"Lad, wait…"
"Hm?" The prince turned. His body still contorted, lightly twisted, to give way for the shape of his first step.
"I'll go with you."
A somewhat irrelevant idea. What could a swan do?
The prince, nonetheless, mulled it over. A finger, like a needle of silver, resting on his alabaster chin.
"No."
He declared, smiling.
"Wuh…?" Was all the swan answered.
"I want to go on my own."
The forest's silence tainted their exchange. Mr. Swan thought…
"Well… very well…" His voice distended, turning much lighter, nonchalant. "Go on then."
And, waving, adorned with a "Goodbye, Mr. and Ms. Swan.", the child took his second step.
His third, fourth…
Without looking back.
Soon the forest had clothed him in its dark.
Yet, to the swan's eyes —who still prayed the forest to be nothing more than child's fantasy—, shook, for the prince, walking down the lake's coast, had disappeared.
No fluttering, no repeated flickering until he vanished.
The prince had simply been there… and then… not.
As if he had fallen into the empty air.
"What?"
Ms. Swan was smiling. One could tell she was smiling, even through her unmoving beak. Of course, given one could understand swans, first.
"I told you."
Mr. Swan still eyed the shore, unbelieving.
*
"Hmm…"
He tripped.
Too absorbed. Drowning his sight into the dark heaven above.
"Ow…"
Beside him, his eyes leveled to the earth, cottongrass swaying beside.
Still lain against the pale hay-grass.
"Hey, Swan… are you there…? Are you sleeping?"
The phantasm did not answer.
'Strange.'
Rising…
'I tripped on that root…'
A jutting woody root, like a knot, bursting, climbing up, upon the earth.
His foot was bruised now.
Step… step, step.
'It's cold… no.'
It wasn't cold, nor warm. Tepid air, shimmering.
He still did not understand how he was able to see.
Humming a song while hopping. His excitement had steadied, his curiosity still raged on.
"Why is it nothing but forest?"
He intended to ask Swan.
Asleep, the creature rested, coiled.
The trees had transformed. From their green-copper skin to pale ochre bark, like washed out gold, anemic and ancient.
He had to climb. A wall of rising earth and twinning roots grew ahead. He could go around but…
'I want to climb.'
One step up.
Two.
Holding by his small, pale hands.
Another.
Earth settling below his fingernails.
Dirt covering his milk-white gown.
'Hup…!'
There. He had climbed.
'Fun…'
Ahead… the grassy-hay had disappeared, turned green, deep. An outgrown carpet of moss and verdant… something.
It felt much better against his feet.
Even then.
Darkness.
Dark, dark, dark.
As trees rose from oblivion and into view… even as the moss-carpeted earth kept spilling from the forest's black maw…
Dark.
Beyond the canopy… was the sun still there? Or had it sunk, tired, unseen, into the nothingness ahead?
He was the only gold, swimming, lighting all he passed through. Ivory, porcelain, blue mist, sun-blushed platinum, flakes of jade.
Perhaps because of this he heard…
Like a kitten meowing…
Turning, in a tree-hollow, peeking out: the small, angular head of a little owl; burning discs of pollen composing its colored irises.
Tawny feathers barred white and grey.
He recognized it, the little owl. Appearing among flocks in the collection of Romanse's Birds.
'Pretty…'
Stopping to watch it.
How surprising. He believed himself to be the only other living thing —except for cotton grass and shrooms, trees, moss and grass— in this forest.
"Hello."
"Hello child."
Deep. Voice as a stone. A timeless sound, incongruent with the little owl's shape.
Round, sharp… somehow annoyed.
'Owls and swans… No other waterfowls I've seen, and no wrens. No sparrows either…'
"Hello." Heos repeated.
Some silence.
"Hello child."
The owl's unchanging tone.
"Why can I understand you?"
Its head tilted, impossibly, at an angle.
"You are a mage, yes?"
