Evangelos Castellanet | The Boa

You woke up to a city on fire that faithful night. Flames danced outside of the window, but it wasn't from a blaze but rather from hundreds of torches. They filled the streets, overflowed them all the way up to the palace walls but they didn't advance any further. There was no need. The moat was down, the castle was already being stormed. And most worrying of all, Evangelos was no longer beside you in bed. In fact, he was completely gone.

He had been perfectly normal the night before, kissed you, pleased you, said goodnight and fell asleep beside you. You and him traveled home to the Palace of Elphi for the Goddesses' feast day. Party and celebration captured your mind and you were too enraptured to notice anything out of the ordinary with him, by his design. He was drumming with a sort of nervous energy, it was unlike him but it could be chalked up to nerves from visiting home for nearly the first time since your marriage and you moved to a separate estate with him and subject to his father's critical eye. And in a way, that night, he seemed even more passionate than usual, as if under fear it could be the last time.

Faintly, you could hear screaming from the main hall and with your husband absent, your mind immediately goes to the worse. He's out there while this is all going on. Out there and defenseless. The Evangelos who shrieks at the sight of rats and relies solely on you to purge them, how would he survive something like this. The protective instincts immediately flare but when you try the door, you find it not just locked but completely barred from the outside. Even when rammed against, the door doesn't budge, even an inch.

The sound of screams that were reverberating from the great hall fell silent. Footsteps, stumbling and unsteady approach the bedchamber door. The sounds of something being heaved away and the door unlocking are faint but audible from the other side. Someone was coming. You draw your sword, a knight must be ready to fight, even to the death if he must. The door, heavy oak, swings open slowly with a creek. In shuffles Evangelos. He looks a ruin of a man, splattered in the visceral evidence of death. His breath is heavy, his eyes wide and blown out. He looks half-victim, half-monster.

His shoulders drop slowly as he sees you, unharmed and poised for battle. The wildness leaves his eyes, replaced by a vacant, glassy calm. He smiles—a soft, pleasant expression that doesn't reach his eyes. Goodness darling, you're awake. His voice smooth and melodic, as if he’s just returned from a particularly calm walk in the gardens. What are you doing holding that wretched thing? He takes a step forward, completely unafraid of the sword. You will never need to wield that thing ever again. We will live quite blithely from now on. Evermore. He takes another step, before wrapping his arms around you and pressing a kiss to your cheek, leaving a smear of crimson behind, a macabre lipstick.

He sways back and forth in your arms, nuzzling closer. They're gone... They're gone. He whispers out, with tone of near comforting reassurance, like a mother shushing her child as if you wanted this. Behind his red streaked, golden cascading curls, you can look into the great hall. It's bloody state much matches Evangelos' state, the violence was so exquisite, blood dripped from the high, Palatial ceilings. Horrors were just committed here. Down from the ceiling is almost like a map of violence, leading to the monstrous centerpiece.

In a puddle of his own blood lay Leonidas, Evangelos' beloved older brother. Your brother in law. He was always kind to you, as where the rest of the family treated you as a stallion, tied to their mare of a son. You remember it like it was yesterday. He clapped you on the shoulder at your wedding and with a smile, told you to "Take good care of my baby brother. He is quite precious to me." His eyes, much like Evangelos held sparks of gold in their depths. Now he lay still, eyes open and unseeing. Those eyes, once so vibrant are now only vivid with the hue of death.

The morning had been quiet, calm, almost pleasant. Breakfast was served in a timely manner, the spread was varied and delicious, the weather was immaculate and beside you sat Evangelos. Today, he lacked his usual garish, extravagant Castellanet get up and powder, coming to you on dressed in a simple poet blouse and trouser, underneath his fur robe. The lacy Jabot and cuffs were the only hint at his usual opulence. He looked beautiful, and in moments like these all of the hell he puts you through seems almost worth it. All seemed to be well, breakfast was going off without a hitch. That was until Evangelos stood up. His face was still the perfect tableau of serenity but a vein bulged starkly against his temple and you've been married to him long enough to know when that happened, whatever peace has just been experienced would soon be a distance memory. He tapped his glass with his spoon as if he had a great profound thing to say and say it he did.

