The Past of Flame

What happened? 

The glaring sun stared at me, bright yellow in the center of the cloudless blue. My boots touch the green earth. To one knee I knelt, caressing the tall grass and flowers. A carpet of beauty, soft upon my fingers and between. For a time, I thought nothing but breath. Breathing the sweet air of the meadow. The scent soothes my nerves and calms my muscles.

The chirping makes me gaze above upon the tune. Birds atop the branches of an apple tree, ripe and red were its fruit. One fell, bouncing, and rolled upon my feet. The singing of the animals soon stops, replaced by the steady smooth slow flow of the river behind. The waters clear as crystal, sparkling as it met the rays of the sun. 

In the lushful meadow, I stand in silence as I let questions fill me to the brim, like an overflowing glass of wine in a royal party. Up in the distant sky my mind drifts, making sense of the senseless, as if I was seeing all the things for the first time. Mayhaps I was.

 It felt like I awoke to a place unknown, waiting for the moment of realization to come, to make sense of it all. To clear the unknown. I waited. The moment never came..

Where am I?

The memories come by slowly, as if drifting in the air. Home. Family. Name. Reassuring was the thought of my homeland. But there was a scratching in a corner of my mind that wouldn't go. There was something I must do. The mission.

Without warning, flashes of memory slice through my mind, like a blade to water. Ripples upon ripples clouding my thoughts.

Night. Hill. Dead. Fire. Sorcerer. One grim image remains, Nevuchad the Dead laughing in the blackest of night. Eyes blank white. Half a face a bone. Then it left, as if it never came.

Only one explanation is possible. Clear as day. Sorcery. Black and foul. It must be. A black spell that shifts me to another realm, another place, far and distant from where I was. 

"Mister?" 

A girl's voice, hiding behind one of the apple trees. Little. Young. Black of hair. Commoner's clothes. A peasant. My senses are somewhat dulled for I did not quickly see her two other companions, two boys. One thin, the other fat. 

"Maggi, lets go." The thin one said. Brown hair. Dirty clothes. Eyes wide with fear. "It's not safe to talk to strangers." 

The fat one, better apparel, nodded in agreement. 

Afraid they were, but curious as well. True for all of us here. Upon the flowing river I quickly gaze and see a reflection of a golden haired young man in gold-green fabric with a cloak of black. Still a man, for that I am glad, not some cursen pig or dog. 

My eyes of gold swim back towards the chickens. Their very presence irks me to say the least. To speak to them is far far below my station. Blood of King Arther Oldblood ran through my veins and to speak directly to peasant folks is akin to talking to farm animals. Such a task I give to my distant nephew, Deavid, who is the farthest of my kin deemed low enough to converse with them. I sigh. Most townsfolk know nothing of the Grand Monarchy. Ignorant they were of those who govern them. Understandable, for they do not have access to higher forms of learning, prioritizing survival over progress. Hunting and farming. 

Do ants care in the dealings of a lion? Peasant they may be, I need answers. 

Little chickens.

"Little children." I say to them, slowly and coherently as I can muster, for I assume they know little of the Capital Tongue. I dictate each word strongly so they can get my meaning. "What place is this?"

"Maggi. Jon. Don't answer." The thin one cries. "Let's go back to town, and tell Luxor Hester"

"But… look at his hair, Floyd! Gold like the sun." Maggi says in amazement. "Like those in fairytale books of knights and princesses and kings. Who are you, mister?"

They speak well enough for backwater dwellers I suppose, but they completely missed my question. Well, what do you expect little ones to say? I remembered my niece Vronica spewing out gibberish, the same age as this little girl named Maggi is.

A short introduction to these backwater youth might help them know a little of the Great Monarchy, mayhaps educate them as well. "I am Prince Lexander Oldblood, little ones. Master of Flamekeep. Fourth-Born Son of Jetherson the Wise and Brother of Reigning Emperor Melinor. I hail from a lineage of Bearer-kings, we who sit upon the Emerald Throne, Rulers of the Empire." A moment of pause so they need time to digest what I said. "Now, I ask again, what place is this?"

Before Maggi can reply, the thin one grabs her and the fat one's arm. Ran they went down the meadow with their little feet. Little do they know my patience was at its limit. I bent my knee and in one great leap I reached ahead of them, stopping at their tracks.

"Sorcerer! Demon!" Terror in Floyd's wild eyes, stuttering. "... You… you appeared suddenly from a black stone, speaking of dark things, and you could jump so high. "

"Enough!" I say, iron in my voice, I straightened my back and willed myself not to slap the rude peasant boy, straying not to his foolish remark. "I tire of this nonsense you speak. Tell me now and tell me true. I will not repeat myself the fourth time like a babbling imbecile. What. Place. Is. This?"

Maggi points to the smooth stone above the hill, black as midnight, a twinkle on its surface. Conspicuous it is, a round dark object in a field of green. "We were playing and somehow we hit that stone. Then you appeared from nowhere." She says, her voice shaky.

"This is Flintenburrow, mister." The fat boy named Jon finally speaks, more articulate than the others. "The fifth island of Orwell."

Black stone? 

Flintenburrow? 

Orwell? 

These words have no meaning. The map of the world I've studied to great detail. Each border and corner I knew well. 

Is this a faeling realm? I squat, inspecting the faces of the youth in front of me. Pair of eyes and ears. Nose and mouth. Nothing more, nothing less. These children seem human enough.

In the deep recesses of my mind, once again I heard Nevuchad laughing in my head.

I took the mystical stone. Round and smooth, enough to fit the palm of my hand. It feels more like polish marble than stone. "Bring me to your town." 

Little chickens.