Death of a Nation

    Prince Tristan’s breath came and went in ragged bursts as he stumbled down the steep slope, slipping in the wet mud. Not having expected the change of terrain, he tripped on a poorly placed stone as the muddy slope transitioned to a rocky shoreline. He hit the ground hard, but was up and running again within a few breaths, not even registering the scraped knees and palms.

    The prince’s reckless flight from the castle had not been something he’d thought over, but a mad dash to safety. Away from the castle. Away from danger.

    The origins of this crazed escape lie in the words Tristan had overheard being shared amongst the servants of the castle. He had been sauntering through the corridors and, as he was passing the kitchens, the words “...plot to kill the King and Prince…” drifted to him, freezing him mid stride.

    Silent as he could possibly be, Tristan had stood still as a statue for the next few minutes, listening to the gossip sweeping through the servants. Before the discussion had even ended, he was bounding down the stairs, overcome with fear for his own life.

The smallest bit of sense had returned when he was making his grand escape; he realized it to be wise to conceal his flight from the guards, who would have surely stopped a fleeing prince from escaping the castle. So he strolled out the front gate leisurely, telling the guards falsely that he was on an errand of the King and it would only anger him if they held him back in any way.

Once he had vanished over the hill and out of the guards’ view, he had broken into a crazed sprint.

Now, he was approaching the racing, darting river that marked the border of the capital city. It wreathed and smashed against the regular rocks jutting from the water. It would be a treacherous crossing, but, in Tristan’s mind, a far safer option than remaining there.

Without hesitation, he crashed into the waves recklessly, splashing this way and that. He had learned to swim, of course, but, in the unpredictable current, it was impossible for him to keep a steady stroke going, and was soon dragged under.

For the first two seconds, he kept his lips firmly shut, smartly trying to emerge from the torrent. But, after that, he flailed wildly, crashing into rock after rock. As his head narrowly avoided a nasty encounter with a nastily pointed rock, the water began to seep into his mouth as he silently begged for air. Determined to hold out, he heaved for the surface.

And found that there was a low outcropping hanging above the water directly above him. His skull slammed into it, and, not having drawn breath, he was jerked back under.

Blackness clawed at the edges of his vision from lack of oxygen. The crack to the head and the asphyxiation were too much for his wracked body to sustain, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

---

Tristan had been staring at the cloud cover for a whole minute before he realized he had woken.

His memory was worse for wear (not to mention his head and everything else attached to him), but he recalled the vague sensation of being dragged through the water, and a cold hand wrapped around his wrist. This wouldn’t have been odd to him, seeming how being dragged was quite natural in such a situation, but for the fact that he remembered very distinctly that he was being dragged against the current.

Hence is worry. He was grateful for whoever rescued him, but whatever could have swam against that current, whilst dragging a dead-weight behind them, must have been incredibly strong.

Having decided he’d been laying there for too long, Tristan sat upright, and glanced around him.

The first thing to catch his eye was a figure standing a short distance away. It took him a long second for his brain to accept what it was he was seeing and to quit trying to rationalize it.

The figure was rippling in the wind, and was  made up of pure water. She - the whipping hair of water and her form led him to make an educated guess - hovered a few inches off the ground, droplets of water dripping from her feet.

Terrified of this seeming apparition, Tristan inched backward, sliding over the rocky ground.

The figure’s head snapped around, locking her gaze on him. He froze.

She smiled easily, and said, “Ah, the prince has woken.” Pivoting in the air, she glided toward him. “How are you feeling?”

“I…” he began, floundering for words. What do you say to a girl of water? “I’m...fine.” That wasn’t entirely true, of course. His head was throbbing, and his ribs hurt to no extent. But he was too busy trying to comprehend what was happening to think about all of that.

“Good, good.” A few feet from him, she jerked to a stop, as if stopped by some unseen force. She sighed heavily, closing her eyes.

Tristan took the opportunity to rise to his feet.

Her eyes snapped back open, a glint shining from them. It might have been the sun upon the water she was, thought Tristan. But it was bothersome nonetheless.

“Prince,” she said smoothly. “You are in my debt.”

He realized she was right. She had saved him, he knew that much. “In debt to whom?” he inquired. It was always best to know who he was coming to terms with.

“Cordelia,” she answered with some pride. “Daughter of the River.”

“It’s a pleasure, Cordelia,” he said princely. “I am Prince Tristan.”

“I know,” she said wryly. “And of royal blood.”

