Day 23409 12:10 PM
“Heaven on earth is to be found on horseback, reading books and between a woman's breasts.”
— Arab Proverb
I am inside my study, a quill in my hand, drafting my memoirs. I throw the damn thing on the floor and rush out of the room. Who gives a damn about memoirs?
“Where is my wife?” I ask Mathias, trying to remain calm.
“The Queen should be in the pond garden, watching the jibbies, Sire,” the man replies, and I nod. Spending time and effort to surround myself with competent people was one of the best decisions I have ever made.
“Thank you,” Mathias winces at the words, like he always does, but I really am grateful. “Tell the kitchen to prepare a light picnic meal, and have them pack a bottle of Hinsten’s dry wine. The best year we have.”
Confusion is obvious in Mathias’s eyes, but he nods. “I will have a maid deliver it to you, Sire.”
With that, he heads to tell someone to notify the kitchen staff, and I am off to Mannuela’s favorite garden.
While I do want to hurry, there is little need to startle the entire castle with my erratic behavior over five minutes’ difference. So I calm my breath and enter the garden at an even pace. A pair of soldiers stand inconspicuously in the corner, one of them sporting thin red mustaches.
He is so young.
I approach them.
“Faren,” the twenty-year-old guard jumps to attention as I speak loud enough for everyone to hear me. I do not believe I have spoken a word with him, other than the generic congratulation for getting a post in the castle guard. “You are promoted two ranks, effective immediately, and you are on vacation for one month. Speak with your former supervisor about the details and tell them to work out the details with Mathias.”
The young man’s jaw is slack, as is his comrade’s. They fail to speak or even salute before I leave them be and head for Manuella, who is staring at me with a questioning look.
She keeps her white hair tied in a neat bun, her eyes as piercing as ever.
“What brings you here, Dear?” she smiles like the sun, making my heart flutter.
“I wanted to spend the day with you. And I have some surprises in store.”
She dissects my emotions and intent with her stare. My smile is strained, hiding the pain beneath. A silence descends upon us, and I lick my dry lips.
“You have returned. What happened?” she declares after an agonizingly long minute.
I consider lying to her, but soiling sixty-five years of trust and honesty over something she will deduce soon enough disgusts me.
“You died. Young Thunderwax said you were dead before you hit the ground. There was nothing he could do.”
Most people would fall into shock when you tell them they died, and that they probably will again in two weeks. Manuella simply nods.
“I have been feeling sluggish lately, and I can hardly feel my heart beat, like it is struggling to pump blood.”
“Why did you not tell us?” I raise my voice, even though I do not wish to shout at Manuella, especially since she only has two weeks left.
“I did not wish to be a burden.” She cups my good cheek with her hand. “I am old, my love. I drink seven tonics every morning, my joints ache, and I upset my stomach no matter what I eat.”
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I want to shout at her, to ask why she did not say anything, but she just answered that question.
“Does Thunderwax know?” She nods, and answers my next question before I even ask it.
“He is doing all he can. I ordered him not to tell you. I did not want you to worry.”
My gaze wanders downward. She is treating me like a child, she has been for years.
“I have ordered a light lunch, but if you are nauseous—”
“Aang, my love, thank you. I would love to share a meal with you. We can discuss things in a calm and civilized manner.”
The discussion does not really happen. We talk over the course of an extravagant meal, which tastes like ash, but Manuella rejects my suggestion of seeing a team of physicians to try to extend her days.
“Aang, look at me.” She grabs my hand, but I am already looking at her.
“See me,” she says, her voice cracking, trying not to cry, but I can see her just fine even before her request. She is the woman of my life, my queen, my goddess.
“I am old and wrinkled.” She presses my hand against her face. “Without these fake teeth the artisans have made for me, I would have been eating nothing but gruel for fifteen years already.”
I do not understand what she is talking about. She is perfect. My goddess. My queen. Together, we have conquered the continent. Together, we can do anything.
Manuella moves closer, she leans in and kisses me. It is a deep kiss, full of passion, but the fire is gone, snuffed out by the ice of age.
“Can you not feel it? The fakeness of my teeth, the taste of old age?”
I felt none of the things she mentioned, only the lack of energy.
“Aang, when was the last time we have lain together?” she asks, her eyes reflecting my own.
“Last night—”
“I am not asking that, and you know it. Aang, when was the last time we made love?”
A decade has passed, but I remember it like it happened yesterday. She was already seventy-six back then, and no matter how we tried to do it, I always got dangerously close to breaking her hips.
Eventually, I gave up. Manuella felt guilty, she tried to get some maids and courtesans into my bed. All of them were willing, but I was not.
“It is a sore point for me,” she says, as if reading my mind. “You were always so vigorous and aggressive. I believe it would have hurt me, had you gone through with my plans, but depriving you of one of your greatest joys in life also hurts.”
I want to cry, but I cannot. She is dying, and I do not want her to carry the weight of my sorrow as well. I have to say something, but I do not know what. No matter what I say or do, it is the wrong thing. There is no right thing.
I sip the wine, a damn fine vintage. It is a shame I can hardly appreciate the taste. Then it dawns on me.
“We could still do it—”
“Aang, if I am going to die in two weeks, I would not survive an encounter with you. While it does sound like a good way to go, it would traumatize you, and you still have many years left.” A hint of envy enters her voice. “Just look at you. Most of our children look older than you. You could pass for your own thirty-year-old grandson.”
“I am not talking about that, Manny,” I say the name I have not used in years, Manuella had hammered into me the need for proper, formal speech some sixty years ago. “I would like us to take a bath. We have a giant pool, we can have the servants heat the water and enjoy it, just the two of us, like we did when we were young.”
She smiles and looks at me. At first I thought it was a happy smile, but then I see the sorrow she is trying to mask.
“You still do not understand, my love. You are young, or at least youthful. I believe you have at least another century to look forward to. That is why I tried to find—”
“I am not interested in replacing you.” It takes all my self control not to scream the words at her. “You are not a pet. You are my wife, my partner, my queen! Do you remember our promise?”
“I remember,” she says, but unlike me she needs not force herself to remain calm. “We have fulfilled it for decades, and then I could no longer fulfill my part. I am no longer your woman, and it has been tearing me inside for years now.”
Her voice shakes, but Manuella closes her mouth and draws a deep breath to compose herself. “The promised time is about to end. No! To be more precise, it has already ended for you. I do not wish the man I love the most to live a full century of misery after I leave him.”
She smiles, but her eyes are wet, and my heart feels like it will burst. Manuella is not crying over her own fate, she is lamenting mine.
“I wish to leave this world in peace,” she says, wording her thoughts to make them centered around her, rather than me. “Our children are competent, each with their own domain, and the continent we conquered is at peace, technically a giant kingdom under your rule. My only worry is you. Can you please be happy after I leave? Please?”
No. I know I will never be happy without her, but I cannot say those words. I cannot deliver that blow.
“I will try,” I lie, and she knows it.