"Swan?"
The phantasm curved back, happily. Glad airs of satisfaction coloring the way its feathers fluttered.
It roused, then, wings flying open, stretching.
He seemed to have found new ground… after being prisoned, it had somehow gained space, influence and effect over the world around it.
Blasting apart the figure's head.
Returning fully, it coiled back to its usual form. Like a white-feathered serpent hung round the prince.
"Was this why you slept?"
Swan did not give a clear answer.
It simply flowed, triumphant.
Not because he had killed this strange, possessed man, as Heos managed to understand, but, rather as effect of its liberation.
Then, it pointed forward with its beak.
Not a single drop of blood shone —mottling its body as ruby tears— on Swan's plumage.
As if it had existed for a single moment —at the zenith of movement and impact—, as a horned form shattering against the attacker's head. The instant after, it had fallen back into a veil of ghostly light.
Heos, however, was speckled, as flecked with brilliant crimson wine… which would soon turn to rust as it dried, scabbing coppered-brown.
"Forward…?" He scratched his chin. "I wanted to look around more… Is that the way back home?"
Flowing ahead, separating himself from Heos, Swan's feathers gleamed, like crystals filled with white sunlight.
Its black eyes filled with intention, aimed to make the prince understand…
"Are you trying to show me something?"
A pool of blood grew, flowing unsteadily from the mangled attacker. His neck gurgling as the weakened heart lost all force and slowly sputtered out.
Again, Swan flickered, like carved out of marble and dressed in snow, reflecting the summer sun off its shape, then, turning ghostly, translucent and pale.
The air around crackling with the lightest iridescent.
A lustrous film… or as diamond dust, suspended in the air.
'Shimmering…'
A beacon amongst the darkened alley.
Is this what the little owl had seen?
'Magic…'
"Are you showing me magic, Swan?"
The phantasm assented, graceful.
Swan flew back, meaning to wave the simmering air in Heos' direction… to cover him.
"I do not understand."
Besides him…
Blood seeping onto his feet, the man rested, unconscious, swallowed by black depths of nothingness.
Floating, Swan orbited Heos, extending his wings out, violently, to cover the prince with their white feathers, housing the lustrous air in their depths.
Thinking…
Then, after floating about a couple of times, it returned before him and inclined its beak.
As if to say…
'Now you do it.'
Although pretty, he did not understand why Swan would wish him to… make the air shimmer?
"You want me to copy you?"
Yes.
He could almost hear a voice, when, satisfied at being understood, Swan coursed back to him.
"But how…?"
The ghostly bird flew forward, carried by inexistant wind, and, as soon as it had come as close as it could to Heos, it… placed its feathered head against the prince.
Heos was somewhat surprised.
Separating from the child, Swan then pointed its beak, tapping directly at the center of a porcelain, snow-white forehead.
"With my head?"
Once again it nodded.
'How…?'
He imagined the air glow gently, possessed by the colors Swan had shown, yet…
Nothing.
The alley remained as it had, darkened.
Another tap, this time on his chest, aimed at his heart.
"My heart…?"
How could one do something with their head and their heart?
Would he even be able to feel his heart, let alone control it?
Some renewed exasperation beset the phantasm. Although it had freed itself somewhat, spectral bindings still knotted his being.
Then, realization floated up into the black surface of its eyes…
Singing slashes. White slices lit up the alley, their silvery shadow leaving in its trail the lustrous air of magic. Cuts, again and again, on the cobblestone, the skin that made up this rough alley's road.
Chipped stone flew away, turned to pebbles and dust, until, finally, the shining movement ended, leaving only angular markings, letters, on the stone floor.
Is it not your heart's command?
Shape the light!
Shroud yourself with its brilliant arms!
"What…?" The prince was at a loss "Swan, somehow you remind of Mr. Owl."
An inquisitive bent curved the phantasm's neck.
"No… You were asleep, otherwise you two would have met…"
Yet, confused, Heos remembered.
His hand outstretched, failing to hinge its fingers upon the gilded emptiness, unable to mold it, to bend the light.
'With my head and my heart…' His palm placed on his gown, just above his beating heart. 'It is sad that dreams do not last…'
'If life were a waking dream…'
If he could choose magic to be… Could he also make life to be as wonderful as a dream?
