"Huh? Heos? Whe—" The princess' words fell into smoke, as she caught sight of what her brother held in his arms. "Is that a swan!?"
She ran past the guard and up to Heos, leaving little room between herself and the animal, exclaiming gleefully all the while.
"What!? How did you get it to let you hold it!?" She carefully watched it, changing angle every couple of blinks, marveling at the creature. "Every time I get close to one, they glide away… or get angry." She murmured.
"He's my friend…" Heos answered.
"Oh, so it's a he…! Aren't you handsome." Getting even closer, the swan simply watched her, its eyes indecipherable, rousing its feathers. "But that doesn't answer the question!" She pointed at her brother. "How did you get him to be your friend?"
"I talked to him…?"
Some mock irritation was made clear in her expression.
She crouched. The bright white swan was fairly large, almost drowning Heos from this angle.
"Swans can't understand words, silly…"
Before, surprised by the animal, she hadn't quite realized how humorous the sight was… a six-year-old child carrying a swan… wait.
"Hey Heos… isn't he heavy…? I mean, swans are pretty big, this one is pretty big…"
The guard turned to look; his muddled thoughts woken by the princess' comment.
'Yes… what? How is the prince carrying this swan?!' His confusion was enlivened once more, where before he had just accepted the fact that the bird was most likely trained… this?
"No? He's light." He raised the swan somewhat, and moved it side to side, gently.
The princess hummed.
'Well… he is his majesty's child. None of the other princes inherited his strength. Perhaps the prince did?'
Once again, his doubts had found a reasonable outlet; a sufficiently mundane explanation for the strange occurrence orbiting the prince.
Remembering something, he spoke.
"Your Highness, princess Annika, the prince must attend important proceedings. Perhaps you could continue after this session?"
She pouted, but rose nonetheless.
"Ok." She thought it over, however. "Could I go…?"
The guard, not in a position to order the princess, thought of how to arrange his words.
"Of course you can, princess Annika. I must advise, either way, that these proceedings will not be an enjoyable ordeal. It may not be my position to declare them so… yet…" He whispered the next words, as to accent them to the girl's ears. "They are little more than political bickering…" Turning back to his normal tone, he continued. "If you were to grow bored with them, it would then seem improper… unbefitting of proper etiquette, to leave amidst their course." Flashing a congenial smile, he finished his spiel. "If what interests you is the prince's swan, then how about seeing it after the proceedings are done? If time is on our side, they will not take long."
The princess closed her eyes, a hand holding her chin as she thought.
"Hm… I suppose you are right." Her eyelids opened, settling their gem-blue irises on the swan. "But only if Heos lets me pet him first… hehe." She chuckled, cheekily, raising her hands in front of the bird, inching closer.
Heos looked at the bird, then back at his sister, then, back at Mr. Swan.
"Mr. Swan, would you let her pet you?"
The princess merely uttered a "huh?" as she stopped, watching as the prince took in a moment of silence.
"He said he doesn't mind."
Annika smiled, stepping beside the bird. Gently ruffling the swan's pure white feathers, she cooed, evidently pleased.
'So soft…' She thought, then, of her brother. 'I suppose Heos can not only look cute… he can also act cutely when doing the occasional childish thing… hehe.' Heos was definitely a cute child —it did not help he looked quite alike a doll… however, his strange behavior didn't really add up to her fantasies of having a cute younger brother, lisping and attached to her, calling her elder sister… She had come to terms with it.
"I'll let you get to your proceedings…" Sharpening her tone in jest, she posed her eyes on Heos. "Don't think I forgot you ran from me while we were playing…!"
She turned, and with a "Hmph!" walked down a corridor.
'But we weren't playing… you were just chasing me.' The prince thought.
Grateful, the guard thanked his luck. The princess had not noticed the evident; bringing a swan into the chambers of a formal proceeding was, of course, against etiquette.
"Then… let us continue, prince Heos."
The child nodded.
*
The chamber was rather wide. Gilded, yet notably less extravagant than the rest of the old, grandiose palace, built in the shape of Alexandre's whims.
Acolytes sat at one side. Besides them, separated by a gap, a somewhat smaller group of men. Pale blue robes covering them, as phantoms dressed in slivers of sky, and led by an old figure, sat on the first row of their formation. Hanging bijouterie of glass and silver, shaped like birds, adorning him. His old hands steady, as they played with a paled lily, holding its stem. A pleasant, kindly smile on his face.
