The chains rattled. His feet ached. Surely, he had popped a blister or two by now, though, through his numbing skin he could not really tell.
Since his arrival at port the song insisted on bubbling in his brain; even now, in between simmering thoughts the melody reappeared, like waves pulled into being in a still lake. The clinking of the chains turned into chimes, the steps into percussion, the horns— the deep-voiced screams of the slavers, and the rest? Resounding from the matter of his memory.
The aching, again, getting worse… he could manage.
It hadn’t really been an overly ambitious, or dangerous idea, not stupid, he assured himself. But now, what good would that make? Really unlucky, he was, really…
A slaver, with bronze colored skin, draped in colorful robes —like one of those endolasitian birds he had seen illustrated in the latest Williamsburg taxonomical— pushed at his back, throwing some words into the air, punctuated by a laugh. Perhaps he had slowed down, or maybe the man was just admiring his luck by petting the merchandise.
He had survived the raid by, in some way not even he understood, making it clear to the men that he was nobility —educated slaves, you see, were very, very, valuable— a near lie; a baronetage, a hereditary nobiliary honor, was the lowest aristocratic title one could hold, given to his grandfather by the Hellian for his advancements in mathematics.
They’d test him in some house of wisdom, and if, in their minds, he had lied —which meant not being educated up to standard— death would be a likely outcome. Or, if they so pleased, he’d be sold off as cheap labor, who knew? But, if he “showed as learned”, which would undoubtedly happen, then it was being sold to some alchemist, or doctor, or even a noble as tutor to his children. Then, he’d have to be castrated —no virile men near a noble’s wives— ouch… at least the song helped take his mind off the thought. Thank God he had visited the conservatory before leaving.
‘It was a piece by Schönleber. How heavenly…’
As he remembered the music, and his aching legs grew numb, the laurisilva forest —with its heavy fog— they’d been walking in, for hours now, seemed to end.
The leaves parted and a divine valley appeared before them. A mix of its steep hills opening onto a half-coppered ground, and —completely unique in the world— growing chromatic mountains surrounding it, steeped at its peeks in snow. An absurd sight of glowing life in the rather arid near-south.
‘Silver-wreath valley…’
The grandiose sight took his breath, although the slavers seemed to be not impressed, walking through the place being a common occurrence to them.
The same colorful man was about to push him, again, this time surely to make him move, however… All those present stopped for a moment, a drop of apprehension growing in them. Ahead, not so distant, though not so near, a strange figure walked towards the group, its long, blond, blood-matted hair ousting it as a foreigner to the southern continent. A golden, rose hue shone from its skin, though dirtied and scabbed with earth. Covered with a simple brown linen cloak, black boots seen under it. The group of slavers, after a short exchange in their language, sent two speared bodyguards towards the figure. At worst, it would be a violent, scaped slave, as no romansean soldier could be this far behind enemy lines, at best, a docile addition to their already valuable merchandise. By the figure’s look it seemed to be tired, wobbling as it walked, and female at that. If once washed, the woman revealed a beautiful form, then, certainly, they’d be able to bathe in gold one they sold the apparition. Beautiful continental concubines were worth their weight in gems and treasure, paid for by the shophet himself, a symbol of conquest and victory towards the continental invaders, a small victory, though, in a war he was sorely losing; of course, it also served as pleasure, which the ruler, it was rumored, loved to indulge in, to a fault.
As the slavers imagined themselves dressed in tunics of pure gold, shining with inlaid gems, a most peculiar thing seemed to happen ahead. Both spearmen appeared to fall to the ground, their figures, if only for a second, had their heads fly off, spinning away, separated from their bodies by some sharp wind, followed by gleaming trails of red.
They soon left their stupor, understanding. The figure was armed and violent.
How had it been able to kill both spearmen? So quickly, without a fight? They had employed a small detachment from one the best nomad mercenary bands on the Ṣuritine.
The previously forgotten apprehension appeared, once again, growing stronger. The colorful birdman made some gestures, spoke, his tone grave, and the rest of the spear men fell into formation, slowly approaching the figure, to meet it halfway.
The spearmen, yawping loudly as they approached, finally stopped, the figure was in range, seemingly stilled, it looked ahead, unmoving. The men thrust their spears.
He had to clear his eyes, unbelieving of what had happened. The figure disappeared, jumping atop the nearest spearman, balancing for a breath on the weapon, and, just as swiftly, pushed down the lightly armored man, a drowned gurgling moan escaping his lips as his throat was pierced by a saber, materialized out of thin air, now held in the figure’s left hand.
The spear wall was turned to disarray, as the mercenaries had to turn —encumbered by surprise and their outstretched spears— to meet the saber wielding glint of blood-tinged gold in their midst.
