The Witch's Cursed Daughter

74. Bloodbath

The temptation of a war-breast was not one that Romile shared with others. Sapling Dragons were temperamental, but they also had to be slaughtered before they grew to a size that could produce fire. With the speed of a bird of prey, Romile's warhorse had remained the same since the war had begun four years ago. His steed, Saryne, was dark in colour, almost black with a mane to match; she didn't like saddles but wore all other tack without complaint. Romile adored her.

As the pair hurried onto the field, Romile spotted Julian instantly. Swarmed by Bulen soldiers in an ocean of purple, Julian waited for their attack like a solitary black island. His face emanating the despair he felt inside as tears were still streaming and mixing with blood which had danced onto his skin while he slew the opposing warriors.

Romile slowed to watch his master, the tears and rage that Julian did not hide confused him. While he knew that Julian had charged to battle, he had not known the reason. Suddenly, screams erupted like a choir of deathly angels as Julian's aura shot through bodies as they stepped to approach. One after another, they fell, the purple turning crimson, the sunlight juxtaposing the dark events.

"Your Highness!" Romile yelled.

Julian continued the slaughter. The barren battlefield with charred remains of trees, piles of bodies, uneven terrain, the overwhelming reeks of urine, of blood, of death, looked natural beside the image of the black-haired monster destroying an army by himself.

"Julian!"

Romile's voice couldn't reach him. The cries didn't end until not a single soul remained on their feet. The windless, body-covered land was silent as Romile stared at Julian. He was drenched in blood. Besides the crimson drying in the heat, the only colour was the ghostly familiar silver eyes that peered in Romile's direction, his aura dissipating.

Julian slowly dragged his feet over the bodies, not caring what he stepped on or in; his sword gripped firmly with his fingers, yet his wrist was limp. The closer he approached, the more Romile could make out the squelching sound of his blood-soaked clothes, filled boots, and wet hair; he could also see the pathways on his face where skin was visible thanks to the endless tears. Coming to a stop a couple of yards from Romile, Julian dropped his sword.

"Lucienne is dead," came a small voice. The unexpected words struck Romile. The Chancellor was a man who had taught Julian everything he knew, raised him, and acted as a father. He had supported his wishes and sent him to the frontlines without understanding the reason - the man who had loved the illegitimate prince like a son.

"Your Highness," Romile began.

Before any words had the chance to meet his ears, Julian shot up his hand, "I know, I'll stop."

After speaking, Julian continued to amble, his ankles wobbling as he passed over the uneven footing. Watching his back as he headed for the camp, Romile felt pity well from his stomach. Since the war began, Julian had become a young man, but the figure he watched was a boy who had lost his father, a child with the command of an army grieving in anger since he couldn't protect a person he loved.

Tearing his thoughts away from Julian's grief, Romile bent down, picking up the sword which his master had abandoned. Taking one last look at the handiwork of his prince, Romile took hold of Saryne's reins and led her behind Julian, keeping a distance between them so that Julian could mourn quietly.

After returning to the camp, the two had found that Voster had restored the damage done by Julian's aura. Ushering him into the renewed commander's tent, Romile helped Julian into bed without any resistance; as soon as the sheets met with his body, Julian melted into a coma-like state, as if he wanted to hide from reality in a world of dreams.

***

Julian opened his eyes and found himself in a familiar room, with purples, silvers, and gold, the sweet scent of flowers coming from dried petals in a glass dish, a four-poster bed with curtains surrounding the frame. He glanced around and saw a girl with short, gold-tinged hair admiring a flower-studded dress on a stand, smiling excitedly.

The warm air in the room felt welcoming as the girl turned to beam at him, "I can't believe... I get to wear such a beautiful dress."

"Well, the Lady Myrde is an important title. You have to look the part," Julian was surprised at how high his voice sounded; looking at his smaller, stubbier hands, he realised that this was a memory. The night before the Myrde Festival, he had gone to Evianna's room to calm her nerves. Looking at the young girl, he appreciated just how long it had been since they were together; was she still small? Was her hair longer now? Did she remember him? Questions bombarded his mind, four years was a long time, yet he had spent all this time at war for her.

Admiring Evianna from where he stood, Julian tried to stretch out his hand, but his body did not move. In the original memory, he had not done so; it made sense that he could not change events even in his mind. Taking a deep breath, he quietened his thoughts, enjoying the moment. Evianna seemed surreal as her violet eyes watched him, waiting for him to speak.

"No one could have looked better in that dress than you," he grinned to himself, "and I'll save you soon."