The idea of being wed in such a haste is quite the expectation that is beyond Seto. If the king worries about grandchildren, surely Isaac's wife would have already birthed two children. Alas, perhaps the playing field should be even: two sons battling for heir to the throne. Again, Seto anticipates the guillotine.

"It is tradition, after all," Isaac would say whilst tying his brother's shoelaces.

"The future king is tying a child's shoelaces, how humorous," Seto would sneer in return. The older's glare becomes sharp.

"You have the same odds as I."

"And the likelihood of me becoming king is the same as you being infertile — practically impossible."

"Dare I say for you to leave my sperm out of this?"

Isaac brushes aside, leaving Seto to stand. He's wearing the same frock coat his brother, father, grandfather, and practically all the male generations before him, once wore. Somehow, it remains in prestige condition despite the many times it has been handed down within their family.

It contradicts the simple attire Seto had been use to wearing. The gold lace and buttons, as well as the black velvet material, is worth more than the bounty that he has over his head for being a royal. Perhaps he could be assassinated today to avoid the frustration of being wed to a woman, who could be years younger than himself.

Having been digressed, he folds the sleeves up as the arms were too long. The smell of the coat is pungent, like blue cheese or brie — some variation of cheese, actually.

Having ignored the pungent frock coat, layered beneath was a simple black vest, a royal purple button-down shirt, and his dusty cravat neatly folded into a bow. His pants being black, a bit baggy on his scrawny figure. His shoes, tied by Isaac, was polished prior to him getting dressed. Needless to say, he was sweating in such an outfit.

Isaac wore a somewhat similar outfit, but to contradict his purple is a royal blue. His frock coat is plain black as well, the buttons being a light gray with no golden lining. Seto takes notice to his black tie and white gloves.

"I'm assuming you do not request of a walking stick?" Isaac says mockingly.

"Ask me again if I ever turn forty."

The tension between the two ceases as they laugh, heading out Seto's chambers and into the hall, eventually arriving at the main entrance. They speak of candies to eat when visiting the town, as well as their errands to run. The younger attempts to mask his excitement and instead regulates his composed façade.

A servant escorts the two brothers outside into the carriage, reminding them of the strict guidelines they must follow whilst being out in the public eye. His tongue follows more towards Seto, as this is his first time in three years to head into town. Isaac smiles in reassurance as the servant shuts the carriage door.

"How far must the main town be?" Seto questions, his body adhered to the window. He watches the scenery pass, wide eyed.

Isaac is situated across from the brunet, laying across the seat that was built to fit four, "Perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. I told father it would have been faster if we'd walk."

"Do you normally walk, Isaac?"

"Yes, but father believes that once you start running, I wouldn't be able to catch you. He's cautious about your condition, to the point in which he's put a guard at every alleyway. Your marriage and presence is important to him, after all."

Seto perks up, his gaze finally averted from the window, "My presence?"

"More royals from foreign countries are coming to tonight's celebration, more so than my own. Father hints at Lord Dahlberg and his associates attending, as well as Prince Mitchell from overseas."

He pauses momentarily, pouring himself a cup of tea, "I presume this is due to what has occurred three years ago."

"Today also marks the death anniversary of our mother, so there's another reason. They request to pay their own condolences to her. After all, she was quite the peacemaker."

The carriage goes silent.

Seto sips his tea, gravely. He would like to imagine his mother in that coffin, laying eloquently beneath the earth's surface. Her body would be frozen in time, not having aged a bit since her death three years ago. At her passing, she had been thirty. 'Twas months prior to Isaac's sixteenth birthday, and to this day, Seto is still unaware of the cause.

He finds it difficult to imagine his mother after all these years. He takes after his mother in appearance and personality: soft spoken and hardheaded with silky locks of brunet and doe eyes of milk chocolate. Their skin both being of fragile ivory, and lips always pale like snow. Round, child-like faces and thin figures are to match.

His eyes advert towards his older brother.

Isaac and the king seem to mirror each other, both having chiseled faces and eyes like midnight. Their skin both a warm beige, lips full and always chapped; having similar personalities that intertwine with each other: strong willed and obligatory. Isaac seemed to inherit their mother's kindness, while Seto had taken the king's daring passion.

Peculiarly enough, the king had jet black hair. Both boys possessed different shades of brown, with Seto simply being a light brunet and Isaac having cocoa strands of waves that reached to his shoulders.

The brothers differ quite a bit, with Seto clearly looking too "baby-faced." If he were to be crowned king, it would be unlikely that anyone would take him seriously. With his appearance, he would have been better off with being born female.

"Do you think I could be fit for the role of king?" Seto murmurs, setting down the teacup onto the shaking table. Awaiting a response, he brushes at the velvet curtain and peers out the window. The carriage was crossing over the bridge onto the mainland.

The tides, from Seto's hindered perspective, were calm. The skies were at peace, having no cloud in sight. When he squints, he could visualize the moon in place of the sun, shining her rays of glory upon them. Unfortunately, the sun is in her place. Seto closes the curtain.

