Aureate Fates

37

                            CHAIN OF COMMAND

                                       —ERIK—

His wife had gotten her glow back, the spark in her step restored. Every once in awhile she'd throw a playful jab at him, and he'd pretend not to see her fist as it landed to his ribs.

She would laugh, Jaak along with her.

Today was the final day for the chosen ten. Marisol and Nyall talked in the garden outside the palace walls, per Nyall's request. Erik had only recently learned his name a few days ago.

He hadn't bothered to learn it in Ziralem, when his only job was to frighten each person the same way. Except Marisol, he knew her name before any of this.

Erik was in the armory. He had found a way to access it without Reese's help, using his newfound kingship. Every stone in the palace answered to its king. It bent and folded to him, if he asked. Thema had told him that.

He swung his sword forward, then angled it back. Swiped, stabbed. Since the duel with Eugene, Erik had been sharpening his swordsmanship.

That day, in that stone ring, he realized a new weakness, one he worked to fix. He would allow no one to beat him in combat, not when it was the thing he did the best.

He had never like swords. They were bulky and inconvenient. Blades and knives did just fine without the excessive length. But if he was to be king, he found it fitting to learn swordsmanship. It was a sort of tradition they carried in Verskyia.

As he swung his sword again, still not liking the way it felt in his grip, he heard a scuffle, then a sound of pain. He turned his head, lowered his weapon.

"Jaak?" Erik called out, seeing that the small boy had tripped over the mat and was scrambling up to his feet.

Jaak waved, a burning in his cheeks.

"Are you okay?" Erik didn't move from his spot on the mat. Some pain was good, for the boy.

Jaak nodded persistently, lip wobbling. He had landed on his wrist, which Erik noticed was red.

Erik was severely under-qualified to manage a crying little boy. How did he even get passed the wall?

"Don't lie," Erik warned, setting aside the sword and walking over to Jaak.

"I'm not lying," he retorted angrily, tears welling in his eyes, finally realizing his pain.

Erik rose a challenging brow. "If I were to bend it back and forth, you're telling me it wouldn't hurt?"

The boy turned to crying excessively and clutching his injured wrist. "Don't!"

"That's what I thought," Erik muttered, bringing himself to Jaak's height. "Let me see it."

Jaak clenched his little jaw. "No."

He nearly laughed. "I'm not going to hurt it. What I said before was a lie."

Jaak moved his tearful eyes over Erik, as if assessing him. Then he extended his wrist to him, gingerly. Something struck him then, the realization that Jaak had learned to trust him.

Erik looked over his wrist, tapping it once with his finger. It didn't bend easily. "Wipe your tears, it's not broken."

"But it hurts!" Jaak retorted, examining his own wrist.

"That's because it's bruised," Erik pointed out, coming to his full height again. "You need a cold cloth."

Jaak only blinked at him.

Erik picked up his sword again and began to practice his motions. "Go find a cloth, Jaak."

"By myself?" The boy mumbled, looking lost. "The palace is really big."

He lowered his sword, still gripping it, and took a slow breath.

Where was Reese when you needed him? Surely, he could've taken care of this.

"Fine," Erik threw his sword down, begrudgingly. "Follow me, quickly."

Jaak fell into step beside him, making it out of the wall and into the hallways. It was early afternoon, the sunlight soft and hazy. A few passing maids bowed as they saw Erik and Jaak. Jaak returned their action.

"You don't bow to them," Erik corrected, looking over at Jaak, who still clutched his wrist.

"Why not?"

"Because they're maids and you're an honorary guest to the queen of Verksyia," Erik replied. "There's a chain of command."

"Chain of command," Jaak sounded out the words. Then he looked around, up and down. Frowned. "I don't see any chain."

Erik huffed out a laugh and gently placed his hand on Jaak's head. "It's an invisible chain, one that exists only in theory. As king, I'm at the top, and as queen, Marisol stands right beside me."

"So, does that mean you bow to no one? If you're at the top," he asked, understanding.

"Correct," Erik affirmed.

Jaak pursed his lips and nodded. "Well, I think that's a terrible way to look at things. Why can't we all just bow to each other? Serve each other?"

The world had never operated this way. There was always a superior force, one with the desire to lead and create inferior classes of people. But Jaak's logic was one of pure intention. Fair. It would get him in trouble and at the mercy of gluttonous men.

"With that thinking, you might be a good king," Erik proposed, leading Jaak to the kitchens. They rounded a corner. "But never a powerful one. And a king without power is an unsafe one."

He didn't expect the boy to understand.

When they made it into the kitchens, the counters housed several platters of breads and cheeses. Jams and nuts. The cooks were gone for the afternoon. Erik carried Jaak on top of the nearest counter. He grabbed a cloth and turned the faucet, which released cold water.

"How did you pass the wall to the armory?" Erik asked, placing the cloth on Jaak's wrist.

Jaak's dark eyes brightened. "Just walked right through it. One moment, I was looking at your portrait, the next, I landed on the mat."

The walls only yielded to kings and warlocks. But this boy was neither.

Erik began carefully, "You and Marisol are siblings?"

Jaak's eyes dimmed and he looked to his lap. "No," he said quietly. "Not by blood."

There was a strange pang in his chest. He wet the cloth again. "Don't be ashamed," Erik said, and Jaak brought his gaze to him, with hope. "My brother and I don't share the same mother, but that doesn't make him any less my annoying little brother."

Jaak chuckled, then shrugged. "Drew is nice. He gave me a book and a pretty quill."

It was Jaak's last day in the palace and he had accumulated a bag of gifts to take back to Ziralem.

After a moment of examining Jaak's wrist, Erik asked, "Do my comrades come around anymore? In Ziralem." The Ghostly Five.

Jaak shook his head, shoulders suddenly tense. "No, not since you left."

"Good," Erik agreed. "It's better that way."

"Really?" The boy asked, looking surprised.

Erik handed Jaak a piece of bread that the boy had been eyeing not-so-discreetly. "A chain of command doesn't exist in our country. Not anymore."

Jaak grinned at his use of chain of command. "We all serve each other." It seemed as if that was the case now.

Erik nodded, hoping that Ziralem would heal quickly. For Jaak. And for himself, because no matter how shattered the country became, it would always be his home.