No…
A dream.
His hand met air, as it left his chest and pierced into the alley's dark expanse.
Then, when his fingers clenched, they met a lustrous film… like a shroud made of shimmering light.
It folded into his fingers, as they grabbed its end.
It felt like… nothing? No… as cobwebs of melted sugar.
Pulling…
Like the thin membrane of a dragonfly's wings, yet flowing as mercury weaved, made silk.
Swan watched, pride in the way it angled its beak, settling coiled around the child.
Heos did not forget the second step.
With the veil, thin, imperceptible, he surrounded himself in its cocoon, as he remembered…
The hands in the dream.
His mother's embrace.
Swan's wings…
Soon, it disappeared.
As if nothing had been wrapped around his self.
However… when the boy's sight fell to his now idle hands, he found them ghostly; possessed by some pale, suffused, dull glow.
They looked exactly like Swan had when, from brilliant and pure white, he had gone back to his usual tone; a phantasm.
Lightly, just lightly transparent.
Perhaps it would be better to call them opaque?
He presumed the rest of his body was the same, for, at least what he saw, had shed its tone in much the same manner.
From his feet, legs, to his white gown, his arms and shoulders. Even the dirt and blood had accompanied the rest of his body in such a strange shift.
"Did I…?"
Swan's rousing seemed to answer his question.
"Magic…"
The iridescent air remained, clinging to him, beautifully, glimmering…
"Now…?"
A smile adorned Heos.
'Magic… A mage…'
Still, he did not understand the point of this… magic? To make him opaque and pretty up the air?
Well, there was a point to that…
Swan pointed with its beak further into the alley. It's feathered neck stretching.
"Toward there." Heos muttered.
A pooling disc of blood now blocked his path, like a mantle of garnet silk upon which the headless body was lain.
The play of colors in the alley was truly an object of beauty.
The silver charged shadows, holding back the burning daylight, hazed by the glow; the ink-stained blood, a deep, silent, obscured red, possessed by the dark. And the lustrous air; a play of lights illuminating —in small, colored shards of translucent hoarfrost— the gloomy alley. If he focused, he could see: specks of dust dancing, freely falling in the air, where spears of light managed to pierce the shade.
Without a second thought Heos began to walk.
Even when he stepped in the pooling blood.
It did not faze him. A pleased smile still painted his lips.
His passing left behind footprints, as seals dipped in red ink.
Not once did he turn.
The protector stirred, still trapped in a sea below unconsciousness.
*
"What is this…?"
People coming, to and fro.
Had he not noticed it before, effect of his wonder at this new place he found himself trapped in?
'Noisy…'
The noise of haggling, of working, of stones being sculpted and cut. Of numerous feet pressing down the street's cobblestones.
Forms as well, set in courses, down the river of this street; stopping, starting, following their course.
Drab colors dressed in powdered stone —whichever way one looked— like sickly flour and sugar sprinkled atop their surface.
He walked out of the alley, having turned… right? left…? Some indeterminate amount of times, following the sound and light.
Finally, having found a way, he marveled… this rue's flow eclipsed the one he had seen before.
The facades were now all rigid, although still jutted upwards, they gave off a less organic feeling than the previous street. The quality of masonry was, of course, much superior… after all, it befitted the place.
Rue du Coupeur.
A prominent mason's street, located at the heart of the southside quartiers.
Again, he walked mindlessly, or rather, too focused on the sights. A woman crossed and fell, stumbling against him, as he stumbled, as well.
"Ahh!" The falling figure shouted.
'Ow…' Heos lamented. It was not the first time today he had gotten hurt.
Stone dust and dirt marked his gown.
A man, freckled and haggard looking, sped his steps and helped the woman up.
"Cécile!"
"I'm okay, I'm okay…"
Their arms linked as the woman rose.
Some passersby had stopped to look, yet quickly lost interest and resumed their paths.
"Must have tripped…"
She looked around, perhaps waiting to find a loose stone, a pothole or some other thing that would have caused her to trip.
'No… it was like I bumped into someone…'
Confused, her sight darted around but found nothing.
Sighing, she went on her way, walking past.
The prince, sitting on the ground, watched, his eyes sparkling, a bright smile on his lips.
"Swan! They can't see me!"
