“Mama, why is your hair red?” Heos asked.
He walked around the hall, wide eyed at the gold, scarlet and white, the ornaments, the paintings, the beauty held within the villa’s main building.
Marenisse smiled.
“Because it is made of fire.” She answered back, feigning seriousness in her tone.
“Really?” The child seemed starstruck. “But fire is hot, why is your hair not warm mama?” He seemed rather perplexed.
“Magic, Heos.” On whim, she exclaimed.
“Magic… what is magic?” He let go of his mother’s hand, and ran forwards around the hall, interested by the passing of a servant.
The maid lightly bowed at the young prince, smiling, and went on her way.
“What is magic mama?”
“Hm… well…” Marenisse couldn’t really think of a way to explain what magic was. “You could say… magic is the impossible.”
Was that really the answer? After all, if done with magic, did the impossible not turn into a most brilliant possibility? It was precisely because magic was not real that its realm was the impossible.
“What is the impossible mama?” Heos turned, looking directly at his mother. His eyes gleaming expectantly, two pale lakes of blue and soft-jade green brume. His platinum hair, possessed of the lightest pastel gold, clung in small locks to his head.
“My, aren’t you a curious boy? Perhaps a tutor could help…” The queen wondered. “Mama does not know how to explain all these things to you.” Marenisse sighed, a little guilty, as she picked up the prince. She was not lacking in education, no real noble was… however, how would one even explain things like these to a child? even one as… miraculously brilliant as Heos… “Well, you know how birds fly, yes?”
He nodded.
“And people, like me, like you, like your father… we don’t fly, we can’t.”
“Why can we not, mama?” He seemed genuinely mystified.
“Human beings don’t have wings… so we say that it is impossible for men to fly, because it cannot happen… however, if someone could fly… a person, could fly, even without wings, even while being a human, we could call it magic.” She smiled, still unhappy with the example, but hoped Heos would, at least, superficially understand.
The prince fell into thought.
“Mama, your hair… Is it fire, really?” His tone sounded uncertain.
She laughed, smothering Heos in a hug. Then, with a playful tone of faked sadness, asked.
“Of course, do you doubt your mama?” Accompanying the words with a pout.
“No…” He went silent for a moment. “But, mama… if magic… if we… if your hair is fire…” The child began to ponder, as the things he had heard took root in his mind. His bright eyes shone, intense, bubbling with curiosity. “So, mama, can you fly? Is only your hair fire… is papa’s hair fire?”
“No, Heos, I can’t fly… And your father’s hair is not fire, it is gold, just like yours.” She twirled the child’s hair.
Heos, intrigued, grabbed his own hair, then his mother’s… staring intensely, as if his sight would divine the secrets locked behind the bright locks.
“But my hair is not the same as papa…” He looked then, into Marenisse’s kindly gray eyes. “Mama, what is gold?”
The woman started laughing. She kissed the child on the forehead.
“A very beautiful thing, the color of the sun… But do not go stare at the sun, okay? You’ll hurt your eyes.” The child nodded, attentive to her request. “Promise?”
“Promise.” He trusted his mother.
She took off a ring, a simple band of radiant gold that circled one of her fingers, rather awkwardly, as she still held Heos. Then she showed it to the child.
“This is gold. Look, isn’t it pretty?”
The prince’s small hands grabbed the gold ring, bringing it up to his eyes, entranced by the metal.
“Yes, it’s pretty…” The golden shine of the band took hold of him. Then, raising his sight, he pointed towards the ceiling, towards the gold-plated decorations which lined the villa’s tall vaults. “Mama, is that gold?”
“Yes.” She walked around with Heos held. The child would point things in shining yellows and golds, and asked, for each one, if they were the aurum metal.
The gold tassels on the grand red curtains. The gold of decoration… the gold frame of a painting depicting his grandfather, Alphonse’s late father. The gold eyes of the Hellian, burning in a large portrait hung in the hall.
“Mama, who is that? he has fire hair, like you… his eyes are gold, mama are his eyes gold?” He pointed surprised.
“That is your great-great-grandfather, Heos, King Alexandre IX.”
“Grea… Gre… Great-great… grandfather?”
“Your papa must have a papa right?”
Heos thought for a second.
“Yes, mama… where is papa’s papa?”
“He is no longer here, he is traveling… in the land of fey.” He lightly cradled the child, as she spoke, a comforting smile on her lips.
“He is not here… where is that?”
“Far, far in the west… crossing a path of gold and honey over the ocean mist. Across meadows of a hundred kinds of colored flowers where magical horses graze.” She lulled the child with the tale.
The prince listened attentively.
“Really?” Starry eyed, Heos was mystified. His shining gaze bore into his mother’s eyes.
“Yes, of course….”
“Mama, if papa has a papa… then does he also have a papa?”
“Mhm. Your great-great-grandfather was the father of the father of the father of your papa.” She laughed.
