LUKE
Chapter 1
It Is All In Your Head
I feel like I should've broken by now.
My body has, at least.
A shattered ankle held together by will and a knee that threatens to snap with every step, I've long since broken in more ways than one.
The only thing holding my body together is the need to serve the King.
I'm a Soldier.
That's what I am.
I spend each day carrying out my King's wishes.
The only problem is the little voice in the back of my mind raising questions about the King, questions I know will get me labeled a traitor in an instant and carried off to a painful death as ordered by the Judge and Justice, one far more painful than the lasting ache in my leg.
The King cannot know any of those questions, and so I play the part of the Soldier. It's my job, my duty to serve, and I must follow every order.
xxxx
They say that eyes are the windows to the soul, but do they know how eyes lie? Do they know how eyes deceive? I'd say they're more like doors, with how eyes can shield so much, say the most devastating sentence and then twist the knife with yet another that's just as cruel. Or, for those lying for survival, hide the fear and the desperation behind a facade so convincing that perhaps not even the own eyes know the mask is there.
"Maybe I don't even know it's there," I whisper, rolling over in my bed and swiping my pillow from beneath my head to pull it to my chest.
I knew I had begun to construct the mask shortly after I had twisted my ankle only a few days into Soldier training. It had swelled up and been nearly impossible to walk on, and at first others had been sympathetic and the doctors had tried to help. Yet, as my ankle didn't stop hurting and the doctors couldn't figure out what was going on, they began to stop looking at my symptoms and me and began questioning whether I was making the entire thing up.
I'd wanted to scream.
"I think it's time to consider that this is all in your head," one had stated after a few minutes of prodding at my ankle.
It had taken everything within me in that moment not to cry, because that's what Soldiers do— they do not cry. A Soldier never cries. I'd known that without having to be told. No one needed to tell me not to ever shed a tear, and I had kept to that. I have never cried, except for in the privacy of my own little room, once I had risen through the ranks enough to earn that privacy instead of the shared bunks in the Barracks.
My room is small, in the far corner of the Barracks, near where the Generals and the lead Guard sleep, but it's mine and I can cry my silent tears here, sobbing to myself whenever things get to much before I piece myself back together enough to face the world and pretend to be the Soldier that everyone else thinks that I am.
I hug my pillow to my chest. It's the only soft thing allowed in my room, not that there's much else; it has a bed, a chest for clothing and little supplies, a small window on the wall opposite the door, and a stand for my armor.
I had tried to return to the doctor the week after the one doctor had told me it was in my head to see someone else and get a second opinion, because things hadn't gotten better and I could still hardly walk, but they saw it was me and shook their heads, all but chasing me away.
"No, Soldier," they had said. "We told you your diagnosis. It's not our fault if you won't accept that you are making this all up. Go back and just get over it. Deal with it and get over the fact that you are making this up. You just want attention. Go cry about it. Go find your mom and leave. Not everyone is cut out to be a Soldier, and you can't just take the easy way out."
"But I'm not making it up," I had replied as my ankle throbbed, pulsing with white-hot pain that threatened to send me keeling over as sweat poured down my neck and back. Agony shot up my let, searing up my bones and howling across muscle.
"I'm the doctor," they'd snapped, "and I am telling you that there is nothing wrong. Go home and get over it. It's in your head. Snap out of it."
I gritted my teeth.
The pain of the betrayal and dismissal hurt far more than the physical pain.
The doctors were supposed to help, and they didn't. They were supposed to listen and respect me, and they didn't. They did not listen to my concerns, and they did not listen to what I had to say. They didn't even try.
I vowed to never see another doctor again, no matter what. I learned basic wound care. I taught myself to care for the broken bones I acquired over the years I was a Soldier.
I didn't have anyone. The doctor was wrong; I couldn't go home to my mom. She had died of sickness in the Sea. They didn't know what it was and they couldn't cure it, and she died.