At his side, in white tunic, another old… no, ancient man, sat. Like sculpted from the wrinkled, knotted bark of a millenary tree. Hunched even sitting, his eyes closed by the weight of his brow, and spindly, yet abundant, long white hair —adorned by the verdant leaves of an oak—, fell onto his shoulders. His wrinkled, rugged palms cradled something, which moved, and from moment to moment, cried out a pleasant song, sharp and spotted, cutting the chamber's air. A tawny wren, at ease in the ancient man's clasp. Resting by the side of his seat, a cane, made from a gnarled branch.
All these, men of faith, looked at odds with the palace, its aristocratic regalia, its golden hue, its marbled body, a contrast to the austerity of their somewhat anachronic appearance.
Perhaps the only one who, thanks to his vibrancy —even in old age—, and bleeding robes, melded into the palace's skin, was Étienne, the Hierophant.
Atop a wide dais, two masterfully carved chairs, with red upholstery in red kaspeir wool, were placed; small side tables by their sides; some parchments and ink and so on… on them. On one, ahead of the group of acolytes, sat the old Étienne. And, before him, on the opposing camp, lay an unfamiliar man. His red-hair, bleeding, fiery, crystal-like… braided here and there, with rings of silver for finery… his clear green eyes as leaves of emerald. Dressed in a strange, dark-blue robe… royal blue, like the sea on a stormy night. His clean-shaven features were… strange. For all who looked at him would see him as normal, comely even, yet, would find something… something strange and hidden, which eluded words.
Above even them, a raised platform on the dais held four more chairs. One, central, raised, more a throne than a chair, had in its grasp the king of Romanse: Alphonse XVI. At his left wing, Roderin de Lamartine and… Otto Alle Bassáth, sitting as diplomatic link between Hygeia and Verdanaie. The last chair, unoccupied, at his right.
Étienne glared at the red headed youth sat in front of him. Alphonse looked forwards, ahead into nothing, bored. While Roderin seemed somewhat expectant, Bassáth maintained a grey expression.
The wren sang.
"Suidrys, why bring that animal in with you?"
"Does its song bother you, Étienne?" The gnarled, ancient man asked, his voice surprisingly spry for his venerable age.
Opening a hand, the wren jumped on his fingers, singing ever more beautifully, as if to spite the Hierophant.
"Do you intend to daze the prince with an animal, like some street magician?" A despondent chuckled accompanied his sharp words.
"It was an augury… that which led me to bring him today." He petted the bird… it seemed to nuzzle into his thin, aged fingers. "I have no intent to daze the young prince, that, if anything, is this fellow's task." His left hand rose, almost creaking, and pointed at the red-headed youth, who smiled.
"Hm! The prince may be bright, this matter, however, is not vain enough to consign to his whims." Holding his brows he continued. "A child is a child."
"Oh, yes, yes…" The ancient voiced, agreeing with Étienne, the mocking derision in his aged tone clear.
The Hierophant's accusatory gaze rested, once again, on the young man.
"What was your name, druwid?"
"Vaengrimur Vidðr. Hierophant Étienne… Bellegarde de Montferrand, was it?" His already notable smile flashed, somewhat coldly. "Although you may call me Vaen, Hierophant, as I know boreal names may be bitter on your tongue." He gesticulated, his hands freely moving. "I am not a druwid, Hierophant Étienne… a Goði, that is my order."
'The name… like a drunk muttering a curse. Truly a gothi.' Étienne thought to himself.
"Why is it that the Verdanaiese have sent a Gothi…? a youth, no less. What has happened to Druwid Arvern?"
"The admirable Arch Druwid Arvern has been ferried into his next life…" The placid smile did not leave his lips. "As for my being envoy… It is improper to speak of one's own character…"
'So, he will not say. Matters not.'
The doors creaked open, wide, pushed apart by a royal guard. A grey tome missing from his hands.
'Finally.' Étienne sat upright. "Very well, le—"
All eyes were placed on the prince as he entered, his figure and face blotted out, almost entirely, by the body of a beautiful mute swan, held, impossibly, in the child's arms. Black spring dirt, on his feet and, less noticeably, marking his white gown.
"What?"
It was Étienne who first spoke. Then, a bright laugh washed away the silence proceeding the old Hierophant's exclamation.
It was Alphonse, cackling.
The ancient venerable, silent, had his old, bark-skin upturned into a smile, as the wren jumped around his hand, chirping happily.
Roderin sighed, his face falling onto his open hands.
Bassáth and the acolytes watched, confused, not quite understanding that which they saw.
The augur name-singer and the blue robed men all gleefully whispered, animated by the vista.
"His Majesty, Prince of Romanse, Heos Pallas-Maria Phaëtos von der Wölfli-Loggia." The guard declared; pride and deference tinting his tone.
