Rhys’s Choice

Author’s note: This story is dedicated to Sarah, a gifted artist and fellow writer, who has been a constant source of support during my foray into the world of fan fiction. My thanks to Rebecca Capowski, whose retranslation of Phantasy Star 3: Generations of Doom was my main source material. Standard disclaimers apply regarding ownership of the characters and the Phantasy Star games.

The current rating is “T”, owing to mild sexual allusions. There will be no explicit love scenes in this or subsequent chapters. Nevertheless, the text does aim to explore the nature of sexual attraction, the factors influencing a choice of marriage partner, and differing social perceptions regarding the role of women. Admittedly these may be adult themes, but I make no apology for maintaining the “T” rating. At the high school I attended, “A Streetcar Named Desire” was a common set text in English classes. If 14-15 year-olds are expected to read and understand Tennessee Williams, then I see no object in protecting them from the somewhat tamer reflections herein.

Revelations

With a weary sigh, Rhys re-sheathed his sword and turned to his attention to his companions. Mieu had emerged from the scuffle relatively unscathed, but the others had sustained significant injuries. Lying on the floor before him was Wren, whose knee joint let out an ominous creak as he attempted to move. Rhys gestured to Mieu and the android sped instantly over to her male counterpart, kneeling down to initiate the necessary repairs. A short distance away, Lyle was leaning against the stone pillar, bleeding freely from a scalp wound and mutely accepting Lena’s aid. Rhys squinted to see what she had in her hands – bandages, it seemed, and a flask of powerful antiseptic, which would cause unbearable stinging if applied to open cuts. A potent, astringent smell was emanating from the uncapped bottle. Lyle caught his eye and grimaced as Lena poured the liquid generously over his wound.

“That’ll do, Lena,” said the Layan prince, biting his lip. “You’ve patched me up nicely. Stop fussing now; I’ll be all right.”

“Well, that should take care of it for a few hours, anyhow,” replied the girl, putting away her first aid kit, “but as soon as we find a resting place, you ought to get your head examined.”

The words escaped her lips before she realised their implications; the three Parmanians could scarcely contain their mirth. It was a welcome relief from the rigours of battle. Their laughter echoed through the gilded alcove, while Wren and Mieu observed them placidly, missing the joke entirely.

“Too damn right,” retorted Lyle, trying to recover some semblance of gravity. He glanced at Rhys. “We haven’t much further to go now… shall we make a move?”

Rhys nodded, placing his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword. As Lena strode briskly to his side, he noticed that her blouse had been torn at the shoulder. To see a woman on the field was a novel experience for him; she seemed too small and fragile for the brutality of hand-to-hand combat. Paradoxically, however, she appeared to be taking it as well as any of the hardened veterans in the party. The steel knives attached to her belt glinted in the dim light. The evening before, in Shusoran, she had stayed up late with him and Lyle, discussing the history of Landen and Aquatica. She could hold her own in any conversation, as in any battle; Rhys was conscious of a growing respect for this poised, determined Orakian girl. Lyle noticed the way he was looking at Lena and frowned slightly; he alone knew of the choice that Rhys would have to face before the day was over. The party moved slowly through the hallway, alert for signs of danger at every step.

As they turned the corner, Lena let out a gasp and Rhys found himself transfixed on the threshold. The throne room of the castle stretched out before them, basking in the light of a chandelier with over a hundred candles. Vast tapestries adorned the walls and the wooden floor was polished to perfection. The opulence was breathtaking, easily matching and perhaps exceeding the grandeur of the Landen palace. Royal guards flanked both sides of the throne, on which sat a middle-aged man, clad in the finest brocade, looking dour but incomparably distinguished. Lena’s gasp was in recognition that this was the King of Cille. But Rhys’s eyes were drawn to the lithe young woman who stood behind her father.

“Maia,” he whispered.