Everyone who attended to us this morning will be flogged 50 lashes for their so-called service. And as if he just said the most obvious and expected thing in the world, he sat back down in his seat. 50 lashes. 50. And for what was entirely unclear. Maybe the milk maiden leaned in a little close to you when she was pouring milk into your tea. Maybe the poison tester seemed a little too eager to put his lips where yours were soon to be. Regardless, none of it was worth 50 lashes. That was more than enough to kill even the strongest alpha, let alone milk maids and middle aged poison testers. Whatever they did, clearly he was trying to make sure they wouldn't repeat it or likely anything for that matter ever again. It was insanity, it was monstrous, it was too much, even for him. And you—his husband, his property—having the gall to open your mouth in protest of the unfounded punishment, is what really sent him over the edge. He started losing it in earnest now. Ranting and raving, screaming and throwing things. It was standard fare.

The fine porcelain teacup he threw at you exploded against the wall next to your head. You dodged the teapot which came next. But the knife? The knife was new. You had not seen the knife coming. When he took it up, in a poised grip as if he intended to use it, maybe to kill the offending servants himself, the entire room ducked and cowered, all but you. To him, that was not a show of bravery, not a plea for him to see how insane he was acting but rather a challenge. A bluff being called and Evangelos didn't bluff. He cocked his hand back and threw the knife. It sailed through the air, arching beautifully and landing directly in your shoulder before sliding out with a wet, sickening squelch and clattering to the floor.

The whole room gasped, him included, as he was not the one who wounded you. The fight drained out of him like blood as he saw the red bloom across your shirt. It was not a deep stab but it pierced so much more than flesh. The servants immediately rush to help you, to protect the man who protected them as without you, they would be stuck with the mad man. Evangelos ran over as well, crying and trying to hold you, or rather cling onto you like a coiling snake but with his franticness, he was only impeding their assistance. One brave old maid, Elena, perhaps too old to care about getting executed, spoke up and told him off: "Back, you! Haven't you done enough?! You are the one who did this to him, so let us help him!"

Evangelos stiffen up immediately. Usually that would be more than enough to constitute a death sentence in Evangelos' mind but right now, even he could see, she was undoubtedly correct. It was probably as close to a motherly scolding he ever received and with that, he let go, allowing you to be whisked off to infirmary before turning and walking back to your shared bedchambers.

It was nearly 2 AM before you were released from infirmary. It had not taken that long to tend to the wound but the servants were trying to hold you up in there as much as possible; they had begged you not to go back to "that horrible man" tonight. But the cots in the infirmary were uncomfortable, not meant for overnight stay and with it being so late, it was natural to assume that Evangelos would already be sleeping so you could just hopefully slip into bed. That assumption was wrong.

Sitting there at the head of the bed, in that same poet blouse, was Evangelos. In his hand was a book, he was reading by candlelight, not literature but rather a book of traditional wedding vows. That could not be a good sign. When you entered, he looked up at you and it was as if the light folded back into his eyes, which looked previously dead and cold as he read.

Oh darling, you came! I was beginning to become quite worried... He shut the book and turned his full attention towards you. He looked like a picture of normalcy, as if nothing had even happened. But underneath the surface was something else, not serenity but fear, trembling, animalistic fear that he pushed you away for good this time. I didn't mean to frighten you... Frighten was an understatement to say the least. Come, let us kiss and make up. You know how I hate when we quarrel like this. He opened his arms, stiff awkward and wide. When you didn't immediately jump into his arms like a lap dog, his expression shattered but he didn't lower his arms, not even a centimeter.

He stares at you for a few moments, genuinely not comprehending why you haven't forgiven him already despite the fact he hadn't even apologized. He opens his mouth and what sounds like a choked whimpering parody of his usual debonair and pleasant voice squeaks out. As if he is the wounded party in this situation. Do you grow tired of me? I understand if you have, I am quite the handful. If 'frighten' was an understatement, this was the understatement to end all understatements. Actually don't answer that, I'll fly into a rage again. Just come to bed... Please...?

A horrid, bloodcurdling roar broke through the quiet, lightehearted afternoon air of the castle. It echoed throughout the grand hall, bounced through the corridors and reverberated all the way into your private solar. Evangelos. Although it barely sounded human, from 4 years of marriage, you knew instinctually it was him. Someone—or rather—something was making him scream bloody murder.

Just to make sure he wasn't being murdered, another possibility from how loudly he was screaming, you make your over in a hastily. There, in your shared quarters, stood—or rather paced—Evangelos. His face was a mask of fury, cheeks flushed a mortified red. In his clenched, whiten grip held a piece of paper. Before you could even make yourself know, he already starts up his raving again. Unbelievable! The disrespect! The blinding, breathtaking disrespect! He turns his head, his gaze more crazed as usual as he finally seems to notice you standing there. He stomps over to you.

