Violet

In a dark, cold room, two bloodied eyes shone. The heavy sound of deep breathing accompanied the loud beating of the king’s heart. His horns were thick and twisted, like the gnarled roots of a bone tree. The coarse black fur that grew on his head tapered off at the nape of his neck, becoming a single line of hair down his spine. His bovine snout was pink and moist. He gnashed his teeth inside his mouth, tasting the very old vegetable he was chewing.

King Rumor turned his bull’s head and willed a fire to light. He wished for it with all his might! But alas, nothing happened. He sighed in defeat and rose from his self-proclaimed throne, hand resting on the soft blade of his sickle, clasped at his hip. His hooves sagged and clicked when they hit the ground and supported his girth. The marble wall was smooth under his hands as he searched for a torch. Upon finding it, he fumbled around in the pocket of his trousers. There had to be a lighter here somewhere… he always had one. He found it with a triumphant grunt, then lit the torch.

As it burst into flames, he turned and swung it through the air. A globe of bright orange light followed his hand. He liked to have control over sight. With a smirk on his long mouth, he walked and lit another torch, and then another, until every one in the room was shining. He didn’t look around until he had replaced his original firestarter to its position on the wall. Then, he turned.

A proud circle of past kings stood surrounding his throne, a space left between two of them for the large wooden doors that granted entry. Their stone eyes stared down on him at all times, never blinking, never looking away. He thought he was going to go insane with them always watching.

Rumor made his way back to the large, rock chair he always sat upon. Somebody had taken it upon themselves to hang a green tapestry over the back of it. He snatched it up in his hand and sniffed the tough cloth. He hated green. With the disdain of a bored child, he threw it aside. His rump fell back into the seat before he lifted his eyes once more. In the flickering yellow lights, he saw the scornful face of his father, twenty feet above him and harder than a fist.

Ah, King Jestin. He had given his life so that his son might be his own reincarnation. Rumor wrinkled his snout and glared up at the statue. What a coward, leaving his son without a mentor. And his poor mother, a whore at best, left to die in the streets after his birth. Grumbling angrily to himself, the king looked away.

Just then, the doors burst open. “Sire!” the boy – who looked no more than fifteen when Rumor first laid eyes on him – yelped.

“Yes, child?” he asked in a deep and rough voice. The elf boy’s eyes grew wide as saucers. It was obvious that he was amazed by the glamour of Rumor’s head, which he had probably only heard stories about.

“My mother. She needs to speak to you!” Before he could say any more, however, a guard grabbed him around the waist and pulled him away. The king held up his hand, and the struggle ceased. His guard – garbed in black robes – let go of the boy and bowed to Rumor.

“Bring me his mother,” he said, as if he were only humoring the boy.

The sentinel bowed again and left, only to return in but a moment with a woman in tow. Rumor’s eyes immediately flashed on her belly, which was bloated with child. He began to sneer, but turned it into a crooked, upside-down smile. “What have you to say?”

The woman’s brown hair was a messy tangle framing her dirty face. “Your highness,” she said breathlessly while bent over. Her cheeks were flushed, and her knees wobbly. “I want to tell you something.”

He raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, faux intrigue glimmering in his eyes. “Yes?” As if he even cared what she was there for, he cocked an ear.

“This child is yours.”

His eyes widened for just a moment. “I see.” A deep sigh heaved in his chest and blew from his nostrils in a huff. Damn. “Well, ma’am,” he said cheerily as he stood. His hand took up the hilt of his sickle and turned it over, the firelight twinkling on its blade. “I’m afraid that I don’t have any children.” The guard was already holding back the boy, restraining him as he tried to lunge at Rumor. His defiant cries were rather annoying.

The woman, however, seemed to have accepted this fate. She stared up at him with bright, blue eyes. Those were the eyes of another child who wouldn’t be born. He lifted his arm as the boy’s screams grew louder. “Mother! Mother!” he yelled, and Rumor could hear his guard struggling to withhold his fury.

The king brought down his hand, the curved blade slicing through her pregnant belly as if it were nothing more than a ripe melon. A splash of sparkling silver liquid burst from her body, soaking Rumor’s robes and the stone floor in a shimmering pool. The ruckus of the boy had stopped suddenly, and the king looked up to see that either he had fainted, or the guard had knocked him out to shut him up.

He looked down at the gore in front of him, the woman having collapsed in her own bloody mess, and snorted. “Disgusting.” He dropped his sickle beside her crumpled body and stormed from the room. “Somebody clean this shit up!” he barked as he stomped down the hall. He didn’t want to smell that disgusting woman’s body stinking up his throne room. He decided that he would go for a walk in the tundra and see if he could find the queen’s messenger while he waited for it to be fixed.

The queen had been gone for centuries, it seemed. She had been killed while Rumor’s father had still been young, and had yet to be reincarnated. He was prepared, though. He had sentries posted all over Wonder, and he was paying special attention to places where he knew there were tears in the veils between worlds.

She would be found when she was most needed. The prophecy said so. And the king believed in the prophecy.