Painful Truth (a Sanders Sides fanfiction)

Part 3

Warnings: Really light swearing (some won't even consider it swearing), and there's a riot and threats of revolution. Let me know if I missed something.

Royalty sucks.

Virgil held the sword above his head, pointing it towards the heavens and twisting it in his palm, watching as it practically glowed in the moonlight. it hadn’t lost any of its shine, despite it sitting in the handmade sheath fashioned at the young man’s side for three months now. Three months of starvation and empty stomachs. Three months of sleepless nights passing by.  Three months of tear filled days. Three months of silence from the royal family. 

Three months of silence from Roman. 

“Why the hell do I even still have this?” Virgil muttered to himself, still staring up at the sword in his hand. Of course, he knew why; he was clinging to the last bit of hope he still had left. Hope that maybe, just maybe, the Prince really was going to help. Hope that maybe he wasn’t a liar. 

Ha, fat chance of that.

“God, Virgil, stop believing anything any man says just because he’s hot,” Virgil mumbled to himself, dropping his arm - and the sword with it - to the soft grass besides him. The coolness crept through the sleeves of his cloak, but not enough to be bothersome or convince him to move. Even if it was, the cold ground was a nice relief from the warm and humid air that surrounded him. It was summer now, and even the darkness of midnight couldn’t keep the heat away any longer, and it only made Virgil more anxious. It was midsummer, already, and the months were passing by so quickly. Next thing he knew, it would be fall and then winter and he would have to spend another season lighting fires and trying to keep Dee, Emile, and Thomas from freezing to death. 

Biting his lip, he closed his eyes and tried to silence his thoughts, willing the nerves to go away. Unfortunately for him, crickets and the distant sound of the river weren’t loud enough to cover the thoughts. Neither were the footsteps coming directly towards his clearing.

Wait, footsteps?

Virgil flew up into a sitting position before he could even open his own eyes, grasping the handle of the sword so tightly his knuckles turned white. He rose to his feet.

The man stepped into the clearing easily, and Virgil relaxed as he saw the familiar white wisps of hair that stuck out from his black hood, creating a veil that covered the man’s deep brown eyes. The mask covering the lower half of his face matched the dark shade of the hood, and the cloak went down his back to his ankles, a backdrop to the dark green pants and dirty brown boots he wore every time he was seen.

It was The Duke.

Well, he wasn’t really a duke - everyone knew that, and he made no effort to argue he really was - but no one knew who or what he actually was either. He had shown up one day almost a decade ago, bringing various villages and towns food that he got from who knows where. He refused to give out his name or show his face to anyone, and only introduced himself as simply, The Duke. So that was what they called him. Most assumed it was chosen to mock those living in pleasure and wealth, but he never gave out his reasons either.

Despite the mystery surrounding his identity and the rather crude and strange behaviors he exhibited, he grew to be loved dearly by everyone in the kingdom. When one’s child fell ill, he was the first to bring real medicine. When one was homeless, he always knew a family available to take them in. When one needed just a little more money to get by, he had it for them the next day. He would join the town’s children and teach them how to make toys out of scraps or ways to prank their friends. Otherdays, he would spend his time trying to befriend the sickly stray animals that lurked across the streets, and he almost always succeeded. He was childish and at times seemed to have no idea how to act in public, but he was loved.