'Magic…'
He called for a passing man, yet he continued unmoving.
"Can't hear me either." Fingers holding his chin.
"This was what you wanted me to do Swan?"
The phantasm, pleased, assented.
He sat up, halfheartedly dusting his gown.
"Now… I can look around, but… how do we make it back home?"
Swan's beak rose, pointing, its destination crossing the city, splitting it in half.
The palace…
"Towards there… ok."
Step, step, step…
His mind lost focus when, by his side, a mason's shop lay open. A brawny, dark-bearded man —thin wisps of golden hair clinging to his scalp— sat, hunched, a hammer and chisel at his hands, as he cut apart a block of pale stone.
Even the noise and commotion of a busy street did not shake him. Angled, precise cuts tore apart the stone, his eyes, unblinking, even amidst the air, heavy with dust.
Heos stopped, raptured by the sight.
Why…?
Even he did not know, or much less question why it was he found the sight so enthralling.
Layer by layer, angle upon angle, and curve by curve, something emerged from deep within the stone block.
Like its heart, one crushed under the weight of its own body. Now free, it bled through.
The face of a lion. Ornate designs around it.
"A lion…"
He had seen them in a picture book.
How could one believe such a thing? A lion living in the depths of a stone…
"Swan, is that magic…?"
No… he could almost hear, as the phantasm shook its head.
He took to silence for a moment, as the chisel continued to free the lion-heart from the body of stone.
"I don't believe it…" His eyes transfixed, they did not even blink. "That is magic, it must be…"
Swan did not comment further.
In a way, perhaps it was magic. Wasn't all art magical?
"Can you teach me it?"
Another head shake.
"Hm…" His thoughts ran amok. 'Perhaps the old mage…'
He walked into the shop.
Standing in front of the stone block, the lion jutting from its inside.
His hand coursed across the stone, wiping away the dust.
'Cold… it is not a living lion anyway…'
The mason, clearing his sweat with a rag, saw the dust fly away.
'Wind…?'
Although strange, he did not pay much mind to it.
Soon Heos left. Specks of shaved stone still littered the masonry's air.
*
Having crossed the city's veins, he now found himself… lost.
He had been, all this time. Appearing out of nowhere into the south-side.
Yet now, having come across who knows how many turns, his sense of space had been torn apart by this endless maze.
That is what it was, a maze. Like the capillaries in human flesh, organic and turning, connecting alleys, rues, markets, plazas and people.
It did not help that most of the southern quartiers were built illegally, sprung up from flooding arrivals to the city. Most streets unmarked, inexistant for all intents and purposes.
He continued, nonetheless, following Swan's directions.
Here, where he stepped, was… dark.
The sun still shone, yet, somehow, a heavy, possessive and invisible glum had found purchase in this place.
The houses pinioned together like crooked teeth. The way, even narrower.
He had to focus, so as not to make the walking, soot and muck covered misérables fall, taking him with them.
Some huddled up, seen through openings of stone —and sometime wood— facades; windows, if one could even call them that. Figures wandered glassy eyed, seating themselves in the earthen roads, with thick uncut slabs bludgeoned into the earth making for patchy cobble.
Others swept the entrances to their homes. Barefoot children ran around playing this and that.
Surprisingly, even among this abject poverty, they found solace and happiness. Or perhaps it was just the bright simple-mindedness of children.
Wet clothes hanging in the summer sun. The repugnant smell of human waste steaming against the heat.
Trash strewn about.
This place felt… like the edge. As if outside it, humanity ended. It was true, if one were talking about the city, for, beyond the edges of these slums, one found forests and farmland, and villages dotting the countryside.
Here, however, one did not find the pleasant, fresh, empty air of the forests, nor the brilliant, colorful and perfumed comfort of a city.
Absolutely liminal and wretched.
Even curiosity did not abate the prince's natural compulsion: to leave this place. He wished not even to see it anymore.
And so, he ran, the earth and dust further caking his feet, as he swerved among the openings and people, following Swan's beak as a compass.
He had almost fallen, slid and tumbled; all more than one time.
After a marathon, he was out. He had not arrived at the palace, however. It was simply a less miserable piece of the quartier. Poorman's cafes and taverns rose up here and there. The cobbling returned, as did the more solid stone houses, two floored as well. The streets seemed to have breathed in air, as they expanded, now not pushed together by the weight of poverty.