Coiling like a serpent, the figure ducked underneath a spear meant for its head, stretching its arm almost instantly, piercing through the man’s heart.
As if feeling the parting air —the incoming spear cut to reach his back— it tilted its torso. The weapon, not even tangling one of its flowing hairs, or grazing its linen cloak, was stopped after a swivel —nearing the pike’s wooden body to the closing grasp of his right hand— as, from one instant to the next, the spearmen had his head split in two. The figure’s body contorted, its arms outstretched, holding the now ownerless spear, and a saber specked in sheared skull, blood-drowned hair dangling off its end. Another man was pierced in the belly by a thrown flash of iron, another, intending to thrust his spear into the figure’s chest, had his eyes poked out by the swift fingers of a pale hand, decapitated, then, with ease. All mercenaries fell, one by one, torn to ribbons of flesh by the glimmer of gold-red light.
The chained man saw it all, as if enchanted, the Schönleber concerto resounding, immense, in his mind, as the battle ensued, the strings, rising, every time the blade had met flesh.
He had to, once again, rub his eyes, seeing the face of the figure, now in front of him and the stupefied, fear-stricken, paralyzed form of the slave traders. A glowing smile of human, tough, strangely beastly teeth, on a beautifully androgynous face, clear even through the dirt-marred rose skin. Two misty pale-blue eyes looking at the group as if already dead.
However, he had to steady himself when he heard its voice.
“Hmm, only got two with the wobbling act…”
A male’s voice. A boy of no more than 16 years of age.
“Huh? A continental?” He looked surprised at the captive, who stood chained and silent.
The slavers, finally waking, scram and ran, though, promptly butchered, did not get far. The colorful birdman, closest to him, was gutted from belly to neck like a pig. His colorful robes darkening, staining red. Then, the boy, flicking the blood off his saber, asked.
“You were captured…? You don’t look like a soldier…” Sheathing the blade he held his chin in his left hand.
“Uhhh, A—” He did not really know what to say. “I’m an archeologist, our dig sit—”
“Oh? You understood me… A romansean? Or just a good grasp on the language?”
“Yes, I’m romanse—”
“Wait, you got raided but not killed?”
“No, you see, I’m a noble, well, a baronet, really. Somehow, I go—”
“I see…”
A moment of silence covered them.
He raised his hands and a foot, asking somewhat meekly.
“Could you, uh, free these?”
“Uh, oh, yes!”
The boy searched for the keys, finding them steeped in blood, held in the robes of the birdman.
“Well, there you go.” The chains fell with a *clank*, both on his feet and arms.
“Thank you.” He looked aside, rubbing his sore wrists. After, he held out his hand. “Roderin… My name. I believe I should say something else, but… thank you.” He smiled, looking at the youth’s misty eyes.
The boy shook it, with his own, slightly blood-stained hand.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“Alphonse.” He said, and smiled back, like a blood and dirt covered angel.
*
For the first time in years he did not dream of the vision of hell, or heaven. Nor did he lay entranced by some beastly vista, or a form that, even though seen, escaped his senses. Though the tinnitus lingered, the sound of bells and drums and flutes did not visit him again, and the clarity of mind that the missing headache afforded him allowed his frayed psyche, now healing, to realize a strange detail: The sounds which so often appeared in that scape were something he recognized: a gamelan, a grouping of instruments, native to the islands of Naridvipa, often used in celebrations aimed at the highest spheres, or in gilded dances to deities; and, even, as replacements for weapons and armor in war; so it was said that the natives of the islands had once for a custom to go into war near-naked —or in light dresses of a translucent milky-white weave— only adorned in gold and gems and pearls, showered in flower petals, carrying instruments instead of blades.
He had only once heard it played, outside of dreams, and in a rather mediocre manner, via an exposition of oddities from the far east. Even his travels did not reach so far that he would waste half a life pursuing the sun’s rise.
Why did he suddenly think of this, instead of the glaring sickness that had, he was sure, almost killed him? Or the strange visage of Alphonse’s child? Or where he was….
As he looked at the unfamiliar ceiling. He focused and understood.
‘It’s the villa, a room in the villa. When I fainted was I rushed to the nearest room?’
The dull throbbing on his forehead, almost indistinct, was new.
‘A wound from hitting my head when I fell… hard enough to draw blood.’ He touched the bandage. ‘As for Alphonse’s child…. how strange… albinism? for it to be precisely as the painting… No, what am I saying, ha!’
It seemed something still obstructed his thoughts.
‘Comparing that child to the creature in the thangka…’
‘It is not some mangling deformity, and Alphonse will treat the child all the same. As for Marenisse… I know the verdanaiese have a cruel history with those birthed… sickly or strange, though I doubt she’d spurn her child over such a thing.’
