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Sunflowers are rare in the kingdom of Anatae.
They're aptly named; a modest tribute of the Earth to the Sun, which follows its track in the sky, begging for its attention. They're impressive and tall, even if cluttered; when one of them sprouts, others soon follow its lead, wavering in the winds as they look up to the sky.
Charioce himself had only seen them a handful of times, more often dying than in bloom, spilling their seeds onto the soil like an offering, after their beauty and glamour have faded away into the wisps of time.
Sunflowers are wasteful.
The Earth courts its oblivious subordinate with useless favours, leeching into fractions of misplaced affection cast upon the world itself, mistaking them for things they are not. The fields are best to serve the realm with wheat, barley – in the future, even cotton, when it could afford the luxury.
Charioce finds himself thinking about sunflowers a lot, lately.
Sunflowers would suit her, he thinks.
They're bright, bold and unique – and they're gone all-too-quickly.
(He wishes he could remember if they smelled like the sun, as well.)
It's a battle all of itself to find a worthwhile opponent to duel.
Just as practice, to loosen his rusty joints that are aching to grind against his bones rather than to stagnate on his throne.
The knights hold themselves back; even when he commands them not to. When he was younger it irked him to no end, and in his foolishness he'd punished several for disobeying him. It was a slight twice-told – for not following his order as well as believing they could commit some grave harm to his person.
Nowadays it is still vexing, but Charioce had ample time to contemplate the matter as he burnt his days on the seat he fought to fill, and time dulled his frustration until it was but a muted voice at the back on his thoughts, easily ignored.
The fumbling piece of armor before him is hardly better than a loose golem, with predictable movements and openings so wide Charioce blandly wonders if they're doing it as an invitation for him to put them out of their misery.
Those stiff motions are so different from Nina's.
He imagines her with a sword, a proper one; she could hold her own weight along with the sword's. Charioce could teach her to stand her ground, and ease her form into a proper stance, with her knees slightly bent and her feet apart. She'd mold into it after every time he'd correct her, malleable – but far from fragile.
They'd start with a wooden practice sword; she wouldn't hold back, after she'd set her mind to it. She'd fumble at the start, hesitate to attack; but with every clash between them, with every block he'd bring against her assault, her confidence would grow, until her hesitation would all but dissipate, like a cloud blown away by the virtue of patience.
Soon after, they'd get her fit in the armory – Charioce would need to visit the blacksmith beforehand, lest she'd be discouraged by the lack of proper gear suited to her. He'd give her a blade so sharp it could slice a teardrop into two; he'd show her how to level the weapon with the great strength her lean build hides in itself. Even covered in his guards' armor, he knows Nina would never be a knight.
Just as well. He doesn't want her a knight, nor her to pledge to serve him.
If she'd make any pledge, it'd only be if he, also–
Charioce shoves the bloodied sword to the hands one of the squires and departs from the practice grounds, firmly not thinking about dank dungeons and the skittering claws of rats along stone.
"What about the prisoners?"
"My Lord?" The kneeling manifestation of ineptitude asks, and Charioce feels a muscle in his cheek twitch in annoyance at the gross incompetence he has to deal with on a daily basis.
"Have your ears been failing you, Sir Robert?" He asks, watching the minister twitching under his eyes as his small brain struggles to come up with what it had missed. "We can rectify that. Maybe taking one off would allow you to air-out that empty head of yours better, so you'd remember to deliver the report about the prison, as you've been assigned."
He lets the man splutter about, panicking like a fish that's desperately tries to bounce back into safety while its lungs suffocate.
The King's eyes stray across the vacant throne room; the immense pillars, the lengthy red-carpet. It's hardly a decent ballroom, but it'd certainly be qualified for a smaller gathering. Maybe just two. The musicians wouldn't even have to be close; sound traveled impeccably clear around the air. They'd be hidden in some corner, so she'd feel more at ease, away from prying eyes. Her awkwardness would melt into the fluid way she moved that night, unburdened by troubles or judgement–
A stifled sob snaps him back to another sniveling dolt at his feet, moaning about his family and begging for mercy like Charioce had condemned him for death instead of offering lenient reprimand for wasting the King's time.
