Chereads / True World Fantasia / Chapter 14 - 14 - Folly/Delirium

Chapter 14 - 14 - Folly/Delirium

'Now…'

"Swan… where is the lake?"

Signaling with its beak, the apparition pointed down a hall.

The sunlight, warming up the cold white stone. The glare of gold and white walls.

Outside, fruit trees. The pale, burning alabaster of apple blossoms, showering the field in spring snow.

"Is there a door ahead…?"

The swan, close eyed, remained still, neck-to-neck coiled with the prince.

Heos petted it, enjoying the soft feathers as they parted against his touch.

'This book should tell me…'

Leaving the feathers, his hand rose, shielding his eyes from the glow.

"Swan, the game sounds boring… should we just hide and not go…?"

This question woke him, and he uncoiled, gliding on empty air, as a trail of white smoke.

It stopped ahead, blocking the prince's path. 

It looked Heos, steely, dead in the eyes, transmitting seriousness, somehow.

"You've never acted like this…" the child, surprised, shone seldom shown emotiveness in his gaze. "Is it really so important?"

Swan remained motionless, black irises lost in the dark mascara of its black feathers, like dark drops attempting to pierce out… yet, still sharp, as cold voids, admonishing the child.

 Heos pouted.

"I'll go, then…" He walked past the phantasm. "But let's see the swans first."

The prince lifted the book with both hands, using it to cover his face from the sunlight.

'If it's too boring I'll sneak out…' He kept walking. 'There's no door… where now…'

Taking a left… a pillared hall with painted scenes… he had been here before, often. A war crystallized in its vault.

'Cold.' The stone felt frigid beneath his feet.

He looked above.

'Is that war?'

Ahead, another ante chamber, with ostentatious, extravagant detailing. Walls as if carved out of silver and gold. Some artist's care spilt around every corner, every panel, like a deluge of paint, arranged in perfect forms, had hit the room… Empty, however.

How often was this place pleased with eyes to watch its beauty…?

Heos, nonetheless, found it somehow drab… too much.

He preferred the gardens, ever changing, ever colorful… he did not know why. 

'Did they not get tired of rooms like these…?'

"If we turn here… shouldn't we arrive at the main corridor…?"

The slight rustle of Swan told him: Yes.

A wide corridor. Checkered floor under red carpet, unending… brought from and made in some near-east colony, or perhaps, farther away…

Glimmering candelabra hanging, as portraits of kings lined the walls.

Stone carved in arches and pillars, and detailing so fine one would ask if needles were used to cut it into the stone.

Heos looked out from a half-open door, hinged on a corner.

'Now… going down, we should…'

"Wait… was it towards… there, right?"

He pointed. Swan lifted its head lightly, then assented.

'Hm?'

Just when he was to turn, and leave further towards the palace, voices, the echoing of steps in cohort, barreled down the corridor. Braided voices, each one with another, as they conversed in a language… yes, he understood. Who was it? Who interrupted the palace's pleasant silence. Was it a war? It was thunderous whispering... definitely.

He stepped in the middle, his feet comfortably held by the carmine carpet.

Down he saw a group of figures. One, robed in a beautiful, deep, brilliant red; as bleeding red roses plucked and made man. His waist held by a pale aurum rope, twined, opulent; his hands under pure-white gloves, his steps marked by pearly pantofole, embroidered in gold thread. The others, dressed in simple white robes, marked on their edges with patterns in persimmon, detailed with small glints of red, leather sandals tied to their feet, as they obediently followed behind the figure in red, talking, gently. 

Four royal guards followed, in the corners of their small formation, their white-gold-red uniforms gallant, not outshone by the man at the lead.

 'And these…?' Heos wondered, as they grew near.

*

Such a thing could not be allowed… a fýrian of the Wölfli lineage? Folly. More than a symposium, this would simply be a declaration. That old high king must have gone mad… to suggest such a thing…

He had offered to go himself.

