The Wind Chronicles of Gaea
Event Twenty-One
Tonight's my big night…Say hello to King Arthur!
Sundown's warm glow slowed the activities of the Fanelian Kingdom's Beaux Esprits. Summertime stars peeked out, but were held back by motherly cloud wisps. The Mystic Moon rose over the gilding sky. A bright blue orb as it hovered over the horizon. In its light, the Tempest Dragon's silhouette could be seen by the watchmen guarding Fanelia's western wall, the Cyclades Rampart. A happy twittering sounded over the city, like baby piano notes. A young guardsman, a platinum-blond mink, shut his eyes to listen. Gaea's other moons had appeared, as well: A peppery Atzü'lu and a fatherly cinnamon Phelfis skated across the sky.
Summer reigned. Prairielands outside of Fanelia were combed by warm winds. Farmers and shepherds applauded the orange moon's debut. It was a good sign; a break in the heatwaves was soon to come, as early as the next couple mornings. Gaean mythos told of the season's beginnings: The Father Earthmover, Phelfideüs—after whom the orange moon was named—oversaw the dominion duels between Atzü'lumai the Ingle and Esharlæsöl the Pleasance. The Demigoddess of Fire and Demigod of Wind dueled for fall, battling for further influence on the Earthwork. Although, chronologically, Atzü'lumai was the eldest out of the Demi-Pantheon, her second-youngest brother always loved battling with her, so she'd always accept his writs of challenge. Sometimes Esharlæsol won, which ushered in an early autumn. The younger sister, Khümrolia the Conduit, used Marble Maple trees to break stalemates between them. While ruby indicated the Ingle's victory and amber the Pleasance's, they also yielded a warm autumn and a good harvest, respectively. On special occasions, the Conduit would ask Asärlak the Jet—the youngest and Water Demigod—for his input; early frost on either colored leaves denoted it. Whenever the Jet's neutrality was apparent, Khümrolia teased her older siblings by leaving the Marble Maples' color changes incomplete.
This year, the Ingle and Pleasance were surely having words with the Conduit. Vanille and Marina were reading a Marble Maple in Gladiolus Stadium. At the sight of half-changed leaves, the rabbit girl giggled. Marina merely scratched the back of her head.
"Welcome, esteemed guests!" Gustavio's voice rang strongly across the Dining Hall. Loyally at his side was Lamorak Alcharia. "We truly appreciate your reception and presence in this event. For 32 years, we've gone without a proper sovereign. And now, as I stand before you today, I am proud to announce the ascension of our young Lord, son of Mother Elena Aura IV and Father Uther Pendragon. Fanelia's winds have glided us along the path of sanctum and peace. I have protected her people, raised and taught her young, and honored her ancestry under the aegis and seal of Father Uther. A dearest friend to me, to us all, I…have also been blessed to see the day where I could finally advise his only child."
Asturia's First Princess, Marceline, held onto her father's hand. A bit shorter, King Schezar nodded.
"It is my deepest honor to bequeath the Throne to him. For it is his birthright. May it also be his home, his pride and comfort, in sword, in shield…and in staff." The avian elder's gold medallions clinked as he moved aside. In tandem, so did Lamorak. "I, Doyen Gustavio Macchus, am humbled to present"—He showed a hand to the double doors—"His Splendent Majesty, King Arthur Dalian of Our Wondrous Kingdom!"
The entire room went into applause. Two guards pulled the doors from the other side, at Lancelot's signal. Lauds of "Welcome, King Arthur" and "Bless you, King Arthur" assailed him. Entering the space, Arthur couldn't help grinning. At his sides were Viceroys Lancelot, Gawain, and Percival. Their cape colors were careful not to overpower Arthur's brilliant crimson; Lancelot's fluttered in a contemplative navy, while Percival's showed a more claret shade and Gawain's a mossy hunter. Noblewomen waved their handkerchiefs at them. A bit overwhelmed, Arthur's smile crooked nervously. Crystals glittered from above. Some caught his eye, as he made his way to the head table. Slightly elevated than the rest, it wasn't too different from the weeks before. It made him smile.
