The Manhunt/Chapter 4

When making their way through German streets, Airmid quietly hummed with glee. The atmosphere was homely, yet warming and inviting. Although they did not originate from this one particular city, Germany was home, and the physician had missed it.

“You realise Ever After High is located in Germany as well?” Bastion had asked them once.

“Yes, but Ever After High is Americanised. This is genuine! This is truly what it means to encompass a fairytalesque atmosphere!”

Indeed. Talking animals in little suits strutted about quite happily. A band of bards bellowed ballads. Third sons were getting shafted in their family inheritance by arrogant and entitled older brothers. Beautiful, heartwarming, and totally backwater.

Upon thought, it was not much different from Ever After.

“With any luck, we won’t run into my godfather,” Airmid said. “I checked the MirrorNet site for the Council of Grim Reapers. Apparently there’s a conference, so he’ll be away for a bit.”

“Where is this conference, might I ask?”

“The entrance of hell,” they frowned as they recalled. “In Iceland, I think.”

Parental figures. Bastion had avoided thinking about them. In fact, in the planning stages of this journey, he had purposely darted over them, with no clue how to cover up or explain his absence from school to them. It was a small risk – Bastion doubted that his parents cared about him enough to realise he’s gone, but it was a risk nevertheless.

How reckless, and how impulsive.

When Airmid had brought up Godfather Death, Bastion felt a pit of regret in his stomach. He coughed back the sick feeling in his throat.

There were more important things to think of.

A mere carriage cab ride away was the castle from which the previous princess of Godfather Death had hailed from.

The gate had worn apart, and moss seemed to be climbing the exterior of the castle. A pair of lone guards stood outside, more fixated on stabbing their spears into the dirt rather than standing sentinel.

“Would you require a diplomatic voice?” Bastion asked, as the two neared the place.

“No, that would be too intimidating. Besides, I’m Airmid Valerian. Surely that’s enough,” Airmid said. “Wait outside."

They had to cough several times to get the guards’ attention. When Airmid asked for a request for an audience with the King and Queen, the guards responded with a dismal shrug. Unlocking the gates took the pair at least four tries to find the right keys, and they ushered Airmid in as if to say ‘please hurry up, we don’t have all day to do nothing’.

The two royals were seated on their thrones.

What a historical sight. Most royalty nowadays would do more than sitting – signing decrees, for one thing, and executing any people who rioted.

A quip passed through Airmid’s mind, something about encouraging the two to ‘take a stand'. Yet, the mood was far too solemn, and the physician unwillingly bit their tongue.

The two stared down at them, eyes judgmental and piercing.

“Who are you?” the Queen was the first to speak.

“My name is Airmid Valerian,” had they worn a hat, they would have taken it off. “I just want an audience with you two, to ask about the circumstances regarding the previous princess of the Godfather Death destiny.”

Once those words were spoken, the air in the room shifted and grew tense. A servant dropped a plate. It smashed on the tiled floor, the sound reverberating through the empty halls.

“I’m sorry, would you like me to repeat that?"

“No!” The King stood up, all eyes on him. It looked rather ridiculous. Airmid would had laughed, if the occasion had not been proper.

Instead, they awkwardly shuffled back a few steps.

“I know your type,” said the King. “I shall not make the same mistake with an arrogant fool like you."

Airmid opened their mouth, and closed it again. “What do you mean?"

“You’re Godfather Death’s physician. You– your kind killed my daughter.”

They tilted their head in a bemused fashion. “A physician can never exercise malevolence on a patient. It goes against our Hippocratic oath.” Hemlock might have been terrible – that was believable, but killing the princess? That was extreme.

“Your predecessor didn’t save my daughter like he was supposed to. He took one look at her, laughed, and said she was beyond saving.”

Asclepius Hemlock did not save his destined princess.

Asclepius Hemlock did not get his second strike.

Asclepius Hemlock did not die for h–

Perhaps, there was a chance that he was–

“Instead, he fucked his ass off to China and saved some undeserving Chinese bitch instead. Good thing it did him,” the King snorted. “She was married."

He stood up, and pointed an accusatory finger at Airmid.

“Your predecessor sacrificed the life of my daughter for the chance to screw with a married princess."

“But he saved yours, didn’t he? He would have still followed the earlier part of his destiny."

The King faltered. “Well, yes, but what good did that do me? I could have died, ignorant of anything. Instead, I lived to see my daughter die.”

A sigh escaped him.

“No parent should have to bury their child,” he said, his syllables becoming dragged out and heavy. “Especially a King. The rates of our deaths in youth are considerably lower due to our social standing.”

“Are you implying that peasants are more deserving of having their children die?” Airmid slightly tilted their head, narrowing their eyes.

“No, I merely imply I deserve better."

“You deserve as much as anyone else deserves,” the physician’s voice boomed louder, and their fists curled up by their sides. “Death is the only true egalitarian effort. It does not distinguish between nobles and commoners. To deny this is to deny the fundamentals of life itself."

The King glared, fury on his face. Who had permitted this young upstart into the throne room, from a role already declared enemy of his family, to start preaching at him? Such insolence! What sort of pedestal did this man put himself on, and in what way was he raised?

This was no behaviour to display in front of a monarch.

“I am done with you, kid. Please leave, and take your whole lineage and anything at all related to your story with you."

“But I haven’t been here for even five minutes yet!” Airmid insisted. “There’s so much more to say!"

“There is nothing to say. You’ve proved yourself to be needlessly rude and demanding to a King in his own home,” he waved a hand, and immediately a couple of guards leapt to attention. “You think I would let another physician mess with me and what’s left of my family? Out! Out of you! Guards!”

Airmid raised their arms in protest. “I have a right to be here! I am the physician of Death!"

“You are an enemy to my kingdom!” the King shook his fist. From there, he turned his back – away from the door, away from the physician, and blinked back stray tears.

Bastion had been waiting outside, so deeply absorbed in a German newspaper that he failed to notice a dejected Airmid Valerian getting (literally) thrown out of the gates, until jolted by a sharp tap on the shoulder. “Oh! Airmid! Back so soon. How did it go?” he asked, and startled, tucked up the newspaper.

“Bad,” Airmid said. Their tone was quick and deadpan. “I would have rather snorted benzene.”

“Isn’t that poisonous?”

“It’s a carcinogenic. Not that it matters – his arrogance and ignorance gave me cancer anyway."

Bastion frowned as he debated whether to chide Airmid. “You shouldn’t be joking about such things. You’re a doctor, for D’Aulnoy's sake. It's insensitive."

"Sorry," Airmid said, face falling.

“So it didn’t go well,” he quickly switched the topic back. “At the very least, surely they let some minor details slip, did they not?"

“Not enough. It’s both disappointing and taunting."

He patted the physician on the back. It was awkward, but the sentiment was there. “The itinerary gives us two days here. We are fairytales, and three times the charm, they say."