Partly because it was his place of birth…

He had grown nostalgic for the roads and vistas of his youth.

Of course, Romanse was delegated to him. He was the kingdom's Hierophant; no one else could go… still, it was a… symbolic act.

Aamártus was beautiful, pious, sublime…

Still, he missed the light decadence, the perfumed air of Hygeia —although he dared not say it.

Wishing to visit the Cathedral…

Few places gathered the Hypsistos in their walls as did this one… He had fought to have the Werner girl declared Antecessora, and Vers as well, with less insistence, yet…

He still believed it to be one of his greatest failings.

And the mural-over-glass… It was worthy of worship. God had worked through those two…

When he had seen it for the first time… He still remembered.

Something had compelled him, something. Some heft in the light, in the air, spilling, like molten gold from the figure in the mural.

His hands clasped together, silently, he had begun to pray… And, as if heard by Him, his Majesty had appeared, sightseeing the cathedral.

'Admiring this gift.'

Were his words, when he had asked.

How long ago…?

The carriage stopping diffused his daydreams.

An acolyte called.

"Your Eminence, we have arrived."

He sounded somewhat unsure, as he did not know whether the Hierophant's closed eyes meant sleep.

"I am awake Frédéric."

"Of course, your Eminence."

He chuckled.

"Has the fýrian arrived…? What do you think Frédéric?"

"I doubt so, your Eminence"

The Hierophant hummed

"I wonder who they will send."

Another acolyte opened the carriage door and readied the steps.

"Frédéric, did that… what was it… Arvern? That druwid, did he not personally serve the verdanaiese court? Has death taken him?"

"I do not know of whom you speak, your Eminence."

'Why all the secrecy. They did not tell Alphonse… and if it were Arvern, why the suspense…?'

He left the carriage, helped by the other acolyte.

A detachment of the royal guard received them. No servants.

'Austere… I will never understand Alphonse's militarism… even in manners as this he insists. Is it not more pleasant to be surrounded by servants and the learned? Why drown oneself in soldiers?' 

One of three men, leading the others, bowed.

They were of such stature; he had to crane his neck to speak eye to eye with the guard.

"Your Eminence, we are glad to know you have arrived safely."

His arm outstretched, rigid, towards the open gold-white doors of the palace.

"Please, allow us to escort you, His Majesty will receive you."

"Very well… lead." He waved his gloved hand.

The guard made some signs, directed the Hierophant's servants, and waited for the other acolytes to fall in. His own guard fell into formation, and set up in front of the palace. Of course, be it directly from Aamártus, or anywhere else, no foreign guard would be allowed inside the palace.

"Has the fýrian arrived?"

The guard answered.

"Does his Eminence refer to the verdanaiese envoy?"

"Mhm."

"No, your Eminence, they have yet to arrive, and we have received no further information."

The Hierophant did not voice much more than a hum.

'The palace… Alphonse has yet to give it a name.'

His head shook involuntarily.

'Even then…'

He could still feel it, the saintly breath. The man who had built this monument, exuberant, empyrean. He lived through these bodies of marble and bronze.... As if the palace itself, after his death, had become the vessel for his holy spirit. 

The sun was quite pleasant. Still, he welcomed the shade as they walked into the main hall.

"Unchanged…" A reflexive whisper.

The acolytes gasped, already dazed by the sights of the structure as they rode to it. Now, inside, they marveled at the beauty, the gold, the grandeur, as a heavenly dwelling in a fairy tale. Once truly inhabited by a Hyperion, his solar existence still illuminating its halls. 

"Beautiful, is it not?"

A chorus of affirmation, and your Emminences, answering him.

"Do enjoy it. One does not get much freedom of travel as an acolyte… Sights as these are seldom seen." He cleared his eyes… was he tearing up? Why? Did it remind him of the past…? "Even if you all were to try and comb this palace for a day, days, you would not find all its corners, all its marvels…"

The acolytes watched… all directions, all sights as they could, quietly whispering to each other, discussing this or that.

