Catarina and The Prince | Tales From The Court Of Ravaeryn #1

36 | cypress

trigger warning: death

1711, Aethiel Palace, Kestramore City

"You seem to be in high spirits, Your Highness," said the Prince's butler, Mister Graham. "I suppose you have made your choice?"

He turned towards the table and picked up a porcelain teacup, then filled it up with a dash of piping hot red tea. The Prince liked his tea a bit sweet, so the butler picked up a pair of pincers and gingerly added two sugar cubes into the cup.

"Thank you," Julian murmured under his breath as Mister Graham placed the cup of tea by his bedside. "I have indeed made my choice, and today, I will ask her father for her hand in marriage. Will you wish me luck, Graham?"

"Of course, Your Highness. Earlier I spotted the Duke of Lorewell near the dining hall, so you know where to look later," Mister Graham said smilingly.

"You already knew who I would choose?" Julian asked, amused.

Mister Graham lowered his head as he tried to hold in his chuckle. "Isn't it so blatantly obvious, Your Highness?" he says, gesturing to the hideous painting of an orchid, still hung up on the wall.

"Make haste, my prince, for once the hour passes, the chance might be lost forever."

∆

Grey and dull, the morning was. Perhaps it was due to the wine and whiskey he downed last night, but everything seemed to be hazy and blurry.

The wind felt much colder, and lesser leaves were on the tree branches. A sign of the passing days, as autumn slowly turns to winter. Even the skies were grey as if the grey clouds were withholding endless hours of rain.

How ironic, Julian thought. The night prior had been so full of life and celebration, and today, the world seemed as if it were dead.

It was not the grey sky, nor the cold wind. Not even the lack of greenery. Rather, there was something in the air that just felt wrong. It smelled like dread, like something ominous lurking in the shadows.

The vaguely metallic stench was familiar, like when he lacerated his own arm during a swordfight two years ago. It was the smell of blood.

There was a loud, piercing scream echoing from the courtyard, and then it died down as abruptly as it had begun.

In alarm, he rushed towards the source of the screams. Far away, in the distance, he saw a lithe, crumpled figure on the ground.

It was his cousin, Eleanora Finley. And even more shockingly, beside her was his other cousin, Nicholas. He held the unconscious Eleanora in his arms as if she were a fragile glass ornament, a precious, invaluable relic, while his eyes darted around wildly, trying to find anyone nearby.

It was a peculiar sight, to say the least. Who would have ever thought that a man whose hands are stained with the blood of thousands could ever show such affection?

His eyes finally landed on Julian.

"Call for the physician," he stammered, holding Eleanora even closer to his chest. "There's a dead body."

That was when Julian realised how strong the stench had become. He followed Nicholas's line of sight, and there, he saw it. And by God, he wished he had never seen it.

There was a mass of tangled black hair, a lace nightgown splattered with red, and flesh. The little bits looked like the raw beef and mutton sold at any local butcher, but this was human flesh.

This poor girl, whoever she may be, had fallen down on her side, and half of her head splattered on the ground, deflated even. He bent down beside her, then reluctantly pushed aside the hair that covered the face of the dead girl.