The prince counted on his hands.
She continued.
“They are all in the same land… Which is why they are not here.”
He raised his sight back.
“Can I go mama? To where they are?”
She smiled, adjusting the child in her embrace.
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“Not yet. One day… your father, me and you, we’ll all ago, and be together there, how does that sound?”
“Yes!” The strange land in his mother’s tale, the iridescent beautiful words she had used —of which the meaning he only knew half, yet somehow understood— the curiosity in meeting his father’s father and the others as well, as going with his mother and father… crossing the sea, a grand thing he had heard described, saw illustrated, and in paintings, yet had not touched nor felt… It must be a place much grander… even prettier than gold, than this house in which he lived, and the garden he walked in his parent’s arms…
He looked back, at the man with hair of fire and eyes of gold, who lived now in the land of fey. Feeling the aurum band in his hand, he remembered the question.
“Mama, why is his hair fire? like you. Are his eyes gold?”
“Hmm… well, his hair is fire, like your mama’s. But his eyes are amber, not gold.”
“Amber? What is amber?”
She took to silence for an instant, to think of the words to use.
“Well… you know honey, yes? You like honey.”
“Mhm, Mhm!” He nodded, an exaggerated motion to make clear his liking for the sweet.
“Amber is like that, like honey, but hard, like gold. And it can’t be eaten!” She remarked, in a jovial tone, making sure he understood. Taking the gold band from Heos’ hand, she tapped it with her finger, lightly, and put it back on.
Although Heos had lived in the villa his whole life, this expanse of time was a mere year… the place was of such a size that, he had, of course, not seen its entirety. He was, also, not often left alone, being accompanied by his mother, father, his uncle or the maids and servants across the rooms of his home.
His mother let him down, so that he may walk. He ran, although never too far from Marenisse.
His interested gazes at the manor’s extravagance died down, when he turned his focus onto a phantasmal swan, immense, coiled onto itself, as a serpent, or a cat, never far from where he was. The figure craned its ivory-colored neck, its beak the tinge of autumn —its eyes black, as if dressed in mascara, their black ink flowing onto encircle the ocher of its neb— to reach the child’s hands. As he pet it, its feathers comfortably roused.
He had asked his parents to know more about birds, partly because of interest, and to know, as well, what this companion of his was, he who had wings, and therefore, had to be a bird. Both his father and mother had sat together with him, paging through illustrated tomes of natural history, depicting flocks and species of birds, some, even foreign to the continent… he found, soon, his friend: a swan… he wanted to know what to call it. He had not known much on how to read, he was learning, it was not difficult, quite easy in fact… but he cared more for play.
‘Are you a magic swan? You can fly… but you are a bird… that’s not magic… Mama and papa can’t see you… is that magic? But swans are…” He thought on and on as he ruffled the bird’s feathers.
His mother watched him, seeing the display of, what she assumed, was childlike fantasy… Perhaps he was imagining something…? She had asked him before what it was that he was doing, and the prince had answered, always, that he was “petting his friend”; a large swan, as she heard. It was common for the young to have imaginary friends. However, Marenisse feared her child was growing lonely with no other children, and only his parents and the servants —and Roderin, on his frequent visits—, to keep him company. Before, the third queen consort had complained incessantly, so as to be moved to the villa, partially because she thought a rest would do Alphonse good, but also, because she was reluctant to raise her child in the palace… Too… tense of a place. Nonetheless, perhaps it was time to go back? Growing alongside his brothers and sisters was an experience she did not want to deprive Heos of… even if some of his fratres would be less than happy with his presence, or indifferent to their youngest brother, and the other consorts… well, she would see… nothing bad would happen to Heos with her and Alphonse present at the palace.
She also worried, Heos was rather strange, far from a normal child… A prodigy, she thought. It did not bother her, in fact, she felt proud, and the Wölfli-Loggia were not exactly known for being average, or normal, in any manner. She still worried what this would mean for him, in the future…
Her eyes led her back to the portrait of the Hellian… He was thought of as more God than man, inheriting the throne at an even younger age than Alphonse, a prodigy, as well, a Hyperion… even overwhelming glory was a sort of hell…
What uncertainty…
It was the daydreaming that fogged her senses. Why would she need be alert, as if in a hunt, in the inner hall of the villa’s manor? Heos suddenly perking up, like a startled animal, she realized, was what alerted her.
Screaming. A battle.
Like that time, more than a year ago.
“Heos! Come,” She waved at her child, who ran back.
Musket’s firing, as thunder rippling through the air. Unintelligible voices bloating with furious sound. Impacts… was it cursing… What was happening?
She held onto Heos, and, immediately, thought of a place to hide. The second floor.
She did not distrust the royal guard, how could she? But it was her son’s life.
Taking the prince into her arms and carrying him, she ran towards the grand ladder at the back of the hall.
Just like the time before, she would wait, and the captain would appear, brief her, and contact Alphonse through the Hiéron.
