The King's Son

The world blurred as cobalt eyes opened, the dim torch light outlining the room in hues of warmth that conflicted the dank scent of sea-aged wood. It flickered and danced over his vision as he let his eyes take in the aged oak and cedar. Where was he…? How had he gotten here? He had been at the harbor when…

Marcin bolted upright, the starchy cotton blanket shriveling to his feet as he thrust it aside. Despite his urgency, his vision swam, and his head reeled; a hand pressed against his forehead, willing the sensation to pass. Ears pricked as footsteps shuffled across the room, and he looked up.

“Don’t overdo it, kid.” A hand reach towards him, bangles jangling as they shifted on milky skin, and he swatted it away. Brows furrowed over eyes that seemed almost colorless in the torchlight, and she made a throaty noise of protest. “Hey – watch it! I didn’t have to save your ass, y’know.” Fingerless gloves brushed auburn bangs from her face as she stood upright again, arms folding over her chest.

“Where am I?” Marcin demanded with more confidence than he felt, and she gave a haughty smile.

“My ship – the merchant ship Titan,” she responded, lighting the torch nearest his bunk. “I’m Captain Rejina Galstar.” A thumb wiped over a freckled nose, and Marcin sized up the petite woman; beneath her rounded chin, she wore a thin black choker and a necklace of cowry shells. A denim tunic hugged her slender frame, worn until the fabric was supple and faded, and buttoned just above her naval so that her golden buckle stood out against the top of olive cargo shorts. It was only now, as he judged the woman’s sincerity, that he noticed the differences in color in her eyes. One stood out like the sea itself, crystal blue like swirling ocean waves, though the other matched the deep rigid brown of the ship’s cabin.

“So…you’re a merchant?” She pursed her lips thoughtfully, tugging at the turquoise ring on her finger as she considered the blond. Again, he looked over her appearance and shook his head. “No…you’re…a pirate, aren’t you?”

“I prefer ‘high-risk trader,’” she responded puckishly. “You can call me Reji.” Laced boots shifted as she gathered her stern face once more, as though she had forgotten briefly that she was to be taken seriously, and Marcin gathered that she wasn’t the steel-faced type. “And who are you?”

Taken aback by the question, Marcin’s eyes fell to his feet, still buried beneath the blanket, and he swallowed dryly. He could feel eyes boring into him expectantly, examining his disheveled appearance, but he let his mind wander elsewhere. He still wore the gold-embroidered tunic, though royal blue was tattered and stained in shades of umber – either mud or blood – or perhaps both, he mused. Alabaster bandages wrapped the length of his forearms, and one was splinted tightly.

“What, you don’t remember?” Reji asked, snapping the prince from his trance. Marcin’s eyes met hers; her skeptical gaze scrutinized him a moment later before moseying to the table across the room. Bangles tinkled as she pried a tattered piece of parchment from the surface, thrusting it towards him. “You know him?” she asked.

Marcin choked on his breath; the flyer was a missing poster, issued by the King of Azar judging by the seal, and featured a mirror image of himself. Bright crystal eyes, golden blond hair, pulled into a taut ponytail, rose petal lips beneath a gruff of neatly trimmed facial hair…a large reward for his return.

“Granted, the picture looks a bit more like a primed and polished rich brat, but the resemblance is a bit uncanny, don’t you think?” When he made no answer, she snatched a chair from the table, thrusting it in front of the bed backwards so that she straddled the seat and arms propped against the back of the chair. “Look, I’m not playing games; I know who you are. Yesterday, the Vigil hailed my ship, interrogated my crew, and searched the cabins for the missing prince just hours before we found you near-dead in a cove north of the capitol. They said that you had attempted suicide –”

“I didn’t try to kill myself,” he interrupted quickly.

“…Start talking, then.”

The adolescent swallowed as glassy eyes met hers, expectant and demanding. Where should he even start?

“I was at the harbor,” Marcin began quietly. “There was…an assassin…” His voice trailed as he recalled the event: the cool springtime seaspray, the thick moonless night…the sting of metal on his skin and the vile metallic scent that burned against his memory. “…My father…he…he tried to have me killed,” he managed, raspy words somehow eerier against the whine of the ship as it rocked against the sea. Ginger brows furrowed as the woman studied him, judging his sincerity, and he let his eyes drift once more to the dull surroundings of the cabin. “Look, you can’t turn me in. Please.”

