Truman's Story Chapter 1

Chapter 1



The slight flutter of the sylph's wings were the only sound in the early morning. It was a nice morning: crisp but not cold and smelling of dewy grass. Before she set about the important royal task she had been given, she took advantage of the lovely weather by playing chase with some birds in the palace courtyard.



And then the sylph was off. She had been sent out to deliver an invitation to the renowned and needlessly handsome Sir Lionel Manx, a knight who lived in the hardly-populated human region of Sentinus Mountain Base.



She flew along the forest trail that would lead her through two towns and then to the mountains, never noticing all the while she was being watched.



It was not easy to spot her: she was nearly completely invisible to the human eye. The man in the dark hooded robe had spent the last several hours fretting that he had missed her, in fact. Finally, he caught sight of the sylph: a smudged, slightly-pink humanoid shape passing through the sky. He picked up his bow and quiver and followed her, careful to avoid the sight of any palace guards. The way he looked, dark and dangerous, he would probably be shot on sight.



And rightfully so. He was planning on killing the little beast, after all.



Waiting until they were far from the palace, he took aim at her several times, but loosed no arrows. If he did not hit the sylph on the first try, he was dead: she would scream bloody murder.



He followed her through the forest until she paused to look at newly-hatched chicks in a nest high up in the treetops. Without hesitating, the hooded man loosed an arrow that struck her through the throat. The sylph made a soft gurgling noise and fell to the forest floor. The chicks still cried for food above her, unaware of what they had just witnessed.



Prying open the sylph's hand, the hooded man found his prize: a tightly rolled scroll, sealed with wax stamped with a rearing fire horse and, for good measure, tied with a red velvet ribbon, the most common motif of the royal family.



He checked the scroll, just in case.



It was exactly what he needed.



The hooded man burned the sylph's body and continued on his mission.



The sun had just risen above the lonely shack. Silhouetted against the morning sky, the place barely looked run down. There was no one around, not even birds to chirp, as the hooded man approached the house.



He wasn't sure whose house it was, or what they would do with the letter. But as long as it was in someone else's hands, he'd feel better.



He found the mailbox, surrounded by empty alcohol bottles - they littered the lawn - and slipped the scroll into it. He raised the bent little flag to show the dwellers of this house they had mail, and then he spun on his heels and left.



Finally, he was free.



When Diego saw the letter, he let out a holler.



"Sweet royal shit!" he exclaimed.



He ran into his house, past the mess in the small kitchen/living room and burst into his bedroom, where his little brother Truman slept on the rug.



Truman's eyes flashed open, but he quickly shut them again upon feeling a sharp pain in his left temple. It was followed by a similar pain in his right temple. He groaned.



He was hung over. That he knew. He could not recall, however, why he was hung over. Before his thoughts on the matter could persist, he realised he could hear Diego running towards him. He braced himself.



"Get up," came the pounding, biting yell of his older brother from above him somewhere.



"I refuse." As these words came out of his mouth, so did a trickle of saliva. He wiped it with the back of his hand.



"Up, up." A big, stubbly face appeared in his vision, though Truman's eyes were nearly shut. The lopsided grin of his brother -- a feature, it seemed, that made him so much more attractive than his otherwise similar-looking younger brother (dark, wavy hair, pale skin, blue eyes) -- appeared. Truman was suddenly paying attention: this was a grin that came just before an interesting proposition.



Truman raised himself up, sat cross-legged and blinked heavily as he waited for his swimming vision to take focus on Diego. He was intrigued; however, he was also hung over. Thus, his first question was brief.



"What?"



Then, after a pause: "Why am I hung over?"



The answers came backwards.



"Because you're an alcoholic." Truman felt Diego's hand pat his head. It was possibly the most painful thing he had ever experienced. "And take a look at this." The image of Diego's face morphed into that of a piece of brilliantly and painfully bright white paper before Truman's eyes. It smelled slightly of roses, which made Truman feel nauseous.



"If this is an intervention," Truman told Diego, "I'll get sad and drink even more." He turned to face his brother. "Good to know you care, though."



Diego understood. "Too hung over to read the words. I got this." And the letter was vocalised.



                   





"My Dear Sir Lionel

You and I are such dear acquaintances. Indeed,

Since my daring rescue at the Peak one could even say

We are the closest of friends. Today, at the palace,

A gathering of only the most powerful and important has been

Planned, beginning at noon hour and ending later in

The evening. You are, of course, invited.