It was the Guard and Soldiers or finding something in the Sea to keep me out of the Guard and Soldiers. I chose Soldier training. I wanted out of the Sea, and this way I could best serve my King of Ragdon, the very ruler I grew up hearing stories about.
My mom respected him, so I did as well.
A knock on my door snaps me out of my thoughts.
"Yes?" I call out.
I know they won't come in, not unless it was extremely urgent or I invited them in, which I have not.
"Soldier, Our Sovereign, His Excellency, His Honor, His Highest of all Highnesses, King Garonda XIV has requested your presence in the Throne Room," someone tells me.
"I understand," I reply, already sliding out of bed and into my underclothing so I can put on my armor.
I don't have to think any more, as I slide on the pieces in a familiar rhythm, then fasten the buckles on the leather straps in an equally familiar rhythm. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I pull on my boots, then tug the last of my armor over my shoes. The weight of the armor over my shoulders and my body is a familiar comfort I'm used to, one I rely on, if only so I don't lose my mind. I count on that pressure; it's something I know will be there each day.
What does the My Sovereign, His Excellency, His Honor, His Highest of all Highnesses, King Garonda XIV want?
I've never been called to him alone, and never directly. I have never had the privilege of being called before the King of Ragdon directly, and I feel light in my stomach at the thought.
A small, little, tiny part of me raises the points of alarm, the questions that I shove away, because I can't be betraying My Sovereign, His Excellency, His Honor, His Highest of all Highnesses like this. I cannot commit such a sin. I cannot hurt him so.
He's my King. He serves Ragdon Island; that's why he's the King of Ragdon.
He's King because he serves Ragdon for the better good. Remember all those training sessions?
I push my palms into my face, pressing them into my eyes. I take several deep breaths, trying to calm the racing of my heart and the ragged come and go of my breath.
Why is this so hard? The other Guard and Soldiers can't be going through this? Do they have such a fight with their mind every day?
I grab my sword from its stand and sheathe it in my scabbard, though I hold onto the hilt of the sword, feeling the well-worn hand-hold from all the time spent sparring, practicing on my own and with others, running through drills, actual fights where the stakes were far higher than just simple bruises, chasing down the Wolf and the Dove.
I blink back the memories of pinning the Wolf to the ground when I helped capture her and the Dove in the Lava Flats, the sheer emotion in the Wolf's eyes, so raw. It was something that had caught me off guard; I wasn't sure the last time I had felt emotion so... brutally clearly. With the emotions so surface-level, they were right there, and I couldn't recall the last time I had felt my own emotions so close to my skin. I didn't know what would happen if I felt them there.
Would they claw their way free, leaving me flayed raw, nerves so exposed I didn't know if I'd ever be able to cover them up again? Would they rip my skin apart, tearing me to pieces as I'm forced to feel in the way I'd seen the emotions so close to the surface on the Wolf?
What would that feel like, to have such blatant emotions?
I stand in front of my closed door, arm reached out toward it, fingers nearly brushing the handle, but I pause before closing my hand around it to take myself into the hallway I know will lead to the castle of My Sovereign, His Excellency, His Honor, His Highest of all Highnesses, King Garonda XIV. I make myself take several deep breaths, repeating that I've hidden my betrayals to the King of Ragdon thus far, that I've stayed away from doctors thus far, that I've kept my ankle from costing me my life and job as Soldier thus far, that I can do it for just one more day.
Tomorrow I will repeat the same. The following day the same again, then again the next day, and again the next.
We can do it, Luke. We've got this.
Right?
Dropping my chin to my chest, I exhale.
The King of Ragdon is waiting, and I know I should be going; I should already be halfway there, each step faster than the previous, because how could I be so selfish, right? But I can't stop shaking. It's my duty as a Soldier to serve My Sovereign, His Excellency, His Honor, His Highest of all Highnesses, King Garonda XIV.
