Regina Swanson lives, works, and writes in La Habra, California. She holds a Master’s in English Composition from Cal Poly, SLO and is currently a pursuing a second Master’s in Philosophy at CSULB. Lure is her first published work of fiction. She hopes to carve out time to write more fiction between torturing undergraduate students and cursing her thesis adviser.
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Controlled
by Elisa Nuckle; published July 30, 2013
On a humid summer’s night, Niall walked into his brother’s dining hall with outstretched arms and a broad grin. Dorim, the stockier of the two, grasped Niall with both hands and nearly crushed Niall’s spine as he roared with laughter. The metal baubles and feathers in Dorim’s blond hair jangled as he motioned Niall toward a stone table close to the ground. The strong smell of sweet wine made Niall chuckle as he sat down and popped a grape into his mouth.
Dorim emptied his wine cup in a few swigs and slapped it back down. “When was the last time we had a break this long?”
Niall shook his head. “General Torant’s never released us early since the beginning of the war.”
“Ah, it’s for the best. Peace talks don’t need our swords anyway. City’s better off with me here, where I can see her.”
“Dorim, don’t pretend you’re here to serve. It’s the women you want.” Niall laughed and caught the goblet his brother threw at his face. “Not that I can blame you.”
“Oh, yes. More than a handful of pretty faces in this palace. Too bad they’re not like the women back in Farthis. Now they knew how to have a good time.” Dorim’s cheeks burned red, and he chuckled into his second goblet as he swallowed its contents whole in an impressively short amount of time. “Have you heard from Vars?”
Niall shook his head. Their eldest brother, their leader, disappeared on a mission two weeks ago and hadn’t returned. “But the others send their love.”
“Where are those two fools at?”
“Guarding the Monarch until Torant returns.”
“A high honor,” Dorim scoffed. “And the dogs decided not to tell me?”
Niall laughed. “They knew you’d cut their heads off if they did.”
“Oh, I’d rather cut the Monarch’s off first.”
“Treason does not become the city’s finest soldier.”
“Finest drunkard, you mean. Hah.” Dorim yelled at a nearby servant to bring in the main course.
As Niall stared at the heaps of cheese, grapes, bread, and berries on his plate, complete with honeys and jam, a lump formed in his throat, and his thoughts became cold. How had his life become so bittersweet? Long ago, when his youngest brother had been in the world for only two weeks, the Monarch seized control of the city. Niall’s father and mother were loyal to the old crown and beheaded for it. An example, the Monarch announced, to those foolish enough to stand against him and his strange dragon tamer. Desperate, ten year-old Vars convinced the stooped Monarch to spare the five brothers by offering their lives to city service and defense. The Monarch, with labored breath, agreed.
Vars, Dorim, Niall, Kye, and Pontris became the Blood Brothers — the city’s finest warriors. This wasn’t something all of the Brothers professed proudly. Vars took his duty with solemn silence. Dorim drank to forget that he had been old enough to attend the beheading; Niall had not, and for that he thanked whatever gods his father once prayed to. Kye and Pontris paraded about, gained the most honor. They bore none of the anger their older siblings had for the Monarch or his rules, and Niall couldn’t judge them for their ignorance, despite the pressure against his chest and the bile that rose in his throat when he saw them walk with the haggard old ruler side-by-side.
“Oh, gods.” Dorim slammed his fists against the table. “You’re horrible company.”