“Why?”

“I-I can’t go into a lot of detail, but…” How could he explain this? There were rumors, sure. But they weren’t just listless rumors…they were true. “…There’s something going on in Azar. And if you turn me in…nothing will change.”

“Look, if you want me to spare you, you better start giving more than vague answers,” Reji demanded coarsely. “I told you, I’m not here to play games, and I’m sure as hell not gonna endanger my crew because you and daddy are having words.” Marcin fell silent, crystal eyes beseeching the redhead, though her gaze was stern and unwavering. He sighed and swallowed against the heartbeat in his throat.

“How much do you know about the Weapons Project?” he asked quietly. Reji shifted, almost uncomfortably against the rickety wooden chair and cleared her throat.

“More than you might think.” Her eyes tested him, daring him to inquire further, challenging him to elaborate. “What does that have to do with this?”

“He took me to the facilities…the Research Facilities at Syrith.” Marcin had heard the rumors: most of his peers in the royal court haughtily questioned the accusations, whispered at his own naïve dismissals at his father’s word. He’d questioned his father several times, requesting insight into the restricted facilities at Syrith, demanding the truth, answers explanations; King Sendarius Rhinelear had always given the same response: ‘Nothing sinister or underhand is happing at the research facilities. The scientists work only to cure disease and untimely death for our people and our military. You’ll understand once you’re older, son.’

“The Weapons Project…they’re experimenting on humans – turning them into…into monsters.” A superhuman army – or perhaps more accurately, and inhuman army. Genetically modified and enhanced. …And his father had lied about it the whole time. The king had assured him that the ‘subjects’ were willing and consented to such incomprehensible research; explained that he was only taking such measures to protect the lives of the military amidst the rising tension with the neighboring continent of Teldrin. However, if his father had been willing to lie about the facilities at Syrith and the Weapons Project…why wouldn’t he simply lie about the severity of the unethical practices?

Even as he considered this, he unraveled the contradiction: The Weapons Project was secretive, only having been confirmed once several years ago. Then, it was rumors, too, but the Vigil issued a statement that it was merely a project to enhance the stamina, endurance, and vitality of soldiers in the field to prevent unnecessary deaths. Yet, what he’d seen that day was not just enhancements…it was alterations. Genetic modifications. Those Weapons…they weren’t human – not anymore. Who would consent to such a change, to have the humanity erased from them? How could they consent, when the realities of the project had been buried by the king they trusted?

Stiff fingers brushed the pendant of his necklace, stroking the uneven surface of the blackish-purple stone. ‘Mother…’ he thought distantly; though it had been nearly a decade since her death, he had never longed more for her voice. He wished she could advise him, give him counsel – had she known something all along? Even through her young prince’s emulation of the king, despite Marcin’s reverence of him, she’d always warned against becoming too much like him. ‘Darkness lies within, my dear son’ she’d once said, ‘it cannot always be seen upon the surface.’ Eyes closed and Marcin inhaled, taking in the musk of the cabin: the vague remnants of cedar, sweat, and smoke.

In an instant, the Weapon was upon him, movement uncanny and electric. The young prince snatched a small dagger from the inside sheath of his boot and swatted wildly at the seasoned soldier. The Weapon chuckled, amused at the teen’s efforts, and a gloved hand seized his wrist; Marcin tugged, but a strong hand twisted the limb around until he heard a sickening crack and pain seared through him. Reflexively, fingers dropped the knife, and knees buckled until the only thing suspending him was the stiff grasp of the Weapon.

“Pathetic.” Marcin felt himself yanked from the cold cobbled ground until his body pressed against the Weapon’s. He smelt of smoked wood, sweat and steel, coarse fabric tightening around his throat and chest as the Weapon restrained him. Marcin writhed against the muscular limb, but it constricted.

“P-please,” Marcin managed, though part of him resented the impulse to beg. Hot water stung his eyes like summers in the ocean, and he choked back another painful cry as his broken arm was released, falling limp and lifeless to his side. Through tears, he stole an upward glance at his assassin, hesitating for just a moment, almost considering the plea.

