My mother, the queen, was executed the very same day I met her. At the tender age of seven, I did not, and still do not, understand the reasoning behind my mother's death. There were only twelve people, including my father, who knew the reason as to why my mother was sentenced to death. My mother was never spoken of. It was as if she had never existed.
It rained the whole day of my mother's beheading. My father had ordered me to watch the gruesome act, but I hadn't taken my usual spot on the throne next to his in fear he would have seen my expression, one full of sorrow and fear, and later accuse me of being weak. When I saw my mother's tear stained face and when I heard her earsplitting shrieks, I wanted to run down to her and hold her hand. I wanted to hurt someone, to yell at something, just to make the mental stress disappear for both her and myself. Instead, I had casually lent against her empty throne for support.
Her screams were cut off moments later, as was her head. I had fled as calmly and as quickly as I could from the balcony where my father, his advisors, and I had previously sat. The sight of my mother's head rolling off her lifeless body and the spray of blood that had spewed from her neck was a nightmare that haunted me for several weeks after her death. As I passed my father on my way out, he clasped a strong hand on my back and I turned to face him. It was then that I noticed the somber expression on his face. He hadn't cried, though, because men weren't supposed to cry.
I had run to the palace gardens. My mother had, on a few occasions, held her court there. On warm, sunny days when the sky was a clear blue color and the aroma of fresh flowers plagued the mind, my mother would summon the palace servants to transfer chairs and pillows to the garden. The queen would always have dancing and music and poetry in her court; things that women took great joy in. The ladies of court would chat amiably with one another and sometimes they would embroider while they gossiped. They did things that I had no love or interest for because I preferred swordsmanship, hunting, and all things that men do. The gardens served as my sanctuary during the minutes after my mother's death. The place was empty, save for the multitudes of flowers and shrubs that surrounded the area. I had plopped myself upon the wet earth next to a marble sculpture of a crouching tiger, ignoring the mud and grass that stained my breeches, and placed my head against my knees.
Thunder sounded in the distance and the sky illuminated with streaks of lightning, but I paid no heed to my surroundings. My tears were warm and salty against my cheeks; some had trickled into my mouth, mixing with the rainwater. Gradually, my jagged breathing had become calm and I was running out of tears, but I continued to sit there with my head pressed against my knees.
Several minutes must have passed as I sat there, listening to the sounds of rain pouring from the sky and the occasional roars of thunder. I wondered when someone would be sent to find me, or if anyone would find me at all. I did not panic, though, because I had finished crying, and I was ready to face my father and the general public once more. My mother's funeral was being held at the time, but I had not been required to attend it. Thinking back on the not so fond memories of my childhood, I wonder if it was my father's act of courtesy to me after my first encounter with someone dying.
I remember the light footsteps that had approached some time after my crying had come to an end. I had looked up to see who it was that had come to fetch me. The figure that approached was hauntingly beautiful, but I hadn't thought such a thing at that age. I had been thinking of how the figure managed to not be soaked from the pouring rain, and that there was not a hint of mud staining the white gown that the figure wore while I, myself, had been extremely soaked and revoltingly dirty.
The figure had actually been a girl. She had long, brown hair that looked to go on for miles in a straight line down her back. Many ladies of court would keep their hair in nets or curls, but she seemed to have ignored the practice. Her dress was a snow-white color that contrasted against tanned skin and pooled at her feet. She was slender and child-like, and I thought she looked like an angel without wings because of the glow that seemed to illuminate from her.
"Who are you?" I had asked, cautiously, before standing up. She approached me with wide, green eyes and a surprised expression gracing her angelic features. She looked unsure of something.
"My name is Loki," she said quietly while looking me over. Her face was calm now, unlike how it had been only moments before. I hadn't questioned why.
I looked at her uneasily through dark, blue eyes; the color of a storm at night. I wasn't sure if I wanted to talk to a girl anymore. It wasn't something I did on a regular basis.
