Frédéric tilted his head, as Étienne whispered something to his ear. The other acolytes conversed, unnerved.
Alphonse sat, discussing in low voice with Roderin. Bassáth looked ahead, bored, something indeterminate crossing the sights in his mind.
The fýrians formed around their own. Blue robes happily conversing. The young Goði congenially smiled, chuckling, here and there, exchanging pleasantries with the name-singer. The ancient listened in, not too different from a living statue. His chest still. One could not tell if life had left him; his breath extinguished.
Heos stood, the wren jumping into flight, returning to the hands of the gnarled old man, who received it, inexpressive, his fingers raising slightly as the bird perched on their aged arcs.
The prince still held Mr. Swan.
"Lad, I appreciate you carrying me… I can walk, however. Are you not tired?"
"No…?"
"Oh." The swan ceased, posing no further opposition. It seemed Heos enjoyed ferrying him around.
Walking ahead, the prince arrived at the three fýrian figures; as a scene taken from the ancient continent's past; robed elders of some tribe, discussing the operation of the stars. Or it would be, if not for the extravagant palace, that held them —a gilded cage—, as exotic animals, pilfered from a hidden garden.
His voice interrupted their exchange.
"Hello."
The three men turned; even the ancient, whose neck creaked, to line with the space the prince shared with the swan.
"Teach me."
And although it was clearly understood by tall, the mage, hidden behind his mask, truly knew what the prince asked. Not to learn of God, or the gods, but of magic; that which he had made evident, clear, to his eyes. The wild flowers littering the chamber still.
How sharp were Heos' eyes. Their cold blue brume fashioned into blades by desire. The desire to know, coloring his frigid features, the snow-blemished airs of indifference he carried with himself anywhere he stepped.
The swan, sunny, clear, light, contrasted to the voracious temperament the prince had, suddenly, unveiled… with only three words, he had built this sense.
Like a painting made flesh.
To his gaze only the sage appeared to exist.
"Prince Heos, although you may be curious… interested, to learn, your lessons will not start just yet. And, even if they were, I must attend to other duties before I install myself, here, in Hygeia, to serve as your tutor."
"No. Teach me now." An order. The weight of capriciousness, tinged in aristocracy, so evident, mingling, in this young prince.
The sage laughed.
The augur looked unimpressed, his expression a slight frown. The ancient, yet, maintained his inscrutable visage… carved out of timeworn wood.
How to reprimand this child…? who was as blue-blooded as one could be.
"It is good to be strong willed Prince Heos… One should understand, nonetheless, even with a steely temperament, that certain things cannot be forced. Man, as stubborn as he may be, cannot lead the sun to rise or set." The old augur imparted his wisdom to the prince.
The Goði laughed at this hard-earned lesson, born from the name-singer's long life. None heard him, of course, except for the child.
It was, then, the ancient's turn to speak.
"Child, if you wish for others to give you things, you must convince them that your favor is theirs. This is not achieved, first, without negotiation, and flexibility, the creation of a pleasant image. Especially if you desire to build a long, long, lasting relationship with whomever it may be. Would it not be best to acquiesce to this man, your teacher, first, as to be in his good graces?" Although these words of wisdom sounded, certainly, like those to come from an old sage, an avid ear, supernaturally so, would note something else… as if they were spoken in jest… or rather, with little more than feigned sincerity, like thrown bait, to see what effect they would have… how they would perturb their recipient's mind.
The prince, hearing these two morsels of sagely advice, showed… irritation, perhaps provoked by their earthly lessons?
He sharpened the hiemal blue of his sight, turning to the two fýrians. Not a word was spoken, yet, they understood, how he held transparent disdain for their lessons…
Did he construe them, even, as that? As a thing wisdom was trying to impart? To mold him by?
To his senses they were, possibly, just an untimely obstacle, two intruders to his desires.
The all so common capriciousness of a child. Especially one as arbitrary, fickle… spoiled?, as this blue-blooded spawn of royalty. The name-singer theorized
'A pity…' He lamented.
Yet… to him who would care to look deeper, it did not feel as the simple, fanciful whims of a child.
Spirit…
Was this what the ancient wished to find?
A child is a lord, a tyrant, pure in act…
Heos returned his pressuring eyes to the sage.
"Vaengrimur" spoke, sounds hidden by magic from the chamber's ears.
