Mythe || Folkelore

⚔︎ 6 ⚔︎

There's a flurry of activity like never before when I stepped down into it to check on the Tiarov chef's making for dinner. Apollo squeezes my hand as he weaves us through the crowd.

"Woah, Cosabella, what's going on in here?" Apollo chuckles as the chef, Cosabella, almost bumps into him in her rush.

"Why don't ye see for yerself, Yer Majesty." She juts her chin towards the largest crowd around a little table. My interest piques at the sight of a young man wrapped in a blanket. Even in my loosest trousers and shirt, I'm still sweating especially in the hot and bustling kitchen.

I slip away from Apollo as I wander closer. Heavy pain floats through the air, stronger than any other emotion here. It always is.

The mysterious man coughs, the steaming bowl of soup in his hands jostling. The surrounding servants all reach out to steady it, but shift away to make room for me. My head tilts as I study the man. His blonde hair is shaggy and dirty like he hasn't bathed in months. But that's not what makes my lungs catch. It's his eyes. They're the darkest shade of gray.

"What brings you to Flare, Aeryan?" I ask, my voice sharp.

He swallows, eyes filling with fear. "I- I was promised safety."

"Safety from what?"

"Scle."

Apollo's hand rests on my shoulder when I freeze. "You're a soldier then."

"Yes," His eyes flick up to the crown resting against my brow. "Your Majesty. I have just returned from the most recent battle. I- I was the only Aeryan survivor."

Once again, my lungs seize. I collapse back into Apollo with a hand to my mouth. "How many were in your battalion?"

"One hundred and fifty, Your Majesty. It was a long, hard battle. There were some... unusual events towards the end."

Pulling up a chair, I sit. "Explain."

"Calla, I really don't think this is a good time for him to-" Apollo starts.

It's not me that cuts him off. "No, no. I have to report it to the High Queen soon anyway. It'll be good practice." The soldier says with a racking cough. Someone replaces the bowl in his hands with a cup, and he smiles at them gratefully before gulping the water down. I twist my fingers nervously, curious as to what he has to say.

He's not finished with his drink when I blurt, "What's your name? I feel bad not asking that first. Forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive, Your Majesty," He declares, eyes wide. "I am merely a lowly soldier, very few Queens would even ask for my name at all. I thank you. I am Bhaltair Aubury, son of General Quinn Aubury."

I nod, seeing the resemblance now. "Continue."

"It was early morning, we had fought all night." He pauses, looking down at his hands resting on the table in front of him. "Reinforcements had been promised for days. We were all exhausted and had little hope of winning or even surviving. Still, we pressed on for our Court. Many wanted to turn back and surrender, but Queen Freya gave very clear instructions that we were to fight to the end."

Tears fill my eyes, and I feel Apollo's hand take mine silently. A shaky breath later, and I find myself disconnecting.

"The battle was reaching a lull just as this... fog appeared. I don't know how to describe it." He chuckles softly, rubbing his forehead. "This is going to sound crazy, but it almost seemed alive. The way it crawled across your skin and clawed at your throat. I'll never forget the feeling." He shudders, and goosebumps erupt over my skin. "The weirdest thing though, was that it was blacker than night. No one could see anything. The screams still echo in my ears.