Fan Fiction ❯ Spirit of the Dragon ❯ Lament for Crysthia ( Chapter 13 )

Chapter Thirteen

It was difficult for Acanthus to watch his father limp into the dining hall. He should have been used to it by now. After all, King Cornelius IV had been sick ever since his wife died giving birth to a son. And for exactly eighteen years, the man became progressively worse. The only father Acanthus ever knew was an invalid.

Still, there was something so unsettling, about a man only in his late thirties, with a face not unlike his own, who hobbled shakily into the room like a crippled old beggar.

All of his life, Acanthus had secretly harbored a kind of resentment for Cornelius. After all, he had never even tried to communicate with his only son, the last remaining legacy of a woman he had loved deeply. Acanthus often thought to himself, as the ailing man passed him in the corridors: Am I not good enough for you, father? And so that frail figure became the embodiment of all his frustrations, of all his misgivings, and all his self-doubt.

Of course he would be courteous to him. It was only proper, after all. But the few words they exchanged were no more intimate than the words one exchanged with one's hairdresser. And even that was a generous comparison.

"Good evening, father." Acanthus said coolly. The man sat at the head of the royal table, alongside an empty chair that had not been filled since Begonia's demise. As was customary, the heir's seat was at his father's right-hand.

"Ah, my son. How faired your first day as a grown man?"

"Fine, father." They spoke no more.

Unfortunately, Coming-of-Age parties had a tradition of lasting an entire day, starting with breakfast. So Crowe would not join him until eventide, on account of her morning sickness. It was just as well, he supposed, tapping his fingers against a golden chalice. After all, he was finding it exceedingly difficult to remain composed around her. Soon, he feared, the entire kingdom would know of his fixation.

Nobles and courtiers filed in throughout the day. It was fashionable to be late for anyone but the man of honor. Cursed parties. If he ever had a son, the lad would be permitted to enjoy his birthdays.

"I would like to propose a toast…" Frostleaf had arrived not long before noon, and he stood now with an imperial air that surpassed his humble blood. "To the man of honor, and future leader of our nation…My dear godson, Sir Prince Acanthus."

"Here, here…" Murmured the guests, lifting their goblets and sipping their wine.

It tasted sour.

He lowered the cup from his lips and swirled it around so that a murky whirlpool churned in its depths. How slowly the hours were passing…

It was not until the moons were out and two meals had gone by that he heard the words he was restlessly anticipating. Frostleaf approached him and said into his ear: "She is ready, Acanthus."

He stood anxiously and left.

Leaving the grand hall was like coming up for breath. The biting cold was a relieving digression from mundane formalities.

He knocked at her door.

There was a moment's pause, and she opened it a crack. "Ugh. I can't believe Daisy talked me into wearing this…"

All he could see of her was a dark head piled with curls. Her pale pink lips curved into a nervous smile. "Don't say anything. It's embarrassing." The voice was refreshing after hours of listening to clucking peacocks.

They stayed that way for a moment, with the wooden barricade between them.

"Will you hide from me forever?" He whispered.

"Alright, but I know I look awful. It was just my last opportunity to dress up before I become a complete whale…"

He waited patiently.

Finally, the door fell open with what sounded like a sigh, and she stood before him; her head was bowed.

Acanthus was stunned into silence, for she looked anything but awful. He found himself staring at the sapphire gown; the way it curved across her chest and flared at the sleeves; how it hugged her waist and then fell to the ground in glistening waves. Sparkles glanced off her even as she remained still, from the silver embroidery that decorated her trim. Then in attribute to her radiance, the light of the whitest moon cast a halo about her profile.

He found himself at a loss for words.

"It doesn't really suit me." She told him. "I look like an imposter."

"No." It was all he could manage.

"Shall we go to your party?"

A shaky nod, and he extended an arm. What a convenient time to lose my wit. He thought irritably. But she did not seem insulted by his quietude, and for that he was grateful.

Some eyebrows were raised, when they arrived at the hall, but there was a key advantage to being Crown Prince: no one dared question him. Even the most dogmatic of lords managed to hold their tongues. His experience as a ruler, though, taught him to read their expressions. Behind polite smiles of welcome, he spotted a few tigers pacing with infuriation. Watch out for them. Any dissension might cause him trouble.

He led her to the seat beside him, and the tedious dinner process began. Before each course (and there were many), the servants came to clear every plate from the vast table, and then set out new ones. One by one. Who invented banquets? It seemed that for all the glorification that was supposed to come out of being wealthy, people certainly had dull ways of expressing it.

He glanced apologetically over at Crowe, but she seemed to be enjoying herself well enough. Odd. Perhaps I am merely jaded. The man next to her was Lord Oxalis, overseer of Starwood. Luckily he wasn't one of her predators, and he thanked her genuinely for warning his nation of the Gardrothian assault.

There was a particular man, however, who troubled him so. Sir Gaine Lethris, the young knight and lord of Cedar. A respected man by many. He was a loyal member of the Ministry, which was a position appointed primarily on charisma. So the people liked him. But Acanthus did not. In fact he never had. Despite his seemingly harmless attempts to become "a louder voice for his people", Acanthus saw them only as a way to weasel himself further into authority.

Lethris was not one of the prancing tigers. He was masterful in the art of veiling his true intentions, so his thoughts were never obvious. No, he was not a tiger at all. He was a snake, silent and slippery and concealed in the nettle, waiting to strike while no one was looking.

