Markus
Markus was led back to his private chambers before he was patted fondly on the head and then left there by his father, who paused after a step to turn back and give him a hesitant smile.
“And, ah, Markus? I noticed you didn’t have your mask on when you entered the bath….” His father said with his uneasy smile.
“It must have come off earlier in the marsh.” Markus said flatly, both knowing this wasn’t true.
“Yes, of course...but...you know I’d like you to wear it when you aren’t at the palace. It ensures people know who you are and what you are capable of, and what by extension our family is capable of. Traditionally, it is required. So,” His father drew a bar across his face with his forefinger and thumb. “If you would?” Markus nodded with a grim expression and his Father smiled brightly in return. “Now off to bed! I have a letter to send off to Godfather and I must get started on it now before you go running off again on me!” He joked before he hurried off down the hall, stopping halfway to turn back toward him, "But seriously - you won't be running off anytime soon, right?" He asked, clearly anxious. Markus shook his head and his father visibly relaxed. "Of course not! Off you go to bed now!" He said, waving him toward the door before he turned and scurried down the hall, turning the corner clumsily to disappear.
Markus didn’t have the slightest idea what his Father was planning, but he knew it would be very uncomfortable for him, whatever it was. His Father seemed willfully oblivious to social cues and would do whatever he pleased, even if it meant making others uncomfortable, so he was sure whatever he had up his sleeves, Markus would hate it.
Markus stared down the empty hall for a moment longer before he turned and entered his chambers.
It was bare here.
There was a bed, a wash basin, a place for him to stow his armor, and a single pedestal where a single crown sat, taunting him. It had been worn by all crown princes once they reached maturity, the men that were born to be kings – and that included his grandfather, Julius, whom Markus tried to distance himself from with every fiber of his being.
He hated wearing his crown, hated how it made him think of his grandfather, whose memory seemed imprinted into the golden crown of fig leaves that would hang too tightly into his forehead, like his Grandfather would do with his boney fingertips when he directed Markus’ sight. So far he had only been forced to wear it once, when his Father became king upon his Grandfather’s death nearly ten years ago, and he was not eager to have to wear it again.
But everyone insisted that he keep it in his room, ready for use if needed, and so it sat in waiting, a constant reminder of how he was following in his grandfather's footsteps.
He went over to his bed and climbed onto it to lay in the center, staring up at the ceiling and the faded painting there, depicting the slaughter of the princes, the tale of the long dead Lycan King that had slaughtered his countless brothers to claw his way on to their father's throne. It was an exceptionally violent painting, even with most of it faded from time. Markus had always hated it, but he supposed it was a good reminder of how important you had to treat family. The Lycan King had been ignored by his brothers, so when the time came for them to start picking sides, he had chosen his own and used his lack of attachment to the others as his greatest advantage over the rest.
His army of lycan helped, though.
But there were no lycan on his ceiling. Just a young man with a trident, tearing his brothers apart with his bare hands and painting the city with their blood.
Some several hallways away, Alexandros was sleeping up a picture of ruddy-cheeked cherubs - images of the king's daughters - floating around on fluffy white clouds. Markus envied him this, and thought of the cherubs and other pleasant things as he closed his eyes and forced himself to relax.
Sleep came easy to him, as it often did when he was emotionally drained. And as usual, he dreamed vivid, lucid dreams.
His dreams were not comforting and were often frustrating affairs.
He dreamt of large white structures, with tall brick towers, rows of white trees, the ground covered in warm feeling snow. Rooms with tall, sweeping ceilings with gold trimming, long halls with cracked mirrored walls. And a man, dressed in all white. He would always be far away in the distance, too far to see his features, and when Markus would try and reach him, he seemed to move further away.
Tonight was no different, his dreams following a very similar pattern of events.
Markus was alone.
The dream always started like that.
He knew he was dreaming – it was the same state he’d go into when he withdrew into himself, built the wall to keep the voices out, keep the tapping out, leaving his body vulnerable but his mind guarded.
And then he wasn’t really alone, not entirely. He could sense someone else on the edge of it all and Markus sought them out, going down empty, foreign hallways until he found an exit to a shadowy landscape, a field under a new moon. He stepped out into it, the grass cut short, soft against his bare feet as he moved toward where he knew someone waited beyond the darkness. Soon he was moving past rose bushes, their white blossoms ghostly figures in the shadows, all pointing toward a structure at the center of it all, where a figure dressed in crisp white waited in comfortable silence with his back turned.
The figure was not dressed like Markus. Instead, he wore white fitted breeches, a long white riding coat, dark knee high boots with covered toes and crisp white gloves. His hair was dark and style differently than how those in Kokabel wore it, slightly longer, swept back. His face, Markus never saw. By the time Markus finally reached him, before he could touch him, Markus slipped back into consciousness.
He always awoke with a splitting headache that would leave him breathless, his chest tight and feeling like there was a hole through it. It would take at least an hour before the pain would subside, and during that time, Markus would stretch, contemplate the day, and go down a long list of irritating things so he would not be troubled by them later. It was when he first awoke that things always felt the most strange.
It would take him that long to really realize here was in a familiar spot, that this was in fact his life. The painting on his ceiling, for whatever reason, helped ground him. He didn't like violence, but there was something very secure in seeing the Lycan king. Perhaps it was the trident, which was the symbol of Kokabel's rise to being one of the most dominant kingdoms in their realm.
Or maybe it was just an image of a man who rose up from the very bottom to claim a throne through his own willpower and willpower only.
Before he left his room, he went to his wash basin and stared at the bowl of golden dust next to it, glaring down at it before he stuck his three longest fingers into it, staining his fingertips. He brought it to his face to drag it from one temple to the other, coverings his eyes and the bridge of his nose in gold.
Mentalists, such as himself, such as Julius, wore it to remind others of their great power, though Markus would prefer to remain as inconspicuous as possible.
Afterward, he scrubbed his fingers clean, glared at his distorted reflection in the murky water basin, and then screwed his eyes shut to gather himself to start the day, whatever it may bring.
TAPTAPTAPTAP
Markus rolled his shoulders and focused on grounding his mind, allowing the tapping to fade away far into the back of his mind.
It was never gone, but if he was calm, if he was concentrated, it was managable-
TAPTAPTAPTAP
-some days, more so than others.
Comments (3)
See all