A/N: Sorry for the huge update gap. I've been experiencing some writer's block. However, I'm hoping that the burst of inspiration I'm getting lasts for a while. Thanks to my (two) reviewers! Your feedback is appreciated

OZ: Emerald Dynasty
S. Quinn

Chapter Two: Through the Fabric of Reason

“…Explain? How do you explain this cracked-up shit?!” Gale demanded fiercely. His eyes, a deep, chocolate brown, narrowed in scrutiny of the stitched man.

“Your Highness, I wish you wouldn’t use such crass language,” Kroew sighed, “You will understand in due time, I promise. Now, if you would please come inside…” The black-garbed male gestured for Gale to accompany him back to the house. The teen shook his head wildly, short brown hair flying.

“B-but…what about that monkey…thing?” he stammered, nodding toward the house.

“The Simiar? It’s dead, worry not. Your mother is unharmed, and perfectly safe.” Gale nodded, though he was still more than a little skeptical. He followed Kroew to the house, looking around fearfully for any sign of danger. April Osmond was sitting calmly at the kitchen table as though nothing had happened. She smiled at Kroew like it was the most natural thing in the world for a man’s face to be horribly marred by stitches and scars, and he nodded respectfully in acknowledgment. When she looked at Gale, her expression was one of apology, regret, even shame. She motioned for her son to sit down, and he did. Kroew remained standing, gloved hands behind his back.

“Mom, what’s going on? Please tell me this is all some kind of weird prank or something!” Gale begged, getting a little frantic. April shook her head slowly.

“Son, I was going to tell you everything after you came home from school today... About your home, your past, your heritage – everything. I didn’t want you to find out like this, believe me.” She took a deep breath and reached across the table, taking Gale’s hand in both of hers. “Far away from here, in a dimension vastly unlike our own, there is a country called Oz. It’s ruled by a monarch, and for as long as anyone can remember, there has been but one ruling family, known as the Emerald Dynasty. Until recently, the eldest son of the Dynasty – Emile Osmond – was king.”

“Dad…?” Gale interrupted, his voice quiet, “But you told me he died when I was a baby.”

“Yes. He was assassinated by an agent of the Dusk Crone shortly after you were born. I ran away with you to keep you safe. I’ve kept in close contact with Kroew and the other Guardians, and we planned to send you back once you were of age…”

“…But the Crone is making her move now, and we cannot afford to wait.” Kroew spoke for the first time since entering the house again, his tone full of barely-suppressed anger. “With all due respect, milady - we must go now, if we are to have any hope at all of finding the others and stopping the Crone’s coup.”

“Yes, of course, Kroew,” April replied, keeping her eyes locked on her son. Unshed tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes. “Gale... Son… I’m sorry for keeping this from you. Please don’t be angry with me. I promise to follow after you as soon as I can.”

“Follow…? What do you mean? We’re leaving?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Kroew returned solemnly, “We must return home, and swiftly. Take my hand, my prince.” The stitched man extended one leather-clad hand to Gale, who shot his mother a pleading look. She nodded, and the young man placed his hand in Kroew’s. With a snap of the ruined man’s fingers, and a stomp of his right boot, the pair of them were no longer in Gale’s house. Instead, they were moving through what appeared to Gale as a long, dark-green tunnel. They didn’t walk, nor were they flying. In fact, the movement was so slow that it seemed as though they were being dragged through a swamp of thick, unyielding mud. Kroew held onto Gale’s hand tightly, his face tensed in deep concentration. The young man watched the taller one for a while, before the latter even seemed to notice. When he did, he blinked curiously, as though he’d just been reminded of Gale’s existence.

“Erm… Kroew?” the brunet began tentatively, making no attempt to pretend he wasn’t staring. If the stitched man minded at all, he gave no indication.

“Yes, Your Highness?” was his inflectionless reply. Gale nibbled his lower lip briefly, intimidated for a brief moment. The taller man seemed built to fluster people. After all, his countenance was not exactly a friendly one.

“Would you stop with the—D’oh, never mind. Where are we? What is this…place?” It wasn’t what he’d wanted to ask, but his original question seemed inappropriate, now that he thought back on it. Kroew, once again, seemed oblivious to the almost-faux-pas of the other male.

“We’re currently in the Space Between,” Kroew explained with the well-practiced patience of one who was used to dealing with incompetents, “As the name suggests, it is the space between the Inner and Outer Realms.”

“Which one’s which? I mean, which one is your world, and which one is mine?”

“Our world is the Inner Realm. The one in which you were born is the Outer. Normally, travel between the two is impossible for anyone not affiliated with the Dynasty, and forbidden to those that are. Save for the most dire of situations.”

“Like mine?”

“Yes, Your Highness. Like yours. The chaos and controversy surrounding your very existence has thrown everything into an uproar. There are some – mostly the Crone’s allies, but some of ours as well – who doubt that you were ever even born, much less that you still live. You were spirited away to the Outer Realm the very day that you were born. The only ones who even bore witness to your birth were your father, the Sorceress Eline, and the Guardians, myself included. No one else knows anything about you, save your name. It is under that name, Prince Gale, that we rally for our freedom from the Dusk Crone.” As he spoke, Kroew’s voice grew softer, until it was little more than a whisper. Gale’s eyes were wide with rapt interest at the tale. He could barely believe that everything he ever knew was a lie, and that this strange man knew more about him than he did.

“So…if none of them know me, then how am I supposed to prove that I am who you say I am?” the brunet asked, furrowing his brow in confusion. He was surprised to be answered with a chuckle. It was a deep, musical sound that definitely did not suit Kroew’s face.

“The other Guardians and I are proof enough. We are sworn to serve none but the Dynasty. We were created for that purpose specifically.”

“…Created?”

“Indeed. The Three Guardians are created by the Boreal Sorceress, at least in part. Sometimes, people are chosen and altered, or inanimate objects – such as dolls or statues – are given life. Most of the time, however, the Sorceress uses her magic to create a fitting Guardian.”

“Huh. Okay. Well, which are you?” Gale asked, not really thinking that the question might be insulting until after the words had been uttered.

Before he could apologize, Kroew simply shrugged and replied, “That is a tale for another time, my prince. If my guess is correct, we should be entering the Endspace in a few moments.” Gale barely had time to consider asking what an “endspace” was when Kroew pulled him tightly into a protective embrace. The entire atmosphere changed, and their speed increased by an impossible margin. Now, they were moving more rapidly than Gale had ever experienced in his life. He clung tightly to Kroew, who seemed to know what he was doing. Though the whole thing seemed to take forever, it had, in reality, only been about seven seconds before they were spilled out onto some grass in the middle of what appeared to be a forest.

Gently, the Guardian pried his charge from his body. His hat had fallen from his head onto the ground, and Gale was able to take a better look at his face. It was one of the most grotesque things he’d ever seen – nothing short of mutilation – though he suspected that Kroew would have been handsome, were it not for the scars and stitches. The man had his good eye closed, and was leaning back on his hands, and so didn’t notice the teenager’s staring. However, a rustling in the brush caused the ruined man to spring to attention. He was on his feet just as a figure taller than he approached them, wielding a very sharp-looking silver axe. The man raised it above his head, as though he was preparing to bring it down onto Kroew. Just like before, Gale was rooted to the spot, unable to utter even the slightest sound. His eyes squeezed shut of their own accord when the axe began to cut through the air, right toward Kroew’s head.