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True World Fantasia
23 - Sacrificium

23 - Sacrificium

“Create!”

Nothing.

“Be born!”

The space ahead of his sight remained empty, silent and unmoved.

“Generate!”

Not even did the air wriggle.

The words felt flat in his mouth.

‘Is that the Omphe…?’

Unlike the sage’s words, which could shape and control the water he had generated, his own did not seem to stir Ousia, nor produce any effect, wondrous or otherwise.

A number of things, he considered, could be behind the difference.

The most fundamental, and obvious, would be knowledge, followed by skill and experience.

But, the mechanics themselves of incantation could be at fault. Was it that simple languages could only shape rudimentary magic, or magic by the hands of the own enchanter? Was that why he told him not to use “vulgar” languages as the matter for chants?

“Heooooos!”

His sister, speeding towards the room where he waited.

He quickly took ahold of the air, the feeling of sugar cobwebs bundled in his fist, as he veiled himself, a breath before a hearty thud signaled the arrival of the princess.

An unhappy look… bothered… spurned?

Her eyes seemed to disassemble the room, expecting to find Heos hidden in some cranny, or nestled under an obvious somewhere.

Seeing nothing, she stepped further.

The prince walked toward her, careful not to reveal himself, smiling as he shadowed the girl.

He giggled as he acted the shadow, besides Annika, as she looked under the furniture, behind the curtains…

She tapped her feet, a frown on her face.

She mindlessly tapped… a lock of her brilliant, golden hair constantly pattered by the unconscious motion.

Annika thought…

With a sigh and a pout, the princess walked out. The door gently closing…

It opened, then, suddenly, without warning!

She had turned to look at the silent room. Even when taken by surprise, the sandalwood furniture, the gold-trimmed mirrors, the red velvet, the amber encrusting, the orient rugs, the busts and candles and arching vault remained unmoved, experts at stillness.

A “Hmph!”, and the door shut.

A few seconds…

A moment and nothing yet had, again, taken the door.

The room’s quietude was shaken when a form looked to emerge from the air itself, as an actor passing through a red curtain, onto the stage.

“Hehe.”

A satisfied smirk drew its curve across the prince’s lips.

Until realization overcame him.

He grabbed at the air. His mind housing the vision of a spell.

Once again, the transparent veil of light was strewn across him, covering his being.

And, inside it, his widened eyes focused, piercing in on the middle of the chamber, its arching roof outside of sight, as the muddled light managed not to reach it.

Something buzzed, some pearly form behind his eyes, dissolving as he spoke.

“Shape.”

The veil flew, as if possessing a mind, invisibly fluttering, shaking and tensing, even if unaffected by the wind.

Only did the light bend across its creases, and shimmer when cracked open by its skin.

Once reaching the chamber’s middle, did it expand, its length hanging tout alongside both walls, its height losing form, and dissolving into the roof, unseen, as its bottom was let loose onto the floor.

It hung there, imperceptible. Dividing the chamber in two, as a glass blade. A true curtain, dividing an imaginary theater.

Even if translucent, it carried some unknowable thread with it, held, brightly, in his mind. Even if his eyes saw nothing, some bending sense alerted him to the presence. The unchanged chamber had been split, it reminded; and the edges of the veil hummed, as if imprinted into his mind. He could tell them apart with more certainty than the edges of his own body.

Heos passed from one side to the other, feeling nothing except for that senseless sense.

Without an observer this magic lost much of its reason…

He was reminded of the space he had unknowingly created, when having his lesson with the sage…

Perhaps this was some primitive version of it? possessing nothing more than the quality of dividing a space, hiding behind it a select, singular form.

His tongue thrummed.

“Shape.”

The veil flew back to cover him, an immense moth posing itself over his being.

Resting now, as it did before.

“Create!”

Nothing.

“Be born!”

No change occurred to the veil.

“Generate!”

It seemed stone-eared now, where before it had shown lifelike obedience.

He hallway understood, remembering pieces of what it was that revealed an enchanter’s skill. The Sphere and the Order.

Both felt muddled when speaking these words, and not in a way where enough visualization would enliven them. No, he could not conceive of a way… perhaps there existed none…

With the Omphe, however…

He had not, yet, spoken the word. Its weight was far too evident. His tongue numbed at the simple thought of uttering it out loud. And even if he attempted to narrow down both the Sphere and the Order, he felt a piece of himself would leave his lips along with the chant.

So why was it that he grinned, still?

His tongue wriggled as his mouth parted…

His widening eyes poured out their mist, wounded by an entranced expression…

Yet…

“Swan…”

The phantasm perked up.

‘No, no doubts.’

Mind steeled.

