“The gods have proclaimed-” said the royal fortune teller, observing the coloured pebbles he had toss in the mat in front of him in divination. “-that the next king, chosen to rule this land is…” All of the royal family, ministers and retainers sat around with bated breathes.
There was a gasp followed by silence.
“There must be a mistake.” said the king. “Polloux is the oldest son, he is the first born.”
“The gods don’t make mistakes,” said the fortune teller, insulted.
“Then YOU must have made a mistake!” the king shouted and then stormed out of the room, followed by the ministers and his retainers.
Castor remained silent. He had no expectation to be the next king, no one did. This prediction was more ill-fortune than he ever wanted.
Yet still… a little part of him was happy.
Polloux stood up and walked towards the fortune teller. He bowed respectfully before the wise man and turned to leave.
“Brother, I’m sorry,” said Castor as his brother walked passed. Polloux turned to him, looking heartbroken but did not say a word. When Polloux and his retainers left the room only Castor and the royal fortune teller remained.