Kiss your Promises Goodbye

Drustan

It rained that day. The skies were a solid grey, no speck of blue sky in sight. Autumn was an unpredictable season, but there was something about this rain that seemed purposeful, as if Óganach above didn’t want to be seen. Or perhaps he didn’t want to see them. Perhaps he should have heeded that warning, perhaps he should not have continued with the Promise Ceremonies that day, but it was done now. Irrevocably.

There were two Princesses of age that year. Princess Fenella, a dainty and proper cremello in Áillte’s visage, and Princess Anastasia, a dark shy creature who was completely the opposite. Both does caused an issue; Promising the valuable Fenella to anyone other than the purest royals would cause an uproar, but there were no eligible stags so close to the crown, not of age. His only son wasn’t even a year old, and his uncles were too old for the delicate creature.

Of course, Drustan could make a great political friend in giving Fenella to another family of importance, but with the recent... incident... Drustan and Lonán had come to the conclusion - much to Drustan’s chagrin - that Drustan was the only real option to take Fenella. Nuala had not returned - doubt that she ever would had slowly sunk in over the last year - and if BoÁnn’s antics were ever to cast doubt on her fawns Drustan would need another Princess who was pure and loyal. A prim and proper Princess who the royals would have no cause to doubt.

Princess Anastasia, however, was the opposite problem. With her darker coat and tainted family history, giving her to a well-standing family would earn him no favours in the least. His only option was to find a royal family with little political sway and hope that the insult of a low-value Princess would not stir too much bad blood between them. Drustan had picked out a royal stag named Rowan from a pure-blooded family that were known for producing very few daughters in the hopes that Anastasia’s darkening of the Princess bloodline would end with their sons.

The ceremonies had gone without drama that morning despite the atrocious weather. Drustan knew he was supposed to be pleased to have another Princess to his name, but he could hardly look on Fenella without remembering BoÁnn’s betrayal.

His mother hadn’t been in attendance, which only served to dampen his mood further. With the ceremonies over and the crowds and traditional - if lackluster - congratulations abated, the young King made his way to his mother’s favoured rest. She had been tired as of late, the herbalists said she just needed some peace and quiet and she’d be right as rain. Drustan scowled up at the incessant rain. Right as rain? Who even made that up. Rain only served to make things wet, cold and annoyed. There was nothing right about this rain.

He found Roísín in her little glade where he expected, though the pale doe seemed to be asleep. Glancing behind him, glad that they were alone, he approached the moss bed softly, not wanting to wake his mother if she was resting. “Mother?” He murmured, glad for once he didn’t have to be the King just a son.

The eyes of the doe that found his were hardly recognisable. She was tired, the glitter that usually made her beautiful green eyes seem alive was fading. He knew she had been ill, but he had not realised just how much it had taken out of her.  “Sweet child.” There was very little strength left in her voice, barely more than a whisper. “My, how you’ve grown.” Her chuckle became a barking cough. “It seems like only yesterday you were nipping at my heels.”

He gave a weak smile and gently nosed her pale muzzle with his. “Growing outward more than upwards these days,” he tried to jest, but there was little mirth in his eyes.

“How are you faring, mother? Are the herbalists treating that cough?” He hated that it was the word of the herbalists that gave him more news of his mother than he gleaned from visiting her. Being King had thrusted a multitude of responsibilities on him that he didn't want, let alone know how to handle. He used to visit his mother nearly every day, but now... The Kingdom had stolen her away.

The rain fell heavy and hard, bouncing from the branches and remaining autumn leaves above to splatter against him from all angles. His pale coat was dark with it, and he knew he would be more hindrance than a help to warm her if he joined her, but the breathy sound of her voice, the creeping dread that began in the pit of his belly when she spoke and sounded so distant. “They do what they can,” something wasn’t right. They did what they could? No, they said she would be alright. They said she was just tired.

“Mother? Mother tell me what’s wrong.”

The way she spoke, she didn’t seem to hear him, as if they were having a completely different conversation. She looked at him with unfocused eyes, and he could hardly tell what emotion they were holding. They ran by so quickly, as fast as the raindrops rolled down her sallow face. 

“We all do what we must to preserve the kingdom, don’t we Drustan?” she murmured strangely, looking at him with such intensity. “There are so many things. So many, many things,” she smiled, her eyes glazing. “I only wanted you and your brother to be happy. None of this was supposed to happen.”

The more she spoke, the more Drustan’s dread grew. She was speaking as if she would never speak to him again. As if these were her last words.

“Dear Dru, my darling child, I am so sorry,” she began to sob, thunder rolling in over the forests.

“No, nono. Mother hush, hush just rest. I’ll bring the healers; the herbalists, the Princesses, they’ll help you. Mother? Mother please don’t cry. There’s nothing to be sorry for, just... just...” He could barely hear her now, and he folded his legs down beside her and drew her close. She would be fine. She just needed a rest.

As the storm gathered overhead, she told him a story, her voice breathy and distant, but the truth hit him as hard as a Blackwood’s charge.

At first he was numb, disbelieving, and then the dread came rushing back. Roísín was fading, the thunder booming overhead did more to move her chest than her thready heartbeat.

Tears ran unchecked down his own cheeks, melding with the rain and chilling him to the core. He knew the herbalists could not help her now. “Stay with me mother, please. I need you.” He whispered, “I can’t do this without you.”

“You are your father’s son,” she said, a smile on her lips as her body shuddered one last breath.

She was gone.

No.

NO!

Lightning seared across the sky, bathing the two pale Fawnlings in electric blue light as Drustan’s mourning bellow was swallowed by the roar of thunder that simultaneously accompanied the flash. Óganach’s voice. Óganach’s fury.

The very ground shook, and Drustan was sure he would have fallen from the tremor if he hadn’t have been curled around the so recently lifeless body of his mother. As much as it tore him to leave her, the young King scrambled to his feet and stood.

The screams had already started.

He pushed his way through the foliage, away from the glade where his mother would forever sleep, and burst into the clearing of the great Great Oak. Stood atop the hill, more than a furlong from the Oak itself, it offered him the perfect advantage to see the decimation that confronted him.

The Great Oak was on fire, split asunder, the two halves lay black and petrified on the ground.

The Sky King had struck the idol of their Kingdom down, and Óganach’s thunderous voice bellowed his displeasure with his Children from on high.

Drustan needed no spiritualist to know what this sign meant. Óganach had left them, and he had taken his mother with him.

The young King fell to his knees, the rain pounding down around him, and screamed with the rest of his forsaken Kingdom.