For weeks on end, he had waited for this moment: to catch another glimpse of the bride who had been snatched from his side on his wedding day. Now it had come, he felt a curious ambivalence. Her appearance had not changed; she still seemed exquisitely beautiful to him. The long, strapless blue dress perfectly accentuated her porcelain skin. He remembered her alluring scent, the gentle hands, and the fluty voice. But a mist seemed to have disintegrated between the two of them; the magic had gone, perhaps transiently, perhaps forever. No, he reflected, he could not allow that; not after everything they had been through. This indifference that had suddenly gripped him had to be a temporary mental aberration. Fatigue was the likely culprit; his feelings for Maia would surely return as soon as he had the chance to hold her in his arms.

His intended bride gave him a wan smile, acknowledging his presence and, he hoped, encouraging him to proceed. Rhys stepped forwards.

One of the Royal Guards barred the way. “Orakio's lackeys should stick to marrying their own kind!” he snarled. But he was pushed to one side as the King himself rose to his feet.

“Get ready for a fight, Rhys,” said Lyle, grimly.

The King of Cille glowered for a few moments at the intruders. Bristling with umbrage, he removed his crown and handed it to one of his courtiers. He was a well preserved, wiry man, taller even than Rhys and Lyle. Sceptre in hand, towering over them, he was a formidable sight. Maia let out a short cry, lifting her hand to her mouth, but her father was not deterred.

“Your pursuit and harassment of my daughter, Maia, has continued for long enough. Now suffer for your ignorance and learn to know your place!” he bellowed.

The words were addressed to Rhys, but the King’s glance was directed at Lyle and contained surprise, rather than anger. The Prince of Shusoran brandished his steel staff and stood his ground, confirming his loyalty to his Orakian friend. This was no duel; Rhys would not fight alone. The lines had been drawn; the party closed in on its opponent.

Mieu was first off the mark, viciously tearing at the King’s fine doublet with her metal claws. Swift as lightning, Lena followed, slashing at his arms with her knives. The Parmanians were aware that this was not a fight to the death; the aim was to disarm and overpower, not to kill. But the androids were less measured in their response. Gripping his ceramic shot with both hands, Wren fired at the Layan guards, rendering two of them unconscious and knocking the King off balance with his final shot. Maia screamed and one of the courtiers pushed her behind the throne for safety. But her father was already back on his feet, and the next move was his.

“Zan!” he yelled. With a throw of his arm, he unleashed the wind technique on his five adversaries. Lena heard the whistling in her ears and felt her hair blown across her face; as the whirlwind gathered strength, she was dashed against the wall. Rhys would have gone to her aid, but Lyle was there first, holding a healing potion above her ashen face. The fragrant vapours revived her, and she opened her eyes to see Rhys swinging his sword with all his might at the Layan King.

The sceptre fell from the King’s hand, but he was not yet ready to accept defeat. As a young man, he had been celebrated throughout the land for his prowess at combat. His physical strength might have dwindled since then, but his knowledge of battle strategy and techniques remained unmatched. He did not waste a move in attempting to retrieve his weapon. Instead, he hammered the party again with a double-strength wind technique, knocking Mieu and Lena clean off their feet.

As the girls recovered their senses and attended to their wounds, Wren fired another round at the Layan guards. Most of the courtiers had retreated behind the throne, ostensibly to shield Maia, but also to remove themselves the line of fire. The Royal guards, overwhelmed by Wren’s firepower, now joined them. They could scarcely be blamed. The ceramic shot had blown a hole in the wall hangings and dented the solid silver throne. The King alone stood his ground, bloodied but unbowed.

Lyle met his uncle’s gaze. Drawing breath, he flicked his arm at the older man, releasing a weak elemental fire technique. “Foi!”

His eyes stinging from the smoke, the King staggered backwards, willing himself to ignore the burning tingle against his skin. But at the same instant, Rhys charged forwards, his sword aloft and ready to strike. The King held up his hand in resignation.

“I yield to you, Rhys. You are mighty indeed, in spite of your Orakian blood.” He paused and nodded at the Prince of Shusoran. “Perhaps Lyle, my nephew, was right about you.”