"Is that a landscape by Mineirs?"

"How much gold would one need for just this gilding?"

"This is all lotus silk…"

Passing by crystal, The Hierophant caught his reflection, for an instant.

Dignified, aged, solemn… yet, with something… an irreparable blue-grey melancholia hidden deep. Invisible to all but him, the reflection's owner.

'Étienne, prayer does not help men… however much it pleases God.'

That voice, still, those words, they now rang clearer. Was it because of where he stood?

'How many more years will I last as a Hierophant?'

He had been blessed with longevity, with health. Nonetheless, he felt it so… soon it would be time.

It pained him all the more so…

"Guard."

"Yes, your eminence?"

"What are your thoughts? On the prince to be educated fýrian. A prince of Wölfli-Loggia?"

The guard's disciplined expression remained.

"Such things are of no interest to us, your Eminence. Be it an athalic or fýrian royal, the guard dedicates its lives to the crown. A royal of the Wölfli-Loggia line could very well scorn God father in Empyrean and earn his wrath— our duty shall still be: to let our bodies be pierced if it gains them a single breath more in life." 

"What honour…"

"Thank you, your Eminence."

'Alphonse has them well trained.' He hid a sigh. 'Such loyalties… it is worrying.'

His eyes returned to the seemingly never-ending corridor-hall, there, he saw…

'Hm…'

A child of six, perhaps? Dressed in a loose white gown, barefoot, its right arm holding a grey tome.

Pale, platinum hair, with just a light haze of blond blush, down to his shoulders. Skin, as pale as snow. And eyes… mist-blue, flecked in green, a strange coldness seeping from underneath. 

'Prince Heos?'

He stood still, in the middle of the corridor, watching, looking, unmoving. Even with the group of men walking down, towards him.

They all turned to silence. Although the guards and the Hierophant kept their step, the acolytes, unsure, dallied.

The cohort came to a stop before the child.

The Hierophant matched the prince's unblinking gaze, who now looked at him, static, curiosity clear amidst that cold blue brume he wore for eyes.

The lead guard spoke.

"Your Highness, prince Heos Pallas-Maria Phaëtos von der Wölfli-Loggia. This is his Eminence, Hierophant Étienne Bellegarde de Montferrand, and his acolytes."

The prince remained, looking, as if he had not heard the words.

"Are you here for the game?" The child asked, his voice serene.

Étienne's eyes widened for a moment, genuinely surprised.

'Áradal? I had heard he was bright, yet… and the cadence…'

He chose not to use formal address.

"Prince Heos, I am glad to meet you. If "for the game" you refer to the symposium, then yes, that is the reason for my visit."

Heos tilted his neck, wondering. After some silence, Étienne decided to speak up once more.

"It is surprising to see a child of your age speak more than his mother tongue… Why did you choose to use áradal?"

"I heard voices speaking it down the hall… and wished to try it."

'Of course.' The Hierophant thought. It was rather obvious.

"I see… who taught it to you? or did you learn by means of solitary study?"

"My brother."

'So, the Gelbann Amoineau then.' The oldest prince's appearance, as a child, arrived in his mind's eye.

"Did you find it challenging?"

"No… it was tedious, but fun…?"

'Perhaps… no. Or…?' Something bubbled about in his mind.

"Let us use romanse, Prince Heos, it is, for both, our mother tongue."

"Ok."

"Guard. Please lead my acolytes to the parlour… or drawing room, or wherever it may be. I wish to have a conversation with the prince, if he would allow… I can find my way, so worry not."

The entire guard, on the occasion they would watch over Heos, or need to guard him in particular, or simply were to come across him, had been instructed by Alphonse to cater to his whims.

'Even if it led to his endangerment.'

These were the king's words.

A marvelously contradicting statement, yet, an order they carried out still. Alphonse assured: nothing would happen to him.

