The prince was in a fit. Never had such an outright demeanor of disobedience occurred in his kingdom. No one, not in his father's reign, nor his, had dared to publicly display rebellious thoughts like that son of a bitch.

That morning, another pathetic servant had woken him up, only for him to bear the news on the escape of the most wanted prisoner, kept isolated in well-guarded cells with a bunch of sneaky alarms. Who'd successfully deported the palace in one of the prince's very own private Boeing CH-47 Chinook helicopters? Or that's what the rumors told. One could never believe these stories, especially considering that the prince didn't own those antique models.

For the unpleasant delivery of news, execution awaited the servant. Such underrated people didn't deserve to live.

Though his men would catch the captive, the prisoner had still gotten away. That, in fact, did very little to the reputation of Nacery Praetel.

The diminutive, shackled territory converted into a suitably dignified kingdom by his (exclusively) great grandfather. Nacery Praetel.

Thanks to his access to various sources, the prince had found out that a certain 'Macholm' was spotted along with an unidentified person (probably the prisoner) and could as well be responsible for the escapee's triumph. His highly advanced access to technology reported that it was the same boy he'd sacked recently. It didn't need a professor to make the connection; an ex-errand boy had aided in the escape of the most secured and valuable prisoner. Disobeyed direct orders from the royal PRINCE. Screw him.

The prince inhaled a deep breath– scented with the regular vanilla of his quarters. With a sudden jolt of anger, he seized an ornamented vase and hauled it at the wall. The second the delicate urn contacted the solid wall, the high pressure of the throw splintered it into millions of shares of ceramic. Jagged shards of the decimated vase rose haphazardly from the thick, velvety red rug. For some reason, this always helped to ease his fury and dismay. Plus, this was fun.

His private quarters were a mix of red, cobalt, violet, jade, or gray– the royal colours– thinned into nonexistence. His diabolical mind crafted a situation where he'd face the traitor servant and clasp his hand on his neck. The prince could almost feel Macholm's pulse throbbing uncontrollably under his palms.

The room shifted back into focus. The drab curtains danced in the gentle breeze coming from the windows. Dozens of sheets of paper covered in ink scribbling still lay scattered on the work table. The useless paintings on the wall with comingled colours and the shelves of books spread out incessantly. The only thing that truly belonged to the prince was the scribbled sheets of paper. Everything, every ill-gotten piece of furniture or unnecessary decor, was acquired via the royal treasury. Meaning, his father had technically brought his everything– his body spray to his ever-present sword hung limply, unsheathed at some incidents.

He tried to stop thinking about stuff that angered him. Apparently, he sucked at that.

Just then, a knock sounded at the door. Even before the prince could deny the permission to enter his room, the door swung open, revealing a man in his late forties. The old chap had an otherwise bald scalp except for the tuft of hair encompassing the shaved center, the handful which had grayed over the years. His gray beard sported underneath his nearly faded jawline, and his old amber eyes glinted with experience. The crown, sash, and the not-so-fit belly jutting out his midsection, brutally assassinated any humility his old looks gave him. As usual, he had a tight curve set at the edge of his mouth, which mostly happened when the duo met.

The prince didn't give a damn about the man– the big jewel on his head was what caught his rapt attention. Filigreed carving traversed over the polished, golden metal, with two big, fat rubies bulging out on each side. In the center lay the heaviest of the gemstones– a beautiful combination of emerald and topaz (Yellow, to be exact) enmeshed together– shone brightly and smugly. Little gems of jade, golden and cardinal, flanked the crown, shimmering when a sudden gleam of light caught their eye.

He wanted the throne. Actually, he was due last year, but for some 'unknown' reason the king hadn't announced the passing of the crown to his heir. Alive heir.

He shut his eyes for a brief moment, trying to block the flashbacks.

His father must've noticed his discomfort, but, as usual, he didn't care. "It's about her, your mother. She's... " He broke off, regained himself, and proceeded to continue, "She's expecting a baby."

Baby.

The word rang in his ears, along with faint bells of recognition. Stella had been what? Six? Seven? It didn't matter; she was still not coming back. Uh-oh, he should not have thought that. This time, the flashbacks hit him hard, unwieldy. If not for his father, who was watching him with mild amusement, he probably would have collapsed.

"Yes. Uh, wh- well, very good? I have work to do?" The excuse sounded feeble to his own ears. Nevertheless, his father seemed to have bought it. Work was more important than family in the royal palace. Or maybe the king was dumb.

"What kind of work?" His father enquired.

Vomiting. Some alone time. Smashing vases. "The prisoner escaped, the one with the capital T. You probably know that." came out instead.

His father shrugged. "Suits me fine. I want The prisoner caught, sooner the better." Instead of uttering the prisoner's name, the specific people aware of the captive's existence used the term 'the'. This way, even if someone eavesdropped into a conversation, they wouldn't be able to know the prisoner's identity.

