Anecdote: The Royal Prince and the Third Son of the Marquis

The snow had thawed and winter had passed, but this particular day was still too cold to really feel like spring. A young man walked down a hallway in the castle. He had hair that looked like pure liquid rubies. His eyes, which were the same color as his hair, gleamed with strong resolve. This was the Crown Prince of Gracis, son of the agelessly beautiful King Solye and the princess of the neighboring Principality of Parche—a princess known to her people as “the Jewel of the Sea.” In addition to the beauty passed down to him from his parents, his each and every move was elegant. Overall, he perfectly embodied his role as Crown Prince. Said Crown Prince, Marx, assisted the king himself and had been working closely with the military since his graduation from the academy, on top of his day-to-day duties.

On this day, too, he had finished his princely duties in the morning and was on his way to settle his military duties for the afternoon. Then, someone called to him. Marx stopped in his tracks as the figure approached him with a wave, bobbing his golden-tinted orange-haired head. Marx recognized the person. “Octa?” the Royal Prince asked.

Octa was a slender man, slightly taller than Marx, with a somewhat downturned pair of blue eyes and a gentle atmosphere about him. While his appearance was more soft than intimidating, he had proven his swordsmanship by winning the previous Games of Contest in a landslide. His full name was Octavian Aldis, the third son of the Marquis Aldis, whose family had produced generations of generals and knights.

“Sorry to keep you.” Octa—or Oran, as his master called him—gave a light-hearted apology, the kind one would use with a friend. If someone had heard, they might have reprimanded him for his lack of respect for the Crown Prince, but they were alone at the moment, and they were, in fact, actual friends from their academy days. Although their friendship had suffered for a time, they were back to calling each other by their nicknames like they used to.

Marx answered with a genuine smile, one meant for a friend. “Don’t worry about it. What’s up? Are you going out?” He gave Octavian’s outfit a look-over. Octa was dressed in a humble outfit consisting of a white shirt and pants—a little underdressed for the castle. His curly, shoulder-length hair, which one with political aspirations might have ingratiatingly called sunset- or twilight-colored, was loosely tied at the back of his head. He didn’t look anything like someone who worked in the castle, but he dressed this way at his master’s request. Octavian himself was happy with how easy it was to wear around and completely ignored any glares from those around him.

Despite this, a good number of women in the castle had developed a fondness for him anyway. His position as the third son of a Marquis, his gentle face and honest character, and his strength as a knight were all contributing factors. As he was currently unattached as well, he was an attractive candidate for marriage to the single ladies of nobility and bureaucracy. To top it off, although he usually dressed in simple clothes unbecoming of his status, when he wore his well-tailored white knight’s uniform prepared for him and bothered to keep his hair neat, he cleaned up very well. The contrast between his formal and casual wear entranced these women even more—although he was probably the only one who didn’t notice. On top of all that, he was the knight of service to the Seventh Prince Herscherik. All in all, he was one of the most eligible bachelors in the castle.

Oran chuckled. “Well, I mean... you know.”

Marx nodded in understanding. “How long?”

“Three weeks or so.”

“Got it. My sickly brother will be resting at a retreat owned by a friend of mine and acquaintance of Marquis Aldis... How’s that sound?”

“Great.”

Their conversation was brief. It wasn’t the first time that Marx had completed a request for Oran without him ever asking why. Herscherik, Marx’s youngest brother, had brought a particular incident in the capital to something of a conclusion the previous year. Since then, Herscherik had begun retreating away from the capital from time to time... which was, of course, only the excuse Herscherik gave in order to sneak off to various areas of the capital itself. In those areas, he had been gathering intelligence and taking care of anything that was troubling the residents.

It was actually similar to a period drama that Ryoko used to watch, where a certain vice-shogun went around taking names, but there was no way for Marx to know that.

Marx wasn’t told in detail as to why Herscherik had started going on these trips, but considering how his brother acted during the incidents, he was sure that Herscherik had good reason. Marx had no issue at all covering for his brother, who traveled throughout the country while he was tethered to the capital, bringing back information and taking care of issues that plagued the local people.

“Take care of Hersch, Octa.” Marx couldn’t help but implore Octavian, his friend and knight of service to his brother.

“Of course,” Oran answered, the significance of his words weighing heavy, despite his usual demeanor.