His open, outstretched hand before him.

“Genesājō.

[Create].”

“Huh?”

Had he not been standing?

Why was he looking at the roof…

The carving seemed quite interesting.

‘My neck?’

He couldn’t seem to turn his neck.

Something blared at his ears.

Dogs.

The growling and howling of all dogs in the palace, whether outside or in their kennels, scratching and kicking, their bones creaking…

What was it that stood there? His sight could just barely glimpse it…

An upright body, dressed in a white gown, without a head.

It’s neck, a bloodless stump, like a fallen flower’s stem.

‘Heat!’

He felt as if he were burning! A fire, falling into him, already blistering.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

And every shaking spasm, like the crackles of the pyre, brought with it, pleasure… The taste of jam in his mouth.

As being embraced by a coat of thorns dressed in honey.

His skin burned in blush.

“HAH! aAAH!”

Where were his hands?

His eyes threatened to leave his head, as they widened, pained and perplexed, drowned in a pleasurable sense —a spring sun, the scent of a rose— that which widened his pupil; a scope seeking an out.

“Aaah! AH!”

He heaved as the convulsion left, slowly.

The barking of a thousand dogs… or so it seemed.

For what he knew, they were all the size of ants, their nest his eardrum, as they maddeningly howled.

His body!

That was what stood upright, at the edge of his vision.

“S-swan… Swan!”

Where was he…

How long had it been…

He pitifully called out. His weakened tongue, his pale lips —tinged purplish, as if bruised— shook, like frightened children.

Who knew how he spoke without lungs?

Feathers coiled around his head, as it rose onto the air.

The phantasm cradled the fallen bud with its curving neck.

“W-what…?” Trickling saliva mixed with his snot, as they dripped onto the ground, pouring out from him as nectar. Tears as dew.

His voice trembled.

Shakily, he could see, as Swan moved about, the expression in his ink-drop eyes calm, and tranquil, somehow.

All colors seemed to blend, to bleed and fall into each other, made jelly and glass.

The chamber rose to meet his eyes, as he looked to its far end. The roof fell back, the floor rose…

Swan had deposited his head on the bloodless stump, carefully, as with a frail treasure being posed on a velvet cushion, ready to garland an exquisite work…

“Oh… I can move my neck.”

He had realized.

The thought had fluttered back into his mind, pulling violently behind his limbs.

His fingers, moved weakly, trembling, grazed the pallid throat… finding nothing out of place. His head and body linked together, just as they had, before.

“Ha…”

A smiling sigh.

The dogs, they howled, barking, barking, as if screaming, possessed… their brain matter bubbling and swollen, sweetly rotting into madness.

“He… he.”

For some reason, he felt… cosseted… Doted on.

How strange.

His eyes rolled back, as the world itself stopped.

Again…

*

“Your Majesty… I’ve examined the prince… all is well; He suffers from a fever, however,. Nothing severe, quite light…”

Pinel sighed, as he addressed Alphonse, sitting by the prince’s bed, where he rested, breathing steadily —a cloth, dampened in cool water, left over his blushed brow.

Cross-legged, the king observed his son, eyes serene. As his chin pillared his hand.

“Then why had he fainted?”

Pinel pinched his nose’s bridge.

“The prince is an active youth… I would gander he had no care for his condition, or his body’s warnings, and overexerted himself… either by playing or by…” He chuckled, breathily. “Enduring chase from her Highness princess Annika, as I´ve seen him do.”

“Hm.”

Alphonse did not turn, still, watching the prince. Inscrutable thoughts, lazily formed, flowing clouds, drifting into his mind.

“I would not discard the source of this slight fever to be the sun…” His head shook. “Your majesty, I wish you would more seriously consider barring the prince from too lengthy an exposition to the sun’s light, especially in the months of summer. Insolation is already concerning if he were to play so consistently in open air.” His tone turned regretful. “With his condition, atop it… his skin and eyes are too sensitive… insolation is too high a risk —as you see…”

The king’s voice cut in.

“It would be improper to bar a child from play, Pinel.”

The doctor looked on, in deadpan.

“Certainly, Your Majesty.” He cleared his throat. “That is not what I said, however…” Another sigh. “I recommended —since his birth, in fact— that he’d not be exposed to too intense a sun…” His voice grew leaden. “He could become blind…”

Alphonse did not respond, as he watched.

“He should be covered, his skin, if he is to be outside under the blaring sun. I’d also recommend a medical artisan, a lens maker, a silversmith and so on, to make glasses for his eyes; the reflecting light, especially, will not be kind to his sight.”

Seeing the indifferent king, Pinel felt a growing irritation kindle within his chest.

