I Became the First Prince

If the Night is Long, the Dreams are Deep (4)

Disbelief arose in the father’s eyes when he saw the hole in his son’s chest, beneath neatly folded hands.

“How could you…”

King Lionel was unable to finish his words.

“Why are you…?”

He started speaking and then stopped, trying to ask the same question over and over again.

“Why are you like this?”

The king was silent for a moment before speaking again.

“After all this time, why did you let this happen? Didn’t you say that you wouldn’t fight? Didn’t we agree that you would take care of our people, safe in the rear? If only you did not stay longer, if only you returned after finishing your work!”

His eldest son gave no answer.

“But why are you… Why are you! You came back like this!”

No matter how many times the king asked, no matter how much he pleaded, there was no response.

“Duke of the North! Answer me! What the hell happened there! Why is my son like this?!”

The young duke, standing by the wagon with his head bowed, plunged to his knees.

“Your Majesty… Please…”

Vincent’s sorrow-filled voice made the king whisper to himself for a while.
Then he looked at those around him.

The knights standing near the wagon knelt, almost collapsing to their knees.

“I… I just want to know.
Why did my son let this happen? But none of you can answer me…”

The knights lowered their heads.

“Aah…” the father sighed, no longer able to look at the knights.
He shifted his gaze to his son, taking in the dented and cracked iron armor laying to one side of the wagon, and the red bloodstains that could be seen where the armor had been removed.
King Lionel’s anger had nowhere to go, and he again glanced at the knights.
It was clear that they had rushed here, unable to tend to the prince’s wounds.

“Huh.”

He reached out his hand to his eldest son, ran his fingertips over his limp and unmoving body.
Prince Adrian’s body was quite light without the armor, and his father lifted him, hugged him.
He gripped him tightly, for it felt as if the son in his arms would fly off right away.
His eyes took in the prince’s scarred body which seemed so very broken.

For a long time, the king stood tall, hugging his firstborn’s body.

He still couldn’t believe it, expecting the prince to open his eyes at any moment.

Where the heart should’ve been beating vigorously, there was an open wound, yet his son’s body was still warm.
It would have been normal for the body to have stiffened during the journey from the central region, yet the flesh remained as soft as that of a living person.

However, no matter how long the king waited, his son did not open his eyes.
After standing there for a while, desperately, futilely grasping for a sliver of hope, the king stepped back.
Yet, he took only one step as he came to a stop.

‘Tuk!’

He looked at the tips of his son’s hands as if possessed by the lack of power flowing through them.
Those torn, cracked, and twisted fingers filled his vision; the crushed and hardened palms that looked as if they had been burned.
Here was the figure of his eldest son, who had clearly fought by gripping his sword with all his strength, and now, those well-trained hands would never again reach for a weapon, for anything.
It was then that the father’s will broke.

“Huh…”

The tears that he had desperately bitten back began to crawl across his cheeks.

“Ooh aah ah aah ah!”

Between his wracking sobs, King Lionel gave voice to a sorrowed scream.

***

‘Chuck!’

The palace knights surrounded the king, standing with their backs to him as they grabbed their red cloaks and spread them out.

‘Hwararak!’

A red curtain appeared around King Lionel.

However, although the veil obscured a father’s tears at losing his child, it could not dampen his grieving cries.
From within the red barrier came the sound of the king’s sobbing.
Beyond it, the knights who had lost their master remained kneeling, mourning silently, their heads bowed.

The Marquis of Bielefeld looked at the sky.

It’s too cruel, he thought.
The buds that had sprouted upon the queen’s grave have not yet flowered, and the new flesh had scarcely grown over the wounds upon the king’s flesh.
The old noble steadied his burning eyes and clenched his teeth.
He struggled to keep his face composed and again looked before him.

The second prince, who had been terrified by his brother’s condition from the start, finally fainted.

“Take your lord to the palace!”

The palace knights picked Maximilian up and rushed him away.
Even amid the activity, those knights surrounding the king stood stock still.
The sound of weeping was now heard only occasionally.
Then, it ceased completely, and the king emerged from the wall of cloaks that shielded him.
He staggered and almost fell, but still gripped tightly onto his son, not entrusting him to anyone until the end.
No one dared to venture forward and offer help, not even able to look at the king.

The Palace Knight Commander suddenly looked at Marshal Bielefeld, glancing at him with bloodshot eyes, silently urging the marquis to order things in his absence.
It was a hard request, but after a while, Bielefeld quietly nodded his head.

