Misshapen star

‘I know who you are.’
The words he hoped he’d never hear. All the fears somehow forgotten in the quiet place he’d made a home long ago. Seventeen years, for God’s sake, he’d grown so well into his new existence he seldom thought of the life before. A random word, a whiff of Matha’s cooking, the scent of magnolias blooming in the valley sometimes brought before his eyes flashes of his former life, making him squeeze his eyes shut until they were gone. He forbade himself to visit the past. And now this grubby little man with those vicious little eyes was threatening to unravel his carefully crafted life story. He should have known eyes like that are full of malice, he should have seen the gray habit of a monk peeking from under the coarse black coat of this beggar.
His hands trembled as he placed the bowl of hot stew in front of the customer coming straight from one of his nightmares of old. The stranger grabbed his left hand and pulled up the sleeve to reveal the purple mark on his forearm, the slightly misshapen star of Gand, that had sealed his fate. Nothing more needed be said, no point in denying the truth the old man so obviously knew.
The man everyone there knew as Jonah sank in the chair facing the unwelcome visitor waiting for fate to take it’s course. But the monk was hungry so, instead of speaking, he set upon devouring the food before him, shoving chunks of fresh bread down his throat in between mouthfuls of greasy stew.
Ever since establishing himself in this new life, he’d made a habit of offering a bowl of food and a loaf of bread to the needy traveler, in keeping with the promise he’d made to the widow who’d nursed his wounded leg long ago. He did not repay her for her troubles, as he couldn’t let her know about the pouch of gold he carried in the small parcel tied with string. She’d taken him in as a young orphan wandering the roads looking for a job and he had to leave it at that. Her kindness shall be repaid by granting a meal and a place to sleep to other wanderers when circumstances would allow it. He’d kept his oath but his generosity now threatened to be his undoing.
‘Your wife is an excellent cook, prince Jolen’, the beggar said as he laid down the spoon in the bowl that had been licked clean.
The sound of his true name reverberated like the toll of the huge church bell of Gand around the room, bouncing off the walls, that now appeared yellowed and stained with the soot of thousands of dishes cooked and served to indifferent patrons. He was once again the young boy fleeing for his life, shivering as the warmth of the place he’d called home for so many years was slowly being drained by the cold stare of the stranger.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I don’t want anything from you. I’m just a messenger, here to tell you, my prince, that you need to go back. Home.’
‘I’m not your prince, I have chosen a different path long ago’.
‘You cannot choose your stars’, the monk said flatly, his eyes fixed on the purple birthmark.
Both of King Hanull’s sons had been born with the sign on their arms, only Jolen’s star was ill-shaped, its southern tip chipped away, the error becoming more obvious as the boy grew up. His mother worried, seeing it as an ill omen, but the king would hear none of it. Jolen was to sit on the marble throne one day, star or no star.

Only the wise woman told him differently, the sign was very clear to her trained eyes. ‘You will die if you become king.’ How and why or by whose hand, she would not say. She just held his now trembling hand with her bony fingers, her sad eyes fixed upon his face, in the ancient ritual of remembrance. Only it was at funerals or to the death-bed of the ailing that the wise women were called, sweeping into the room with their black habits, chilling the souls of those that still drew breath. The wise women that would remember your face were feared by all and few ever knocked upon their doors willingly.
Prince Jolen had to know his fate. Also, he was young and foolish at the time and the fear of death had not seeped into his heart. Going to see the wise woman was more of a dare to him, something he had to do to put his mind to rest. The small woman with a nose so crooked she looked like a hawk was already committing his face to memory when Jolen shook his hand free and ran out of the room, slamming the door hard, hoping to lock the frightening woman inside. There was no getting rid of her words, though, he would die if he ever took the crown. Fear made him hateful, he grew suspicious of all the men at the court, the friends he used to play and practise sword with, the councilmen that spoke to him with all the deference owed to a future king, everybody was a possible murderer in his eyes. The simple view of the magnificent marble throne, cut from a single piece of black stone filled him with horror. He saw himself bleeding to death on the throne, red streaks of blood slowly finding their way down to the white marble floor of the great hall, deserted, that’s how he saw it in his nightmares, cause they would all abandon him in his hour of need. He had to flee to escape his destiny.
He thought he’d be safe here, so far away from Gand news took months to reach him. He knew of his father’s death five years ago, which left his younger brother Siran now king of Gand. Why would he need to return. They’d all forgotten him by now.
‘King Siran will be poisoned this evening. The wise woman will be with him before the week's out and the city will be torn by infighting without a lawful king.’
‘Why are you here when you could have gone and warn him?'
‘I’m just the messenger.’

Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge. Today's prompt was: hunger! Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.

Thanks for reading!