And as the darkness spread, Maverick thought of that day. Back then, he couldn't have imagined such an outcome. His entire life revolved around inheriting his father and becoming a just and legitimate leader, someone people could look up to and be proud of. He had countless plans for the country that had been perfected over the years. But now, two and a half months after he had entered that cursed room, deep in his castle's grounds, he realized that it was all a fever dream. There have been professors and specialists who warned him of such a scenario. That there would one day come a day when all he built shall crumble to irreparable pieces. Never once had he thought it would be so soon. The universe had a different plan for him, though, one that never promised the future and prosperity of the nation. That Friday set a different tune for him and his people. It was a day that changed everything: for better or for worse, he didn't know, but what was certain was that the truth always came to haunt us.
Friday, two and a half months earlier
"Spiritual, are we?" Bailey snickered.
"Just you laugh, but you'll see I'm right. Sooner or later, I tell ya," Pedro awkwardly shot back.
"Leave him be, or he might just make up another beast that's just waiting to bite our heads off, ain't that right?" added the young Prince.
Maverick, the Prince of Marisonia, was as captivating as his father, King Edward. Thought it is worth mentioning that the youngling has caused about 75% less havoc in his entire life than his father has in the past month. While one could argue that his majesties indecencies are a direct result of the latest political drama, his son is always quick to tease his father about how he has gotten too fosilised to be a king. Nevertheless, the King has nothing, but praise for his only child.
However, this will prove to have been a mistake on the King's part. But worry not, he will not have the pleasure of finding any of that out. More of a physical incapability than it will be a skill issue, really. Hopefully, tonights evening won't be marked by another scandal for many political critics have deemed such a scenario deadly for Marisonia. Accordingly, Maverick and his companions have been praying for weeks that today's banquet would pass smoothly.
"As if you don't go creeping 'round whenever you please. Makes you wonder what you see in that," Pedro said accusingly.
"Oh, you should come see 'em. Might insult a gargoyle, become his lunch maybe," maverick mocked the older man.
When they departed, he did just as Pedro had predicted. Hurried steps echoed in the empty garden as he made his way towards the old castle grounds. There was poisoned ivy growing along the windowsills and a rust on the sealed doors. Sneaking past the guards, Maverick entered the darkened corridors. Lightning a partially spent candle, he took a path he had yet to explore. It led him to a solid black door without a handle. At first, it seemed to be a dead end, but when Maverick fell with his back against it in frustration, it gave way. Upon entering, a black dust washed over him. Unalarmed, he went over at least a dozen peculiar objects. They seemed prehistoric, with papyrus filled with a tongue he couldn't decipher and hunting tools one could only find in a history book. After a thorough inspection, he made his way back outside. Once he breathed in fresh air, a sharp pain cascaded over his throat. For a few seconds, he couldn't get in even a molecule of oxygen. His lungs started burning, his body bended in distress. It was somewhat five minutes before he could get a grasp of himself.
That night, Maverick was still short of breath, and didn't feel like engaging with his friends and least of all not with the diplomats that his father invited. The labored breathing started causing him heartburn, and his entire smile faded. He denied every lady who asked him to the dancefloor, and his blood stayed relatively clear of alcohol. If his father noticed the unusual behavior, he didn't say anything or simply hoped his son would be in better spirits tomorrow.
When Maverick went up to his room that night, his heart ached. He had his hand clutched over it in pain. His stomach started gurgling, testing the strength of his sphincter. He barely made it to his room before black, slimy liquid came out of his mouth. The green eyes widened in fear while he kept retching over the shimmering gold floor. Shame spread over him as he caught his gaze. Concurrently, Bailey made her way to her friend's room. The Prince has always been laid back and playful around his comapnions, whereas tonight he closed himself off and rarely made a snarky remark. It made her worried for him, both as his friend and as the lieutenant of the army he is to inherit. Inhaling sharply, Bailey finally gathered the courage to knock on the heir's chamber door. There was no answer. Placing her left hand on the doorknob, Bailey's right one collided with the carved wooden door once more. The weight of her arms caused the door to crack a little. Her face hardened instantly, fingers slipping to the gun strapped to her hip.
"Maverick! You here?"
Pushing the door open with her foot, she slowly entered the lightened room, The daggers in her eyes softened and filled with sadness. Maverick's face turned haggard. Tears ran down his neck and into his shirt. He sat crouched on the floor with his back pressed against the bed frame. There was dark colored puke all over the floor. Bailey immediately rushed to his side, hands circling his choulders in comfort. Maverick curled around her and put his head on her shoulder, letting her vest soak his tears. It was a long while before he finally calmed down and fell asleep. His friend decided to let him rest before she attacked him with countless questions circling her head. Carefully, she lifted him up and laid him on his bed. She contemplated calling the maid to clean up the mess, but decided against it out of concern that she might wake him. Instead, she locked the Prince's room and left to fetch a cleaning cloth. Her face twisted in disgust on the first sweep. While the vomit absorbed into the cloth, it left a slimy residue hanging from it. Bailey gagged and turned her head in the opposite direstion. Spotting Maverick sleeping peacefully, she corrected her face and reminded herself that she was doing this to protect her friend's dignity.
Next morning, Maverick woke up in a frenzy, throwing the sheets off of himself as fast as his body would let him, tearing at the seams of his jeans. All the rustling woke up Bailey who awakened in an instant and rushed to Maverick's side.
"Maverick, calm down. You're alright," she tried to calm.
"No, no, no. Why the hell am I grey?!" He tore away from her and started panicking even more.