‘Even stranger was that gaze. Almost intelligent, curious… quite disturbing… no crying as well…”
Roderin held his brow with cupped hands, shaking off the last drops of heaviness. Waking fully now, he took in the morning sun as it warmed the room, feeling its heat on his skin.
‘The sun rises all the same…’
The air seemed to glow, without warning as well. His dull tinnitus —so accustomed he was to its buzzing it blended into air— stopped, for a moment so small he doubted whether it even ceased, or if he merely imagined it so.
*Peel*
He grew conscious of what had been heard during its atomic absence.
*Peek*
From the silence’s far shore something peeked, its sight, turned sound, turned mist, form, and electricity, pregnant with meaning and information.
He dared not move, even if the short bridge between him and it had dissolved already.
Clinging to the tinnitus, reassuring his self, seeking to calm his heart, like a child, teeming with fear, holding onto his mother’s skirts.
All that was left after translation, after the haze had dressed itself in language, was a simple thing: a name.
‘Haaa…’ Exhaling, relived as a hare passed by a wolf. Eyes unfocused as his heart calmed.
The king’s physician, who he believed must have been, at this time, busy with the newborn prince, had, at some point, appeared in the room.
“Baronet de Lamartine…”
“Just Roderin, or whatever else you might prefer, doctor, but no needless formality, if you may.” He waved away the title with a hand’s gesture.
“Very well, Mr. De Lamartine, how are you? I notice you disoriented still?”
“Im, ok… Not much, no, just after-waking haze.”
“In that case, how did you wake?”
“As well as any day, really… better than most, in fact. Just some pain from, this.” He pointed to the bandage on his forehead.
“Any trouble seeing, focusing your sight? dizziness? vertigo? glaring lapses in memory?”
“No.”
“Then, any idea what might have caused this fainting?”
“Hmm, perhaps a light diet? I don’t eat much when back in the continent. Coupled with stress, and, ahhh, strong emotions from seeing the youngest prince born?” He smiled.
The physician, with a clear expression of incredulity on his gray brows, retorted.
“Then switch to a hearty diet, spend some more time in leisure and avoid instances where… your fervent royalism would cause an upsurge in, intense, emotion.” Spoken all in deadpan, with a just, barely, noticeable edge of sarcasm.
Roderin stifled a laugh.
The Doctor sighed.
“His Majesty asked me to inform you that he will come visit soon. He recommended you rest some, telling me your days have been, in fact, very stressful… something about continuous, lengthy, intense conversations over cups of coff—”
“Ah, yes, yes, you see, it’s part of my, uhhh, work… yes, work, at Vanus university, and the Royal East-Mariannic, veeery important conversations. Like I said, I live quite the stressful life.” Roderin lied without a hint of shame.
The Doctor’s expression did not waver.
“Be it as it may please follow my advice… Having that been all, I’ll excuse myself. I’d recommend you rest a while.”
The man turned to leave; he was, however, stopped after a few steps, a question reaching his ears.
“The child… how is it?”
Turning around he spoke.
“I assure you the young prince is healthy as can be, nursed already and happily by the side of his parents.”
“So it was a boy, aaah…” He chuckled.
“As for his condition, it is nothing life threatening. Albinism, at least the form present in the young prince —a mild form at that— merely requires some simple precautions, not much more. In fact, I’m aware of some natives of Boreas-Riphei with… similar dispositions to the prince, even one or two verdanaiese; so perhaps it is merely some, unseen, exotic blood inherited from her Majesty, though I admit it a stretch.”
“Yes, the Celiné are not exactly known for their pale hair. And such fair skin…” He stated. A small laugh scaping his lips as he remembered Marenisse. The burning, copper-red hair —typical of the Austaufangr-Céline— matching the woman’s temperament.
The doctor nodded.
“Well, I’ll excuse myself. Take care Mr. De Lamartine, I’ll have a maid bring you breakfast.”
The door closed silently.
*
As Roderin ate his breakfast in bed; a steaming cup of coffee, with crepes dusted in sugar and a couple honey-drizzled plums, he wondered.
‘I doubt a doctor would have instructed the maids to hand me a breakfast like this, ha…” He chuckled internally. ‘Alphonse must have told them…” His friend was aware, of course, of his fondness for coffee and obvious sweet tooth.
Biting down on a plum, the honey making him smile, his first thoughts were about its glorious, slightly acidic sweetness, nothing short of delicious. He chewed and passed it down with a sip of the dark brew.
Quickly, the food was gone, the cup empty. As he planned on walking the gardens to help the food settle, the silent door opened once again.
“Roderin… enjoyed yourself I see.”
“Of course, if the king is so gracious as to give this humble subject of his such a meal… well, I cannot refuse but to savor it, enjoy it, even.”
