The sands of time have flown through the neck of the hourglass, covering the history of our land as our streets are covered in dust. Our people grow weary of war. I need not tell you that it is a war that has lasted a thousand years. It has seen leaders rise and fall. It has withstood the arrogant promises of heroes claiming to bring peace to our two lands. They were all fools. What I know that they did not is that this is no ordinary war. This is a war and it is a curse. It is a curse from an old man, a Maharaja, bereft and insane with anger. He cast this war upon us and it will continue to be fought until the Emperor’s bloodlines are cut as abruptly as the Maharaja’s were.
I see by the puzzled look on your face that you do not know what I am speaking of. You claim to know how this war started. You say it was a duel between two Princes, everyone knows that. One of them fell and his father declared war on our Empire. I tell you this; the people of this Empire know nothing. The story of this Thousand Years War is so much more complicated than that. I know the whole story. And I will tell it to you. If you sit a while, share your attention, your company and your wine, I will tell you the whole sad tale, beginning to end. Are you comfortable? Then pass me your flask and I will begin my story.
It all began with a boy. He was neither the bravest nor the strongest of his people. He was in fact, lowliest of the low, a slave boy, brought north to our lands from the kingdom of the Maharaja Virat. He and many other slaves were brought back as spoils of war. Many of them died here, and more died even before they reached our Imperial City. But this boy, called Aakrashan, was brought with the other beautiful slaves to the Palace. His name meant “attractive” and it fit him well for he had creamy pale skin and curling brown hair fraught with shocks of golden blond. His eyes were like the green of the sea, the green of the reflecting pool at the base of the Imperial Gardens. He was a beautiful child and the female Palace staff waited anxiously for him to grow up into a man.
The other slaves were sent to the harem or the kitchens or the stables. Aakrashan, since he was young, was sent to be a personal valet to Prince Deacon. The Prince himself was not an unattractive child. His hair was already long at the age of six and it was dark auburn, just like his mother’s hair had been. His young, inquisitive eyes were the same blue as the great bowl of the sky above and the shape of his brow gave him a mischievous look. The young Prince indulged his looks and terrorized untold numbers of nannies and caretakers. Since they were the same age and there were no other children to play with in the Palace, Prince Deacon befriended Aakrashan. The boys grew tall and strong and handsome together.
The Prince maintained his taste for roguishness and Aakrashan grew to be his counterpart, sweet, gentle and kind. They balanced each other. While Prince Deacon always had a bit of a playboy streak in him, it was Aakrashan who kept the Prince from getting into serious trouble. The servants began to think that try as the young Prince might, nothing would go terribly wrong as long as he had his valet to steady him. Sadly, they were greatly mistaken.
In almost the blink of an eye, the Prince had grown into a man. At twenty-one, he was tall and handsome and desired by every maiden in the Empire and surrounding kingdoms. But he remained unwed. At his age, this was unheard of. Royalty in the Empire always wed as early as possible to ensure the production of an heir to the throne. The Prince’s stubborn refusal to wed angered his father.
One afternoon, after another long, heated discussion on the subject of marriage, Prince Deacon stormed from his father’s study. He raged into his quarters and slammed the door.
“Unreasonable!” Deacon shouted and started throwing things. Aakrashan had been lounging on the terrace, waiting for his young Master to return. The commotion roused him.
“The man is being completely unreasonable!” The Prince was fuming. “How could he do this? To me, his own and only son!”
“What has your noble father done, my Prince?” asked Aakrashan, sidestepping a cushion as it flew out onto the terrace.
“Noble? My father,” Deacon ranted, “is not noble! He’s a tyrant and I hate him!” The Prince dropped heavily onto the pillowed floor, sulking. He buried his face in a cushion and said, “he’s forcing me to get married.”
Aakrashan was silent for a moment, torn between what he knew he should say and what he wanted. He knew it would be best for the Prince and the Empire if Deacon were to marry. But something gnawed at his heart. He sat down next to the Prince and put a hand on his shoulder. Though it pained him to say it, he heard himself speak. “Your noble father is only trying to do what he knows is best for you and for the Empire, my Prince.” he said, gently.