A speech preluded the feast. At Arthur's command, platters and platters came in. At the head of each line were the Sylvine Luminaria. Nimue was garbed in adorable dessert-like colors, from her blueberry petticoat to peppermint-blue silks. Vanille and Marina weren't so far behind, each in orange-cream frills and spearmint thatch, respectively. Happily, the girls helped serve everyone. The head table, where the King and his closest subordinates were, were the lasts to be served. Specifically choreographed, so that the process was fluid, without congestion, and emphasized putting the guests first. Arthur watched it unfold, smiling all the while. Steamy meats and vegetables made his mouth water; but a dutiful pat on his hand reminded him that he needed to say grace. Blinking rapidly, but caught mid-blink, it was Lancelot who stood and asked everyone to join hands. After doing so, an airy chant followed. In Arthur's mind, it sounded like a cross between a prayer and a song. Lilting words blended together, stanzas were hard to catch. And before he knew it, it was over and everyone finished with a word akin to "Amen."
The coronation ball followed. Ball gowns swished and caroused alongside gentlemen's breeches. Florid pastels and seasonal textures clashed in befitting complements. Corsages pulled the promenade-like dance together even more. In the midst of that sea of dancers, Arthur noticed that only the ladies wore corsages. The males were tasked to place a flower of their fancy on the head or hand of the lady of equal fancy. Even Mercrusian Prince Rowland had followed through, as well; it was a widely commonplace custom, it seemed. A bit more aloof than bashful, he handed a young lady a viscaria stem. Though her age and height differed vastly from his, she obliged him. After a giggle and a curtsy, she allowed him to guide her to the floor.
Off from the other side, his mother cooed sweetly. Then, much to her surprise, a yellow lily came into view. She became giddy after seeing the Asturian King behind it. She couldn't deny his handsomeness. Upon overcoming tragic circumstances they both shared, their friendship was slowly blossoming into something more. With that, King Schezar had a feeling his daughters were going to have a brother soon.
At another end of the room, Miles fidgeted. His simple daisy wasn't all that impressive. He was also insecure about his two left feet: All the night's ladies were fair and beautiful. Even the youngest of them were darling—especially Asturia's Third Princess. Somehow, she'd taken a liking to him and Vanille. The two girls went around to different tables just to collect flowers. Vanille had asked Gawain if she and the Princess could go to the garden to pick more, but he couldn't allow it without her father's permission. So they did. Scampering across the hall, the girls spotted Miles waving after some mild nervousness; they waved back, giggling cutely.
To it, his smile crooked. Boyishly shy, he lowered his eyes and heaved a hopeless sigh.
A cascade of dark-fuchsia and silvery beads came down next to him. Then, a gentle hand hugged his shoulder. Percival smiled at him. "Do not despair, young Miles. In the language of flowers, the daisy represents innocence and loyal beauty." Her other hand helped guide the blossom to his chest. "Hold tight, but let go of your fear. I know it can be nerve-wracking for a boy to ask the hand of a girl—in anything." She giggled. "But the reverence and respect she'll give you for your courage will echo volumes."
Miles's eyes glittered with hope.
"Read the flower you've chosen, Miles. Then, read the girl you wish to give it to. How she translates it matters, because your daisy is what you see in her—that is, innocence and loyal beauty."
Her smile softened. To it, Miles blinked. "I'm a bit lost, Milord, but…I'll do my best!"
A tinge of pink tickled the Viceroy's cheeks. "Good on you, Miles. Be not dismayed; be hopeful. Because a lady will not forget what a man sees in her."
Percival's heels clacked against the marble, her tail snaking as her hips swayed a bit. Miles was left to blink—at her departure, then his daisy, and around the ballroom. The thought of Vanille and Princess Mariette's reactions to his daisy made him fidget more than before. Who would respond better to his gift? The confusion made his ears flick, his tails swish, and his face redden. "Gah," his mind cried.
Off and away from him, Vanille and her new friend had returned to Gawain's side. This time, the Princess's father came in tow. Rich lilacs mingled with deeper indigos. Solid but stately jewelry made the Asturian King's regality apparent. Catching his approach made Gawain bow deeply.
"Greetings, Viceroy," King Schezar returned it kindly. Little Mariette trotted over to her father and clung to his robes. Combing his fingers through her hair, "My little Mariette has taken an interest in your gardens. A suggestion made by this darling young lady, methinks."