Marx narrowed his eyes at seeing Octavian like this and thought back to their first encounter. Marx and Octavian were both twelve years old when they’d met each other. In addition to his already refined appearance, Marx stood far above children his own age even when it came to swordsmanship and magic—let alone academics. While he could study magic and scholarship just fine on his own, he was left without a proper training partner in the art of the sword.

Moreover, his status as the Royal Prince was intimidating. Some approached Marx with ulterior motives because of it, but those sorts of people didn’t stand a chance against him when it came to fair-and-square combat. His teacher had partnered with him on occasion, but even he had been intimidated by Marx’s title. Both Marx and those around him were dissatisfied and uncomfortable with the situation. And then, Octavian was presented to him as a worthy opponent and source of protection for the Crown Prince.

That day, Marx had come to a particular training ground within the academy.

A student, slightly taller than him, approached him. “Prince Marx?”

“And you are...?” Marx asked incredulously.

With a hand on his chest, Octavian bowed. “Octavian Aldis, Prince Ma—I mean, Your Highness. I’ve been told to train with you...r Highness in sword.”

Marx held in his laughter at hearing Octavian stumbling through the formalities. “Aldis... Oh, the General Aldis.” The father of the boy immediately came to mind. Roland Aldis was one of the strongest warriors in the country, nicknamed the Blazing General in part for his roaring red hair, quite different from Marx’s ruby hue. The general was by no means an easy person to get along with. Most anyone who knew the general emphasized the when mentioning him in conversation. At that moment, Marx realized that his “the” might have sounded like he was insulting the boy’s father. He had to apologize.

Octavian, on the other hand, seemed completely unaffected. “Yes, my father’s the one.” The reply seemed like a genuine sentiment rather than simply playing along with Marx’s comment to be polite.

Marx nearly burst out laughing again. “Well... shall we begin?” He raised a sword, its blade blunted for training purposes, and faced Octavian.

After a few matches, Marx and Octavian had come to a fountain at the corner of the training ground to take a break. Marx turned the faucet and dunked his head under the stream that came out of it. It wasn’t the most refreshing water to drink, but it was just the right temperature to rinse the sweat out of their hair and face. As Marx dried his head with one of the towels that had been set out nearby, he felt he was being watched and turned toward the source of the feeling. Octavian had been giving Marx a look as he wiped the sweat from his face with another towel.

“Hm...? What is it?”

“Nothing...” Octavian muttered.

Marx had liked how Octavian didn’t hesitate like the others had during their training match. Now, this evasive response annoyed him. “Now I have to know. Just tell me, already.” Marx let his irritation affect his tone.

It seemed clear to Octavian, as he averted Marx’s gaze and blurted out, “I was surprised that you were a decent swordsman.”

“What?” Marx asked in blank astonishment.

Octavian saw the prince’s expression, making a face like he’d bitten into something sour. He bowed in apology. “Pardon me for saying so...”

Staring at the top of Octavian’s head, Marx felt an emotion rising up within him. It wasn’t unpleasant.

In fact, it was hilarious.

“Pft... Heh heh heh... Aha ha ha ha ha!” Finally, Marx’s laughter broke loose.

“Prince Marx?” Octavian lifted his head at the Crown Prince’s outburst. Octavian had a look of someone first encountering some bizarre creature in the wild.

Save for his family, no one was ever honest with Marx. Most everyone else was busy trying to keep the Crown Prince happy, and some even approached with ulterior motives hidden behind their pleasantries. Others feared Marx and kept their distance. Octavian was neither.

“No, I’m sorry. Don’t mind me,” Marx apologized, holding his sides that began to ache from laughing too hard. Octavian’s expression hadn’t changed. “Come to think of it, you didn’t go easy on me during our matches.”

Now, Octavian regained the expression of utter puzzlement. “I was told to train with you...r Highness in the sword.”

Marx barely contained another burst of laughter at seeing how Octavian’s face said much more than his words. “Even so, most go easy on the Crown Prince.”

Octavian didn’t answer, but his face was plainly asking, Huh? What’s that got to do with sword fighting? Evidently, he had barely thought about Marx’s title.

This did all make sense to Marx, though, when he remembered that Octavian was the son of the general. This kind of interaction was a first for Marx.

“Can I call you Octa?” The question had left his mouth before he knew it.