Enough stalling. Leave, I tell myself.
I pull open my door before I can stop myself and turn around and stay in my bed all day, forgetting food and the King of Ragdon's simple request to see me.
xxxx
The Barracks are a dusty place.
I sneeze when I exit the long building reserved for the Generals and the lead Guard and a handful of others who have risen through the ranks enough to not be thrown in with the haphazardly arranged sleeping assignments that I've never been able to figure out. I don't think they were given much thought. I don't know how much thought was given to many things.
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I sneeze again.
Unlike the Sea, Guard and Soldiers don't sleep in tents; they sleep in sturdier buildings more similar to the castle of the King of Ragdon near the stadium used for training drills and other lessons. I remember the time spent there, learning the basics of sword fighting. How many times I'd been beaten, bruised, knocked flat on my back by opponents in a trial by fire. I could still remember the hits, the strikes from the wooden swords as I and the other Soldier trainees learned to become what My Sovereign, His Excellency, His Honor, His Highest of all Highnesses wanted us to be.
I turn away from the Barracks and focus on the castle of the King of Ragdon. I don't want to see the Barracks, don't want to look at where I sleep every night, where I hug my pillow more than use it beneath my head because I want something to cling to.
The castle of the King of Ragdon stretches tall toward the sky. Always under construction, it's constantly changing in appearance, growing in size bit by bit, more and more magnificent as it sprawls across the skyline. I wonder what it will look like in a few years. Marble towers reach higher than the rest of the castle, topped with triangular, purple flags, while various buildings lay, connected by different walkways and smaller buildings, behind a light purple portcullis. Just inside the portcullis, a fountain douses the air with the sound of splattering water, spouting from the mouth of a lizard that's a near perfect lookalike of the King's Dragon, down to the intense look in its eyes and the eyes of its snakehead tail.
Inside the castle, torches cast circular rings of light on the ground. Marble stretches long and far in the hallways. I feel dizzy, but I hold my head high, knowing that I'm a Soldier and knowing how hard I worked. I've walked these halls for years, despite the pain in my ankle and how I know I probably broke it and it never healed right. I learned to deal with the injuries that came my way from my days as a Soldier, refusing to see a doctor.
I make my way through the castle of the King of Ragdon, lost in my head. I don't have to think; I've been here enough that I know my way to the Throne Room by heart. I know the hallways like the back of my own two hands. Perhaps even better. I don't want to look at my hands. Everything I have done has been for the King of Ragdon and honoring the wishes of My Sovereign, His Excellency, His Honor, His Highest of all Highnesses, King Garonda XIV, but... sometimes...
Stop.
I shut down the train of thought before it can go any further. I must not betray the rightful, honorable King of Ragdon.
But...
No.
xxxx
I reach the Throne Room, and I force my mind into silence.
It's not a peaceful kind of silence, but it's quiet. The kind of quiet where I'll be able to listen. Take orders. Obey.
I approach the two large doors with circular handles hanging from within the mouths of iron forged into the shape of the Dragon, and two Soldiers nod at me in acknowledgement, then step forward to heave open the doors in unison. Taking a deep breath, I wait for them to finish opening the doors, before I step through.
My Sovereign, His Excellency, His Honor, His Highest all Highnesses, King Garonda XIV sits upon the Amethyst Throne, the picture of majesty and royalty. His purple suit matches the Amethyst Throne to a level of perfection I can only hope to reach someday. He watches me approach with his jaw resting on loosely curled fingers, a mildly bored expression on his face as I approach.
"My Sovereign, My Excellency, My Honor, My Highest of all Highnesses, King Garonda XIV," I say as I drop to my knees, bowing to the ground until my forehead brushes the marble.
I brace myself on one arm and hold the other near me. My ankle throbs in a now familiar dull pulsing kind of pain.
It never healed right. That much I know. I don't have to be a doctor to know that it didn't heal right, but a doctor probably couldn't have told me that; they'd have told me it was in my head and never figured out what was going on.