“…Any last words?” the Weapon asked sardonically as the prince’s body became weak and exhausted from resisting.

“Don’t…” he managed, the word trembling with the rest of his body, like a frightened child. “Please d-don’t do this.” Amber eyes considered him before the Weapon scoffed. Cold steel grazed his arm as the metal tore the frilled sleeve of his tunic, so that bare creamy skin was kissed by the spring seabreeze. White hot pain tore through his skin, and vaguely he recognized the sticky warmth as it oozed freely in the blade’s wake. It slit the length of his forearm, wrist to elbow, and pulled a piercing scream from the prince’s throat.

“So, you disagreed, and your father tried to have you killed.” Marcin’s mind snapped away from the memory. Lightheaded, he exhaled sharply, suddenly aware he’d been holding his breath. Vaguely, he nodded, eyes losing focus somewhere between the torchlit cabin and the murky night that tugged his at his memory.

“They’re inhuman…murderous…” Glassy eyes found the gaze of the captain and he shook his head. “They’re monsters. If you turn me in, he’ll create more of them – start a war. And if he does…the people of Azar will pay the price. I can’t let that happen – I won’t!” Fingers brushed through frizzy ginger bangs, and Reji stood. Silence, only smothered by the indistinct crackle of the nearby torch, surrounded them as she paced. Hands rested on her hips as she considered the prince’s predicament; his heartbeat raced as he let his gaze wander, the sound of bangles clinking and dull, pacing footsteps his only indication that she remained. Sapphire eyes drifted to the bandages on his arms, the make-shift splint, and he swallowed against the lump in his throat.

He thrashed against the Weapon, kicking and tearing at the arms restraining him. Brazenly, he snatched the dagger from the strap on the Weapon’s chest and thrust pearly metal into the arm around his throat. The Weapon howled in painful surprise, releasing him. The prince crumpled to the ground, body unwilling to cooperate. Marcin winced as he put weight on his bleeding arm, forcing himself from the ground and leaving a smear like spilled paint over the slate stones. Staggering, he dashed for the dock on drunken limbs; vaguely he heard the Weapon recovering, shouting, right on his heels.

“You little maggot – I want to watch you bleed!” he heard the Weapon yell from behind him; Marcin climbed into the small boat at the edge of the dock, and it shuddered warningly as the Weapon landed right beside him. Before he could react, the short sword lashed out, and he barely recognized that it had landed across his chest. Loose blond threads draped his vision as adrenaline took over, vision tunneling, heart racing, as he shoved the Weapon. Beneath them, the hull of the boat rocked and whined, and stumbling against the side, the hooded Weapon collapsed into the water below. No longer thinking, breathing, trembling fingers pulled the cord to the motor and it roared to life against the sloshes of water and crisp wind.

An inhuman human scream tore into the chaos, guttural and gurgling water, and Marcin let his eyes find the source: even against the deep indigo sea, water was stained a deep vermilion, and white foam churned to a slight magenta beneath the propeller. Like an injured animal, the Weapon slunk to the dock for support; Marcin didn’t watch a moment longer. The boat lurched, throwing him back to the metal hull as it sped into the night, his body shivering against the hull.

Trembling hands yanked the jabot free from his neck, and Marcin winced as he tried to tourniquet the wound with his broken arm. Pain smeared his vision as inept fingers tied the fabric as tightly as he could muster before falling limp. Shaky, thready breaths escaped into the springtime air as it rushed over the boat, and he prayed it managed not to crash. Eyes focused instead on the stars, streaks of white against the obsidian sky until the world blurred and spun like days on the merry-go-round as a child, eventually fading altogether.

“The assassin…it was a Weapon?” Again, her voice tore him from the memory, though less harsh, more softly spoken than before.

“…Yeah…” he replied hoarsely. She made no reply, instead steadfast and still as she leaned over the desk examining the poster, reading and rereading the words against the tattered parchment. He wanted to beg her not to give him up, to harbor him, take him far away from his father’s throne. But the words caught in his throat, knowing well that she might have already made up her mind. She sighed finally, turning; fire danced over freckled features casting shadows and light over her stern expression. She studied him a moment longer before leaning against the table.