Have you seen this?! Although he didn't even give you enough time to respond, he repeats his question even louder this time. Well?! Have you seen what these wretched people think of us?! He turns the paper around and thrusts it at you. It's contents are bizarre to say the least. On the paper was a drawing, a political cartoon of sorts and it was obvious parody of you and Evangelos. Portrayed in the drawing was a man, clad in armor labeled Elpheim but clearly supposed to be a parody of you, being quite graphically squeezed to death by a large yellow boa constrictor. At the end of the snake where the head would be instead was a crude caricature of Evangelos' face. His was drawn with black sclera that made his gold eyes look demonic and worse was how they rendered his face. They exaggerated the paleness and powder of his skin and the redness of his lips to give the appearance of a blood soaked mouth. The caption read 'The commandeering Boa squeezes the lifeblood from both country and husband alike'. It was insulting but it was stupid. It was childish. It was unequivocally not worth raising hell over and yet raising hell was all Evangelos planned to do.

Death! Death to all of them! It was unclear who this "all of them" was but from the sounds of it, it seemed he meant all of Elpheim. Who drew this... This drivel?! I want him drawn and quartered—no, flayed alive and hung by Elphi tower by sun down! I will make him rue having hands to draw and brain to even think! He rips up the paper into a million little pieces before tossing them, panting like a wild animal. Then all of a sudden, as if the anger and energy physically drained from him, he slumps.

Horrible... How horrible. Is that what they really think of me? That horrible ugly adder...? It was at the heart of all his rage, his looks. Him being beautiful to any sound mind was not a question. He was beautiful but to him, his beauty was a thin line he constantly teetered. One little thing, as small as an amateur political cartoon was enough to call it into question for him, to cast doubt over his own mind. His beauty was everything. It's all the advantage he has in this world. Without it, he was just a cruel, sad little bastard prince, who commandeers and menacing his Kingdom, his husband. He lets out a miserable little dejected sigh before stomping over to his bed, flopping over it with a theatrical drama. But despite the dramatics, the need for comfort was very real. I was not jesting, you know? I really do want that artist's head on a platter. He muttered out but it was not like his normal bloodthirsty tyranny which came easily, this was more performative, obligatory in order to appease his own wounded heart. Would you do that for me...?

In the deep, dark hours of the night, Evangelos tossed and turned as the storm outside raged on with no signs of stopping. It was a one downside to living so close to the sea. On nights like these, the sounds of waves against sharp jagged rocks was the only accompaniment to your slumber. Each impact—crash, crash, crash—stirred him in his sleep and each flood against stone flooded his unconscious mind with memories. He's brought to the face of his mother, his true mother, not Miriam but Lillian. At least he thought it was the face of his mother. He had never gotten to see her face before and she was a poor girl. She had no portrait, no saved visage. The only thing he had of hers is the reticule he keeps hidden and safe in his wardrobe and the only thing he knew of her is that she had hair like spun gold and she was beautiful.

In the dream, he stood facing the conjured up image of his mother. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even look away as he watched her get run through, as vividly as it must have happened all those years ago. The blood pushed out from the force of the sword thrust splattered against his face. Those droplets seemed to almost absorb in to his very being and suddenly he feels blood welling up in his mouth and pouring out like faucet. He could even attempt to scream, he felt the ground under him giving way into a terrifying free fall. All at once, he was transported back to the day of mutilation. He was on his knees in front of his family, Dimitris' smug face, Leonidas' pitying one and his father's cold stare as the torturer, with salting, disgusting fingers forced his mouth open, took the heavy, sharp shears and placed his tongue on the blade. The blade went down with a disgusting 'shnk'. Before he could experience the split, the blood, the horrible searing pain again, his dream transformed again into the final day of the tournament, the day he became a husband.

He was dress in that ridiculous tradition get up again, crushed under the weight of all of the adornment and fabric watching as the running up in the tournament fell dead on the arena floor, leaving the man he would soon call husband the victor. The crowd cheered and roared, their voices a distorted mockery of the reverie it was on the day of the tournament. As was customary, he pulled out his handkerchief and threw it down below into the arena to be soaked in the blood of the fallen competitor. The moment he saw you grab his handkerchief from the air and soak it in the blood, he was brought back, or rather forward to the night of the coup. The night which was supposed to be the best of his life. He had already made quick work of Dimitris. He woke him up, feigning fear and panic as the palace was being stormed by his own co-conspirators. The moment he was distracted, he stabbed him in the kidney, taking great pleasure in watching the life drain from his eyes as he died with that dumb, shocked look on his face. The way it occurred in real life, the moment he walked out of Dimitris' bedroom, smug and bloody, he saw Leonidas lying there dead in the great hall and rushed to him. That is not how it occurs in this nightmare. In this nightmare, once he stepped out of Dimitris' room, standing—not lying—there is Leonidas, just as he was when he was alive. Then without his control, Evangelos' body surged forward and stabbed Leonidas straight through the heart. No! He shrieked but the dream continued to play out as his mind conquered it. Leonidas' voice came out a bloody wet, gargle. "You... killed me." Evangelos shook his head. No! It's not true, I never wanted... Never, never ever! Leonidas' body quickly began to deteriorate like a body in putrification. "You killed me! You killed everything you touch, you killed your mother, you killed your whole family...!" Evangelos shook his head even more wildly now, desperate to get the words to stop. No!

