The Villain
Trystan woke up with a start.
A wooden table sat in front of him, where his head had rested before he jolted awake. A dream. Had he dreamed the whole thing? Even the monster about to attack him from the dark?
The clanging of pots and pans rang in his ears until he was out of his seat and taking in the room.
This wasn’t the manor kitchen—this was… “Make anything good today, brother?” Malcolm?
His younger brother wandered into the room—and he was indeed younger. A teenager of no more than seventeen. Malcolm’s hair had been longer then, tied back from his head with a red bandana.
This was a hallucination. Something had put him here, but he couldn’t remember what or how, could barely remember details about himself. Anytime something solid formed, it fell through his fingers—like dust or happiness or dark, curly hair— Wait, whose hair?
Speaking of which, now that he noticed, his fingers were closed around something warm. It was a pie tray filled with sugared crust, and the intense smell of blueberry bloomed into a delicious aroma that warmed the small space of his childhood home’s kitchen. Someone was showing him a memory, though he couldn’t pinpoint this specific one.
“He is not going to work for the king, Arthur! I refuse to allow it!” Deadlands save him, that was his mother.
“You’re going to wreck the boy’s future over a petty feud. This will be good for him, Amara. He’ll socialize at court. All he does now is keep to his room and make up recipes all hours of the night. His only friend is Edwin! Don’t you hear the whispers about him from the rest of the village? Doesn’t
it bother you?”
Oh. He did remember this now. The way one remembered being hit over the head with a large rock. “Tryst?” his little brother asked, concerned, already helping himself to a piece of pie.
“It’s nothing,” he whispered against the echo of his younger voice, his younger self.
It went dark again.
A familiar smell and the sound of agonized cries surrounded him—his cell; the darkness. His breath came in heavy rasps, and the memory of his cries came out of his mouth with no warning. “Benedict! Please! I’m sorry! I’ll be better—I swear it! I’ll give up my magic! Please come back! I don’t want to be evil!” He yelled and slammed his fists against the bars, sliding his hands down them until he fell to his knees. “Please come back for me.”
His eyes fell shut again.
When he opened them once more, he emptied his stomach on a large patch of grass, wiped his mouth on his black sleeve, and then blinked. Sunlight burned against his pupils. There was green shrubbery all around and…a running stream. Hickory Forest.
“Argh.” He clutched his pained middle and came away with sticky redness—blood. A jostling at his waist made him grab for his satchel, and he opened the flap to see Kingsley sitting inside. This was—he was seeing
—
Her.
Against the lining of the trees, light shone off someone walking along the edge, a shock of color coming in through the cracks. So bright, he nearly walked toward it, until he heard the call of male voices. The men who were after him, after Kingsley. He dropped to the ground to hide among the plants, ducking his hands over his head… He’d hide there, and he knew he’d be fine.
A moment passed, and he could feel the person from before moving closer. The sounds of a blade being unsheathed made him tense, but when he glanced up from the cover of his black cloak, he saw gently curved hips and sensible boots. Nothing else… He couldn’t risk moving his head up. It was a foolish village girl. What a nuisance.
His arm darted out, grabbing her wrist, and yanked hard. She fell, and his hand closed over the softness of her lips. Sage—it was Sage. The lucid part of his mind was peeking through, but then it was swallowed again, replaced
with his current reality.
This was their first meeting.
He pulled her down and against him, struggling to remember that this wasn’t real. This was a vision of things past, a test. A test. But the memory played through anyway. “Be quiet, you little urchin, or you’ll get us both killed.”
She was struggling against him, wafting the smell of roses about them like a heady mist.
Everything went dark again. His eyes closed and opened.
This time, he was in his office, at his desk, but this didn’t feel like a memory; the room grew hazy under the smoke from the candles lit all about the room. The night sky was dark as the moon shone through the windows, alongside one shining star.
Why was he here? He paused, trying to remember. This wasn’t real. Was it? What was he doing in his office?
Disoriented and confused, he heard a pained whimper on the other side of his office doors. Something about it caused the blood to freeze in his veins. He yanked the doors open.
Standing at the end of the hall, half hidden in darkness, half illuminated by candlelight—the sight so foreign in his safe place, his empire—stood King Benedict with a crown perched atop his regal head.
And a knife against Evie’s throat.
