Of Shattered Fields and Fire Storms

Peter found himself wandering the shoreline after his meeting. There had been attacks along this stretch of coast as of late and Peter had come with the general in charge of Sea border defense, to assess the situation. They’d wanted to get the lay of the land and meet with the locals in the area.

He’d never been to this part of his kingdom before, he’d just never had the time as a prince. He had been trying to make an effort to see his lands as king, but after his coronation three years ago, he’d just never gotten around to seeing this little corner by the sea.

Carona it was called. The town was a good size, it had strong trade lines with other towns and bigger cities that provided a stable economy. Its community thrived on a healthy fishing industry that had been strong for generations, which provided them with everything they needed. The townspeople were strong and friendly, the majority were sun stained with golden tan skin, that had been earned from lives lived by the sea.

Peter liked it here, his bare feet slipping easily through the pure white sand, the ocean gently rising and falling in a soothing rhythm of sound and motion, a gentle breeze gently brushing through his ink Blue hair and tugging on the loose hem of his shirt. He swung his boots back and forth as he walked, basking in the setting sun that made the ocean sparkle and the sand shine.

He stood for a moment, enjoying the peaceful solitude after months on the road with advisors, servants, and guards.

A hawk dipped low suddenly, skimming the water elegantly with one wing, before effortlessly piercing its razor-sharp talons through the belly of a fish, taking off again with a vicious shriek of triumph.

              “Beautiful creature isn’t it?” A voice asked beside him, he startled, jumping back a little, reaching for the blade on his hip. A woman stood there, she’s was barefoot like him, with long Burgundy hair rippling in the breeze.

He relaxed, it was Guinevere, the local lighthouse woman’s sister, the townsfolk called her the lighthouse guard. She helped rescue shipwreck victims and taught children how to swim, and had been granted that name after her third time stopping a northern ship from invading, with nothing but a sword and skill. Peter didn’t give much credit to most of those stories, but she had protected the town, and had been with the council and town leaders that afternoon.

“Yes, they are,” He answered, “I apologize if I’ve wandered too far.”

She gestured to a lighthouse a little way in the distance. “Not at all, this isn’t private, and I was just wandering, I live like twenty feet away.”

He chuckled lightly, “I wish I lived twenty feet away, unfortunately it’s leagues away in my case.” She winced in sympathy.

“I can’t imagine not living by the water, I wouldn’t be able to sleep without the sound.”

He sighed, turning back towards the water, “I wish,” he cut himself off, not letting himself finish the thought. Guinevere let out a small laugh, covering her mouth hurriedly as Peter’s head whipped toward her.

“My, my apologies King Peter,” she said still giggling enough to mar her words, “it just seems like such a cliché, the king that doesn’t want to be king.”

He crossed his arms trying to appear menacing. “Yeah yeah, make fun of the sensitive ruler that would rather grow flowers, and watch birds, than rule a country.”

Guinevere was laughing so hard she had to sit down as she gasped for air.

              “You look like a five-year-old!” She laughed.

              “I do not,” he huffed.

              “You’re literally pouting right now!”

              “For your information I’ll be twenty in three months’ time, and I’m the king.”

She was practically cackling at the indignant expression on his face, he sat down next to her as he waited for her to stop. He sat with his knees up and his hand hooked around his shins, digging his feet in the sand hoping he wouldn’t disturb a stray crab.

              “Peter“ he said.

She sat up tilting her head inquisitively, “What?”

              “Peter,” he repeated, “you don’t have to call me King, just Peter is fine.” She smiled then, a genuine, bright smile that outshone everything on that beach, not even the sun could compare.

              “Nice to meet you just Peter, I’m Guinevere, Guinevere Shatterfield, I’ll be twenty in two months’ time.”

He grinned like a child with their favorite stuffed animal, unrestrained and full of happiness.

              “Nice to meet you too Guinevere, I’m Peter, Peter Firestorm.”

                              .                              .                            .                       

They spent everyday together after that, neither could really say why, but everywhere one went the other could be found, he would sit contently in the bright mornings on the beach, watching as she taught the little children of Carona how to swim. 

He would pull her through the crowded streets on market days, pointing to anything he couldn’t name and scooping of handfuls of anything he wanted to try, as she patiently taught him what he didn’t know. Leaving each time with bags of strange new things and bread from the stall on the end that he got every time they went, even though it was usually just a little burnt; he always saved it for last, cheerfully smiling at the little girl behind the counter.

