Light.

The colors blended, came together then stood apart, shone and flowered, turned liquid and burst, gained shape, lines, form, took on movement and lost tone.

It was sight. His first sense.

But how could he put it into words? There were no such things, not the embryonic form nor primitive prototype of thought yet in him, as if all light and color lightly stirred the surface of his body then reflected off.

All form, which was merely color and light, spiraled before him in incomprehensible oscillation, dancing. As such, wasn’t he the light, the colors themselves? without innerness, his second sense —touch— made of him an empty body. The inner lining of the world’s epidermis, and all organs the shuddering masses of sunlight and pulsing form; unlike other beings, his sight pointed inwards, and outside there was none, nothing at all.

No distinction from within or without.

His sense extended, as the ray of beaming light descended over his open eyes, and so slightly singed them. He was as wide as light, and as long as the ray; the center of his being settled over the furthest point of sense and sight, the horizon on which all that swirled inside-out of him turned to a beam of concentratedness.

There! There he was! From the deepest point of his corneas to were all blurred into one.

But how could he know? He had no words.

All this amounted to the limited, strange shuffling of “something” that blended the ray of concentrated points into the plane of everything else nearest. For some reason he still lay anchored, this shuffling was a jutting out, a mass that pulled inwards in something close to movement, or at least so he perceived it, he had no word for it, nor knew he of time.

Then, a strangeness… nor touch nor sight, nor color nor form, nor jutting out nor concentration nor plane nor line. It wafted out from all, all himself which was all the world; the upper reaches of himself had none of this dimension, perhaps crushed into some other himselfness at the point where all turned “point”. But the nearest “it” had it. Some made the movement extend behind, others made all contract into the dimension, fuzzing his inner-outerness, yet he had no word for it, no words at all. It was the third sense, smell. Once again, he marveled at the expansion of all into an invisible depth. There, where things had a phantom of pleasantness, strangeness or wretchedness that trickled deep into somewhere else, he “pondered”: outside of himself. But there was no innerness, so how could there be exclusive outerness? Where all there was inner-outerness, which meant nothing at all.

He began to suspect of another dimension outside of himself. How? Or perhaps surrounding his all, or something he seemed immersed in. Invisible, without sensation and behind the phantom of scent; almost as if giving him, all, a bubbling, an orderedness, a shedding into something… no words, again. And before this constant became a solid thing, he was assaulted with a him so outer it rattled the all-world that was One; a faint non visual shimmering that things possessed on all the exposed sections of their shape, so short range it could only be felt —and twined effortlessly with all but seeing— in a space behind his own sight —taste—, so inner he began to doubt; was he all he could see, enveloped in nothingness?

He could doubt, but without words it was all a jutting out, a rattling, the infant steps to unraveling the cocoon.

Suddenly, he was violently plucked from the allness of his own being; he no longer doubted. Sharp, dull, tenuous vibration, all things creaking under the sun, as invisible knives to the inner outerness. Now there was only surface to himself, and an all-else, separated, feeling and dreading how he was imprisoned in a sea of everything other than his own, only perceivable when it wandered into his senses; the terrible realization of hearing: the last sense.

It all came together, no longer atomized under his self, but united against him, bearing on his form so as to keep him shaped such a way. What had happened to the world which was all himself? He desired to cut it, find a space without space: the beast composed of all senses that threatened to snuff him out. And from a true insideness, behind the space behind his sight, where taste lingered, a jutting out rang.

“Waa… aa… bu… ah…”

“What’s wrong Heōs?” Marenisse asked the cooing babe.

“Buh… wa… hu… buh…”

There it was, his own ringing out. There were depths to his own being farther than taste, and even the gurgling of sound, behind even it, and, surprisingly, behind the nestled cavern where sight emanated from, a small light, dislodged from somewhere behind, behind, inside, before… took root.

The gentle singsong, a shape of shining copper, rose tinted snow and dew jeweled lead. Rustling of warm white coiled fluttering, sinking into him when he rested on its breast. Sun-marred foil shavings of condensed light, misty blue brume, yet so solid; these three amalgams of sense carried his being in turns, emanating a shaped creaking, so that it was no longer itself, but subtle, comforting, clear, or, in the case of the white coil, some other thing, beyond even sound, where in it its silence a “hum” arrived at the shining light-seed, planted behind his eyes.

He saw other forms of congealed light and color. Most common, though not ever-present as the three before, was a simple auburn shape, temperate, colored almost invisibly with tension.

