"Strange things are done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold..." Robeet W. Service, Cremation of Sam McGee.
His two toned eyes gazed out over the grassy expanse that lay between him and his homeland. There was knot in his stomach had been his constant friend since he'd departed the city he'd come to love as much as his own-- if not more. The knot had grown tighter, harder to ignore as the time went on in its irregular patterns, sometimes dragging, painfully slow, sometimes gone with a sickening lurch.
His eyes, hazel as his father's was said to have been, felt hot, as if the water within them would rise as steam instead of fall. But fall they did, even if no one was around to see them. He had the cabin to himself as it jostled along the well travelled dirt. His only guards and caretakers marched alongside him, but kept a respectful distance. Which was as it should be, he supposed, looking down at the fineries draped around his person, at all the rich cloths and fine jeweleries. He was, after all, the Crowned Prince. Or rather, he was now the young King.
