The Lord Was Right

1

It was smouldering hot outside. The sun erupted unsparing heat across the outskirts of the twelve states. Humidity had taken over almost all around the world due to drastic heat waves. Prince Zebian stepped toward the immense window and studied the ambience. His lips leaked a smirk. Perfect weather for hunting. 

“Prepare my dearest horses and men, I shall be leaving for the woods in no time,” He commanded profusely, his chief servant bowed and back-pedalled to convey his orders among the assigned guards. Zebian turned around pensively and left for his dressing room with hands tied behind his back. 

There, his staff waited patiently, their hands crossed against their thighs, eyes stoned at ground. He shed his royal nightgown, pulling his silk shirt over his head while stepping on the concrete soapbox. 

The royal staff walked ahead and cleaned his body with a slightly drenched-in-milk loofah and spritzed his favourite fragrance over his body, which was made up of a mix of citrus and rose. It had a sweet fragrance. The one that more suited a princess than a prince but he still preferred it over manly scents. 

His arms were widely apart when they glided the magnificent gown over his shoulders. He stared at himself through the mirror as servants groomed him to perfection. It was a daily ritual. For him it meant obligation, but for someone ordinary, it would mean a luxury. A rare, royal luxury. 

Once the whole procedure was done and he donned enough layers of safety, he was good to head toward the main chamber where his mother and the beloved Queen would be present with her King at the breakfast table. 

“His Highness has arrived,” The chamber-head announced at the top of his lungs. Zebian marched in and halted closer to the dining table, holding his mother’s chair.  The queen glanced behind and brushed his cheek after blessing him with a motherly look. 

“My lion,” Queen Meriall expressed when Zebian flitted his arms around her and pecked on her hair. 

“Good morning, mother,” He murmured, before pulling away to occupy his allocated chair opposite Meriall. His eyes darted at the King who was already staring at him, Zebian slightly bowed with a stern look. “My King, I pay you my heartiest greetings,” 

The King acknowledged with a deep bow and tightened lips. “Your King has accepted with pleasure,” Bancroft stated, deadpan as ever. 

“Have the prince of Sebria enjoyed his stay in the state of Kabila?” Meriall asked as servants began serving him breakfast, Zebian intermingled his fingers while listening to her. 

Zebian nodded once, gracefully. “Yes, my Queen. It was worth my time. They are blessed with diverse enrichments of jewels and exotic fruits. I must not feel remorseful of my decision of heading to Kabila,” He stated pridefully, like a prince would.  

Both of his parents looked at him with pride-filled eyes. His mother was proud of who he was becoming. A proficient ruler, who was being mentored as a future king. His masters praised him for his manners, wisdom,  foresight, courage, courteousness and much more. It was a moment of reassurance for his parents. For their heir was becoming capable of bringing miracles home once handed the throne. 

They returned to their meals and began eating. The breakfast went as usual, quiet. 

Zebian smudged a napkin on his lips while glancing at his mother. “My Queen and my King, I shall be imparting to you of my departure to the woods for hunting as my rewarding bonus, for I worked hard and seek my reward in return,” He stood to his feet and rounded the table to place a kiss on his mother’s knuckle. 

Meriall delicately glanced at her husband, seeking his permission. Bancroft pursed his lip tightly as he found granting his consent right away a little complicated. He preferred going with him, but couldn’t due to his packed schedule. He could trust Zebian with many things but not with a violent sport such as hunting. 

Prince Zebian lacked one thing that he should be having the most; self-control. A loose temper did not suit a future king.  

“My King, your son is eligible for this exotic pastime. Please bless him with your trust. He shall not fall short of your expectation,” Zebian puffed out his chest in dire confidence. Bancroft inhaled deeply, hearing his son this intrepid. 

“I invested my trust on his highness but he shall not exploit the liberty. For I am sending my imperial sword of honour as my disguise,” The King stated. Zebian’s forehead creased a frown. Offence sat across his features.

“I’m mature enough to protect myself, Lord Bancroft. I don’t need a babysitter…” Zebian spat out daringly. “And besides, my army is with me. You must not fret,” He jerked his head toward his back, pointing at them.

“My word is law, Zebian. You shall not be going without my trustee,” King gritted. Zebian felt his body temperature rising. Blame it on the hot blood running in his veins or teenage hormones, he wasn’t relishing this debate. 

“You shall not be disappointed, my King, I’m old enough to keep my wild to myself,” Zebian sneered and bowed deeply with the deepest gratitude.

“Very well you may say, but for the King, you are only eighteen. Barely an adult, kid,” Bancroft backfired, conveying the message who had the command over who. Zebian smirked as the responsive reply hit his heart close. “The conversation is dismissed. You shall leave,” King slurred.

Zebian gave him a curt look before flashing a smile at Meriall and left with a hot-head. 

*****

“Fucking hell,” He swore groggily. His body ached pathetically when he tried to move, even an inch. His eyes barely parted, he knew something happened but couldn’t decipher until it took everything in him to open his eyes and look around with a hazy vision. 

His hand glided toward his forehead as pain shot up there. He hissed and gave himself enough time to regain strength. Once he managed to rest against a tree in a sitting position, he realised his clothes were ripped from different spots, he was drenched in the mud with his body containing sharp, lethal cuts. Blood generously oozed out of them. He scrutinised them and wondered how possibly he got here. 