Heos continued forward, walking, tranquil, the swan in his hands. He stepped above the dais, then, above the raised platform, and, finally, sat on the rightmost chair to his father, the king.
The swan extended its wings, adjusting himself to the prince's lap, then roused. His black-pearl eyes, like mirrors of obsidian.
The young Goði never had his smile erased. A mask, stuck by art of magic to his visage.
It was when seated that the prince noticed a strange phenomenon. The image of the fire-haired Goði flickered, in and out of existence, much as a reflection on a pond, rent apart by disturbed waters.
The sunlit threads of flame that composed his mane, were superimposed, in flashing blinks, with white, pure, unmarred locks. His rosy skin turned ashen, pale, old; although inexplicably bereft of wrinkles, as the old always had. His verdant eyes, two copper flames, dulled, until they were buried under his sinking eyelids, and snow-white eyebrows.
Notably, his tunic stayed as it was, swirling independently from the flashing forms of his appearance. A maelstrom of living dark blues, the calamitous northern sea, raging, seeking to stretch its arms into land.
Heos, used to visions, did not say much at all, and merely observed, interested.
'Magic.'
The flickering figure turned its neck, their sights crossing.
A kind smile. But hidden in its shape a…
'Do you see?'
'Yes.' The prince's cold, devouring eyes responded, enamored by the magic he had declared as real.
The flashing figure settled on the old sage. Of course, to the eyes of the symposium, the young Goði remained, nodding and smiling to greet the prince.
"I must ask, is this a ploy?" Étienne wondered out loud. "This, unnecessary, ridiculous, heavy-handed symbolism?"
"I know not of what you speak, Hierophant Montferrand. Do you imply I would ask my child haul an adult swan across this palace, only to justify his fýrian education?" Alphonse derisively retorted, ignoring the fact that these theatrics were something he would, most definitely, indulge in. "It is really so incomprehensible that my son may have a pet?" His tone turned colder. "You conceive this as a manufactured miracle, mixing in your mind the extraordinary and the mundane, only because you cannot settle for a proper reason, cause of this… event." His hand waved. "There are enough explanations, godly or human, for the sight. Do not burden me with your own doubt."
Étienne, undeterred, maintained a scrutinizing glare on Alphonse.
"Also, Hierophant Montferrand, I care not enough to do something of this sort."
"Then what do you propose as the cause of this little play?" His voice, dripping with accusation.
"Heos is my child, and great, great-grandson of the Hyperion Hellian. Is it not to be expected that he be extraordinary…? as, for example, dominate wild beasts and carry the weight of an adult swan as a child of six?" His voice settled down, his eyes now bored with the Hierophant. "I have seen things far stranger… things Aamártus has classified as divine works." His face flashed. "You, Goði, what do you think of this?"
"It is a clear augury, Your Majesty. The prince is certainly loved by the gods."
Étienne scoffed.
"Yes? And why is that so?"
"Alphonse, will you truly entertain this folly? As an athalic royal, great-grandson of a Hyperion… must you really?" The Hierophant's tone, accusative, even somewhat pained.
"Yes, I am all those things. Which is why this folly will not move me… I am curious, merely." He signaled the Goði to continue.
"I desire not to dissolve this symposium into a regaling of comparative mythology. So as to be brief, I will say little more than a generality, then mention, with some depth that which is relevant to my station, as an óðratruar…" He cleared his throat. "First, I must mention a more… biological assertion. The swan is a haughty, aggressive bird… perhaps even cruel, as I've heard some call it. Yet, it has bent to the prince, as a companion. Being of note, it should be considered…" His open palm signaling the animal. "In fýrian myth, the swan is many things. A psychopomp, a marvel of love, a symbol of virility, a transformed spirit, sorcerer, or human… a vessel for the soul of a worthy. As for the óðratruar… the Valkyries serve the Asagrim, dressed among mortals in álptarhamr… that is, the plumage of swans, taking the shape of swans. This is most relevant to you, Your Highness, after all, are you not a warlike king? To have your son be beloved by the Maidens. Well, it is an augury, is it not?"
Alphonse hummed.
"Interesting… Although you certainly exaggerate. And this animal is male… curious nonetheless."
The red-headed "youth" maintained a smile.
"Now, Étienne, what have you say?" One hand propped on his "throne's" armrest, the other one gestured, deferring to the Hierophant.
