"Tell me the rumors aren't true, Fulco," Truls begged his servant. They were in his private study, surrounded by notes, books, scrolls, and lit candles. Though dawn was on the rise, it was still dark enough outside to know it was still a few hours away.
"I'm afraid so, Your Majesty. Leland, the manservant, had seen them walking about the palace without any guards present, and Clare had heard people making love in the cellars," he replied solemnly.
Truls' eyes were bloodshot and had dark circles around them. He paused, staring off into one of the dark corners of his study with dead eyes. "I will have his head on a spike. I will make his ancestors weep once they see how he enters the afterlife. In pieces," he said, his voice rumbled like a rockslide. "But what of the peace you so loudly proclaimed the other night, your majesty?" his servant asked, visibly shaken at his king's reaction.
"Imagine you were in my place, if you will, Fulco," Truls began. "You hold a council of peace, and yet there goes one of your so-called allies behind your back to plough your wife," he raised his voice at the last segment, glaring at the person standing before him. "I wish you would tell me exactly what the fuck that is supposed to do to a man," he said.
Fulco remained silent, casting his gaze towards the ground around his feet. "Tell me!" Truls bellowed. "I don't know, Your Yajesty. Really, I don't," Fulco finally spat out. "What I do know is that if you kill Bashaa, the peace treaty will be broken, and you will be fighting a war on two fronts, which has never worked for anyone in the past," he sighed.
"Then what the actual fuck am I supposed to do, since I am not allowed to gut the little weasel-shit?" he asked. "Talk to his father and have him punish his son, Your Majesty," Fulco said, leaning in and lowering his voice. "We both know of their customs regarding such matters," he continued, insinuating that whatever came as a result would not be a lovely sight to behold.
"You're a fool if you think a man like Bashir would punish his own son in such a way, Fulco," Truls said. "I believe he would, in fact, congratulate his son for having his way with my wife. After all, she has been and still is desired by all men who cross her path," he continued.
"Almost all, Your Majesty," Fulco gave him a knowing nod. "Ah, right. My apologies, Fulco," Truls nodded, realizing what his servant meant. "In any case, they have laws that are imposed that would not allow him any other way to avoid such a thing," Fulco replied.
Truls toyed with the idea of Bashir suffering at the hands of their laws; however, his imagination began drifting to the satisfaction it would give him to wring the life out of the weasel-shit himself. He looked back at Fulco and nodded in agreement.
"Very well, arrange a meeting with Bashir and his son in the main hall when daylight comes. Oh, and Fulco; Tell no one what we've discussed," Truls said gravely, getting an understanding nod before Fulco bowed and turned to walk out of the study, leaving Truls in his seat in the candlelit room.
Dawn came, and Truls sat atop his throne, while Leona still slept. The morning light shone through the stained glass windows, lighting the main hall's walls with various colors. His eyes burned due to sleep deprivation while leaning his chin heavily on his right arm.
Fulco swung open the mighty doors and passed through them, not even glancing at the guards who stood watch in full harness and in silence. "King Bashir, and Prince Bashaa of Harut, your Majesty," he announced, then quickly took his leave. Truls' eyes regained their burning hatred at Bashaa's name.
"King Truls," Bashir said in a loud and firm voice. "King Bashir," Truls replied, trying to hide the hatred in his voice. "I do not fully understand why only we two have been summoned, whereas my advisors and other council members remain asleep," Bashaa began nervously.
"That, my lord, is simply because I decided I didn't want them here. You see, this matter is between the three of us. Oh, excuse me, I meant the four of us; although, only two here know who the fourth one is," Truls glared at Bashaa maliciously, who shuddered when he noticed the glare was directed at him.
"My lord, you are speaking in riddles, and it is too early in the morning to try to decipher them," Bashaa said, rubbing his eyes. "Then, if your feeble little mind cannot solve them, why don't you ask your son?" Truls said sarcastically.
Bashaa's eyes opened wide, and he immediately looked about him for some kind of support. He had forgotten for a moment that it was only he and his father who had been summoned. "Go on; Tell him, boy," Truls said, impatience ruling his voice. "Tell me what?" Bashir looked at his son, who began to shake his head.
"He. Fucked. My. Wife," Truls rose from his throne, growling and accentuating his words with the sound of his heavy footfall. "M-My son would never do such a thing, my lord," Bashir protested, gesturing to his son with one arm. "Tell him, tell him how it is all a lie," he said nervously. Bashaa couldn't move; he simply stood there looking like a paralyzed half-wit.
"Tell him!" Bashir continued to try to coax him to speak.
"You've been had. I know the dirty little secret you and my wife have together," he said with his voice low as he moved toward them. "My lord," Bashaa began. "Don't you dare call me lord, you oozing prick sore," Truls yelled in the young man's face.
"This is a conversation where, according to your actions, status does not matter. You come in here, drink my wine, gorge yourself on my food, and have the nerve to plough my wife? You are not a prince nor hardly even a man. You are nothing but a worthless cur, and I would not be surprised if you had a shriveled worm for a prick. You have defiled my wife, shamed my kingdom, and both of these right under my very nose," he shouted, making the two men flinch.
"I would have you dragged through the streets by your balls for all that you've done, and I will ensure that you make it to the Underworld, even if it means dragging you there myself," he bawled in rage as spit flew from his mouth.