“What?” Octavian froze at this surprise attack.

Marx didn’t wait for permission. “Call me Marx, too. No more ‘Your Highness.’” Without giving Octavian a chance to get a word in edgewise, Marx went on in rapid succession. “No formalities, at all. It makes my skin crawl to hear you force yourself.” Marx dramatically scratched his back, as if to underline his words.

Octavian opened and closed his mouth a few times at Marx’s decidedly unprincely behavior. “Ouch,” he snarled at Marx. “I tried my best, you know, since you were the prince and all. You sure, Marx? Once I stop, I’m not gonna go back.”

“Your efforts were wasted, Octa.”

From that day on, the Royal Prince and the third son of the Marquis were friends.

Years passed, but their friendship never faded. Octavian kept up a polite façade when they were around a lot of people. That being said, none dared complain that Octavian, a son of one of the most powerful marquis in the country, was hanging around the royal Prince Marx. As the Crown Prince, Marx studied statecraft as befitting a royal, while Octavian entered the knight’s curriculum. Since they attended the same academy, they ate lunch together when they had the time, still trained in swordsmanship together, studied together in the library... All in all, they were living it up in their academy life.

On a particular day, after they had both turned sixteen, Marx sat on a bench by the fountain, after rinsing his sweat off as usual after their bouts, and turned to Octavian, who was toweling down with his shirt off. “How’s it going, Octa?” Marx was still slightly shorter than Octavian. While they looked equally slender with their clothes on, Octavian had grown quite muscular, especially in the torso, from his day-to-day training as a knight.

“Hm?” Octavian turned to his friend, toweling his sunset-colored hair that had gotten wet. His eyes were silently urging Marx to be more specific.

The prince grinned. “With your fiancée?”

Octavian did a spit-take, had a coughing fit, and covered his mouth with the towel. “Don’t you have bigger things to worry about, Your-Crown-Prince-Highness...?” Octavian protested, teary-eyed.

Marx answered with a grin unbecoming of a prince. “I only ask because you’re my dear friend, Octavian. I meant nothing by it.”

Of course you did, Octavian silently grumbled. Marx only gestured for Octavian to answer. “Fine, really...” Octavian relented, avoiding his friend’s gaze as he did.

However, his uncharacteristic demeanor only served to widen Marx’s smirk. “I hear she makes you lunch every day.”

“It’d be rude not to eat it...” Octavian’s fiancée always brought him lunch, as she studied cooking in preparation for her marriage. They were occasionally found taking lunch together in the courtyard when their schedules aligned, but Octavian hadn’t known that they were being watched. Marx had once caught a glimpse of what she’d cooked Octavian for lunch—it was a healthy meal that looked very tasty. Marx had asked for a taste, but Octavian steadfastly refused.

“I’ve heard you never leave her side at soirées, either, like a guard dog.”

“’Cuz some jerks always show up and bother her...”

The couple had made their high society debut once they both turned sixteen, as had Marx. As the daughter of an old-money aristocrat who ran a business, Octavian’s fiancée was invited to a great deal of social events. Each time, Octavian tried his best to accompany her and never leave her side, scaring off men that approached her. While he insisted that it was for her sake, it was clear to see that he was a little jealous—if not a bit insecure. Of course, most people around them watched the new couple with nothing more than quiet encouragement.

“I heard you’ve been giving her those ribbons that she always wears.”

“How did you—!?” Octavian snapped back to Marx, his eyes more expressive than his words.

Marx returned a teasing grin. “And her new ribbons are blue, orange... Where have I seen those colors before?”

Octavian’s fiancée had long hair. Whether she was at the academy or out on the town, she’d always kept her hair wrapped in a bun or braided until her fiancée began giving her those ribbons. Before they’d turned sixteen, she wore mostly feminine colors like yellow, red, and pink. After her debut into high society, she more often wore orange or blue—the colors of her fiancé’s hair and eyes. It was clear to anyone what that meant.

“Apparently, it’s quite a trend in high society for men to gift their fiancée accessories in colors that will remind them of the giver... Thanks to a certain someone, of course.”

Finally, Octavian covered his face with his hands and crouched down on the spot. His ears, not covered by his hands, were bright red. “Give me a break...” Octavian managed.