"No…" Scratching his head, he wondered. "Maybe…?" A hum. "I am magical… But a mage…? What is a mage?"
"Whoever performs magic?"
"Uh…" What were these answers? "And what is magic?"
"What a mage performs…?"
Was this owl mocking him? Or was it just stupid?
He was losing interest in talking with the bird.
"Why would you think me a mage for being able to understand you?"
"I don't think you a mage, child. You are one. At least to my eyes. The world shimmers around you…" It preened, for a moment, with its talons. "It is also a hunch… owls get hunches like these, you see…"
"Why?"
"We are wise birds."
"I can understand you… I can't understand other birds."
"Then you have either endeavored —through diligent study—, to understand the voice of owls —which seems impossible, given you cluelessness—, or… most likely, possess a preternatural affinity towards us." Its talon rose, to point at the child. "Swans, as well, I presume, seeing that…" Its black pupils dilated, then contracted, shaking with their motion its pollen irises "whatever it is that clings round you…"
Heos stroked Swan's feathers, the phantasm still asleep.
"Do you mean Swan?"
"Yes,"
"He's my friend."
It stayed silent for some breaths.
"Whatever it may be to you… that thing is not a swan."
"What?"
The owl spoke no further.
Seeing the bird choose silence, Heos asked it an unrelated question. Perhaps it would cure his aimless wandering?
"How do I leave this forest?"
"Hm? By walking out of it?"
'…'
Silence…
"Mr. Owl, are you stupid?"
"Hmph!" It clanged its beak. "Wisdom appears worthless to fools." It preened, again. "But what should I expect? Even if a mage…"
Heos sharpened his sight, frowning.
"Then, could you tell me how to walk out of the forest?"
A light song, though sharp, filled the air once again.
Like a little, lost kitten meowing.
"I'll take pity on you, child. Follow me."
"Okay…"
The bird took flight, from tree to tree. Sometimes stepping, with its little talons —most humorously— across branches, leading Heos.
"Hey, Mr. Owl, why do you know of magic? Other birds I talked to are not familiar with it."
"Us owls are divine beings. Magic is inexorably tied to divinity." He asserted, haughty.
"Inecs— Ineks— In… Inexorably." Heos repeated. "What's that?"
"Inevitable…" It stopped for a second, looking around, to orient itself. "We also have sharp eyes. Even mages cannot escape from our sight…"
"Hm…" Divinity… "Does that mean you know of gods…? god?"
Jumping over a root.
"Hmph! Who can claim to know of the gods? All we see are their traces… the lingering vapors of their breath as they walk past, before us, unfathomable."
'What's un— unf—athomable?'
"Really…?" He mused, for a second. "Well, what about god? What is the differ—"
His eyes, burning.
Cutting out the words, shielding his brow with a hand.
A summer sun, blazing in the sky.
Rending apart a few cotton cloud buds lazily floating above. Heating the azure sky, now lacking its black robes… it had escaped the forest's mouth.
"Hey, Mr. Owl."
Looking around…
He had left the forest, yet…
"Where…?"
The little owl was nowhere present.
The grand bleach-gold trees had disappeared, turned to angular facades and stone blocks.
The cobble street beneath, rough, jagged, now replaced the moss.
Behind him…
A wall, trash thrown around. Splintered wood, stones, rags… a wheel? Broken up barrels and something, foul smelling.
The unpolluted heaven was cordoned off by the alley's closing roofs. The facades and their pointed ends looking to pierce the sky… stunted, as they were, it was an impossible task.
These twisted buildings felt almost organic. Not as if they were built by masons… but sprang up, living, from the ground.
Ahead, a street. The alley, long, like a diseased vein, thin and shriveled, led to an artery, weakened, sickly, filled with moving figures dressed in drab. Some in near rags… dirtied and shorn.
What was that… horrible air?
Like a physical thing, oily and heavy, sticking to the air, the stones… not even the summer sun could burn it away.