It occurred to her… were there not Hiéron agents stationed in the villa? Where? Heos would be safer taking refuge with them.
The colors of the hall turned a blur as she ran, encumbered by the child and her dress, to the stairs.
Terror.
Almost frozen, she scuttled back, tripping over the steps and the gown she wore, ensuring however, that Heos ended unharmed.
“Mama!”
“It’s okay Heos, it’s okay.” She half whispered.
A man, mud caking his legs, and dried leaves and twigs snagged on his unremarkable clothing, appeared atop the stairs, looking down. The light of madness subtly possessed his eyes, as he watched the fallen queen, his gaze centering on the prince. His right hand pulled a knife from under the leaf stormed coat, like a rag of common wool draping over his chest.
“Kill it, before… before… The light, the end.” The insane mutterings of a madman, which he struggled to heave through labored breaths.
Marenisse rose quickly, holding the flowing stele of her loose gown in a hand, and asking Heos to stand on his own. She took his arm and began to run, only to be surprised with the madman tumbling as a stone down the stairs, rabid, with inhuman speed, barreling towards the prince with the knife raised, as a stinger set to pierce his heart. Ignoring the certainly broken bones, the cuts, the bruises, the pain, the man lunged, helped by the strength and impulse of some second wind, some otherworldly vigor.
She let go of the child.
“Run.” Commanding Heos.
And turned to stop the attacker, to tangle the knife with her flesh, to lodge it, tight between her ribs, if need be, so that it could not be used against the prince.
“Swōpijō [Fall asleep].”
An order, which, when heard, tangled the minds of the queen and the madman. It pierced through their brain stems, their consciousness freezing, so suddenly, in less than the span of a breath, congealing all cognition into the soundless deep of a lightless dream. Their nerves settled, their heart rates stilled, the raging flow of their blood abated, as their bodies fell, as if their souls had been spirited away, into the land of the fey.
The queen gracefully decelerated, her body landing softly —one would think cushioned by eiderdown—, beautifully settling, with peaceful expression, on the floor.
The madman, however, dropped like a log, face-first, with a hearty thud, bruising his body even further.
And the knife, like held by a phantom, dangled off the air, ignoring the force that wished to hold it down and plunge it into the earth.
Heos, who, just instants prior, was ready to run, to obey his mother, found himself in the arms of a wizened, ancient looking sage, as he levitated off the floor, his waving, myriad-blue robes swirling, tempestuous.
The ancient’s beard bunched up, in front of him, so lengthy and snow white it was, it reminded him of swan’s feathers.
“Possessed imbecile… looking to kill my apprentice, eh?” The clearly mocking words did not affect the sage’s expression, who still looked as if pondering some profound mystery, or an ancient tale. “Whose peon are you…?”
Heos realized, he was flying… well, the man was flying… He looked strange… why was his hair white? Why was his skin… like that? His hand and fingers looked and felt strange, not at all like his parent’s. His clothes’ colors moved… what? Why was mama asleep…? Was she okay?
“Mama!” The boy reached out, looking to free himself from the old mage’s arm.
“Be calm, child, she’s asleep, nothing more.”
The prince, as if unhearing, kept trying to claw out.
The sage shook his head.
“Sēknis [Calm].” He chanted, and a single drop of blood streamed down his nose, which then disappeared. The prince suddenly stilled; his mind clear.
Heos once again realized he was flying, the man was flying. He relaxed, falling back into the old mage´s hold.
Like a bird…
“Magic, is this magic?” The now amazed child wondered aloud. His question only vaguely directed at the mage.
The sage had entered some sort of contemplation, one hand on his chin while the other held the child.
“Hm…? Yes.” He answered absentmindedly. Then, looked at the man-sized swan, coiled around him and the prince, mostly. “You could do nothing…?” He asked the animal phantasm, who, again, demonstrating its expressiveness, managed to show, in some strange manner, a countenance of guilt and helplessness.
‘It was good I acted the sentinel… Hm… how do I twist this scene so that it is believable… the woman is Austanfangr, yes… Perhaps…’ A budding machination simmered within the old sage’s head.
The knife, still hinged on empty air, floated towards his free hand, settling comfortably within his grip.
“I’m sorry, Prince Heos. Please forget for now.” He twirled the blade in his hand… so comfortable, he was, one would think it part of his own arm.
“Forget…?” The child did not understand the sage’s request.
“Swōpijō [Fall asleep]
Kēlājō [Hide]”
A dark blue sky, a starless night… as all fell into an ocean of warmth. Memories dragged to the bottom of a shadow, far beyond the depth of his mind. The hall, dismantled into strings of cobalt tones, into shards of something… something… what was it… the hall… gold… swan… sound… then, what? Figures liquefied, made sweetwater… fey, honey, flowers… great-great-great-gre… ma… huh? Where…
A star of amber flickered, new, in the sky… slowly fading as he sank.