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It’s…overwhelming.
Beyond the arching double doors, the rich aromas fade to stale hints. No candles or windows light the halls of history, just a simple glowing bauble at each statue. The baubles, like many of the magical lights throughout the palace, are gifts from the summer fey, undying fire encapsulated inside glass.
It gives the whole wing a somber atmosphere. As a boy, I didn’t pay attention to that part, just liked the interactive way of learning about the past. Now, it’s more like home. Like the restless waiting before a storm or skirmish.
The silence yawns around me, humming and deep. A silence so consuming that it no longer feels like silence. Within it arises the familiar sensation that I’m not alone anymore, that I’m being stalked. Buried in the fringes of my hearing, screams and clashing weapons echo. Distant, fading. But ever present.
Shudders ripple through me, and I pause. Concentrate on breathing. Whispers pull at my mind, aching for freedom I can’t give them. Even when I’m completely isolated.
With my mind still shaking, I redirect myself toward the statues. Redirect myself like I did at General Zeccar’s encouragement when the loss of Alia threatened to undo me.
“If you can’t let her go, let the rage you feel drive you. Let it focus you.”
Much of what’s here relates to battles. Political maneuverings. Outwitting enemies. Uncovering treachery. Securing prosperous deals for our people. Some of the statues relay more reflective truths, kings of old sharing their wisdom through storyweaver-enchanted journals, bottled illusions meant to bring the past to life, or recalled memories — given from kings on their deathbeds to memorists with enough skill to parse through a lifetime and pull out the most vital pieces of information.
When my brothers and I were boys, this place unnerved Sammir and Farrid, because the statutes talk without being alive or moving their mouths, and the illusions and recalled memories make one feel like they’re experiencing battles and droughts and whatever else lurks here. Rassul and I always thought it fascinatingly eerie.
Now, having lost so many good men who never had a chance to save their memories in a place like this, the creepy factor has faded. There is only profound wisdom in it.
Though if any of that wisdom will help me, I don’t know.
I meander through the dark halls, noting each name in passing. Some are related to me, great-great-great grandfathers and uncles, grandmothers and aunts. Others belong to another line of royalty, before the king died without leaving an heir and my great-great-grandfather assumed the throne.
I make it through the entire main hall before I realize that I haven’t stopped at one station, haven’t taken in one memory.
Defeat curls around me like dying leaves. I should have expected it. None of the answers to mine and Alia’s past will be here. While I’m sure other princes have loved women they weren’t allowed to love, no one I know of has experienced what we have. There is no one else to give guidance on this.
What am I even doing here? What am I trying to prove?
Maybe it’s just the desperate, foolish hope that I’m wrong. That I’ve been wrong for seven years. Because if it’s simply that I’m wrong, it can be fixed.Wecan be fixed. Changed.
Salvaged somehow.
I close my eyes with a groan.
I have no idea what I’m looking for. Or what I want from here. Truth, yes. But anything beyond that, the impulses that surge through me every time I think of her…
Would I be considering any of this if she looked different? If a glance at her didn’t promise to unravel all my senses? As much as I want to be logical with this, objective, I can’t remove attraction from my mind. Can’t pretend she’s undesirable in any way. If I could, would I still care about making sense of our ending?
If she wasn’t physically beautiful, how much easier would she be to let go of? Would I be able to stop wanting her, accept whatever woman my father decides is acceptable, and perform my duty as crown prince and eventually king? Why does the thought of anyone else repel every instinct within me, sour my insides like the first time I saw death?
Other women are pretty. Beautiful. Attractive. Even kind.
Why do I still wanther?
I slump to the ground. My arms sink against my knees. In the dim light, the stains are like ink, spidery and jagged. Chilling and disgusting in ways I won’t let myself acknowledge. Can’t acknowledge. Because there’s no one around to talk me down from that cliff. I spiraled once, collapsed in unrelenting panic that I couldn’t break myself out of.
Rassul held me through it.
Two days later, I held his body.
My brothers are gone.
My breath turns to shallow gasps. I curl farther into the corner, behind the final statue in the hall. The flickering light from the bauble plays over my skin. Not cursed, yet cursed just the same. No one will enter this hall. But if anyone does, they won’t see me. Even if they notice me, they won’tseeme.
With these stained hands, these arms, no one will ever seemeagain.
I’m so sorry.
