Chapter Text
A storm rages above the ruined stonework of the old castle, crumbling stone terraces shown in stunning detail as lightning flashes. The bolt heralding the arrival of the rumbling thunder, the night sky blotted out by heavy dark clouds. Rain pelts the cobbled courtyard, small rivers flowing between the cracks as a soft groan rises from the corner of the ruined courtyard, rubble and debris making a sheltered area from the everpresent storm that rages above. The wet slap of a pale hand against moist stone rings throughout the ruined courtyard, once beautiful and lush plant life, long since beaten and battered into a state of decay by the pelting rain, hardly muffling the sound.
StormPoint, a small town on the far northern shores of Scotland, was once the capital of a bustling, secret kingdom called Harathden. Magic ran through the very veins of the earth below Harathden. Harathden was a large kingdom, as large as the entirety of Scotland and Ireland, whatever brought this kingdom to ruin was truly a disaster indeed. As the old legend goes, and keep in mind ‘tis only a legend, the king’s mages were blinded by tradition, and that of the prince Archaeon’s rejection of tradition, is what brought about the fall of Harathden.
Archaeon, the only child of the aging king, who was born of a union with a goddess of the magic rivers running underneath, was the crown prince and heir to the throne. Though despite his great power and desirable position in the court, was quite lonesome. For his giftedness with the rivers’ magic made his peers, and those older, fear him and what he could do to them if they made even the slightest of missteps.
So, Archaeon decided to make himself a companion from the magic in the kingdom’s veins. This companion took the form of a beautiful brown haired man, brown freckles dotting his soft face and trailing down his skinny, albeit strong shoulders. Archaeon’s companion was tall, taller than the prince, and relatively lanky. Long, awkward legs often stretched out around Archaeon as he leaned into his companion’s chest on warm spring days, and wrapped around the heir during the cold nights of winter.
As for the companion’s eyes, they were a brilliant green. Greener than the fresh buds upon the royal garden’s fruit trees when they begin to bloom in spring, flecks of gold and brown made an appearance around the dark, affection-filled circle of his pupil. The prince was enraptured by those eyes, all he would do, if he could, would be to stare into them.
The prince and his companion, who was named Hamanthe, after the prince’s favorite flower, grew ever closer as the years went on, the citizens of the kingdom speculating that their bond was much more than that of simple friendship.
Regardless of what was true and what was just of the royal washer-woman’s rumors, the king’s mages began to grow concerned as the rumors seemingly began to gain traction. Archaeon and Hamanthe, moreso Archaeon, seemed to take the rumors as a joke-! It was as though the prince had no care for courtly politics, which, to be fair, Archaeon had never been one for the court. The prince preferred to explore in the enchanted forests around the capitol, training his connection with the magical reservoir under the kingdom, and, once Hamanthe came into existence, exploring with his trusted companion.
The king’s mages wouldn’t stand for such disregard to tradition, so they set a plan into action. They would force Archaeon to produce an heir, whether it meant doing away with Hamanthe entirely or temporarily, they were willing to risk Archaeon’s wrath.
It was midnight, in the dead of winter, when Hamanthe woke up in a cold sweat. Malevolent magic was filling the air with a deathly chill as the freckled man sits up, a grumpy groan rising from the shape clinging onto his bare torso. “Archaeon, my dear,” Hamanthe murmured, “something is off in the air…” Archaeon opened an eye “It is dark out, my flower, are you sure you didn’t merely have a nightmare?”
Hamanthe narrowed his beautiful eyes into the darkness, thunder rolling outside the safe confines of Archaeon’s chambers, “I am sure. Someone …or something… is tampering with the rivers.” He turned to look down at the crown prince laying at his side “We must go…”
Archaeon opened his eyes fully, gold-spun hair falling over his tanned shoulders like a waterfall as his similarly spun eyebrows sank into a frown. “Where would we go..? I am tied to the rivers, and the rivers are what give you life. To separate ourselves from the spring of Harathden would mean depression and death, wouldn’t it?”
Hamanthe cupped Archaeon’s face in the palm of his hand, green eyes meeting brown as he spoke. “Archaeon, the rivers and their gods bent to your will so that I might step forth, they gave you their oaths that I would live, and so I will.”
Archaeon leaned into Hamanthe’s side, a sigh rising from his bare chest. “Yes but what of the rivers and our connections to them? If we would not be depressed and dead surely we would be too weak to fend for ourselves-” The prince cut himself off, wrapping strong arms around his companion’s middle.
“Harathden is merely the spring from which the rivers flow from, my dear,” Hamanthe raised Archaeon’s chin to look into his eyes “The rivers flow far beyond Harathden’s bounds”.
Archaon, the golden haired prince, looked into the green eyes of Hamanthe, his loyal and beloved companion. “But you have said it yourself, my flower,” his voice was filled with anxiety “Someone or something is tampering with the rivers, who’s to say that they aren’t attempting to poison the spring of Harathden?”
Hamanthe brought a hand up to tuck Archaeon’s golden locks behind his silver-adorned ear.
“My dearest prince,” Archaeon rolled his eyes. “They pose far more to lose by poisoning the rivers that run through this entire world. One spring can surely not be enough to supply the entire world, my love.”
At this, the prince nodded, Hamanthe had a point. “Then we must go.”