Barely withholding from rubbing his temple in front of his subjects, he silences the pleas with a flicker of his wrist.
"Do you play, Sir Robert?"
"My Lord?" The minister parrots back, his mind stuck on the same two words.
"An instrument." Charioce says, and graciously decides not to sever the man's tongue if he'd repeat the phrase back to him. "Do you play any?"
"… The flute, My Lord."
Charioce's eyebrows raise slightly; he can see several other ministers are surprised by the admission. The flute would be considered to crude for Sir Robert; but they'd have to keep their gossip at bay, as the King is not quite done.
"Are you any good?" Charioce asks.
"I–" the man swallows, "I haven't had any complaints in the past, My Lord."
No prisoners died that day, nor the next, nor the one after.
(No ears were cut off, either.)
There's a peculiar feeling nagging at the skin around the index finger of his right hand.
It's been an annoyance since after the trial; more often than not, he catches himself worrying it with his left hand, or barely restraining himself from shifting on his front in front of an audience to try and ease it.
Since his mind is hardly occupied by the never-ending drone of his entourage, it admits far too many resources to the skin on his finger, and he finds himself absentmindedly rubbing it during the day, even putting down his cutlery during mealtime to do so. He tries to replace the ring that its missing with one of the four rings he wears on his left hand, but the weight of it is different, the skin sweaty under it instead of soothed by the coolness of the metal – and the itch persists.
Charioce tries it with all of his rings, including the one on his right middle finger, and then calls for one of the servants to collect the rings available from the royal treasury.
None fit.
He takes the last one off and rubs the skin, sighing. He doesn't know what that boisterous chicken did with the ring, and he can hardly find himself to care – it's easy enough to replace a ring, and he’d already wasted enough of his time on such a small inconvenience. The blacksmith has better things to do then fashion him a replacement – there are weapons to sharpen and armors to check, an entire inventory that need to be deployed at a moment’s notice. Every hand is important – and his own hardly take a priority.
The days roll by and the itch pokes at his mind, until it opens a crack, and Charioce finds himself wondering about the ring, after all. Asking it back is out of the question; Nina won it, and it’s hers by right.
Only.
It'd be too big to fit Nina, he thinks, staring at the minister prattle on, his wig slightly skewed to the left. Nina’s hands are so small, her fingers so thin – it wouldn't even fit around her thumb. Maybe around her neck, hung on a silver chain.
Charioce wears the rings as per with tradition; it is expected of him. The markings distinguishing between royalty and the commoners need to be set in place, in a power display of wealth and history to cow peoples’ hearts without a single word. He doesn't wear them when he wields his sword, or in armor.
Nina doesn't seem the type to favor trinkets either; just that one bracelet on her left wrist, a falsified Bounty Hunter bracelet. An unorthodox choice, as he’d come to expect from Nina – but Bounty Hunters are now rare in-between, and a decade made this once fearsome mark mostly forgotten, nothing to distance yourself from. It could've been bestowed upon her as a gift of some sort. Maybe from a family member.
Or a friend.
Charioce feels his expression darkening. The minister have stopped talking, and gapes at him.
“And?” he prompts sharply, and the minister hesitatingly starts talking again, wasting air as he goes.
Nina said it was the first time she went out with a man. Besides, she doesn’t seem like the type to lead others on – she’s too naïve, too young.
He glowers at the man; watching others squirm before him had long since lost its taste.
Rings are barriers.
There’s a part of his hand that never felt Nina's skin as they were ready to test each other's strength, keeping the warmth away.