“Weapons…don’t choose their fate. They don’t choose to be monsters. And…not all of them are. So, don’t blame them. If you want to blame someone, your father is a good place to start.” Reji fell quiet once more, heterochromia eyes locked on his as she scrutinized him. “Give me one good reason I should help you.” Wide eyes beseeched her as he considered her demand, mind reeling for something – anything – that might convince the pirate to spare him.

Truth be told, he didn’t have a reason. Marcin never would have expected his father to attempt to kill his own blood – let alone the only heir to Azar, and especially not over his blatant disdain for the Weapons Program. Yet…he’d realized immediately that the Weapon was there on behest of his father. Maybe a piece of him knew all along… His mother had been right about the darkness within High King Sendarius Rhinelear.

He had excused his father’s behavior when he refused to allow the court members access to Syrith, the lies he’d spread to cover up the Weapons Project. He’d never once considered that his father might be ripping innocents from their homes and families, to be subjected to experiments – torturous and horrifying. There was no tangible proof that such things were happening – at least, not for a sheltered prince like himself. And he dared to consider what might become of those who reacted poorly to the experiments – those deemed as failures. Were they killed like a siege of vermin? Discarded, useless, like old dolls?

If his father was capable of such an atrocity…what else was he capable of? And if the pirate spared him, then what - reveal the truth? His father would likely have his loyal assassin lurking in the shadows, waiting for his return. And if he wasn’t killed upon setting foot back at the capitol, there was still no tangible proof. King Rhinelear could simply deny the accusation.

Even in his people did believe him…what would it bring? A plight of outraged citizens that would overrun the castle, slaughter the entire court? A revolt of bloodthirsty Weapons, hell-bent for retribution? Could his nation withstand such a rebellion, or would his people perish as a result? Would it matter, then, if the truth was revealed? Would his people even believe him?

“…I…I don’t have one,” he answered quietly. His stomached churned and bile crept to the back of his throat. Vaguely he told himself it was the subtle sway of the ship against the waves; it couldn’t be his own failure eating away at him, or the disgust at his father’s vile actions. No, it was merely seasickness. “Even knowing this, what my father is responsible for… Nothing I do will take this away. I can’t make this right.” Though his eyes lingered on the floorboards, he could feel her gaze boring into him, studying him. The silence settled over them, somehow noisy despite the lack of words. It was alive and boisterous, the repetitive lull and creak of the wooden hull, the hiss and sputter of embers dancing on the wall. A soft breath broke the repetitive sounds, and he braced himself for her answer.

“Fine,” Reji said. “I won’t turn you over. Even though that is one hell of a reward…” her voice trailed as she studied the parchment once more. “Nope.” She crumpled it up, throwing it over her shoulder so that it rolled to the other side of the room. “So, here’s how this is gonna go: one of my crew, Drey, is gonna come down to clean you up, give you some clothes, shave that ridiculous peach-fuzz, and chop off your ponytail to give you a new identity. You’ll work as part of my crew – no complaints – and help us out.”

“With ‘high-risk trading?’” Marcin jested; she shot a smirk over her shoulder, before heading for the cabin door. “Hey, R-Reji?” he called, and she whirled, bangles jingling and shells clinking as she turned. “I…I need a new name,” Marcin managed meekly. Reji pursed her lips thoughtfully as though she’d forgotten that detail before smiling.

“Aubin,” she suggested – more of stated. “That was my brother’s name.”

“Your brother…?”

“He died a long time ago.” She smiled softly. “When he died, my family told everyone who knew us that they had sent Aubin and my sister Danica to the Capitol for specialized school. Not many people know he’s actually dead so, it kind of works on the off chance we’re ever back home in Calpurnica, but I rarely go there.”

“What about your family?” he asked before he could stop himself. When she hesitated, he frowned. “Sorry – I don’t need to know –”

“This ship, my crew…they’re my family,” Reji said, fingers brushing the necklace of cowry shells distantly. Eyes lingered on his, like sea and ship together, and the redheaded captain smiled. “Welcome to the family, Aubin.”