When the little prince returned to the palace, the great halls were still warm with the dying embers of the evening's revelry. Torches burned low along the walls, casting long shadows that seemed to dance with secrets. His heart was full to overflowing with the wonder he had met under the bridge. The crystal vial lay hidden against his breast, glowing faintly like a living coal of hope. Surely, he thought, those of his own blood would understand. Surely his own family would see the mercy that had been granted and receive it with joy.
He found them gathered in one of the smaller chambers, his father the King seated upon a carved chair, his mother beside him, and his brothers and sisters lounging about with the careless grace of those who had never known want. The little prince closed the door softly behind him and began to speak. At first his words came haltingly, then with growing eagerness. He told them of the bitter cold, of the old man beneath the bridge, and of how he had shared his last crust of bread. Then, with trembling hands, he drew forth the crystal vial and held it up to the light.
"See," he said, "this is no ordinary thing. An angel of the Lord appeared to me and gave it. God is grieved with our people because of their selfishness, their cruelty, and their endless chasing after vain pleasures. In ten years a great plague will come without warning, and all who have not drunk of this shall perish. But whoever drinks before that day will be spared."
To prove his words he lifted the vial to his lips and drank. The liquid was cool and sweet, like water from a mountain spring, and for a moment a soft light seemed to play about his face.
For an instant there was silence. Then the storm broke.
His eldest brother burst into loud laughter. "So this is your game at last, little brother! You have hidden your ambition well, but now the fox shows his tail. A magic potion to steal the throne with, is it? Do you think us such fools?"
The sisters joined in, their voices sharp as little knives. "How dare you bring such shameful nonsense into the House of Caesar? Playing at miracles and angels! You will bring disgrace upon us all with your childish mummery."
The Queen, his mother, took the vial from his hand with a mocking smile. She pretended to drink, tilting it with exaggerated care, then handed it back. "Your acting is very fine, my son. One might almost believe you. But we are not children to be fooled by pretty tales."
The King had remained silent through it all, his heavy brows drawn together. At last he spoke, and his voice was cold. "This smells of enemy plots. Some foreign sorcerer has filled your head with lies to weaken us from within. Put away this foolishness, boy, before you do real harm."
The little prince stood as one stunned. The joy that had filled him only moments before drained away like water poured upon sand. In its place came a sharp pain, as though something inside his chest had been torn. These were his own people, his own flesh and blood. He had expected doubt, perhaps, but not this cruel laughter, not this swift twisting of his purest intention into something base and ugly.
He tried once more, his voice small and earnest. "But it is true. I saw the angel with my own eyes. The vial is real. Please, drink of it. There is still time."
They only laughed the louder. One brother clapped him on the back with mocking affection. "Go play your games elsewhere, saintling. Leave matters of state to those who understand them."
Something broke in the little prince then. The warmth that had sustained him through the winter night turned first to hurt, then to a burning anger, and at last to a lonely sorrow deeper than any he had known. Even my own family will not believe me, he thought. If those closest to me turn my gift into a jest or a threat, how shall I ever persuade the rest of the kingdom? How can I save them when they will not let themselves be saved?
He took the crystal vial back with steady hands, though his eyes stung with unshed tears. Without another word he turned and left the chamber. Behind him the laughter continued, fading as he walked down the long corridors.
That night the little prince slipped out of the palace once more. The streets lay cold and empty under the snow, but he no longer felt the bite of the wind so keenly. A new resolve had taken root in him, born of pain. Since his own house would not hear him, he would go to those who had nothing left to lose. He would try the beggars and the outcasts in the streets. There, perhaps, among the truly desperate, the mercy of Heaven might find a hearing.
It was his first taste of the world's rejection, and it burned like iron laid against the soul.
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