Lyle’s face broke into a puckish grin, as though the fight had been little more than a friendly tussle. The courtiers began to emerge from behind the throne and the Royal Guards resumed their places at the King’s side. Maia, too, stepped out into the open. Rhys tried to catch her eye, but her gaze was fixed on her father. The young Prince felt his heart pounding. Did Maia resent him for having defeated her father in combat? During their courtship at Landen, Maia had been unaware of her heritage as a Layan princess. But even if her amnesia had persisted, she had spent the past few months in her childhood home, living her old life. How did she feel about him now?

The King placed his hand on his daughter’s shoulder and addressed the young Orakian. “And now, Prince Rhys, you have a decision to make. From the intelligence gathered by my nephew, Lyle, I understand that the girl you call ‘Lena’ is actually from the royal line of Satera, the kingdom adjacent to your own. Perhaps you are not aware that she is the very princess who was raised as your fiancée? Wed Lena to seal the alliance between Landen and Satera, and to remain true to your birthright.”

Stunned, Rhys gaped at the petite brunette. The notion of an arranged marriage had never appealed to him. He knew that his parents had been negotiating with neighbouring states for some years, but he had shrugged off their political machinations with cold indifference. Eventually, his father would almost certainly have put his foot down; but Maia had entered his life before that dreaded moment could arrive. He had wooed and proposed to Maia without giving a second thought to any commitments his parents might have made. But here, in the flesh, was the woman they had intended him to marry, and whom he had spurned, without ever setting eyes on her.

Lena’s hair was dishevelled and her blouse was torn right across. Out of modesty, she was clutching the garment together at her throat, but it left her right shoulder bare, revealing a large, ugly bruise. Her heavy riding skirt was hard-wearing but shapeless. Light from the chandelier reflected off her diamond earrings, her one concession to a feminine look. Compared to statuesque Maia, she was a mere slip of a girl. But Maia was huddling silently by her father, her eyes fixed on the floor, while Lena stood straight and proud by his side, defiantly returning his gaze. Suddenly, his mind drifted back to the day of his ill-fated wedding. After his angry outburst in front of the court, his father had ordered him to cool off in the dungeon; but Lena had somehow found her way down there and helped him escape. Why?

“Lena,” he faltered. “You… you should’ve told me.”

“There was no reason to tell you,” she countered. The corners of her mouth turned up into a wry smile.

“Of course,” continued the King, “should you still wish to marry Maia, you have now earned the right to her hand. If you are willing to give up your home and your heritage, you can reign over my fair kingdom of Cille. The choice is yours, young man.”

All eyes were on him; Rhys felt hot around the collar. The enormity of his choice was only just dawning on him. When he and Maia had stolen kisses and planned marriage, both had been blissfully unaware of her ancestry. The most recent revelations made no difference to his feelings for her, for his travels in Aquatica and his friendship with Lyle had all but eradicated his atavistic horror of Layan culture. But the prejudices of the populace would be less easy to overcome. He doubted that even his parents would accept Maia once they learned of her Layan antecedents. The people of Landen would be outraged. The King of Cille was right; if he married Maia, he would have to renounce his claim to the throne of Landen. It was a monumental sacrifice: to never return home, never see his family again. Gaining the acceptance of the people of Cille would be no walk in the park either; but with the endorsement of the King and the continued support of Prince Lyle, he might ultimately succeed.

The alternative was to push this little escapade to the back of his mind and accede to his original destiny: marriage to Lena, and succession to the throne of Landen and neighbouring Satera. The notion of loving Lena was still a novelty, but he had to acknowledge that she was a far cry from the frumpish bore he had mentally associated with an arranged marriage. If he chose her, he could return to his family and to the life he knew, but he might never see Maia or Lyle again. It was curious that his friendship with Lyle should have come to mean so much to him, but it had; he would be sorry to lose him. Yet one consolation would be granted to him. Lena, as his wife, would always share the memory of this precious and unique experience; no one could take that away from them.

The King cleared his throat, awaiting Rhys’s response. What to do now? There was no one around to advise him; he had to make a life-changing decision on the spot. Lyle it was who came to the rescue.

“Well, he doesn’t have to decide right this moment. We’ve all had a long day, Uncle, and we could use a rest and a good meal. Let him sleep on it. He can carry it over for consideration tomorrow.”