Now, leaving the child alone with the Hierophant would not be a danger of any sort… however, the royal guard did not yet forget that incident, which still, freshly scarred their memories: the Vendémiaire Furieux, as it had come to be called, a great sin on their conscience. Caused by unexplainable madness. Who knew…? Perhaps such madness could take anyone…

"Ok…" The prince answered.

"Very well, your Highness." The lead guard bowed, and the acolytes followed behind the cohort, muttering, chattering, all the while. 

As soon as their noise had disappeared, Étienne spoke again.

"What is it that you are reading, prince Heos?" He pointed to the book.

"Hm? Oh… it is… Méthode Scientifique d'Analyse Nosographique." The child held the tome with both hands, opening it to the title page, reading, euphonically.

A surprise…

'Ha? What is this choice of literature…?' The hierophant had expected some light narrative, like a fairy tale, or something of the sort. 'Perhaps…'

"That is… rather specialized literature. Why your interest in such topics?"

"I wanted to know about sick people who see things others don't." He mumbled something unheard, and then, spoke clearly, as if remembering something. "Or seeing things that aren't there…"

"Anything which caused it so?"

"I was curious."

'Hm… Now?' Étienne thought.

"Prince Heos, do you know of the purpose of today's symposium?" His voice suddenly deeper, serious.

"To decide how I learn about God?"

"Yes, that is it…" He tidied up his ashen hair, running his hand through it, back. "Tell me, Heos, what do you know of your great-great grandfather, King Alexandre IX, the Hyperion Hellian?"

The prince raised his sight, humming as he thought…

"Do you mean the man with the eyes of amber?"

'Huh?'

Now, he remembered, suddenly, those eyes. Yes, like amber, as honey… as crystallized, vespertine sunlight, the dying, dark-ocher sun, melting over the horizon… beautiful, saintly, no… Godly. As they looked, tranquil, yet, fragile…

'Étienne.' A voice, like summer rain.

This prince's eyes… why did they remind him of those, that gaze…? They were so unlike each other.

His suspicion rose, somewhat. It was too early to know, yet.

'If it's the case, we will know… God knows his own. No matter…'

Shaking off his surprise, he answered.

"Yes, he had amber eyes, did he not… Well, aside from that, what do you know of him?"

Without thinking, the child answered.

"That he is in the land of fey, with the fairies, 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.' Heos filled in, in his head.

The hierophant was stupefied…

'The Hellian… in the… land… of the fey?'

He swore, someone laughed, a silvery, light laugh…

"What?" He asked, unthinking.

The prince tilted his head, wide-eyed, looking at the Hierophant's expression.

Heos looked above, a distracted haze covering his eyes.

"He's in the land of the fey… with the fairies…" Somewhat weakly, he followed the words. "Can I go to the land of the fey? Does it exist…?" Like a mantra.

Even if he asked in the words in conversation, the tenuous tone seemed to imply he only voiced these questions emptily, into the air, not expecting an answer.

'Where to begin…? Would this be overstepping…' The Hierophant wondered. 'What a scatterbrained child…'

"Prince Heos, who has told you of these fairytales?"

Still distracted by something, the prince turned his sight to the empty air beside him, as if…

"My mother…"

'Of course… the Austaufangr wild-woman. Who else…?' Was age dulling his mind…? Stumbling like this, in irrelevant questions, when conversing with a child…

"Prince Heos, you see…" 'Huh?' His words… had he forgotten?

'Really, what is wrong? How did I forget what I was to say…'

He took a breath…

"As I intended to say, you see Prince Heo—"

His eyes, which he had returned to where the prince stood, found…

Nothing…

"Prince…?"

'In a breath…?'

The prince had left.

'When?'

A deep sigh… his hand over his face.

'Age does not come alone.'

Looking around… he had disappeared.

"What a troublesome child…"

His head shook.

The Hierophant moved to join his acolytes.

Perhaps the fýrian would arrive soon.

*

"You looked happy… did you laugh?"

Swan, strangely expressive, as always, seemed jovial.

