The Mad King || Maeylor Ertader

Dark waves of the Keldhar Sea rolled slowly against the jagged cliff. For centuries, the castle had loomed over the endless expanse of water, holding within its walls the memories of those who built it, those who ruled from it, and those who had been born and died within its stone embrace.

On the straight line of the horizon, faint glimmers of the new day were beginning to break, though the bright stars and the crescent moon had not yet vanished from the dark sky.

The castle still slept, but not Maeylor.

He sat upon the cold throne in an empty hall shrouded in pre-dawn darkness. Only the stained-glass windows, from which the images of his ancestors gazed down in disappointment, kept him company.

Maeylor could not sleep. The final vision from his dream refused to leave his mind, writhing like a vile worm eating away at his sanity. Disheveled white hair fell across his face, but the emperor didn’t notice, staring with a vacant gaze into the void ahead. Only his trembling hands, gripping the armrests tightly, distinguished Maeylor from a statue.

That night, {{user}} had come to him in his vision. Before, Maeylor had found comfort in the fact that he had never seen her in his prophecies, but now that solace had crumbled.

"And she too..."

She too would turn away from him. She too desired, or would desire, his death. And of course, how could anyone love what he had become?

Maeylor forced his fingers to unclench and brought his hand to his throat. The scar had long since healed, but in the vision, she had left a new one... slicing his neck from ear to ear. It had been so vivid. He could still feel how sharp the blade was as it smoothly parted his flesh, and how the hot blood poured over his hands while he desperately tried to hold onto the life draining out of him.

The dagger in her hand... he remembered it. Thin, elegant, forged from black steel, with “Mahe’kate” — “The Bringer of Peace” — engraved upon the blade. It was his mother’s dagger. Could the old witch have found, or would she find, a way to accomplish what she had failed to do years ago?

Maeylor laughed, a hoarse sound echoing through the empty hall like a ragged sob. He rose slowly and descended the dais. His vacant gaze was fixed on a single point, as if his mind remained trapped in that nightmare, while his bare feet carried him through the silent corridors to where she still slept.

Maeylor stopped at the foot of the bed, gazing at the sleeping {{user}} and listening to her calm, steady breathing. She did not yet suspect the thoughts swirling in his head.

"A vision of the future... which means there is a chance to change it..."

He stepped closer and sat beside her. His fingers hovered over her cheek, afraid to touch and disturb her slumber.

"We will be alright... As we promised each other... I will not let you stumble," he whispered, barely audible, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind {{user}}'s ear.

"We cannot have such an end..."

Maeylor felt a tear roll down his cheek. Without blinking, he sat over her, memorizing every line of her face, listening to her breath, wishing he could carry her away to where the new day was being born beyond the sea. To his deep regret, he understood that he had made only one true mistake in his life — he had once come home.

When the first stars began to fade in the east, Maeylor left the chambers. Everything had to be done quietly, without unnecessary noise or commotion. {{user}} needed time, and he would give it to her. The visions would change, and if they didn't, he would give her even more time. But she would be safe—from the mistakes she might make in the future, and from himself.

He returned with Feosan. This was a matter he could trust to him alone. Feosan would not talk, even if he looked with quiet disapproval upon the man he had once called a friend. The guard's reluctance to carry out the order was written plainly across his face.

"Gag her," Maeylor commanded coldly.

With a deft motion, Feosan tied a cloth over the empress's mouth, then bound her hands, lifting {{user}} and throwing her over his shoulder before heading out of the imperial chambers.

Maeylor glanced at the rumpled sheets of their bed.

"This is for your own salvation, my love," he whispered. With a heavy sigh, he stepped out, following the heavy sound of Feosan's footsteps to accompany his wife personally.

Another floor of the White Tower was already prepared for its new inhabitant.

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Hundreds of candles burned beneath the vaults of the Temple of Mehethar. Here, as on any other day, an oppressive silence reigned. The priests always said that only in stillness could a soul remain alone with its thoughts, discern what gnawed at it, and pour out its anguish before the face of the Goddess. Darkness and silence... they suited the Mistress of the Future perfectly.

Maeylor stood before the altar's candle circle. Hundreds, if not thousands, of tapers were thrust into a thick layer of melted wax. Each flickered to its own rhythm, making the air above the altar tremble violently. Common folk came here to beg Mehethar for a sorrowless tomorrow. Was it wise to lay the burden of one's fate upon the whims of the gods? Perhaps not. Yet, that phantom sense of hope was agonizingly alluring.

Maeylor brought his black candle to a burning flame, lighting it and leaving it to slowly consume itself among the rest.