It was by no means paradise. But anything was better than the slums, of course.
Now, one could see pensions and rented flats, as well as the old stone-block facades.
Perhaps this place had been lightly perfumed —just barely grazed— by the aroma of the artistic, splendorous Hygeia, for it seemed, evanescent, to ail with that familiar decadence particular to artists, especially those who starved as poets.
It was almost endearing.
Although not so much for Heos, who looked at it with mere curiosity. Heaving somewhat, after his escape.
His pace steadied as he coursed through the way.
Burning coffee, tobacco and rain: a rather elegant smell for such a quartier.
Although no rains had fallen on Hygeia in the last few days…
Those who walked went by unperturbed, accustomed to the sights.
There was nothing particularly remarkable about the streets; compared to the slums, at least.
Heos, beset with scenes beyond his knowledge for the day, had a muted response. The graying, stony rues blended one with the other.
Only the smell…
Like a pale, dying, old imitation of his father… when he lit cigarillos.
It was warm, atop the sun.
Even in its shadows the road conserved some heat. Bubbling out from the taverns and caffes.
The scent was interrupted as he walked the cobbling.
What was it…
Infront, a darkened, dirty rag…
No, it was too large to be a rag. A blanket.
Wool, drowned in dust and soot.
What he had assumed to be two black stones, half-covered under the mantle's edge, were... feet.
Ashen hair, matted and ragged, flowed out from its top. Blackened, long nails holding up the sorry blanket.
Bony, weakened, pale and wrinkled. One could barely tell from under the dirt.
Heos stopped.
It was not the rotten, human scent of the slums; or the dusty, gravel-like aroma of the masons.
It was… like it was not even there.
As if, confined to the bubble of this figure, scent disappeared; ceased to exist.
'What…'
"Swan…"
It knew what words Heos would pronounce, answering preemptively with a shake of its head.
No.
It was not magic.
However… a flickering doubt did arise in his head. The slumped figure before them…
It felt rather strange.
The blanket lowered and, out from its depths, untouched by sunlight, two tired… irises? were revealed.
Soot laden eyebrows pushing down the tired eyes… their color indeterminate.
No… pearly white, like milk and undyed silk.
Almost unseen under the weight of age and wrinkles.
"His eyes…" Heos muttered.
And, as if in chorus with his uttering, a feeble arm, thin and frail, slowly rose from the blanket's side.
Like floating, an arrow, directed to his heart.
Impassive, the blanketed figure did not utter a word.
It's hand climbing the air to meet him.
Heos stood, frozen, somehow hypnotized by the sight.
Yet, as soon as the hand was to touch his chest… he ran.
Not out of fright… no, not even at the surprise of thinking that someone could see him.
No…
It was as if his body ordered him.
Run.
The strange beggar remained, his hand raised, scraping the empty air.
Empty white eyes directed beyond heaven.
*
Once again, winded.
"Why…"
Swan did not have an answer.
"Are you sure it was not magic?"
This time the phantasm did not assent nor deny.
That man…
As if he did not exist.
Heos walked now, tranquil. And, although he wished to return —his curiosity egging him on, almost screaming, for him to confront, once again, that strange beggar whom, perhaps, could see him… could peer through the veil of his newfound magic, something… something did not allow it. He could not return.
Something.
The rising hand, weightless, skeletal, graying and caked in soot.
Pale, pale eyes. As lacquer fashioned out of the most leaden, graying sky.
Odorless, soundless.
Heos, of course, did not know of the man's blindness. Only Swan had realized, as his pearled eyes were revealed.
To be blind, yet, to see…
Magic. Swan pondered.
Heos pushed back the thoughts, drowning it in that strange sense which commanded him to run. He continued forward.
The image would not leave him, yet, he wished to keep moving, and then, to arrive. After all, there, once he made it back to the palace, magic awaited him. Someone to teach him.
Following Swan's directions.
As he walked, the rues turned brighter, properly taking in the summer air.
Still, it was no palace. No grandiose monumental streets, nor the Asphodeli, which still inhabited his dreams.
Yet, all turned lighter, less glum; the sun burning away the soot and grime.