“My father barely knows me,” the Prince continued, face still hidden in the pillow. “How can he possibly know what’s good for me?” Prince Deacon sat up, pushing his auburn hair back from his forehead. His eyes were red and he looked as if his whole world had just been pulled out from under him. It was rare to see the Prince looking so vulnerable and it made Aakrashan smile.
“It’s not all that bad, my Prince,” he said, brushing a stubborn lock of hair out of the Prince’s eyes. “Once you’re married, you’ll be Emperor. Then we can chase the harem girls all day if we want to.” He smiled, hoping the thought would cheer up the Prince. It didn’t.
“We don’t chase them now, though we could. Besides, I don’t think my new wife would enjoy that at all. If there’s one thing worse than being forced to marry, it’s having a wife who’s constantly angry with you.” He sighed. “He can’t make me do this, Aakrashan, he just can’t!” The Prince looked as though he might start crying and Aakrashan put his arms around him.
His intent had been to comfort the Prince. There was nothing impure about it when Aakrashan hugged Deacon. But soon, Aakrashan became aware of the fact that the unspoken moment when he should have pulled away from the Prince had come and gone. Neither of them had made any attempt to move apart. “This is fine, just fine,” Aakrashan thought to himself, still wrapped in the Prince’s arms. “He is my Prince and he is my friend. I am comforting him in his time of need. That is all.” But Aakrashan’s brain and his body soon began to disagree. His brain insisted that this embrace was perfectly innocent. But his arms did not want to unwind from the Prince’s torso. His chest didn’t want to break contact, nor did his thigh, which was pressed against the Prince’s hip. Then, the final lock snapped into place, binding his body to his beloved Prince’s.
The Prince had kissed the side of Aakrashan’s neck, very softly. It was not a long kiss. Nor was it rough and passionate like Aakrashan had thought a kiss from the Prince might be. But nevertheless it melted any will Aakrashan had. He sat back a little, looking into the Prince’s eyes. They were filled with the same sort of “up to something” look the Prince always had when he was plotting. Aakrashan smiled, about to ask what was going on but before the words had left his lips, the Prince’s arms were tight around him and they were kissing.
Rational thought departed, taking responsibility, morality, propriety and time with it. Then they were alone. Two young lovers, twined together, twisting against each other in silken sheets.
Weeks passed by. The Emperor set a deadline for the Prince to be married. Father and son fought almost constantly as the days passed by and still no bride had been chosen. The Prince seemed even less interested in finding a suitable wife. He spent nearly all his time in the company of his valet. Rumors began to circulate around the Palace that the two were in love. Guards had seen Prince Deacon and Aakrashan pushing each other playfully and laughing, flirting together. The other valets had seen the two of them exchanging looks that lasted just a fraction of a second too long. Maids whispered together of an incident in the garden menagerie. The details were always fuzzy. No one knew who actually saw the Prince and the slave valet together, doing whatever it was they were supposed to have done.
Though there was no certainty and no evidence to support the stories, the Emperor still heard of the supposed romance. It concerned him greatly. The Emperor loved Prince Deacon very much and he wanted his son to be happy. But it was the security of his Empire and bloodline that concerned him more. How would his son choose a wife and carry on the line if the boy was in love with his valet? Being a lover of order and facts, the Emperor needed to know the truth. If his son was indeed engaging in romantic affairs with his valet then he, the Emperor, would have to find a solution to the problem. One way or another, there would be an heir to the throne.
Late one night, while the rest of the Palace slept, the Emperor went to his son’s chambers. Silently, he entered, seeing immediately that the bedchamber was empty. He was about to call out to his son when he heard someone moan. Not loudly, but there was no mistaking that sound for anything but pleasure. The Emperor was an old warrior. He knew that in this familial battle, surprise and stealth would be his best weapons. He hid behind a heavy curtain at the entrance to the terrace and cautiously peered out.
Below, the whole of the Imperial Gardens were laid out, silver in the light of the full moon. Stars glittered in the sky and flames from the giant braziers threw dancing shadows across the pathways. The herons in the reflecting pool ruffled their feathers and called sleepily to each other.