What other saw as partiality and indulgence, from the king to his youngest, Pinel considered as disregard, blatant neglect for a child who would require more care than others… Not only did have a particular condition… he was, also, temperamentally… particular.

Why was it that his Majesty —eccentric— yet wise and agile-minded, acted so absurdly when it came to Prince Heos?

Pinel could not figure it out, no matter how much he considered it… how his mind put it together, disassembled it… or tried to understand.

“If that is all…?”

The doctor could not but wonder.

As the two conversed, Heos still lingered within the sea of his inner mind, dreams weakly swaying as ink-water waves during a lulling night.

There, he saw, as the waves tensed and grew plain. Making, with their unmoving mass, an endless field of back of verglas.

In its center. A single skeleton of porcelain, its bones decayed and crumbling, was littered, yet remained half-together.

Only were the ribs, the sternum, the spine, almost intact.

And from among them grew a single wild rose, its stem peeking between the hollow of snow-white ribs, as it crawled towards a black sky.

It’s pastel color, the only other shade in that expanse.

He awoke.

His father beside him, sitting on the bed.

The doctor had already left.

“Father.”

“Heos. How do you feel.”

“Good… Did I faint?”

“Yes… Pinel thinks it to be because of insolation. A fever.”

Heos scratched his chin. Close eyed.

‘Why is it that magic, so often, makes me faint? I’ll have to ask…’

It was then that he remembered the sage’s words.

“Oh, yes, Father. I wished to ask you something.”

Outside of the chamber, a voice poured in.

“Your Majesty.”

Taking a single breath, he answered back.

“Enter.”

Alphonse did turn, this time.

It was a tall guard, red, gold and white.

He saluted, then bowed.

“Your Majesty. Your Highness prince Heos.”

“Hello.” Heos interjected.

The guard bowed again, this time to the child, as he then turned to Alphonse.

“The commotion with the palace hounds, both outside and in their kennels…”

“Yes” One of the King’s eyebrows climbed up, inquisitive.

“They appear rabid… All of them.”

“Just, suddenly…?” Even if his words were incredulous, his voice showed up as nothing but flat.

“Yes… they all, suddenly, became beset by rabies…”

“Has anyone been bitten?”

“A few servants and a houndsman. They are not in good state…”

“I assume Pinel is already looking them over.”

“Yes.” The guard answered, somewhat hopeful.

“If they die.” Which they most certainly would. “Have their dependents receive proper recompense, in écu.”

The guard nodded.

“Certainly, your Majesty.”

“Have all the hounds herded in the kennels and do away with them. Bury them.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, it will be done.”

Some silence, while Alphonse thought.

Heos heard on, curious.

“Any explanation as to such a… sudden and… synchronized outburst of rabies?” He laughed, a bright laugh, so cruelly out of place.

“No, Your Majesty.”

The king smirked, amused, by something…

“Well, communicate to the Hiéron: “Investigate the kennel master, the houndsmen and so on… Even the dogs, before they are buried”.” He yawned. “That is all.”

“Very well, Your Majesty.”

The soldier saluted and bowed out. Leaving the father and child alone, once again.

Turning back to the prince, Alphonse asked.

“What was it you wished to ask me, Heos?”

Woken from the reverie, the prince did not waste time.

“Why do people want to kill me father?”

“Hm…”

Despite the strange question, Alphonse’s expression did not alter.

And following then, with his words, as flat-toned as if he were asked about the weather, the mist-eyed king went on to dribble out his thoughts; perhaps monologuing, running back through his thoughts, to see if he could find a reason for the strangeness, which, since that day, had plagued him.

“Who knows…? I have wondered, since your mother was attacked, with you still in her belly…” He closed his eyes to think. “I would understand if it they were to attempt against my life, yet… you are their aim… these madmen.” He looked at the child. “I am surprised you only now asked me about this… knowing your curiosity I expected a question far sooner.”

“Somebody attacked mother before I was born?” He masked himself in a clueless act.

“You knew already, did you not?”

“Ah, yes…”

An innocent smile.

A giggle.

The king echoed back in tune, a chuckle.

“Regrettable… There is, however, a bizarre concurrence in this matter, one I believe related, yet…”

The words fizzled out, drowned in remembrance.

“What, father?”

Bringing life back to his senses, the king answered, his voice still steeped in doubt.

“The day, which you lived through, conscious, when that madman attacked you, and your mother, in his path… Two streets suffered a furore, you would call it?”

“Like a war…?” Heos wondered, remembering the attacker, and Swan’s movement tearing him into color and sound… the painting above the pillared room, in the palace… the thousand other works that drew within themselves frozen moments of battle.