He only glanced at Crowe once, and his sharp features were expressionless, but it was that single moment which made Acanthus wary. Very wary indeed.

There was nothing he could do though, for the time being. After all, these were only suspicions. And the last thing he wanted was to start a reign of fear. So he shoved these thoughts aside and focused on the celebration.

Gifts. And here is the epitome of pointlessness. Next to his father, he was the richest person in the country, maybe even the world, so what could anyone possibly give him that he didn't have already?

He opened too many packages to count. They were full of gemstones and candlesticks and tunics and britches. There was silverware and plates and a new goblet for his wine. Statues for his bedroom. Paintings for his wall. Books filled with ramblings of dead philosophers. A shining new crown (as if he bothered to wear his other five). Empty journals and jewelry; three pairs of boots. A cane. What use have I for this? Daggers. Swords. Numerous helms. The list went on and on…The only thing he actually liked was the war saddle engraved with his rampant lion insignia. But he had lost his horse.

By the time he was finished unwrapping, his face was sore from pretending to smile, and he was thoroughly sick of thanking people.

Frostleaf tapped his glass with a fork, to silence the crowd. In recent years, he seemed to be taking on roles implied of the King. "Now, it seems, we shall move on to the festivities-"

"Wait!" Crowe burst, causing some nobles to make the mistake of hinting their annoyance. What right had she to interrupt a royal event? What right had she to be there, for that matter? "I have…I have something." It occurred to Acanthus that she had grown very fidgety as the last gifts had disappeared from the presentation counter. She must have been contemplating over when to speak.

Crowe winced, acutely aware of every set of eyes on her, and she left her spot to pull a box from the corner.

When did that get there?

"You did not have to get me anything." Acanthus said.

"I didn't. Not exactly." Instead of going back to him, she made a wide circle and stepped upwards. There was a little platform by the doorway to the ballroom.

"As you all know…" She began. Her voice was trembling. "I'm not exactly here by choice. But I appreciate my situation, and the fact that I have been treated with nothing but openness makes me feel obligated, to at least express a bit of gratitude for this kingdom, and its rulers, and its people…" Her voice grew stronger with her confidence. "I thought that one way I could do this, was by giving a birthday present to the person who has probably been the most forgiving to me. I did try to kill him, after all."

This made a few nobles chuckle.

"But I don't have much money to begin with…" She went on, "And none now that I am…away from home. So one of my friends in the palace let me borrow something of hers. For this occasion." She opened the box to reveal Oria's little golden lyre. "I'm not that good yet, but I…I want to try." The instrument quaked in her hands as she looked at Acanthus. "It was one of simplest melodies I could find, in a book that was kindly given to me."

The room grew deathly silent, and his heart was pounding for her. Gods, let them like her…

Her eyes closed, and she released a slow breath. He found it difficult to watch.

She began to play. She was right: it was a fairly simple tune, and he had heard it many times before, but it was the part that happened next which awed him.

From out of nowhere, her voice came, singing the forlorn melody:

She returned to him in the season of rain,
When the ink of night bled into the sky,
Her violet eyes were filled with pain,
He knew his love was going to die.

He lifted her gently into his arms,
And lay her beneath a willow tree,
To shield her body from the storm,
And save her from her agony.

He stayed there `till the break of dawn
And watched her with each desperate breath,
Even when her soul had gone,
He held her close against his breast

Morning light, faded once again,
A million stars invaded the day,
He never wanted to leave his love,
Even if it meant to wither away.

When Crowe sang, she went to another world. It was as if that human part of her remained planted in its earthly cage, while another part broke free. It sailed away in empyreal rays, and merged with an invisible wraith. And then that wraith rose beyond the heavens. It collected the strands of the melancholy melody from some distant celestial haven, and it sent them back to her; sent them on the wind to return to her vessel.

With every pitch, shivers of ecstasy unfurled in his body. They numbed him with pleasure, wonder and desire.

So he held her there forever,
In the sun and in the rain,
And if you pass their valley,
You can hear his soft refrain:

"Dear Crysthia, this song is yours.
I could never leave thee.
I'll sing this song for you, my love,
Beneath our weeping willow tree."

When she was done, the little harp drooped and the hall stood in silence. Each living soul seemed lost in a reverie.

It was King Cornelius who first remembered to clap. Gradually, his followers did the same. And once they were all liberated from her somber spell, the dining hall was booming with applause.

Acanthus was the only one who did not join them. He was stuck in a trance, and could not shake it, even as she returned to her place beside him. He looked over at her helplessly. The prince had to say something. Anything.

"That was…" Surely there was a word to describe how he felt; how her ethereal voice had awakened some part of him within the recesses of his soul; how he had never in his life been so awed, and how many blissful emotions her song brought up in him. "…good." Never had an understatement been so extreme.

"Thank you." His evident disappointment wounded her. She cast her eyes to the ground.

So he stared dumbly at his hands, unable to articulate his thoughts.

"Well…" Frostleaf stood once the cheers died down. "Now it is time for the festivities…"

Guests began to file out into the ballroom. An orchestra started to play.

Cornelius was the last to disappear through the door, before Acanthus and Crowe were left alone. They sat staring into space, both lost in their thoughts.

"I don't feel well." She said suddenly, "Sorry, but I think I'm going to bed early."

"Wait…" He called in a croaked whisper. But he was powerless to stop her from fleeing the room.