Chance looked down at his hands. They were weathered and well-used before he woke up in the care of the Al-Izzes - who, at the time, also had to cross the border to Destrea to escape the cruelty in Úda - so there wasn’t a way he could be an aristocrat. No, Caislín was dead wrong about him.
“Nevertheless,” he mumbled to himself, now locked in a jail cell until the morning. “Sleep is what I need.”
She only had her mind set on transporting the milk.
“This is the last time I ask for your help, Tesni,” Wynne growled as she hobbled from the dairy stables to the kitchen door under the weight of the two large pails, both filled to the brim with fresh, warm milk. They wouldn’t stay filled unless she got help- quick. She had accidentally splashed out more than usual.
She couldn’t remember if she screamed.
“Quit pacin’, Your Highness, you’ll burn a hole in the ground with your heels,” Aloysius remarked, leaning against a gnarled tree, arms crossed over his chest.
Her stomach hadn’t settled. Her body was sent in another tempest; this time it was a tempest of confusion, not of sorrow.
“Chance? Chance, wake up!”
He was roused by Nóe’s panicked whisper. “Wh- Nóe, what’s up?” Chance launched himself off of his travel matt and scanned the clearing. No one was there, and the fire was doused in a hurry. Breixo must have taken Arlo away while Nóe waited up for Chance.
The night was dark and only the dim crimson embers gave off light. The canopy was just dense enough to choke out the stars and the moon.
Chance let the rest of the warm sun tan his face.
The summer-like streak that stretched on through months about Destrea halted with a torrent of rain a couple nights ago. The Tywyll Forest was cold now, but the sun peeked through the damp leaves. It was just enough to create a warm patch where he laid.
His eyes were closed. His mind was screaming, meditating, but singing. One song replayed in his mind, making his tongue dance to it.
“Rain won't wash away the memories
And the wind won't hide her perfume
But it blows
Caislín fingered her father’s crown.
The funeral was held yesterday. She was officially the queen of Destrea. Instead of sapphire coronation banners, black and purple streamers danced in the whistling wind to mourn the loss of a monarch. She was given word that Sa’di had been implicated with the band of terrorists and had since disappeared, thus proving their points.
The whole kingdom was drunk on excitement.
The dawn was the most beautiful, seeming to be a good omen to the rest of the day. The horizon lightened until it was sapphire blue, which happened to be the kingdom’s virtue color. The sun blazed overhead and burned away any clouds that would ruin the ceremony.
Death was never something to fear for herself, she knew. For all of her kind, the embrace of eternity had almost appealed.
There were so many, though, who depended upon her. She knew that this, too, was a hollow concern, for all things were taken into account. The moment her heart ceased to beat, her charges were out of her hands and into another’s. One just as capable, one just as worthy. The Hand would never choose one less than able to protect the sacred world. She herself had been honored, once she learned to accept its existence.
LONG AGO, IN A LAND CALLED Sylvana, there was born to the royal family a son. The heir to the throne, a soul to continue the divine blood of his predecessors. The King and Queen named their son Prince Faolan, in which the hired staff quickly dubbed him the nick name "Lan". As a child, Lan grew to respect his tutors and work his hardest, practicing day after day on the dance lessons his parents would arrange for him. Everyday, he would dance for his parent's approval, letting his feet slide and leap, his arms swing and lunge, letting all his emotions tie together for a smashing climax.
A bitter wind blows its warning breath,
thunder rolls in angry protest,
I taste the dread; the tempest that is to come.
It feels like a meeting,
a date if you will, with the doomed sky.
Clouds suddenly are torn asunder,
grey visages weeping,
keeping unsteady time with their tears.
Lightning strikes and all is hushed;
for a moment, time stands still.
The clouds begin weeping again,
a silent lament to the inevitable,
waiting for the sun to once again
dry their tears.