"Fýrian theology, mythology… I will comment not on such things. I will, however, remind that fýrian faiths are foreign to Romanse. Even if their variations and doctrines are professed by allies to this kingdom, they are foreign. To allow a prince, no matter how minor, to be raised with foreign belief…" His head shook, weary. "Romanse is the heartland of Athalicism, bearing numerous Hyperions; the blood of its dynasty tied to Aamartús, closer than any other, more than allies, the Noble City and Romanse are bound, vowed to each other." His tone rose, just enough to add a brilliant weight to his words. "To allow a foreign kingdom to educate a prince, is it not a terrible humiliation? An intrusion into Romanse's sovereignty…" His eyes pierced into the king. "Alphonse, here, you and I shared the sights of a true miracle… we have gazed upon true divinity. Forget not the truth. Would you allow your son, the only one you truly love, be taken by delusion and superstition?"
Before the king, whose eyes had widened —a sight seldom seen, cause of his indifferent, cold disposition— could speak, the ancient, wizened man spoke. The wren still chirped, settled on his hand.
"Étienne, it hurts me… you call fýrian faiths foreign to Romanse? Am I a mere scarecrow to you?" His aged tone managed to impart some sarcasm to his words. "Was it when Aamartús conquered and butchered this land's fýrians that we became foreign?"
"You speak with such pain Suidrys, yet, as old as you are, you are not ancient enough to have seen such sights, or to have felt an Athalic blade singe your neck." His voice turned remarkably aggressive. "Need I remind the atrocities these ancient druwids of yours committed? the flowing blood, the human sacrifice…?" His head turned, spurring the ancient man. "And yet, it is not a romansean druwid whom the high king proposed for the prince's educator, but a verdanaiese gothi. He shall be educated in the boreal faith. What are your words worth then, Suidrys?"
The Goði in question sought to repel the Hierophant's argument.
"Hierophant Étienne… the records of the Aamarteser wars of conquest were written by the conquerors themselves, you would surely see why some would… accuse these sources of untrustworthiness. And, although I do not fault you for being ignorant to the specifics of fýrian theology, the Interpretatio Mystica, does allow for… perennial understanding. I was instructed, either way, to not only educate the prince as an óðratruar, but as a druwid too."
"And this is supposed to be a statement in your favor? Your slander of Aamarteser sources is terribly ignorant, are the verdanaiese academies truly in decadence, as I hear? you see…"
As the men discussed, a parallel world lay bare to the prince, as if all that these holy men saw were but the sun's reflection, trapped in the mercurial glass of their irises.
A youthful voice discussed with the Hierophant, yet, to his sight, the voice's source, the old sage, dressed in his tempestuous, living robe, made not a movement, his lips still.
Then, a whisper. The sage thrummed something, a word which escaped his ears. Heavy, baritone, incandescent… the air rippled in some strange way. It woke him, dragging from the depths of a night sea, as he remembered… What was it? A dream? Old aged hands holding him as he flew. A dull, painless burning in his mind, which turned vistas into vapor.
The thought had not yet cobbled itself together, when… a flower. A dog rose, a wild rose, the royal flower of Romanse, bloomed, held by empty air, its petals uncoiling from pure nothingness, shaking slightly as the bud took on its complete, brilliant form.
It fell, as a severed head, onto Mr. Swan's white plumage, onto his lap.
'A wild rose…'
What else could he think?
Cradling the flower, with calyx and all, rested in his palms, yet missing its stem.
Then, hundreds burst, coming into being, filling the chamber with the scent of spring. Pleasant, perfumed, earthy…
'Magic.'
The scene took his breath.
Voices still discussed, unseeing, unhearing, unfeeling, as if the flowers were not.
A dozen buds bloomed, held on by the Hierophants skin. He spoke, nonetheless, even as the petals marred his face and tangled his lips.
"It is impossible to dismiss physicu—" He stopped, his tongue tied. "Physucle… Physikle…" He dragged his hands over his lips, thinking something to be obstructing their movement.
'Nothing…' He thought.
The prince eyed as a couple of flowers fell, excised from the Hierophant's lips by the gesture.
"Physical…"
The words halted once again.
His lips had begun to bleed.
"Huh…?"
The Goði spoke, concern in his tone.
"Are you all right, Hierophant Étienne?"
Even within the perfectly worried tone, Montferrand could not help but suspect, sense some goading, some… sadism? lighting Vaengrimur's eyes.
With suspicion, his gaze squinting, he answered.
"Frédéric…" His thumb sought to stall the blood. "Yes, Gothi Vaen, I am quite alright."
The acolyte rose, concerned, and held a white handkerchief to the Hierophant´s lips, as it halted the blood's flow.
Étienne took the cloth, signaling his acolyte to sit once more.