"Why, of course you can!" Isaac yawns, sitting up. The neigh of a horse is heard over his speech, followed by the crack of a whip. The carriage continues onwards, a bit faster. "You are as capable as I."

"I believe your tactic is to pity the fool," Seto crosses his arms, muttering while slouching in the seat. He listens to the sound of horse hooves clashing against bricks.

"Must you belittle yourself? Instead of getting tired of your wife's nagging, she will get tired of you!" he slaps his knee and snickers, as if his joke were the upmost hilarious notion.

"That's unbelievably sexist."

Isaac sneers, snapping his fingers, "But am I wrong, though?"

"...How much farther?" Seto groans, changing the subject. He wasn't much in the mood for debating with his brother.

"Not much so," the older announces, peeking out the window. "We're already nearing the forest. It must be a five minute journey as follows."

The forest.

Memories prick at his skin like pine leaves on a cool, summer evening. His head, being submerged beneath the dirty pond water while his eyes stung like bees. His vision, hindered, unable to see the purpose of future. Instead, in its place was the moonlight, tugging his lungs like he didn't deserve to breathe at all. Her rays were like ropes, bounding him away to the sea to never return. A cruel joke was she: the cruelest of lies.

Goosebumps riddled his arms like spiders dashing up his spine, leaving cobwebs of clocks in his head. Ticking, 'twas the ticking that could drive a child mad. Throwing behind all structure and leaving behind a pile of fractured bones in place of sticks, Seto recalled himself running to the place he so desperately wanted freedom from. The mentality of a sheep fled long ago once the wolf had came.

Unbeknownst to him was the fleeing tear that slithered down his cheek, leaving behind a trail of river. It drips, crashing down onto his lap like a waterfall. To breathe was all he could request of his lungs — simply to fucking breathe.

And to continue to breathe he shall.

Reality strikes him back in his ears as a gunshot is fired. He shuts his eyes by impulse, then finds it difficult to get up after hearing the crash of the carriage. It's rolling over, off the elevation of the path and into the forest, he thinks to himself, struggling to comprehend his surroundings. The glass panes are shattered upon multiple impacts, cutting into his clothing and deep into his skin. He feels the cool air against his fresh wounds as they deep through his clothing.

The carriage continues to roll. Isaac struggles with keeping his body from bouncing as he grasps tightly to the armrests.

It all comes to an eventual stop. The two brothers sit atop the ceiling, rather than their actual seats. The table divider seems to be the only object unscathed. The cushioned seats, on the other hand, had been ripped open vigorously due to the hazardous glass shards. Isaac, cautiously, manages to crawl out the window.

Seto's eyes still remain closed in a daze, fluttering open only upon hearing his name. The sound is distant, like the fireworks show within town he'd watch from his windowsill. A white noise rings within his eardrums, but he manages to regain his composure.

Isaac is quick to pull his younger brother out from the carriage. He makes it look so easy, Seto frowns to himself, he makes surviving look so easy.

The older is seemingly unscathed, with only a few grazes along his face and clothing. He's bleeding at the earlobe and neck, however, with shards of glass lodged into his once prestige white gloves that are now stained a bloody red. His right hand only having a few cuts, but his left hand housed glass.

"You're bleeding a lot, you're bleeding a lot," Isaac speaks in a hurried manner. He sets the brunet down and tugs his frock coat off, their precious heirloom, and examines the other's wounds. "I'm going to pull out the glass, okay?"

"Mmm," Seto nods his head, as if he were listening. Isaac's face looks distorted and blurry.

From the tears and blood in his clothes, he is able to visibly see where the deeper wounds were. Cautiously, he begins to dig out the shards of glass. Seto doesn't wince, as his senses were numb, but instead sighs. He feels like a lightweight, or possibly a drunk.

"Can you hurry up? 'M not feelin' too good."

"I'm trying to save your damned life, you imbecile."

Chunks of bloodied glass are tossed aside. One in his shoulder, another in his abdomen, right thigh, and upper left arm. The smaller pieces were picked out like cactus thorns.

After fishing the glass shards out, he rips long strips of his shirt off with a shard of glass. Next, he cuts the frock coat — having been made of thick material would act like as an absorbant to the blood that seeped out of the boy's wounds. He places the frock coat pad on each major wound, applies pressure, then tightly secures it with a long strip of his shirt. The process takes about ten minutes.

From Seto's perspective, it takes hours.

"Are you able to get up?" Isaac whispers nervously, consistently gazing over the carriage. He ignores the shards of glass lodged into his left hand. "We should be safe for now, but there are people up there. Bandits, I presume."

"Barely," Seto replies in nothing but a hoarse whisper. The two were hidden by the carriage's wrecked figure.

"We are most likely going to die here, I hope you know that," he deadpans. "We can try to run into town, but surely the men up there will see us."

"Hide in forest 'til moonlight?" Seto suggests, attempting to sit up. Isaac reaches his hand out and pulls the younger onto his feet. "Why aren't they coming at us?"

"From what I could tell, they're trying to calculate a safe way down," he utters beneath panted breaths. "We must take haste, or else we won't have another moonlight to witness."