The scent of coffee… cheaper, but not miserly as further back. And alcohol, spiced and aromatic
The sounds of revelry.
Behind them, however, the burning blue flames of melancholy.
The voices masked in joy, possessed by sadness.
The prince stood, a moment, interested in the strange mixing of tones, of sentiment, which emanated from behind the doors and front-glass.
Figures wishing to dilute their sadness in jubilation, movement and celebration.
Bohemians dressed rather shoddily, yet with airs of artistry.
"Oh, Garcin, how many are sick as you are!?"
"A cup, a cup in Garcin's memory!"
"Goodbye, muses. Goodbye!"
They seemed to sing their eternal farewells to a friend.
Heos did not comprehend.
This strange, trembling joy, this trepidation bursting at the seams of their miserable smiles.
'…'
To him it was all unintelligible.
Why, when happy, would one be soaking in such sadness? Why would one, when sad, mask their sadness in such a thin veil of joy?
Why did they shake, anyway…?
What had happened to them…? He did not know.
It was as curious, as alien and incomprehensible as all that he had found on this excursion.
One thing, he did understand. They all seemed in great pain.
After their exclamations had died down somewhat, one of them —portly, with skin as baked clay— went forward, to the other's silence, as he read, sonorous, rhyming words with tears in his eyes.
Once finished, he sat back down, the clamor building up once more.
Remembering his destination, Heos left, his sight returning forwards.
Still inhaling the perfume of coffee, as the roads turned brighter and brighter; color drowning them, until the scent fell behind.
As he passed an alley, Swan turned his beak, signaling to the entrance of the small walkway.
It was narrow, although tasteful, picturesque.
Somewhat battered balconies above, as chalk-toned stone lined the floor. A single tree, one he could not identify, grew in the middle of this alleyway, breaking through the tattered ground. Its shade covered half of the passage. Wooden, rustic benches were placed round the tree's trunk, bathed in small, pinhole speckles of light.
Birds could be heard singing, hidden by the leaves.
'Sparrows…?'
"Here?"
Swan assented.
"Ok…"
A few steps into the alley…
The tree grew nearer, until…
It disappeared.
The sensation underneath his bare feet changed, from one moment to the next.
The rough, shorn stone had turned to grass.
And, ahead of him, the alley's dilapidated end melted into a verdant horizon, flanked by mirrors of impollute blue. One, coursed placidly, a river. The other was the sky above.
Now unencumbered by the jagged city line, the sun filled sky extended over the earth, immense, set on fire and buzzing.
The sound of flowing water, accompanied by cooing… like sharp trumpeting, weak, brief.
His eyes adjusted, as the bright, white light that plagued him disappeared.
An island.
He found himself on an island, sprung up amidst the flow of a slow, languid river.
A pristine forest lined the coast beyond… or was it just a garden? For he saw figures, dressed beautifully, in light fabrics, laid pleasantly under black parasols or by the shade of sycamores, oaks… lindens… some willows.
All reminded him, marginally, of his parents… in disposition? No… What was it…?
They were fundamentally different to those he had seen. Trapped along the maze of winding grey, soot filled rues.
Bright eyes, tranquil… enjoying the summer.
Behind him… islets, smattered along the river's flow, some with people, others with… structures he could not clearly see. Connected by bluish, hazy bridges, accented with marble and white stone. Curving and ornate.
On one, the largest, high tiered building sprang up, cutting up the sky, all tinted in shades… hundred shades of blue, as unending strokes of frozen paint.
Or gems… crystals of varying brightness, shredded clumps of sky, arranged into streets and facades.
Like his father's eyes, spilled onto the earth and carved apart.
That sound, again… that sharp, horn-like cooing.
He searched for it…
Around him, by his feet.
Swans…
With feathers black, as if dyed with ink… no, made of ink.
The spilled obsidian mirror, the lake, at the forest's entrance… as black as it. Verglas shaped into the swan's coats.
Ending in beaks colored as coral… or carmine… a strange tone, without simple comparison. A slight white shadow of under feathers flared near its tail, under its wings.
They sang. Theirs was the horned cooing that rang, occasionally, into the air, mixing with the coursing water.
'Black swans…'
They all gathered around the islet, where he stood; swimming by its shore or settled on its grass.
'I want to talk to them…'
"Swan… how do I… become visible again."
