“Wouldn’t a musket just kill you?” His cousin asked, cloud-gazing, on his back, twirling an apple blossom in between his fingers.
“Then just become faster than the musket?”
“You’re so un-childlike, yet sometimes you say such stupid things.”
“What would you know? After all, great-granfather said: “a weapon is only as strong as the man who wields it”” The youth retorted, feigning a deep tone of voice when quoting his great-grandfather. “So, if I become stronger than all men it won’t matter what they wield, musket or sword.”
“First, stop attributing random quotes you found to Alexandre… And, even if true, which I doubt —good luck becoming the strongest man in the world— wouldn’t it be smarter to pick your fights carefully? Say, be stronger than all the men you choose fight?”
“I guess… but that’s no fun.”
“Fun? Ha… What’s the point? Which king fights in the field nowadays anyway?” He said, his speech fizzling out, lazily murmuring his last words.
He was fond of his cousin. He was one of the few who, since that incident, didn’t look at him with a slight, though unconcealable, glare of fear or disdain. However, that didn’t mean he did not annoy him at times.
“Who! Cares!” He intoned, emphasizing every word as he swung a practice sword, imagining it as real in his mind.
“Haaa…” The lazy cloud gazer sighed.
‘King… how annoying. As if being king will stop me… I’d die of boredom. Great-grandfather will probably never die, or something… and grandfather and father would have to die as well before I become king, so… I’ll just become a mercenary. Hmmm, or would a wandering swordsman be better?”
He considered his prospects as he swung.
A nervous maid approached them, avoiding his gaze, slightly trembling, asking if they desired anything. The laying youth said nothing, while he, being interrupted mid swing, and seeing the maid’s fearful countenance, growled annoyed.
“No. Leave.” Accompanying the words with a scowl.
The frightened woman walked away, quickly.
He scoffed, going back to his swings.
“You know, barking at the servants like a rabid dog every time they ask you something won’t help your reputation.”
“As if I care…” He did care. “And I didn’t bark at her, I just… I don’t know? What does she expect by interrupting me…”
His cousin just rolled his eyes.
He kept swinging.
Steps were heard coming towards them.
He was about to turn around, and with an even darker glare, order the servant to leave, to stop bothering him.
However, mid-turn, a familiar voice, strangely euphonic —sounding of summer rain— and with a slight, pleasing, almost indistinct accent, surprised him. Even his cousin’s eyes widened.
The air seemed to condense.
“Henri.”
The youth, dazed until then, answered.
“Alexandre.”
The unexpected visitor then turned.
“Alphonse, my apologies for interrupting your leisure; I will steal only a moment of your time.” He said, looking at the half-turned boy.
“Great-grandfather!” A smiling Alphonse ran —wooden sword left behind him—, and hugged the man dressed in a gold and persimmon-colored cape, flowing and thin, as if melting —mystical, although strangely austere for a king— over a white waistcoat, embroidered in pearls and gold thread, with a pale jabot and poet’s shirt jutting out from underneath. His legs and feet were covered by the robe-like-cape, spilled onto the ground and trailing behind, as a comet’s trail.
A foreign spectator would be surprised, for the man called “Great-grandfather” by the youth looked to be no older than twenty-five. His hair, without a single grey strand, was a flaming mane of cinnabar strings —braided, here and there, with hanging ornaments of gold and padparadscha sapphires— which flowed down to his waist. His eyes, void of senility, brilliant drops of honey-amber, emanating some unknown intelligence. August, noble in looks, although strangely ethereal, possessed by some strange fragility.
It could be attributed to illusion, but a faint shimmering glow seemed to envelop the man.
“I thought you were traveling.”
“I just arrived, and, sadly, will have to leave again quite soon; It seems I will miss your birthday.”
The youth showed only a slight hint of sadness, almost invisible.
“However, I won’t miss the gift-giving.”
The boy’s eyes shone.
Leaving his cousin, vowing to return later, he followed the king out of the flowered courtyard. Wherever they went, be it servant, official or noble, men and women bowed and turned their eyes with reverence towards the king, though not for long; perhaps looking for an instant too much would turn a sin or singe their sight. Alphonse felt at ease, as if disappearing, made clear as glass by his great-grandfather’s steps.