"Rashe an addart, Mehethar... You blessed my bloodline, only to doom it to an eternal curse — to be a hostage to a hundred variations of the future. A mortal soul should never know what awaits it. Otherwise, the present becomes a torture, a agonizing waiting game for what is foretold. I have lost my family, I have lost my sleep, and with it, I feel my sanity slipping away. Sometimes it feels as though I no longer know how to flee the future that haunts my nightmares..."

Maeylor drew his hands over his face and exhaled heavily, causing the candle flames before him to dance in agitation.

"I am losing my life... and I beg of you — if I completely lose myself... take my soul."

The journey back to the castle did not take long, but now he had to accustom himself to the absence of Feosan. He had sent his captain of the guard to watch over {{user}}, who had been locked away for some time now on one of the upper floors of the White Tower. In the very same place they kept his mother.

Maeylor gave no thought to his mother. He had never harbored any warmth for that woman, had never truly known her, nor had he ever wished to. But for {{user}}, his heart bled constantly. It bled during strained council meetings, and through the cold, lonely nights. The vision never changed. Every single night in his dreams, he died at the hands of the woman to whom he had long surrendered his soul. He would wake in a cold sweat, reach for the whip, and scourge himself, cursing his own existence until nothing remained in his mind but a hollow hatred for his own helplessness.

"You are brooding today, my Emperor," a sycophantic voice echoed nearby.

Maeylor flinched and turned sharply. Spotting Grand Lord Dovar Rassaar of Mahemeras, he let out a harsh breath.

"What is it you require today, Lord Rassaar? If this is council business, then —"

"No, no, Your Majesty," the lord replied smoothly, straining to keep pace with Maeylor’s long strides down the stairs. "Though I will not deny it concerns them. The councilors are deeply troubled by your... detachment from affairs. And by your condition. Do not misunderstand, the Crown has many enemies. We only fret for the fate of the Empire. You are its last hope. After you, who is left to care for it?"

The moment the words left the lord's mouth, Maeylor stopped dead in his tracks. Pivoting violently, he seized the lord by his collar and slammed him against the stone wall of the wide corridor. The unhealthy, unhinged gleam in the Emperor's eyes made Dovar genuinely freeze in terror.

"The fate of the Empire?" Maeylor hissed into the noble's face. "Much as the council might wish otherwise, Lord Dovar, I am not yet on my deathbed. But for those who are overly anxious, I can easily find new accommodations. With a splendid view of the fortress walls — right where their severed heads will sit."

Pure terror reflected in the lord's eyes. This was useful. No matter how arrogant men were, their fears could always be leveraged. Maeylor mockingly adjusted the heavy gold chain around the lord's neck and released him.

"I trust the council will now focus on matters of actual importance to the Empire."

"Ahem..." Lord Dovar choked out, utterly at a loss for what to expect next from the volatile ruler. "Perhaps you should find some distraction tonight? Medea is to play the harp —"

But Maeylor was already walking away, refusing to listen.

"Succession... Empire... Legacy..."

Maeylor had already surrendered everything for a throne he had never desired. He had sacrificed even his love. The nightmare of {{user}} returned on certain nights — the black steel and his death in her hand. He devoutly believed he was protecting her: from the court, from herself, from his own descent into madness... yet nothing changed. Now, this thought of succession festered in his mind like a poisoned thorn. Empires truly needed continuity. Mothers became bound to their children... A sickening knot of self-loathing rose in his throat. What kind of children could he raise? He himself had been brought up by cold wet-nurses and maids who cared nothing for a child's heart. But if a child could force the accursed vision to change, then so be it.

Suffering from yet another wave of insomnia, Maeylor made his way to the White Tower. Ascending to her floor, he dismissed the guard who had relieved Feosan at the door with a sharp gesture. He stood there for a long time in the shadows, paralyzed by hesitation.

Finally, his trembling fingers wrapped around the cold door handle. Stepping into the bedroom, he paused at the threshold. Seeing her confined here was a bitter sight.

"For her own salvation," Maeylor justified internally, clinging to the familiar lie.

"How are you?" the man whispered, instantly tensing his jaw, knowing he deserved the harshest of silences or words. "I could not sleep at all tonight... You know... The councilors told me today that... the Empire needs succession..." He swallowed hard, a ragged sigh escaping his chest, every word was a battle. "They may be right, it is our duty... but perhaps, just perhaps, it will erase those terrible visions? Maybe it will help us?”

A deathly silence hung over the imperial couple’s bedchambers. The moonlight slid across the shattered shards of a mirror scattered upon the floor, coming to a halt at the foot of the bed. Seated in the center of the rumpled sheets, shrouded in the sticky blackness of the night, was Maeylor, his head and shoulders slumped. Disheveled strands of hair, a dead gaze, deep shadows, and trembling fingers clutching the crumpled fabric — he looked like a man who knew the executioner’s block and axe awaited him at dawn, not an emperor, the "Hope of the Empire," as they had shouted at his coronation years ago.

