The morning after the coronation, oaths and farewells both given, the entire Court of Silverglen, including the Illustrious Lord Fox and his new protege, Lady Lys of Avalon, made their procession toward the docks. It is a formal and grand thing, the arrival and departure of kings, and no one, High King excepted, is as gracious in the receiving of hails and farewells than King Eavan.
Astride his horse, a large, white corsair, King Eavan smiled and took the hand of each one offered by those who gathered to bid them farewell, pausing even to speak with a few, which caused the entire procession to stop and start. But none gave complaint. He accepted with humility any token of appreciation, his man, the Vice Chancellor Lord Linnet, to take each one. By the time the docks were reached, Lord Linnet had bouquets of flowers tucked in every possible pocket or saddlebag, his arms laden with food and bottles of wine and, yes, even more flowers.
The ships of the Silverglen retinue, three in total -- The Prancer, The Silver Thorn, and The Moonstone -- were polished to a star-shine, their platinum fittings and pure white sails standing out beautifully among even the High King's lovely fleet, docked nearby.
At the docks, the procession began to split, and you were led -- thankfully, perhaps -- to the royal of the three vessels, The Moonstone, along with King Eavan himself and Lord Fox, among others. But the company was not split along rank lines: members of all ranks were split evenly among the three, with the Vice Chancellor going to The Silver Thorn and the next ranked official joining those on The Prancer, so that each ship had a full family of all ranks and titles, whether high or low.
They appeared to be just like any other fine ship, until you came aboard. Beavers and rabbits in waistcoats, ferrets and cats in caps and boots and swords, ran all about, passing the commands of the captain up all the lines. Black bears wearing crisp white uniforms turned the anchor hoist, preparing for launch. And the captain, a very well appointed silver fox, sipped his tea and turned to his first mate, a white wolf with a tricorn hat and a feather. "Time to set off, Mister Snow..."
"Quite right, Captain Reynardo..."
"And His Majesty?"
"Below deck, sir, quite comfortable and appointed well."
"Good then, let's have off for home, Mister Snow."
"Mister Snarl!" the First Mate, Mister Snow, called to the pilot, a snappily dressed raccoon. "The wheel is yours. Let's for Silverglen..."
And so it went for some time...
It is now the third of seven days of the oceanic portion of the journey, and life aboard The Moonstone, flanked as it is by The Prancer and The Silver Thorn, has taken a kind of rhythm. Wake early to the call of the shift change, bathe with lukewarm water, which isn't frigid only because of the assistance of fireflies, have breakfast, learn history, study the various languages and cultures of Silverglen, break for lunch, followed by a restive nap, which leads straight into high tea, card playing with Lord Fox and sometimes even His Majesty, discussions of various topics of diplomatic interest, dinner, music and then sleep, which is only occasionally interrupted by the changing of the midnight guard.
The King's schedule remains something of a mystery. He moves among his people, is visible for a time, he even pays visits to the other ships, boarding them for half a day at times before returning for evening supper. He has not been elusive. He has told stories, he has laughed, he even sang a sea shanty on a late night's celebration, before apologizing for his lovely singing voice and returning to his chambers. How he fills his hours in between is the privy of a very few.
On this third day of seven to be spent upon the sea, the King is seated on deck in a comfortable chair, a beaver standing close by should he require a refill of tea. And he reads, quietly enjoying a little sun, late autumn sun though it be. He wears a pair of wool trousers, finely combed wool at that, in a charcoal grey (with a hint of a heather grey line), paired with a wool overcoat of the same and a sage-and-rosemary green jumper. He is accessible to any and all who might approach him, but today no one does. They leave their affable and much-loved liege to his thoughts and his book.
She dressed appropriately for the occasion, and none could find fault with her grace or her deportment in taking her departure. It is not without trepidation, without fear of closing doors; of making a terrible mistake, of leaving behind childhood friends who could prove to be true loves, that she goes. But the urge to go is stronger than the fear which could make her stay, and it is with a luminescence that makes some take note of her for the first time that she does, indeed, depart.
She is aware of the privilege afforded her, to be sailing on the King's own vessel. Lys smiled to each who might have sought her out before her departure; but now, with departure so imminent, her attention turned to those she is meeting for the first time. And as she boarded, her blue eyes widened, and she quickly schooled her features. Diplomacy. Diplomacy. Must be diplomatic. After all, no one else saw anything different or out of the ordinary...
She has been spending her time since boarding in the usual routine of shipboard existence, tending much to her studies, looking with hope in her eyes when she emerges from her cabin for the sight of the King, her new master of masters. When she has spotted him, there has been a slight flush to her cheeks which she attempts to keep to herself; and, as often as not, though she has not avoided him, she has made some excuse after observing him with others in order to return to her work. There is, after all, only one way in which she believes she might capture his attention; and no likelihood of capturing more than that.