Their humming, their subtle song settled behind his eyes, gorging photons into his spine, rising, rising; being shot out of his nascent nerves as solar flares, stardust accelerated into emptiness: scoring its surface with wounds of silver color, like lightning frozen an instant too soon; made blemishes, blots of transparent refulgence adhered to the back of his closed eyes.

There in that warping emptiness, void of all empirical characteristics, the sound ordered itself into chambers, gave itself form where before only the rippling reflection of all things seen inhabited. They fell into place, interweaved with the abyss inside, circling it, making it their mask: a new plane of humming, perhaps the last? He began to cobble the chambers together, until he heard the singsong chime shoot from under his taste and backwards from his corneas.

Language.

It multiplied violently, into thousands of possible chamberings, ready to gain volume in sound.

Yet, though birthed, language was still primitive, incipient, embryonic, he was still a babe; with not enough matter in his body so as to clearly expel his soul.

Yes, something impeded such a brilliant display… perhaps only a single utterance would suffice? Enough for language to take shape.

“Ma… mama…”

Marenisse was left wide eyed.

Alphonse, sitting next to her, was stunned.

The child’s misty blue irises, speckled with flakes of pale green, fixed themselves expectantly on the woman as he lightly swung his arms. Seemingly wanting to reach out to her, he lightly grabbed a tuft of sunlit copper-red hair.

“Mam… mama…”

His mother, leaving her stupor, gave a hearty laugh, smiling wide.

“Yes Heōs, I’m your mama…”

“A word at what, six months…? It is not so strange…” The king, still deep in his thoughts, muttered.

“And this is your papa… Papa” She brought the child closer to the sitting man, whose eyes focused on something, bubbling in his mind.

“P-Pa… Papa…”

Alphonse returned his sight to the child, and both him and Marenisse went silent in surprise.

He picked up the child, silk trailing onto the edge of the bed.

As the babe reached out to touch his father, the man looked at him straight in the eye, marveled, by not only its words, but by the newborn’s clear, recognizing gaze, made all the more brilliant by the streaming sunlight.

“It’s me, Heōs, I’m your father. Hello, it is nice to meet you.”

“Fa… Fada…”

Once again, the child’s words amazed them, the surprise did not abate. The king felt particularly strange. Comparing the young prince to the other princes and princesses, a strange ambivalence took him: dazed pride and an ever-slight drop of worry. His own childhood seemed even clearer, reflected in the newborn babe’s eyes. However, with him present, and indifferent to his child’s strangeness… Alphonse sighed, a slight smile curving his lips.

Marenisse laughed.

“Ha! Why do you talk to him like that? Besides, he already knew you…” The woman received the child in her arms. “Isn’t your father silly?”

“Illy… Fada…”

“Yes, he’s silly. Haha!” A brilliant ocher-red deluge of shinning hair enveloped the babe as his mother kissed its cheek. “Aren’t you cute, Heōs?”

“Eos… Eos…”

And so, they continued in this manner, back and forth, the king and third queen consort still as marveled, but growing accustomed to the child’s constant speech.

Then, the babe extended his stubby hands, as if pointing above, reaching for something unseen by both parents.

“What is it Heōs?” The woman asked out loud.

“Hmm…” Alphonse simply hummed, holding his chin as he watched.

It went unseen for both, however, the immense swan, coiled as a phantom around the child, ruffled its feathers and nestled its head on the babe’s hands. It would seem comical to whoever could see the strange creature; how it gently smothered a child no bigger than its head, acting like a needy cat.

“Wah… Buh…”

The prince cooed as he embraced the swan, its feathers tickling him, making him laugh. To the parents the newborn seemed to lightly swing his hands, giggling at something only he understood.

*

Alphonse had managed to burden the council with his responsibilities in Royal Affairs. Using various excuses; mostly a sudden, strange, and recurring nebulous event that required his presence outside of the cathedral, vaguely related to the youngest prince and Marenisse’s delicate state after birth —an unrepentant lie.

He grew more and more interested in his child; to the point where kingly duties, already a bothersome and drab affair, turned even drearier. The prince’s strange rate of learning, his oddly intelligent gaze, how the babe seemed to randomly become enamored and swing his arms by cause of something… a thing he could not seem to puzzle out. It caused in him the emotions of a father; feelings absent when dealing with all his other children.

Already a year old, Heōs toured the villa’s gardens in Alphonse arms, as Marenisse walked beside them.

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“Papa, what is that?” A light, childish voice asked as a stubby arm pointed towards a flower.

“That’s a chrysanthemum Heōs. Do you like it?”

“Yes…” with a sudden movement, the child pointed to another. “And that?”

“Those are anemones.”

