A QUEST OF DEATH : Dawning Darkness

20 | A Soup For A Sorry - Part 2 (edited)

When he was still a human and a king, not betrayed by his own kin, his mom used to make him hangover soup. Quite often. He wasn't good with his alcohol. No was with his patience.

Devereaux could still recall the feel of the rough linen sheets against his skin in the morning, the world would spin around him as if he were aboard a ship lost in a storm. His head pounded mercilessly, every heartbeat sending a wave of pain crashing through his skull. He would groan, attempting to bury himself deeper into the covers, only to be met with the sunlight piercing through the heavy curtains, searing his vision.

"Up, up, my little king," his mother's soft voice would drift through the haze. She always sounded amused, and far too chipper for the ungodly hour. He would squint, blinking up at her figure silhouetted in the light.

"Mother," he would rasped, his voice raw from the previous night's revelry. "Please... a moment longer." His temples throbbed viciously, and he would clamp his eyes shut, the scent of stale wine lingering on his breath.

But she wasn't one to be swayed so easily.

"Tsk," she would tutte, setting down a tray with a gentle clatter beside him. "You always say that, but there's work to be done, Devereaux. You've a council to attend, and you can't be seen stumbling in like this."

He wanted to argue—some retort about being the king and having every right to delay a mere meeting—but the thought of speaking made his head spin. He would flinch as her cool hands settled against his temples, thumbs pressing gently but firmly, massaging the ache in slow, practised circles.

"Drink this," she murmured softly, a bowl appearing before his bleary eyes, steam curling up from the surface. He would blink blearily, his vision clearing just enough to see the familiar golden broth, flecked with herbs and tiny beads of oil. The sight alone used to make his stomach turn... and rumble in desperate need.

"I can't," he would try to protest, but even as he said it, he found himself reaching out, his mother guiding his hands around the warm bowl. He could still feel the aroma being wrapped around him—garlic, ginger, the earthy undertones of roots and bones boiled down until all that was left was pure, soothing nourishment.

"You can," she would counter gently. "And you will."

She would hold the bowl steady as he took a tentative sip, the liquid sliding down his throat, warm and comforting. It used to settle in his gut like a balm, easing the sharp edges of his nausea and quieting the storm in his head. He would try another sip, then another, his shoulders sagging as the tightness in his chest unravelled.

"That's it, my love," she would murmur, fingers still working their magic at his temples. "See? Not so terrible, hm?"

He would manage a faint grunt, too tired to offer a proper response. But when her fingers brushed over his brow, soothing the furrowed lines of his scowl, he would lean into her touch like a baby, surrendering to the quiet comfort of her presence.

"Why do I always do this?" he used to muse, more to himself than to her. "Why do I let them...?"

"Because you're young," she would reply simply, the pad of her thumb brushing against his hairline. "And your heart is too big for your own good." Her smiles would sooth her more as he watched her, tilting his head back to meet her deep blue eyes. "But you're learning. One day, you'll be the king you were meant to be—if you learn to take better care of yourself."

He scoffed, but it came out weaker than intended, more like a breathless chuckle. He indeed became that king. But he had a big heart.

Sighing the Dark Lord focused on the task at hand. He had his utensils readied. A polished mortar and pestle, its surface glistening like onyx, a sharp obsidian knife, a few empty bowls carved from polished bone, and a small cauldron with runes etched into its base—all arranged with meticulous precision. He lined up a set of measuring spoons, the largest marked with a faint scarlet rune that pulsed faintly, indicating its readiness for use.