"It is soon time for you to learn. Do you believe I decided, on a whim, to present myself here, now? Go on. Is there not something you must do before you step into magic?"
A smile, ever-present, congealed.
Heos expression softened.
He ran off. A guard, who had stood there, so loyal to his apparently trivial task —a door-sentry— he had turned invisible, and unmoving, even with such a bizarre symposium, opened, for him, the gates, which he crossed, trotting, seeking something else.
'And all other princes and princesses had turned out so well… It had to be the half-verdanaiese child…? Let's hope he outgrows this… wildness…' The name-singer mused.
He caught sight of the ancient. Smiling. A content, pleased smile.
'The nostalgia of old age perhaps…? Ha! I shouldn't say much, as an ageing man myself.'
His head shook, a small, self-deprecating smile, accompanying its swing.
"Will you go now?" The Ancient asked.
"Yes, venerable Suidrys, I must leave. This was a victory for fýrians in our kingdom. A fýrian prince…" His smile turned clearer, hopeful. "I must take my leave. Thank you, Goði Vidðr" He directed a respectful bow to the "youth".
"Fraternity amongst us is most important, Augur, think little of it." The Goði responded.
Another set of cheerful bows, then, greetings and goodbyes, solemn, to the king, who waved them away, uninterested. The augur was soon gone, the blue robes following behind.
"Goði Vidðr, would you accompany me for a conversation, as we tour the palace?"
That strange smile still adorning him, the "youth" responded.
"Of course, venerable Suidrys… however, should we not ask the king?"
The ancient showed an eloquent expression, making him understand, it would not be a problem.
"Your Majesty, I would ask for your grace, as to tour this beautiful palace with our verdanaiese guest."
Was the rhyme intentional? One wondered.
Alphonse interrupted his conversation, halting, seconds away from telling something or other to Roderin.
"Go."
He returned, continuing his words.
"See?"
The ancient rose with the Goði's help, and held, with his right, hooked, the "youth's" arm, balancing himself on his gnarled cane with the other. The wren, on his shoulder, chirped, perched.
*
"Let's sit here…" On a cracked stone. Placed —who knows when—, in this flowered field, surrounded by the sycamore tree line. The shade of a willow above. "Is the spring not pleasant?"
"Certainly." "The "youth" agreed.
The ancient held both hands over his gnarled cane, holding himself even when sat.
The wren, the wren… chirping.
"What did you wish to discuss, venerable Suidrys?"
Until then they had conversed merely in pleasantries and small talk.
"Please… to be called venerable by a fellow as you… it is improper." His eyes, hidden, lost themselves in the sunlit field. A glimmering butterfly fluttered, as if weighed down by the light. "What did you think of the prince's temperament?"
"Certainly a willful young man… Outré. Blessed."
"A fýrian." His voice paused. "Men cannot be convinced. They grow to believe that which burns in the same colour as their soul… Apologetics are impotent, as is discourse, tradition… even love… that is why we lost our ancient Romanse… The athalic conquest was not of bodies, but of spirits!" He punctuated himself with a "Hmph!". "A born fýrian. Blessed, willful and cruel, desirous and curious, terrible, noble… Is this why you have chosen him?"
A smile, unperturbed.
"You seem to know much about a child who has not spoken a word to you? As for what you ask… what a strange question… whatever could you mean?" The wren jumped to the youth's outstretched finger. Its song more at home in the open air.
"With enough age and clarity, all men become transparent. Children, more so, as they are unimpeded and true." A hand left his cane, its index pointing skywards. "Do not treat me as more of a fool than I am." A pale flame, floating, magical, above his finger's tip. "I never had much talent for it. And chose, as a youthful coward, the secular, blinded too brightly by the magical." The weak flame dissipated, his hand held its cane once more. "I preferred my own cove of godliness…" Was it regret that illuminated his aged, rugged expression?
"Yes. This was one of the reasons for my choice. I waited, and watched… I had to confirm." The smile finally vanished, though the "youth" remained. "As for the others… I won't tell." A finger to his lips, and the smile, brought back.
"I thought so…" A smile, him, too, in chorus. "A miracle…"
"Is this why you wished to speak?"
"Curiosity… I did wonder why the gods blessed me with such age." Gleeful, content… "Was it to see this moment, as grand recompense for my faith… my love?"
"Who knows…"
"Perhaps I am just a blabbering old man… though I must be little more than a child to you."