Though the night air was warm, the Emperor’s blood ran cold when he saw the two figures at the far end of the balcony. One stood, leaning against the balustrade with his eyes closed, clearly enjoying the ministrations of the second figure. This one, this other man was kneeling, kneeling on the cold stone floor. Though the Emperor could not see the man’s face, there was no mistaking the long, auburn hair that fell in loose tangles down his back, so much like his mother’s hair when she had been alive. The Prince, heir to the Empire and the Emperor’s one and only son, was kneeling before a servant. No, this standing man was less than a servant. He was the slave valet, Aakrashan.
To see his son, the future ruler of the Empire, one of the most powerful men in the entire world, kneeling before a slave was gut wrenching. The Emperor was confused as to what was going on, but only for a second. He remembered moans of pleasure like the one Aakrashan had made escaping his own lips when his harem girls had knelt before him, applying their sweet tongues to his tender regions. Strangely, this action, the knowledge that his son was pleasuring another man did not bother the Emperor. It was the fact that he knelt to do it that made the Emperor’s blood boil. He decided something would have to be done and soon. He was a patient man and it was this fact that spared Aakrashan’s life that night.
The Emperor stole quietly out of his son’s quarters and back to his own study. After a brief lament, he set his plans into motion.
A few weeks later, the Emperor called Aakrashan to the throne room. Alone. His heart was pounding in his chest as he made his way through the vast, cool marble hallways and knocked on the heavy bronze doors. “Enter” came the one word, so brief and without emotion that it gave Aakrashan no clue as to what would be taking place. He pushed the heavy door open and knelt before the Emperor.
“Rise, Aakrashan,” said the Emperor. “Come closer. We have much to discuss.” Aakrashan was thrilled that the Emperor even knew his name, let alone that he wanted to speak more closely with him. He stood and approached the throne. Flanking it were two men. One was tall, robust and so arrogant that one could practically see it radiating off him in waves. The other man was shorter, rather stout, and dripping with jewels and gold. Both men had curling brown-blond hair and green eyes, just like Aakrashan’s.
The Emperor spoke. “Do you know who these two men are, Aakrashan?” he asked, gesturing right and left. Aakrashan ran down a list of recent offenses that might attract the attention of two such obviously important men. Apart from his romance with the Prince, his conscience was clear. Besides, he was fairly certain that he and the Prince had been discrete.
“No, your Highness, I have never seen either of these men before,” Aakrashan answered truthfully. The Emperor smiled as though this gave him no small amount of pleasure.
‘Then may I introduce to you the Maharaja Virat and his second son, Prince Vairaja. They are our neighbors to the south, the land where you came from,” said the Emperor.
Aakrashan still hadn’t figured out what the Emperor was smiling about, but he bowed low to the visiting royalty, saying “I am honored that such great men would wish to see a humble servant as myself.”
“Do you notice anything familiar about the Maharaja and his son, Aakrashan?” asked the Emperor. Truly, Aakrashan didn’t see anything unusual about them. The audience with the Emperor, his strange behavior, being called by name repeatedly was all combining to deeply disturb Aakrashan in a way he had not felt in a very long time. He felt the Emperor was testing him somehow and he did not know the answers to his questions.
“I see that they are clearly royalty, your Highness. But I am afraid I do not know what it is I am supposed to be looking for, Emperor,” he managed at last, quickly casting his eyes to the floor.
Then the Maharaja spoke. “Aakrashan, do you know why I have brought my second son with me to visit this Empire?” Aakrashan did not know. “I have brought my second son because my first born son was already here, waiting for me.” The Maharaja smiled then and came towards Aakrashan. He put his arms around the frightened younger man saying “my son, my son, I have missed you these many years.”
Aakrashan was taken aback. Here was this foreign ruler, this Maharaja, hugging him, calling him his son and Aakrashan was fairly certain he’d never seen the man before in his life. Further more, when Aakrashan looked to the man who was supposedly his long lost brother, the reception he got was anything but warm and friendly. Prince Vairaja looked near to murderous.