They would spend afternoons on the tall grassy hills that bordered her beloved ocean, reading, talking, or just sitting in easy silence, enjoying each other’s company.

Hours, and what sometime felt like days, they were to lost to their own world of never-ending blue sky and water, as their very bones seemed saturate with all the salt and water they were swimming in.

His advisors started asking when they were to depart, wondering why they had not already, reminding him, over and over again, that he had duties and responsibilities he needed to attend to, he couldn’t just disappear. After the second time he avoided them altogether, sleeping under the crystal-clear nights and the twinkling planets, as he waited for the sun to start another day.

Some of those nights left him wide awake, clutching the silver circlet that was his crown, leaving angry divots in his palms.

Guinevere would find him like that some mornings, pulling it gently out of his grip as she leaned against him, not able to sooth the ache in his soul. Both knew he couldn’t stay forever, but he wanted to, he wanted to so much it physically hurt, the thought of leaving made his breath seize and his ribs feel like they were being torn apart, how could they not? When being here felt so right, so perfect.

She would smile that perfect wonderful smile, and he would forget for just a little while.

A pair of silver hoops swung like liquid silver from her ears, rings the same color now adorned his hands, and a beautiful chain swung at her hip, he knew she was making another piece for him. It was something else he had learned about her, she loved to create. Statues that seemed to be spun of pure starlight, blades and weapons sharper than broken glass, and jewelry finer than any ruler could afford, and he would know, he could never comprehend, how he had done anything to deserve having her in his life.

He found her one night, gripping her steel sword, he knew that her sword was like his crown, they weren’t just objects, they represented things, actions, people, that they wanted to forget, but knew would forever mark their souls.

He held her gently on nights like those, nights when she couldn’t quite seem to remember she was safe, that she wasn’t fighting invaders. When she wanted to scream at everything because she’d never wanted this, never wanted to be a warrior, a soldier, not when her mom used to call her ‘little flower’ when she used to sing to her. She’d only ever wanted to create, but her hands only ever seemed to bring blood and death.

Their hands would find each other’s, rough callouses against smooth rings, swinging back and forth as they watched the fishermen haul in the days catch, and the women comb the beaches for clams, crabs, and mussels.

They would sit and listen with the little ones, as the elders told stories by the fire, tales she had heard a thousand times, tales he longed to hear a thousand times more.

One of the women taught them whittling, a skill new to both of them, showing them how to carve wooden beads, and string them into loose bracelets; his were never all the same size, and hers always looked more like cubes than spheres.

Peter loved his cube bracelet, and Guinevere never took off her lopsided accessory.

The bracelets would make light tapping noise whenever their wrists brushed, and they would share a secret smile, knowing the other’s name was carved on the underside of the beads, where no one else could see.

Their happiness couldn’t last forever, Peter knew that he had a job to do, an obligation he owed to his people, but every day here, was better than a thousand in the capitol. Guinevere had smiled, “Ok then, just never forget all the time you’ve spent here, and the days there will be a bit more bearable day by day.”

They both knew that seeing each other maybe once every three or five years, would never be enough, that it would only force them to say goodbye over and over again. Leaving them both waiting for another person that could never truly stay.

She would never ask him to give up the throne, even though she knew he would, knew it would take less than a heartbeat for him to do it.

He would never ask her to leave the ocean, the sea. How could he? When it was taking all the air in his lungs, not to suffocate under the knowledge that her lighthouse would always stand here, and that he could never do the same.

The day the lighthouse went out, it was raining. Pouring down for what seemed like hours, darkening the sky with clouds the color of steel wool. Turning the smooth sands in to mounds of angry shapes that hid crushed glass and jagged edged shells.

Peter and Guinevere had been walking in the sea when the rain caught them, drenching the two until their jeans clung to their skin, and their hair was more tangled than seaweed. Watching as the beam of light from the lighthouse swung around the beach, before illuminating a path through the stormy waters.

A ship appeared out of the tempest, dark and bearing the flags of countries that would gladly watch Peter’s burn.

Invaders.

Heading for the lighthouse dock.

Guinevere had run, before Peter could even think, he’d found himself tearing after her, his feet slipping in the loose sand, the wind howling past them, they found each other’s eyes as they reached the base of the lighthouse.