The phantasm roused his feathers and spread his wings. The lustrous air shaking, tearing apart from his movement.
"Like that…?"
Thinking for a moment, Heos wondered. He had no wings, nor feathers… He would only half-way imitate Swan's movement… Ridiculous.
Perhaps violent movement would tear it?
But then, why had it not burst when he ran, or fell?
Did he need only move as if freeing himself, and decide —as he had decided before to cloak himself in light— to shake off this magic?
Perhaps…
Heos waved his hand, as if stirring up water. Thinking, in his mind, of tearing off a veil placed atop oneself.
Webs of crystal-like membranes were caught in his hands; melted sugar, leaking diamond dust, falling through his fingers and onto the grass as Heos cracked it apart…
Until… It burst.
The opacity returned to his body; shedding its ghostly glow.
Slowly then, the —before clueless— swans noticed him.
The closest one waddled toward him, its black webbed feet sinking in the greenery.
"Hello." Heos preemptively spoke.
"Woah…" A juvenile voice answered back… pleasing, even if immature. He wondered as to why all animals had such pleasant voices. Or was it just the ones he spoke to? "What's with him…" The puzzled bird asked, referencing the figure around the prince. Then… "Wait… where did you even come from?"
It seemed rather tranquil, when encountering what was essentially an apparition, even if confused.
"I just appeared here… I do not know."
"Okay…" The swan tilted its head. "And…" Its beak aimed at the phantasm.
"He is my friend." The prince answered.
The friend remained still, coiled, watching the black swan without making a sound.
Another jolt of realization hit the coal-black bird, his feathers shaking in response.
"Ah… why can I understand you…?" It sounded truly shaken now, finally.
It was natural, Heos assumed swans did not often come across humans who could understand them… yet, neither Mr. Owl, nor Ms. or Mr. swan seemed that shaken when they encountered him…
Perhaps it was just this one bird?
"Magic." Heos answered, a smile marking his lips.
"Uh… yeah…? Or I'm going mad." The black swan muttered. "Hey, guys… come see this!" If others could also understand this human, then that meant he was not a lunatic… or maybe they were all insane, collectively… But he swallowed that thought for the moment.
Suddenly, half the bevy turned their necks, arching them in Heos' direction.
Surprised exclamations followed, as well as the pitter patter of webbed feet on grass.
Soon, the swans had swarmed Heos.
"Ohh…!"'s and "Ahh…!"'s filled the air as the birds marveled at the phantasm.
Yet, when the prince spoke…
"Hello."
Silence overtook them.
As long as it takes for a breath to pass.
Then…
"What!"
"This human! Why can I understand him!"
"So, it's not just you!"
"What the…!"
"Am I hearing things!"
"Human boy! Boy! How come we can understand you?"
"How…!?"
"I'm hearing things! Surely?"
Heos smirked, clearly pleased… entertained at the swans' confusion. It was fun exposing the unexpectant to magic —or what he had decided was magic—, he found.
"Yes, I can understand you, you can understand. It's magic." His grin grew wider.
"Whaaaaat?"
"Mayeec? What is that?"
"Yes, Magic, like…"
"Magic!"
"Hey, where'd this kid come from?"
Perhaps to outsiders this would sound like an army of ailing, mad trumpets ringing wild? How did his conversations, with swans and the like, sound to those who could not understand…?
Curious.
The sing-song voices washed over him.
Unlike the serene, svelte tones of voice natural to mute swans, black swans' had an inexplicable sung depth to theirs… equally as aristocratic, however.
Swan fluttered and indicated…. to the water. To the placid, flowing waters of the river.
'There…'
He had gone about and about in a maze today.
Soon it would be sunset, although it felt as midday still.
Heos had no reason to doubt Swan so…
He walked ahead, as always, unperturbed. The bevy parting where he walked.
Staring at the currents…
Much like the human currents of the city. The blood flow of living rues.
The swans now watched, silent.
A foot in…
Yet…
It felt rather strange. As if he were dipping his foot into the cobwebs, into the shaped lights which he had hid under.
A second foot in…
The feeling intensified.
His steps were not slowed by the currents, nor encumbered by the water he would have had to displace.
He walked freely.
And, as he sunk into the river, the birds watching, as if enchanted, no water soaked him, nor weighed him down.