When the Maharaja had released Aakrashan and stood, wiping his tears of joy away, Aakrashan spoke. “Your Highness,” he began, “I, - I don’t understand….” But before he could finish, the doors to the throne room banged open. “What is the meaning of this, Father?” came the shout of the enraged Prince Deacon who was striding purposefully towards them.
“Deacon, my son,” said the Emperor, “how nice of you to join us, albeit uninvited. Allow me to present his Royal Highness, the Maharaja Virat and his sons, Prince Vairaja and Prince Aakrashan.” The Emperor beamed. The Maharaja and Prince Vairaja bowed politely. Aakrashan looked ill.
“Father,” asked Prince Deacon, “what are you talking about? Aakrashan is no Prince. He’s my valet. You told me he was a slave.”
“Perhaps I can explain,” said Prince Vairaja, stepping forward, his voice full of honey and poison. “When you’re father’s armies attacked our homeland, killing our women and children, they laid siege to our capital city. My, I mean, our mother,” Vairaja paused, affecting a false smile at Aakrashan, “had taken my brother to visit the market place. You were so young and precocious then, Aakrashan. You wanted to see the city. It is too bad you chose the day that the enemy armies marched in to conquer us.” When Vairaja smiled Prince Deacon expected to see fangs in his mouth.
“What, - What happened?” asked Aakrashan, clearly rocked by this news. Vairaja continued. “They killed her, our mother. But not before violating her body and her attendants. The soldiers of the Empire brought their naked, defiled bodies back to the Palace and demanded an end to the war. There was also the headless body of a young boy among them. We assumed it was you. You cannot imagine how happy I am after all these years to learn that my brother is not dead.” Vairaja had the expression of one who means the exact opposite of what he’s just said.
At this, Aakrashan’s legs gave out. He fell to his knees in the throne room, sobbing. The memories of that day, the siege, capture, the torture and murder of his mother, all of these things he had repressed for so long and suddenly, they came flooding back to him. Prince Deacon stood closest to him and, forgetting himself in his grief, Aakrashan wrapped his arms around the Prince’s leg and cried into his thigh. It was all Deacon could do to keep himself from taking Aakrashan in his arms.
Prince Vairaja smiled wickedly and turned to his father saying, “Is this the son you want, father? A man, no, a boy who sobs against the legs of his captors like an infant?”
“Silence, you arrogant fool,” the Maharaja spat at his second son. “Since when is it weakness to weep at the news of the loss of a loved one?” He bent close to his son then, gently disengaging him from Prince Deacon’s leg. “There, hush now, Aakrashan. It was all a very long time ago. What’s important is that you are safe. You are a man now, a Prince, in fact. And no one blames you for anything.” The Maharaja spoke as though words of comfort and affection were new to him and he was eager to get as much use out of them as he could. They appeared to work because within minutes, Aakrashan’s tears had slowed and finally stopped all together.
“I think,” said the Emperor, “that we should give the Maharaja and his sons some time alone.” He summoned a steward to escort the visiting royal family to their chambers.
Once they were gone and he was alone with his father, Prince Deacon turned on the Emperor. “How could you do this to me?” he asked, eyes blazing. Had the Prince been capable of literally breathing fire, he would have. The Emperor however, seemed unfazed.
“What exactly, have I done to you?” he asked as he made his way over to lounge on the throne. He had a look of confidence about him, the look of a man who has just successfully completed a very difficult task.
“You know they will take him with when they leave. How could you do that to me?” the Prince shouted.
“And what great offense have I committed against you, oh Prince Deacon?” asked his father, the man’s temper flaring. “So you loose your valet. So what? We have hundreds in the Palace. You could have a whole team of valets in half an hour if you want them. How could I, you ask? Aakrashan is a Prince. He is royalty. As soon as I learned this, I knew I could not keep him prisoner in my Palace any longer. You ask me how I can release this foreign Prince that I’ve held captive for fifteen years unbeknownst to me? Easily! You and I are lucky to be alive right now! We are lucky that the Maharaja and his arrogant son were happier to see Aakrashan alive than they were angry he was held captive. We are lucky the Maharaja didn’t march his troops in here and tear us to pieces. If it means avoiding another war for our people then I can gladly return the man’s son to him. The sooner he and his family are gone from our borders, the better.”