"You are going to receive a gift from the Amethyst Throne," the King of Ragdon tells me without greeting.
I don't look up. I don't outwardly react to his words, because I was told that I shouldn't. It was —and is— wrong; don't show the King of Ragdon emotion. Listen. Always listen. Never react.
Inwardly, I feel happy. The King of Ragdon has seen how much I cared. The King of Ragdon has appreciated what I had done.
"Of course, My Sovereign—."
The King of Ragdon cuts me off, and fear blooms in my gut like blood pouring from a stab wound from one of the greatswords I've seen used.
"Call me Bryant," he says, shattering my world, before he sends me spiraling. "We are equals, now. You will be my righthand man."
"I-I'm sorry," I blurt.
I don't know what I'm apologizing for, but it feels right. It feels like I should be apologizing.
"We are equals, Dust Devil," the King —Bryant, I correct immediately as more fear pours into my gut and insides, filling me up until there's room for nothing else— purrs.
"Yes, Bryant," I say without looking up.
I remain on my knees, forehead almost touching the marble.
If Bryant says we're equals, then we are. He's the King of Ragdon. He knows best. I should —and will— listen, because he's the King of Ragdon. What else should I do?
"You are going to become the Dust Devil," Bryant tells me.
"Ok," I say softly, obeying because that's what I should do.
Right?
No, I correct harshly. We cannot question. He's the King of Ragdon. Our mother told us that. The world told us that.
"Are you ready?"
I see the shadow of Bryant —not My Sovereign... not the King of Ragdon, but he's still the King of Ragdon, but he's Bryant, now... who is he?— stretch long before me as he leans forward.
"Yes, my-." I clear my throat. "Yes, Bryant."
"Good."
I can feel the weight of his words pressing down on my shoulders, the expectations. I don't know why he said to call him Bryant; he's the King of Ragdon, but I won't say no. I'll listen, like I know I'm supposed to.
"Let down the barriers in your mind," the King of Ragdon —Bryant— instructs, interrupting my thoughts and I'm disappointed in myself that I stopped paying attention to him, much less while I kneel before my King as he sits upon the Amethyst Throne. "Let in the Amethyst Throne. Let it give you its gift. Accept its gift. Accept the gift with open arms and don't resist. It's meant to be, and the Amethyst Throne chose you, Dust Devil."
That's not my name, instinct wants to say, that knee-jerk reaction wants to bite out before I can think. But the stronger training of the Soldier wins out and catches me before I can begin to dig a grave, and I hold my tongue.
If the King— if Bryant wants me to be the Dust Devil, then I'll be the Dust Devil. I signed up to be a Soldier. I'm a Soldier, now. I've been a Soldier for years, since the day I joined the ranks and began training in the Barracks on day one.
"Ok, Bryant," I reply, voice soft and submissive.
Whatever Bryant says, I'll do.
The Amethyst Throne glows with vibrant shades of purples and violets, swirling with new energy and thrumming with a buzzing sound. There used to be Bryant's Dragon that slept upon the back of the Amethyst Throne, rarely moving except to intimidate, or, on occasion, lash out and incinerate. The Sea was the farthest it flew. But then it died at Arcane's paws, just like he'd killed Freedom.
"Do not resist," Bryant repeats as tendrils erupt from the Amethyst Throne.
The amethyst tendrils condense and coalesce into one that weaves and slithers towards me and from it comes a snake with a chain for a body. Metallic, its glittering amethyst eyes lock onto me. A chittering, clattering sound comes from the snake, and it leaves behind the Amethyst Throne to make its way toward me.
"Do not resist," Bryant repeats again.
