Pink sandstone blocks. It’s what the outdoor ballroom floor is. Quarried from the river a few miles away and sold to the highest bidder. Until father decreed them as a gift to be used in the palace.
The Neresians walk barefoot around, even the Prince. If you sit on the side of the ballroom, with pergola lights strung above glowing against the night sky, you’ll catch one of them wiggling their toes. That’s how you know, to separate them from us.
Crackles of laughter fill the air. How many guests twirl on the dance floor? Too many to count. Even more line the parlor doors with plates of food, drinks sloshing over their fingertips as they swap stories. Music played by the Tellos. A drink of pink lemonade against my lips helps hide my stare. Each Tello is an extreme. Fat and skinny. Tall and tiny. Dark and fair. Bald and hairy. The only way to know a Tello is a Tello is their eyes. The entire ball is white but the moment music plays by their hands, it turns black. If you spoon the eyeball out, it’ll change colors from white, no music - to almost black, music, every single time. Or for about three months before the cells finally wither away. At least, that’s what I heard from Fincher.
Silk dress skirts are soft against my bare legs. The fabric slides easily against itself as I rub it between my fingers. Coral pink. To entice the Prince of the Neresians, mother said. A wreath of flowers, vibrant hues of blue, violet, and red, and burgundy, were weaved together by that little servant girl that works the kitchen. She’s skilled at sourdoughs and weaving together little blooms into starfish shapes. Her dirty hands were stark against the perfect flowers but I let her pin it in my hair for me.
And Fincher, despite his apathy towards lavish events, stands against the wrought iron gate across the way. Hands shoved in his pockets, hair swiped to the side. Twill pants and a button-down shirt is apparently all he was willing to wear.
His grin beckons me to cross the room. The music swells and beats as I glide through the dance floor. Mother and Father are distracted with hosting. Though most people - people like to acknowledge you when the party is, after all, just for you. But I’d like to be invisible so I can reach my destination.
A hand on my arm pulls me gracefully into a box step, spinning round and round. My hand on the Neresian King’s shoulder, the other barely against his hand. His bare toes are adorned with knuckle hair, black and curly. But his choice in clothes match mine – the finest the land and sea has to offer. The seagrass was dried, sun bleached, and soaked in indigo dye. Weaved into an ornate cape that drapes around the back and front of each Neresian man. Pinned on the shoulder with a starfish that clearly, hates having a pin through its body. An arm reaches for my fingers, a little plead of, ‘Help’.
My hand moves nearly involuntarily down an inch as the King says, “I am so very happy to have you as a daughter. My son is thrilled you have agreed to these nuptials.”
I lower my eyes like a good Yleensa in response. “I am pleased I can serve your kingdom and bring you untold magic.”
The King tosses his head back and laughs. Deeply, loudly. “I won’t keep you any longer.” He lets go of my waist and guides me to spin under his hand. “Why don’t you enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Another lower of my eyes, my head this time too, as I back away. “Thank you, King Konadel.”
The dress fabric soothes my hands. Keeps them from trembling with a rush of adrenaline. A few more smiles, laughs. The prince is far too engaged at the entrance of the outdoor ballroom where it meets the parlor. A plate of eggplant humus and a slice of sourdough balanced in one hand. A flamboyance of gestures while he talks with the other. Handsome, sure he is. And as his back turns, I scurry to Fincher the rest of the way.
“Hi.” I push on Fincher’s shoulder. He pretends to lean back as if I could actually budge him. “I can’t believe you came to see me off.”
His hands still stay in his pocket. Fincher’s bright blue eyes study mine before he pouts his lips with a squint. “I don’t have a choice. You refused to say no to that idiot.”
“That idiot? The Neresian Prince?”
Fincher gestures with his head and turns onto the dark garden path. “You do have a choice.”
The night sky is darker than usual. With the century moon sucking the light from the stars around it, nothing but the comfort of Fincher beside me lights the way. “Where are we going?”
He sucks air through his teeth before grabbing my arm and ducking inside a doorway. “Through here,” he says, taking out two little steel sticks. Fincher shoves them in the lock and the doorknob turns easily. The end of the hallway glows with the party in the parlor, leading outside to the pergola. “Up the stairs, up the stairs,” he says shoeing me around the corner.
“I could’ve just used my key. Or yours.” The handrail, cold on my palm. Fincher’s light tread, a simple song to where we head. To the top floor and the first door on the right. The artist’s room. Where Fincher earns a wage and a bed to sleep while he apprentices with his handler, Seer Oculo.
Fincher snaps his fingers, and the spell only bound to him lets the candles light the room. Towering candles. In each corner of the room. The flames lick high but never set fire to the ceilings. Most people clean the wax drippings that pool at the feet of the candle sticks. Fincher doesn’t.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
They ripple on top of each other. Each layer like another tide of the ocean. Stairs heading to a pillar. A pillar too slick to climb.
Father makes everyone clean the wax. Leave a perfect cylinder of perfectness. He has a way with words. People like Fincher take those wax drippings and melt them down into candles again. Sell them again. We buy them again.
And then people like Fincher can afford to buy a mattress which sits atop a bedframe he carved. The desk too. The chair tucked underneath. Whereas I? Princess of the Yleensa? We get to buy people like Fincher. Well, we pay Fincher for his craft and paints. We buy people like Katasavana, the little kitchen girl who bakes great bread and weaves darling patterns out of flowers.
Fincher’s disheveled notes are rough under my fingertips. I pick up the latest from his desk. “Oculo is filling your head again?” I ask.
