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“Your Highness, may I come in?” Xandes’ deep, concerned voice intrudes his reverie and pulls him back to the present.
It’s a particularly cold autumn night, and Hilmes finds himself sitting close to the hearth – much closer than he usually dares to – a ceramic cup filled with hot tea cradled between his palms, warming his fingertips. The heat from the flames is welcoming; it chases away the chilly air seeping in through the cracks of the walls, but the sight of it hungrily consuming the logs and the soft crackling that roars and echoes, amplified by the horrifying memory of his youth that constantly plagues his mind whether it’s day or night, makes the prince turn away with a wince, the fabric covering the scarred part of face fluttering with the small movement.
“Sit by me for a while, Xandes,” he says in a low voice, almost as if he’s exhausted, and to let his guard down like this, even before his most trusted man, is rare.
Xandes’ brows gather into a worried frown, but says nothing except for a “yes, your Highness” before settling himself beside the dark-haired prince in front of the fire that burns too bright, too merry.
When it’s just the two of them, Hilmes doesn’t mind that Xandes calls him by his proper title, but for a moment or two, he allows himself to wonder if it’s better if he can let this go, too.
In front of his soldiers and more so before his enemies, there’s never a sliver of hesitation in his decisions or a hint of frailty in the way he strikes down his opponents. No one knows what sort of expression he holds behind the silver mask – now made infamous by what he and his army has committed – and Hilmes has made sure to remain this way.
Ecbatana is his home, and Pars is his kingdom, so why does the heaviness in his heart continue to grow and threaten to choke him until he struggles to breathe every time he looks around the capital city – ripped and torn and strewn aside, the people beaten and assaulted and left for dead?
His homeland has been tainted by the poison of Lusitania’s violent touch, the walls washed with the blood of his nation’s citizens, and yet he turns a blind eye to the helpless cries of his people and assists the uncivilized monsters in making it worse.
He tries to convince himself that he’s doing the right thing.
He’s doing the right thing. He is the rightful ruler of Pars, and this is all for the greater good.
The heat from the hearth makes his skin glow too warm, and the tender flesh of his scar feels as if it’s being licked by flames even though it’s protected by the black cloth over his face.
“You Highness,” Xandes starts, uncertainty colouring the rumble of his voice, “it might be presumptuous of me to ask, but is something wrong?”
“Xandes…” the prince calls out his name, and he turns to look at the younger man sitting beside him – one who’s always too brash and too quick to act, his voice always a little too loud like thunder too close to home, and his enthusiasm and keenness to please too overwhelming at times – but he’s always been here for him, following his footsteps even when he knows Hilmes is leading them on a path of no return.
He’s never admitted it, but he’s truly grateful for Xandes’ presence in his life. He’s the single point of candlelight illuminating the darkness in his heart: a spark of warmth, of something more.
“What are we doing?” A sardonic smile grazes along the firm line of his mouth, and a soft, defeated sigh escapes from his slightly parted lips.
Xandes is taken aback by the prince’s question, for it seems to come out of nowhere.
“What I mean is,” Hilmes turns to look at the fire again, green eyes mesmerized by the dancing flames, “what are we doing, helping those Lusitanians destroy our land? Do I have no shame or morals anymore? Has the fire from back then ruined even that?”
There’s no trace of the usual iron coldness in his voice, just utter loss and devastation.
Xandes knows – perhaps more than anyone else in the troops – just how much agony Hilmes must have suffered through all by himself, the load on his shoulders increasing day after day as he witnesses the destruction of Ecbatana continues under Bodin’s inhuman nature and Innocentis’ superfluous governing.
After all, his own father, the once renowned Marzban Kharlan, has been labelled a traitor due to reason and belief that he must kept secret for the prince’s sake, but Xandes believes, in the depth of his heart, that what his father did for Hilmes, and what he’s currently doing for his prince, is the right path – the only path.
“Prince Hilmes,” the knight turns his whole body to face Hilmes with piercing eyes, and the prince gradually rips his gaze away from the fire to look at him, eyes calm and expectant. “Please do not be discouraged. One day, the people of Pars will understand your position, that what you’re doing now is for the greater good of the future of this country. And––”
He pauses there, teeth chewing on lower lip in hesitation.
“And?” Hilmes’ mouth barely moves.
“And if there are people who still refuse to acknowledge you as the true ruler of Pars, or if they were to place their anger and blame on you for the destruction that the Lusitanians have caused, I – as inadequate as I am – I will stand between them and your Highness; I will be your shield!”
Hilmes’ expression doesn’t stir, the part of his face not veiled by the cloth remains unchanged, and Xandes is certain that he’s spoken too much again.
“My apologies, your Highness!” Xandes quickly lowers his head in a bow, his cheeks tinged with heat, and it has nothing to do with the fire burning in the hearth. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that you’re not strong enough to protect yourself, I’m just––”
“Thank you, Xandes.”
There’s a ghost of a smile tugging the corner of his lips – not the usual cruel, cold grin that warns his enemies to run, but one that’s genuine, warm and mild like the birth of spring – and he reaches over to touch Xandes’ shoulder.
“I just hope it will not have to come to that.”
The fire burns long after Hilmes has left, and Xandes listens.