One Crown & Two Thrones : The Prophecy ( Book One) - Prologue

Chapter One - Vengeance

I

Vengeance

October 1940

On wrongs swift vengeance waits...

Alexander Pope.

Around him, women, children and men ran in frantic chaos trying to find shelter from the falling bombs that cascaded through the dark night, raining down on a solemn London. With his arms dangling over the sides of the stretcher, Theodore was rushed up the busy steps into St Bartholomew's hospital. The air was filled with noise and saturated in a filthy stench of blood and death as he was quickly carried down a long, clinical corridor towards the nearest theatre. Coming around from his unconscious state once again he looked up into the faces of the nurses that carried him on the hard stretcher, pale and exhausted with tiny splutters of blood upon their cheeks and their once pristine white uniforms. One of the nurses caught his gaze and said something he couldn't quite make out. Violently he coughed up blood, turning his body onto its side as he tried to calm himself. His once blue uniform was now burnt and badly stained with dark red blood. Recovering from his fit he turned onto his back once more and found himself staring up at a white light that burned into his retinas. With the help of another nurse, he was lifted onto a cold surface that instantly sent a swift chill through his body. Without time or space in which to breathe a young male doctor covered his face with a mask and he once again found himself unconscious.

*

Theodore did not know how long it was that he had been unconscious only that when he awoke it was daytime and a heavy beam of light shone through the large Georgian windows of ward M4. Opening his eyes fully he saw that his left leg was up in stirrups and his left arm was in a cast. The veil that had shielded him from physical pain instantly dropped and his body seized when aware of the deep pain that radiated throughout him. Theodore cried out aloud for help and was immediately attended too by a petite nurse who came bounding over to him, her cheeks rosy with exhaustion.

"There, there sir, calm down," she soothed gently, working at a drip that fed into his right hand. "The morphine will help." And so it did, Theodore felt once again sleepy and fell into a lifeless dream from which he wished he would never awake. And so much of his first week at Bartholomew's passed undisturbed with Theodore drenched in exhaustion, thankful that he was unable to keep himself awake. His dreams had not been completely without harm, for at times he found himself once more in the cockpit of his spitfire, soaring through the skies of London alongside the rest of his squadron, group 11 of the RAF. Theodore had over the past two years worked his way up through the ranks of the RAF, finally finding himself apart of group A division, a prestigious group of elite pilots, mainly made up of upper class men. He had loved every moment of his RAF career so far, despite having not seen his new wife and mother for thirteen months, the last time being his wedding day in which he was heralded off after the signing of the register and sent back down to Kent. When asleep he replayed that terrible night upon which his spitfire had been shot down by a German Messerschmitt, killing his close friend William. He had ejected himself from the cockpit, forcing his parachute to open and with heavy injuries tried without success to land within the maze that was London, alit with fire. Unfortunately he found himself being hurled into a building which upon contact he had been forcibly knocked unconscious.

When not dreaming of the terrible events that had occurred that night, he found himself dreaming of Eveline, the thought of his young wife forcing him to stay alive. He succumbed to the memories that evaded his mind, memories of her and memories of their lives together in Keswick. He would find his heart beating hard when reminiscing of the times in which he and Eveline would have ventured across the wild fields of the Lake District or rowed across the beautiful clear waters of Derwentwater. But most of all he found his whole body and spirit come to life when thinking of their wedding which took place in the small church of Keswick. She had looked beautiful, wearing a simple gown of cream with wild flowers in her auburn curls. Theodore had to admit that she had seemed wary and nervous, but appeased his anxiety with the realisation that most brides felt the same. He had proudly worn his blue RAF uniform and waited for her to walk up the aisle in the arms of Estelle, she nervous and he impatient. Her eyes had glowed throughout the ceremony and he in turn found himself self-congratulatory, for he had finally made her his own, this rare and special creation, clearly not of this world. Every man would envy him and every woman would envy her.