“Filling? No. Teaching his apprentice? Yes.” Fincher hovers over my shoulder, his finger drawing an imaginary line under the title. “The Helvede,” he says. “The Kingdom of the West. Ruled by witches and warlocks. W for W, that’s how I remember.” His voice rises high in thought. “I think that’s where Katasavana is from.”
“Yes. The Yleensa adopt their orphans,” I mumble in agreeance. The flap of a paper as it hits the desk marks what Fincher knows I’m already going to ask. “Anything on the Neresians that you’ll let me learn?”
“Eh,” Fincher says as he grabs my shoulders and turns me around to face the other wall. “They’re too bad.”
Those bright eyes stare at the corner of the wall but I get his attention once more. “How else do I learn about them?”
He nudges me with his elbow. “Stick to what you’ve been groomed to do, Princess.” Fincher paces in front of me for a moment. “So,” he says, hands in his pockets again as he rocks back on his heels. “Can you figure out what’s new?”
The wall behind me is decorated with paints. Bright white lights and golden glows are the only colors. But somehow, in Fincher’s brilliance, he created shapes and shadows and angels in what he calls ‘The Otherside’. Rays of light somehow make his room bright even without the candles burning. The next wall, rough and textured under my palm is what he calls, ‘The End’. Why he wants to stare at a distorted, monstrous version of himself, he won’t say except, “Why shy away from the future truths?” He’s humongous, hunched over. Boils cover every inch of him. ‘Suffering’ is what it stands for. And in the web of black and surprisingly even blacker paints are mangled trees and vines and rocks and caves. The light he painted from within one of these caves is the size of my hand. Fincher said he copied the way a light looks when you stare at it for too long. But the white he used within the darkness, makes it look like a glowing diamond. “What is it?” I asked. He said, “My light, I guess.”
The next wall smells like fresh paints. It starts beautifully. “How’d you know that I was going to wear this color?” I ask. “Oh my. You even saw my hair piece? That’s basically impossible. Little Katasavana from the kitchen made it an hour before the ball.”
Fincher smirks, one side of his lips raised high. He huffs and rolls his eyes, but a smile soon finds his lips. “When are you going to learn, Alessia? I have outgrown The Handler. I have outgrown Seer Oculo.”
“Really?” I ask, pointing to the next picture Fincher blended me into. “Then tell me what the Hell is that?”
Fincher shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know yet. But,” he points to mighty waves roaring high about a ship. “You’re on that.”
“Me? On that? I will literally be with the Neresians. They can just carry me above the waves and swim around. Who cares about a storm?”
On cue, which makes me smile gently, Fincher sighs. “Meta-phor-ical. Do you know the term, Princess Etiquette Education?”
“It’s Alessia, and yes I know what metaphorical is. But then tell me, what’s that then?”
For a moment, just the briefest, Fincher looks pained. But he pushes it away as he says, “This streak of drab gray and brown, is what will come after the storm. How does it make you feel?”
“Depressed,” I say too quickly, it startles both of us.
A flicker of his lip tries to force into a half-smile. Though it’s reluctant, hard for him to keep the pretense of joy. “This green streak, it’s-”
“Beautiful. Lively.”
“Yes, Alessia,” he says. “This streak will take you away from that dreary.” The movements of Fincher’s finger tips as he flicks towards the wall mesmerize me for a moment. But perhaps, it’s probably only the alcoholic lemonade finally doing its job of numbing nerves.
The rest of the wall is empty. Off-white horse-hair plaster over top of lathe waves and wiggles, completely devoid of the life Fincher can bring to it.
“Into what?” I ask.
Fincher waves his hand through the air. “Go sit, I want to paint you before you leave and I never see you again.”
The banter, back and forth. I drop my head back and sigh, finding a blemish in the oak beams above. “I will see you again, I know.” The corner of the wall where a candle blocks takes my focus. “What about the end of the wall Finch? Will that be The Yazata?”
“That,” he gestures to the opposite wall with his head towards the monstrous version of himself. “That is the end.” Wood grinds against wood as Fincher pulls the chair out. “Let me paint you. I have most of you on the wall but you know, I never see faces. So I have to see yours to paint it.”
Our hands graze as I set mine on the back of the chair. It’s accidental of course but, you know. Still brings a warmness to my chest. “No,” I say, as I push the chair back in. “We will see each other again. I just know it.” The painting of me, sans a face, is lively and beautiful. A chill finds me though, my hand he painted points to the next scene which crashes into the next. But for some reason, the rest of the wall, as bare as it is, that’s what the chill is from. “Have you seen the rest?” I ask him.
A flicker of his lip answers me.
“I will see you again. Tomorrow,” I say, nudging his shoulder. “I want you to be there for the formal proposal.”
Fincher’s eyes water but he jerks his attention to the wall behind him. Bright lights. The Otherside.
“This one always makes me happy.” My voice is quiet. The thoughts of the rest of my life displayed and not displayed on the wall behind us. The wall is textured under my hand. Fincher’s rest right beside mine. “It’s warm.”
He finally smiles from whatever pain of seeing the future stole for the last few minutes, Fincher smile-style at least. The smirk plays on his lips, as sparks in his eyes form. The kind that only come when he is Seeing and Seeing something good. “It’s the beginning.” But the smirk fades and his tone becomes serious. “I was meant to be nothing yet came into something. But you,” he whispers, “you were always meant to be something once you’ve become nothing.” Fincher blinks, the glint far away now. But he smirks again, back to his regular Fincher-self.
“So you’ll be there?” I ask.
He clicks his tongue and shoves his hands in his pocket. With Fincher’s simple nod, it’s all I need to have the courage tomorrow to give my life to the Neresians.