Chapter 92

Avalina was combing through the titles on a library shelf, wondering what to read next. There were so many options. . .so many, many options. . .a book with rather strange symbols on its spine drew her attention, and with a mild effort, she pulled it out.

Grunting slightly at its mildly heavy weight in her hands, she sat down at the couch and carefully flipped it open, only to see nothing that looked even the slightest bit readable.

The entire page looked like all manner of tallymarks. They filled the page, and none of them were even correct. They were either more or less than five, or they were sideways or crossways. . .it didn't make any sense.

So engrossed in puzzling over it, she didn't realize the Horned King had entered the room until his shadow fell over her.

She looked up, startled for a moment, before she smiled as genuinely at him as she might a friend.

"Hello," she told him cheerfully.

He nodded in response.

He must have seen the puzzled fog in her eyes, for he asked, "What is it?"

Looking at the book in her hand, he asked, "What are you reading?"

She laughed.

"I don't know. I can't read chicken scratchings."

Carefully, she slid the book over to his side of the table, and she watched, almost mesmerized, as his fingers slowly gripped the edge of the book and picked it up.

He was silent for a moment, studying it, before he answered.

"It is actually a foreign language, one of the first books written in it, to be precise. Although your description of chicken scratchings is more or less. . .correct."

Avalina laughed.

"Well, what does it say?"

The Horned King closed the book to see.

"It's a story about an emperor. And a small. . .bird."

"You can understand it?"

He nodded.

After a pause, Avalina asked timidly, "Could you read it to me?"

The Horned King look up at her, a brow ridge twitching faintly in surprise.

"Why?"

"I want to know what it says. And I can't understand it."

"No."

"Why?"

"I do not read aloud."

"I read to you, the least you could do is return the favor."

She could feel him wavering.

"Please?" She asked softly, watching.

For a moment, she thought he was going to refuse, but at last he gracefully sat in the chair behind him and opened the book.

"Once upon a time," he began, before looking over at her.

"This is pointless."

"No! It's not!" Avalina said excitedly, leaning on the couch arm.

"Keep going!"

The Horned King sighed, looking at her.

"Very well."

Looking down at the strange symbols, he continued in his dredging, echoing voice.

"Once upon a time, in a far away country, there was an emperor. He was much feared, for he was a harsh ruler. . .

As with any emperor, he prized beautiful things, and held them on display at all times, but the thing he valued most was his garden, and he took all pains to make as the loveliest in the land. And it was. It extended so far out that not even the gardener knew where it ended.

Travelers that came to the country would praise and marvel at the emperor's fine palace and his gardens, but always they spoke of the nightingale, who lived in a tree in the Emperor's garden.

The commoners, on their ways about their duties, would always hear the bird singing, and it never failed to bring tears to the eyes of anyone who heard it.

One day, word reached the emperor of this bird, that sang far more beautifully than anything that had ever been heard before, that the whole world knew, and he did not.

When he heard this, the emperor became angry that he had never heard of such a thing before this and demanded one of his lords-in-waiting go out to find the bird that very day.

"If the bird has not been brought to me by sunset, you will lose your head!" The emperor told him.

The nobleman trembled in fear and did not dare disobey.

And so he searched and searched all day, asking all he met if they knew of the nightingale. The people he asked, however, had lived in the Emperor's court all of their lives, and did not know such a thing.

As sunset grew near, he was beyond desperate, and sitting down on a stone by the road, he looked so forlorn that a kitchen girl in passing kindly asked what ailed him so.

"Alas," he cried, "The emperor has ordered me to bring the nightingale to him at once, or at sunset I shall lose my head! And I cannot find the creature anywhere!"

"I know the nightingale," the girl said kindly, hoping to quell his terror. "She sings to me every day in passing, when I take the scraps of the court tables to my mother who lives by the sea."

In an instant the nobleman was on his feet.

"Pray, little maiden, take me to this nightingale at once, for I do not want to lose my head! I will see to it you are given full employment in the kitchen, so that you and your mother need not starve!"

And so the maiden led him through the wood, in so many twists and turns he would have lost his way in an instant had she not been there.

Upon reaching the base of a massive tree, she said to the nobleman, "We shall hear her now."

And presently the nightingale began to sing, perched on a limb well above their heads.

"Little nightingale," the maiden called when the bird had finished, "Our most gracious emperor wishes you to sing before him."

"My excellent little nightingale," said the nobleman, "I have the great pleasure of inviting you to a court festival this evening, where you will gain imperial favor by your charming song."

"My song sounds best in the wild green wood," said the nightingale, but she still came willingly when she heard the emperor's wish.

The palace was elegantly decorated for the occasion, and in the center of the most beautiful hall, an elaborate golden perch had been erected by the emperor's throne for her to sit on.

All were in their finest garments, and every eye was turned toward the little brown bird sitting on the perch, as the emperor nodded at her to begin.

