My third story. Wish me luck. I'm going to make this one longer and more detailed than Road To The End. Enjoy.
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Chapter 1 -- The Beginning
He has his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the busy streets below the high window he stands at. His eyes chase the running dots of people, mentally wishing he could be a commoner so no worries would cross his mind. A soft sigh escapes his lips, for no one is around to see him in such a state. He leans his shoulder against the window frame, silently cursing his heritage, but then knowing he would have it no other way.
The sun is beginning to die in the far off horizon, for the sky is turning a light purple hue. Clouds are scattered scarcely throughout the paling sky, and the stars are just beginning to peek from beneath their beds, yawning quietly. He brings a large hand to his cheek, stroking his broad jawline with his index finger. It feels stubby and rough, since he had not shaved since early in the morning. He rubs his temple now, for a headache throbs endlessly.
People rush into their homes, trying to finish the days chore's before night ascends upon them. The darkness advances slowly in the ending days of summer, and the air is cool and warm. He wears thin khakis with a light black robe covering his white tshirt. He never quite understood why people of his type wear velvet capes, or velvet clothing in general, because they are much too uncomfortable and scratchy.
There is a loud clanking noise, and then a slamming of a door. He continues his stare at those below who do not know he watches so intently. Footsteps echo, and they come towards him hastily. Anxiety builds in his belly as he waits for the person who intrudes on his silence to give him either grave or exciting news.
"My Lord, King Ronald has sent word that he will be arriving within the next few days." The man who entered the room speaks in a loud, booming voice, causing his ears to twitch.
"Thank you." He speaks to the man, never removing his gaze from the streets, "You are dismissed."
"King Harry." Harry knows that the man bows deeply before exiting the room. Harry fills his chest with a breath, then exhales through his mouth, trying to calm the anxiety which pooled within his belly not many moments ago. He turns from his perch at the window, walking toward the mahogany desk in the center of the room. His boots echo loudly upon the floor, and the noise is piercing and endless since the entire room is made of classic amber and milky marble. He sits in the crimson chair seated at the desk, and stares a moment at the papers scattered across it.
"Where do I start?" Harry asks himself. He reaches to the paper that is mostly on top of the others, and scans the heading.
"Intruders from the east. Funny how that works out." He murmers, reading the rest of the letter with mild interest.
"Wetsh armies scatter the horizon, making camp the last evening of the fourth month. Their fires send smoke signals for many miles. There are atleast two million men.
We spot these men from our station at the highest point of the palace. They seem to want us to know we can see them, and to send an alert to our king, Harry Potter. General Carnish sends word to allies King Weasley and King Frock."
He finishes reading the short letter sumarizing the events that took place a month prior. He looks at the note beneath it, noticing immediately the messy scrawl.
"Oh Ronald." Harry chuckles, reading the note which he already had read earlier that day, when it was sent.
"The Wetsh are horrible fighters, my friend! We won that battle very easily. I will send notice when we shall celebrate our victory. Wait for my word, friend, and we will feast like kings do! Your friend, RW"
"Soon we shall celebrate." Harry agrees, setting the note down and spreadig his fingers wide in an attempt to stretch them. His eyes scan the other papers on the desk, and all interest fleets his mind. He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, then down into his lap. Lights on the walls begin to brighten, for the sun is completely set now. The darkness is cast easily from the King's study.
He leans back deeply into the plush chair, placing his hands folded behind his head. He looks toward the ceiling.
"When will this war be over." He asks himself. "Never it feels like." He answers his own question. He laughs at himself. "Now I am completely mad. I've been the king of Lorbia for almost a year now, and I still cannot grasp these responsibilities." He closes his eyes, imagining himself in battle.
"Why did my duties as general had to be dismissed when I became a dreadful king? Being king is so dull." The words fall from his lips in a whisper. He images himself in the last battle he fought before his father was taken in illness and had passed away.
I thrusted my sword through his chest, and I found a satisfaction in hearing his wailing cry and seeing the blood on my blade. I felt strong and powerful, and when I pulled my blade from his bleeding heart, I let out a roar of accomplishment. He fell dead at my feet, and his eyes were wide in horror. I stepped over him, slicing my blade through the next enemy who came to pursue me. I cut his head off in a swift, and easy motion. I did not wait to see where the head landed, for the adrenaline coursing through my veins was enough to kill me as well. Everything became a blur after that, and when the battle was finally over, the blood was stained into my hands and armor. I'll never be able to wash the blood from my body.
He reopens his eyes, and his heart pounds against his ribcage. He calms his heart, but a sense of mirth fills his body.
"Oh the life of a king. James, what pain and stress you must have went through to rule this kingdom." Harry talks to the ceiling, "I never cared to see the hardships you endured. I miss you, Father." Harry breathes. He recalls the funeral that took place almost a year ago for his father who died of a foreign and strange disease. It shook the entire kingdom, taking every person by surprise. His father rarely spoke to him about the king's duties and how to rule, so immediately after Harry was crowned the ruler, He was forced into acting straight away. They were in a war, which still continues to this day, and it kills him that he cannot fight along side and lead the soliders of Lorbia.
Each day more papers and reports flood his desk. He rarely reads them anymore, for they all say the same thing. They speak of intruders coming from all different directions on the map, trying to invade their kingdom and launch a preemptive strike, though each enemy has failed to do so yet.
Harry wonders for a moment why the war was started so many years during King James's rein as king. Harry was not quite seventeen when a kingdom in the far south called Juxert first attacked at the palace. Men were slaughtered before Harry's eyes, and although he close to being an adult, he never saw a dead man before then. After the fighting had ceased, Harry told James he wanted to join their army, and the king resented the idea at first, but after Harry trained for many cruel months, the king approved of the idea.
Harry rose in rank quickly, becoming the top ranking general. People of the kingdom gossiped that he was only the general because he was the king's heir, and they were surprised and astonished that the king would allow his only son to fight in battle and risk death. Since his first battle when he was nineteen years old, killing was like a drug to him. He was addicted to the adrenaline from swinging his sword and causing death. Four years later, after Harry celebrated his twenty third birthday, the king passed away. Now, with his twenty fourth birthday close, Harry still did not understand why the war was started almost seven year ago.
A yawn escapes Harry's throat, and he stands from his chair, pushing it in to the desk. He strides across the room to a door against the west all, a large and beautiful door, placing his hand on the cold wood. His hand vibrates, and there is a clicking noise. He pushes the door open and steps inside, and when the door closes behind him, it clicks and locks.
He strips his clothing, casting them on the floor beside the magnificently huge canopy bed. He pulls back the heavy crimson comforters, slipping his naked body beneath them. The sheets are cool against his hot skin, and he shudders against them. His eyes close, and he falls into a deep oblivion.
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Let me know what you think so far. :)