The child stood still, thinking.
It was all alien, unthinkable.
Unfathomable.
Where was he? Where was this place? grey, foul, blistering.
A rugged youth seemed to catch him in his sight, pointing his soot dressed hand toward him.
The woman who held him —dressed in an oil-stained pastel dress, patched— did not turn, and pulled him through, down the street and out of view.
Something, a feeling, evident within him, whispered: this was no place to be.
His curiosity, however, contradicted this teetering voice.
These people, this place… What was it that tempted him?
A first word, one he rarely thought of, appeared in his mind. Its shape lingering behind his eyes.
'Ugly…'
How terribly, disgustingly ugly.
This and his palace were absolute opposites, in all manners. Shape, air, colors, state, odor…
How curious…
Woken from the reverie, he strutted down the alley, the growing mass of sound and movement threatening to take him, submerge him into the river-flow of walking forms; misery evident in their limping, tired struts, glaring out of their sunken, ashen eyes.
In a strange way, the sun, the new, unseen nature of this place drew him in.
A couple of steps and he had arrived, a figure almost colliding with him, angrily growling as he dodged and walked past.
Yet, when the figure —the man, dressed in a sweat stained worker's shirt, and black, patched up, cotton pantaloons— turned to look, he saw a profoundly strange sight. Like a porcelain doll, a little fairy made real, standing there, watching. Its sharp, blue, hazy look reading him over. A smile on its face, as it stood unperturbed, in a milky white gown —even if marred in dirt and some… hay? He could tell, this piece of fabric was of such quality… thinking of its price would sink him into bitterness.
That smile of genuine curiosity… healthy, clean skin, and bright, pale, pale gold hairs… like a fairy tale princess, standing out of place in a south side rough cobble street. Really… strange looking.
'A… condition? Or something…'
"Hello." Heos spoke.
A boy…
"Kid…"
"Where is this?"
Ignoring the question, he raised his eyes to peer into the alley extending behind the child. Light marking shadows up to an almost hidden wall.
"Kid…" His lips lightly parting, in confusion. 'This… this is some rich kid' What was he doing here? "Kid… are you… lost? Or?" Scratching his head. Had he gone crazy?
"Hello. I took a walk and ended here. Do you know where this is?"
'What's going on…?'
"Where you with your mother…?"
"No, Mr. Owl was leading me but…" Heos closed his eyes, thinking. "I guess I made it out and he didn't…"
'Mr. Owl?' Was that even a last name?
"Is that like your…" What was it? "Butler, or a servant…?"
The child tilted his head —much like the bird that had guided him—, in confusion.
"No? He's an owl… a little owl." He cupped his hands, showing the man the animal's size.
The passersby, usually uninterested in the hectic comings and goings around them, had started to notice the pair, talking. An out-of-place glimmer of pearly white.
A woman, emptying a latrine out a wood-shuttered hole —a window, no glass, of course— noticed the little snow-flake colored in pale gold.
An old man, dressed in rags, slumped over beside a butcher's stand, also noticed the anomaly.
A walking pair of delinquent youths stopped by. They glared at the child as he blissfully smiled.
A water bearer, two tin buckets at his hands as he carefully stumbled, lost concentration for, from the corner of his eye, he noticed some unblemished porcelain… no, a… child?
Slowly, the rue froze, bit by bit, as all began to notice Heos, standing, nonchalant.
'With these many people I doubt something would happen… right now. This kid is gonna get mugged, or worse…'
Resentment added on… he dreaded to think about it.
Stepping in front of Heos, to block him from the street's eyes.
"Kid, come." The man, hushed, ordered the child.
"Why?" Looking from behind the man, Heos raised his tone. "Hello. Where is thi—?"
The prince was pulled, suddenly, hauled behind the figure. His snow-white hand clasped in a rugged, calloused fist.
'Are all rich children such idiots?'