"What a plain little thing," a few murmured to one another.

"So drab colored! How can such an inelegant creature sing as beautifully as the commoners say?"

"Tis as plain and common as rice, I say."

The nightingale's song filled the hall like the tinkling of tiny glass bells, and she sang so sweetly that tears came to the emperor's eyes and rolled down his face.

Her song filled the heart of all who heard it, and when she was finished they were all left hoping that the emperor would order her to sing again.

The emperor was so delighted and so moved by the plain little bird's song that he declared she would have his golden slipper placed round her neck (Which is the highest honor in the emperor's courts) but the bird declined the honor with thanks, saying that she had been sufficiently rewarded already.

"I have seen tears in the emperor's eyes," she said. "And that is my richest reward, and more than enough honor for me."

And as such, everyone came to admire the drab little bird for her sweet, enchanting song, and the ladies of the court began to take water in their mouths to make them utter a soft gurgling noise, so that they could fancy themselves nightingales whenever they spoke to anyone. The bird's visit was most successful, and now she was to remain at court.

She was given her own cage, with liberty to go out twice a day, and once during the night. A dozen servants were appointed to attend her on these occasions, holding a silken string fastened to her leg.

There was certainly not much pleasure in this kind of flying, but the little bird never voiced complaint.

As the months went by and she entertained the emperor with song, his heart began to soften, and he realized some of his orders and rules in the past may have been outlandishly harsh. And so he changed them, gradually becoming a more just and noble ruler than he or any of his forefathers ever had before. He did not seem to notice the change, but the people did, and slowly they began to replace their terror of him with pride whenever they spoke of him amongst themselves.

The nightingale was his pride and joy, and a ruler from another country traveled to his palace to pay homage to the emperor and to hear the nightingale sing, having heard of her beautiful voice.

Some months after the visit, a package arrived from the foreign ruler, and when it was opened, the emperor was delighted to see that it was an artificial nightingale made to look like a living one, made of gold, and covered all over with rubies, diamonds and sapphires. When the golden bird was wound, it could sing like the real one, and move it's tail up and down, which sparkled with inlaid silver.

"Now they must sing together," said the court.

"What a duet it will be!"

But they did not get on well, for the real nightingale sang in its natural way, and the artificial one sang only waltzes.

"This is not a fault," said the music master, "It is quite to my taste."

So then it sang alone, and was as successful as the real bird; besides, it was so much prettier to look at, for it sparkled like bracelets and breast-pins.

Time and time again could it sing the same song without getting tired, and everyone was infatuated with the golden bird.

"'Tis better than the real nightingale," they told each other, "Both in appearance and in song."

No one had noticed when the little brown bird had fled, heartbroken, back to her own green woods, but finally, one day, the emperor noticed her absence and was furious.

"What an ungrateful creature," he fumed.

And so the bird was banished from the empire, forbidden to ever return to the palace, but nobody seemed to care, and continued to listen to the golden bird as happily as they had listened to the real one at first.

A year passed, and the emperor, the court, and all the commoners knew every little turn in the artificial bird's song, every little note, for it always sang the same exact thing, with no twists or originality, and this pleased them all the better.

One evening, when the bird was singing at it's best, there came an awful choke and grind from the inside, and the sound of a spring cracking.

Whirr-r-r-rrr...and the music stopped.

The emperor immediately called for all of the watchmakers and jewelers in the kingdom to fix his precious bird.

After a great deal of delicate work, talking and examination, the bird was carefully put more or less to order, but the watchmakers and jewelers all agreed that from now on it could only be played once a year, as the barrels had been worn out from so much playing, and attempting to replace them would destroy the bird entirely.

The kingdom was shocked, but a greater sorrow awaited them.

Some years later, a heavy mourning fell on the land when the emperor became so ill he was not expected to live.

All of the kingdom now mourned, where years ago they would have silently rejoiced. For he was a kind and just ruler now, and all the people loved him.

Already a new emperor had been chosen, and everyone slipped away to pay homage to his successor, leaving him alone.

Cold and pale he lay on his royal, elegant bed, with the golden tassels and long velvet curtains, alone as could be. But he was not yet dead.

A window was open, and the full moonlight shone in upon the emperor and the artificial bird which sat beside him on the table.

The poor emperor, finding he could scarcely breathe with a strange weight on his chest, forced his eyes open to see Death in the room with him, standing by the bed, that jagged black sword resting heavily upon him, waiting.

All around the bed, and peeping through the curtains, were a number of strange heads and faces, some old, ugly and wicked looking, other, newer ones rather lovely and gentle. The emperor noticed there seemed to be a great deal more wicked heads than kind ones.

For they were the emperor's good deeds and bad deeds from all of his life, coming back to stare him in the face in his final hour, causing him reflect on his life.

The wicked faces, though certainly more plentiful, seemed older and faded, while the kind ones looked youthful, newer and full of life, and he realized these were the past several years of his good reign he had done.