Seeing that his friend, who always remained steadfast and bold, was flushed with embarrassment, Marx’s smirk faded into a smile. “Sorry. I envy you, actually.” Marx wasn’t jealous but envious.

Octavian, his blushing having subsided a bit, crooked his neck as he stood up. “What lady wouldn’t want you, Marx?” In fact, many girls did have a crush on Prince Marx. In addition to being the Crown Prince, Marx had unsurpassed looks and a gentlemanly character, even though he outranked them all.

Seeing that Marx fell silent, Octavian looked serious all of a sudden. “Just... don’t mess around with married women.”

“As if!” Marx shouted, throwing a towel at Octavian. Octavian simply grabbed the towel mid-air. After a beat, they began laughing together, their joy echoing through the training grounds. “Really, I’m jealous that you always think of each other.” Marx wiped at the corners of his eyes, having laughed himself to tears. He was envious that Octavian and his fiancée wanted for nothing but each other, cared for each other, and loved each other. Their future seemed so bright to Marx.

“I can’t help but think of my position, though.” Marx was the Crown Prince, after all. In the future, he would need to marry a proper queen. More than one queen, if need be. It wasn’t that Marx detested the idea. His father, in fact, had five (now sadly four) queens in addition to his first. And, perhaps thanks to his generous character, the queens got along like sisters. Though, the fact that the queens were aware of the situation when they came to wed Solye definitely helped, and they knew that they would disappoint him if they fought.

Marx knew that his father wasn’t the kind of person to force him into a marriage against his will. The thing was, the more people told Marx not to think of his country in such matters, the more concerned he became. And whoever would become his queen would share the weight of ruling a nation with him. Considering all that, Marx couldn’t simply choose his partner out of love.

“You really were born to be a prince, Marx... Make sure to take it easy once in a while.” Octavian knew who Marx had feelings for, so he didn’t say anything more. However, if his friend were to ever ask for help, he would be there for him the best he could, no matter the results. “Just come to me when you’re in a bind. I’m your future knight of service, remember?” Octavian approached Marx and extended his hand.

This was something he had promised Marx when he began training as a knight. He would graduate from the academy, become a knight, then royal guard, then general. After that, he would become Marx’s knight of service to support his friend in his kingly duties. That was Octavian’s goal in life.

Marx smiled at the gesture. “Thank you, Octa. I’m counting on you. And you can come to me any time, too.” Marx seized Octavian’s hand.

“Of course.” Octavian pulled Marx up by the hand. Their hands remained in each other’s for a while longer.

Neither of them doubted at the time that their promise would one day come to fruition.

The summer after, Octavian lost his one and only fiancée.

When Octavian returned to the academy after some time away, Marx spotted him and ran straight over. When he’d last seen Octavian, he had been rushing out of the academy upon receiving the terrible news. That had been a week ago.

Octavian, color drained from his face and much thinner than before, took Marx to the academy field out back, where they could be alone.

“Are you all right, Octa? I’m sorry about—” Her, Marx was about to say, when Octavian’s sharp glare silenced him.

“I need a favor from you, Marx,” Octavian said, in a strangely calm, cold tone. “She didn’t die of illness. She took some dangerous drug, and... that’s what killed her.

“Dangerous drug?”

The news of her death had already reached high society, let alone the academy. While theirs was a betrothal arranged by their parents, they were still the perfect couple that everyone adored—which meant that a good number of people were also jealous of them. Octavian, though, never seemed to let the looks of others get to him.

And now, tragedy had struck the picture-perfect couple. While some members of high society sympathized with Octavian’s loss, most of them still gossiped about it over tea, all over the city. Rumors ranged from a mere bad case of the summer flu, all the way to much more heinous stories that Octavian wouldn’t dare share with anyone. Of course, those rumors were hardly believable, which made Marx think that the summer flu story must have been the truth. But now, his brows were pinched together at the mention of a “drug.”

“It’s my fault.” Octavian’s face twisted. “That drug is dangerous. It seems like a lot of nobles have fallen into taking it.” Octavian had been researching the incident on his own, as far as Marx could tell. “Still, the constabulary’s acting like nothing ever happened. ‘No circumstances seem out of the ordinary,’ they said.” Octavian grabbed Marx’s arm. He bowed deep, pleading. “Father works for the military, so he can’t officially meddle with the constabulary. I know I’m taking advantage of your title, Marx... But you’re the only person I have left.” Octavian kept his head down. “I’m so sorry.”

