The Bewitched Soul

The year 1632

The sudden death of The widower King of Brookville caused widespread mourning. A memorial service was performed in the courtyard of the palace. Kings along with their queens and the chamberlains from all four provinces attended the service and paid their last tribute to the royal personage. People from around the province came to pay their last respects to beloved late King Randolph. Meanwhile, a 17-year-old boy stood near the burial vault still as he saw it being carried away from him. His face was void of emotions and expressions. He emitted an aura of coldness and aloofness. Time passed by, he stood still as the sun dipped below the horizon, the momentary colors of dusk began to fade away.

"Rest in peace Father", Alexander spoke, a tear rolled down his left cheek. The emotions that he had been suppressing in his heart, found a way out in the form of a single tear. Wiping the tear off his left cheek, he started walking towards the castle. His legs had lost all vigor. He stumbled upon a stone and fell on his knees. He bowed his head for a while and then looked up at the starry sky.

"Mother...", he whispered closing his eyes, this time tears rolled down his both cheeks as if they were racing down his perfectly sculpted face.

Seeing the Young Prince in such a dire state, the butler rushed near him. Helping him stand up, he patted the boy's back. Alex smiled at the gentle gesture.

"Take me home Julius", he spoke softly.

Suprised by tone, the butler smiled as he spoke, "Yes My Lord".

Alex smirked upon hearing this, "The Lord is dead", he spoke, his eyes void of emotions.

'No My Lord' the butler spoke nothing. He knew he had more years to serve the Lord.

He smiled.

Upon reaching his bedroom, Alex quietly shut the door. He opened the large window near his bed and laid on the bed. Staring at the full moon, his heart clenched. He imagined how his mother must have looked like. He remembered how his father always used to frown whenever young Alex asked about his mother. He knew that the lady whose portrait hung in The Great Hall was not his biological mother. There was something that the Royal family hid from him.

But one fine day...

"I need to know who my real mother is My Lord", the little boy asked his father as his eyes reddened out of frustration.

"I want to see her! Where is she? I know that the Queen is not my mother. I'm tired! Please.. please", Alex pleaded. He broke into tears. He wanted to know his identity. His true identity.

Seeing the 5-year-old crying, Lord Randolph stood up from his chair, took long strides towards the door and locked the room. He stood for a while, hearing the soft sobs of his son, he turned around and walked slowly to the spot.

Seeing the shoes, Alex looked up. The Lord held his son's tender arms and lifted him up.

"You cannot be this weak Alexander. Your mother was one of the strongest women I've seen.", he smiled gently as he remembered his beautiful lady.


"She was beautiful.. most beautiful", he said proudly. "But fate has its ways dear. We were not destined to be together.", there was utter sadness in his eyes as he spoke.

Looking at his son, he smiled seeing his confused face.

"Your mother was a white witch.", he revealed. The boy slack-jawed.

"Father, can I meet my mother? Please", Alex spoke by clasping his hands. His eyes showed a sincere desire to meet his mother.

The Lord released his grip from the boy's arm and walked towards the window. The wind hit his face. His black hair was disheveled. As he closed his eyes, "She's dead", he spoke. His face showed no emotions, as a single tear flowed down his left cheek.

The boy stood still.