The Third Chapter of My Book

Alright guys, here is the third chapter of Royal. This will possibly be the last chapter I upload (for a while at least,) so be sure to leave all your thoughts and opinions in the comments below! Honest feedback is entirely essential for a writer's success. If you haven't read the first or second you can check those out by clicking on the links. I hope you enjoy!

“Chestnut curls for hair

Beautiful olive skin

Hazel eyes full of care

A delightfully boyish grin

A skeptic is vulnerability

Denial is his plight

Goodness ignored willingly

Truth and love will fight

Though deception may hold

Reconciliation wins in the end

As nobility grows bold

So past wounds will mend”

Years passed. Bodies grew. Thoughts changed. And heart’s molded according to new discoveries. Yet loyalties remained the same, as did Roldan’s wishes expressed on that winter night six years ago. Harry was growing, though less in mind and more in bearing. He had already passed his mother, and yearned for the day when he might tower over his father, or at least look level into his eyes instead of up at them. The prince took joy in little, and showed interest in next to nothing. The only thing that thrilled him, or made his eyes light up at its mention, was fencing.                                

Early on, his teacher expressed with joy and marvel that he had never seen such talent and eagerness in a student. His punctuality in arriving for lessons could not have been better, and to him the sport was most exhilarating when his body grew weak. As his muscles painfully protested, and his shirt drenched with sweat clung to his chest, all else could be forgotten. The feeling of immediate power and complete control, could not be experienced anywhere else. Meals, clothes, studies, manners, socialization, were all dictated according to the propriety of someone else’s better opinion.                   

Often when fencing, his boots shuffling along the muddy grass as he dodged his partner or teacher, Harold pondered how his parents could demand that he take pride in his position, and ascertain its importance, while at the same time expect him to abide by the rules and advice of scholars and advisors lower than himself.

People’s expectations were ridiculous.

Roldan had told him for as long as he could remember, “‘There is no young man in this kingdom with the potential or opportunity to wield as much power and influence as you. You were born to privilege and the ability to change. Recognize that. Study that. And above all…do not forget it.’” As a young and skeptical step-son, upon first hearing, Harry had actually smiled at the speech, feeling it to be the only loving and synonymously reasonable thing to ever escape his step-father’s lips.                               

Though now recalling the words, he shivered with dread.                                   

  The things since heard and observed, clothed Roldan’s edict in contemptible hypocrisy. For on many other occasions when he believed Harry to be getting too ahead of himself, Roldan would whisper, “‘Son, do not allow your royalty to determine your identity…that is despicable above all else.’”

Harry plunged his sword into the mud. He always loved the way it wobbled whenever he released his hand.

His quarrel was not so much with the speeches but rather the speaker. For years his mother begged him to try and return her husband’s attempts of affection, but he did not blame her. Perhaps she didn’t know. They had not even been married ten years, and living in a castle she could not be expected to know about everything said and done under its roof. With a grunt and a sigh he pulled off his white gloves and shoved them into one pocket, running a hand through his sweaty curls. Looking towards the sunset, he settled down upon the grass, admiring the shades of yellow and orange that reminded him of a diminishing flame, while the pastel purple and pink hues beamed translucently against the sky like thin brushstrokes.

“Mind if I join you?”

He gasped with a start, and looking behind him to find Roldan smiling down he turned to face the scene without offering an answer. The king was by no means unused to this sort of response, yet the pain of a burn does not decrease with quantity. Silently too he sat beside his son, and for a time neither said a word while they both admired nature’s daily miracle taking place before them. “Beautiful isn’t it?”

Harry’s gaze faltered, and he plucked a blade of grass from near his boot, meticulously pulling away strands and threads little at a time. “You’re getting good.” Roldan continued, gesturing towards his sword.

“I ought to be by now.”

“You enjoy fencing?”

The prince raised one eyebrow. “No, not at all. I take pleasure in the unfulfilling.”

Roldan’s mouth twitched in spite of himself. “Well I’m glad because there is an invitation for you, in regards to a fencing tournament.”

“What? Where?”

Roldan pulled a note out from his pocket and handed it to Harry. It only took a minute for his eager eyes to comprehend the words. Yet he handed it back with a skeptical brow.