"I don't know, but we'll fix this. I'll go fetch a doctor and he will-"
"NO! No one is going anywhere, do you hear me?"
"But why?"
"Bailey!"
"Okay, okay. No one is going anywhere, jeez," she threw her hands in the air.
The Prince exhaled deeply as he sat on the edge of the bed. He knew he had to tell her the whole truth while not sounding entirely insane. His brain was still processing what this meant. With a heavy heart, he started from the beginning, telling her all about the room and the dust, about the shortness of breath and the heartburn which quickly turned into vomit she saw last night. When he finished, Bailey's mouth was agape, but she still kept eye contact. A quiet understanding permeated between them, and an explanation worse that death arose within the two young adults.
"We can't tell anyone," Bailey concluded.
"When'd you figure that one out?"
"Shut up."
Present
Days turned into weeks, which soon turned into months. The two friends were still far away from an answer to their problem that had only grown bigger over time. Maverick struggled to keep his breath steady more often now. The skin that at first turned a smoky grey was now pitch black. It spread over his calves and reached over his knee. At times, even the tips of his fingers turned a deathly black. Thankfully, that was only temporary. Bailey and Maverick tried everything they could think of. He tried to pray it away, but no matter how much time he spent begging God for help, He didn't seem to be in a mood for mercy. About two weeks ago, he started drinking a dark brown liquid that smelled of sweaty feet and rotten eggs after Bailey read in one of the books from that blasphemous room that it could help with diseases unfortunate for humanity. Sadly, it was of no help. Now, about two and a half months later, they were out of options.
His friend kept preaching about gaining some kind of control over it all because his fingertips weren't so kind as to stay black forever. To make it even worse, the darkness stopped staying inside of him, but would rather slip from underneath his skin when it pleased. Whenever he left his chambers, it was like playing russian roulette. In the next secong, the carefully built cover story could disperse, and the next hour could be deadly. Maverick just waited for the moment when a cloud of darkness would surge from his hand in front of his father. Maverick lost hope that they would ever find a cure. It was a mission impossible. He strayed from sharing everything with Bailey now, too. He knew she just wanted what was best for him and the country, but the constant babbling of ideas she seemed to conjure up from thin air was exhausting. Not to mention, they all lead back to what they have already tried.
Frustration emanated from Maverick as he slammed the door to his chambers closed. He has had enough of all of this. It was taking a toll on his duties and him. Just this week, he has had to cancel multiple meetings with the royal guard and Sir Henry Johnson, the president of the Department of International Relations. His father has questioned him at lenght about the sudden neglect of his royal duties, Maverick had to resort to blatant lies that haunted him late at night. Never before has he fabricated his life in front of his parents so severely. It was truly shameful how easily it started coming to him, too. The first week or month were unbearable; the need to confess all his sins was great, but he held back.
The rage consumed him just thinking about these past two moths. He swiftly loosened the collar of his crimson vest that had become too tight around his neck. Sharp pain pulsed in his stomach, his eyes watering, and air running short in his lungs. Maverick tried to minimize the discomfort, feeling the black matter trying to escape his system. Golden buttons started flying around, and his jacket flew onto the small dresser he kept next to his bed. The suffocating feeling around his thorat only kept intensifying as he went on. His fingers crumpled in the white shirt he wore underneath erratically, unconsciously tearing at the seams. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. What if he let go? What if he let it consume him? Would it feel good to finally let go and submit to whatever entered him when he stepped into that room? He certainly believed so, and so he let go. He let it do what it was designed to do, even though he had no clue what that something was.
Oh, but it felt good. The blood rush let him breathe freely for the first time in almost three months. His head finally cleared; it was divine. As if God himself had welcomed him in His arms and His heavenly kingdom. Even the pain that spread over his entire being didn't nullify the feeling of finally gaining freedom. And power. So much power, it felt as if he were the king of the world. The blackened claws drew lines along his back and torso. He was fully consumed by it now. But it didn't stop at him. The cursed matter spread over his kingdom and ate everything in sight. Before his father, the Kind could process what was happening, it was already over, he was gone. There was nothing he could do to stop it, even if he knew where it was coming from. The matter took Bailey when she was running to save the King, too.
Maverick had no clue what was happening to his kingdom. Somewhere deep inside, he saw the images of all the people screaming in fear of the monster that came to destroy them, but none it mattered right now. He couldn't help, but soak in the rush the matter gave him. He thought back to that Friday. In the time since, it seemed like his life was over, like he would never be himself again. It was what experts have told him his entire life: when all goes to hell, you can never return from it, so do not let anything like that ever happen. They made it seem like it was the worst thing in the world, but how could something that felt so freeing be so evil? Maverick couldn't understand, and so he stopped trying. He let in what was cooking inside of him for such a long time. In his final moments, he finally fully accepted the truth he tried so hard to hide, and let me tell you, it was truly freeing. For the first time in his entire life, he felt truly free.
The truth was a powerful weapon. If used right, we could conquer kingdoms and rise to the top. Even so, most of us are reluctant to show our true nature. Maverick often noticed that when interacting with the lower class. There was hatred in their eyes, like they hated him for who he was, and even more so, they hated themselves, but they would never openly admit that. However, it is very important that one remembers that the only people we are lying to are those around us. We can never be truly free from ourselves. Whether we wanted it or not, the truth is always with us. Hiding in the creaks of the floorboards or in the backs of the closets. We can't run from who we are, we can only deny it and hope no one notices.
Until they do.
And maybe we find we like it.
But should we?