“Ha!” The king exclaimed, as he fell onto a chair, cross armed. “Pinel, the sadist, asked the maid to deliver you muesli. Even I have trouble eating that… horse gruel…” He declared, shaking his head.
Lamartine smiled.
“A character, that doctor, truly.”
A moment of seriousness enveloped them.
“The child —I assume you already asked Pinel?— Is well, don’t worry. Although do not believe I’ll forget you fainted at the first sight of my newborn son…”
Roderin choked as he laughed.
“It was, ah… surprise, I swear, and the fatigue of the last months, and a headache… Truly, I swear!” He assured, lifting his hands.
Both men smiled.
“Well, whatever may it be. It is not something of note. He’ll merely have to avoid sunlight if too intense, and, perhaps, wear glasses….” The king paused for a second, his expression gaining an edge of seriousness. “He could have been born a six-armed ogre, he is still my son is he not? And a prince as well, Ha! Who would dare whisper about him? Even then, what are words worth?”
“And Marenisee?”
“She’s enamored with the babe... Though I must admit, I found it strange; shouldn’t a child cry when born? He seemed oddly calm.”
“The Wölfli-Loggia are known for their, unusual, tempers. Think nothing of it.”
The king let out a grin.
“Yes, you’re right…”
Roderin spoke, cutting off the slightly burdensome topic.
“I had a dream.”
“Oh, a dream?”
“Yes, it was of that time, at the Suritine.”
“Hmmm, yes. Hah… How fun.” Nostalgia clear in his eyes.
‘Fun he says.’ The archeologist hid a choke. “Well, after waking, I had a… let’s call it, flash of inspiration… Have you decided on a name for the child?”
“A name? No… neither has Marenisse. It seems she’s as terrible with names as me.” He was right. All the other princes and princesses were named by their respective mothers, or by those honored to give them names.
“Do you have a pencil on you?”
“A pencil… No, though I’m sure…” The king looked around, until he found an old pencil, hidden in some drawer, with its tip barely usable.
He handed it to his friend.
In an unused napkin, with some difficulty, he wrote a name. Folding it, he gave it to Alphonse.
“Fylassein Fatae… huh…” He twirled the napkin in between his knuckles, pensive. “Well, I accept.”
“Never seen you so solemn.” Roderin said, clearly joking.
Alphonse smirked.
“I’ll go ask Marenisse, we still need her approval… and, I’ll have to prepare the cathedral, and this and that, haaaa… how bothersome.”
“Also, I’ll stay, become an advisor and what not… However, at least make sure I get plenty free time; If I must chain myself to some post, I’ll die…”
Alphonse merely kept his smile.
“I suspected as much, after all this unexpected sentimentalism.”
“Hah!”
Lamartine decided, instead of touring the gardens, to rest some more in bed. While the king left, still plunged in thought, the napkin held tightly in his hand, never once having looked at its insides.
*
The Blood-Caped walked. lost in memories, thinking deeply, feeling even more intensely.
‘A Fylassein…’
Though family friends and close companions giving one’s children names was a common thing, and name giving ceremonies abounded in the Continent, none compared to the solemnity and weight of the romansean Fylassein Fatae —or Custodianship of the Fates— especially when pertaining to royalty.
Even if there were those who were rather fickle with the custom —And Alphonse himself was guilty of it; mostly due to indifference towards all but one of his children, and a rather liberal use of it as a bargaining chip for political gain— The king still held a high regard for the tradition, given some conditions were fulfilled.
He himself had been named by the ceremony after all.
Giving one’s child an auspicious name was usual, as was simply giving a name one liked or thought sonorous. However, in Romanse, a name had in it the weight of a person’s fate —well, that had been the cultural consensus, declining over time. Now, only old families entrenched in tradition weighed names so fanatically, while others merely —briefly— considered a name and gave it nonchalantly.
As if twined by the hands of inevitability, it was not so much name-giving, as name-finding. The name was believed sewn into being by a force otherworldly, and merely found, fitting the form of a person like a tailor-made glove, brought before the child by a custodian. The custodian, then, must be a person held in utmost trust by a parent, as were they the vehicle through which a child’s destiny was set into motion, and, alongside the father and mother, educated, guarded, and guided the infant.
The thought took Alphonse into a whirlwind of remembrance: The fear in his cousins’, brothers’, and sisters’ eyes when they looked at him. The whispers of ‘monster’ or ‘beast’. The indifference and boredom; all silenced by a heavy, kind palm, on his head; and a glowing voice, chorus-like, comforting.
The gleaming iridescence, strangely warm, smelling of apricots and gold. The steady pitter-patter of gentle summer rain. All with its vague human outline, melting out.
His great-grandfather, The Hellian, Hyperion Alexandre IX.
The man who had given him his name.