“Then we’d better snap him out of it,” Relam muttered, pushing through the doors and back into the audience hall. The doors slammed back on their hinges, crashing against the wall with a resounding boom.
“What are you doing?” Clemon asked worriedly. “Do have any idea what-?”
“I’m making this up as I go,” Relam muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
“Be careful, he’s armed-”
“So am I.”
“Your highness!”
“Stay out of the way, Clemon.”
Clemon fell back and Relam continued to march forward, until he was directly in front of the dais, his father a few steps above him, staring into the distance. To one side, Eckle was hovering nervously, eyes darting back and forth between Relam and the silent king.
“Look at me!” Relam shouted forcefully.
The king raised his eyes. His gaze slid across Relam for a moment, then slid away disinterestedly.
Relam drew his sword with a hiss of leather on steel. He heard Clemon’s and Eckle’s warning cries. Then, he slammed the flat of the blade down on the edge of the stone dais, a few centimeters from his father’s feet. A pure, clear note reverberated around the hall, vibrating and wailing. “Look at me!” Relam roared.
The king recoiled into the throne, shrinking away from Relam.
“You are in pain, I know,” Relam said, still shouting. “I feel it too. She’s gone, and there’s no bringing her back. But we are still alive. You are my father and I am your son. Her son, too!” Relam heaved a deep sigh. “We have mourned, both of us, what we have lost. But it is time to move forward. Celebrate what we had and cherish her memory, but live as well. Live, as I have chosen too,” Relam pleaded. “I still carry her with me. The pain. The memories. But I am moving forward with my life, and you must too. You have a duty, father, to the people beyond these walls. A duty to lead them, to rule them, to protect them.” Relam paused, taking a deep shuddering breath. “It’s time you remembered that duty. It’s time for you to live again.”
The king’s mouth sagged open and he leaned back in his seat. His eyes were fixed on Relam for a change, not sliding back and forth lugubriously, not darting furtively.
Had he given his father time, Relam might have won the day then and there, but he pushed forward relentlessly, fueled by the raw emotion of the moment. “Find some courage,” he spat. “Be a king again. Be a father again. Or stay here, a coward on a sad and silent throne, your kingdom crumbling around you. What will it be, your majesty?”
The king’s eyes blazed with fury. Slowly, he rose, leaning on his sword. “You dare mock me!” he roared. “You mock my pain!”
“He didn’t mean it, your majesty,” Clemon said quickly.
“Silence!” Orram bellowed. “I am your king!”
“Then act like it!” Relam shouted back.
With an incoherent yell, the king stumbled forward, down the dais, towards Relam. The prince backed away smartly, keeping a few paces between him and his father. Stung by his words, the king followed, shambling forward, still hunched over, left hand clenched against his side, right hand holding his sword point downward, the tip nearly dragging the floor.
“You dare,” the king shouted again.
“Yes, I dare!” Relam replied. “It this is what it takes to make you remember who you are, so be it.”
The king roared and attacked with a looping overhand cut. Relam parried reflexively, smashing his father’s sword aside. The king stumbled, off balance, and Relam put more space between them. He stared at his father, shaken. He had never thought his father could be driven to attack him.
Orram lurched forward again, slashing this time. Relam parried again, their blades screeching off of each other, the sound filling the hall. The king struck again, and again, but each blow was clumsy and slow to develop and Relam had no trouble parrying them. Normally, Relam would have been afraid. But it was clear to him that his father was in no fit state to fight, certainly not the way he used to.
The king kept coming though, his sword thrusting and sweeping, cutting and hacking. Relam parried each blow, but he was slowly being backed towards the wall. He would have to try to escape soon or risk being trapped, at his father’s mercy. And there didn’t appear to be any of that at the moment.
The next time his father thrust at him, Relam darted past, so that he was between his father and the throne. Then, he stood facing him again.
“This isn’t you, father,” he said urgently. “Remember who you were.”
The king attacked again, eyes flashing, sword darting and weaving. Their blades crashed again and again, each impact shaking Relam to the core, physically and emotionally. He could hear Clemon and Eckle in the background, both calling for the fight to stop. None of them had the sense to go for help, apparently.
“Usurper! Traitor!” the king roared.
“No, father,” Relam gasped. “I am none of those. I am your son!”
“Then why do you mock me?” the king roared. And, like lightning, his gauntleted left hand lashed out, catching Relam across the face. “Why do you attack me?”
The blow sent Relam staggering, falling back against the dais, to one side of the throne. He dropped his sword and clutched at his face, feeling hot blood streaming between his fingers. He pulled his hands away, and saw that they were dyed crimson.
He looked up at his father, saw the anger within him, the wounded pride, the pain.
“To save you,” he whispered, holding out a bloody hand. “To save you.”
The king recoiled, his eyes clouding for a moment as he looked around. His sword fell from his