“All right. I got it. You can count on it.”

However, Marx was left bewildered at the constable’s statement when he arrived at the constabulary. “What?” he asked.

“As I’ve explained, Your Highness, we have already concluded the investigation for that case and have no plan to reopen it.” The constable who handled the case answered with a straight face, but he evidently considered the interaction a waste of time.

“It’s way too early for that.”

“It was my boss’s call,” he said, rising from his seat. “Your Highness has mentioned a drug, but we haven’t received any such report from the family of the deceased.”

“What?”

“General Aldis’s son has visited us before... We have no sample of this drug, nor any victims. How are we supposed to find this supposed culprit?” The constable smirked sardonically then bowed to conceal it. “Your Highness, there is nothing more I can say on the matter. I am terribly sorry.”

“Understood. Thank you for your time. Excuse me.” Reigning in his anger for the constable’s lackluster attitude, Marx left the constabulary.

Walking through the archway that connected the west and central section of the castle, Marx recalled that recent interaction. He could understand why her family had not made a public statement. The family’s reputation, as well as hers, would suffer if it came to light that she had died from a drug addiction.

Even so, Marx felt that the mere possibility of a dangerous drug out there warranted a more thorough investigation. Is it just laziness...? He could imagine that it was an arduous case to work on. People who avoided arduous work weren’t exactly hard to find.

Just then, Marx sensed a presence and stopped in his tracks. A middle-aged man with a large stature and hazel eyes and hair stood before him, giving off an almost intimidating air.

“My, my. Prince Marx.”

“Minister Barbosse.” Marx answered Barbosse’s ceremonious bow with a nod.

With a smile incongruent to his intimidating face, Barbosse began chatting with Marx. “How are things in the academy? I’ve heard that Your Highness excels in sword and magic, as well as in academics. The future of Gracis Kingdom is bright.”

Marx wore his Royal Prince mask in the shape of a friendly smile. He was used to nobles showering him with compliments.

After a course of smalltalk, Barbosse gave another ceremonious bow. “I must be going...” he said and moved to the side of the passageway to give way to Marx. Just as Marx began to pass him, Barbosse added, with a tone just as nonchalant as the one he used for their small talk, “Oh, Your Highness? The constabulary is no place for students. They are quite busy with serious cases... If Your Highness may notify your friend as much.”

Marx was at a loss for words, but he kept walking away to keep Barbosse from discovering that fact.

How does Minister Barbosse know that...? Smiling at the bureaucrats parting the way for him with his princely smile, Marx couldn’t shake Barbosse’s words out of his mind. He shook his head, as if to chase out those thoughts. Now’s not the time. Right now, he had to deal with this supposed drug problem. If the constabulary closed the case, he just had to make them reopen it. I didn’t want to do this... But it’s for Octa. Marx hardened his resolve.

He waited until night and visited his father’s room.

“Marx?” Solye seemed surprised at his son’s sudden visit.

“There’s something I want to report to you, Father.”

Solye urged Marx to continue, seeing his son’s uncharacteristically serious expression. After hearing everything Marx had to say, Solye let out a long sigh. “Listen carefully, Marx.” He went on to explain how, if the constabulary had already closed the case, they needed more evidence that warranted a reopening. Besides, the victim or their family had to request the investigation, too. While Octavian had the diary written by his fiancée, they couldn’t prove its validity. Octavian’s requests didn’t carry the same weight as her family’s requests, since he was still only her fiancé. Although Solye had the power to order a reinvestigation, if the reopening didn’t yield any new evidence, the king would be held responsible.

“No...” Marx tightened his fists.

Solye added, “They’ve set it up this way.”

“Father?” Marx asked, confused.

Solye turned to the corner of the room, where Rook had been standing by. “Can you pursue this, Rook?”

“Tough, but I’ll try... Don’t hold your breath.” Rook exited the room.

Solye watched him leave and uttered an incantation to set up a barrier in the room. “Marx, I need you to listen very carefully to what I am about to say.”

His father told Marx everything. About how the previous king, his uncles, and his older sister had died. About his father’s crimes and the control Barbosse and his faction held. About the current state of their nation. After Solye explained it all, Marx stood there dumbfounded. “Marx, you’re the Crown Prince. I want you to make your decision with that in mind. And no matter what you choose to do, I will always love you.”