She continued to look at me with large, green eyes.
"Your name is weird," I remember saying.
A scowl marred her features, ruining the perfect image I had composed of her. She didn't look like an angel anymore despite the unnatural glow radiating from her.
I introduced myself as, "Prince Aden, sole heir to the Kingdom of Donovan."
She said in a bored tone, "Fancy title for a little boy."
"I'm not a little boy!" I had retorted rather hotly. I was a prince and everyone was supposed to respect me. The girl who stood before me in a flowing white dress was no exception to the rules.
"Are too," she replied.
"Are not!"
"Are too!"
The argument went on for a few minutes; the two of us bickering back and forth, throwing about random insults. It was the first time in my life that I had ever felt the desire to hit a girl. I did the next best thing that I could think of at the time and reached out with a water soaked hand to grab a piece of her long, brown hair. She looked at me cautiously, and I remembered her curious green eyes trailing every single movement I had made. With a few strands of hair between my fingers, I tugged roughly and she howled loudly in pain as the hairs came loose from her scalp.
"That hurt!" Loki had bellowed out rather angrily before tackling me to the ground and hitting at me lightly with weak blows from her small hands. Between my laughter and her soft giggles, I failed to notice, or care, how her dress did not become ruffled, damaged, or dirty from our playful wrangle. I had not hit her back because she was not hurting me, but I did try, unsuccessfully, to push her off. It seemed as if she was permanently latched onto me despite the force I put into my attempt to separate the two of us.
"You fight like a girl," I gasped out between my own laughter.
She had frowned at me in response before slapping me lightly on the arm and getting up to brush invisible wrinkles off her white gown.
Instead of following her example, I had continued to lie on the ground without a care. The sky was still a disgusting color overhead; a mix of different grays strewn together, but I had been trying to regain my composure. There had been no hint of the sun behind the dark clouds that I could recall.
"So your majesty," Loki had sarcastically announced from beside me, "why are you out here in the rain?"
I tilted my head to the side to look at her, but all I could see from my perspective was the bottom of her white gown. I ignored the rainwater that was seeping into my open eyes.
"None of your business," I had snobbishly replied, only to get a light tap on the side from what I assumed was Loki's foot.
"Prince Aden!" a shrill, feminine voice addressed me from my spot on the wet earth, also interrupting me from my calm state. I could hear the squishy steps of someone approaching from where I remained.
I sat up as I noticed Rosetta, a kitchen cook, running towards me with her worn, brown skirts bunched up in one hand and a wooden ladle waving furiously in the other hand. I smiled brightly at her, and then looked to face Loki who was looking at Rosetta with an odd expression on her face. Loki appeared to be suffering a mix of different emotions, but I couldn't identify what particular emotion she was expressing. I think the look on Loki's face had been mostly comprised of anticipation.
Rosetta stood in front of me, out of breath. I examined her ugly, brown dress that looked dirty. I constantly wondered who invented such a disgusting outfit for the castle servants, but I had never bothered to ask. Rosetta's gray hair was done up in a messy bun; her hair was always threatening to spill out of its restraints from her constant ambling about.
"Hello, Rosetta!" I had beamed proudly at the exasperated cook with an innocent and charming smile. She looked at me with a horrified expression, and I had laughed at her while shaking my wet, brown hair that had plastered itself against my head. The rain continued to fall from the skies, and I looked up with the dorky grin still molded to my face. Rosetta was always so much fun with her silly antics and her cooking had always been my personal favorite.
"Your highness," Rosetta gasped out, "your father, the king, is summoning you to the throne room for an important announcement. We must get you cleaned up quickly. You know how much your father hates to be kept waiting!"
She hadn't turned to Loki in all of her rush, but had instead grabbed my hand and proceeded in dragging me back to the castle. I glanced over my shoulder to look at Loki trailing lazily behind the two of us. Her face looked sadder for some reason, but I lost sight of her as Rosetta and I turned a corner.