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   Chapter 1 No.1

The WeatherMaker - Prince of Light By Lady Lilium Characters: 10388

Updated: 2018-07-10 12:03


The four masked figures walked on through the woods until they reached a clearing. They stopped and placed the stretcher they carried between them carefully on the soft grassy earth in the centre.

The clearing around them was beautiful in the morning sunlight, bathed in a golden glow; all around leaves slowly fell from their trees, landing softly on the forest floor.

The four figures all wearing plague-masks waited, standing at four points around the body and looming silently over it.

They waited.

The body was still. Not breathing.

Then all of a sudden, his eyes opened, and he took his first steady breath.

He sat up, resting with an elbow upon a knee. He looked at his hands, grinning widely. He spoke.

'It worked? Are those my hands?'

He touched his face then, feeling only smooth skin, and no scarring.

'I can see clearly now' he said beginning to laugh. 'I can see. I can feel.'

'Did you ever doubt us for even a moment?' one of the masked figures asked him leaning forward.

The masked figure spoke the man's name.

The man glanced up at the figure, seeing the gloved hand of his offering him a mirror. He took it, staring back at his own reflection. He began to laugh out loud, touching his skin, his hair, his nose, his lips.

'Handsome' he beamed, showing himself perfect white teeth in his reflection. 'I'm perfect.'

He handed the mirror back to the figure, rising to his feet.

'I remember you' he told the figures as he looked around at the four of them. 'All of you' he said turning on the spot. 'But I don't know who each of you are behind your masks.'

'You don't need to know' another of the figures spoke, this voice was female.

'What happened to me?' the man furrowed his brow. 'I…I remember my own name, and I remember her…' he thought further. 'I remember my body was scarred, I remember pain, but not where it came from. I remember my legs were burned, but I don't remember why. I remember….I remember…'

'Only what's recent' one of the masked figures finished.

'I don't remember anything of my childhood' the man realised.

'You suffered' the masked figure said. 'Horribly. Both mental and physical pain and for very a long time, most of your life in fact. We gave you a new body. Your memory reaches only as far as a few days ago when you first saw your new body; and nothing after or before that. Except for your memories of Lucy. They stretch as far back to the time you first laid eyes on her. You chose to have everything else erased.'

The man listened to these words closely.

'I remember when I first saw her….from the tower' the man realised. 'Yes. I remember. But…' he lifted his head to the others, 'why would I choose to erase my own memory?'

'You made the choice yourself' another masked figure reminded. 'You want it to be this way. So it's best we don't tell you.'

'Lucy' the man said. 'All I can think of is Lucy.'

'The love you have for her still burns strong' the other said to him.

'Yes' the man nodded. 'Yes I know.' He drew a steady breath. 'I know where she lives. I know she is waiting for me.'

'Before you go' one of the figures spoke up, stopping him in his tracks, 'there is one last thing we want you to do. For your own benefit…well…for someone else's….it's just best that you do it.'

'What?' the man asked.

'Three days from now, at midday…' the masked figure said, 'I think it's a good idea if you stand by the clock tower in the town where she lives in. Bring her with you and wait. Wear that coat' the figure indicated, and the man glanced down at the long coat he wore, bright blue it was and beautifully decorated. He would surely stand out anywhere wearing this. 'A man will come to see you' the masked figure continued, 'but he won't speak to you.'

'Do I know him?' the man asked.

'He is someone from your past' the masked figure replied vaguely. 'You knew him before your memory was erased, and he still knows you. He just wants to see that you are well, then you will never see him again.'

'Who is he?'

'It's best you didn't know.'

'But…he knows my memory was erased?' the man asked.

The masked figure dipped her head slightly. 'Yes.'

'Then why can't I know him?' the man asked, feeling suddenly a bit sad. 'He must have been someone important to me.'

The masked figures glanced at each other, one of them sighed.

'We shouldn't tell you' this one said. 'But the reason he wants to keep a distance from you is because he wants you to live a normal life. You didn't have a normal life before. You lived happily with Lucy for a short time, until things changed.'

'All he wants' another figure spoke, 'is to see that you are alive and safe and happy. That is why he chose for things to be this way. For you.'

'So' said another masked figure. 'Can you do that? Can you wait by the clock tower three days from now, wearing that coat, with Lucy by your side?'