To his gentle smile, Gawain bowed his head in agreement. "Indeed, Your Majesty. Vanille's found a new playmate in her, I'd agree."
"I'll allow her time in your gardens, if you'd be so kind as to propose a safeguard."
"Aye, for both of them, without a doubt. Vanille"—Gawain knelt in front of the rabbit girl—"show the Princess to the Garden Pleasance. You're to stay with her till she'd summoned back by her father. Alright?"
"Yes, Viceroy!" Vanille grinned.
"Be sure not to trouble your safeguard, either." He got to his feet and showed his deep respect once more. "If I may, I'll assign this task to the underling of Sir Lancelot—Sir Galahad Benedict." The boy in question was within range when he heard his name. Meeting the higher-up's gaze, Galahad trotted over. "Lad, you've an assignment: We need you to watch over Vanille and Asturia's Third Princess for a bit in the Garden Pleasance. No worries, we'll send for their return after a while."
Galahad blinked: He'd been blindsided by the request. Even more so, since it came from the monarch of the country he hailed from. Flustered a bit, he struck a dutiful salute. "Y-Yes, of course! I will do what is asked of me—and fulfill it to the best of my ability! Your Majesties!" Galahad dipped like a wooden toy to both Mariette and Schezar.
Gawain wondered about the white hedgehog's stiffness. Setting it aside, he waved them off. "Alright, off with ya! You're on assignment, now."
"Yes, sir!"
"C'mon, Mister Galahad!" Vanille tugged with one hand while leading the giggling Princess Mariette with the other. "We're going to the Pleasance! Wanna make flower crowns with us?"
Feeling unsure, Galahad hummed.
"You know how to make flower crowns?" little Mariette inquired, excitement tingeing her voice.
"Sure do! I can teach you, too, Princess! We've got all kinds of flowers—like roses, and daffodils, and marigolds, and…."
The echidna watched them go alongside Asturia's king. Another bow went to the chinchilla as he made his way elsewhere. He shook his head a little. "I guess I should let Lancelot know where his squire's gone…?" Carefully, he uncorked a tin flask and took a sip from it.
"Don't worry. It's already done."
Lord Percival slowly took the king's previous place beside Gawain. Wiping his mouth, he took immediate notice of her increased reticence. Her eyes were rich topaz disks in the moonlight, laced with dread. Her tuxedo ensemble stretched further out in mimicry of a ball gown. Her skirts halved below her knees, where fanciful white boots slimmed her calves. Over them was a peplum overskirt, but the fantastic bow at the base of her tail seemed reminiscent to a bishōjo warrior from "Sonic's" earlier years. Even down to her jacket's cuffs, linked in gold; tiny roses embellished the buttons. Her Ensign must've shortened her cape to shoulder blade-length. The smaller Fanelian crest's gilt threads glittered in the moonlight, as well.
An air of reluctance filled the space between the two Viceroys. Until Gawain decided to put down his flask for a moment.
"You seem leery, Percival, of King Asturia. You've not spoken to him, in neither greeting nor gratitude. It's unlike you…."
"Yes, I am aware. It's just that…" Percival turned toward the bay windows at her back. Stepping over to them silently told Gawain to follow. "In my younger years, I aspired to become a Knight of Caeli to His Majesty. I'd trained hard, and even moved to Asturia to better my chances and credibility…but my femininity barred me from entry. It was an all-male sect of Asturia's royal guard, so of course I was rejected." A teardrop fled. It was caught and cast away, without much thought on her part. "In retrospect, I suppose I should've expected it."
"It was a dream of yours, and yours alone." The rest of the gin in his flask had gone, so he corked it once more and slid it into a side-pouch. "I'm sure there were a lotta lads after you, but you needn't despair it anymore," he went on, leaning against the large sill. He snuck a flower from a nearby vase. A somewhat nervous flush had entered his face, suddenly; was the gin finally tickling his brain? His Brogue was slurring a bit more than usual. "I've faced prejudice before, but I can't say it was on a scale like that. My apologies, Milord…for you to endure such a harsh criticism." He scratched his cheek. "If I had a say, I think you fit just fine in Fanelia's ranks…'specially as her 3rd Viceroy-Knight."