Crossing over a cerulean pond, walking among blooming fruit trees, trough the wide corridors of the palace, —their immense windows opening to a pleasant morning sun— they arrived at a spacious inner chamber, where the servant’s humming, to-and-fro, did not reach. Atop a marbled table, lit by candlelight, a dark-wood case rested, engraved with the family sigil; two iron hinges on its side, and an open lock on the other.
“Here… open it.” Alexandre said as he smiled.
The excited child could not keep his hands still as he, carefully, opened the case.
Inside, in a jet-black leather scabbard, its body adorned with, all, silver engraved rings, locket and chape, a wood-grip saber, with two blood red tassels fastened to it, was made clear, even through the shadow of candlelight. Its argent flat pommel and handguard christened it, like a crown.
Alphonse held the saber, still in its scabbard, with both hands, as if handling a crumbling treasure. Approaching the fire, to more clearly see the sword, he marveled at the fine detailing of the wondrous silverwork. The black leather seemed alive under the lowlight, its inky depths swirling amidst the shadows.
Then, with a flash of movement, he unsheathed the blade, its brilliant shade of silvery steel gleamed with an ever-slight blue haze, like mountains under the midday sun, seen from afar.
On its ricasso, in an angular script, initials were carved: A.L.M
“Great-grandfather, I…”
Returning to silence, he swung x’s, feeling the saber’s weight, as if part of his own arm, slice through the air. Then, too fast for the eye to see, the blade sang as it cut —clean— through a candle’s wax, the fire in its tip snuffing out as it fell, hitting the ground.
“I hope it is to your liking.”
“Of Course! But, my father…” He stared longingly at the blade, jutting out from his outstretched arm.
“Those like us, Alphonse, cannot be persuaded, cannot change. We’re colors unto ourselves. Being as we are, one might try… futile, really… the more magnificent the man the more violent the fervor with which he’ll fall into his own ends, his fates; beauty, terrors and all. Shouldn’t I, as your custodian, he who, strung up as a puppet, fulfilled fate’s scheme by giving you your name, see to it that you become as you are in a most beautiful, brilliant way? It would be a sin to stifle it all away.”
Alphonse vaguely understood what his great-grandfather wished to say. He, however, remained silent, pensive as he stared at the blade.
“Your father will pose no issue; I have talked to him. Irrespective of it, stay out of too much trouble, I will hear no end of it if you do.”
“Great-grandfather, thank you…” Alphonse finally tore his eyes away from the saber, thanking Alexandre, with a smile.
The fires flickered as they danced, projecting from their swaying bodies small glimmering lights, staining the unsheathed saber with phantoms of ghostly red.
*
It was september of 289, and the city of Hygeia was abuzz. The King’s Palace had announced the birth of a new prince, to be given name via Fylassein Fatae in the Cathedral to the Hyperion Hellian. Opposed to the rather dreary beginnings of autumn, the Asphodeli was lively, bursting full, as citizens took the new prince’s birth as a perfect excuse for animated conversation, festivities and sightseeing; in reality, not much changed from the usual. When other citizens of the continent stereotyped romanseans as decadent café-goers, pretentious socialites and miserable bohemians, they were not altogether wrong. The reign of the late Hyperion Alexandre IX had brought with it an almost century long flourishing of the arts and sciences, unseen since the Era Solar, embedding in romansean, or at least hygeian, —as some said, you weren’t romansean if not from Hygeia— culture an adoration for conversation and intellectualism, and all the flaws that accompanied such things.
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The festivities were moderate. Merriment too loud would interrupt the pleasant air of the gardens, and the free flow of voices in cafes, tea houses, and academies. The birth of what was little more than a minor prince —far down the line of succession— even if a good excuse, did not warrant boisterous frenzied dancing and revelry from a people plagued by growing disinterest in their royals, and a general apathy, even disdain — especially, rabid, disdain from certain radical corners of, both, public opinion and academia— for the almost eternal monarchy.
