I'd like a writer :3

A voice... who’s voice? And... the sun... God I’ve never felt... I've never felt so... alive.

Bastian awoke from his easy slumber, stretching his tired limbs as he reminisced the dream he kept having night after night; there was a calm breeze fluttering by, sun, and a voice. A voice saying he would serve a King; a great King. But he must first find something, however, the sun shone so brightly that it concealed whatever he was looking for. What was he looking for? He knew that it was something important. Something more important that he could imagine. Like...

“Bastiaaaaan!” His mother called, breaking through his tidbit of thoughts with irritation hindering in her normally calm voice. She scurried into his small room on her stubby legs, growling at him about waking up late when he had errands to run and chores to do. It was almost a routine procedure whenever she scolded the man. “Still lying there!? What a lump of uselessness!” His mother scowled once more, tossing an empty bucket on top of his exposed chest, “An exact replica of your father! The Gods have forsaken me with such useless men.”

“Sorry, ‘ma... I‘ll do it now,” He muttered more to himself than anything, even though he was leaning outside the threshold to address his mother who strode down the hall in a heated manner. From behind, his mother’s frazzled brown hair was noticeably unkempt and hidden beneath a bandana that was dirtied and needed some washing. Her little bit of chunkiness toppled over the apron she wore around her waist, peach in color, draped over a ragged brown dress as her gelatin-like bottom shifted side to side, bouncing like pudding on a platter. But she was a wholesome woman and never usually meant all that she said.

His father had been away at war for some time now, ever since he could remember really, and it didn‘t ease the loneliness of the home for the fact that Bastian was an only child. When famine and poverty struck, Bastian’s home suffered, and if that wasn’t already enough, his father was soon called out to defend Greece. It’d been years now, and Bastian, and his mother, only hung by a single thread of hope for the man’s return.

Bastian slunk down the small set of stairs, each creaking under his bare feet as he dragged a sea-green tunic over the top of his head and onto his lanky body; embroidering along the collar was a translucent piece of material, golden in color, and was likewise around the cuff of his sleeves. His brown pants, partially patched and sewn in various areas fit loosely around his waist, and his sandals, though the soles were falling off and looked like a llama had chewed them, fit him nicely.

The idle sunlight that beamed in from the open window hit his face once he reached the last step, piercing his vivid green eyes and forcing him to look away, swaying his shaggy brown hair. Bastian’s smooth, angular jaw spread into a smile as he swiveled the bucket, saying his goodbyes before finally departing to fetch water from the brook like he always did. Like he was supposed to. Haphazardly, he bumbled on, trying to decipher his dream whilst he made his way to the brook, passing by the worker’s field.

The guards stood outside the cell, attentive and erect in posture, covering any entrance to the confinement as though Ecclesia were a disease; their positions eased into bows for but a moment as they addressed the Queen with courteous bows. Almost as quickly as they paid respects to her, they had returned to position, unmoving and stiff. It didn't occur to them that Danica would see past the charade of the ‘nice’ guards that ‘watched over’ the prisoner. No, she knew much better what the Royal Knights thought of traitors and those acclaimed of treachery.

“I didn't know her Majesty took it upon herself to tell people when they are to die. To save you breath... I wish to watch the sun rise before my execution in the morning…”

Danica’s saddened gaze shifted to behind the iron bars, crossed and patterned, thick and unbreachable even for the strongest man in the castle with his best lance. The holding cells were welded by the strongest of materials, and were rarely, if ever, used to cage anyone. Though, the years of not having been used did have its effects, such as smell and cobwebbed corners. Heavily she sighed, making her way toward the gate when the guards asked for her not to come closer out of precaution. One slit glance silenced them from requesting anything further from her.

“Unlock the cell and leave, both of you.”

“But, Your Majesty!”

“Must I repeat myself, Lummis and Griv? Also, drop the cell keys on your way out, from henceforth, you will not be overseeing this man.” She beckoned, stepping forward another pace. It seemed that both were not yet ready to gamble with their Queen and thus, opened the cell with smug attitudes and dropped the keys on the side table, just across from the holding cell. The Captain held his curiosity in for her actions as he watched Danica crouch below the iron bars, dirtying the ruffles at the base of her gown.

The Queen knelt before Ecclesia, her sweet, compassionate General; her heart ached out to him, to one so close to understanding her woes, her loneliness. Grasping the side of his face in her bare palms, Danica stroked his chiseled jaw, leaning forward to meet his ear with a whisper. “Do you think so ill of me, Nicolai, that you inquire such a terrible thing? I may be Queen, but I refuse to tell any man when they are destined to die. I couldn’t do that.. ever. I couldn’t do that.. to you.” Brushing the stay hairs from his face, Danica locked eyes with the man before rising once more.

“I don’t believe you have the eyes of a killer, but I haven’t much proof to determine otherwise. Forgive me, but you must stay here. There’s nothing more I can do, unless I find whoever may have pinned the blame on you or find out that my spy took incorrect information. The reason the Captain is here.. he’s to watch over you. I kept my word when I said the traitor would have his life spared. Traitor or not, though, I never constituted unlawful beatings while contained.” She turned and thanked the Captain in advance, placing her trust that he would do his duty without biased decisions and turned to leave.

As she stood at the steps, ready to exit, she took one last glance back, “It looks as though you won’t be watching the sunrise for quite a while, Nicolai. I’m sorry,” And sorrowfully she made her way back, scuffling down the hallway with a dirty dress and a sour expression on her face that looked almost as though she’d erupt in tears at any given moment.

Percival strolled up from behind her, dressed in clad armor, steel blue in color, the ridges being an electric, metallic teal. The armor clanked with each movement as he was examining the ruffles of her dress, puling in front of her with a stern look, “You’ve made quite a mess of your dress, Your Majesty. May I inquire what it is you were doing in the dungeon with the prisoner?”

“I’ve no time for your mockery and what I do is business that does not involve you, Percival, you should take well to that fact. Now, to your patrol,” She said firmly.

“Aye, M’lady,” He said, turning about-face, concealing a devious grin with his helmet.