Percival wasn't expecting such an unusual brand of compassion from the echidna. Even less did she expect him to hand her a thorn-less burgundy rose. Its deeper shade and absent thorns only meant a couple of things. But they were that much more impressive since she knew what they meant.
Shyly, the 2nd Viceroy tossed his eyes—and blush—away from her. "It's their loss, really."
Tenderly, Percival's white gloves took up the flower. A light pass over Gawain's leather ones made her own blush take over. Incredibly and astonishingly bright, it was. How Gawain was able to communicate "love at first sight" along with "unconscious beauty" to her amazed her. How long had he felt that way? Somehow, it was an exciting venture to look into. He smoothed the back of his neck upon seeing her tearfully sniffing at the rose.
Another rose, from the same vase, had vanished too, somehow.
The mischief-maker from the celebration, Riche, had been taking flowers from several different vases and playing pranks on a few partiers. A Fanelian guard—now reduced to formal civilian attire—felt a couple taps at his back, took one of Riche's flowers, and questioned it a bit, before meeting eyes with an unsuspecting maiden. Blushes were exchanged between them. Oddly, out of Riche's favor, the girl accepted his gesture and was led to the dance floor. The bee grumbled under his breath, pretending to tear his "hair" out.
"No way am I giving up! One more—just one!"
He buzzed off, going between conversation bubbles, and up to another vase. That one held a particularly lovely variety: multicolored lilies. Some were carnation, others were saffron. Even pale-green and spotted.
"Ooh, these are super pretty~!" Greedy, little hands reached for them.
"Aha! I knew it!"
The bee child Riche flinched. He lost a few from his handful and swung his head around: Marina was the one who found him, and pointing an accusatory finger at him. Cheeks bubbled and ears perked with steam, Marina threw her fists against her hips.
A nervous wave preceded a just-as-nervous, "Eh heh…um, hi there, girlie…?"
"I knew the bouquets my mateys an' I worked on for hours were lookin' sparse…for some reason. An' it was you, stealing 'em!"
"Ahh, what—ya mean these?" He flounced the bushel at her. "I just, uh, found these lying around…!"
"Whateve'! I know Milady lilies when I see 'em—I'm the one that arranged 'em!"
Suddenly, a hulking green crocodile came onto the scene. Formal but still a semblance to a wealthy merchant, the tall reptilian crossed his arms and gave Riche an overruling glare.
"Aw c'mon, Trammor, what're you taking her side for?"
"That's 'Boss' to you, buddy boy! Y'aint got no business takin' other people's things, Riche, especially if they're royal property!" An anger vein pulsed.
A sweetness filled Riche's nostrils. "But their stuff smells really good though, Boss!" Then, the croc's vein got bigger. He was also gritting his teeth. In terrifying actuality, sweetness wasn't the only thing the boy could smell. He gulped, awkwardly set down the floral bunch, and tried buzzing away. But a claw-like grapple snagged the neck of his shirt. Loud whining and complaints drew the nearby guests' attention. Trammor did his best to quell the fury and embarrassment for the boy: toting the boy while he kicked and flailed only embarrassed him more. "Grr, I was trying to strike up conversation with Princess Marcy, too…ya little brat," He remarked, in the swamp of names the boy barraged him with.
Marina took up the displaced flowers. She stuck her tongue out at the leaving Riche and snickered at him being carted on the crocodile's shoulder.
Seeing her march off, the chameleon, Vintasse, shook his head in dismay. In one hand was a small glass. Brimming around its midsection was a rubicund liquid. He swirled it a bit before turning to face the person at his back. The raised parlor lifted guests and residents alike off the main floor. A seating area welcomed them at the forefront. Tying the salon together were comfortable chairs, side tables, even a chaise longue, with knickknacks and ornamented oil lamps as finishing touches. Cushioned alcoves allowed them to curl up in the day's light. The salon sat alongside the scullery and galley areas; a tiny walkway separated them. Nimue had just exited the galley when she spotted the chameleon approaching someone from behind. She smiled and continued on.
"Ave Vespa, 1st Viceroy."
Lancelot sent his startled leer back to the chameleon. There was a small glass in his hand, as well.