And then, the king turned around and left. How distant could a person be?

The second the clunking of boots resided into a faint click-clack, the prince banged the door shut. He was trembling– something he'd never done before.

And then the memories broke through his pretend calmness.

---

"Why am I not a Giraffe?" A squeaky high-pitched voice giggled, " Because they're all extinct!" It broke into a fit of squeals.

"Stange," The prince mused, "I'm pretty sure I saw one yesterday."

"Seyhar," she glared, "You could at least pretend to get the joke." She poked him with the stick of wood she'd been prodding into the ground.

"That isn't even my name, Stella. Yesterday, you called my Mastero." She invented a new name for him every day.

Stella frowned. "You are Mastero. Or are you snuzzledoodle?" She pondered in a high-pitched tone. Stella, being Stella, couldn't remember his name. He supposed she wouldn't have recalled it even if she could; as long as it annoyed him, everything was A-okay.

"What should I say to daddy, again? I have a bout of AIDS?" Stella asked him for the sixty-fourth time. Yes, if you're wondering, he'd counted.

"Pumpkin, listen, it's amnesia, not AIDS, okay? If you march up to dad and declare you have a severe case of AIDS... well, he's going to have a heart attack."

"Who am I again? Pumpkin?" Stella wondered with intense curiosity.

However, before the prince could snark back a reply, a voice interrupted from somewhere behind him. "What good news, your majesty! Marvelous, absolutely marvelous!" He slewed around to see the commander Philips praising his royal majesty in an over-ingratiated tone.

"Yes, I must say things have finally gone my way." The king beamed. Ever since his mother– the queen– had passed away due to AIDS, the king hadn't met his children. After a hasty goodbye to his kids, he left for his so-called mission, never even coming to visit. Not even on Christmas. Or on any of the kids' birthdays.

Recently, while on a mission at a far-away territory, the king had met someone. Probably another woman– the prince didn't want to think about it. It wasn't as if twelve-year-olds were experts at romance, or in other words, cases of screw-ups by kings. According to his history mentor, those seemed to happen way often than he'd originally had thought.

The prince found out that his dad intended to marry another woman, which he'd found revolting. It felt wrong for someone to replace his mother. There was only one Narcissa, and she was his mother. No one– absolutely nothing– could substitute her.

"Dad?" He got up abruptly and bustled towards his father's outstretched hands. He hugged him, glad to know he was alive. Honestly, he was sure that the king might be dead since he hadn't even been responding to his letters for the past few months.

Stella, however, remained seated, wearing an incredulous expression on her face.

"Who's that, Tommy?" Stella demanded, "I thought you said you never had a crush on anyone?"

"Stella," The prince tensed, "Just because I hug someone doesn't mean we're married." He glimpsed at his father, only to see a look of amusement etched on his face.

"Tommy?" His royal majesty chuckled, "My dear girl, that's Dwayden you're talking. Son, is this young lady your sister? Oh, look how she has grown!"

"Uh yes, father." He recollected the time when his father had left the country four years ago. Stella had been just a couple years old. A few months later, it was evident the princess had developed a dangerous short-term memory loss after she had a fatal head injury. Numerous therapists and physicians had tried their luck on her, but somehow, the condition just kept on steady attrition. Dwayden hadn't mentioned the incident to his father, as young royal members with disabilities of any kind were rendered useless. In the case of females, the situation was even worse. In the most unfortunate incidents, they were written off as unstable and silently eliminated.

He knew his dad wouldn't perform a deed such harsh and unfeeling, but one could never be sure. Plus, since it was a head injury, it ought to heal soon, didn't it? All those letters, convincing lies, rumors, and stories uttered by him, so his father couldn't find out the truth. He couldn't– wouldn't– let him discard his only joy in life since his mother had died.

Stella smiled, "Hi Mr, I am pumpkin, and I have a very, very, very severe case of AIDS! Pleased to meet yo- shoot. I forgot the part where I say 'I love you'. Can I skip that since I already am at the end?" Dwayden grimaced, even the smallest of his cells cringing at how badly Stella had messed up.

"Son, "His father's voice had gone from amused to dubious, " Expla- oh, silly me, kids these days... make up everything." He muttered. He then lifted a very confused Stella, cosseting her as if she were a child– which she was. After a small talk with Dwayden, he strouted away shortly after his quick meet with his kids. Then, he hadn't seen his father for the rest of the day.

That night, Dwayden had whispered a prayer to God, thanking him for keeping his sister's condition discreet. Then, the little, naive, hapless kid tucked himself into bed, satisfied that his sister was safe. If anything happened to her...

He'd dreamt all night of how he and Stella would spend their time with their father. After years of desirous thinking, his dream had finally turned to reality. The only thing he wanted was for Stella to heal rapidly– in case her current state posed as a danger to her.

Since the morning after that, he never saw her again.