"Did that man… Hiero- Hi- Hiro-…" What was the word?

"You made no sound, but… a laugh? Did you laugh?"

The phantasm glided, as a child that had pulled an infantile prank. A smiling disposition, masqueraded by the graceful air that all his being exuded. Even, a hint of cruelty, of schadenfreude, unabashed delight in the old Hierophant's surprise and titubation. 

"What was it… when it's a laugh… but no sound…?" Heos muttered.

'Magic…?'

Bored by the seemingly impossible thought, he moved on. Looking at the verdant buzzing of the spring, as it fed the sycamore forest.

The old marble pergola drowned in jade. Beds of moss, fresh, inviting.

Even, drops, hidden, of yet to thaw frost, near their death, gave shards of cold to the humid vigor breathing life into all.

Growth. Flowers, buzzing. The earth had lost its light ochre tint. It became a deep, vernal near black. Pleasant, aromatic… he didn't mind his feet, now earthen. It felt nice…

The forest ended. And he came to the lake.

Further down…

Step, step…

The sun disappeared.

The air grew heavy, charged, dark.

Lukewarm.

'Cozy…' Sometimes he enjoyed sleeping next to the lake, in this forest of his own.

And beneath his feet… that pale hay-like… something…

Small, cotton grass flowers blooming, even under the canopy… like the roof of a mouth that had swallowed the sky. 

And the piercing spires of wood… some, he noticed, far away… a soft, earth color… most, near, like pillars of old, aged, pale-green bronze.

Maybe, far, far away, nestled in the dark, and rising knots of roots… some speckles of blue, some hints of darker viridian.

He did not trip against the roots… he was accustomed.

The lake… more a slab of verglas… no, verglas was not black enough, and spilled ink too deep... A mirror into the void above… the swans nesting, gliding, on its surface.

Two received them… one carried, on its back, among its curving wings, a group of grey, silent cygnets.

The other spoke.

"Lad. It is nice to see you visit." A pleasant, sonorous voice.

"Hello Mr. swan…"

"Oh, dear… welcome…" A maternal sing-song.

"Hello Ms. Swan…"

He sat, then, laid down, his back against the forest floor, looking up.

He raised the book and opened it, intending to read, here and there, out loud.

"Lad, Is that a book?"

"Yes…"

"Interesting…" The swan grew nearer, adjusting his neck so as to see better. "Can't understand much…" He, of course, being a swan, could not read romanse.

"I wanted to look for something…"

Comfortable… If he did not care, he would slip into sleep.

He read, taking in the silence.

'Hm…'

*

"One, a man we will call K (No antecedents or history of disorders or derangements) worked as a laborer in the herding community of Sable-plata in the southern province of Manxa, Calabria. One day —his wife reported—, he had awoken, complaining of nightmares and a headache. This, thereon, had become a common occurrence, and although it affected not his labors, it did present an increasing, although subtle, deterioration of his mental faculties. 

On a day of harvest, K had seemed to finally be cured of this persistent nightly dolour, yet, his behavior changed, rapidly, across the day's duration.

The apparent interference of apparitions that were not present. Consistent paranoid delusions of "hidalgos" coming for his honor […] seeking to cross blades with him (note, a clear muddling of self-identity, and an inability to properly recall the past, past new conditions instilled via delirium). Non-recognition of his wife or children (or other members of his community). Enamourment, limerence and erotomania directed at a non-existing damsel; the necessity to rescue this vague figure (of which he could give no account other than its beauty) and the purported recruitment of a humble farmstead as a squire. Visions of giants, fairies, spirits and vistas not grounded in reality (A castle at the sight of a tavern, in example), as points of obsession and fixation in elaborate tales, in which he featured as a pivotal force…

Intercession from local clergy was attempted, to no effect (evidently).

He was interned at an institution in the province capital of Manxa.

Later, then, when K had regained some clarity of mind, a series of interviews revealed how, even past a state of manic-delirium, insidious remnants, or "dormant" phenomena retained themselves in the patient's psyche.