I push down my panic and force myself to stay in place and only watch as the snake draws nearer. It's what the King —Bryant— wants. I must obey. It's what my training tells me. It's what everything I've learned tells me, despite the fear that now crawls through me. Despite the terror seizing every bit of my body as I begin to shake and the snake blurs from panic, I lock my legs and hold myself in place, still bowed down, head tilted so I can watch as the snake slithers closer, body twisting as it pushes itself forward and winds toward me.
The snake wraps itself around my arm, and I lean back, sitting up on my knees, no longer hunched over in a deep bow and propped up on a forearm. It pauses, holding itself up as it meets my eyes. It doesn't really have eyes, if that's what they can be called. Twin pieces of the Amethyst Throne lay embedded in its silvery metal head, swirling with shifting colors of purple.
The snake forces itself into my mouth, chains grating across my teeth as it moves down my throat as it crashes through the barriers in my mind and strong-arms its way into my mindscape.
I scream at the pain, unable to hold back the outward reaction and keep myself composed like my training tells me I should around everyone, but especially the King of Rag— Bryant. Tears stream down my cheeks as I dig my fingers into my armor and claw at the metal, slicing my fingertips open until blood coats my hands and wrists as I try to free myself from the snake's intrusion. My face turns slick with salty tears.
"Let it in," I hear Bryant say somewhere far away.
I don't understand why Bryant would want me to let in such a horrific force, but I cannot give any more energy to his order.
Snake in my throat, I can do nothing as it works its way into my body, consuming my being. Venom dripping from its teeth, the snake wraps itself around the depths of my mind, chains cinching into the nooks and crannies of spaces I didn't know existed and spaces I used to hide from the world until I know the snake won't go away easily.
Why would you want to remove me? a voice asks.
I pause; that wasn't my voice.
I look around, frowning.
You really cannot figure that out? Maybe we guessed wrong. We thought you were the best Soldier candidate we could find for a power such as the Dust Devil's. Maybe you aren't cut out for this.
No, I reply without speaking, knowing that I am cut out for the Dust Devil, whatever it is, because it will serve my King —Bryant— and I know I need to do that. I can be the Dust Devil. Tell me what I need to do. I can be the Dust Devil. I can be him-. Them-. Whoever-. I-I can be the Dust Devil. Tell me. Please.
Hmm, the voice muses, maybe you are.
Please, I beg, holding my stomach as it roils with nausea and agonizing pain that has sweat soaking my back and making my hair stick to my scalp and the back of my neck. Please, I can be the Dust Devil.
The snake's... invasion into the most personal pieces of me cuts so deep, and I can feel it rooting through myself, me. Its glittering amethyst eyes scour over every bit of me, raking across everything with such a heavy weight that I can feel the scratch of its gaze, the indentation it makes, the scar it leaves behind.
Venom drips somewhere in my body, wherever the snake ended up. I do not know where the snake is in my body. Maybe it's everywhere, fused with me so firmly we cannot be separated, so connected so deeply that we cannot be separated; one is the other.
I take in slow, deep breaths to calm myself. Or at least try; my heart races fast enough that I fear it will pound out of my chest, and sweat beads on the back of my neck and down my spine, soaking my undershirt and skin. My hair sticks to my scalp with sweat as I pant, shivering at the feeling of the snake lurking beneath my flesh, and my throat burns from the rough, foreign drag of its scales.
My mind slows to a crawl and everything spins, hurtling to the side like a massive blow to my flank and temple that I would be surprised hadn't sent me tumbling to my shoulder if I could just get my brain to work. My head tilts to the side, following the twisting motion I felt as I begin to go limp, until I feel myself begin to twitch as my vision closes over.
The snake chatters in my head as I fall backward. Instinct tells me to jerk my arms back, to protect myself, to catch myself, but I cannot; I have no control over my own body, and I can do nothing as I watch the snake slither in my mind, awake as I am pulled into unconsciousness as my body jerks and spasms. The muscles in my forearm shake rhythmically. My throat closes up on a breath.
"Yes, Dust Devil," I hear Bryant say, the final words that cross into my brain, though I cannot make sense of them, "let it happen."