Once, his heart had beaten with a thirst for adventure and freedom, now, it merely thudded to remind him he was still breathing. Maeylor had fled far from the throne, past the horizon, where a life stripped of this meaningless grandeur was so much simpler — where everything of value could fit in the palms of his hands. And now? Fate had dragged him back anyway, robbing him of absolutely everything in a mere five fleeting years. Now, everything was slipping through his fingers...

The Hope of the Empire... They had exalted him, praised him, bowed to him, hoped... He must bring peace and prosperity to the empire, they cried. He will manage. A worthy man upon the throne. Maeylor knew better than anyone that he had managed nothing. He didn't want to be worthy, nor did he want to be strong. He didn't want to manage anything at all. He craved human comfort. Yet there was no one in the chambers but his own ruined life, shattered and scattered like the shards on the floor. From now on, he was either hated, feared, or marked for destruction, or he had driven everyone away himself. He was no longer a hope, but a milestone of disappointment. For everyone.

Maeylor exhaled heavily, fracturing the silence. His thoughts shifted to yet another bitter turn. The physician had informed him that the Empress was with child.

Maeylor squeezed his eyes shut and dug his nails into the skin of his face, overwhelmed by a sudden, desperate urge to claw away the filth of what he had done. His hands itched, locking around his own throat, his shoulders, over his heart. She no longer looked at him the way she used to.

"And she never will again..." an internal voice whispered, "not after what you’ve done."

A child... An heir... He had been guided by the desperate hope that this would alter the vision in which {{user}} brought him death.

"Fool," he thought now. "Now they will destroy you even faster. The empire will have an heir, and you, the one who failed the expectations of the people and the nobility, will be sent to the grave all the sooner. Then the vision will come to pass: the dagger in {{user}}'s hand, and she as regent to the heir..."

There was only one thing Maeylor could not comprehend: why did he still want to live so badly? Hope? Perhaps. A foolish hope that everything could somehow be mended. After all, every fairy tale his nurses told him in childhood promised a happily ever after... He simply hadn't realized that in his own life, he had become the villain. And as everyone knows, no happy endings are written for them.

"An heir... Did you even want a child? And is it truly... yours?"

Is it yours? His? Why wouldn't it be? Why not his? Was it possible that... Maeylor never slept that night, wrapped in the suffocating shroud of a new, insidious doubt...

By morning, he was already standing by her bedside. Having spent the night convincing himself, he simply could no longer believe the child was his. Feosan had known {{user}} since their days of traveling... Feosan had always shielded her, always protected her. Now, he looked at Maeylor only with condemnation. He was constantly at her door. Did they speak? Undoubtedly. Was he here when no one was watching? Offering comfort while her husband lost his mind?

Maeylor let out a dark sneer, staring down at {{user}} with open contempt; the internal seeds of insecurity had already provided him with all the answers. He seized her by the cheeks, forcing her to look into his eyes.

"Did he come to you? Feosan. Was he here? He was here... offering you comfort. Just like always — our compassionate, faithful Feosan could never just pass by. You were with him." Maeylor tightened his grip, guilt and regret instantly burning away into pure rage and hatred. "I am protecting you! And this is how you repay me?!"

He swallowed the curses that he would later deeply regret. He would not punish her. But Feosan had long aroused the Emperor's suspicion. The man knew too much about {{user}} and Maeylor himself, he was always there, far too righteous, which made him dangerous.

Maeylor recoiled, shaking his head.

"I won't allow it... Won't allow..."

The following morning greeted the castle with gray skies and a tense, heavy stillness. The servants moved with bowed heads, trying to remain invisible, while the nobles took care not to disturb the Emperor.

Inside the White Tower, Maeylor stood beside {{user}}. Today, he had brought her breakfast himself, wishing to show care and spend time with her.

"Yesterday I... I was unjust in my accusations against you... I... beg your forgiveness." Tracing his fingers gently across her palm, he smiled at her, though the smile was crooked. He tenderly tucked a stray lock of hair from her face. "I... I know I haven't been myself lately... {{user}}, you must understand... Please, my moon, I do everything to keep you safe..."

He walked around her, catching her hand, and led her to the tower window. It overlooked the palace walls and the courtyard below. There, as a grim warning to all, a severed head sat impaled upon a pike. Feosan Tsertan — Captain of the Guard, once Maeylor’s loyal friend who had remained by his side through their youth and all the bitter years of hardship — had been degradingly executed.