“He was more than my valet,” Prince Deacon said darkly.
“Yes, I know exactly what he was to you. A toy. Something to play with. Well, I can honestly say it doesn’t displease me to know my son won’t be kneeling before slaves and pleasuring them.” The Emperor was on his feet, glaring at Prince Deacon who had been taken completely by surprise. He groped for something crushing to say, but nothing came. Instead, he turned on his heel and marched out of the throne room without waiting to be dismissed.
The walk back to his quarters was long and unpleasant. Prince Deacon felt as though his whole life was being altered before his eyes. His father was forcing him to get married and produce an heir. His best friend and lover was now a Prince and would be leaving, possibly forever, in the very near future. He would be Emperor one day, but what consolation was that when everything you’d known and loved was being taken from you or warped into something revolting? Deacon shut the door to his quarters and barred it for a full week. He wanted to see no one. He wanted to be alone with his grief.
The Maharaja and his sons were to stay in the Empire for a month. That was the custom. The journey to and from their homeland was long and arduous, so to make it worth the trip, visiting dignitaries were shown the best hospitality as long as they whished to stay. There were dinners and parties. Prince Deacon attended very few of them. He had determined during his solitude that the less he saw of Aakrashan, the better. Deacon knew he would eventually have to say good-bye to Aakrashan, but that was weeks away.
Meanwhile, Aakrashan, of course, did not understand why the Prince did not want to see him, barely spoke or ate during the parties and wouldn’t even meet his eye when they passed in the Palace corridors. It troubled Aakrashan greatly to see someone he’d come to love in such torment. He thought that if he could only talk with the Prince, if he could only be with him, things might be better. Prince Deacon might not be so upset. As a bi-product, if he could spend time with Deacon, it would mean that he wouldn’t have to spend time with his father and brother. The Maharaja was all right. A little over bearing and protective, but that was to be expected. Vairaja though, he was near to unbearable. When the Maharaja was around he was kind, but it was a veneer. Vairaja seemed to be catching up on fifteen missed years of tormenting his long lost older brother. He made it very clear that he hated Aakrashan, though he was never certain why.
The week before the Maharaja Virat and his sons were supposed to leave, a large party was thrown by a visiting governor for the royal guests. The Palace was filled with people. Dancers, servants and guests hustled around the great hall, making much commotion. Prince Deacon, who was still sullen, wanted no part of it. While the party was able to move freely around the Palace and grounds, no one had yet decided to visit the Palace gardens. It was there that Deacon decided to more or less hide from the rest of the world. He would have successfully managed to stay there, alone all night, drinking wine until he could no longer see straight if it had not been for Aakrashan.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” asked Aakrashan, stepping out from behind a fig tree. Prince Deacon was sitting on the edge of reflecting pool and he jumped when he heard Aakrashan’s voice.
“Leave me alone, Aakrashan,” slurred the Prince. He was already a good quarter through a bottle of wine. “I don’t want to see you.”
Aakrashan sighed. He sat down next to the Prince. “Friends don’t let friends drink alone,” he said, taking the bottle. The two of them sat in silence for a few moments, looking at their reflections in the water. The night was cool. Too cool for the loose cotton pants they wore. Aakrashan shivered. For whatever reason, the Prince took it as an invitation and put his arms around his former lover.
“I don’t suppose your father will let you stay,” he said into Aakrashan’s neck, holding him tightly. He didn’t realize just how much he’d missed holding Aakrashan. Before the Maharaja had come, before everything went to hell, Deacon and Aakrashan had spent nights tightly pressed against each other as they slept.
“No, I must go with them. I’m to be the next Maharaja, can you believe that?” Aakrashan said. He laughed too, though it was humorless. He realized then that Deacon was crying, silently to himself. As an adult, he’d only seen the Prince cry once before. It was the first night they slept together, the first time they had made love. It seemed so long ago, now.