And just then, his mind flashed a memory of him riding his unique white horse while chasing a deer, his eyes were locked on it with a crossbow in his hand, he was about to release the arrow when a branch of a tree hit his face, pushing him to fall off the cliff. The rest he couldn’t recall as he lost his consciousness midway.

He gripped a thorn and plucked it out of his flesh with a maddening hiss. Blood was trailing down from his forehead as well as his legs and bicep. He huffed agonisingly and inspected around, recalling how his father was right. He was still a kid and needed guidance. Look where his overconfidence brought him. 

No one was around him, which made him believe he had come too far to rescue. But it was a sure thing they would find him out before the moon would overtake the sky. 

The sun had an hour to set. So, he just took his time to savour its sight and waited for them. His wounds were throbbing but he paid no heed. 

Suddenly, a rustling of bushes made his head turn in that direction. His eyes first picked up on a foot. His back erected in some hope of finding a mere guard of the castle. But in the following second, his hope tarnished as a girl of nearly eleven to twelve came into the picture. He frowned in perplexity. What was she doing here?

He kept his eyes trained on her, meanwhile, the girl dusted off the mud from the middle of her dress and smiled pleasantly. Once she stood straight, she felt heavy disruption occurring over her shoulder. Her head instinctively turned toward the direction, her breath stifled. 

She blinked at him after eyeing him from top to bottom. He was wounded. The realisation struck her before any emotion could make sense to her. She dashed toward him and plopped her fabric bag on the muddy ground. 

Her grey eyes carefully scrutinised his bleeding bruises and when she extended her hand to hold his leg, he flinched back, making her furrow. “You’re bleeding, your wound needs to be tended,” She told him softly but urgently. 

He furrowed with a stoic face. “And you think you may clean my wound,” He spat a sardonic remark. 

She couldn’t get the sarcasm behind his words, she innocently blinked her eyes as she nodded with a parted mouth, her lips were plump, he noticed. “I can clean your wounds,” she replied and tried to hold his leg again. He scoffed and jerked in response. This girl must be doing it to gain a reward from his father. 

“I do not need help from a kid,” He gritted offendedly when she again tried to touch his leg. 

“You’re being stubborn for no reason. It’s bleeding badly, you might catch an infection if you would leave it unattended,” She retorted while fetching something from her shabby fabric bag.

“I said I don’t need your help, you may leave,” He commanded sternly with narrow eyes. She sighed resentfully, sinking her shoulders in defeat but still tried to test her luck. 

“My mother was a herbalist and a healer, she taught me some tricks. I can really help you,” She took out two mini half-filled bottles that contained some kind of oils. His face twisted in an ugly expression.

“Tricks?…ha, I certainly don’t need tricks and experiments conducted on me neither my parents would find it appreciative so just stay away from me, nymph,” His tone was getting thinner and thinner. First, these wounds soured his whole body and now her defiance. She should know irking a prince can bring her great trouble. 

“Let me see it,” She wasn’t going to back down.

“I said stay away!” He growled in frustration. What word she couldn’t get in her head? She flinched badly but didn't let him dominate her.

“Stop being so full of yourself, boy. I’m doing it for you and you are repaying me with a scold,” She retaliated with a hurtful look clouding her innocent features. His heart took her feelings into consideration, but his mind resisted wholly. 

“Are you mindful of who you are disputing with?” His jaw twitched asking her.

“Who exactly? A royal guard? A royal chief? Because if not then you’re rigidly acting like them,” She seized hold of his legs after slightly schooling him, he loosened his leg once he noticed she wasn’t aware of his identity. She soaked a white cloth with the oil while gazing at the wound. “This has bled so much, you shouldn’t have wasted time,” her face had a cute sullen look.

“You really don’t know who you are talking to,” he murmured under his breath with a slightly less harsh tone. His body loosened in response.

“Neither I want to know,” she glanced impassively. He smirked, amused. Only if she knew. 

“Where do you live, young lady?” He asked.

“I’m from Winsford of southern Sebria,” She retorted, cleaning his wound. He could feel the burn but decided against showing her his pain. It wouldn’t be a virile sight. 

“What are you doing here at such a place and that too, at this hour?” He asked out of the blue, flitting his bluish eyes around their surroundings, they were sitting close to a sharp cliff. Sun was setting and no trace of a human could be seen as far as he could see.

“I should be asking you the same question, what are you doing here?” She enquired before cutting a piece of gauze with her teeth and draping it around the wound. 

“You are not authorised to question me, mind your tongue,” He gritted with direful eyes.

“And now you’re acting as if you are the prince, I think you admire him a lot and If not, then maybe you caught the infection,” She joked from her perspective but didn’t have the tiniest idea it wasn’t. Not even a bit. 

Her hand ascended to touch his forehead but he yanked it. “Do not even try to touch me,” an angry scowl settled between his glabella. 

“Alright, my Lord,” it was intended to be a banter. She smiled curtly and attended to the rest of his wounds without saying much. He didn’t initiate either. 

Five minutes passed by and she completed her task. Just as she was going to say done. A voice barged in before hers could.

“My lord,” their heads contorted toward the thick voice. 

It was the sword of honour looking at them.