Prideland

Chapter 3- Ian

The palace hallways always seemed the most uncomfortable during sunset. Whether that be of the news he just received that the memory of made his stomach queasy and his throat dry, or the paintings of his ancestors that loomed over him with seemingly judging eyes in the suffocatingly red velvet carpeted rectangle with dark tapestries that covered the windows and were illuminated by the lit oil lamps that flickered delicately, Ian didn't know. The oil eyes of Great Grandmother Beatrice and Uncle Curtis seemed to follow Ian as he walked to his doom. He paused to look at a portrait of his mother's coronation, a fitting red dress suiting a child and her nimble legs swinging across the throne chair. She must have been thirteen when she married Ian's father- King Bohr.

His footsteps were soft against the velvet flooring, leaving whitening footprints against the delicate fabric. His heart was thumping in his bandaged chest as dried tears taunted his broken face with salty pricks. His attention was drawn to his attire, the white fencing suit with dirt stains that seemed gray and somber in the lighting. He would have to wash it again before his next sparring if he didn't want to look like a homeless bimbo, despite the hay falling out of his messy locks that completed the look anyways. Just as he was about to let his guard down, his pride hung on the doorknob to his bedroom, he heard a voice. It was muffled and sounded as if it was coming from underwater. Ian ignored it, taking no notice to his disability, and threw open the door anyway, taking in his bedroom surroundings before throwing the empty helmet on his bed with a soft thud, hitting the canopy that hung overhead. The vanity set gloomed over Ian as the mirror viewed his tired and vast reflection, making his weight feel even heavier as he slumped over to it, gripping a bedsheet and yanking it over his layered mattress, throwing it onto the reflected surface. He was about to grab his fencing helmet to bash the mirror in as he moved his hand to scoop it up when he saw a figure standing in the doorway.

Ian mentally cursed at himself as he realized he forgot his saber in the barn. Not wanting to go back and retrieve it after the events that conspired, his fingers relaxed and went back to his side. The figure moved forward, revealing his mother. Her tight brown bun was held up by a gold pin with cherry blossom flowers, Its silver vines snaked around the hair and clipped together with a blue ribbon that swayed softly behind. Ian would've thought the hairpiece was beautiful if it wasn't attached to such a venomous creature. The woman wore a black ball gown with blood-red crystals at the seams, holding together the same shade of red fabric with black ruffles that parted down the middle, spilling out layers and layers of red crystals and beads. A black sheath top with rubies completed the look with silver wavy thread that circled the dress sleeves and matched the gray gloves that hid her wrinkly hands. Two raven curls that looked like mythological serpents spurted in front of her ears as maroon powdered eyes with pitch-black lashes stared at Ian with pursed red lips. Ian felt numb and frozen as the Queen approached him, repeating herself with a name that wasn't his.

Ian nodded in response to the name from habit, even though the sting in his heart throbbed around like a dying bug gasping for any last chance of life before sinking deeper into death. He couldn't remember when the name started to become painful, only the aftermath. His bandages seemed much tighter now as the woman tilted her head, scanning Ian's eyes for something. Ian blinked, stepping back and waving his flat hand, palm up with his fingers split in front, to show the word "What"?

The woman sighed, placed her gloved fingers on her hips. "I said, where have you been? None of the servants could find you and you know better than to go outside by yourself" the woman snapped, fire fuming in her eyes as she adjusted the gold hearing aid that rested on her right ear. Her words felt like knives in Ian's chest, striking over and over as an invisible time bomb was ticking in his head before she would repeat herself. Ian shakily averted his eyes to the helmet, unable to make eye contact as he made a fist with his hand, bringing it to his chest in a circular motion to show the word "Sorry" he then pointed his thumb to the window next to the vanity with the barn just barely out of view. He brought his fist to his left pointer finger, rubbing his knuckles back and forth to show the word "Practice".