Anagoria's Outcast

PART I: Prince of the Past

Chapter 1: The Midnight Dark

The great grandfather clock in the hall struck eleven-thirty. It was well past the retirement hour of every servant, lord, and lady in Eiloren, the palace of Anagoria. Stillness reigned over its halls and its chambers, with the only sounds being the grim tramp of the watchmen's boots and the whispering of the wind in the abundant trees. There was not even a dust bunny stirring in the great house.

A new sound disturbed the nightly pattern. A slight rustle, a gasp of breath as though its maker was trying not to giggle, and the swish of small feet on the carpet.

Two little boys emerged, about four years old, and already in trousers, as evidenced by the thin linen pants they had pulled on under their golden-edged nightshirts. One was dressed in red, and the other in blue, but the reason for this was in their comely, fresh faces – identical in every respect.

In the straight, slightly upturned nose, in the soft, thick brows and hair, in the sliver of the orbs that reflected the moon, in the plump child's lips, there was no difference. But there was a difference between these boys and the world, for their thick locks, smooth and shining in the light as they crept barefoot down that hall, were snowy white, white as the hoarfrost that glazed the ground in winter.

The blue boy dragged his twin along impatiently. "I want my watch back," he whispered determinedly, with the inflection and diction of a four-year-old.

"I know," said the other, with the same accent. Their Anagorian speech was almost indistinguishable from that of the English, miles and miles over the sea away, except for a certain lilting undercurrent that bespoke the speech of music.

The blue boy raised a thin rod of wood with a small, shimmering piece of gem at the tip. "Illuminate," said he, and a small werelight bloomed in the moonstone.

They had passed the great open hall, and were now in the darkened corridor that led to the room they were searching for. The red boy padded forward and turned the knob of their desired door. "Locked."

"You do it, I got the light," the blue boy replied.

The red boy obeyed, and brought out his own wand. "Raise." The bolt slid back. "There. You go."

"Yea, and wait."

The blue boy, holding a dimmer werelight, approached the table on which gold metal gleamed. He reached up and fumbled for the watch until the sturdy enamel-and-gold circle was in his hands. The black paint traced two concentric circles inside, just about a number tall. Each Roman numeral was depressed into the enamel, with paint worked into the ridge. It was a high-quality watch, a watch a child any poorer than he would be very privileged to own.

But for this four-year-old boy with white hair and storm cloud eyes, this watch was a possession; a valuable one, yes, but not one to risk his honour for.

He had just slipped it back into his pocket when a voice stopped him in his tracks. "What are you doing here?"

To his relief, it was not his father. But it was his mother, not to him, but to his brother, who was standing guard outside. He heard the red boy stammer a response, then the mother ask, "Would you like to come with me?"

The red boy's answer was, "Only if Zico comes too."

"He cannot."

"I will not."

The sound of fabric, silk and velvet, and the pounding tattoo of a child lifted just off the ground. "ZIKRON!"

The blue boy, whose name is acknowledged as Zikron, leapt to his feet even as his father slid out of bed. "ZION!" came the blue boy's cry, even as the father thundered, "LIRRA!"

Lirra halted. Zion, face streaked with tears, was held close in her arms. The likeness between mother and son was the almond shape of the eyes, although Lirra's gaze was blue and not grey. "Leonores." The name was a challenge.

"Put him down."

"No."

"Put him down."

"He comes with me."

"He is the heir; he cannot." Leonores's dark hair was as thick as his sons', and his eyes were what gave the boys the color of their own. His Grecian nose was certainly not inherited by any of his three children. "Take the other boy, or the girl."

A wave of resentment rose in the blue boy's chest. Was he expendable simply because he was born a mere five minutes after his brother?

"Why do you cling to him so?" Leonores continued. "You know he is mine."

"The other boy is nothing but trouble, and the sister is hardly less." Lirra's tone was so cold it was hard to believe she was talking of her own children, not even addressing them by their names.

Leonores snarled. "I am the king, and I command you to leave my son alone!"

Zikron, who at first was overwhelmed by fear, was now overcome with anger. Was he any less his father's son because he was the younger? If he had been born first, would he have been as valuable? He thought he knew the answer.

"Is he any less my son than yours?" Lirra returned. Zion was frozen, frightened, in her arms, and it was all the little boy could do not to panic.

"He is the heir to the throne. That is reason enough."

"The other boy is as much heir as this one," she scoffed, hefting Zion higher. "Let him be your son, and this one mine."

King Leonores's jaw tightened. "So be it. Go."

Lirra turned to walk away, but found Zion wriggling and struggling against her hold while his brother pulled at her arms, trying to free him. She shoved Zikron from her and stormed away, when Zion began to scream.

His cries were pitiful and terrified, but strident all the same. "Shut up!" Leonores growled, cuffing Lirra's son – no longer his in any way he recognized.

Zikron, though he was stronger, was also screaming in pure terror the nearer Lirra walked to the exit. "You cannot! Stop! No! STOP!"

If he had been capable of rational thought, Zikron would have been seeing flashbacks of his nightmares, nightmares in which Zion was eternally pulled away from his grasp, where he was too weak to defend his brother. But he was not, and all he knew was the spine-crippling terror of his sweaty hand slipping from Zion's.

Leonores swept him up and pried his fingers from Zion's, heading in the opposite direction. The twins struggled and flailed all they could, but they could not get loose. Zikron's voice grew hoarse, and yet – he was still too weak.

Zikron listened desperately for Zion, and when the silence came, his pain broke out in sobs so strong he shook with them when he lay down at last, in the bed he and Zion should have been sharing. He cried and shouted and pleaded, but it did no good to the truth that he knew with the silence of the room and the cold in the bed: his twin was gone.

Down in the hall, the clock struck midnight.

~&~

Zikron woke.

With the sunlight hitting his eyes as usual, he sighed in relief. "Just a dream," he told himself.

But the empty space in his and Zion's shared bed attested to that statement's fallacy. It was real. It was all real.

Quiet this time, Zikron turned around, burrowed into his covers, covered his face, and cried.