“Palace knights, we return.”

They passed through the gates, following the king.
The prince’s knights did not rise, even after the palace knights had disappeared into the city.
Marquis Bielefeld hesitated several times as he stood before them, finally speaking.

“Duke of the North… It seems that your wounds are severe, so go and take care of them.
Don’t let your body be damaged by clinging to futile deeds and thoughts.”

Even after hearing the old marshal’s words, the young duke could not muster the will to get up.
The same was true of the other knights.
The marquis gave a long sigh and raised his hand.

“Guards.”

Then he summoned the garrison’s soldiers, who stepped up and forced Duke Vincent and the knights to rise.

“Take the northern soldiers and knights to the palace.”

The prince’s knights, reputed to be among the strongest warriors within the kingdom, were near-dragged toward the gate by the soldiers.

“What the hell is going to happen to the kingdom…”

The marquis gave a curt sigh and followed them.

**

Siorin Kirgayen had returned with great urgency from business that had taken him away from the capital, and he was worried about his eldest daughter, so much so that he could not bear it.
So, before dutifully going to the king, he sought out his daughter first.
Even though he was neglecting his duties as Prime Minister, he wasn’t even able to see Arwen’s face.
He stood on the doorstep of her residence, yet could move no further, having become frozen on the spot.

“Huh…”

It was as if the voice coming from inside the room was gagged by a cloth; the voice of his daughter, sounding suppressed and cramped.
It was so faint that he had to strain his ears to hear it.
It was natural, Siorin knew, for Arwen’s world was collapsing around her.
Despite opposition from her father, she had always been a strong child, persisting in her own way as a woman in a man’s world—but now, she wept.

Hearing her pain, as if her heart was being torn apart by a thousand forks, Siorin had to lift his hand, which had touched the doorknob several times.
Siorin couldn’t even step away, knowing that it would break his heart.
Unable to do this, unable to do that, his heart sickened.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps coming from behind him.
Amazed, Siorin turned his head to confront the uninvited guest.
On the other side of the hallway stood Vincent Balahard, looking at him with a dry face.

Siorin touched his lips, making it clear that the man was not welcome, that he should go away.
However, the young duke didn’t care about this fervent request.

‘Dush! Dush!’

The unusually heavy footsteps rang out in the corridor, forcing Siorin to turn away from the door.
He glared at Vincent with resentful eyes, yet the duke walked on, coming to a standstill before him.

“Didn’t I say the timing is bad now? If you have anything to say-”

“To be honest, my anger toward the Lady Arwen hasn’t subsided at all,” Vincent suddenly interrupted Siorin.
His voice had an uncomfortable tone as if rusty iron nails rattled in his throat.

“What are you doing h-”

“If it wasn’t for her, maybe there might have been another way.”

“Duke of the North! Shut your mouth right now!” Came Siorin’s angry shout as he challenged Vincent’s reproof.

“But far greater than my anger is my shame.” Even in the face of the minister’s rage, Vincent Balahard continued to speak steadily.

“While everyone, including me, looked cowardly on or turned away, only Lady Arwen faced reality.
She alone bore that heavy burden on her shoulders.”

Siorin Kirgayen, who had been about to yell the unwanted guest away, shut his mouth and remained silent.

“It was an ugly situation for us all, champions and nobles alike.”

Only then did the pain and regret arise in the young duke’s eyes.

“But as things stand now, I cannot say sorry, nor can I say thank you, so it seems that my hands are tied,” Vincent said in a bitter tone as if bile was rising up in his throat.

“I will go from here to his Majesty, and if dishonor is decreed in the process, I will carry it all.
I will do my best not to let his Majesty’s anger fall upon her.
So, I shall say that Arwen was just trying to recover his body.
I will commit myself, and hope that she will remain as honorable a knight as before,” the duke said as he looked down upon Siorin Kirgayen.

“I will now leave you with your pain.
Excuse me.”

Before Siorin could say anything, Vincent Balahard turned around and left.
Siorin looked at the duke’s back, and when he was left alone once more, he looked at the door again.
He hesitated for a long time but eventually said he would come back again.
The door did not open again, even after everyone had disappeared.

**

After leaving Arwen Kirgayen’s residence, Vincent Balahard immediately sought an audience with the king.

“Sire.”

In a dark room, the king sat next to the prince where he lay in bed.
Looking at the monarch’s slumped back, Vincent bit hard onto his lower lip.