“Yes… something of the sort. Rabble gone mad striking against each other and the gendarmerie… It is too odd, out of place. It must have some connection with the attack on the villa… all the plebe involved were as demented as the assaulting mob.”

“…” The prince waited for his father’s conclusion.

“Nothing… Five years and nothing.” He laughed… Not with an ounce of pain nor hopelessness, almost as if he found it amusing, a ray of festive light, drifting into his clouded heart…. Shrugging… “That is it…”

“Hm…” Heos nodded. “Yes… yes…” He played up his revelation, smirking smugly, with the cuteness of a child.

He would have to go himself and ask, back to the city.

‘What if I ask the swans… and Mr. Owl… What about those black swans on the blue island?’

The king felt amused, as he watched Heos’ mind turn… Of all his children Heos was the strangest… Would it not be normal for a child his age to cower? ask his father to protect him from the evil men who sought to kill him?

Instead… Heos merely found it curious.

It was because of this that Alphonse was fond of him… among other reasons… He too had been a bizarre child; perhaps Heos was the most alike to him, in this manner. The one who had inherited, not only his blood, but his spirit, or would it be his “temperament…”?

The first born, however… He could not stand the young man. They were too dissimilar.

“Rest, for now. Your next lessons have been postponed. Until you are better.”

“I’m better.”

Steps lighting the corridor’s shape, behind the door, as it blasted open.

“Heos!”

“Moth—" His words were cut short by Marenisse’s embrace.

“Gods… I thought something had happened… And the dogs…”

Did she think Heos was bitten by a rabid dog?

“Mother… I’m fine, I fainted, I think.” He could barely make the words sound as his body was pinioned.

She loosened the embrace, to then hold him by the shoulders, and looked, intently, at his blushed complexion. Her worried eyes, troubled, cloudy grey —without a hint of withered blue or hazy green— stared… silently. The back of her hand rose and touched his forehead, sensing in their touch a lingering warmth, not usual, and virulent.

“A fever…” She frowned.

A panting lady-in-waiting arrived, holding herself by one hand —one on the opened door’s frame, the other on her skirt-clad knee.

“Marenisse…!”

She straightened as a startled animal when she saw Alphonse, sitting, beside the queen.

“Y-your Majesty, My apologies…” She bowed and turned. “How improper…” A whisper, under her shaking breath, as she chastised herself.

The king showed a congenial smile.

“Don’t worry, I know Marenisse to be a handful.”

“No, n-no your Majesty, how could I hint at such a thing…?” Ger eyes, frightened, darted from one place to the other.

“Was she riding when they told her?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

He turned to look at the third queen consort. As she examined Heos and mumbled this and that, asking him one thing or the other.

He took her by the shoulders, gently.

“He is fine, he is fine.”

She sat straight, not fighting Alphonse’s hands.

“I thought he was bitten.”

“No…”

“Mother, why do people want to kill me?”

As unbothered as always…

The question made Marenisse’s jaw hang loosely… as she thought of both the past and an imagined, terrifying present.

“N-no… way, Heos, has someone tried to kill you?!” The words climbed out of her body, reigniting her worry.

“No.” A lie, with prodigious ease. “Before, when the knife… and the old house where we lived…”

The queen held her chest, relieved.

“Ah… Yes… you remember that, Heos.”

“Hm…” His face scrunched up. “I remember a man, and you telling me to run, and…”

Her expression softened, as she cupped his features with a gentle touch.

“Do not worry… nobody can harm you, you, the prince of this country… That chaff attempted to hurt you because of jealousy, and idiocy. Such a thing will never happen again.” She smiled. “Nothing will harm you.” She stared, lovingly, and assured.

“Mhm.” He nodded, disinterested in whether this was truth or pretense. He trusted his mother, yet, did not care, nor felt fear, at least at this instant.

His eyes drifted to the queen’s blaze-red hair, a weave of copper and fresh spilt blood… as the scene in the alleyway, which wormed in his mind.

If he was attacked, again, and questioned one of them… would the attacker give him answers…?

No harm in trying.

“Let’s allow Heos some rest. I’ll have maids tend him, and Pinel come back for a second examination, later.” He lightly caressed the back of Marenisse’s hand. A gentle smile threading his sun-gold lips, rose cast under light.

They both lifted themselves to leave —having sat—, the lady-in-waiting bowing to the impassive prince.

“Bye.”

The door closed, not before his mother had kissed his cheek, and adjusted the damp cloth, once again, over his brows.

And, after some silence, and echoed steps, he asked —what would see, to any other eye—, a question at the air.

“Swan… then, should we go?”

As the colored silk blankets fell, swaying the canopy.

Spilling their bodies onto the ground.

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