~A KING'S FEAR~

THE KING'S WORDS SEEMED TO TUMBLE repeatedly over the chamber's smooth walls. Latchlon was astounded, baffled, still as a sculpture, and pale as sheet. His brother just told him he had a son. It would have been much, much better if the boy child was a bastard; that they could handle easily, with a bag of gold. All they would need would be a pliable sailor to deliver the child off to some foreign land where he could be discreetly cared for, faraway from the prying eyes all over Syveria.

But a Vampire...

How the fuck would they dispose of such a creature?

A creature of the Night. An enigma of the Crimson Knight.

Latchlon didn't care that the boy was still flesh. He saw the boy as nothing more than a bloodsucker. A fucking Blood Child, he mused. A bloodchild couldn't be accepted on Syverian land. His soldiers would be furious if they found out he harbored the very criminal they so warred against. Latchlon contemplated these musings and then made up his mind.

He turned abruptly to Arlon.

"How do we kill him, Sire?"

"What!" Arlon fired immediately. "Are you mad?"

His voice rose so loud the waters of the pool seemed to shiver. His eyes lit like little flames in their sockets and Latchlon was stunned. It was then, in the king's face of fury that he knew his brother loved the boy. Arlon wanted to keep the boy.

It wasn't the possible threat to the Crown that terrified Latchlon. It was what he feared would happen if men were to discover that the King of the Summerlands had a vampire for a Prince.

"Arlon," he began, trying to sway his heart from its anger. "you can't possibly love the boy..."

"Why?"

"Because he's a fucking bat!"

"HE IS NOT!" Arlon growled in fury. His voice was shockingly powerful, and when the cave echoed them, it became like crashing thunder. "Besides, what do you know? You haven't even met him. You just base your assertions on the hatred ingrained into you from the stories of our childhood. A hatred that began centuries ago. A hatred that isn't even ours. The Night Wars was fought years agone. Why should we still keep enemies of the Otherworlders? They are people too and like it or not, they were once our people."

"Yes, maybe I do hate them," Latchlon fired back, "but those stories are true. Tell me this bloodchild you claim as yours doesn't drink blood? Tell me his eyes aren't colorless as a frothing broth? Tell me his skin isn't pale as dew? Tell me brother?"

"He may be all those things, but he is also a person, open to feelings and desires. You should understand that better than anyone, Latchlon. Afterall, the Blue Cloaks wouldn't really obey your commands if they knew you fucked men."

Latchlon growled deep in his throat but remained silent. He hated when Arlon took a low jab at his sexual inclinations, but he was right; you don't judge a man from hearsay. But that didn't mean Arlon was right to keep the Icelander child. His people could be looking for him.

Latchlon knew in his heart that the Wytcher was here for the child. This vampire lad was the key. The key to everything. The way to capture the Wytcher. The way to dominate the North. Everything. Syveria had the one thing Valkalon wanted.

An Ice child.

If the history from the legends were to be considered of note, Latchlon knew the Icelanders never abandoned their kind. Which meant it was only a matter of time before a horde of the North walked right through the Blood Woods.

They also had what the wizard wanted. If they could also get their hands on the Wytcher, then they could use The Bleeder on him; make him confess out how he journeyed past Eracuse. Make him give out the Ice realm's secrets. Arlon's ward was the key to achieving all these, and they had him. Latchlon found his lips curling in an all-too-familiar sinister smile.

"Where is he?" he asked, looking to his brother.

"The White keep."

"The White fucking Keep?" Latchlon growled. "Does Lord Cranmer know about this?"

Arlon gave a small nod.

"Did he always know?"

Arlon nodded again.

"Fuck!" Latchlon gritted out, his hand moving to his wet hair. He scratched back the yellow-brown strands falling into his eyes. This situation was turning worse than he liked. After a moment of grinding his teeth, he lifted his face to Arlon. "Where by the Seventh Flame did you find him?"

Arlon remained silent.

"Brother?" Latchlon nudged and Arlon looked to him. "Tell me."

"Fine," Arlon toned in reluctance, "I found him at the edge of the Blood Forest."

"What? For fucks sake, Arlon. Just when I think this can't get any worse. What on earth were you doing near that hellish place?"

"Geralt," Arlon replied. A one word answer.

"Lord Geralt?"

"Yes. Lord Geralt. He suggested we go for a stroll around Calipsos. It was after the coronation and I was feeling a bit dour. We found Marsil as we traversed the borders of the northern villages..."

"Wait," Latchlon interrupted, "who's Marsil?"

"My son! Dammit. Are you listening to anything I'm saying?" Arlon fired. Latchlon pinned him with angry blue eyes that mirrored his in ire. The brothers fell silent and just rested in the pool, watching the warm water swirl around their bodies.

"Who exactly found this bloodchild of yours?" Latchlon asked. His face was turned away and he voiced his speech without looking to the king.

"A guard," Arlon replied. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Latchlon's jaw clench in fury. "...don't worry. The guard won't talk. I handled it."

Latchlon's head remained bowed as he said.

"By handled it, I presume you ordered a secret assassination?"

"No," Arlon gasped at the stiffness in Latchlon's tone. "Why ever would you think that. I swore him to secrecy."

Latchlon turned then and Arlon saw the fire in his eyes.

"Really, brother?" he growled, "You are telling me the officer that found this vampire child has been alive all these years. Do you know the number of other officers he must've told by now—"

"His name is Marsil, not vampire child."

"I don't give a shit what the bloodsucker's name is. Tell me the guard's name and I will see to it that he remains silent." Latchlon meant to kill him.

A while passed and Arlon said nothing.

"Sire, I need his name. This is bigger than you or your ward. While your safety is also important, this secret threatens the Crown. This revelation of yours is now a matter of the entire realms and it's my duty to protect this realm," he paused of a moment, "Now please, Your Majesty. Tell me the officer's name."

"I think he's one of the Archers, down at the south gate tower. Ser Rolan Smithy."

"Thank you, Sire. Now, speak to no one else of this while I handle it, alright?"

Arlon gave a slight nod. Latchlon swam close and gripped him on the shoulder.

"It will be fine brother."

With that said, he clapped him once on the back. His hand came off wet from Arlon's skin as he waded away. He lifted up the water and trickles fell down his skin, swirling with the steam. He grabbed a loose cloak to the side and dried off his body.

In a few moments, a long robe of dark material was wrapped around his large frame as he bounded towards the chamber's exit.

He was few metres shy of the entryway when Arlon's voice stopped him.

"Lord Commander," the voice was thick. The pitch of a King, and Latchlon knew his brother now talked to him as a monarch. He turned swiftly around.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he answered, bowing slightly.

"You shall tell me of all your plans, and you will ensure that Marsil is not harmed."

"Is that your only fear, Sire? The boy?"

Arlon's lips tightened. Latchlon on seeing this immediately schooled his tongue.

"Yes, Your Majesty. As you wish. I assure you no harm shall come to the boy..." He met Arlon's hard face and quickly corrected his speech. "...no harm shall come to Marsil."

"Good," Arlon said. "You may leave now, Lord Commander."

Latchlon bowed and took a step out, disappearing down the stone archway. Arlon remained in the pool until noon. All of his thoughts were about his son, and as he watched the steam play with his skin, he was quickly discovering that Marsil was his only real fear.

He feared the boy's safety.

In a kingdom with betrayers lurking everywhere, who was there to trust. Arlon feared he had just sent Marsil into the open mouth of a serpent.