“You can visit me, in my kingdom, if you want,” he ventured, knowing almost before he said it that the compromise would do nothing to soothe Prince Deacon. Deacon looked up at him. If ever heartbreak had been clearly visible on a human face, it was evident here.
“Stay,” said the Prince. “We can disappear, together. We’ll run away and no one will ever catch us.” He was pleading. Aakrashan wanted to kiss him then. He wanted so much to go back in time, to make things the way they had been.
“But where can we go where they won’t find us?” he asked, stroking Deacon’s hair. “There’s no where. We are trapped, my Prince.”
Prince Deacon stood up, turning his back to Aakrashan. ‘I think,” he began slowly, “that you should call me Deacon, now.” His tone was freezing cold. It was more than Aakrashan could bear. He rushed over to the Prince, wheeled him around and took him by the shoulders.
“I grew up as your friend. I became a man as your lover. You are my Prince and you are my world. Others may be forcing me out of your life but don’t you dare shut me out of your heart.” Aakrashan kissed Deacon then, long and hard.
The two Princes melted together, staggering off the path into the cover of the fig trees. They were together again. The world was right again. Or, more correctly, the world was gone. There were no Maharajas or Empires or future wives. There were only hands and mouths and warm skin against warm skin to worry about. During their lovemaking, Prince Deacon prayed. He prayed that it would go on forever. He prayed that time would stop right then, at that moment and his Aakrashan would never leave him. He prayed that they would simply be, together, for the rest of their lives.
It is unfortunate to note that prayers made in desperation often go unanswered. The two Princes had been so wrapped up in each other that they did not realize they had had an audience through out their entire meeting. While they lay resting in the soft grass, their watcher stepped out onto the path, his sword drawn. Prince Deacon had just fallen over the edge of sleep and lay, cuddled against Aakrashan’s shoulder. He did not feel the shadow fall over himself and his lover. He did not see Prince Vairaja kneel in the grass next to his sleeping brother. The only thing the Prince did feel was Aakrashan jerking awake and crying out in pain as his brother’s sword pierced his gut.
Aakrashan felt strange, awful. His stomach felt like it was on fire. Blinding, searing pain was rushing up from the wound and shocking his brain in waves. He could almost sit up but for some reason, not fully. He looked down at the sword, which was sunken into his stomach to the hilt. Vairaja was smiling over him and Deacon, his wonderful Deacon, was sitting back, mouth gaping. Through the pain and the insanity of seeing a blade buried into one’s own body, he saw Deacon’s mind register what had happen. His face was falling apart. In seconds, he would be screaming. Aakrashan tried to sit up again but, with a flash of pain, he realized why he could not. The sword had gone entirely through his body, pinning him to the ground. He could taste blood in his mouth.
“Scream, and I will cut his throat,” Vairaja said. He had one powerful hand gripping Deacon’s throat and the other held a dagger to Aakrashan’s. “Make one move, one sound and you both die right here, right now.”
Somehow, Aakrashan’s head cleared enough to speak. “Vairaja, why are you doing this?” He asked, pain ripping through his midsection again. Each time he moved, the sword cut him in new and painful ways. Vairaja only smiled.
“My dear, long lost brother,” he said, grinning down at him, “you’re going to die tonight regardless of what your little boyfriend here does. The only question is whether or not you will both die.” He tightened his grip on Deacon’s throat, making him turn red in the face. Deacon struggled, weakly, but the lack of oxygen was already going to his head.
“Why didn’t you just kill us if you plan on it anyway?” Aakrashan asked. His own vision was blurring and when he looked down at his stomach there was blood, a lot of it now, his blood spilling out on the grass.
“I didn’t kill you, dear brother because I wanted you to know why you’re dying,” Vairaja said in a stage whisper. Then, looking up at Deacon he said, “I’m going to let you go now. There is still a chance the doctors may be able to save Aakrashan’s life. If you even think about running or screaming, I’ll kill him immediately and then I’ll kill you.” He let go of Deacon’s throat. Deacon stepped back a little, horrified. He couldn’t pull his eyes from the steady flow of crimson that gurgled out of the wound in Aakrashan’s stomach.
