Atarax | Rotten King

Once, a forest full of beauty and life moaned in time with the howling wind. No longer was the gnashing of young wolf cubs' teeth heard, only the screech of swords striking armor, the whistle of poisoned arrows with forked tips.

The old pines, which had divided the two kingdoms, turned to ash, taking bloodless and mutilated bodies under their roots. The elves, who once inhabited this land, were forced to flee, lest they be caught in the epicenter of the conflict between the two human peoples.

But hands in steel gauntlets closed upon you faster than you could keep up with your father, driven mad by the loss of his wife. He tried to rush back, to shield you with his chest or his back, but the other elves dragged him away.

Thus, in one night, the full moon split in two, dropping a half of cheese onto the slumbering sun, which could no longer shine so brightly. Thus, you found yourself imprisoned alongside the other prisoners of war, until the newly-crowned King Atarax himself descended into the damp earth of the dungeon.

You had heard of him. The eldest child of the King and Queen, Prince Atarax, had been distinguished since childhood by his indescribable appearance, pleasing to the eyes of anyone privileged enough to catch his gaze. The Prince's reddish, even dark-copper hair waved, falling over his eyes like a soft, fluffy jellyfish, cascading down his sharp cheekbones, ending in fine tendrils on his back.

Unlike other nobles, who painted their faces with lead white, Atarax was born with pale, almost translucent skin. Remarkably, for a young man, he liked to tint his lips the color of his hair. In his personal chambers, vials of elderberry juice mixed with crushed saffron and yellow rose petals were always kept.

You heard less about his personality. They said the Prince had always been somewhat different, as if not of this world. As if his hair, hiding his eyes, concealed an age-old wisdom he had managed to accumulate while sitting in his mother's womb. As if, at birth, he had not uttered a single cry or squeak, and carried his silent calmness through the years.

This was considered a divine gift, an initial sign—such a child would become a splendid heir in the future, for he possessed incredible calmness worthy of admiration. But this led to certain problems.

Atarax was not a lifeless doll, and he did not possess calmness. One second he played with toys, the next he would begin choking his younger brother, in a soundless fit of hysteria. He's just a child, what does it matter, what even is this emotional lability of yours?

Slight speech delays, an obvious lisp. Even when Atarax transformed into a beautiful, long-winged swan, even when the throne first accepted the warmth of his body—he still could not deal with the demons in his head. Young men his age always suffered from surges of hormones and feelings; his own excitability, however, was diminished. Simply nothing attracted or delighted him, and he ruled his Kingdom more because it was necessary.

He did not revel in power, was not cruel; he even organized that campaign only because he grew tired of enduring the liberties of the neighboring state. Even if the campaign had been lost, Atarax would not have been upset. But what luck: among the dirty and unkempt enemy soldiers, bound, sat you.

An elf, whom the King had never seen before. At first, it seemed to you that Atarax was a pleasant fellow with whom one could talk. He was a good listener, heeded your every word about your past life, listened to your pleas when you tearfully begged for mercy, for simple reunion with your father.

But the King's patience quickly wore thin, like stone against water. Did you not like the expensive garments in which he dressed you? Well, they were replaced by tightly laced corsets, linen shirts that, near fireplaces and candles, ignited instantly, catching fire from any careless spark.

Was the food not to your taste? The jam of sweet, raspberry buns acquired a strange, simultaneously metallic and slightly "meaty" flavor. The filling no longer dripped down your chin, but in consistency more resembled custard cream, tasting like a sea sponge. Coffee brought by Arab merchants made your head spin and ache, visions danced before your eyes. Atarax was testing your immortal life, to see if it would withstand the action of tasteless arsenic.

But all this could be endured: several days ago, Atarax announced he had found your father. Yes, the King intentionally poisoned your soul and body, yes, subjected you to fire torture, yes, used you as he pleased. But at least he kept his promises.

Hearing a familiar call, you shoved aside the doomed servants, literally flew into the throne room, not noticing the quiet whispers behind you, full of pain and concern for the elf beloved by all. Yet the room was empty save for Atarax, who beckoned you to him.

"Disappointed, are you? Now, now, wait a second. Do you know how difficult it was for me to find your father?"

The gentle, cooing voice of the elegant King clashed with the glint of his cunning eyes, which shone clearly even behind the copper hair in the dimly lit hall with an ominous fire. With one hand he grasped your wrist, and fitting your body between his legs, drew something from the folds of his black mantle.

Only after several long seconds did he lightly push you away, allowing you to feel the weight of the collar on your neck, to examine the strange leather it was made from. A pale color, with barely visible spots of dark bluish tint, discernible beneath the elegantly engraved name "Atarax."

"Go on, say hello to your father. It's been a while."

His lips, curled into a knowing smirk, twisted your stomach into an impenetrable knot, forced your morning meal to rise back up your throat.

The bloody buns.

The leather collar.

Hello, father.