His Last Request

The hallway before him was dimly lit and the air felt heavy. His footsteps echoed across the concrete floor, the only sound in the otherwise silent dungeon. There were cages on either side of him but they were all currently empty with no sign of those who previously inhabited them aside from the lingering scent of body odor. Only a few cells still had people in them but the man refused to look upon their ragged and disheveled appearances for even in the dim torchlight, they looked pitiful.

Ignore them, he told himself. They all brought this upon themselves one way or another. There’s nothing I can do nor anything I should do to help them. I should just do what I came here to do and then leave this horrid place behind.

He could feel the eyes of the few prisoners he passed on him for brief moments before they seemed to decide he wasn’t interesting enough to continue watching. He supposed that, for men destined to soon die, there was little that could truly draw their attention—not even the unusual presence of a prince.

After a few more moments of walking, he came to a stop in front of a single cell. All the neighboring cells were empty, meaning he would have at least some privacy. Despite having far preferred to have the oncoming conversation in private, he knew he should consider himself lucky that his father even permitted him to speak with his brother at all. If he had been anybody else, he was certain his request would have been turned down the moment the words left his lips.

“Ah…come to visit me, have you?”

The words came from within the darkened interior of the cell and, seconds later, the prince heard the rattling of iron chains followed by movement across the concrete.

He couldn’t help but to cringe at the dirt-covered features of his younger brother as his face came into the firelight. It was a sight that brought him so much pain and, at the same time, forced him to recall the many memories he shared with the man before him. His brother’s once flowing golden hair was now slick and greasy, his beard was overgrown and sticking out, and his calm blue eyes had a craziness reflected in them that proved he was no longer the kid the prince remembered.

“So?” his brother rasped. “Did you come here just to stare at me? Or did you need something from me? After all, knowing you, I doubt you’d risk dirtying up your brand new boots in dungeon filth without an important reason.”

There were so many things he wanted to say to his brother. He wanted to know everything about what transpired after he left the capital nearly five years earlier. He wanted to know what became of the young noblewoman who accompanied him on his journey. He wanted to know if he ever found the cure he sought. Yet, despite desperately wanting to believe something worked out, he knew that wasn’t the case. His brother’s presence in the cell meant that his journey had failed. The cure had never been found. The noblewoman was most likely dead. Instead, whatever he saw on his journey led him to make choices that resulted in his current state. So instead of asking the questions he wanted, he went with a single word.

“Why?”

His brother narrowed his eyes in disgust, as if the question was truly revolting to him.

“Why, you ask?” he muttered. “Tell me, brother…have you ever been to Cal Torin?”

“Cal…Torin?”

As the prince repeated the words, he couldn’t help but to be confused. Cal Torin was a city on the outer edges of the kingdom’s territory. It was infamous around the country for being full of dangerous people. They were the sort who stayed in the shadows, only emerging to cause trouble for those they blamed for their misfortune. Mercenaries often flocked there, as did those who were so poor that very few options were left to them. His royal majesty had sent many an army to the city to try and eradicate the problems but their targets always slipped away, only to return when the king’s knights had left. Naturally, being a prince, he had never visited it personally. He only knew the stories.

“No,” he replied after a moment. “I’ve never been myself. But I know of it.”

His brother chuckled mercilessly. “Oh? Is that so? Well let me tell you something, dear brother. The stories don’t do it justice. Yes…there’s plenty a madman within those slums but they are far outnumbered by those who lost everything. Homeless line the roads, begging for a hand only to have their heads stepped on by soldiers. Those who die of starvation or disease are left there until the stench becomes so unbearable that somebody finally drags them into a nearby ditch. Animals crawl about, attacking anything they think they could eat. And all the while, those knights who claim to be the warriors of the people laugh at them and spit on them, looking as if they’re less than human…all because they had a little misfortune.”

The prince felt a chill go down his spine. The words coming from his brother’s mouth were laced with venom. There was a hatred in his voice that the prince had never heard before.

“It made me disgusted to be associated with them—the soldiers, I mean,” his brother went on. “And the longer I stayed…the more I realized that all those stories about Cal Torin being a center of scum and violence was just propaganda being spread by our father and those in power to continue to dehumanize those abandoned on those streets. It got me thinking…” He cleared his throat, looking suddenly exhausted, before continuing. “…are the other slum towns like that? So I went to check and sure enough…I found the same results everywhere. Norcon, Breccen, Erisiel, you name it. It’s the same place with a different name.”