“Ane… ame… amemonies… anemonies.”

“That’s right Heōs, aren’t you the cutest!” Marenisse exclaimed with a smile as she hugged the prince, taking him from his father’s arms.

“Mama who is that?”

“Hmm…” The young mother looked ahead, seeing nothing where the child pointed his hand. “Where, Heōs?”

“There…” He insisted.

“Maybe he saw a guard through the shrubs?” Alphonse asked.

“No, papa, there…” The child reiterated.

His parents could not see how, before them, a slight distance down the garden road, two men stood, looking inquisitively.

One, old, sagely and snow-bearded, in tempestuous blue robes, muttered to the other.

“How disturbing, he can already see us.”

“Yes…” The other, middle aged, dressed as any other in the capital, answered.

Although not much was of note, two things did seem out of place on the man. For one, the common dress-coat gentlemen used in Hygeia was strangely loose on his frail body. The other… his left eye was a pearly pure-white.

“Kēlājō [Hide]” The older man intoned.

He coughed once, a sputtering of blood brightly coloring his lips. His nose bled and his eyes reddened from pressure.

The family became dazed for an instant, as the last moments they occupied turned to vapor and dreams. They recovered, and kept walking, forgetting what it was the child had asked. Heōs himself was slightly confused, still. He could not properly recall what he had seen; the memory of the sight or the question, both concealed in some abyss. Then, even his confusion vanished, flickering away.

“Hoh… I do not believe it… You, coughing blood after an incantation?” The half-blind man asked, smoldering concern in his voice.

“Both the father and the child have true names… and I overextended the sphere…” The bearded sage stated. Cleaning the blood off his nose and lips with a handkerchief the other mage had handed him. “And that… it offered some defense, attempting to dissolve the command.” He pointed to a man-sized swan, floating, coiled around the prince.

The bird eyed the two men with apprehension, expressive, for an animal.

“A soul-bounded familiar…?” The thin man asked, not expecting an answer. “Strange… But how? If soul-bounded it must be symbolic…”

“Who knows what the beast is? Hasty assumptions are meaningless.” The sage added, handing back the bloodied handkerchief.

“Will you not use an incantation on the swan?”

“No. I doubt I could affect it…”

“Ha… all the more vexing.” The half-blind mage then questioned; an eyebrow raised. “It is also strange for you, ever the hermit, to be surveilling prospects…”

“A… favor? I was a faerian, as you know, and, although no vow was made, I did consign myself to a rather inconsequential…” He stopped at lack for a word. “Well, I really know not what to call it.”

“So…?”

“If the boy wishes I’ll teach him.”

“As student, apprentice, or…?”

Even concealed by the sage’s ever-present expression of remembrance, as if meditating, an undecipherable emotion projected forward from his snow-covered eyes.

“Death’ll not claim me, yet… Interest, it is interest, most likely, I am doing as I please, really. The “favor” is naught but an excuse, carefully prepared beforehand.”

“You lie, you’d do it regardless, excuse or not, ha!”

They watched as the family disappeared, gradually, into flower shrubs and fruit trees; made a mosaic of verdant greens and light, brushed with the color of autumn flowers.

“Hm. Call it a pastime, perhaps?”

“You would call the taking on of an apprentice with clear Geist a pastime?”

“Why not?”

“And what of the Comitatus? When the issue of you taking on an apprentice inevitably reaches us, have no doubt, it’ll be opposed.”

“Since when did the Comitatus regulate the taking and teaching of apprentices?” The old sage asked, slight disdain creeping into his otherwise grey tone.

“Don’t act the fool, we don’t… You know it is merely an…isolated case, because of you.”

“Hm! And I brought you sightseeing because I wanted to catch up, you think?”

The middle-aged man ran his hands through his face, exasperation evident.

“So… You want to convince me? convince them? No… make a case?”

“I’ll teach him, even opposed by the Comitatus. However, there will be retaliation. Since killing me is absurd, they’ll take it out on the prince; it would not surprise me if, due to inexplicable circumstance, he disappears or tragically dies in some unfortunate accident.”

“We would not infringe on your bottom line so brazenly, but yes… we would seek redress; the prince would be… well, I dislike the word sabotaged; there would be obstruction… some measures put in place.” He declared. Then, after clearing the corners of his eyes, continued. “Some would do it out of spite, honestly. Others out of genuine concern, like me… Frankly, seeing the kid, I can think of many, many others under who’s tutelage he’d be better off. No offense to your competence, of course. You understand my worries, right?”

“Yes, but I care not for them.”

“…Is this how you aim to persuade me?” The half-blind gentleman showed clear disbelief.

