the two knew Sigemund would win this battle; Otto would die. The king’s hand fell on his son’s shoulder one last time. 

“Always capable. Your judgment is as my own. I fear I had more of an impression on you than I did my heir. Sigemund is a lost cause too caught up in the art of war to understand that compassion plays an even larger part in sovereignty. I know you will avenge this atrocity, Alfonse. Worry no more on the matter of my demise.”

    The two were startled as the sound of boots scraping across stone interrupted their quiet conversation. A wave of torches streamed down the tunnel, casting monstrous shadows that clawed at the walls trying desperately to escape their igneous prison. There would be no escape for those shadows, nor for King Otto. Alfonse and the old king stood up as the soldiers flooded into the dungeon. The leader of the group saluted Alfonse, then proceeded to wrench the iron door open. As he lashed out with his hand to grab the king, Alfonse slapped it away, “I’ll escort the prisoner alone.”

    “Y-yes, sir!”

    The stout guard moved aside and let Alfonse and the king begin their ascent of the staircase. The two walked in silence as they eventually passed through the chilly courtyard and into the castle’s throne room. The smell of damp, moldy air was replaced by that of scented oils and burning incense. At last they came to a simple, yet ornate throne carved of mahogany and decorated with gold and animal pelts. Sigemund sat in the king’s chair stroking the soft, fur armrests that terminated in the form of golden lions.

“I see you’ve taken a liking to my throne, Sigemund.”

    “Oh, yes. A fool has sat here for far too long. Forgive me for not wishing to begin a conversation. We both know how long-winded you can be, and I have business to attend to. So, old man, any kingly advice?”

    Alfonse’s eyes darted back between the king and his replacement. The previous king smirked at his eldest son. “There’s only one thing you should remember. Teach your own son well, so this fate is not your own.”

    “Enough of this, Alfonse!”

    The young guard nimbly turned to the king with regret in his eyes, but Otto immediately understood. With the deft hand of an assassin Alfonse plunged his dagger beneath the ribs of the man who called him son. King Otto’s eyes opened wide in pain, but looked upon Alfonse with forgiveness. As he slumped into Alfonse’s other arm, a smile discreetly hid within his bearded face. Alfonse fought back his tears and pulled the blade from his father’s chest. He had committed murder. He was unclean like the men who had slaughtered his own parents, and the weight of it all overwhelmed him. He gently laid his father’s body onto the cold stone floor.

    The new king stepped from his father’s throne, stretched his arm over Alfonse’s shoulder, and plucked the silver dagger from the killer’s hand. King Sigemund withdrew his arm from Alfonse’s shoulder and held the dagger in between his fingers, watching with fascination as the shimmer of crimson and silver coalesced in the lighting of the throne room.

    “Blood and metal…truly a beautiful sight to behold. Is it not, Brother?”

    “I know very little of such things, Your Majesty. I am Captain of the Royal Guard. Few attempts had ever been made on the former king’s life. Not many wished to see him die.”

    Sigemund continued to admire the shining blade as he stood next to his brother. The usurper shook his blonde hair from his face, and looked at Alfonse with feigned confusion.

    “Captain of the Royal Guard? You don’t desire the title ‘Prince Alfonse, Steward of Alkaria?’”

    Alfonse looked at his adoptive brother and new king with blank eyes. The same soulless, guilty eyes that he’d had when he first learned of his place in this silent rebellion. His heart was wrought with such torment that he couldn’t find it in himself to feel anything. At this moment that was for the best.

    “Of course, Your Grace. My rank is what you choose it to be. If it is your will that I am to be a prince, then that is what I will be.”

    Sigemund smiled sincerely as he turned to face Alfonse eye to eye. The King patted his brother’s cheek.

    “Then that is what it will say on your tomb, Prince Alfonse.”

    The bloodied silver bit deep into the lower abdomen that was left exposed by his metal cuirass. Alfonse’s knees gave way and he fell onto his hands. He crawled toward the father who had just suffered the same fate. 

“…why, Sigemund?”

“Haha! Do you truly take me for an idiot, Alfonse? I singlehandedly took this kingdom; and you still think me stupid enough to allow you vengeance?! It was a valiant plan, Brother, but I was always a step ahead of you.”

Alfonse chuckled and let out a loud sigh. The blood was pouring from the sliced artery; intermingling with blood of his former king, his adoptive father. Reaching for the old man’s hand, Alfonse found it and squeezed it; and he thought he felt a faint squeeze back. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes in stoic defeat.

    Sigemund tossed the dagger near the bodies, pulled off his bloodied gloves, and threw them onto the floor. He ran his fingers back through his blonde hair and parted his thin lips in a victorious grin. With his head held back he began to speak in a calm, collected tone, “I’ll find your corpses in this room. Then I will claim to have seen one of your parents’ killers fleeing the castle. Naturally, as your avenger, I will have him, some pitiful, unknown wretch, executed at the foot of the castle steps. I will become as beloved as my father…in less than a day. Oh my…hahahaha! Brilliant!”

    The new king began to leave his throne room to ‘alert the guards.’ His smile grew as wide as it possibly could. Sigemund turned once more to look at his dying brother.

    “Oh! And Alfonse, take solace in the fact that you will be buried as a member of the royal family. You played your part well, it’s the least I can do.”