12.0

Dirk Blackpool entered his father's sleeping chamber. The nurses left as soon as the prince entered, in order to allow him privacy. King Saris had awakened.

The king had aged considerably in the time he spent in a coma. Looking at him, Dirk felt as though he were looking at an old man. This was not the mighty warrior he remembered as a boy.

Saris Blackpool squinted, straining to see his elder son's face. He frowned in disapproval when he recognized him. "Have you destroyed my kingdom yet?" the old king croaked.

"Of course not. The North has never been stronger," Dirk answered quietly.

"Hmph," Saris snorted in disbelief. Even weakened and at death's door, the old king still had a nasty temperament. "Then it must be strange accident. You were unfit to rule when I fell ill."

"History contradicts that opinion. I've led the land to victory. Tronin now belongs to me and its former king sits in our dungeon. It was the greatest military victory in our nation's history. Dunfirm, Greencreek and Ballenstead are occupied by northern troops as well. All Camarand will fall before the new year."

Saris pursed his lips. He had never acknowledged any of his elder son's many achievements. This conversation was to be no exception. Though Saris had been content to treat Geoffrey with mere indifference, he usually treated Dirk with contempt. His own father had been no different. Coddling and kindness never produced a strong king.

Nothing his elder son did ever earned Saris' praise. When teachers at the Royal School wrote to praise the young prince's sharp mind and outstanding academic performance, the king berated him for becoming a useless philosopher, too bookish to be a real warrior. And yet if his son dared to earn marks that did not place him first among his royal peers, he earned a stern reprimand for dishonoring his family and himself.

Saris expected his son not just to excel, but actually to be superlative in everything. He always found a reason that the boy's success somehow fell short of his expectations, in order to push him to exceed his own limits. When Erick Greystone had beaten Dirk in the final quarterstaff championship at the Royal School, Saris' derision of his son had been brutal. The king had been furious and terribly embarrassed. He had accused Dirk of being his life's greatest disappointment. Dirk had gone off and spent the rest of the summer at Castle Dracnil to escape the endless tirades. The episode had served to cement the prince's hatred of Greystone, which was precisely the result Saris had intended.

Dirk had born all of it with perfect stoicism. Both Blackpool boys had learned at a very young age that contradicting their father had painful consequences. Saris ruled his household with an iron fist. He tolerated no disobedience or disrespect.

The king's eyes narrowed. Military miracles aside, Saris knew very well where his son was likely to have failed, though part of him hoped he was wrong. "The nurses told me I've been in a coma for two years. Do I have grandchildren yet?"

Dirk tried to disguise his astonishment at the question. His father hated children, as did he. "No. I've been fighting a war."

"That's no surprise. Your mother tells me she is heartbroken." The old king shook his head, remembering his most recent conversation with her ghost. "Were you and Geoffrey both to die, not unlikely given how poorly you learned from me, the royal bloodline would be broken for the first time in our history. You are undoubtedly destined to fail your people and your family."

"I have no intention of dying in the foreseeable future. As to Geoffrey's plans, you would have to speak to him." Anger seeped into Dirk's voice despite his effort to restrain it. He had become accustomed to deference in his own right as ruler and found it difficult to now offer his father the respect that he once had.

Saris glared at him, "Perhaps my first act will be to take a young wife who can bear me new sons. Old Tronin had the right idea! I might disinherit both of you and start over. You never know."

Dirk stared, scarcely able to believe his father had dared utter such words. "I would, of course, oppose such an action," he whispered.

"It is my prerogative as king. Edwin Baaldorf has a pretty young daughter, as I recall. When Ed signs the surrender documents on New Years, I think I'll have him toss her in the deal too."

Dirk eyes widened in disbelief as he forced himself to quell the revulsion that threatened to overwhelm him at the notion of Princess Ariel joining the family - as his stepmother. The prince's voice was sharper than it had ever been in Saris' presence. "Father, you are hardly in a position to even get out of bed, much less fight a civil war against me. I have the loyalty of the military, as well as the allegiance of every one of the continent's magical practitioners. You have no idea how much power I have at my disposal right now." He ignored Saris' baleful gaze. "You will abdicate or you will spend the rest of your days confined to this chamber!"

"Treason!"

"No more so than your plan to make peace with the South before you fell ill."

"Peace with the South? Bah! Never."

Dirk's brow furrowed. "Were you not secretly negotiating peace terms with Baaldorf?" he asked evenly.

"Of course not, you fool! If I had wanted peace with the South, your mother would have kept her head."

Dirk's expression did not change. Vector had lied to him. The Wizard had claimed that he had put Saris in a coma in order to prevent him from putting an end to the war against the South. The Wizard's true motive for attempting regicide remained his personal secret.

As Dirk turned to leave the room, he advised, "Consider my offer. Abdicate. You are too old and feeble to..." He stopped. His father was no longer listening. A thin bead of drool made its way down the corner of the king's mouth to pool in his graying beard. The old man had drifted back into the coma as suddenly as he had awakened from it.

As Saris returned to his dreamworld, he was relieved. The boy had grown up well. Saris was tired. He was weary of the twilight consciousness of the coma. Soon enough, his son would have to free him from its confines. He knew that. He was ready to join the boys' mother. She had forgiven him, after all these years.

12.0.1

The prince stood in the empty hallway outside his father's chamber for a long time. Hardly anyone visited this part of the castle. The servants would not tend to the king until morning. He needed time himself to absorb his father's words. He was shocked that the man had threatened to disinherit him. He stared out a window at the end of the passageway, remembering countless conversations from his youth.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he failed to notice the fading of the late afternoon sunlight. Soon he stood in pitch darkness. He hoped Saris did not ever reawaken. He pondered patricide. Killing the only man whose respect he had ever yearned for would undoubtedly be quite liberating. He could not, however, risk losing his claim to the Crown. The murder would have to be very carefully planned so as appear a death by natural causes. He would rather die than pass rule back to his father.

"It's unusual for a human to linger in darkness." Zyrdicia's lyrical voice jarred him out of his thoughts. He felt her hands upon his shoulders, behind him.

"I wish to be alone," he said coldly.

She was silent for a moment. He felt her eyes upon him in the darkness. Her hands moved around him. "What happened?"

"Let me be."

Seeing her playmate in such a state was no fun at all. She knew from her own experience with dark moods that companionship was always preferable to being alone. She did not particularly care about his emotional torment; she cared a great deal about the loss of entertainment that it implied. "If I knew what the problem was, I might be able to rid you of it," she said softly.

"Not this time."

"You forget how vast my resources are." She tugged on him gently, obliging him to turn around so that he faced her. She had no intention of permitting his psyche to recede from her. She was far too curious as to what could bring him to such a state. Anything capable of causing suffering intrigued her. "Please tell me," she prompted, caressing his face.

"I do not want to discuss it."

"Then at least let me distract you from it," she whispered into his ear. She then proceeded to do just that. There were other ways to divine the knowledge of his mood's source, after all.