“The elves came that day.”

Then, after a long time, he began to speak to the king’s back, telling him of that terrible day.
Without a single omission and adding no lie, Vincent told of how the Crown Prince fought, and how he ended up like this.

The king listened to him without speaking.

“And when the final light faded, his Highness fell …”

**

“Your Highness! Your Highness!”

Carls Ulrich’s face was pale as he crouched next to the prince, touching two fingers upon his wrist.
Then, he hardened like a stone.

“Move!”

Vincent pushed Carls aside and also felt for a pulse with his fingers.
There was nothing; he couldn’t feel the heartbeat that should be there for any living creature.

“It can’t be like this…”

Once more, he confirmed the prince’s lack of a pulse.
Even after checking a few times, the results were the same.
Right then, a pure white hand approached, almost like a phantom’s, and reached into the prince’s chest pocket.
It took Vincent a moment to realize that it was the half-elf who had pierced her sword through the evil elf’s chest.

“What are you doing…?”

While the knights were wracked with indecision by her sudden actions, the half-elf suddenly pulled a small vial from the prince’s pocket.
She popped the lid and poured the elixir into her mouth.

The people who had stared at her blankly now reached out to her, spurred into anger, but she suddenly lowered her head.
Then, she kissed the prince on his mouth.

Those who saw her squeeze her lips against his grunted, realizing that she was pushing the elixir into his throat.

‘Pot!’

A faint light flared up and surrounded the prince.
At first, there came hope into the knights’ eyes, despite the fact that the prince had said it would be useless to try and save him with Nectar, that it had to be used for something more important.
They just wanted a miracle to happen, but there was no miracle.

Even after the half-elf parted her lips from the prince’s, his breath did not return, even after the gently flowing light had completely disappeared.
Dashing the hopes that the same elixir that had brought the king back from the brink of death would save the prince, only one of the numerous wounds on his body, one of the holes on his chest, sealed itself.

“Ahhhhhh!”

The knights had vaguely watched the scene when they snapped awake to the voice of the half-elf crying out like a wounded beast.

“Ahhhhhhhh!”

Then, looking at them, the elf beckoned, then gestured.

“Let’s go back quickly?”

Fortunately, her sign language wasn’t very different from that of the rangers, and Vincent Balahard could understand the meaning.
But that was all—he understood what she meant, but he did not understand the intention behind it.
No matter how many times he asked, the half-elf simply repeated the same gesture.

**

“As time passed, his Highness’s wound, which had healed, began opening up again.
Maybe she simply wanted his Highness to return to his hale self, even if only a little.”

The long and sorrowful story was finally over.
The king, who had been silent for a long time, suddenly spoke.

“The warmth that remains in my son’s body is just the aftereffects of the elixir.”

Having the final hope he had been grasping for till the end shattered, the king’s voice was that of a father whose heart had been trampled upon; it sounded horrifyingly empty.

“Sire!”

Vincent Balahard sank to his knees.

“I pledged to be responsible for his Highness’s conduct and to ensure that he would return safely no matter what, but I did not keep this oath.
Please punish this unfaithful and incompetent servant! Also, please order me to war! I will take blood revenge on the peoples who have taken your Majesty’s flesh and blood away from us all! Even if every soldier of Balahard dies in the battle, I’ll spill the blood of these elves!”

The king did not look behind him, despite the grief and hatred in Vincent’s voice.

“Go back.
Go and let your body heal.” The king spoke in a spiritless voice.

“Sire!”

“Those of Balahard have already spilled too much of their own blood.
I won’t allow you to go, so know that you must retire.”

“Sire!”

“I know that you and my son were like brothers.
Your heartache is great, for he was special to you.
We can discuss revenge on the day when you regain your coolness.”

Before Vincent could say anything, the king raised his hand.

“I won’t tell you again.
Please leave me.
It may be a faux warmth left by the elixir, but I don’t want to let go of his hand yet.”

Vincent Balahard ended up dropping his head and withdrawing from the king, who had spoken in an embarrassed tone, faced with the desperate injustice of his son’s demise.

**

Carls Ulrich even refused treatment, instead choosing to stand on guard.
His complexion was pale and his tunic bloody.
His comrades, after seeing him stand guard in his ragged clothes, advised him to take a break and first heal himself, but he stubbornly remained standing.
He even got angry, asking how he could face the shame of being unable to protect, and whether he truly looked as if he wanted to take a rest.

