Trading Souls

One by one each of Hadrian’s senses penetrated his fog. Smoke wafted from the crackling fireplace, and coarse cloth brushed against his palms.  A metallic taste lingered on his tongue. He forced his eyelids open, squinting as light streamed through a window on the opposite wall. To the left, bottles of potions lined a shelf, and on a table below lay a haphazard scattering of ancient books. 

A door to the right squeaked open. Hadrian gasped, blinking several times, but the apparition remained.  There stood a replica of himself, from the blond hair topped by a crown to the royal ceremonial robe and boots. 

“Who…” Hadrian’s voice rasped. He grabbed his throat but froze when he encountered a long snow-white beard.  His eyes flashed back to the figure.  “Who are you?”

The figure cackled, “Why, Zykor, don’t you recognize your prince?”

“Noooo!” Hadrian screamed, struggling to sit up. “I’m the prince.” The figure laughed again, his eyes turning red. He raised his fingers, and a white light shot out, encircling Hadrian and penning him to the bed.  A mirror floated down in front of Hadrian, reflecting the grizzly old image of the royal physician.

“How? Why?” Hadrian shook his head.  “What are you trying to prove?”

“Simple.  Your father will die tonight from his mysterious illness. Turns out, his royal physician was poisoning him.” The pseudo-prince smirked. “Tsk, tsk…  Then, I, as Prince Hadrian, will be crowned king.  Now, the good news for you? The trading souls spell requires both of us to stay alive. It wouldn’t do for me to morph back into Zykor, now would it?” He turned, whipping open the door.  Over his shoulder, he taunted, “Guess, you’ll just have to get comfortable in the dungeon.”   

Then he was gone, leaving behind a broken old man.



Word Count—299



"Daily Flash Fiction Challenge"