Vairaja seemed thrilled. He leaned down towards Aakrashan, looking him in the eyes. “Well, my dearest big brother, it seems that your timing is most unfortunate. I lived my whole life to this point believing that I would be the next Maharaja. When you died, I was four. I didn’t know what this would mean then, but as I grew, I came to know the power our father possessed. He nearly brought this very Empire to its knees in the last war. But he has a weakness, our father does. Compassion. The Emperor had begged him for peace. They couldn’t withstand the war and begged for an end to it. For once, our father stood firm. The war continued until the last, desperate act was committed. When the soldiers of this pitiful Empire brought back the bodies of his wife and child, our father relented, claiming too much blood stained his hands. I do not share his weakness. This measly excuse for an Empire should have been crushed beneath our boot heels long ago.”
Vairaja paused, as though savoring the thought. Shaking himself out of his revere he continued. “I will correct the mistakes of the past. I will lead our nation to glory. Not you, dear brother. Me.” he smiled again, pressing the knife he held to Aakrashan’s throat a little harder. “Before you turned up, I was going to kill our father. I was going to be made Maharaja. But then the messengers came, telling our father you were alive. He rushed to rescue his eldest son and here we are. When we get home, you’ll be the new Maharaja and I will slip into obscurity. Or at least that is how it is supposed to happen. It won’t though. I will not have my destiny taken away from me by some weakling. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill our father. I will ascend to the throne and then, I will crush this sad little Empire.” Vairaja’s eyes glittered. He had the look of a mad man.
Deacon had heard enough. During Vairaja’s monolog, he’d managed to pull his own dagger from the pile of clothing still laying on the ground where he and Aakrashan had left it seemingly hours ago. He stared at Vairaja and the slowly dying Aakrashan for a moment. His best friend, his lover, and the one person he was closest to in the world lay gasping and bleeding in the grass. Without a moment’s hesitation, Deacon let out an animalistic howl and launched himself at Vairaja. Not expecting an attack, Vairaja dropped his dagger and rolled out of the way. He was unarmed. Deacon attacked again, catching Vairaja across the shoulder with the blade of the knife. Vairaja groaned and finally got to his feet, snatching up the dagger as he did.
The two stood, staring each other down. Deacon faked left first, then right, trying to confuse Vairaja or at least tire him out. The first thing on his mind was to kill this evil Prince. The second was his own Aakrashan. Nowhere did it occur to him that he might be in any actual danger.
Vairaja was well trained, but he lacked patience. The more Deacon dodged and weaved, the angrier Vairaja grew. He allowed his emotions to cloud his judgment and Deacon easily pushed him back, out of the cover of the trees. Finally, Deacon had him backed up against the wall of the reflecting pond. It didn’t matter if he tried for the right or the left, Deacon would have him. To go backwards into the pond was also out because it would slow him down enough that Deacon could easily catch him with one good jump. Vairaja was trapped with no option left but to fight. He lunged, growling at Deacon. His blade sliced a deep gash on Deacon’s arm but the Prince barely noticed. With all his strength, he pushed Vairaja off, sending him staggering back and falling into the pool.
At that moment, he knew he had to get help. He knew he should have run off back into the house to find the guards. But his anger overwhelmed him. Aakrashan lay dying if he wasn’t already dead. Deacon charged into the pool, dagger at the ready.
Vairaja was still trying to get his feet under him when Prince Deacon fell on him, pinning him down. He did not see where he struck with the blade. All Deacon knew was that it went in to human flesh again and again and again. He was screaming something incoherent. Billowing swirls of red spread out around the two of them in the pool. Prince Vairaja had been struck and was still fighting, but he was loosing. The fall had knocked the wind out of him and he couldn’t keep his head above water long enough to catch his breath. Soon, the water went still.