The almost magenta chameleon donned a dark-gray shawl over his evening outfit. More Eastern in influence, top and bottom hems ballooned under wrist bangles and anklets, and his sashes crisscrossed over his hips. His sandals gave a regal flair only desert-dwellers could flaunt. Clever citrines had snagged him out of his daydream.
Carefully, Vintasse went down to a knee. His unique tail bobbed to maintain balance. "My name is Vintasse Esper, Undercover Detective of Asturia's Investigation Bureau. It is an honor to be graced by your esteemed presence, 'Lord."
"Thank you for your attendance," Lancelot bowed in return.
Between the two, confidence was gained before they struck up a casual conversation. News had been going around about a development between the Asturian and Mercrusian Kingdoms: New partnerships as far east as Basram were being considered to strengthen trades and tourism. Basram was a physical halfway mark between the continent's western and eastern hemispheres. The sole settlement, nestled within Hesroma Sound, was the next checkpoint northeast of Mercrusia. Even further north, before the canine village Tyo'boke, were the Mausolea of Viole. It would be an extra four days' worth of travel to redirect one's path along Titanic Plains, which proved rather inconvenient for both sides. A new thoroughfare in the southern range of Floresta Mountains would remedy it. Multiple routes could be carved out alongside the major one running almost directly across from Fanelia. Vintasse even pointed it out: Overlooking Titanic Plains seemed to be an aurora-like wall. Pearlescent wonder gleamed on the mountains' face.
As they discussed it further, the evening dance began. It would be the last dance of the evening, and it was Arthur's chance to showcase some dance moves. Moods from folksy to classy bounced in and out of the hall. Ladies weren't ashamed to kick their ankles to match their gentlemen's. Even Gawain and Percival had a chance to lead their guests into a jig. Everyone around them clapped in time, as tambourines clinked and fiddles strummed. As elegant a venue the Fanelian Castle Ballroom was, it didn't stop nostalgia from marching in. The Kingdom's people embraced their roots and heritage. Widespread community made them want to share their wares, talents, and food with others. In a sense, Arthur wondered if it'd always been like that.
Wartime had ravaged Fanelia, he remembered from Lancelot's explanation about the Stronghold walls and watchtowers. At some point, the kingdom had been attacked. Who would want to attack such a progressive and friendly city?
In efforts to concentrate more on the lady dancing with him, Arthur dismissed the notion. "Hey, I'm better at this than I thought," he cheered himself on.
At the tune's end, he stole a peek at Lancelot. The 1st Viceroy didn't seem the least bit interested in dancing with anyone, so he kept away from the ballroom floor. Off in the Salon, the Asturian detective left to refresh himself—begrudgingly, Arthur noticed. He blinked a little at his leave, and decided to keep company in his place. Up the steps, Arthur smiled and approached. "Evening, Lancelot."
But the young co-lord said nothing in return. It came as a slow, but reticent, nod instead.
"Hmph. I see you're flowering against the wall again. Why not branch out and mingle for a bit?" Arthur held out his hand. From it, Lancelot's leer met Arthur's. A handsome wiggle of his eyebrows made the King look mischievous. "Then, you can climb back into your pot. Whaddaya say?"
Pristine gloves gave an aura of yearning. Lancelot felt a reluctant quiver in his chest. His blink was meditative, but lightly conflicted, nonetheless. Something made him stare at the hand. It looked kind. It looked warm, understanding, and even merciful. Mingle a bit, then return to his pot, he fancied. It was an odd way of putting it, but Arthur was conscious of the Viceroy's introversion. "Such gracious compassion," the black hedgehog fancied again. "Much like his mother…?"
And, before he knew it, his hand had entered Arthur's grasp.
"I wanna refine my waltz, after all," Arthur added. Then winked.
As the players set up for their next number, the guests noticed King Arthur and Viceroy Lancelot. The Viceroy insisted Arthur take the lead and show him what he's learned. In clever return, the King received it as a challenge and grinned. The ball's ladies clasped onto their leads' arms, a sparkle of romance in their eyes. Miles wondered where Vanille had gone, but before asking Lamorak—who seemed ready to tear his crest feathers out—the little fox noticed Arthur taking Lancelot's hand for a waltz. Percival tugged Gawain into watching their fellows enter the floor's center; a blindsided confusion hit the echidna in the face. Doyen Gustavio wondered quietly, as had King Asturia and Queen Mercrusia. Even the Asturian Princesses found themselves tickled by the display. The Sylvine Luminaria huddled together, arm-in-arm. Nimue had whispered about how well Arthur was dancing earlier, which made little Marina blush irritably.