“No amount of pleading, nor rhetorical… flourish, would convince the apes you call peers to not hinder my would-be-apprentice. So, you were, hmm… partially correct. Let it be transactional, I’ll even subject myself to a vow.” His eyes turned to the half-blind mage, sharpening as he spoke. “I am in possession of a desidere. which would be transferred into the custody of the Comitatus —as a donation— if it were to end any needless hostility toward me, and my apprentice, by extension.”

Immediate curiosity sprang on the other man’s face, even a hint of fright, all simmering in slight suspicion.

“Really...? And you know of its function?”

The sage did not respond. The corners of his mouth, dressed in snow white hair, rose, ever so slightly.

“That is certainly much better than any argument… well, it is, in a way, an argument…” The man muttered.

“Your role would be to present the proposal, pitch it to the eleven simians. Help lodge it in their minds. Act the mediator.”

“I could do that… Nevertheless, we would not receive it blindly, and a vow to confirm the legitimacy of whatever function you claim it has will not be enough. What dimwit trusts a galdr with vows?”

“Hah! Twist your brains however much you like…”

“Also… your willingness to sacrifice a desidere for this child will raise questions. No mere flight of fancy, is it?” His eyes narrowed as he looked at the old mage, aiming to pierce their edge through the sage’s indifferent mask.

“It is also to get your lot off my back… a kind grandpa like meself being accosted by these miscreants? Tsk, tsk…” The clicking was carried further by a shake of his head. The tone was pure disappointment, weary, like a lament, though feigned.

“Stop it with the pitiful act… I can’t convene the peers just to make myself some jester, dancing before them with some vague proposal… What—”

The old man produced a small, leather-bound notebook from his swirling sleeves.

“Here, my notes on the thing, just give them back, yes?”

The half-blind mage took it, placing it under his coat.

“Hm… And what if the boy refuses?”

“Then you get nothing, Heh.” A clear mocking laugh flowed from his lips. “No deal."

“Yes, yes… well, anything else? If not, let’s go, my knees ache from standing.”

“Youngsters these days…

Rebhā [Leap]

Totrēd [Towards there].”

Both men disappeared with the last syllable’s ring.

*

Roderin lamented.

‘Is it still too late to back out?’ He wondered, his mind racing, as he walked through the Asphodeli. Envisioning endless scenarios; the reactions of the ministers as he appeared to take Bassáth’s post, Bassath, himself, wide eyed… Or perhaps filled with ire, screaming, or pleading… no, that did not seem to be his temperament, of course, if was not as if he knew the man.

Once again, Alphonse led him by the nose, asking for him to arrive at Royal Affairs, asking for his trust; it was supposedly important to replace the minister in such a theatrical, humiliating way.

Roderin advised him, as always, to maintain caution. A move like this would anger the nobility, by way of replacing one of their assets, one of their two representatives in Royal Affairs. Ousting him with someone who would not push their interests, a baronet, someone close to the king, as he had himself displayed in front of half the city— a slight exaggeration.

Though no longer militarily relevant, nobility still held economic influence, a top the legitimacy of blood and history. Against a merchant class of increasing strength, rallying support in academia, public opinion and a discontent plebeian class, strong ties with the blue-bloods would be of paramount importance.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the more anxious and exasperated he became; what was Alphonse thinking? What was he himself thinking, agreeing to such an absurd suggestion? ‘Become minister, Bah!’ Had he been mad at that moment, drugged, perhaps?

If not for the immense trust Roderin held in Alphonse he would have left the Kingdom, perhaps take refuge in Maritima? They had grand institutions for archeology, and of course, it was somewhere where this mad king and his kingdom’s fall would have no effect on him… It was merely the nerves making him rave about in his own head, surely. There was a plan at place, he knew Alphonse enough to trust that it was so. If lucky he would have to do next to nothing; stand and watch, survive the awkwardness and then sit…

Suddenly ejected from his bubbling mind Roderin turned to see a theater house, empty at this time of day since no play was abound inside —a stark contrast to the bustling street. Stepping by its side into an alley and knocking on a maintenance door, carefully, in the rhythm Alphonse had shown him, produced a man’s voice, gravely and low, disinterested, which asked.

“Hmm? Sorry, were closed at the moment, did you not see the front doors?”

“I am an actor; I’ve come for the play.”

“And what do you play?”

“The friar.”

“And how do you aim to reach the stage?”

“By coursing under the city’s alabaster”

The door opened with a *clanck* and some creaking.

‘Hopefully I won’t have to do this every time there’s a meeting.’