For you, however, I expect the party to persist

Well after bedtime. I humbly request your attendance

In that we may celebrate our bond,

(And change it as we see fit.)

It's your party, really.

~Eena III."







"That, brother, is fancy-speak for 'let's do the nasty'." The final remark was completed with a pelvic thrust.



"And that, brother, is moron-speak for fornication, correct?"



A smile and a snap of the fingers. "Yes, sir."



"Well, that's charming, Diego, if not disturbing. The princess and her knight in shining armour have been a number since her rescue two years ago, as I recall. It's in all the tabloids." He dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. "I don't see why I was woken from my hang over sleep for this. I could have read it when I was out of my stupor, and not have to have heard those kinds of words coming from your mouth, of all the mouths in the world." He paused and shuddered. "I may be sick."



"Oh, come on," Diego said. "You hear it every time I bring wenches home from the bar. We share a bedroom."



Truman threw up.



The brothers moved to the kitchen, as neither wanted to clean up the mess. The kitchen held its own kind of mess, though. Empty brown bottles labelled XXX littered the counter and the floor. There was a layer of film around the sink, and a pile of dirty dishes stacked on the floor beside it. Crumbs and spills were everywhere, and a fat brown mouse scurried away as the brothers entered the room.



Diego sat on a stool by the counter, which ran along the wall and branched out to constitute as a divider between the kitchen and the living room. His brother lay upon the counter with his head near the sink, waiting to once again rid his body of excess alcohol.



"The reason," Diego said very suddenly -- a common way for him to start a conversation, "that this letter seems so amazing to me, brother, is that it's our all-access pass."



The smile was remembered and Truman glanced at Diego. "You want to go to the palace?"



"Yep."



"Rub elbows with royal rulers?"



"Of course."



"Deny the renowned and beloved Lionel - Sir -- Lionel Manx entry to the party that was created specifically so that our princess could see him."



"He won't know until tomorrow."



"Everyone at the palace will know the difference between the be-stubbled wonder and his too-tiny brother and Lionel Manx."



"Not if we wear disguises."



"Lionel's sleazy unknown brother," Truman deadpanned. "Right. I'd all but forgotten about him."



"Who said you'd be Lionel?"



"Well, I was relying on the fact that I can speak like the intelligent man he is, whilst you speak mostly in the tongue of a nymph that's had too many appletinis at a frat party."



"Well, no. I mean ... Like..."



Truman raised his eyebrows. "Good point. We're not going." He threw up in the sink.



"Truman." Though only for an instant, Truman paused mid-vomit, mentally screaming, No!



Diego's rant had begun. It could not be stopped. "Tru ... man. True man." His peach-fuzzy face came up to Truman's ear. "Is that not your name?" came his whisper. "Is that not your title? Did our heroic, wonderful father not pick that name for you?"



"Dad taught me how to drink. And last I heard, he died in a ditch after pissing off some pompous prince out in nowhere-land. You remember, don't you? After he vanished when we ran out of money. Boy, I sure am glad he had a say in any aspect of my life..."



"It's such a manly name. And yet..." He stood and strode back and forth, but Truman had his head in the sink, and would not have noticed. "...All I see is a scared little boy."



Truman glanced up, a cynical smile curling his lips. "I couldn't care less what the brainless think of me."



Diego opened his mouth to continue, believing in his ignorance that he had hit a soft spot. However, he alone cared about being masculine; only he cared about his father. The combination made no sense to Truman, though upon further thought he would have realised that finding logic in Diego's mind was as likely as finding a skirt in a knight's wardrobe.



"Hey, Diego." Truman rolled onto his side. "Guess what." He received a curious glance from his brother. "Shut up." There was a shifting of Diego's feet. "All your ranting isn't news to me. However, the only way to get your mouth to shut is agreement." He received a confused glance from Diego now.



"Diego ... was mom drinking when you were inside her belly? I'm telling you I'll come. I'll go to the palace. But only if we do things my way. On my conditions. Under my instruction. Agreed?" He held his arm out, shakily, for a handshake. His brother took his own hand and, instead of shaking Truman's, gave his brother's head a shove. The tiny drunk crashed to the floor and Diego spat into his ear. Apparently, he was not pleased with the way his victory had unfolded.