A female soloist sang for the two. There with her were a pianist and a lyrist. All the ladies were in flowing gowns. The troupe was the same from both the tavern and the square. Were they local performers? Surely, honored guests. But superb multitaskers, at best.
Lancelot nodded, "Begin."
"Bah'myyr, namaste… Khir'dhnni, yah peghir'd shüd hakthe
Lo! Mal'garht hid! Ng'yro d'naïthe, Ng'yro d'naïhu…"
Arthur made wonderful progress: Without any need for correction, he'd taken Lancelot through the basics. Airy vibratos coursed around in the ballroom's air. It swept through Percival's whiskers, which flinched from a plump giggle. Gawain's spines flounced a bit, but were brushed back by his hand.
In deepening concentration, Arthur kept up with Lancelot. "One, two, three…four, five—…" he whispered in his mind. Timing was everything in a waltz, so he wanted to show his instructor how well he remembered. Lancelot gave him the chance. In its midst, he could feel a breeze strengthening.
Dancing under the Library's skylight gave them privacy. He was sure Percival would be meeting him that particular evening; when Lancelot showed up in her place, Arthur was startled. A vague interest had been hinted in the 1st Viceroy's eyes. He wanted to be sure the King knew the waltz—so he could dance with his queen, someday. Small hums kept them in time. Lancelot taught him the easier way to track one's rhythm.
The song playing for them now was the one Lancelot taught him to waltz to.
Did Lancelot know, or was it just a popular song? If it was, how did Arthur know it? It sounded different from what he recalled. But how could he recall a song he didn't remember learning? A forgotten lesson? A prenatal memory even? Or…?
Was this fate?
Outside the Fanelian Castle, Vanille and Third Princess Mariette had finished their flower crowns. Adorned with daisies and thistle, respectively, they decided to make one for Galahad. Pale-blue elderberry stems were twisted together with ivory anemones before being put atop Galahad's head. From his kneel, he smiled bashfully at both girls giggling. A dutiful salute received a sweet-hearted reception.
"Yay! We did it," the Princess lauded. "You've taught me so much, Miss Vanille! I want to come back and make more crowns with you again!"
"That would be wonderful! Many thanks, Princess!"
As they cheered and laughed, Galahad suddenly picked up on something. Getting to his feet, he stepped away a bit and heard singing. Soon into it, the girls picked up on it, too. Vanille's ears perked up, while Mariette's twitched.
"Ooh…someone's singing, and it's really pretty," the rabbit girl sighed.
"Chir'had, nyhe'nyho mih, rol'dhnni, heid'nyhid bah nirrh-hah…"
A muted glow emanated from Arthur's Ensign.
Upon the second refrain, Arthur and Lancelot's capes whipped about in the waltz. More advanced techniques were employed by Arthur, but he handled them with expert precision. Rhythm stayed, and gentle breeze wisped around the room. Flower petals applauded. Overhanging crystals jingled. Ball gowns flittered, while their ladies sighed. An air of romance literally filled the air.
A sparkle had entered the King's eyes as he remembered what came next. His lead on Lancelot tightened. He wasn't sure if the Viceroy noticed, but he'd made sure their saunters matched. Their capes glittered in the moonlight. Lancelot felt a warmth in that kingly hold. His hand led them into a dreamland all their own, somehow. The air smelled of ripe pollen. Table skirts flittered. Princely hands made Lancelot recall a distant, and foggy, memory.
"Tor syül khükshid, sorrhe bih tahl nha'nyhe lu nyhakthe
Lo! Tol'serht hid! Ng'yro d'naïthe, Ng'yro d'naïhu…"
That's when she disappeared. That was also when the guests collectively gasped.
It was when Arthur braved through the stares. Not to mention the very first time Lancelot felt fond of the King's lips.
Tonight's also the night…I'll say "I love you."