He assured, for one, that a phantom (a malign spirit in some other instances, as his answers shifted among constant incongruences) had "risen" from his dreams, and then appeared, suddenly, physically, although unseen by others. This phantom, Kervanti, (or Saav) as he called him, presented counsel and accompanied his labors, while, nonetheless, whispering strange scenes which then, he assured, became "like word of God" which he "had no choice" but to "see as true". This figure, in myriad forms, although most often described as a "man-shaped-lion" dressed in "armor of mirrors" and with "a tongue of gold", as well as "an open head which bubbled ink" became K's sole fixation in further interviews; even when conscious of his previous manic states…"

"Hm…" Heos lowered the book, resting it on his chest. A couple of breaths gave way to his words.

"Mr, Ms. Swan…"

'…'

"De- Del- Delirioum… Delirium… I think that is it." He closed the tome, putting it by his side. "That is why I can talk to swans… or see Swan…, or see this forest… Crazy…"

"Lad, I do not think reading a single book will give you an answer. And, of course, I can attest, I'm real, as is my love here… we are not… what was it… apparitions of your mind, or however the book put it…"

"Yes, dear… why believe that book? it is magic… not… dilirum, or…"

Was it? But magic was impossible, and this delirium thing was.

But then… he thought.

'What do I want it to be…?'

Magic.

He knew the answer by heart.

Just as much as he wanted to visit the land of fey, and see the fairies, and cross the sea…

Magic. That is what he wanted it to be… then, that is what it was.

'Mhm…'

"You are right Ms. Swan, it is magic."

Just as he chose to haunt the most beautiful parts of this palace… warm, cozy, pleasant… Why not choose it to be magic?

Suddenly, as if given life by the thought…

What was there… there, beyond the root-knots, and the dark…? deeper, deeper in the woods…

Why could he do magic? but others could not…

Why? Why?

'Could I fly…?'

His hand, grasping the empty, dark air, as if it were to spear past the void heaven, into light…

"Your Highness, prince Heos."

He was taken out of it…

A guard, standing before him.

He half-rose, his torso upright, but still sitting down.

"Hello."

"Prince Heos, I am to escort you to the symposium."

'The game…'

"Ok…"

The guard watched as the prince rose, his feet and gown covered in black, spring dirt.

"Could you hold this?"

He handed him the book.

"Certainly." The guard held it in his hand. "Then, shall we go…?

The prince lightly patted his clothes, halfheartedly, not really caring if he was clean.

"Wait." Heos turned to the lake. "Mr. Swan, would you like to see the game?" His voice directed at a bird not far from shore.

The guard found the prince's play endearing… a show of some childishness where there usually was none.

He was about to speak when…

"Yes… it's ok… it won't matter."

The prince assured the bird, as it… grew closer…

The swan reached shore, gliding towards the child as he… picked it up… held it… the bird, in his arms…

'What?'

The guard, disciplined as he was, almost spoke out loud… slack jawed, disbelief clear in his eyes…

"Prince"

"Ok, we can go now…"

Another swan, with cygnets on its back, stayed close to shore, watching… He had just noticed.

The prince walked, as the guard, still baffled, held his sight between the lake and the child.

"Mr. guard… what do you think of the sun…?"

The soldier stirred, composing himself at the prince's question.

"The… uh, sun, yes… as in… today?" He thought, still shaking off some of the strangeness.

'Perhaps the swan is trained…? God, feeling surprise, this much… at something this silly…'

"Yes, prince Heos, the sun is nice today."

He looked up, briefly shielding his eyes with his hand.

The prince just nodded.

"Mm-hmm."

And walked off.

The guard followed, then, overtook the prince, so as to lead him.

Yes, it was nice…

The swan's feathers, held by Heos, shone beautifully against the light. As fair as the child's hands.

He swore he heard a laugh, silvery…

'No, never mind…'