Inside, a dusty backstage, with low lighting, enveloped him. The man, an oil lantern in hand, appeared to be middle-aged, and looked as if he had been living in the dark his whole life.

“Follow me.” He muttered in a rusty tone.

Halfway up some stairs —where they led, he did not know— the man knocked on the wall to his right, and a panel of wood was pushed back, slightly, as if falling apart. He placed his hands on it, flat, casting aside his lantern for a moment, and pulled back, slowly revealing a hallway.

He had to half-crawl to get inside, and then, once the panel was again in place, walk for some minutes, in silence and low light, which he spent overthinking while dusting his clothes. Then, from a point onwards, the walls turned to brilliant white stone, gleaming under the lamplight, the corridor growing wider.

Reaching the end a stone door greeted them, opened with some difficulty by the man, who then talked.

“Please…” He lowly gurgled, bowing towards the door.

“Thank you…”

Behind it was a room, one of the secret rooms he had seen in the Cathedral. Once closed, the door behind him seemed indistinguishable from the rest of the cold, shiny stone. Leaving the place, he found himself in some corridor, sunlight streaming through the immense windows, ahead, what looked to be a servant, no, an attendant? a man dressed formally, trotted towards him.

“Minister de Lamartine, welcome, I hope the walk here wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

“No… It was ok…”

“My name is Samuel Musnier, I shall be your attendant for matters related to Royal Affairs.”

“A pleasure… I hope we can work well together.” He answered back, cordially.

“Certainly. If you could follow me.”

Past the altar, the mosaics and the murals, the immense ceiling and adornments, the figures carved into the cathedral’s insides —like men of stone clawing, freeing their bodies from the walls—, Alexandre IX’s grand depiction, the vestry and some doors, a double wide entrance of carved marble, gold detailing and aged bronze, received them. Above its glorious, though time-marred jaws, something was carved in alabaster, now unreadable. The angular script barely visible, its edges blended into the stone, its form, almost, lost to time. He could not make out the language.

The use of angular script made it, most likely, continental in origin… however, considering the sorry state of the inscription he started to doubt whether it even was angular script. It should not be too old, or at least he presumed it so… after all, bronze could green with just a decade or so. The part where he stood could have been older than the unveiling at the Elysian-Hygeian Exhibition, older than the cathedral… even then… he could not remember if the Werners’ had built anything on their hygeian lands before Anastasia’s efforts. Perhaps gardens…? Then had this been a sort of gazebo or small hall? He could check in the Vanus’s registry, its archives… Even stranger, why was the engraving in alabaster and not in marble? Like what the rest of the structure was built out of. If it was part of the design of the cathedral then it had not been built so long ago that the engraving would fade, in fact, could engraving in alabaster even fade? Only erosion —prolonged and unprotected exposure to the elements— would do such a thing, no? Was he to believe that this structure had passed enough time in such conditions before it was even incorporated into the Cathedral´s project? It also bothered him how, before, he had acquired, during a certain expedition, pieces of alabaster, statuettes, exposed to the elements, of, at least, three centuries in age, which did not present any comparable amount of erosion, just a small shearing of their forms. So, how long of a time must have passed for the inscription to erase…? Ruins and structures of such age once built in Hygeia had already been catalogued and studied, this would be a new discovery… Although, considering the nature of the place in question, open study would be… difficult.

Then, it occurred to him… could someone have simply “polished” the alabaster, seeking to erase the inscription…? That was a much, much, simpler answer… But so boring, wasn’t it? What would be the point of doing that? Polishing off whatever had been written here.

‘Aaah…” Roderin could only sigh internally.

Trying to divine what it was that had been carved above the doors —and for how long it had been standing in this place— he did not notice how, for some time now, his attendant had stopped in front of the structure, silent, most likely waiting for someone.

It was Alphonse’s voice what woke him.

“Minister de Lamartine. What a pleasant coincidence… Arriving at the same time.”

“Huh…? Oh, Alphonse…” He turned to see his friend; then, asked lightly, almost as if directing the question inwards. “Alphonse, do you, by any chance, know what was carved… there?” He pointed, still slightly entranced.

“No…” The king responded, finding the question strange. Where he would expect a laugh, or response with the aim of easing tension, his friend had asked him about a fading inscription crowning the entrance to Royal Affairs. ‘An archeologist, of course...’

“I see…”

“Well, ready?” The king asked. Speaking without a breath, as to allow no answer, he immediately ordered. “Musnier, open the doors.”

The attendant merely bowed.

Roderin remembered where he stood, anxiety creeping back into his mind.