“What should I do...?” Marx begged for an answer.

Solye shook his head. “You have to be the one to decide, Marx.”

In the end, Rook couldn’t track down anything on the drug that had killed Octavian’s fiancée. He had found some trace of its circulation in high society, but all concrete evidence had seemingly vanished into thin air.

With a heavy heart, Marx met Octavian in the field. His heart was weighed down not only by thoughts of the trafficking scandal, but those of his father, his family, the minister, and all the nobles... All of it was a heavy burden on Marx’s heart.

Barbosse knew about Octavian, too. Marx was terrified that he would harm his only friend outside of his family.

“Marx! How did it go...?” Octavian looked at him with anticipation.

Marx couldn’t bear to meet his friend’s eyes. “I’m sorry...” A faint voice barely made it past his lips.

“What?” Octavian didn’t hear it. He took a step closer.

“I’m sorry, Octa.”

Octavian understood through those words and the look on Marx’s face. “Sorry?! For what, Marx?!” Just as before, he gripped Marx’s arms with force. This time, he did so in anger. It hurt, but Marx said nothing. “Marx!” Octavian’s shout echoed through the field.

Even still, Marx could not look into his eyes. “I’m sorry...” This utterance made Octavian loosen his grip. He turned his back on Marx and began walking away. “Octa!” Marx threw his voice at Octavian’s back. “Will you still be my knight?!” If Octavian had answered, if he had given one small nod, Marx was ready to tell him everything. He was scared. More than anything, he was afraid of losing the people he loved the most. With Octavian at his side, somehow, Marx felt like they could take on the world together.

“Octa!” Marx called again, praying that his friend would turn around. Octavian never did.

When I saw him here again, I almost lost it after I found out he was Hersch’s knight. Marx let out a chuckle at his past-self. He was the one who broke his promise first, but he still couldn’t help but feel betrayed by Octavian.

At the end of the day, Marx realized he wasn’t fit to be Octavian’s master.

On that day when they parted ways, Marx tried to lean on Octavian instead of helping his friend. He wanted to escape from his indecision. But Herscherik was different. He tried to help Octavian and support him. That was the difference between Marx and Herscherik. While his younger brother had shown him up, he felt no jealousy. Marx knew that Herscherik would never rub that in his face. His little brother was always sincere and kind to everyone. That’s why everyone trusts him. Marx smiled, thinking of his youngest brother.

“Marx?”

“Just a funny thought,” Marx answered his old friend like he had in the old days. “Are you leaving now?”

“Sometime today. Hersch is packing right now...”

“Then, let me see him before you leave. His room is in the outer quarters?” Marx confirmed and turned back down the hallway they had been walking through.

Octavian chased after him and stopped at his side. “Yes, but are you good on time?”

“My little brother’s going on a retreat. My time’s always good for that.”

Octavian snickered that Marx was still playing along. “Can’t get enough of your little brother?”

“He’s my youngest and most reckless brother, after all.” Marx patted Octavian on the shoulder, twice. “So, keep Hersch safe, Sir Knight of Service.”

“With my life.” Octavian answered with resolve.

When Marx arrived at Herscherik’s room in the outer quarters, his brain froze at the sight before him.

“Oh, Marx.” The voice was unmistakably Herscherik’s, but Marx failed to find his brother anywhere in the room. The person before him had their father’s emerald eyes, but Herscherik’s soft golden hair that resembled a ray of spring sunshine somehow draped down to his waist instead of not even reaching his shoulders. His fair cheeks were slightly tinted with rouge, and he was wearing a one-piece dress made of emerald fabric that matched his eyes and decorated with white ruffles.

Everything suited Herscherik almost too well. He was more adorable than most noble girls.

Even so, Marx was sure that it was his brother standing before him. “Herscherik...?” he asked—though without complete confidence.

Then, his younger brother proudly explained that he had decided to cross-dress in order to protect his identity when traveling the regions outside of the capital.

Won’t that draw more attention...? Marx kept his concern to himself, since Herscherik seemed so happy with his handiwork.

Marx’s concern would, indeed, come to fruition, but that’s another story.

The Royal Prince and the Third Son of the Marquis — Fin.