However, one place was experiencing an extremely unordinary influx of subjects, particularly because the site was year-round off-limits. Closed to all but certain visitors, functionaries, ministers, and, of course, the crown. The Cathedral to the Hyperion Hellian was the heart, or the brain, one could say, of Royal Affairs, where ministers, advisors and the king would convene to lead the kingdom; not that the public knew if this fact, of course. Once an immense, loving gift, from architect and sculptor Anastasia Werner —which, in its time, caused unending rumors— to Alexandre IX, it extends itself as a symbolic figure of spires, bell-houses, sculpted figures, pillars and glass, like a prodigious, curled up body of art. The Werners owned the land beside the Asphodeli where the cathedral is now built, ending up in Anastasia’s hands. After recruiting help from friend and painter Maximillian Vers, who ceaselessly adorned its insides with murals and details, and spending a fortune, the structure was finished and opened during the Elysian-Hygeian Exhibition, where it was promptly given in gift to Alexandre IX.
In its immense hall, behind a raised quire where the ministers lay sitting, under the adorned cupula of the apse, pierced by sunlight, a grand mural-over-glass, a style classic to the Era Solar, depicted the Hyperion Hellian in his robe of molten gold, a cut up sea of bronze colored detailing floating in the veil, with unending tones of brilliance. In his flaming hair, crowned by golden laurels, padparadscha sapphires hung, the king’s favorite gemstone, his amber eyes half-closed in a serene, kindly sight. In his hands he held a blossom of paled lilies and an open book. Behind his back, a mosaic of spindling naked bodies, fires and structures entwined one with the other, coursing a river of forms: the world, in short, as if the king were walking ahead of history itself.
In the transept, rows of distinguished personages, nobles, and relevant academics sat waiting, just in front of all others swarming the cathedral’s nave, spilling onto the aisles. It was almost without space to walk.
Whatever the case, the opportunity to see the insides of the Cathedral, interact with known, illustrious characters of the era, and participate in a solemn event, coupled, of course, with people’s tendency to group up when presented the opportunity, produced quite an audience for the ceremony. All covered in light chattering as a thousand conversations rang, discussing anything and everything.
In the quire two figures lay speaking, sat on their adorned chairs with cushions of red velvet.
One, old and dignified, with combed hair and a pince-nez over his steady brown eyes asked the other.
“Did you know the Austaufangr girl had given birth already?”
“No, no… I heard she was still in the villa, it seemed strange… it had been ten months already without news, I even suspected Alphonse had lied about the pregnancy and was squeezing out as many days as he could….” The other figure answered, youthful and fresh, with abundant chestnut hair, fashionably parted. Dark-blue eyes darting around the cathedral.
“Hah!” The older man half-laughed.
“It surprises me how you managed to make him come to a meeting…”
“It was a matter of importance, of course… You might think Alphonse to be a, reluctant, king… I’ve come to learn he’s not reluctant about being king —at least not so much anymore— but rather, reluctant to attend Royal Affairs…”
The younger figure smiled.
“I suppose you’re right…We’re rather early, aren’t we?”
“No, it is them who are late. It’s been this way for every Fylassein Fatae he’s held… You would not believe the amount of these things I have had to attend throughout the years.”
“Not a fan I take it?”
“Ha! Fate, poppycock… It is good thing that, after the Hellian’s reign, such nonsense has slowly faded, left by the wayside. But look! The irony! they built him a cathedral… A king of reason, Haaa…” The man shook his head, a lamenting expression forcing his eyes closed.
“Well, a Hyperion…”
“No need to start, I understand it so… very clear. But, back then, there were those sensible ones, I counted myself among them, that followed Him for his sensibilities, not some…”
As he searched for the expression, one hefty enough to make clear his displeasure, a, large, man arrived behind the quire, entering the cathedral trough some unseen entrance.
Though he was, quite clearly, beyond a healthy weight, it was not enough to make him seem grotesque, merely, jovial, gregarious, He walked with a steady step as he made his way to a chair, sitting then and greeting the others present.