Peter wished that he had known, that he had pulled her away and forced her to run as far as possible, to leave with him, to build a cottage in a forgotten land and spend the rest of her mortal eternity with him.

He didn’t.

They ran in together, screaming for Guinevere’s sister, the lighthouse woman, they could hear heavy boots pounding down the dock, and the faint clinking of weapons and armor over the storming seas.

Just before they reached the top, the smell of smoke reached them, just as black smoke started to curl around their figures, swirling in their lungs, scraping across their eyes with a terrifying indifference as it blinded them.

He screamed hoarsely, as veins of fire began dancing up the walls, spreading with a horrifying beauty that encapsulated them with its unearthly light.

A beam broke away away from the ceiling, falling with glowing sparks in a shower of light, Peter lunged, shoving Guinevere away from its path, as it slammed down, crushing parts of the wall, letting some of the rain in even as the fire raged around them.

He couldn’t move.

And every second they spent breathing in the toxic smoke, killed them even faster. She held his arms, trying desperately to pull him away, or to move the beam, just a fraction of an inch. They both knew the beam wouldn’t move.

She kneeled down as he coughed, his back slowly burning under the crushing weight of the flaming wood.

He held her chin between his shaking palms and smiled, brighter than the sun, happier than a new mother, and more heartbreaking than a thousand years of isolation.

He tore open the bag, that he had slung across his shoulders that morning, shoving an object into her hands, as he forced her to curl her numb fingers around it.

His crown.

She stared at it, her breath turning to poison.

She had seen his people packing that morning, she hadn’t wanted to say anything, but now she realized that she had seen his things, the pack he carried, his feet still bare of shoes.

And she understood with horror-stricken clarity.

He had been going to give the crown to the general.

He was going to give up the throne.

He was going to stay.

A cry tore out of her lungs, more broken than the shattered glass all around them, and reaching such a pitch and such a depth of anguish, that even the sirens in their distant seas, and the banshees that resided in lands far away, would have keened and sobbed if they heard it.

Peter brushed his lips against hers, feather light, and tinged with tears.

              “I love you Guinevere Shatterfield,” his eyes filled with hard determination, “and you’re going to live.”

She clung to him sobbing, “No! No, I won’t leave, I’m not-,” her words cut off, as his clear, beautiful forest green eyes, found her golden brown ones.

 He shoved her away from him even as she screamed. “PETER, NO!” her desperate cry shredding through her quickly burning world. He had seen the open wall behind her, knew that water rested underneath. Fire would take her, but in the water she could survive.

She hadn’t seen.

She fell, watching as the lighthouse collapsed in on itself, taking Peter, taking Pete, taking Pe-.

Her back slammed down against the water, and her sight abruptly ceased.

              Guinevere’s eyes found the beach as she woke, the rain had stopped, and the last crumbling ruins of what had become her soulmate’s burial ground, smoked as the last dying embers flickered out.

The village people stood on the beach around her, the invaders had left, and she had been pulled out of the water after the carnage was cleared.

She leaned forward and felt something against her hand, it was Peter’s crown, clutched in a death grip under her fingers. She stared at it, he had saved her, he had taken her place under that beam.

She held the gray steel tightly, letting two tears of pain, agony, and devastation fall over her ash stained skin.

She knew what it meant, he had taught her his own tales and stories, she knew what she could choose, knew that Peter’s crown had been more than just a final goodbye. The king had handed her his symbol of power, his crown, his kingdom.

She turned to face the people of proud Carona, she held the crown, and they knew what that meant too.

“The Invaders took our lighthouse woman, they burned our town, and stole our loved ones, they took our king, and they are going to pay for it in blood.” She did not yell or shout, but she spoke with all the authority of a ruler, of a queen. Her voice cold and unyielding, gone was the smile that made the sun look dim, because Guinevere’s sun was gone, her Peter was gone.

 She raised the circlet of silver steel that drew blood from her fingers even as she held it. Lifting it for everyone to witness, then placed it upon her own head, the scent of copper and ash mixing until only the smell of death clung to her.

She set it on the crest of her head, then turned her back to the waters He had loved so much, an abandoned blade in hand, her steps followed by the people, her people as she claimed her throne, her kingdom.

Following her.

As she marched to war.