Following a yellow brick road is never a good idea- this has been proven time and time again. You’re suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to sing, are surrounded by talking animals and inanimate objects, much like in Wonderland, really. You’re constantly being yelled at by little men behind curtains, and forced to kill supposedly evil witches via melting. An atrocious act, I assure you.
So when I was awakened suddenly on a Saturday morning (literally at 12:01 am), and informed that I had to travel to Crimson, by following the long yellow (yes, yellow!) brick road that ran through our barely there town, not only was I skeptical, I was hysterical. Of course this was a prank! There was no way I’d ever follow a yellow brick road, and there was definitely no way I was going to Crimson, which was apparently impossible to reach on foot; you actually could only get there by train. I ignored my brother’s insistence and went back to sleep, only to be woken again by a gallon of ice cubes being dumped on me. My brother is quite obviously not the image of subtlety – but then, he never has been. He stood at the end of my bed, hands on his bony hips, glaring at me.
“This isn’t a prank, alright? Mom told me to wake you up, because you have to go to Crimson, and you can’t go by train.” I sat up and glared back at him, while at the same time wondering in the back of my mind if he knew how girly he looked at that moment.
“Yes, I have a fairly good idea. Now get up! We have a limited amount of time.” I wasn’t sure what to reply to first, the fact that he must have read my mind, or the fact that he’d said “we.” Didn’t that imply that he was coming with me? I asked that very question and was – surprise surprise – ignored.
“Do you want something in particular for lunch? Or breakfast, for that matter. I’m doing all the cooking, since you apparently are extremely challenged in modern domesticity.” Modern domesticity? So I can skin an animal, tan said animal’s hide, garden, weave, sew by hand, and various other things that were necessary in, say, the Middle Ages, but I couldn’t cook! He must have noticed I was sulking (amidst the gallon of ice cubes now melting on my bed), because a pile of clothes smacked me in the face.
“If you don’t hurry up, I get to pack all of your clothes, and that means you have to wear what I choose.” That got me up and out of bed, into the bathroom. My brother had great taste, but it wasn’t my taste, and I refused to go on this insane journey wearing clothing that made me feel like every inch of skin was exposed.
I caught up with him downstairs, where my mom was sipping tea as if it was 10:00 a.m. and not 12. She waved me to the table, gesturing to the plate of French toast sitting in the center of said table, steaming hot and running with syrup.
“There’s bacon and eggs coming soon – once your brother actually finishes cooking them, along with the massive amounts of food he’s making to bring with you.” She shook her head at that, before pulling out a slender box from under the table. It was about three and a half feet in length, and was made of some dull sand colored wood, with old copper hinges – so old they were green. She slid it across the table as I piled three pieces of the toast onto my plate, muttering.
“That’s yours. I gave your brother his already, but I doubt he’ll use it – and technically, neither of you should have to.” I ate one of the pieces of toast to keep my mouth full, if only to stop myself from hurling vulgarities and insults at her, a result of my early awakening and the fact that I still didn’t really think of her as my “mother.” She was, technically, my biological mother, but when I was born, there was a mishap at the hospital and I ended up with another family. My brother also ended up with a different family, and we never actually met until our fifth birthday party – we’re twins – thrown by the town we both moved to that day, when they learned of the miraculous coincidence. We lived in the same town for another five years, before my family decided to move on- again. It was due to this that I learned that, as opposed to my brother, the hospital hadn’t actually made a mistake – I’d been stolen. My mother had been trying to find us ever since the child at the hospital hadn’t matched her genetically, and our father had died in a car crash only days after our birth – a highly suspicious car crash. So for almost fifteen years, she’d been trying to find us, and we’d finally been recovered about two years ago. My brother and I had, originally, been ecstatic to meet our real mother, and learn we wouldn’t be separated from our families – that is, most of our families. My “mother” had been charged with kidnapping, murder, and apparently child abuse, applied to her eldest. Despite that, I still felt as though I missed her, if only because I’d lived with her for most of my life. My actual mother and I still had yet to completely learn to get along, and we had some extreme rough patches – but for the most part, everything was fine. We loved each other dearly, and it was with that in mind that we worked through most of our problems. Still chewing, I pulled the box closer and worked the ancient latch open, before flipping the lid up.
It was a pair of stilettos, each about three feet in length, not counting the hilt. The hilts were identical, featuring a red winged angel, each turning into a serpent from the waist down, wrapping around the hilt, the tail eventually forming the guard. The blades, however, differed to some extent. One was a deep red, while the other was white, but both were quite sharp, probably painted over, or something to the effect. I wasn’t a weapons expert, and I had no idea if that was even possible, but it seemed plausible. My brother leaned against the back of my chair, examining them.
“I got a scythe, if the term can really be applied.” I looked up at him, and he gave me a small grin.
“I’ll show you when I’m done with breakfast. It’s not a scythe exactly – but it’s got a blade, and is technically a staff otherwise, so I’m at a loss for what to call it.” He shrugged, picking up the red dagger and running his fingers over the writing down the left side of the blade.
“Do you know what it says?” I assumed – something I did often, out of pride and quite a few issues with being wrong – that he was speaking to my mother. Logically, that made sense. I examined the other blade as well, only to realize I did know what it said.
“Blade of the ancients – reward thy foe with Death’s embrace.” Alarmed, I took the other blade from my confused brother and read its inscription as well.
“Blade of the queen – bring thy power to thy fearless comrades.” I stared at them, unable to fathom what that meant, or why my mother had them.
“They’re the second set of the Queen’s Champion weapons. Your brother has the third, and another, a young man in Crimson named Prime, has the first. You three are possibly the most powerful people in our community other than the queen. Even Arthur, with mighty Excalibur, could not face these weapons without fear.” This, of course, brought me out of my horrified stupor instantly.
“Arthur? What the hell do you mean Arthur!? As in, King of England Arthur? The Round Table Arthur?”
“Approximately, yes.” Now my brother, usually slow to accuse anyone, spoke.
“Approximately? What the hell does that mean?” Our mother put her tea down and held out both hands.
“The world we live in is a facade.”