"Look, kid, I don' know what they teach 'all at home but blabbering in a south-street lookin' like you're worth a million écu if they sell you out…"
Walking, still, behind him, unmoved even when taken by force, Heos asked, curious.
"What is an écu?"
"Kid, for real? Money, like you're worth a lot of money."
"Oh… like gold?"
"Yes, yes! you get it, like gold."
"I am made of gold… yes."
"…What?"
The looks they had gotten started to fall behind, even then, they gained new stares of confusion as he dragged the child, like a meek lamb.
Walking faster, he wondered.
'What is this kid saying?' Pushing the thought to the back of his mind he mapped out their destination. 'No idea how he got here… I'll just drop him off at l'oublié and have the eidan call for a guard, or…'
He took a right, turning into a near empty street, at this time of day… Calming down his pace, then swerved into a thin, unused alley, behind du Coupeur… a notable mason's side street down the Flóxeuve's side. Only dregs of unused stone filled this alley, that and whatever trash the masonries could cram out of sight.
Now, going at a near still pace, he let go of Heos.
"Kid, now, for real. How'd ya' get 'ere? What about your mother…? Or father, or…"
'Ow… this ground is so rough.' The prince thought, distracted, as his feet were bruised by the jagged stone.
"Hey, Kid." The man snapped his fingers, taking the strange boy's focus back to himself. "What's your name, where'd you live?"
"Oh… Hello, I'm Heos."
'Heos, Heos… That's a strange name… Nobility?' A truly terrifying thought… what would nobility be doing here? And… why was that name vaguely familiar?
'No, probably some merchant's brat, but…'
"Now, again, how'd ya' end up 'ere?"
"I told you…? I was walking through the forest… I asked Mr. Owl for how to leave and… I walked."
'No… this kid really is slow. Is he a retard? Don't tell me some cruel bastard abandoned him here for being…?'
He felt pangs of pity, more so than before… A random kid lost down the south side, clearly out of place —really out of place… And missing some up there. How could he stay still? Even if a rich rat's spawn.
Figures, flashing by in his mind, a brutish memory… a void in his heart.
The image of a little girl, dressed in rags, freckled and missing teeth, but smiling, brightly…
'I'm sucha' sucker… a softy.' He berated himself. 'Not my business, but… It's the right thing, anyway.'
"Ok, ok." he interrupted the tale, pinching his nose bridge. "Your mother, your father?"
"They are fine. My father… he was entertaining guests… my mother…" He took to silence, not knowing what to say.
A sigh.
"Look, kid, I'm gonna take you to the l'oublié, you know where that is? The Paroisse de l'oublié et du sans-nom, yes?"
His bright, cobalt-mist eyes sharpened.
"No, what is that?"
"It's a paroisse, a parish. Halfway down the Cœur Pâle, by the Flóxeuve."
An unblemished finger to his lips.
"What is a paroisse? What pale heart? Are hearts pale… A fl—ox —ox… Flóxeuve…"
Now, he really did look at the child like he was an absolute fool.
Not knowing the Cœur Pâle, or the Flóxeuve… yes, well, that could happen, especially if one was sheltered and not taught much about the southern city quartiers… it wasn't out of the realm of logic… after all, rich families would teach their kids… horse riding, or, foreign languages…? things of this sort… well, what did he know? Yet… not being aware of what a parish was?
From the richest to the poorest, all went to church, to l'église. This was a fact. Be it for appearances or favor, for superstition, comfort or in the name of true belief, it was as common as waking… as routinary too.
'Unless…'
There was…
Barring the idea that this was an abused, locked up child, with none an idea of the world… which, he did not look it… too healthy, too placid. He was familiar with it; a beaten, trodden on child… this wasn't it.
There was another, simpler —well, not really simple, but more plausible, answer.
'A fýrian.'
However, fýrians were rare —in Romanse, that was. He could not say he had ever met one. Did they even exist?