“Competing for a kiss wouldn’t bother me if the lips did not belong to the Princess of Zadith.”

The king slowly nodded, gently folding the piece of paper. “I can understand your hesitation. I know Alavare and Zadith have never been friendly, but for the past several years we have managed to separately reside in peace.”

“It is not that I dislike the Zadithians.”

“Then what is your reluctance?”

Harry rose to his feet, and with blank eyes and condemning mouth he stared at Roldan through the little light provided by traces of the setting sun. “Princess Heloise.” He rolled the name off of his tongue with a hiss. “Do you think either of us has forgotten? No, it would be awkward enough fighting before her in the first place, let alone for her lips…and we both know whose fault that is.”

Roldan stood too with a light laugh and the prince stooped a little under his authoritative gaze. “You would blame me for the feelings produced due to my coaxing? Come now.”

“You did more than coax.” Harry mumbled, dropping his eyes that he might not endure his father’s. “Twice you forced us to meet and discuss our prospective marriage. I did not want to, she did not want to, mother did not want to…and yet you.” He bit his lip and lifted his face when a cool breeze refreshed him. “Against everyone’s objections you tried to make it happen.”

“Yes…” the king admitted, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “And when I saw that my efforts were fruitless and you were adamant about your disinclination, I relented.”

“But that doesn’t change what you did before. We didn’t want to see each other in the first place, and a voluntary meeting would be just uncomfortable…thanks to you.”

Roldan said little to avoid shortness and consequent insult upon insult. “I’m sorry you feel that way. You won’t be attending then?”

Harry held out a hand while still staring at the ground and Roldan handed him the invitation again. This time he thoughtfully read it and replied with a sorry sigh, “Frankly, I don’t see the point.”

“You would be performing for many people, it could lead to further public matches in the future. You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

The prince shrugged. “Yes, but I think there are other better possibilities for a first match.” He turned to go, dragging his feet along the ground.

“There is just one more thing I think you should know!” Roldan called out. Harry turned his head to the side. “You would be fighting against Sir Lyle.”

Harold wheeled round revealing wide eyes and an open mouth. After a moment he regained consciousness, batting his eyes in amazement and blowing out his cheeks. “You mean that kid I used to hang out with all the time who all the women inexplicably swooned over?”

Roldan laughed and pointed a finger. “That’s the fellow. Though I would hardly call him a kid; he is five years older than you.”     

“Five years? Now not only is the match ridiculous it is unfair! How could they expect me to compete with him?”

“It is a compliment to you. They know your skill level is equal if not greater than his.” Harry smiled to himself, revealing his dimples rarely seen. “But you speak as if you do not like him.”

The lad scoffed. “Oh I suppose he isn’t very irritating other than his vanity and constant need to prove his superiority in looks, talent and strength.”

“Well I don’t know…I rather like him.”

“Ugh, all the adults do. He stores up smooth speeches in the ears of those whose favor will win him some kind of reward in the future. To everyone else, his words are insolent and flat at best.”

Roldan slowly walked forward, laying a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Maybe I do not know Sir Lyle like you do but I know one thing…you could beat him. Easily.”

Harry squared his shoulders with shining eyes and turned around, confidently striding towards the castle under a starlit sky. “You may send my acceptance of the invitation.”  

           

           

           

            Prince Harold rode forth into the Zadith Castle courtyard, his family along with a slew of Alavare citizens following close behind. Lush gardens grew where stones had not been laid while the late morning summer sun bounced off flowers and shrouded the royals in a heavenly glow. A servant walked forward to attend his horse and assist him off, but Harry scoffed and slid off the steed, striding forth. King Brandon and his daughter Princess Heloise sat on their plush high backed chairs as servants stood by offering food, refilling their goblets and holding parasols behind their heads.                     With a sigh Harry approached them, knowing manners ordered a proper greeting. King Roldan walked beside his son, and when Harry saw him out of the corner of his eye he hastened his footsteps and bowed accordingly before his father could.