“So all this time…” the prince muttered, “…you’ve been traveling to these cities? And for what?”

“For what?” he spat. “I’m a prince of this kingdom…a kingdom I realized is rotting. The elite sit up in their velvet halls while the more unfortunate are dying in the streets. How could I be expected to just sit by and do nothing? Something had to be done!”

“But an uprising?” the prince replied sharply. “Did you think rallying armies of mercenaries against your kingdom—your own father even—was a good idea? Did you ever consider talking to Father?”

His brother cocked an eyebrow in sudden intrigue. “Oh? So he never told you then, did he?”

“Told me…?” the prince stuttered. “Told me what?”

“That I did talk to him,” he growled. “That I returned to the capital one night to speak with him directly and was met with laughter. He told me they were scum that I shouldn’t pay any mind to. He said to forget them with a smile upon his fat face like I had told a mere joke. It was pathetic. It was then that I truly realized the kind of man I was born to.”

The prince’s eyes were wide. He could hardly believe his brother was telling the truth. Not only was it completely unbelievable that their father would have hidden the fact that his brother returned but that what his brother claimed about those cities was true. If not for the passion in the man’s voice, he would have brushed it aside without a second thought.

“Something needed to change,” his brother continued. “And I was the only person with the power of influence to do it.”

“The people’s prince,” the prince whispered, recalling the name he heard in the rumors referring to his brother’s rebellion.

“Exactly,” the man growled. “The people’s prince. I was not about to let my country remain as it is. Even now…as I sit in this cage, awaiting my execution, I don’t regret what I did. I’m the martyr they need. Somebody else will take up my reins. The revolution will continue until that oaf of a king has his head decorating the castle’s walls.”

“No regrets, huh?” the prince asked softly. “What about the cure? You left all those years ago to find a way to cure Mother. Did you ever find it?”

A flash of pain went across his brother’s eyes, as if something had finally gotten through to him.

“My mistake, brother,” he uttered. “I did have one regret. No matter how hard I searched…I could never find that cure. And now…I’m too late.”

His features then turned stern, as if he had finally decided upon something, before looking up to stare into the prince’s eyes. “What I wouldn’t give for a slice of her chocolate cake right about now?”

The prince frowned, not understanding his words for a moment before realization dawned on him and he exhaled sharply.

“You understand me, brother?” the man whispered. “A slice of chocolate cake. My mother’s. Consider it...my final request.”

The two looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment and the prince could tell he was being serious. There was no humor in his eyes. He wanted exactly what the prince suspected. So, despite knowing how dangerous granting that request was, he knew he would have no choice but to give in.

Many days later, his brother was found dead in his cell, a single plate of half-eaten chocolate cake laying beside him. It was determined that the cake had been poisoned but nobody knew for certain who had been the one to give it to him. The guards had been knocked out and so, the killer remained a mystery to all except the brother and the prince.

The prince sat in his bedroom, holding a book in his hands entitled “The Death of a Revolutionary”. It was a famous tale where a king’s son goes rogue and tries to overthrow his father. When the son’s armies are nearing the king’s stronghold, the queen takes drastic measures to protect her husband and her other children. She goes out to her son’s camp and convinces him that she will betray the king. Then, as a sign of goodwill, she makes for him a chocolate cake that she would always give him when he was young. Wanting to trust his mother, the prince takes her offer in good faith.

But the cake was poisoned, the prince dies, and in the chaos that ensues, the king’s armies ride in and wipe out the rebels. It was a very famous tale and one that both brothers loved to hear when they were young.

So, when his brother requested a slice of their mother’s chocolate cake, the prince immediately understood what it was he wanted. Their mother, after all, didn’t have a chocolate cake recipe. Instead, it was simply his way of communicating that he wanted to die on his own terms—not their father’s. He didn’t want to die in front of a crowd on the gallows. He wanted his forces to believe that he died on his own terms before the king could execute him properly.

Why did I do that? the prince asked himself. I’ve risked my own safety to grant my traitor of a brother a victory. I’ve helped rally the revolutionaries in his name. Could it be…?

The earlier passion in his brother’s voice when he spoke of his goals returned to the prince, reminding him of the conflicted feelings he felt upon hearing them.

…his words actually affected me?

He didn’t know for sure. All he knew for certain was that what he previously believed about the kingdom, his father, and his brother may not have been the actual truth.

And now it fell on him to learn what was.