And, as he was to continue his arguments, the wren sung, sharp, bright, cutting apart the air, and flew, unfettered, onto the prince, and sat atop his cupped hands. Singing, singing…
'Pretty…' The prince thought, as he looked at the wren, nesting in the wild rose. It appeared to look at him, all the while, singing, its black-button eyes focused.
"I can't understand you…" The prince lamented. "Can you Mr. Swan?" He whispered.
"Somewhat… It seems fond of you, somehow?"
The little wren nuzzled against his finger.
"Suidrys…"
"Étienne, before I am accused, ponder a while… For all my worship, the gods have not yet blessed me, allowing me to converse with birds… Could I have really ordered this little wren to fly over to the prince?"
The augur name-singer by his side chuckled. The blue robes behind whispering, animated, jovial at the sight of the bird's flight.
The Hierophant's eyes turned morose, accusatory, resigned.
"Am I ignorant enough to believe that birds cannot be trained?' He rebutted Suidrys, venom in his tone.
As he held his head with a hand, his cheek suddenly bled, at two, three spots, like a newly discovered spring, gushing out.
He held the cloth to his face, confused.
"Is this some sickness or…?" The Goði asked. "Did you shave haphazardly this morn, Hierophant Étienne?"
It seemed the words had not even reached him, for he continued to wipe away the blood, vexed.
Roderin, until then composed, found the sight bizarre… this was not the nature of normal proceedings… A swan? A wren? The Hierophant bleeding, without apparent cause? Why did such things, when related to the prince, appear so strange, and… incongruent?
Bassáth, in a similar disposition, did not know what to think, yet kept a composed appearance, undisturbed.
The acolytes looked worried, of course, at the bleeding Hierophant.
It was Lamartine who spoke.
"Hierophant Montferrand, if it is of enough gravity, why not declare an intermission? Suspend the symposium for today, and continue tomorrow?"
"An intermission will not be necessary, Minister de Lamartine." Putting down the handkerchief, he stared, inquisitively, at the "youth" in front. Accusing him with little more than his eyes.
The Goði smiled, unperturbed.
"Yes, it will not be necessary." The king, animated, straightened in his "throne". "Although this is a symposium, there was never a reason to debate on history, or theology. I believe you two…" He pointed, languid, at the holy men, sat opposite of one and another. "have… how do some say? Lost the plot…?"
"I see… my apologies, Your Majesty, they were most enjoyable topics, Hierophant Étienne is a good conversationalist." The Goði spoke.
"Alphonse, this is of utmost importance. You should have history, faith, truth! As your motivators for this decision, not the childish whims which so often possess you." No one else would dare speak to the king in this manner… Alphonse, however, allowed it; mainly because it was Étienne, and, of course, because he had grown bored of heavy, stuffy, court language.
"No, no." The king laughed. "A motivator? For me? Again, you are incorrect, Étienne. He whom you should seek to convince is not me… but, him." His hand, steady, pointed at Heos, whose focus was held, almost solely, on the wren. At the mention of his name, the boy's head rose, and looked at his father, curious.
Roderin looked somewhat pained at the king's words.
"What?" Étienne, truly, did not understand.
"Allow me to declare, Hierophant, that, even lacking piety, I, with what my eyes have seen, could nary cut, from my soul, belief. Athalic, yes, I am. You need convince me not… I will allow Heos to choose, nonetheless. This was always my intention."
A sigh. Exasperated, tired. Tired…
"Alphonse, you fool, why indulge in this idiocy…?" He did not even place his sight on the king, his brows buried, tired, in his palm. They had begun to bleed. He cared not, however. "Is it because of the Austaufangr girl…?"
"You really think so little of me, Étienne…" His eyes turned glassy, as his gaze rose. "You really only ever heard what you wished…"
Whatever these words meant, they infuriated the Hierophant, who now, irate, but silent, buried an angered look into the king.
Alphonse spoke, measuredly, respectfully, as if reciting scripture from memory.
"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… 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."
The Hierophant's scornful look dissolved, a strand of blood making it to his lips.
"Well, Heos, from which of these two do you wish to learn?" He asked his son, smiling.
The prince settled the rose, the bird, on the swan's feathers, then, immediately, void of doubt, he pointed.
"Him."
The Goði kept his smile.
The wren sung its beautiful song.
Étienne shook his head, feeling a fool, having sought to change something, he now felt, was predestined…
Was it just Alphonse's folly, or…
'God…'
Like swimming against the currents of the world.
He wiped the blood away.
'Tired…'
Another chirp.
'Dammed wren.'