Kingdom of Winged Lies - The Scribe

The fire crackles in the hearth behind him.

He twitches a hand. The sound, however subtle or falsely comforting it may be, disturbs him, and he shifts slightly in his upholstered chair, straightening. He sets down the pen in his hand, being sure not to dot the precious paper with any splatter of misplaced ink, and turns ever so slightly toward the bookcase. The wall behind it is drenched in shadow cast by the fire, but even so, he can see, in the darkness, the vague figure of someone sitting in the lounge and reading, one leg crossed over the other, a book open wide in one hand, the opposite placed lightly against the armrest.

“Reeder,” he says, smoothly, softly, a voice hidden inside the crackling of the fire, so quiet it’s almost hard to tell if it was a voice at all or just a figment of some strange thought.

Immediately the figure in the lounge looks up; two eyes, young and round, flash in the darkness. The book is closed with a gentle thump. The legs are uncrossed and placed firmly against the carpet. All this happens in the same swift movement, then follows with, “Yes, sir?”

The man leans back in his chair and motions toward the door to the room. “Fetch me water, would you?”

Quickly his young assistant rises from the lounge, tossing the book back into its plush cushions, and heads towards the door. “Of course, sir.”

The man turns, watching his assistant’s shadow as it slowly fades into the other room, down the hall, listening until his footsteps have vanished entirely from his hearing. Only then does he turn back to his work, pick up his pen, and place it against the faintly yellow parchment.

The fire crackles. The floors creak gently with the echoes of settling in. Out, down, in the halls somewhere, a maid draws water at the request of Reeder. No one is around but him, and his fire, and his pen.

He watches the ink, black and silky, flood the page. A line, a curve, a dot, a few more lines, perhaps a space in between- there, there’s a word. A few more lines, another word or two, maybe a word or two more. Eventually the page is covered in his impeccable print. Dark, striking, frighteningly accurate. No metaphors. No analogies. No assumptions. Only succinct, accurate, realistic happenings.

Actions.

Thoughts.

Movements.

The past.

Years ago, the Royal Family of Whitewings dealt with the issue of the ORCHILDREN;

an issue which had been in development for quite some time by-the-cause of the Brittlewing family;

every ORCHILD was to be shipped off to an island at mid-sea;

with at least one adult caretaker per three children;

eventually this questionable event was forgotten for the sake of the Royal Family of Whitewings and lack of public doubt;

these children have never been seen since the day of their departure;

the Royal Majesty Elir Whitewing refuses to acknowledge their existence;

A rare but not entirely unseen feat- he hesitates.

He wonders if this is enough.

Are seven lines enough to change the past? he wonders.

He reads it again. Adjusts some things. Hears the footsteps of Reeder, light, quick, slightly off because of the subtle lameness of his left leg, echoing down the hall as he returns with the water.

The man smooths back his hair. He sets his pen on the desk. He reads it again. He blows slightly on the page with a gentle swish-swish of breath.

Then Reeder returns, hands him his water, and he shuts the book.

It’s enough.

***

Hello esteemed readers-

Welcome to another project of mine, a giant mash-up of three of my best stories ever: The Orchildren of Midwhere, Reeder and Wryder, and the Kingdom of Stone. This story is, in fact, at least mildly realistic. I’ve committed to it, started writing it in chapter form and such, and so far it’s going fairly well.

This is the prologue. A very small, hopefully interesting piece of text that tells everything and explains nothing.

Please enjoy. Chapter 1 might be coming soon 👀