He exaggerated.
Yet, among the third state, were there any fýrians? even a few?
'No…'
Did people really pray to the gods of the sun, thunder, love or what have you? It sounded like some childish fantasy… Like how kids believed in elves and fairies.
The only he knew of —and this was just because he was a little more educated than the average southsider— were some scantily numbered —as in, five? maybe?—, and very old families… very, very, very old.
Like, descending from some fuck-old tribe that had settled? the Caedes… was that it? Before people had first used fire to cook their deer meat or, something…
And, of course, all these families were…
'Nobility.'
Another sigh.
What would a child of nobility be doing here?
He gazed at him. Out of the pages of a picture book, the kid looked. You could tell he had not known a single day of worry…
"Hey, Kid… do you really not know what a parish is?"
"No…?" Heos kicked a pebble back onto a broken up lump of grey-white stone, thrown by the wayside. It sting, lightly.
"So… Heos, was it? Are you nobility?" He endeavored to make the question sound as nonchalant as possible, as if asking for the weather.
"Nobility… Yes… yes." The prince, still distracted by the alien, never before seen sights, answered, unthinking.
'Lord…' Was he to believe this… not-all-up-there child…? Things did line up, however, for him to truly be a blue blood.
As much as people consoled themselves, and ragged on nobles as lumbering, fat, corrupt… unworthy, leeches. He knew… a noble had airs, one could tell. These people lived in a different world. It would be absurd to think that that did not mold them, shape them… turned them distinct from others. As detestable as they were…
No… it wasn't right to think this child as detestable. A child is a child, rich or poor, commoner or nobility… no one is at fault for the accident of their birth.
"Your last name?" He asked, holding a breath.
If the child knew, which, he hoped he did —it was the most basic of information, one's own name— even if he was a sheltered fýrian…
For a noble, fýrian child to have been abandoned, or lost, here… he feared some political game, wanton cruelty… Perhaps he was tying needless knots in his mind?
Heos, eyeing the open, shimmering sky, answered, unknowing of his next words' weight.
"Ah… von der Wölfli-Loggia."
'Oh, yes that's a…' The truth of the name dawned on him. 'The royal family's name.'
He stopped, frozen.
Was a prank being played on him…? some cosmic, fateful prank? No… Yes, this kid didn't know what he was saying; a lunatic? Or just mocking him?
He laughed.
'To believe this kid… am I crazy?' Chuckling… his hand holding his brows. 'I just find some weird kid and think him nobility 'cause he's dressed pretty…?' Another, laugh, shallower. 'I'm a fool… calling this kid a retard when he's stringing me along… Too soft. Hysterical.'
"Cut it. Stop it with the games…" He turned to look, eye to eye, with the child. His tone and gaze irritated. "What are you doing here…? did you steal those rags from some… Verre à Regarder shop or what?"
"Huh?" Heos answered back. Understanding the words, yet, not really capturing the meaning behind them.
The man's mouth hung half-open, another accusation readied to question Heos. Yet, traveling down his nape, as a ghostly spider… as tingling sparks of errant static trapped amongst the bones of his spine, something appeared, warning him.
Like being whispered to by a lover…
At the far end of the alley, where only cracked stone accompanied them, someone stood, rigid; a wooden puppet held up by glassy strings.
"Get behind me."
Why was he warned by his senses of this approaching form?
Heos, already behind him, needed not obey.
The man bent his knees, readying his posture. His hands clenching imperceptibly.
"Ha…?"
In a blink…
As fast as the darkness of a blink disperses against light…
The figure was upon him.
"Fuck!"
A step back, coupled with an instinctual right to the blur's neck.
"Kid, run!"
As a dark tendril burst from the blur's shape. His left hand rose, immediately, to block, to protect his chin; he tucked it.
Somehow, he dodged. Sadly, the instinctual right had hit little more than air
'What is this…!?'
