Chapter 12 part 1:

The End of it all

It was as if time had completely stopped at that point. Even his heart beat ceased as the young elf, his savior, his one and only, held the sword over his head and stood over him with tears in his eyes. There was a look of fear, trepidation, maybe even resentment, but Clarence knew his savior would have killed him that day. If he was not a child at the time, he would no longer be in this world today.

After the elves had escaped, several knights surrounded the young prince as his mother ran and grabbed the young boy in her arms, sobbing, as the small dagger laid still by his feet, still sprawled out on the ground. A violent chill rolled through Clarence’s body as he was hugged tightly by the queen. 

Anger burned deep in his bones as the queen gathered the boy’s frozen limbs in her arms. Her tears drenched the prince’s bright gold suit jacket. They burned the prince’s cold, clammy skin. His fingers trembled, and his legs shook so much that he was unable to stand on his own without support.  

The ceremony, having been attacked by the elves, ended abruptly. The citizens were quickly dispersed, and the royal knights directed the royal family to safety. Their carriages were loaded and the prince was wrapped in a thick, velvet cloak by the queen. She held his tiny hand in hers as she used her other hand to hold him against her chest. The queen whispered to him, trying to coax the young boy to sleep.

However, Clarence would not sleep. His eyes stayed half-lidded, as if he were in a dream. The color of his eyes darkened a degree as he sat, mulling over the scenes of today in his head as the curtains inside the carriage were pulled shut, cloaking the two in darkness.

Images flashed in the prince’s mind: the elf holding the sword in his hands, the wetness at the corners of his eyes, the determined expression on his human-looking disguise. Thinking of it again, Clarence could not help but think Silas looked the same, even with the disguise on. Maybe it was the light in his eyes, or maybe it was the way he trembled when he held his sword. It reminded Clarence of the first night they met.

The dagger Silas had thrown before rested in the back of the prince’s pants. He had hidden it when the knights were gathering the citizens, and when his mother was crying on his shoulder. The place where the dagger sat burned his skin with heat, but rather than remove the knife, Clarence enjoyed the pain it brought. The pain would serve as a reminder for trusting a filthy elf. That savior of his, that Silas, was nothing more than a despicable person, a traitor. 

Silas was no martyr, no savior, no hero. He was not like anything the young prince had made him up to be. Being held in his mother’s arms, Clarence's thoughts simmered on that elf, and his mind was captured, enraptured by a particular thought.

What if I were to find him again? What if I were to harm him as he did to me? The prince’s eyes narrowed in his mother’s arms as his expression chilled. A strange stillness filled his body, and the light in his eyes darkened. If anyone were to gaze at the prince now, they would only think of one word: horrific. Though his face was in his mother’s chest, there was a large smile across his lips, and his eyes narrowed in satisfaction. 

The devotion and piety he had once held for Silas began twisting into a sick desire, a sick obsession to kill the elf. These egregious thoughts swarmed in his head, filling his mind with bad intentions. The hands around his mother’s waist tightened.

From that day on, there were changes in Clarence.

At the mention of an elf, Clarence would be thrown into a violent rage. The prince would turn into a creature unseen by man, a violent, senseless beast. Any item nearby would be thrown, breakable items shattered, and metal candelabras snapped in half. Candles were tossed, lighting curtains and other fabric items on fire. 

Maids that had witnessed the catastrophe were quick to quit their positions or beg for reassignment somewhere else in the palace. With such a high turnover rate, the palace began to offer a higher wage in order to entice workers, however many of them only lasted a few weeks before they left the palace, saying the salary was not worth the stress of caring for the prince.

Even at night, the prince was inconsolable. Even being coaxed by the queen, Clarence would have a difficult time falling asleep. Often, he would wake up screaming, covered in a cold sweat as he shot up in bed. Other times, he would scream in his sleep, unable to wake until morning from the nightmares of that day. Most of all, he would be unable to sleep. Many nights, the prince would stare out the window with a blank face, contemplating something as he sat up in bed, feeling exhaustion circle his body, but his mind stayed wide awake.

One particular night, when the maids had been sent away from Clarence’s room, the young prince sat up in bed and retrieved the dagger from under his bed frame, where he had hidden it from the servants. The dagger itself was sharp, pointed at the top with sturdy steel materials. Though the dagger itself was cheaply made, there was something about it that made Clarence grow an attachment to it. 

