A Life for a Life | A Fantasy Short Story

Father

Twenty years later

Kingdom of Amaryah

Three days before Spring, 2759 DP

Neirnis̈hënon awoke in a sweat.

He gasped, sitting bolt upright, and clutched his stuffed lion close. It smelled of Lilyquinn, as it was restuffed every two weeks to ward off fevered dreams. He thought the physician didn't know what he was talking about, but Neirnis̈hënon let him do it anyway because he thought it smelled nice.

"Prince Neirnis̈hënon!" His maid quickly closed his pet rat's enclosure, set the empty food bowl aside, and ran to the water basin to dampen a cloth. Aylë hailed from Houndal but pronounced his name perfectly—as she had been trained to—as "near-nish-shee-non." The two "sh" dictions were said so quickly, they may have been one sound. It was like the noise from cloth moving quickly over stone.

The name was so absurdly difficult that his older cousins often called him Near Fish to rhyme after the first two syllables of his name. His mother said he was given a kingly name, but he thought his parents liked to watch foreign dignitaries sweat as they attempted his moniker. It was, after all, court rule to first address royalty by their given name in any and every conversation. Free entertainment!

He had to admit, he liked to see others stumbled over his name before settling on "Prince, son of Rylaeshykon" and then laugh as they went red-faced over his father's name.

But, in the end, he preferred "Neir."

"Another dream, Your Highness?"

Neir wordlessly nodded and hugged his lion closer. Unlike most dream-woken mornings, he let her push aside his dark hair and mop his olive forehead.

"What did you dream about, Your Highness?"

She always asked and, usually, Neir would be annoyed as he thought she was making fun of him. His dreams always came true. The trouble was they were always about inconsequential events. The contents of the night's dinner. The winner of a tournament. The dignitary who would horrendously mess up his father's name. Sometimes he even dreamed about what shoes his mother would wear in two weeks.

And, always, nobody would believe him. Who would believe the silly little dreams of a seven-year-old boy?

Ordinarily, he would tell her, which Aylë and his family would mark it to lucky guesses or reading the day's menu.

But today he stayed silent.

Neir inhaled the scent of his Lilyquinn lion, but it didn't make the images fade any faster.

Crimson red. A knife. A man with striking gray eyes. His father—in a pool of blood.

Neir desperately hoped it was nothing more than an ordinary nightmare. No. No, it's real. It feels like all the others.

The crisp, crystal clarity. The stark vitality of the air in each dream, the over-saturated colors, the pungent scents. Then, waking up and remembering them as if looking through slightly frosted glass. They all spoke of events to come.

He bit his lip and struggled against the tears he knew would fall.

His father, the king of Amaryah, would be killed on the first night of Spring.

"Prince Neirnis̈hënon? After breakfast, why don't I take you to your favorite stream?"

He thought again about his preferred nickname. He liked it for a simple reason but rethought his fondness.

For it rhymed with 'seer'.