Immediately, another black jab shot from the shadowy figure, this time from his own right. He caught a glimpse, however, of two thin, almost fleshless fingers, outstretched in what he had expected to be a close hand jab —a simple punch—, thrusting toward his eyes.
His footwork was terribly shaky. Having his soul almost extracted from his body by the fright did not help his stumbling feet.
'Fuck, Fuck!'
He had to…
Quickly turning his head, one of the fingers landed between his right zygomatic and his temple, cracking like a wet twig.
It hurt, still, almost burring into the soft flesh, bruising, splitting apart the skin covering his skull.
Nonetheless, the other bony finger sunk into his right eye, painfully, bursting apart the light brown shards of his iris, then scraping out to the side of his nose bridge.
It all rattled with unimaginable pain, sharp agony concentrated in his right socket.
Still, he had to do something. His right now blinded, and his left looking to the side, sight of the figure had been lost.
'Yes…'
Given space by the sacrifice of his eye, his feet planted somewhat steadily on the ground.
Using the inertia from the piercing jab's impact to his head, his right leg shot out, a kick with the aim to kill, right to the blur's abdomen.
Something hit. He could not see.
Steadying himself, his head turned back. His leg returned to the ground, recovering from the act.
The figure, now clear, was pushed back by the kick —he assumed—, hand over his torso, its left middle-finger cracked back, forming an L at the knuckle.
A gaunt… teen. Pale faced and brown haired. With dark, blue eyes, almost black. Lost, unfocused, grasping something not there… his factions angular, unflattering. Not sharp as a beautiful hawk, or something of the sort, but the tired, bony, thin faces of the ailing slum misérables.
Somehow, he had grown to a favorable height, even while surely starving. His long limbs looked spindly, and yet were possessed by some unknown vigor…
'This guy looks dosed… no point in talking… Fuck!' The pain… like having his eye socket filled with molten iron.
'I have to get this guy on the ground… I can win by grappling…'
"Woah…" Heos muttered…
'Like that beautiful painting…' Staked to the vault of the palace.
A war…
'If war is like this…'
Perhaps his father was right. After all, he did not mind it at all.
Some hidden, dark, blood lit beauty held by this fight, waiting to spring out, shaded by the tone of a bruise.
"Kid what th—"
A moment, that was all.
The blur pierced close into his range.
A left hook, like a blinding spear, into his liver.
Then, something, pushing back his chin with feverish force.
'A softie… a sucker… and this kid's getting killed anyway…'
Extraordinary resilience, to think, in somewhat unmuddled fragments, even while falling, beaten near to black unconsciousness.
The side of his skull impacting against the stone.
The pain from his bruised, sheared skin and wounded eye got taken, drip by drip, into the dark… spilling, as did his thoughts, into the depths of… where?
Heos did not spare a look to his fallen protector.
Rustle…
A rustling, silvery, soft.
The gaunt adolescent walked forth, toward the unmoving prince: his head tilted, his eyes bright.
Step, step, step…
Its body contorted, ready to leap into deadly action, to kill the child.
Step…
Suddenly…
A moving brush stroke of pure, unpolluted white, tipped in persimmon lit gold, and trimmed black.
Splat.
The figure's head burst apart in a bright comet shower of red waves, bone and flesh.
The drab-veiny tone of grey matter flying about.
Some teeth, as yellowed pearls.
A thud.
The body falling, flat on its back.
His gown dressed in a drizzle of blood.
Swan's feathers remained unmarred, yet his pale skin had caught drops of blushing rain.
And all Heos could think of was the head, rent, cracked open…
Flowering.
Like a ripe pomegranate split apart.
A single word crossed his mind.
'Pretty…'
For the man, the scene faded black.
His last drop of conscience wondered…
'…What…?'
What had he gotten himself into?
Even the fresh blood's heat was soon taken back by the dark, as he slipped by…
Words left unfinished as he sunk down.