“Yes.” Tristan glanced over his shoulder as he abruptly remembered the purpose of his flight. He turned to Cordelia.

“Cordelia, Daughter of the River, I am in your debt, but I ask for your aid. Will you assist me?”

She raised a perfectly formed eyebrow. “In what matter?”

Tristan drew his breath. “It’s about the King…”

---

The King was a frail old man, who relied heavily on the use of a cane. His once impressive copper beard had dissolved into a smattering of loose white hairs, and his hair, partially hidden by his elaborate crown, had long since vanished.

Squinting through his spectacles (which nowadays seemed to do little for his deteriorating eyesight), back propped against a pile of plush pillows, he read a passage of his little red book. For years he’d had it, but had yet to figure out what the thing meant. It was just a muddled bit of jargon. The deciphering of it was a constant issue for him, made more difficult by both his sight and the fact that it was written in an entirely different language. Impressively, he had decoded several pages of it. Even so, it was utter nonsense.

He glanced up and out of the small window beside his bed. He sighed.

“A fragile king, that I am,” he mumbled to himself, sitting the book on the richly carved nightstand. Smiling warmly at the thought, he said, “My son will make a far greater one than I.”

If only he knew.

Beginning to drift, he settled his pointed chin into his sternum as he slipped away.

On the verge of sleep, he was bothered by a scraping against the wall. He raised his head irritably.

“Oh, what is it?” he snapped. A moment later, he realized he had instinctively looked to where the sound had come from.

Out the window.

“Guards!” he called. In an instant, two soldiers marched into the bedchamber.

“Your highness?” inquired one.

Before a response could be made, there was a flare of light from beyond the window. A figure appeared in the window, clinging to the sill. Its features were difficult to discern in the dark, but he was obviously broad in shoulder, and quite tall, and it should have been an impossibility for him to squeeze his great form through the window.

And yet, a moment later, in a blur, the man stood in the chamber, rolling his shoulders.

“Hello, your highness,” he growled in a friendly manner, which was quite the feat. “A word?”

The first guard muttered something to the other, who then rushed out of the room. He then said to the man, “Surrender! You have found yourself in the King’s chambers and will be escorted away immediately.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” he replied lightly. In a flash, he swatted the soldier aside like a tin pin, spurts of flame erupting from his fingertips. The soldier slammed into the stone wall with a sickening crunch, displacing a stone from its mortar.

During all this, the King had dragged himself to his feet and armed himself with the very sword he had used to defeat the Vile King of the North so many years ago. Using the very same techniques as in that fateful duel, he lunged, directing the point to the man’s heart.

The man promptly brushed the blade aside, snapping it like seared straw.

Unbothered, he said, “The fate of this nation is now to be changed. Its death is at hand, beginning with you, then your son.”

Understanding what was now to happen, the King straightened and smiled weakly. “Well, I will die a noble death then.” He closed his eyes, ready for the inevitable.

There was a crunch and a pounding of feet around him. Slowly, he popped one eye open.

A familiar figure was hauling him back and away from the man, who was struggling with a figure of...water? If it weren’t such a dire moment, he may have questioned it further.

“Father,” whispered Tristan, hurriedly bringing him up to date. “Cordelia - the one of water, see? - has come to save us from him - the big one; a bit of flame round the edges. He’s Ignatius, a fire spirit. He came to kill us and take over the rule of the country.”

The King nodded in confusion. It was a bit much, and Tristan wasn’t doing quite so good a job explaining. “Yes...alright,” he stuttered.

Cordelia and Ignatius were a flurry in the chamber, crashing into the walls which were crumbling left and right.

“Come on!” shouted Tristan, dragging his father hurriedly behind.

The two royal men did not witness the battle between Cordelia, Daughter of the River, and Ignatius, Son of the Flame, but it is remembered only in Cordelia’s mind, as she was the victor of the occasion.

They had locked arms, struggling mightily against the other, and had surely reached a stalemate. Ironically, it was the very river Cordelia had been hidden away in for so very long that saved her, for with a surge of icy water the two hurtled out of the chamber’s roof, scattering its remains in the air, and they rushed toward the water, Ignatius caught in Cordelia’s iron grip.

Plunging into the icy water, they were never seen by human eyes again.

---

On the King and Prince Tristan’s parts, they lived on, regretful for never having the opportunity to thank Cordelia.

Three months afterwards, the King died, and Prince Tristan was crowned as King Tristan the Third. He ruled on for the rest of his life, and, in that time, the nation knew no war.

All thanks to Cordelia, Daughter of the River, of course.