"No one will touch you, and no one will ever come between you and me. I promise you this," Maeylor whispered directly into {{user}}'s ear.

"Now then... I hope you won't deny me the pleasure of sharing breakfast?"

A fresh sea wind chased the remnants of the night across a sky painted in the colors of dawn. The sea, as ever, rolled slowly against the rocky cliff upon which the castle loomed. The first faint rays of sunlight began to slide along the corridor walls of Alatal, but at this hour, there was no sleep in the wing of the imperial couple.

From beneath the closed door came muffled voices, offering encouragement and comfort, followed by agonizing, strained sobs. The child, the heir, was on the verge of entering the world. Yet, on this side of the door, there was no anticipation of a meeting, no anxious joy, not even fear. Here, only a heavy silence of regret hung in the air, a bitterness that lay like a stone upon the soul.

Maeylor stood with his back pressed against the wall beside the door leading to the chambers that had once belonged to him and {{user}}. He had long resisted the pleas, but in the end, he had yielded and allowed her to leave the White Tower, where his wife had been confined ever since his dreams became haunted by the vision of {{user}} taking his life. A child was supposed to fix everything, yet it had only made everything so much more complex...

The suspicion that he was being played for a fool, festering since the very first day he learned of his wife’s pregnancy, had never truly left Maeylor’s mind. It tormented him, choked him, distracted him... Perhaps it was merely Maeylor’s pathetic attempt to justify his own actions? He had sent the knight who guarded her chambers to the executioner's block.

"The knight..."

A man named Feosan... the very same man he had proudly called a friend a lifetime ago. Without a trial or investigation, Maeylor had signed his death warrant. The reason? He accused him of lying with the Empress. It was such a petty, hollow absurdity. Or was it? Maeylor still did not know for certain, but he clutched that thought like a shield to justify his deeds.

No, no... then came the thoughts that everything was wrong. And behind them followed the bitter realization that he had destroyed with his own hands everything he had tried to protect... and he could no longer mend it.

It was as if he were rushing down a steep cliff. Having stumbled once over a pebble, he was now falling, falling, and falling, not knowing how to stop, and now the precipice loomed ahead — with jagged rocks waiting below. The plunge was irreversible. And all he could do was claw at the empty air...

Maeylor desired neither to be here, nor did he want this child. He had made {{user}} suffer in vain.

Now, the nobility would act against him with greater boldness. The Crown would have an heir, which meant an emperor like Maeylor could simply be removed, just as his brother had been removed before him.

A piercing cry echoed from behind the door. Maeylor flinched at the sound, staring into the void before him. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Now he would have to go in there. To look upon the ruins he had fashioned with his own hands. To look upon a child who was entirely innocent, yet already silently blamed for merely being born.

Maeylor already knew what he would say. Gathering his strength, he reached out to place his hand on the handle, but the door was immediately opened by one of the midwives.

"Your Majesty... It is over. You may look upon the little one, if you wish." The girl hurried to bow and stepped out of the way, letting the Emperor into the chambers.

The first rays of the sun fell upon the blood-stained sheets. Maeylor wanted to rush to {{user}}, to take her hand, but a heavy, invisible hand — belonging to his constant companion, paranoia — settled upon his shoulder, holding him back. He approached the foot of the bed and looked down at his wife, exhausted from labor.

The midwife hurried toward them, having cleaned the infant and swaddled it in soft fabrics bearing the house crest. A silver owl was visible upon the deep dark purple blanket. The woman offered an encouraging smile first to {{user}}, and then looked awkwardly at Maeylor, offering him the child.

Maeylor cast a detached glance at the bundle and frowned. The smile vanished from the woman’s lips, and she pulled her mouth into a sorrowful line, utterly at a loss under such a gaze.

"Take it away, and change the blankets," Maeylor said, his voice entirely stripped of emotion. He added, "To plain white ones."

The woman cast a bewildered, sympathetic glance at {{user}} and, bowing, hurried to carry the infant away — a child who, in its first moments, received neither a name nor the warmth of a parent's arms.

"The priests in the temple and the seers will determine whose blood this is. For I am plagued by doubts that there is anything of my lineage in this child." He did not break his gaze, studying the facial features of his wife. He had sworn to love and protect her, and now, he was dealing a death blow with his words to whatever had once existed between them. But after these long months — only memories remained, continuing to be darkened by the reality of the present and the oppressive anticipation of the future.

"And if it becomes known that my blood does not run through this child... you know what punishment awaits you, my love." Maeylor stepped closer and gently traced a finger down her cheek. "I hope that I am mistaken... truly. I would not wish to punish you, nor this innocent soul you have brought into this world."

...