On the third day, she wears one of her usual white gowns; most of her wardrobe is white, the color of Avalon. It is a rather more spring kind of gown than the season calls for, and she has paired it with a heavy navy blue cloak. She is barefoot for ease of balance, and she gradually approaches you, carrying a bowl half-filled with water. "Your majesty," Lys greets quietly. "May I sit? If you prefer I not, of course, I will sit elsewhere."
King Eavan glances up, his fine-featured face losing its quietude (and whatever thoughts are his and his alone) for the warmth of greeting. "Please do. Ah, Portnoy, if you would please have another chair brought for me."
The beaver, Portnoy, transforms to a similarly dressed, stockily built porter and bows. "Of course, your majesty." It is easier to carry a chair, of any kind, with human hands rather than beaver claws, after all.
"He'll have a chair presently. Please," he says as he rises, and he, a gentleman as ever, gives up his seat to you. "What do you have there?" he smiles in curiosity. "Well, obviously, it is a bowl," he says with self-effacement. "But...hmm...what will you be doing with it upon the deck of the ship?"
Portnoy returns with a similar heavy, wooden armchair, setting it down for the King.
"Thank you, Portnoy..."
"Another round of tea, sire?"
"Please, thank you."
Portnoy quietly fixes two cups of tea.
"So, the bowl," the King continues as he takes a seat. He smiles to you, curious as to what you will be doing with that.
She smiles at you, and she dips her fingers in the bowl, smiling at Portnoy as well. "How do you do, Portnoy," Lys greets the beaver gravely. She isn't used to this yet, but there is no excuse for not granting others the courtesies she herself would desire. She rubs the water between her hands, heating it and looking to you again, then peeling water off her hand in a sheet, as if it were paper.
"I will not be pouring it upon His Majesty's lap," Lys answers lightly. She begins preparing another 'sheet' in the same fashion as the first. "I will also not be attempting to balance it upon my head as a hat, or flinging it in the unsuspecting face of Lord Fox or anyone else." She prepares a third sheet, then daintily dries her hands on her skirts.
"I'm also," Lys continues, giving you a small and merry smile, "not going to drink it; I prefer the tea." She dips just her fingertips in the water now, drawing the water into a thread. She begins to stitch the three sheets together while twisting them, pulling them, expanding them so that they grow thinner and thinner, then begins curving the edges. She looks around the table, then snatches a pinch of tea, folding it into the 'water'. The greenish blackish color begins to spread throughout the item, until it is all solidly that color - although still see-through, as water usually is. A tug here, a fold there, a poke there, and then she blows on it gently - and holds it out to you.
Lys smiles, offering you a very credible tricorn, albeit of solid color. "It's a hat," she informs you. "The King is by default the head of his own Navy, isn't he? And the head of the Navy really ought to have a hat."
The King watches you weave and create, his hand propping up his head at the temple, his elbow resting on the arm of the armchair. And he smiles. "I am always amazed by this talent of yours," he says, sitting up to gently accept the gift. He holds it up. "Fascinating. It is liquid and solid. But it's not like ice, rigid. It is more like the cloth it is formed to be. Solid, but with a flexibility."
He fears not embarrassment. Taking the hat, he places it on his white-blonde head as if it were a crown. It's a style that doesn't really suit him, the hat of a captain, and yet as soon as it settles fully there it becomes him. "I will wear it to the next singing of the shanties. How long can it last?" he wonders, lifting the hat to study it again. "Is there a time limit or is it once created, always thus?"
His bright green eyes take it in. "And how does it stand up to its cousin rain?" King Eavan smiles to you, as seemingly merry as ever.
She smiles at you. "It will last unless I undo it," Lys tells you, a slight pinkening in her cheeks. She ignores the quickening of her pulse. "And it is entirely waterproof, although I have once in a very great while had some creation I've made begin to expand when rained upon, growing larger and larger. In one case it burst. Fortunately, the gardeners wanted a new duck pond there, anyway."
She picks up her tea, color lingering, and she smiles down at the surface of the tea. "I thought that you could use a hat, however," Lys tells you quietly. "Something to keep the blows of life from your head. I could make you a cloak as well to keep them from your shoulders, but there I would need better measurements than these." She sips the tea, then lightly fingers the lace at her bosom, fingers pressing secretly inwards in insistence that her heart cease this impolitic pounding. "It is just as well that I cannot place a time limit on these things. It would be far too tempting, in my misspent youth, to have made an outfit for an unfriendly soul, and had it collapse sometime in future, as the Emperor's new clothes. Is there anything you would like me to make for you, your majesty?"
