~Shattered~ 2011
Tears streamed down King Falem’s swollen eyes, his screams echoing through the frosty morning air, plunging the gathered crowd into a stunned silence. The sight was unbearable. The guard holding Brendor’s reins struggled as the steed became increasingly agitated, snorting and stamping in distress. Grageon Silverbeck came racing from the castle, his face pale with fear. "My lord!" he shouted, his voice trembling. "What has happened? Who has done this?"
Grageon’s shock was evident as he reached for the king’s hand, but Falem’s grip on Lamora's velvet dress was unyielding. "Help me!" Grageon called out, his eyes darting around for assistance. He found three men who quickly came to his aid. Together, they managed to pull the king off the horse and gently lower him to the ground. Falem lay there in a fetal position, thrashing his fists against the cobblestones. His knuckles were soon raw and bloody, and his wild eyes, red with grief, mirrored the savage madness consuming him.
His screams filled the courtyard as he rose to his knees, crying out with a voice so full of pain that it tore through the morning stillness. "LAAAMOOOOOOOORA!" he roared, his blood-smeared hands grasping for the hem of her dress as it fluttered in the breeze. Grageon, cradling Lamora’s lifeless body, recoiled as Falem lunged toward her. The king collapsed onto the stones, his howls of rage and despair echoing off the castle walls.
Grageon’s heart broke at the sight, but his duty demanded focus. He scanned the courtyard until his eyes fell on the twins—Eric and Nikale—standing hand in hand, their faces etched with horror. Tears streamed down their cheeks, their young minds struggling to comprehend the hellish scene before them. Grageon looked at them mournfully but knew he had no time to comfort them. "She needs to be in her quarters. Take her to her bed," he commanded a nearby guard. "Quickly, now, quickly!" The guard, though shaken, obeyed, nearly dropping the queen in his shock at her appearance. Her once flawless ivory skin was now a sickly shade of blue and purple, marred by cuts and a deep gash across her throat. The dried blood, cracked and peeling like old paint, made her look almost unrecognizable.
The guard closed his eyes, trying to push the gruesome image from his mind, and focused on his task. He marched toward the castle, determined to get her to her quarters. As they moved, Nikale broke away from her brother, running after them. The guard turned, his voice harsh with urgency. "Get back! Someone grab her—this is not for a child’s eyes!" Shocked by the outburst, Nikale froze in her tracks. A young maid quickly rushed over, grabbing the girl’s arm and pulling her away. Nikale didn’t struggle; she simply let the tears fall, blurring her vision until she could see no more.
Grageon, who had served as the king’s closest advisor for more than thirty-six years, had never seen Falem in such a state of hopelessness. It frightened him, but he steeled himself, knowing that Lamora needed to be safely returned to the castle. It was the right thing to do. The doctor could examine her discreetly, away from the king’s eyes. Falem let out another bellowing scream before collapsing onto the cold, unyielding ground. His hands gripped his tangled hair, ripping at it with each agonized cry. The crowd watched, paralyzed by the king’s grief. The twins wanted to go to him, to offer comfort, but fear kept them rooted in place.
Grageon caught the eye of another guard and gestured for him to come. Together, they lifted the king, who was now exhausted and barely conscious, and carried him to his quarters. "Doctor Helms!" Grageon called out to the physician standing nearby. "I need you to fetch some sedatives for the king. He needs to relax before he hurts himself or someone else. Go quickly!" Helms nodded rapidly and sprinted into the castle.
King Falem continued to sob, but he did not resist as they carried him up the stairs. Every bone in his body ached, and his mind was clouded with confusion. The dimly lit castle, with the morning sun spilling through the windows, seemed unbearably bright to his swollen eyes. He tried to shield them with his arms but only managed to stumble in the process.
Finally, they reached his chambers. Helms was already there, working swiftly to prepare the sedatives. Falem, groggy and disoriented, demanded to see Lamora. Grageon and the guard gently guided him to the bed, sitting him down on its edge. The doctor approached cautiously, knowing that the man before him bore little resemblance to the king he once knew.
"If you drink this, my lord, I will take you to her," Helms said, offering a vial. It was a lie, but in his delirium, Falem would believe anything. The king took the vial without question and drank it, not even pausing to examine the contents. He then stood, his voice sour with grief. "Take me to her now, Grageon."
Grageon exchanged a quick, fearful glance with the doctor. "My Lord, if I may suggest," he began cautiously, eyeing the king’s bloodied hands and clothes, "you’re looking worse for wear. Perhaps we should clean the blood from your face and hands before we go?" He forced a small, hopeful grin, praying the suggestion would work. Falem looked down at his hands for the first time since the forest, his expression one of horror. If he looked like this, what condition must Lamora be in? Slowly, he nodded and walked toward the basin of water across the room. But before he could reach it, his legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the bed, falling into a deep, drug-induced sleep.
The three men exchanged relieved glances. Helms spoke first. "He might not wake up pleased about this," he murmured, then shrugged. "But at least he can rest for now." Grageon nodded, grateful for the reprieve.
Turning to the guard, Grageon instructed him to stay with the king. The guard nodded silently, pulling up a chair to sit vigil by the bed. Grageon and Helms then made their way to the queen’s chambers, their hearts heavy with dread. Neither man wanted to see what awaited them, but duty compelled them forward.
They entered the room quietly, finding the guard standing by the window, his back to the bed. It was clear he had been crying. Queen Lamora had been laid out carefully, her clothes adjusted so precisely that, in the dim light, she could almost be mistaken for someone merely sleeping. Such beauty she had been. Her ivory skin was now marred with bruises, her face lacerated with cuts, and her throat slashed from ear to ear. Grageon’s heart ached as he walked to her vanity table, grabbing a hand towel to cover the wound on her neck.
Blood had pooled near her abdomen, staining her dress. Grageon could see where the fabric had been torn from hem to thigh, and he knew what that meant. His hands trembled as he smoothed her wild curls, absentmindedly trying to restore some semblance of dignity to the queen who had been taken so violently. She deserved so much more than what he could give her.