The Palace Knight Commander himself ordered Carls to stand down, but he did not listen even to him.

Carls said, “If I am forced away, I will take my own life.”

It was a threat that would not have worked at any other time.
However, even the commander could not blame Carls for his persistence today.
Count Stuttgart had patted him on the shoulder and said that if doing his duty made him comfortable; it was not a bad thing.
Carls Ulrich was grateful for the consideration, yet he completely disagreed with the statement.
His mind could not be comfortable—no, it shouldn’t be.
Even at this moment, regret and guilt were weighing heavily upon him.

He always wanted to be the Crown Prince’s best knight.
He had always hoped that when the prince picked his dearest knight, it would be himself.
When Carls thought about it now, it was a hope filled with selfishness.
As he realized the extent to which his heart had been impure toward the prince, he shuddered.

When Arwen Kirgayen had taken up the burden that everyone turned away from, Carls himself had turned from the prince.
Even when the half-elf ignored the will of the Crown Prince and took that final leap without hesitation, Carls had merely watched on, passive.
When Adelia to commit herself several times to the battle in aid of the Crown Prince, Carls had been in a hurry to stop her and stand back.
When Bernardo Eli had torn off the epaulets marking him as a champion and rushed at the elf, Carls did nothing.

Even when Vincent Balahard had pleaded to be punished for his sins in front of the king, crying out for revenge against all the evil beings, all Carls could do was stand and listen outside the door.

He was no more than a bystander at every moment; he was just a neighbor to those who did great things.
This fact was unbearable.
Carls hated himself, he who had only possessed the modest desire to be the prince’s dear friend.
And so, he could only bear the sorrow by punishing his body like this.
In this way, he could punish himself for the unforgivable disgustingness of being overly self-consoling.

“Do not blame yourself.”

While Carls was trembling with this sense of self-doubt, a soft voice suddenly poked into his ears.

“Who are you?!” Carls Ulrich drew his sword and swiveled around.
There stood a woman wrapped in a white cloak, and she was looking at him.

She said, “Not all souls shine brightly as they go.
Still, sometimes there are people who see my light if they stand consistently still.”

As Carls looked at the woman’s strangely hazy face, his focus gradually began to blur.
Then, his knees became weak.

‘Dump!’ The palace knight, who had been standing upright through the night, collapsed to the floor.

“How come there are only fools and lamenters around him?”

The woman looked down at the prone Carls and then moved through the darkness like a ghost, heading into the king’s residence.

‘Kreek!’

She opened the door, and then waited for a moment, standing in its frame.
She hoped that the king would soon fall asleep completely, for he desperately endured her slumbering spell for fear that when he awoke, he would find his eldest son’s body cold to the touch.
The prince’s father resisted for some time, until his hand finally fell away from his son’s, his chin coming to rest on his chest.

The woman slipped into the room the moment when the king slipped into sleep.
She went to stand by the bed, staring down at Adrian Leonberger.

“In this existence, you have again chosen death, not life,” she said after a while, her tone sad.
Her expression suddenly became hazier.

“Poor Gruhorn.”

There was deep compassion in her voice.

“The Great Dawn Knight.”

She spoke with the greatest of respect.

“A poor and tender boy.”

Her words were also desperately dear.

“I don’t want your life to end as sadly as before.”

“I hope you will finally enjoy the grand glory you have achieved in your past life… Because you deserve it.”

The woman reached out her hand.

“That is why I have to prevent your long-promised rest.”

At the moment, the air distorted, and the woman pulled a bloody mass to her fingertips.

“The source of my life.”

The lump clutched in her hand wriggled vigorously.

“All of my soul.”

She brought it to his chest without hesitation.

“I dedicate it to you.”

The lump was sucked into the hole above the prince’s heart—and the light began to flow.

“Maybe you will blame yourself again.
Maybe you’ll be angry with me for doing something so useless.’’

The woman gave a gentle laugh.

“It’s because you are like that.
But nevertheless, I hope… I hope that you won’t be grateful nor sorry for me.”

The woman’s body gradually started to fade.

“I am the white night.
In the deepest night, I am the light that shall sit crouched in the darkness, existing upon a crying soul, alone.”

“That’s the fate given to me.”

“And if I can rest within you for a while until the dawn brightly shines…”

A faint smile bloomed on the woman’s lips, and it was the smile of the White Night Mage Ophelia.

“That’s enough for me.”

And at that moment- ‘Hwaak!’

A brilliant light then burst out.