The fight had caught the attention of the party guests, the Maharaja Virat among them. He stood at the edge of the pool, looking at the bloodied Prince Deacon, who still knelt there, the body of the dead Prince Vairaja beneath him. Deacon looked up at him, his eyes still wild, still panting from the exertion. Their eyes met and the Maharaja began screaming.
“Dead! He’s killed him! The Prince has killed my son!” The Maharaja was walking around, grabbing party guests at random and shouting in their faces as though they had challenged his interpretation.
The Emperor fought his way through the crowd just then, just in time to see Prince Deacon climbing out of the pool, naked and covered in blood. As soon as his weight was off the body, the dead Prince Vairaja floated to the surface.
“Deacon?” asked the Emperor. “What’s going on here? What have you done?” Deacon only raised his hand. He walked past the weeping Maharaja and his father over to where Aakrashan still lay. The jewels on the handle of the sword glittered in the moonlight, but Aakrashan’s breath did not stir the sword still lodged in his abdomen. His eyes were open, staring at the sky, blank and lifeless. Deacon sank to his knees in the grass beside the body and began to cry. He pulled the sword from Aakrashan’s stomach. He closed the dead man’s eyes as he lay down beside him, holding him one last time.
He was still weeping when the Maharaja took a handful of Deacon’s hair and yanked him up away from his son’s body.
“Murderer!” He shouted. “I’ll kill you where you stand! You took both my sons from me!” The Maharaja drew his sword and held it to Deacon’s throat. The Prince only stood. His whole body resonated surrender.
“If you’re going to kill me,” he said, wearily, “do it. I have no reason to live any longer.” The Maharaja started to draw the blade across Deacon’s throat, but before he could, Palace guards had swooped in and pulled him off.
The next morning, the Maharaja’s caravan left the Palace. The Emperor begged his forgiveness but the Maharaja would not hear it. In his parting words, he cursed the Emperor saying, “First, you take my wife and my first born son. Then, you bring me here; give me back my child only to take both of my sons from me. You, your son, indeed, your entire Empire will feel my wrath.” Then he addressed the court that had gathered.
“The Prince Deacon has killed both of my children and so I shall extract my revenge on your land. This is a formal declaration of war. This war will persist until every heir to the Empire has been cut down as ruthlessly as my own sons were.”
With that, the Maharaja stormed out of the Palace. It was international law that foreign dignitaries who had come to a place under a flag of peace would leave it and return to their homelands unharmed by the nation they were visiting and thus, so did the Maharaja return to his kingdom and begin his war against our Empire.
The Prince was inconsolable. The war began and, out of sheer spite, the Prince chose a bride. Not long after, they produced an heir to the throne. And his heir produced an heir of his own. And so on and so on until the war had lasted well beyond any of the people who had started it. All of them are long dead, except for one. I am that one.
I can tell you are wondering how that is possible. Well, you see, the Maharaja was a powerful man. In government, he ruled his kingdom. But he did not get to his position through politics alone. He was a master magician as well. That is why I say this war is a curse. If it were a war between men alone, it would have ended centuries ago. But the Maharaja put a curse on this Empire to make the war last until the heirs to our throne are killed by a Prince from their kingdom. He also put a curse on Prince Deacon, or should I say, he put a curse on me. As he left, he swore that I would live to see my great great grand children struck down by one of his heirs.
You don’t believe me, I can tell. It has been a great tragedy of my long life to watch my son, grandson, great grandson and so on ascend the throne, rule through years of war, never knowing peace, and die, each of old age. There are times when I wish that I could put an end to it all. I wonder if I were to facilitate the murder of my great grandchildren, seven generations down the line would it then break the curse on the Empire. They are five and six now; no older than Aakrashan was when he first came to our Empire. It pains me to think that they may never know peace as so many who have come before them have not known it. I think about them and how I might be able to finally put an end to this war. I think about Aakrashan, too. Loving someone for a thousand years is not easy. I also wonder if it might not be better for me to take my own life. I wonder if that would stop the curse or, if it will not, would it stop my curse, my pain and my love? Would the cessation of the beating of my heart finally mend it? I do not know, but I intend to find out.
The End
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