The man stared at the blank faces of the masked figures silently as they waited for his response.

'Yes' he said at last. 'I will do that.'

Chapter One

The queen leant forwards on steepled fingers, listening to the advisor ramble on. He had b

een going for quite some time, but she waited until his mouth stayed closed for more than five seconds, before drawing breath to speak herself.

'This is all terribly interesting' she said without sounding terribly interested, 'but why should we care about what the peasants do?'

'They may be on the very bottom of society' the lord reasoned, 'but they are the ones who grow our food.'

'They are at the very bottom for a reason' Miranda retorted. 'If they don't like the way things are then they shall just have to suffer in silence, and anyway' she spoke up quickly as the advisor opened his mouth to interrupt. 'I thought you brought us here so we can talk about something important. Like the war. Not filthy peasants.'

'Many people would find the way you talk about them disagreeable.' The second advisor beside the first said.

There were many here now, all watching the queen with scrutiny and distain. They hated her; she could see it in their faces, though she couldn't have cared less.

'Many people think many things' the queen spoke aloud. 'And I do not care for any of them. This war' she spoke suddenly louder, to emphasize the fact she was speaking and wished not to be interrupted, 'has been going on for nearly five hundred years. I wish to see it finally come to an end. In my lifetime.' She spoke quieter now. 'Slaughter should not be a way of life.'

'But my queen' another advisor spoke up, a small and dull man, just as dull as the one that sat beside him. 'Our soldiers are forced to invade other lands because of what the peasants have done in our own.'

The queen could not suppress a sigh now, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose, wishing it would all just go away.

'The peasants' she began, 'protest high taxes to pay the war, by burning the food they grow to feed the soldiers, in doing so they cause more suffering than would otherwise be….starving themselves as well as the rest of the country…'

'They are aware of this' another advisor spoke out, leaning forwards on the marble table. 'But many believe that their suffering will shine a brighter road for their future.'

'They think we will give in' the queen put simply. 'They think we will reclaim our men, and bring them back home. In truth they are only giving more incentive for us to attack others for food.' Miranda sighed again, scratching her forehead briefly before looking up. 'If we cannot control even peasants…'

'We cannot punish them' one of them spoke up hastily. 'There are too few of them as it is, and many are already willing to die. So what can we do?'

'Maybe we should ask the king what he thinks' the one beside him spoke.

Miranda glanced sideways to her husband. The king was sitting with his head down and hands covering his face as he leant on his elbows. It was as if he were in deep thought. But Miranda knew otherwise.

'Carl' she spoke firmly. 'The council wish to hear your view.'

The king lifted his head reluctantly. 'Anything my wife says' he spoke in a mumble.

The council exchanged unsatisfied looks and began to murmur amongst themselves. Miranda leant forwards, speaking to the king in harsh whispered.

'Sit up straight and look livelier. You look on deaths door as it is.'

'I would like to express my concerns in…'

'Another time perhaps' Miranda spoke over the lord as she rose to her feet. 'I'm afraid I feel unwell and a bit light headed. Please will you come with me my dear husband' she said to him in a gentler tone. 'If I should faint, I want you to carry me.'

'When do we continue this meeting?' one of the many surrounding the circular grey table spoke up as they made to leave.

'The king will have something arranged in time' she told them, moving with her husband out of the room. 'You will be gathered again when that time comes.' She snapped the door shut behind them before she could be interrogated further, sighing heavily and leaning against the door.

She straightened and to face her husband the king.

'How do you feel?' she asked him.

The king drew a deep and steady breath before answering.

'Ghastly' came his answer at last.

'Well you look terrible' she said walking past him, and then she paused. 'Are you coming?'

The king moved towards her, walking slowly with his body hunched over and head hung. The queen held him by the arm as they walked, trying her best to support him, but he was larger than she was, and heavier, and she struggled as they went.

They managed to leave the building that was the council's office without being bothered, or even seen by anyone, for which the queen was extremely grateful. They left the empty halls with their grey and black marble floors behind them, stepping through the ornate glass doors and descending the high steps which led to the courtyard below. Here waited a carriage to take them back to the palace.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and ambled towards the carriage. Miranda stumbled under the weight of her husband as she carried him. He was not a heavy man by any means, in fact he had lost weight, but Miranda was delicate of frame, and she struggled as they moved closer towards the carriage.

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