The next few days were a whirlwind of funeral plans and awkwardly comforting hugs. The house, once a fortress of silence, was now filled with the mournful whispers of relatives and friends. His mother robotically went through the motions, her eerie numbness making Alastair feel like a clueless sailor lost in a sea of uncertainty. Yet, amidst the chaos, he found solace in the quiet moments alone with his thoughts, clutching the mysterious letter from his father.
He read the words over and over, trying to decode the meaning behind "You will be king, my son." It was a title that didn't fit his reality, a crown too heavy for his mind to hold. Each time he looked at the envelope, the questions grew louder in his mind: Why had it been so short? Why now?
The letter had arrived like a cryptic message from the grave, hinting at a destiny that seemed as real as the fairy tales he had outgrown. Yet, the power of those words lingered, a strange comfort amidst the turmoil. Was it an apology? A final attempt at connection? Or perhaps a twisted challenge, one last push to force him into the mold his father had never managed to fit him into?
As Alastair pondered over the letter, lost in thought, a peculiar sight unfolded before him. Two elderly figures, dressed in old-fashioned elegance that could have been plucked from the pages of a dusty history book, shuffled into the room. Their attire was from a bygone era, reminiscent of the 19th-century monarchy. Their faces etched with time, they moved toward him with unexpected grace, and before he could react, they wrapped him in a warm embrace that smelled faintly of old paper and antique perfume.
"You must be Alastair," the old lady spoke first, her voice a melodic symphony of wisdom and warmth. She held him at arm's length, her eyes, the color of faded garnet's, searched his own.
"The spitting image of your father," the old man declared, his voice booming and commanding, like a king's decree echoing through a grand hall of a majestic castle. He took Alastair's hand in a firm grip, his eyes twinkling with a mischief that seemed at odds with noble appearance. ""Your father was next in line, you know," he continued mysteriously, a sly grin creeping onto his face.
Alastair felt his heart stutter. "What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice cracking like a young boy's in trouble. The old couple shared a knowing glance, a silent conversation that left him feeling both intrigued and overwhelmed.
"Your father," the old man said, his grip on Alastair's hand tightening, "he never told you about your heritage, did he?" His eyes bore into Alastair's, as if willing him to understand. "You are of royal blood, lad. A king in waiting, hidden from the world that should have been yours from birth."
The old woman, her eyes never leaving Alastair's, spoke in a softer tone, "Your father was a prince, my dear. He ran from his duties, his legacy, to start anew in this land of filth. But the crown does not forget its heirs."
The revelation hit him like a sledgehammer, shattering the fragile reality he had known. "But, that's impossible," he protested, his voice hollow.
His mother, her face a mask of shock and disbelief, stumbled back, dropping the letter as if it had burned her. "Carlio," she breathed, her voice a mix of wonder and horror. "He never said anything about this."
The old lady's eyes never left Alastair's face, her expression unreadable. "Many things were kept from you, I suspect," she said, her voice still melodic but with an underlying steel. "Prince Cedric was his birth name, but your father chose to leave that life behind."