It's a barrier Charioce can control; one he’d place on Nina's hand, if she'd agree, barricading a small piece of her only for the two of them. It’d be sunny when it’d happen, he decides, maybe next to a patch of sunflowers he’d order to import. They’d dance to birdsong, and the guards would turn their heads away, wishing to keep them on their shoulders. Maybe she’d laugh, and he’d join her, weaving a daisy into her hair.
If she’d stay by his side, he promises to himself, he’d bring her a fresh flower from the garden each day, even during winter.
To her, he’d promise a ring, a better one then the one he already gave her; a one set with a bright ruby, another trust entrusted between them.
Maybe, if she’d let him slip it on her finger, he’ll ask her how does it feel like to fly.
"Chris," Nina repeats his name, and it's as if up until now he'd been choking in a coffin and she'd just busted it loose. He can feel the blood thrumming in his ears, after hearing his name spoken for the first time in the last seven years, but manages to catch the rest of it.
"Will I see you again?"
'Say yes,' his mind hisses at him, buzzed and cluttered like it hadn't been in years. The mayhem bring with it the sensation of the cool river air against his skin; the damp smell of the rocks underground, mixed with the sweat of the prisoners both present and long-gone; the texture of the paper as he spread it out on the War Council's table, displaying his doom to unseeing eyes.
"I want to dance with you again."
There’s a fluttering feeling in his chest; he suspects it might be happiness, but the embers quickly die out.
"I don't know." He says, and the bitter taste of the truth in his mouth is almost sweet, if it's against speaking lies to someone so honest.
"Why not?" She asks, her voice taking a pitch it hadn't until that point; dejected, almost.
"I hope we can see each other again." He dances around the truth, for it's all he can offer to give, when he knows his days are numbered.
Charioce watches her dash off and thinks courting death is harder, when you're given a better option.
+1
It's the first wedding Chris is allowed to attend, and he's thrilled. He'd never seen anything like this; everyone is dressed to the nines, and there's food everywhere – fresh food, with not even a hint of mold upon it. There’s music and laughter and song in the air; his hand tightens around his mother’s, when his feet want to run off and explore, even in their tight uncomfortable dress-shoes.
As the eleventh in the line of succession, no one pays him much mind; he doesn’t have a single memory of the King, the man's features but a blur.
The ritual’s boring, and he manages to keep from frowning as his mother tugs him to his knees to offer prayer to the newlyweds’ good fortune and health. His lips move but his heart does not utter the words; he sees no reason to beg for the Gods for things others could provide. It when the ritual’s concluded that the man leads his new wife to the center of the gathering, and everyone make way for them.
The music starts, and it’s like they’re both in their personal fairytale; like others don’t matter anymore, as long as they have each other. They’re mesmerizing to watch, like a flower blooming before his very eyes as spring rushes by, stirring his heart in excitement.
His mother pulls him against her, and he can feel her exhaling as she sighs, even with the constriction of the corset squeezing her breast so every breath is a pain.
"Someday," she whispers in his ears, sounding wistful, "It'd be you dancing like that with someone." Her lips are soft against his cheek. "I can already see it."
"You can?" Chris asks in awe, turning to his mother; her brown eyes look down at him, basking in the awe only a child can exude, brushing against a simple world without lies or pretends or silver daggers slitting throats in the dead of the night.
"Sure I can, darling.” She kisses the top of his head. “You're going to have someone special, like you."
She chuckles, and Chris’ eyes stray back towards the couple as they dance like the Moon around the Earth, the embodiment of merriment; two people looking at each other in a way he’d never witnessed before.
Charioce was blind back then, a gullible brat who put his faith someplace other than himself.
Sitting down on his throne, Charioce closes his eyes. The Gods are waging war against his kingdom, the citizens are in turmoil; there’s nothing to be had by falling back and reminiscing, to times he was as good as dirt to the world.
“Your Highness,” the Captain of the Onyx Guard speaks, and Charioce opens his eyes.
But, for only a moment, before the first ray of light breaks through – he lets himself see what his mother did, too.