"Do you remember this? Or do you remember that?" The wicked ones taunted, bringing recollections of things that made the perspiration appear on the emperor's brow.

"I think nothing about it," the emperor croaked in vain, although he realized in his terror that he remembered each and every one of those horrible, horrible deeds he had committed.

"Music, Music!" He cried weakly.

"Bring the large drum and the stringed instruments, that I might not hear what they say!"

But there was no one there, and they still went on, and Death stared silently at the emperor, his aura as black and suffocating as smoke, waiting patiently. Waiting. . .

The emperor turned his head to the side and saw the mechanical bird sitting on his bedtable.

"If only I had the strength to wind that bird, the music would drive you from me," he rasped. "But I haven't, and there is no one here to wind it for me."

Death continued to stare at the emperor with his cold, hollow eyes, eyeing him like a predator. So eagerly. . .but he was patient, and did not twitch in the faintest. All he had to do was wait.

The room was eerily silent. The only sound was the struggling breaths of the emperor, which grew softer as the sword on his chest grew heavier still.

Suddenly, piercing the smothering blanket, there came through the window the sound of soft, sweet music.

Outside, on a tree bough by the window, silhouetted by the moon, sat the live nightingale. She had heard of the emperor's illness, and had came to sing to him, so forgive him for the wrong he had done her, and of hope, and love and trust.

As she sung, the shadows of the room lightened, the voices of the faces were slowly dimmed, one by one, the emperor's stilling blood began to flow more rapidly, giving life to his weak limbs.

And even Death himself listened in the silence, and said in his heart, "Sing on, little nightingale. Sing on."

And the bird sang of mountains, of rivers, of flowers and butterflies. She sang of the wind in the trees and the fish in the sea, of the quiet little churchyard, where the white roses grow, and the emperor began to strengthen in his bed.

She sang of the fresh sweet grass underfoot on a spring day, of the cool brook in the summer and gardens that were filled with Life.

And so Death gave up the emperor's soul for a song, and, thinking that he would see these gardens, dissipated out of the window in a cold white mist, taking his jagged sword with him.

The emperor, no longer gasping for his life, spoke tearfully to the nightingale.

"My heavenly little bird, you returned! I banished you from my kingdom once and treated you most thoughtlessly. And yet, you charmed the evil faces from my bed, and Death himself from my heart, with your sweet, sweet song. How can I ever reward you?"

"You have already rewarded me," the nightingale answered.

"I shall never forget that I draw tears from your eyes everytime I sing. These are the jewels that rejoice a singer's heart. But sleep now, and well again. I will sing to you."

As she sang, the emperor fell into a deep, deep slumber, and oh, how sweet and restoring it was! When he awoke, all illness and fragility was gone, his strength and health renewed.

The sun shone brightly through his window, but not one of his servants were about, for they thought him dead. Only the nightingale sat beside him, and sang.

"You must always remain here with me," said the emperor. "You shall sing only when it pleases you, and I will break the golden bird into a thousand pieces."

"No, do not do that," replied the nightingale, "The bird did very well for as long as it could, keep it here still. I cannot live cheerfully in a cage, no matter how gilded, but let me come when I like. I will sit on the bough outside your window in the evenings and sing to you, so that you may be happy, and have thoughts full of joy. I will sing to you of those who are happy, of those who suffer, the good and the evil of this world, from far and wide. I love your heart better than your crown and all your riches."

So saying, the nightingale flew away out of the window.

The servants now came in to look after the dead emperor, when lo! He stood there, to their astonishment, and said, "Good Morning."

Both the lich and the girl were silent as the story ended, the only sound being the snapping of the fire.

For a long moment, the Horned King simply stared at the final page, which at the bottom was marked, "The End," and felt vaguely. . .wistful.

"She was such a true friend," Avalina said softly, breaking the lull and causing the Horned King to look up at her, broken from his thoughts.

"The bird?"

Avalina nodded.

The Horned King only rattled faintly in his throat, but did not reply.

"Hm."

"You read very well," she told him shyly, "And it was a beautiful story. Thank you for reading to me."

The Horned King nodded and gracefully rose from his chair, his shadow coming over her as he lightly set the book on the table.

"You are. . .welcome."

Avalina rose herself, her legs stiff from sitting so long, and followed him.

"Was it as pointless as you thought at first?"

He turned to face her, and for a moment, she thought she saw the faintest of smiles on his face.

"Not quite."

"Well good, because I've got to have you read it again sometime!"

Talking, they walked out of the library together, and their talking slowly faded into silence.

Aw, the Horned King's reading to Avalina! I could hug him! LOL The story he read to her is a Chinese fairy tale called The Emperor and the Nightingale, is case someone may not know. It's one of my favorite fairy tales ever XD I mean literally, EVER. I love this story to pieces XD.