“Gentlemen.”
“Minister Bassáth.”
The older man then, woken from his thought, rose his sight and returned the greeting.
“Bassáth.”
“Quite the audience, eh? I wonder who he’s trying to rope into some scheme, or win over with this thing…”
The young man smiled, his eyes closing as he spoke.
“Minister Bassáth, though the king is known for his machinations, perhaps this is simply a joyous occasion? His Majesty will entrust a dear friend with custodianship over the young prince, isn’t it merry?”
“Hah! Yes, yes… I like dreaming too, Minister Hulme. I’d only wish his Majesty would be more considerate; these ceremonies take quite the effort to put together.”
The older man spoke, adjusting his glasses.
“Well, it is his child with the Austaufangr princess. No doubt he is fond of her. I’m sure the sentiment extends to the prince. He won’t leave him with some worthless political peon as a custodian.”
“Hoh? I thought you cared not for fate, or some such, Alistair. What’s it matter if the child is given some pawn as custodian? He’d have no say in the prince’s rearing. And as for fulfilling his fate? Hah! Did you turn senile, finally?” The plump minister asked, his tone tinged with light sarcasm.
“Not yet, to your displeasure… Clear my memory, who was his Majesty’s name-giver?”
“Bah? So what?”
“I mean to say that the king is aware of how good an influence a good custodian can be.”
“Anyhow, discussing this is rather pointless. We’ll just wait and see for ourselves, perhaps Minister Hulme’s dreaming bore fruit.” Bassáth stated with a wave of his hands.
“I hope so.” The young man answered.
Over the following minutes other ministers arrived, until, at last, the chairs were full. As they discussed this or that amongst themselves, a sharp bell rang, silencing the cathedral.
The sun seemed especially beautiful, made pale by budding autumn.
Another time, the bell rang. It went on to sing, ringing in rhythm, weaving amongst a suddenly appearing chorus; chimes accompanied it. Then, all grew silent, except the chorus, otherworldly in its harmony, mirroring a pure-blue sky.
An augur name-singer: a graying, short man, in a patterned pale blue robe —mired in hanging silver adornments shaped as feathers and birds— of kind disposition and calming voice, stepped onto the apse, behind an altar speckled with paled lilies, myriad objets de vertu, and crowned the chorus, the sound carried by the cathedral acoustics to all corners.
Once, these augurs had been more notable, more common, but, with time, had decayed. Their role was to solemnize the Fylassein Fatae. It was a position handed from master to disciple, where one was initiated into a series of Mysteries. Mythically, they had started as a group of blessed, able to understand the voice of birds, to make sense of their singing, finding in their songs the true name of all things.
The chorus ended, and the augur continued for a moment until he, too, stopped.
And from an unseen place, right-most to the cathedral, a regal couple appeared, walking towards the augur.
The man had shinning golden hair, slicked back. His body covered in a trailing blood-red cape, wolf’s fur at its collar. Underneath, a tasseled martial coat, white and gold, with pantaloons of the same color tucked into military black high boots. He looked ahead with misty blue eyes, locked in a severe expression. A wreath of white gold laurel, a dew of ruby gems, crowned his head. A scepter was held in his left hand, gilded and carved with scenes of history, jewels jutting out from his form, while his right hand rested on the handle of a sheathed saber, its scabbard black and silver.
Besides him, a woman held a babe in her arms, his small form covered in white silk and eiderdown. She, in opposition to the man, wore quite the austere dress: what looked to be a long, loose, milk-white nightgown adorned with iron, like an ancient, deconstructed armor. Her brilliant copper-red hair loose, a weaved silver-steel circlet surrounding it, with a single, small, pale jewel on its front, adorning her forehead. Grey eyes in a lighter, though still solemn expression, aimed forward.
All three arrived at the altar. Where the name-singer received the babe.
Whispering, Bassáth spoke to Alistair and Hulme.
