The Courtship Of A LifeTime

Prophets, Healers And Virgins

Stráland was a kingdom unlike any others of its time, sitting prettily on its own on the map and economically as well. An income sourced from traders within their country, farmers and merchants working together to make sure everyone ate— many predict it is headed towards a socialist society without class or money and would weep for the kingdoms lack of international trading. 

But if you asked the citizens, they shake their head and shrug. They simply liked things as they were now. The kingdom was wide and filled with greenery, the cities were all beaming with flowers, mini gardens flanking every house while forests bordered them all, not a single street was barren of life—berry bushes were the most common pedestrian nationwide. Everywhere you looked there were bouquets of red roses, blue dahlias, pink tulips and snow dandelions, the clouds were always shaped like something else, the sun shone even in the starkest winters and the moons reflection looked like a woman smiling.

Strâland was gorgeous, undoubtably a safe haven compared to the kingdoms falling around it, it was invulnerable to the corruption, war and rebellion that destroyed the lands surrounding it. To their left, the kingdom of Armand was self-destructing in the wake of their royal family abdicating, to their right the republic of Gotashia was torn apart as the citizens rebelled, above them lay the rotting corpse of the once superpower Showla, below them sat the small isle of Itshazya, whose governors fought for power with their people being an expense of the war that was soon to be waged. Yet Strâland stood strong, flourishing as a classless and self-sufficient kingdom, where life was sweet and the breeze sang softly, from the bay, the docks, the towns and cities, down to the capital and all the way to the palace.

Behind a community of towers and three moats filled with purple trout and glimmering char, two arching walls founded deep underground and high above the capital, behind it all, stood a castle that surpassed them all, where the song of the breeze met with the choir of hummingbirds perched upon the mahogany sills. Sixteen windows faced above the kingdom, covered by sky as it reached above the land, another sixteen scaled with vines and shrubbery as the castle was backed by a mountain of greenery that only grew with every spring—a blue and black flag flying above it all, covered by a cloud that settled atop the castle years ago in the shape of a loose bow and arrow.

Within the one-hundred-and-twenty-acre palace, through the twisting corridors and never-ending staircases, somewhere among the thirty-two halls and the forty bedrooms, the fifty bathrooms and eight kitchens, the twenty dining rooms and sixteen libraries, there was a quarrel—one so loud that, somehow, it could be heard throughout it all.

A healer and a prophetess had stormed into the castle and, in one of the fourteen courts, had been arguing for the past two hours.

"This is hypocrisy at its finest!"

"You're insane! You babbling witch!"

They stood in the middle of the brown bricked room, muddying the blue and black carpet that led from one door to another, guards at either door, a balcony around the room from a level above for royal spectators. The kingdom was a peaceful one but small feuds were bound to break out in such a euphoric atmosphere—usually about someone's garden swallowing another's or about wedding arrangements gone wrong. When these arguments did break out, which was more often than not, the participants would march down to the palace, through security and servants, right into the heart of the castle and demand a royal audience.

"I'm sure we can put this entire situation to rest if you would just-"

But the argument continued before he could get a word in. The senior royal advisor was standing in front of the two argumentative fools as he did with every citizen who trampled the palace floor, trying his utmost best to void the dissension before the monarch awoke. He had been doing so for the past two hours and, to his dismay, the poor man was no closer to prevailing.