Clarence thought it was because it was the tool used to almost kill him that he felt a connection to it. Each time he held the handle, a warm current brushed past his fingers, and he had the urge to grasp the dagger as tight as he could, until his knuckles were white, to harness all of the heat from the object. No matter how tightly the prince grasped the object, the warmth only lingered on his fingers and palms for a moment before retracting itself.

He liked this warm feeling. It made it easier for him to rest.

The prince’s previous favorite book, The Martyr Elf, sat worn and untouched at his bedside, as if it were resting until it was read once again by the young boy. The yellow pages and faint musty scene caught Clarence’s eye as he reached out and held the heavy book in his other hand while keeping a tight grip on the dagger in his other.

His small palm placed the old book down on his bed as he stared down at the cover of the worn book with a far away look in his eyes. Thinking of the events of that day, Clarence could not stare at it any longer, let alone keep it close to him as he had before. With a steady hand, the prince lifted the dagger with both of his hands, his knuckles white from the tension. Like his savior, he held his hands high above his head and looked down at the helpless lump of text, a small smile strung across his face.

Without a word, the prince brought the dagger down and pierced the middle of the book with a heavy movement. The sound of the leather tearing was pleasant to the prince’s ears. He lifted the knife and continued his violent barrage, ripping at the book as if it were his savior’s own flesh and blood. With a deranged look in his eyes, he stabbed and stabbed until he found himself breathless, unable to lift his arms any longer.

The previously worn book laid limp on his bed, no longer recognizable. The sight made Clarence fill with glee as he picked up the remnants of the book and walked over to one of the windows in his room. With a sadistic laugh, he threw the destroyed book out the window and listened, waiting for the thunk signaling the book hit the ground. When it did, he closed his eyes and let out a sigh.  

Still holding the dagger in his palms, Clarence carefully walked back to his bed and lifted the mattress, where he carefully placed the dagger where it had been before. After readjusting the blankets, he laid back down on his bed and stared up at the thick velvet drapes surrounding his bed. 

Before, he wished he could have kept his savior at his side, inside this own little world. Maybe even right under this canopy of his.

But things are different now. Now, he must kill that savior with his own two hands.

Clarence finally fell asleep, thinking of the martyr elf he used to love so dearly. 

...

After walking for many days, barely eating or sleeping, the small group of survivors finally reached Yipsil, a larger elven village situated on the side of and inside a large mountain. The group, upon seeing the elven front gate, cried and cheered. With a happy sigh, Silas, who was carrying an exhausted Emmeline on his back, gently jostled her awake to let her know they finally arrived. He crouched down and she slid off his back, barely holding back her excitement as she woke up and noticed her surroundings.

The highlands were breathtaking. The grass was long and deep green, bright under the warm, midday sun. As the elves climbed higher up the mountainside, a dim fog accumulated in the air as the temperature of the air cooled. The clouds that appeared higher in the sky became larger, fluffier, and almost gentler as they swayed to the side with the light breeze. The light blue sky lightened until it was almost white, making the side of the mountain look as if it were part of the sky itself.

Silas kneeled on the ground as Emmeline carefully lowered herself off of his back. Her eyes sparkled like a child’s as she circled around the area, looking up at the sky, and down at the ground at the fertile dirt and gravel underneath their feet. Even the small streams nearby caught her careful attention. Seeing Emmeline so happy, Silas did not want to spoil her fun. 

The elves around them took their luggage with them as they approached the large wooden gates of the village carefully. Though they had sent a letter ahead of their return, the group was still careful as they approached on foot, placing their hands up, and their elven paperwork in their hands with cautious expressions. After the group was inspected, they were quickly ushered in by the guards, taking extra care of the children and elderly. 

Many of the elves were filthy, covered in dirt, sweat, and blood. After settling into the village, most of them were escorted to the river to wash themselves before they were placed somewhere in the village. Silas had Emmeline examined by the village healer before they settled in. As they traveled, Emmeline’s cough grew more persistent, and he could not help but worry about her, even patting her back and giving her extra water as they traveled before.

When Silas’s group had completely entered the village, Jacob and two other men were led to the village chief’s home, while the rest of the soldiers rested on the ground just inside the village with the other rescued villagers, their faces ragged. The residents handed out roasted buns and cool water to the refugees as they chatted quietly with solemn looks on their faces. Many of them were thinking of their missing family members. 

The soldiers, however, were not given the luxury of a long rest. As soon as the group reached the village, Silas, Jacob, and the other soldiers grabbed their gear and turned to leave the village and go to save the other villagers, to find them before they were sent to Durbrame. Seeing the death and destruction from before, they were not optimistic, but they had a slight sliver of hope to guide them.