The King (Vikklan AU)

~ 21 ~

~*Seto*~

It was late in the evening by the time I returned home. The moon was high overhead, and yellow streetlights lit up the damp cobblestone pathways underfoot. Scents of fresh rain and baking bread fill the air around me, making me crack a tired smile. There must have been a rogue rainstorm that passed over while we were traveling.

Home is a lot less overwhelming than Trunkeet. Not as many tourists, less technology being shoved into your face, and less people freaking out about your presence like you're some sort of world-renowned celebrity. I also receive less glares and sharp remarks from a hot-headed young mother with red hair. What was her problem anyways?

As we grow closer to the palace, my gaze drifts over to the large fire that has been burning for as long as I can remember. It's reddish-orange blaze was surrounded by large and beautiful quartz walls, and tendrils of flowering vines, and great trees that likely stood over a garden and provided shade to the inhabitants.

According to Pete, the original palace stood where the blaze is now. It was the birthplace of my dad, and the location of where many great kings ruled before him. Apparently a high-sorcerer sacrificed his life to create this blaze and save the people of Minecraftia from the Empire. To honour that sorcerer's bravery, my fathers named me after him and continue to fuel the fire that burns over the land of their former home. Seto Sorcerer has a nice ring to it...

"My Prince," Lady Kendra calls, drawing my attention away from the fire. "The kings are waiting for your arrival in the courtyard. Don't keep them waiting for too long, alright?"

"Of course." I nod to her before leading my horse down a newer pathway of cobblestone that lead left of the flame. Our current day palace's quartz walls rose high over the horizon as I climbed the hill. The walls were well maintained, and palace guards stood watch near the entrance under Sir Preston's command. I'm glad he's returned safely; everything runs a lot more smoothly when he's home.

"Lift the gates!" A guard shouts from somewhere up on the wall. "The Prince has returned from Trunkeet!" More shouts ring out, and like a well oiled machine the gates separating the palace grounds from the outside world open up.

A long line of senior and elite guards poor out of the gate and line the pathway toward it. They were all dressed in formal attire; putting on the same performance they always do to welcome someone from their long travels. But this was a treat for me; I'm usually on the other side of the gate when this show is presented. It was always the same routine. Two senior guards (Preston and Kenworth for this occasion) bark out an order for their line to follow (it's always the same order for each, but they start at different times).
Stand at attention.
Salute your opposing solider.
Draw your sword.
Throw it to your opposing solider.
Spin one full right rotation before catching your opposing solider's sword.
Step forward and cross swords.
Trade swords again and turn left one half rotation.
Return to starting position.
Turn left one half rotation.
Bow to the returning monarch.

The final movement was my cue to continue walking down the path to where Preston and Kenworth were standing.

"Welcome home, kid," Kenworth says with a smile as Preston dismisses the soldiers.

"Thanks," I say with a tired smile before handing my horse's lead to a stablehand. Kenworth smiles at me before hooking his elbow around my neck and pulling me down to his chest; his fist roughly presses against my skull as he messes up my hair. I struggle out of the man's grip before letting out a small laugh and attempting to fix my hair without a mirror.