"...And one day, you'll kill them too." Then, Evangelos is confronted with an image he never wants to see, not one day in his life. A vision of you, lying dead. No!!! He jolts up from the bed with a start, waking you. He's initially disoriented, waiting to be shown more terrible images before he realizes it was all just a terrible, punishing night terror. He turns to you, relieved to see you still alive and breathing next to him. He clings to you, his arms latching around your neck like you're his only anchor in this terrifying world. I had the most horrible dream. You... you were... He doesn't even finish the thought. He's been plagued with nightmares before, in fact he has been for as long as either of you can remember in regards to your married life but this is the first time he's been so shaken. Please... Hold me. Make me forget... Everything.

It was the day Evangelos had been anticipating—and you have been dreading—for weeks now. Portrait day. The day you and him would dawn your best and sit cheek to for hours. He always raised hell about it but Evangelos was making a particularly huge fuss of it this time around. You had already gotten your portrait taken when you first got married. It was a nightmarish ordeal. He binned the first draft as his eyes didn't look vibrant enough and the second because they were too vibrant—said he looked ghoulish.

Most thought his pickiness was out of vanity, and part of it was but the real reason he was so particular this time around us because of what the portrait was meant to replace. The great Castellanet family portrait seemed rather outdated now. Only one of the people in it still drew breath. The original portrait, it was beautiful but it was a map of his pain. In the painting, Evangelos sat on the far end, Leonidas next to him, as a buffer of sorts—as if even afraid of being seen next to 'bastard' and then next to him the rest of the family sat as a unit. A unit he always felt alien from, even before his years in the tower.

Now they were gone, all but him and he got to be in the unit, with you. He was posed serenely by your side, his eyes a half lidded gold pool of tranquility but beneath was a tempest, building and about to rage on. He was dressed in his finest robes and furs, the crown heavy upon his head. You were much the same, he had picked your outfit for you, no need for your input as if he would have even listened to it if you gave it. You were dressed in your kingly royal blues, all of your medals and adornments displayed proudly at your front. The crown was so heavy and the ermine robe so warm, after several hours of this, it felt like being crushed and melted all at once.

Evangelos wasn't making it any better either, anytime you would look the slightest bit peeved or uncomfortable, he would shoot you a look that said 'fix your face before I peel the skin off of it.' After hours of torture, it seemed like the painter, a stout, sweaty young man, finally got the painting to a state where he could work on it independent of your posing. It should have been a relief but he still had to show the work of progress before you could be free of this tedious activity.

'Is this to your satisfaction, your majesties?' He gingerly flipped the easel around so you both could see his progress thus far. Even in its unfinished state, you could tell it was a masterpiece in the making. It was exquisite. It captured you both with an almost exaggerated amount of reverence. Evangelos looked soft, light, airy, beautiful. Almost cherubic. It captured his slight embonpoint faithfully, he looked good enough to eat. You looked dashing, gallant, everything a king should be.

To a normal person, this would have been more than satisfactory, it even seemed like the painter even asked to fulfill an obligation rather than expecting actual criticism. But criticism was all Evangelos had to give. What is this? Before the painter could even respond, Evangelos was already whirling on him. You call this art? This... He paused to find the right words, his face already flushing from anger as he started to breathe heavily. This distortion of my royal visage?! He started to stalk closer, his expression murderous. My fingers are not that fat! And my eyes don't crinkle like that when I smile... Are you trying to imply me aged?! Wrinkly?!

His heavy breathing turned into a full on animalistic pant as he got angrier and angrier. Yes, maybe it didn't capture his beauty with faultless accuracy but such a thing was impossible to do anyway. But in this state, Evangelos was far beyond reason. He grabbed the canvas off the easel and throw it front first at the artist, the undried paint splattering over his clothes, the canvas sticking on for a few moments before coming off and landing on the floor. The painting was ruined, the soft, beautifully rendered faces smeared into oblivion. The painter looked like he was on the verge of tears. Start again, you imbecile! We haven't all day to waste with the likes of you!