Charles's eyelids weighed a ton.
Groan!
"What. . . happened?" he muttered, his senses sluggishly returning. Bruises and cuts marked his frail body. His hair, usually styled, was disheveled. Worst of all, red blood stained a mass of his collar.
"Gahhh!" Streaks of pain tore through his face. Charles massaged the fresh bumps and bruises, wincing. "How did I get these?"
". . ."
An adorable fish-sucking baby sat on his lap and looked up, meeting Charles's stare. "E–Emory. . ."
Quiet was the area, abandoned and tarnished. Charles turned his head left and right, wincing at the searing soreness of his neck. Finally, the realization hit him: What the hell had happened?
"What is going on? We're still on the floor?" His forehead beaded with sweat. "The officer!"
Charles shielded Emory and ducked, fearful that the wretched officer might return. Discovering no one but the two were present, Charles slowly calmed and racked his brain.
All he could recall was heading to his wife Isabelle's funeral. On the way, they had stopped, supposedly for a military inspection. He remembered leaving the carriage, the very rude officer who had hurt him without reason, and the lackeys splitting up, one of whom restrained the anxious carriage driver, the other Charles.
He remembered the dreadful scene: the largest man holding a sword directly above Emory's neck.
Then, blackness.
Why couldn't he remember anything else? Where were the officers? Where was the carriage driver?
My head feels dizzy. . . He massaged his temples, igniting new streaks of pain. His pupils constricted at the sudden, chilling thought: Did I hurt Emory?!
After gently turning the baby over and checking for any wounds, Charles sighed in relief, knowing Emory was unharmed.
"L–Let's get to the funeral. . ." Only seven minutes remained. How were they so late? "Where could the carriage driver have gone?" The space where the carriage should have been parked was vacant. He began walking, trying to find anyone who could help. Charles and Emory were in the middle of nowhere.
Following a couple minutes of aimless wandering, a voice called out to them. "Hey!"
A woman.
"What do you think you're doing?" she yelled, approaching the pair. Her long black hair, which would have cascaded below her shoulders, was tied into compact ponytails. Her blue eyes fiercely scanned the two.
The military gear she wore covered her modestly but still allowed for optimal movement. She held a blade, fervently gripped, in her left hand.
[Claire, soldier in the Houtisian Land Military.]
She looked to be in her early twenties, maybe even late teens. As she arrived directly in front of Charles and Emory, her nostrils flared. "Don't you know this area is off limits?" she questioned, slowly lifting her blade in case Charles might attack.
Charles's lips quivered as he stammered, "We're just looking for the cemetery!" His tone involuntarily shifted dark in a matter of seconds. "It's my spouse's funeral. That's why we're headed there."
Claire immediately lowered her sword, sensing the mood drastically shift. She paused, considering her words. "I–I'm sorry to hear that. . . really, I am. It's just, this is a military zone, and no one but authorized personnel can enter." The rules, she knew, required enforcing, no matter the excuse.
Charles tilted his head. "I k–know," he defended. "We were at a stop, for inspection." He raised his free hand slightly, trying to convince her that he wasn't trespassing.
"Inspection?" Claire's eyebrows crinkled. "By whom?"
Charles thought it strange that a military officer didn't know about the inspections. "By a captain—well, I think that's what he was. I couldn't see because I was still inside the carriage—"
He turned his head, trembling. I forgot everything disappeared. . . After gulping down the lump in his throat, Charles continued, "Maybe he was a general. . . I don't know. Either way, he stopped our carriage and interrogated the driver."
Charles omitted the part about the officers' brutality; he didn't want to create more trouble. As soon as Claire heard his last sentence, the color drained from her face.
She opened her mouth, but no sound escaped.
Is she okay?
"Sir, military personnel are not authorized to run inspections, nor do they have the ability. That duty belongs to the Secret Police, and they would never tell you it was an inspection."
Secret Police? "What do you mean? I was sure there was more than one man checking out a different part of our cart, though?"
"I shouldn't be telling you this," she whispered. "Uhm. Alright."
An invisible clock ticked away.
"Those who came to your carriage and 'inspected' you were not from the military or the Secret Police. They were terrorists."
Terror. . . ists? Charles couldn't wrap his head around the notion. His expression faded. "What. . ?"
That was all he had been repeating today.
Claire replied, her face contouring with horror, "It looks like they pretended to be military officials. Their plan was most likely to kill everyone in the carriage."
Emory remained unperturbed while Charles teetered on the brink of insanity. Sweat trickled down his temple as he frantically processed: We were almost killed by terrorists? If so, what happened to them? Did they die? Why isn't there a carriage anymore? Am I forgetting something?
Claire saw Charles's expression and knew he had no malicious intent. She sheathed her sword and placed it on her hip before sighing softly. "I can help you get to your cemetery, if you would like, sir." She looked down, avoiding his gaze. "I know the pain of losing someone. It's tough. Horribly tough."
She said solemnly, "Actually, my brother went missing a while back. . ."
"Missing?"
Claire tried to smile, but achieved only a half-grin, half-droopy lips. "Yes. A couple of years ago, he went on a mission to the island of Preole Grye with a couple of military captains."
Preole Grye. . . Charles tried to place the island. South of the Western Cradle? Or maybe north? Actually, it could have been east. He never paid attention to geography.
"Only one of them returned. And when they questioned him, he cried out: 'Contrivance is infinity!' and remained crumpled to the floor, laughing. They couldn't move him or get him to speak again. To this day, he stays laughing. Sometimes, the commanders question if they should just kill him."
Claire and Charles collectively shuddered.
"As for my brother and the other captains, Commander Constance Wales ventured to Preole Grye alone to try to find their bodies, but came back with nothing." Her tone remained dark and somber. "They announced him dead, and they even held a funeral for him. But I know deep in my heart. . . He is out there, and he'll come back to me." She held her hand to her heart and closed her eyes.
"I just know it."
Emory cooed for the first time that day.
The trio went quiet for a while, mourning their losses separately.
It wasn't long before Claire broke the silence and wiped the tears from her face. "I–It's about a twenty-minute walk. I'll take you there and wait; it doesn't look like you have a way to get home, sir."
Charles stammered his thanks to the generous woman repeatedly.
She raised her arms and waved. "It's no problem, sir. That's what I like to think the military is for. Not just protecting people, but keeping them happy and helping in any way possible."
She broke into a warm, delicate smile—one perfectly mirroring Isabelle's unnatural beauty.
Claire noticed Emory's gaze. "You have a very cute child. Though I haven't seen his expression change much." She admired Emory, blushing faintly at his cuteness.
"He usually doesn't cry, but when he does, oh dear. . ." Charles wryly smiled.
Not long after, they arrived at the graveyard. It didn't take long to find Isabelle Vaughan's grave. However, the officiant had already left; Charles must have messed up the times.
"I'm sorry, Isabelle," his voice cracked. "I should have been here. I should have said goodbye in time. . ."
The silent Emory watched tears fall down his father's face and dot Isabelle's gravestone.
A gentle voice broke the silence. It was Claire. "I don't see an officiant. . ." she mumbled. "If you'd like. . maybe I could say something?"
Charles stared blankly at her, then broke into an amiable smile.
"I'd like that very much."