The "youth" laughed.
"Age, age… I wish to think I was frozen, crystallized at the moment of greatest beauty… like everlasting spring." A singing hum. "If the case is so, as with many, who eternally seek that inspiration, that madness… I would not be older than this youth you see me as…"
A smiling sigh, from the ancient.
"You talk of things I do not understand."
"Neither do I."
The wren's song, as it flew back to Suidrys' shoulder.
"I am curious… what did you show the child…? as you have noticed, I see little, nothing… an atrophied spirit must have such effects…"
"Oh, well, it was a… vernal sight. I purified the chamber with some beautiful flowering…"
A whisper. The ancient felt it shake… behind himself, as the shape of his being, the space… no, behind this space lay it, perturbed by this command, cracking, molding, blistering, changing shape.
A single wild rose burst from the air, slowly falling into his hands, clasping his cane.
"Ha…"
The sun, warmth… What a brilliant day.
"Then, let's return. I must do my rites once I arrive. I've grown tired… It was a fruitful day. Age comes not alone."
"Vaengrimur" sat up, first, helping the ancient stand. Once Suidrys had clasped his arm, and held his cane, tight, they returned, pleasantly gilded by the spring… like a god's smile.
Chirp.
A bird's chant…
*
Once again, he had evaded Annika.
"Will she not be mad at you, Heos, once you return?"
"I will take some time… if she is angry, it will pass."
"As in?" Mr. Swan felt a premonition… Was Heos about to try something mad?
He walked among the sycamores.
"I want to go into the forest. I want to see what is there… behind the trees, the dark…"
Before, he had believed it to be hallucinations, but, after years, and accepting magic, as he had, the forest Heos claimed to see became a reality in his mind, even if his swan eyes could not capture it… show it to him.
Yes, a bad feeling.
"I would advise against it lad… I have never seen it, yes… yet, call it a premonition… you should not go."
"But I'm curious…"
If he could sigh, he would.
"Why this sudden curiosity… after five years?"
"Because of magic… the forest is real, it is magic. I want to see it."
"In that case, why not bring warmer clothes, food? well… anything, really."
Heos stopped.
"You're right Mr. Swan." The prince looked down, at his bare feet, sinking, slightly, in the spring earth.
Thinking for a moment, he looked back. The forest of sycamores extending behind…
"But we're too far… and I want to go now…" A pout, then, a resolute gaze.
He continued forward.
"Lad…"
"It'll be okay Mr. Swan."
Mr. Swan wondered what that big fellow who always followed the prince thought of this… he had been strangely still this day, as far as he had seen, and was not talking down the prince… well, not talking down… more like, staring down, the prince. It just rested, coiled, neck to neck with the child… as if asleep.
It would definitely not be okay.
But what could he say. He worried for the prince, yet, it would be easier to… do something difficult… he lacked a simile. And even with the foreboding feeling, what could he do?
"Heos, if any danger arises, run back, nothing else, nothing more, please… just run back. You can always return to the forest, but you can never return back to life…"
The prince smiled.
"Okay Mr. Swan."
The sycamore forest ended.
The lake, up ahead.
Ms. Swan waited for them. Their cygnets nested on her back, covered by her wings.
Heos trotted.
The sun vanished, dressed in black by the dark, deep, canopy.
Knotted roots and cotton grass.
The obsidian mirror, spilled onto the earth.
"Hello Ms. Swan."
"Hello Dear."
The child lowered the swan onto the waters, it glided, stretching back its legs, its feet. Human affairs were interesting, but he preferred his lake, the animal thought.
"My love… Heos wants to go into the forest… the one only he sees."
"Good luck dear."
"What?" Mr. Swan was at a loss, he whispered. "Talk him out of it! It's dangerous!" Exclamations muffled by his hushed tone.
"My love… it is dangerous, but, of course, eventually, he would want to explore this… forest." If swans had lips, one would see her smile. "And something tells me… something, I don't know what, that he will be fine."
Again… if only he could sigh.
"Thank you, Ms. Swan." Heos spoke.
"Lad, remember. Run."
An "Mhm" and a nod, all he answered back.
Undeterred, he watched the dark. A veil of forested night, with uncharted depth, hiding… what? He wanted to know… what, what?
In that unlit expanse… it waited for him.
Excitement… he trembled.
The first step.
A cotton grass flower swayed as he walked past.