Like he had fallen to the other side of a mirror, in the blink of an eye, crossing only a curtain of translucent mist.
That last strand of his hair had passed, nothing remained, sunk into the waters.
Silence… then:
The swans argued with each other, confused, questioning bends in their necks, some, still silent, still watching the river, stupefied.
Beyond the waters, by the shores where the affluent reclined, enjoying their summer afternoons in the Rue Bleue's gardens, certain, particularly observant individuals pondered, wandered what it was that they saw… hazy and muddled, far away and taken by the blue mirages of a summer day… what had looked like a figure of white, herding the swans, as it promptly descended into the river, as if climbing down some stairs and into the earth.
It was a mirage… probably, a mirage… what else could it be…?
As to why the swans had all formed together, around… something.
Well, who knew? Animals were simple-minded and strange.
It had merely been a curious sight. A trick of the light.
Yes, that's what it was.
The curiosities of a summer day.
*
An afternoon tea party was being held.
Prairie chairs lined around an ornate mantle.
Pastries in brilliant colors, lined up and down in étagères.
Gold rimmed porcelain, silver spoons and flowing summer dresses.
Youngsters running after each other, playing, conversing or sitting down; their lips gorging on desserts or burning against the steaming tea.
Two women made the centerpiece.
Ornate hairstyles: looping, unending braids, held up by ornaments heavy in gems, all concordant in taste, color, season and fad. Necklaces and rings, shoes… slippers, heels… something of the sort, contorted by aestival fashion into beautiful, and completely unseen, forms.
One of the women, Auburn hair lit into gold shimmers by the summer sun set, her dark blue eyes ahead, landing on a tree line of sycamores.
She conversed about something or other, the topic even slipped her mind, as she more or less distanced the flow of conversation from her conscious thoughts.
Her round face, possessed of motherly beauty, although still youthful, tensed into a laugh, or smile, or a serious sharpening of her brows as the conversation with the woman ahead proceeded.
She was quite skilled at this… force of habit, or education… who knew.
All the more strange when, for a moment, as she raised a tea cup to her lips, her expression froze, like mangled, hit by freezing winds.
Her eyes widened slightly.
The other woman —a shimmering knot of blond hair, arranged in another fashionable, although somewhat ridiculous hairstyle, shining on her head— steeled her sharp, ice-blue eyes, collected and firm. Terrifying, even; as they seemed to peer through flesh and gaze upon the soul of those they looked upon.
She noticed the auburn haired woman falter for a moment, and, confused, turned her pale white neck, to see what it was had stumped her.
Her skin was alabaster, and her face preserved a youthful levity even after subsequent births. Only the color of rouge shone on her cheeks, as fields of roses in the snow, soon to be snuffed out by the biting cold.
Her gaze also faltered, as silence took them.
A scream… a shriek, a shout.
The children and youth had been startled still, all turning in unison.
A teacup almost flung around.
Both women were terrified, as a dirt and blood marred figure suddenly appeared out from the sycamore tree line.
Fair as light, pale, in a tattered and soot covered gown, speckled of lifeblood dried on it, turned to the color of rotting rust.
It was ghastly!
Feet turned black from earth and who knows what else.
Had some evil apparition come to take them away?
Or was it some… midget madman out to kill them?
One of the women, the auburn haired, almost fell out of her chair from the shock, faint.
Guards, in red, white, gold uniforms were immediately alerted, as they readied themselves for what it was had frightened the women so.
A youth, sat beside the almost fainting woman, grabbed her, steadying her body.
"Mother!" He exclaimed, only slightly concerned.
And, when he turned his sight, all concern evaporated.
For what he saw was no enemy, nor terrifying sight, but his brother. Covered in raindrops of blood, dust, soot, earth and some more…
Heos.
Walking towards them, smiling, leaving the sycamore forest behind.
The first-born prince couldn't help but laugh, laugh boisterously.
A nascent tear rolling down his cheek, cleared away with his hand.
He waved, welcoming his brother, releasing his grip on the fainting woman.
"Heos!"
His little brother, like a hero back from war, had returned to the palace, his home. A triumphant glint in his eyes.
"Brother! Hello!"
As he trotted up.
Unconcerned.
Glorious and golden even drowned in muck.