           

 “Your majesty.” He mumbled. And as custom he kissed the princess’ hand muttering, “Your highness.” She nodded with vacant eyes, and their equally blank expressions communicated the mutual desire to converse as little as possible. Although when Harry took a step back, he unashamedly examined her face to see if it was much altered since he saw her two years before.                                                                       

 He understood why others called her beautiful, though he himself had always found her indifferent blue eyes and long nose forbidding. King and King merely greeted one another with a courtly bow; since that night six years ago they could hardly speak to one another.                                                                                                                             

  Harry turned around walking towards the center courtyard as citizens from both kingdoms gathered on opposite sides to watch and root for their competitor. The Prince looked up at the sky with one eye closed, pulling off his scratchy over coat and running his fingers through his hair. Suddenly, someone emerged from the crowd opposite him, and Harry suppressed a gag when seeing his face.                                                                       

  Sir Lyle smiled with all the charm and decorum of a perfect gentlemen, his taller frame and better-formed muscles oozing self-professed dominance and mediocre supremacy. He marched forth with a complacent sigh, his long sword swinging through his belt loop and brushing the back of his boot with every step. Harold held his ground, neither smiling nor frowning and shook the hand offered him.

           

 “Good to see you again Harry.” Lyle wore a taunting half-smile.    

         

   “That’s “his highness” to you, Sir Lyle.” Sir Lyle seemed a little surprised but recovered with a smile nodding,

          

  “Right…may the best man win your highness.” Both walked back in order to prepare before starting the match. Each commenced with the usual warm-up exercises, Harry cracking every joint he knew how and Lyle waving his sword in fantastic motions to “loosen his shoulders.”  Queen Jolenta embraced her young son before he left. Roldan merely nodded with approval while Evangeline, only four years old at the time rushed forward hugging his legs. Harry gave her one pat before attempting to shake her off as she called in her sweet angelic voice, “Good luck Harry!” and she proceeded to threaten Sir Lyle by waving her pudgy fist.

             

The arbitrator walked towards the center courtyard, motioning for each opponent to join him. A reverent hush fell over the crowd. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the first fencing tournament between Alavare and Zadith.” The applause and cheers rang as a monotony of buzzing bees in Harry’s ears as all attention remained intent upon the task before him. “The competitors have a choice concerning whether they shall fight only one match, or whether two out of three victories will determine a winner.” When eyes fell upon him, Harry shrugged and absently replied,

            

 “I think one is enough.”

          

  Sir Lyle smirked and mumbled beneath the hearing of the crowd, “Do you really tire so easily?” Harry’s nostrils flared and his eyes gleamed with fury, but he determined not to give him the satisfaction.

           

 “Two out of three it is.” He announced.

           

 “Very well then.” The arbitrator smiled, stepping back.

           

 “Gentlemen, ready your swords.”

        

    Both obeyed and leaned on their back leg, as an animal preparing to devour their victim. Harry fixed his hazel eyes intently upon Lyle’s gaze, blocking out all other sounds and thoughts. For the first time that day he was able to relax, reminded of why he enjoyed fencing so much. All other cares and duties were not simply ignored but altogether forgotten, and every fiber of energy was focused on one task. Sir Lyle smiled to himself, confident in his own abilities and he flashed the crowd one last winning smile before the arbitrator crowed, 

“Fight!”                                                                                   

      Harry held up his sword as Lyle bounded forward, blocking his repeated attacks with the dexterity of a dedicated learner. When the prince repeatedly met his endeavors with careless counters, Lyle’s brow furrowed in concentration when he realized he did not fight a kid, but a worthy opponent. Harry too, recognized his own ability and readily cast off all hesitation, fearlessly administering plays and attacks. Crashing swords, shuffling shoes and grunts of determination echoed in the open air. When the match continued to drag, Sir Lyle lunged forward with the ferocity of a lion while Harry twisted and ducked to avoid the blade. Only one injury counted the match won, but both struggled to inflict a single scratch. While the prince easily avoided Lyle’s plays, striking him seemed nearly impossible.                                                                                                     

  Taking a deep breath and blinking sweat out of his eyes, Harry connected with that serenity he knew and loved so well, thinking only of the game, refusing to worry over possible results. Sir Lyle smiled to himself as he assumed his opponent growing weak, and the prince recognized mockery in his blue eyes. Biting his lip Harry waited for Lyle’s next move, and when Lyle sliced his sword sideways Harry rolled under his raised arm, slid behind his legs, cutting his sword across his back. Lyle hissed with pain and lifted his sword to counter with an attack but the arbitrator rushed forward, helping Harry to his feet, announcing Alavare’s victory.

