Élan: A Youngblood World

11 | Behind Closed Walls |

       VERDANT fluorescence surfed into the grand throne room through the welcoming panes of the flank of glass windows glazed with green, drawing on the pure pastel, tiled marble floor cool shadows of curlicues and floras weaved across the casement's crystalline surfaces in waves. With the golden curtains tucked in their respective bronze hooks, giving way to the hailing farewell of the departing sun, the last of its warmth bid its red-orange radiance. Flaurella would once again long for its awaited splendor to grace the people to go about in another cycle.

       But, unbeknownst to the Kingdom of Calyxia, that day would, woefully, not come.

       The lively chorus of the bards had slowed to an elegant performance of slow, ambiguous melody conjoined by the ceramic flute, golden harp, silkworm violin, and ivory piano.

       "Iha, are you listening?"

       Stella snapped back the instant she heard her name.

       Father stared at her with a contemplative, unamused deem. The beard aligning with his mustache has been trimmed to the perfect frame of a sharp-edged square, its graying complexion more aplenty than yesterday like he was aging three times his age a day. A little more sprout, the remains of dark streaks on his hair coagulated with the overall cloak of ash on his balding head. The wrinkles creasing his forehead and cheekbones had also been becoming more noticeable.

       "I asked: Were you listening?"

       Stella poised her chin up, hands clasped, then looked at her father with the same lightless demeanor. "Apologies, Father."

       The old man rubbed his sagging face, wiping the sweat of oil off his skin. "It is unethical for a member of the court to allow her head to wander about whilst matters are being discussed in front of her. Be it urgent or not, you are bound to lend an ear to every subject."

       His pair of dim brown irises suffocated her albeit being in a broad room that held innumerable grand ceremonies and cases of insurmountable quandaries to be brought before the King. It was a wonder how this part of the palace could be so breathtaking as much as it is asphyxiating.

       "Of course, Father."

       Perhaps it was that. The indisputable pressure it aired out in every ornate corner carved in gold, sapphire, and emerald. The very same heat of energy from where its precious stones condensed into its foundations was born from long, long ago.

       Father recommenced, reiterating diplomatic interrelations while inserting courtly ethics for emphasis as if he had thought a lifetime of lessons departed from her overloaded head.

       It could have been fatigue from the previous arduous session with Tutor Mrs. Beathery, or the countless times she had to absorb it all at once without spilling a single word from the book. She had not been able to tend to her Rosarias because of this. In fact, it had been weeks since she had laid a finger on the lustrous golden petals of her signature flowers, leaving it for the royal gardeners to pull out the neighboring weeds.

        It was a thought that cruelly bothered her, like saying goodbye to Darling all over again. Stella had received the poodle when she had learned to read, and she never left a room without the dog's four paws traipsing after her. She cursed mortality for his demise at a young age.

       How long must she let others foster her greenhouse? Will there be a time when she will need to give full-keeping to the gardeners to take care of her blossoms?

       If so, did that time have already come?

       Before the thought delved her into madness, the palace doors burst open.