Darkness claims me, pulling me under and leaving the snake free in my mind.
What is happening to me?
xxxx
When I wake up, I don't know how long has passed, and I am so groggy that it takes me far too long to recognize the Throne Room and that I lay with my back to My Sovereign, His Excellency, His Honor, His Highest of all Highnesses, King Garonda XIV.
No, there's something wrong there, I think, but I cannot remember what.
"I'm over here," the King of Ragdon says.
No, there's something wrong with that as well.
I push myself up onto an elbow, groaning at the effort it takes to do so.
What happened?
I clench a hand into a fist at the pain that howls across every one of my muscles at the effort of simply moving. My arm nearly gives out, feeling like I have to communicate with another's body to get my own limb to respond and cooperate.
Blood pools in my palm, the one where I'd clenched my fingers into a fist. I open up my hand, and it takes me several moments to realize what's different. My nails are now far closer to claws than they are fingernails. I draw in a sharp, shaky breath.
What?
Fear pools in my gut and I curl in on myself, confused and scared. I slowly get my body to rotate my hand over so I can see the entirety of each nail.
I hold my hand in front of me. My fingernails are black, long, pointed, sharp and deadly. Weapons instead of the short, dull nails I always kept them as. I wonder if they'll always be like this, or if I'll be able to file them down, perhaps, or otherwise cut them.
The snake hisses and spits at such a ridiculous notion, a low, rhythmic noise echoing in its throat as its eyes flare a blinding purple. No, I should be grateful. How could I even entertain such an idea for the briefest of moments? I should be ashamed.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Yes, I'm grateful. I'm so grateful for this opportunity. I know this opportunity easily could've gone to someone else. I'm grateful, I promise. I'm so grateful, see?
I smile in my mind to prove my gratefulness.
The snake chitters in response in my mind, twisting its body in clear distrust and its eyes flash— a warning that it will be watching me closely.
But when I turn my attention to everything around me, I see bodies. Strewn in crumpled heaps with limbs in contorted positions, it is clear to me that the bodies of the Guard did not die naturally. Nor did they die from injuries sustained from Guard or Soldier weapons— daggers, swords, bows and arrows. I've seen enough of those injuries to recognize them immediately with the shape of the wound, how each weapon cuts into the skin and breaks flesh.
Was that me?
The snake chuffs, lifting its head.
"Welcome to your new life, Dust Devil."
Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of the Reform section of The King's Remorse! Welcome to Luke's POV, and I look forward to sharing his POV for the sixth and final section of The King's Remorse! Please comment your thoughts- I'd love to hear your thoughts and what you think! And please consider a vote!
Up top is Luke, aka the Dust Devil. He's a character with a headspace complicated by those 'traitorous' thoughts questioning the absolute following the King requires and demands. I look forward to sharing his story throughout his POV! Buckle up- it won't be an easy ride
Below is a drawing I did a while ago of how I originally pictured the scene where the snake (basically the same one who bit Jabez back in the Unbound section) attacked Luke. It is not fully accurate- Katelin was not here in this official version, nor did the snake attack Luke on the back of the neck; it forced its way down Luke's throat. But I thought it may be a bonus for those who wish to see it. The attack has yet to happen, so there's no gore. This drawing also offers a bit of a look into how I picture the Throne Room, rather than only through story descriptions.
How will Luke react after becoming the Dust Devil?
How will this affect the relationship between Luke and the King/Bryant?
How will Luke adjust, now that he has the snake in his head? That's about as intimate and 'no escape' as one can get...
Any theories on how this final section of The King's Remorse will go down? No theory is unwanted, no matter how out-there :)
For those affected by the LA wildfires, I hope you are able to get somewhere safe. There are resources available, depending on your particular needs!!
I hope you are having a nice day, and if not, I hope tomorrow brings something nice for you
-Werewolf14- :)