            The prince hardly smiled but silently returned to his side for a respite. Zadith citizens “awwed’ in sympathy when Sir Lyle pulled off his shirt to reveal a thin gash across his lower back, droplets of blood dripping down. Harry ignored his family’s congratulations and merely accepted a drink of water

     

                  He would not allow premature victory to shroud his judgment during the next match. As noon approached, mellow sunlight shifted into unbearable heat, causing the citizens to take up their camp beneath trees while Harry and Lyle tied their shirts around their waist, wiping sweat from their brow. The prince shook all moisture from his curls before assuming position for the next match. “Fight!” Cried the arbitrator and the competitors sprung forward with grinding teeth, holding nothing back.                                     

 Princess Heloise held a hand to her mouth and gripped her skirts in suspense, wondering if Harry fought so violently for her. King Brandon remained solemn, refusing to allow his face to betray inner anxiety. Little Evangeline held tight to her mother though she watched with eager eyes, sure of her brother’s ability. Roldan saw it all with silent pride. Doubt never entered his mind.

           

 Harry saw only the two swords, as he spun on his heels and twisted his arms without relent. Sir Lyle attempted to contain his struggle, yet the growing fear in his eyes could not be hidden. However it cannot be denied that both gradually grew weary as they seemed content to fight in only one small area of the vast courtyard. Eventually, over-used moves became familiar and tactics were countered without thought. For a moment Harry threw his sword into his left hand when his right arm could bear the pain no longer, but Lyle leapt forward ready to devour the weakness and Harry quickly switched back.       Without words both paused, taking a moment to catch their breath. The sun beat down upon their bare backs and the absence of any covering made it difficult to see. Slowly, both rose to their full height and when they ran forward, one sword pressing against the other, held steady between their faces, Harry could see Lyle was not very much taller than him after all.                                                                                             

  They remained there for a moment, their heavy breathing like snorts of a dragon. “You just want to kiss her don’t you?” Lyle whispered with a sneer. The prince squinted his eyes, and lifting one foot pushed Sir Lyle to the ground, and holding him down with one arm he used his sword to make a swift dash at his chest. Harold closed his eyes and staggered back on his feet, holding his sore arm. Alavare citizens roared applause when Harry was announced victorious and Sir Lyle struggled to his feet, blood dripping down his front.

            

 Though his knees wobbled, and he felt sure his arm might fall off, Prince Harold offered a hand nonetheless, which Lyle refused with a contemptuous scoff. He stormed back to his side throwing his sword upon the ground and he vanished among the crowd. Harry remained standing as the arbitrator announced, “Victory for Alavare!” The prince received the congratulations with a weak smile, and when the clapping ceased, the arbitrator continued, “You know where your reward lies.”

           

 He turned towards where the princess sat, and she stood to bestow his prize. Harry slowly walked forward, none too eager yet neither reluctant. Though he was fifteen and she seventeen, they stood the same height. For a moment neither budged, Heloise staring with her blank blue eyes. 

King Brandon turned his gaze to the other side as though he could not bear to look, and when  Harry's eyes met with Roldan's he received a nod of encouragement. Sunlight reflected off her platinum blonde hair, the jewels in her tiara glistening like the ocean on a summer night. When Harry did not move for several moments, the citizens began to snicker and the princess glanced nervously from side to side as if to say “get on with it!” Harold took a step forward, then instead of lifting his lips to hers he quickly took her hand in his and kissed the back of her palm. As he stormed through the crowd people shouted, “You’re not supposed to kiss her like that boy!” However Heloise did not seem ungrateful. Surprised yes, but she received this gracious alterative with secret joy. Ignoring the questions of his sister and mother the prince mounted his horse, and gave his father one last withering glare before riding on.