• The Prince and the Pendulum (part 2) || Self-Para

When Sven had come to he found himself chained to a wooden post, his clothes half ripped out and his skin tingling—he looked down and found a single words carved on his chest, just barely fresh.

 The word was ‘ROYAL’ and Sven knew rebels had recognized him and chained him, to leave him to die a slow and painful death. But the sting in his wound was nothing compared to the sight of his family members, their bodies naked, ransacked and mutilated in the snow, crows feasting on their remains. He almost fainted again but that gift was never granted him. So instead he cried—Sven did not remember when the last time he cried was, but then again he could not remember when he cried and screamed as much as he did in those moments, whimpering like a pathetic beast begging to be put out of its misery. His few and fleeting moments consisted of cursing the gods, his father, the world and the war, and watching the bodies around him decompose before his mind shook, wishing he could dig his eyes out, and then he fell back into sleep. A crow had once made a mistake of landing on his chest, pecking at his festering wound. Sven could never explain where the strength came from and what made him decide he wanted to go on, but he seized the crow with his bare hands… and began to eat it after wringing its neck. Half the time he could not even tell day from night—reality from dreams, their faces live, dead… Nothing made sense.

 All he knew was that he had to survive.

 It was five days before the guards had found him. They’d found him awake, mouth crusted with blood and his wounds festering, shivering lightly, with the carcass of a half-gnarled crow on his lap. The guards only needed to look into his eyes—even in his pitiful state, they were frightened of him. Frightened of the icy cold glare in his gaze, his eyes which reflected his will to survive. He sat calmly, blinking, as if to say: about time you all found me here. They unbound his chains with an axe and Sven managed to stand up on his own.

 “You are not to touch them. Nor me.  Not until I’ve buried them.” Sven said, his voice dry and raspy. They all nodded in silence and watched as he went back to the remains of the house, came out with a shovel and began to dig. ­­­­

 When he had adorned their mounds with flowers, Sven came of his own accord. They accompanied him in silence, Sven did not say a word and his face remained unchanged despite all the death and destruction that greeted him on his way back to the royal palace… he had never seen so many dead bodies in his life so far, or after it. If anything, it brought him strength and steeled his resolve. In those moments Sven finally knew what he had to do.

 He thought about his family’s final wishes, and then he arrived in the palace. He was walked down to the main hall to see his father, the rest of his family, the council and most of Norway’s important people, the servants—all were in attendance at the prince’s coming.  He stood before them all, and his ragged and mutilated appearance did nothing to blemish the cold ferocity, the steely air and natural magnificence he carried about him. Sven raised his head and moved his gaze to every pair of eyes in the vast courtroom—and finally to his father.

 “I’m home.” Those words, icy, controlled and almost commanding were all he had needed to speak.

As if in cue, all of them bowed, knowing their true prince had risen out from the bowels of hell and was now come to them.

• The Prince and the Pendulum (part 1) || Self-Para

The crowned prince was eighteen years old when the Third World War had passed its shadow and darkness over Norway. During the worst of its peak, the Norwegian king had his son and heir seized from his adopted family of commoners and taken back into the palace for the best protection. Sven had kicked and screamed and thrashed the entire time.

 “Go, child. You’ve seen the real world, and you will be the one to take Norway from the ashes and the snow and bring it back to life. Take what is rightfully yours for you deserve it.” His mother and father had said to him.

 “I don’t want the crown—I don’t want Norway. Not without any of you. This is my real family.” He could barely hear his own voice over the sound of the blood rushing to his head. His head was full of thoughts of family—his mother and father, Axel and Marja—twins, and then Lena.

 “We’ll tame a polar bear when you get back, big brother. Just like you said we would. When all this is over.” Axel and Marja said to him, holding each others’ hands, with Lena huddled between them and her eyes said, it’s going to be alright.

 “You must live—you, most of all. For us. We’ll be here when you get back, Sven. Trust in us.” They said finally. He could remember their faces all clearly in his head—and every single one of them smiled at him. It was the last time he would ever see them and Sven treasured the memory in the deepest recesses of his cold heart. He reached out and embraced them all one last time before the royal guards seized him by the arms—Sven kicked and thrashed and screamed no over and over again before one of the guards knocked him out and Sven’s body fell limp on the cold, wooden floor.

 He was imprisoned in the palace, unconscious for two days. Sven had finally gotten his act together—he’d had to hurt an awful lot of guards, but he made it out in one piece. Barefoot and thinly clad, he ran and ran and ran until he reached their small hovel in the edge of the woods.

 Or what was left of it.

 Sven’s heart beat faster and his breathing quickened. Out of instinct he ran to the backyard, nearest the woods, ignoring the pain in his sides and the burning in his chest. He would never forget for the rest of his life the things he saw that very same day.

 Dead faces, their eyes still open—bodies rotting, hair frosted, pale, purplish skin, and the red, red snow pooling around them… all in alarming detail. Sven cursed his gift and for a moment wished he had no eyes. He felt his bladder let go and his mind snap and Sven wished for nothing more but to forget. 

• Smoke and Ice || Self-Para

                “You called for me, father?” Sven said, clearing his throat politely as he had been standing by the door for the duration of a few minutes while his father rummaged and shuffled rapidly through a stack of papers, his forehead creased in concentration. When he was like this, Sven knew his father was oblivious to the world—much like his own habits. At the sound of Sven’s voice the king looked up, his face chiseled ice and snow. He looked very much like his son, but his hair was streaked and peppered with gray over dominant white, and his face was full of deep, thoughtful lines.

                “Sit down, boy.” He said. At eight and twenty the man still called him boy. He tucked his papers away neatly on one corner of the table as Sven sat down in front of him. Sven waited for him to say something first.

                “I am sending you over to Versailles.”

                “And what am I to do in this… Versailles?”

“Your gifts, Sven—yes? You have control over those eyes of yours and what they can do—you are a fighter and a master of weapons, and it would seem your, ahh, talent and experience are of dire need to train some other son or daughter of royals from different countries all over the world.” He paused. Sven pulled a carton of cigarettes from his pants pocket, took one out and offered one to his father which the old man took. He lit them both before Sven nodded and his father continued.

                “Most of all you are to go to Versailles and secure alliances for Norway. You’ve seen what the Third World War has done and what a Fourth will do. I know human beings are the most disdainful affairs to you but you must do this as the next ruler—is that understood?” Sven knew it was a rhetorical question. He sucked in a breath of smoke, exhaled, and thought for a few fleeting moments of what the old man had just said—secure alliances, easy enough. He’d have to watch everyone carefully, look out for possibilities. He was uncomfortable around people but where business was involved Sven had no problem. There was nothing holding him here in Norway except service to Norway itself—either way, Sven would miss no one and no one would miss Sven.

                “Yes, father. When do I leave for Versailles?” the king blew out a puff of smoke before answering.

                “First thing on the morrow. Make arrangements, rest well and I will do the rest of whatever work you still have left.”

                “Understood.” Sven knew this was his call to take his leave. He took one last drag before taking a slight bow and left the room.

                It’s cold here, Sven thought to himself before his thoughts drifted away elsewhere.