“Now, let’s see, who’ll be the custodian…”
On the other side of the apse, coming, again, from some unseen entrance, an unassuming man walked towards the altar. He had short brown hair, sharing the same shade as his steady, though slightly nervous eyes. Dressed in a simple black wool long coat over a light-brown vest, with a pair of cotton pants in matching color, a white dress shirt peeked from his collar. He walked with feigned nonchalance. On his feet, simple black leather shoes, echoing as he stepped.
‘Alphonse had told me he would ready the cathedral, but, I though, at least for my sake, he’d limit the audience to the ministers and some nobles… where did this amount of people come from?” Roderin thought, as he made his way to the altar.
Waiting in one of the cathedral’s many private —or otherwise secret— rooms, the archeologist had a vantage point from where to see the growingly full nave, praying, fruitlessly, as to make the torrent of spectators end.
Now, he walked. Though nervous, he found it was not as bothersome as he’d imagined.
‘Getting a look at Alphonse and Marenisse, they do look quite regal, insultingly so…’ Lamartine had rejected the kings offer to be dressed in something out of the royal wardrobe, thinking he’d look ridiculous, preferring to wear his usual clothes.
Meanwhile, Bassáth asked, whispering, vexed.
“Huh? Do either of you know who he is?”
The young Hulme starched his head, puzzled.
“No… Perhaps some academic…?”
They shared in the uncertainty of almost all the then present.
Alistair, seeing them, answered.
“He’s Roderin de Lamartine, a Baronet…” The old minister lightly laughed.
Bassáth showed surprise
“Hmm, so it truly wasn’t a scheme…? I don’t see what he would gain from this…”
Hulme felt the need to add, slightly sardonic in his tone.
“Hm… my dreams have turned to reality, it seems.”
Alistair half-chuckled, caring to not make much noise.
Bassáth could only mutter indistinctly.
Roderin, finally arriving in front of the altar and stopping before the name-singer, heard as Alphonse spoke.
“I, Alphonse Léon Māvors von der Wölfli-Loggia, King of Love and Dominion, father to thee, unnamed, consort blood-bound to Marenisse Roderika Austaufangr-Céline, Daughter-soul of Eternal Love, thy mother, thus intone, in our voice. By hand of fate, Roderin de Lamartine hathé given thee a gift, found for thee thy name.”
The name-singer then asked.
“And what name hathé he found? Thou must sing.”
Alphonse then unveiled from a pocket in his coat a folded napkin. And, as he unfolded it, ready to reveal the name, he looked at his son in the augur’s arms.
“Thou art named, by grace, Heōs Pallas-Maria Phaëtos von der Wölfli-Loggia, child of this union.”
The augur spoke, as the child in his arms looked around the cathedral with an ever-curious glance.
“Thou dost affirm, is this thy custodia’s name?”
Roderin repeated the line he had memorized for the occasion.
“I, Roderin de Lamartine, Baronet by Hellian’s grace, declare this to be mine custodia’s name, by grace, by hand of fate. Hear, child? This to be thine, appeareth so in mine dream. And so shall I be thine custodian.”
“Thou hast said the truth, thou art our child’s custodian; this to be thine.” Alphonse echoed.
“So shall it be, this to be thine, Heōs Pallas-Maria Phaëtos von der Wölfli-Loggia. Thou art borne into this fate, by thine hands.”
All those present couldn’t help but watch, focused on the ceremony, the grandiose cathedral, or the unknown figure of the youngest prince’s custodian. However, as if an apparition reserved only for the new-born prince’s eyes, no one else could see —not even the augur who had been blessed by the birds’ chants— an immense swan, the size of a man, coiled around the child —who eyed it with bright eyes, playing with its feathers, and smiling, cooing curiously at how beautifully they fluttered in his palms.
Except…
The swan phantasm was invisible, —hidden in some transparent pocket of light— for all but another one, who, like the child, saw it flutter and coil. Before the altar, long bearded and haired, —both snow-white— in swirling, living, layered robes, colored as the tempestuous sea during a northern night, an ancient man with a sagely visage went unseen, somehow ignored or invisible. Heavy, ashen eyebrows giving him the countenance of constant close eyed remembrance, as he watched the prince, the swan, thinking, thinking…