17. The Dragon Sheds Scales
17
The Dragon Sheds Scales
The familiar smell of the front lines hit his nose before he even saw it, and even his horse seemed thrilled as it pawed at the earth in impatience. He had to reign him back, and the stallion obediently follows by stepping back a few. He doesn’t really like horses, but this horse was special. It was the only one that didn’t fear him, or the battlefield. In fact, Castler had mentioned it like the smell of blood and the running towards the enemy lines. The scars are proof of it.
Thus, he named this black stallion Black Death. A battle of advanced technology, there stood a lone horse, the only horse. Filled with scars of past, seemingly grazed by round bullets but never put down by one. The only organic animal in a land filled with motorized vehicles and gunpowder. It became the symbol of his regiment. His horse filled with scars in his flag with gold eyes and silver mane. A literal and metaphorical symbol that continues to be feared by those facing him.
Those were the rumors. The truth was less mythical as he kept his horse at a safe distance, and only riding it towards the battlefield, or when there is armistice—initiated by the other side. There is a certain glee in his spine whenever he gets near enough to the battlefield. But he had to stop a few kilometers away from the border in the territory of Deus.
“My prince!”
His voice irritated him, but it didn’t take the thrill and unbidden joy from him. “Castler” he greeted. His aide looked replenished and not at all as excited as him and his other men. “Took you long enough, and I rode here with my horse.”
“Well, it took a while for the princess to recover” Castler sighed. Taking his helmet off and pulling out his satchel. “The doctors weren’t all too concerned, but here is her reply.”
He looked away for a moment, when he caught scent of blood again. Death pawed on the ground again in mock canter, as if showing his own irritation at stopping on this station. “Hmm” he replied concomitantly.
He raised his hand without looking. Expecting a light envelope with her writing, but what greeted his palm is heft. The heft of documents and not a single letter. This made him glare at Castler.
“I’m just the messenger” He sighed. The only person who doesn’t cower or piss at his presence. Due to their long friendship. “I’ll check on the supplies then.”
He salutes him before finally leaving him towards the motorized cart carrying the supplies.
He looked at the hefty envelope, filled with enough paper for it to struggle in remaining closed. He thought about opening it then and there, but he wanted to be the first to reach the station of the front lines. His fire demands to be released. To burn and to torture. He earned a few titles among the men, but the consensus preferred Executioner.
Many saw him roam around the quiet of the battlefield with a sword in hand. No guns, but just an old sword he inherited from his father. He stalked the bodies for anything breathing, where his sword would do its job. Many argued whether it was for mercy, or cruelty. Nothing is for sure, and it separated his men into factions. One that viewed him as a hero, and the other, as a monster. The only thing they could agree on was that he doesn’t return any wounded to their camp. He was just soaked and stank with blood of men.
Eitr is many things, but he isn’t a fool. He won’t go straight to the battlefield, where he knows his men would follow no matter the faction. And they still need to be prepared before facing anyone. Checking supplies and contacting the ruling nobility of the territory is procedure. Having stations along the border and the way towards them were his tactical ingenuity.
He had time to kill.
And a woman he ached to do so.
He bit his leather glove through his middle finger and freed one claw, as that was all it took to rip the top of the flap, then he threw the encasing envelope to the ground. There were about 10 pages of paper in his hands, but that would just be a quick read for him.
With his leather glove still between his teeth, he read his wife’s paper. Page after page with many words and many terms. But one thing is clear, this was a proposal. A contract. Towards the end, he couldn’t help but laugh darkly over the contents.
His laugh rattled those who heard it, and even his horse became agitated under him, but no one commented. No one even let their eyes linger on him for too long. He runs his hand through his shining hair and felt the amusement trumping the excitement of the front lines.
Impossible, he thought. But here it was. The impossible.
Castler came back just when Eitr stopped laughing. An odd expression on the aide’s face as he jogged closer to the mad prince. “What is it? Is she sick? Terminally?”
“What?” Eitr heard the rough edge to his voice. A gruffness he didn’t intend, but he heard it.
“I mean, you would only laugh at dark irony and comedy. She must be dying and that is her last will if you’re laughing like a maniac.” Castler tried to peek at the contents, but Eitr quickly dodged it away from his peering eyes. “What is it? You only get stingy when you want fun.”
His lip twitched. “This is fun.”
“Oh…” Castler sighed. “Please don’t kill your mother’s hope. She truly likes this girl.”
“I’m not going to kill her” He rolled his eyes. “yet.”
“You were about to on your wedding night. You would have if it weren’t for Lotir guarding her that night.”
“I said not yet” He grinned with his sharp canines showing. Her rolled the papers and tuck it in the saddlebag by his knee. “But I am looking forward to coming home this time.”
Castler teetered unsteadily from one foot to the other. Confused and incredibly concerned for his friend’s sanity. Or rather lack of. “What are you planning?”
“Nothing big. Just… going to agree with my wife’s demands.” He smirked. Sardonically. “Who knew being married would be this entertaining?”
Before he could pry and ask anymore questions, Eitr rode off towards the noble house. He eyed the direction of his friend with a deep furrow between his brows and a pitying glance at the crushed and muddied envelope on the ground.
“Oh, princess, what did you say to him?”
The pen spatted ink uncontrollably in her hand. The paleness of her palm was stained with splotches and branches of ink as it settled in the crevices of her skin. She watched it spread. On the paper, and on herself. The oddness of the situation made her frown. She almost thought the prince had sabotaged every stationary she owned, but that would have been too much. Too childish even for this small prank.
“Are you hung—what happened?” Feina entered the room with a tray of sandwiches and tea, but immediately puts the tray on the coffee table and rushed to her side. She grabs her wrist and wiped the ink off with her handkerchief. “You have managed to make a mess on your bandages too.”
Right, the farce. She watched the ink spread to her pristine bandages, but it was quickly unwound by her maid and thrown to the trash. “It’s alright, it’s a new pen from the capital. I’m not hurt like those quills when they snap. This just bled so suddenly with ink”
Feina let out a sigh of relief before letting her hand go and wiping her own hands on the stained handkerchief. “I’ll get some water and soap to properly clean your hand. Please, use another pen. I doubt that would work anymore and hopefully it won’t happen again.”
“Ah, youn spoil me like a child” She smiled.
“don’t take offense your highness, but sometimes you are naively like one” Feina shook her head playfully as she took the tray of food towards her desk and stepping out of her office without another word.
Sileas sighed.
There was so much work to do, and so little time. She was already set back by the prince, and now she can’t afford to waste any more time now that the plan is in motion. Her anxieties have returned, but working helped her ease it, or appease it to be thought at a later time. She continued her work with a new pen. Fully aware that she’s going against orders.
The warm trickle on her lip plopped down on the ruined parchment. Splotches of black is now accompanied by a drop of red. She quickly took out her hidden handkerchief in one of her drawers and wiped away the blood on her nose, while her other hand crumped the paper as small as she can make it, and throwing it in the bin.
Her heart raced. Worried Feina would notice and she’ll be forced to tell Lotir or the Queen. She tipped her head back in desperation. She knows she shouldn’t have done that, but she was in a rush.
*Please, no more dallying. Stop bleeding already. *
She doesn’t know it. but she’ll be praying that she’ll bleed soon.