The King laughs at such a jest, such a thought. "Remind me not to pick on you. Or, at least, if I do, then to never accept trousers." He places the hat back upon his head, his laughter softening to a smile. As he looks to his tea, taking a moment to sip at it, the loneliness that the king's merry mirth hides from those around him is briefly acknowledged. King Eavan looks up to you, the easy demeanor returning.
"You are very kind. Thank you. I shall wear it. I'm not much of a one for cloaks, so it's just as well. The hat is perfect, Lys. I thank you." But he does not dwell on it. Sipping his tea, wearing your hat, the king then wonders: "So how go your studies on all things Silverglen? I hear from Lord Fox that you are a wonderful pupil. He thinks highly of you. I would expect no less, of course. A woman who can weave me a hat from water and tea," King Eavan smiles with a tip of his head and hat to you, "... can surely memorize what few dates of significance our country has. Do you feel comfortable with starting at court? Is there anything you would like to discuss?"
He finds and takes refuge in conversation and study, talk small or large...
You are a kind man. It is no wonder that I am falling for you. Oh, I fear for my poor heart. I cannot aim for a king. Even if I knew who I was...
She smiles at you, and resists the temptation for the moment. "You have more history than you think you have, and it is interesting reading, not least of which, Eavan," yes, she remembers your name, and the permission you gave her, for all her previous formality, "is because your kingdom is different from all other kingdoms. I know you tend to think of it in terms of how small it is, but there is, I think, a reason both why it is small and why it is so well-situated. You have made fast friends already, and I think that more could be made."
I am Lys. Whoever else I am, does it really matter? It makes me ache to see him in such pain.
She sips her tea, then sets it down, and she sits up straighter, leaning a little towards you and looking at you with those large eyes, with their blue and their faint violet threads in the blue. "Is there anyone at court likely to be worse than was the Infanta? If not, then I am quite comfortable. As for discussions, there are many things I would like to discuss." She smiles, and briefly, she leans forward, and she touches your hand for just a moment. "But I want you to know, your majesty, that I think you and your kingdom, all of the people I have met so far, are wonderful. And I am sure that the world will not remain blind to that, if they are already. If they threaten to, then I will become your first and foremost cheerleader, and I will remain so, as loudly as I can manage, as long as there is air in my lungs."
Her cheeks pinken further, and she quickly pulls her hand back to her lap, turning to watch the prow of the ship plowing against the waves. "Is there anything that you would like to discuss, King Eavan?"
"I do my country a disservice for always speaking so .... humbly." He considers that for a moment. "My aches and pains are not its own, thankfully. We are not bound so closely as that. I am very proud of it, of us," he says to you quite seriously. "And... I am glad you have joined us. I think you fit right in," he smiles now. "You have its temperament, I think. Youthful, exuberant in a quiet, congenial way. Magical. So, I can think of no one better to be our cheerleader than you. And I thank you for that. And for the reminder."
There was a brief look to his hand as you touched it, but he did not move from it. It breached no law of courtesy as far as he's concerned. But for the first time, he does notice the pinkening of your cheeks.
"I can't think of anyone worse for the court than the Infanta," Eavan says, changing the subject. He sips at his tea, motioning Portnoy for a refresh. "It is a shame that someone so outwardly beautiful is completely devoid of inner beauty. She misses the point entirely." Green eyes gaze past you to the lifting and lowering of the sea swells. "Have you had a chance, yet, to discuss Lord Fox's findings thus far? I believe he found ...what was it... three or four possibilities? That was a dreadful flood," he notes quietly, looking back to his hands and the cup they hold.
"Three or four," Lys agrees gracefully, backing away from personal topics - and personal touches. She again lowers her gaze to look into the surface of her tea. "Of course, those only matter if my blood is not common as dust, your majesty. But if it is, I would still rather know than not, no matter how much it might ... cost me."
It might cost me my dreams, but better to cost me a dream than to cost me my reality. I cannot go through the future without at least trying to find out, no matter who is ahead waiting for me to catch up to him.
She is unaware of the symmetry of the moment; she looks to her hands, to the sea. You look to the sea, to your hands. She looks up, and she smiles at you, a small smile. "I will do my best to help his lordship with his researches. Lord Fox is a very impressive intellect. I only hope that I can do justice to the confidence he and you have placed in me."
"So far, none of the families are common. I think the closest to that is the family of ..." he pauses to think, "...nearby Rose. A wealthy landowner, orchard and vintner family perished in the flood. There were several lowland estates that were wiped out, and a small principality, the land of which we annexed when it went unclaimed. It was a valley. It is now a lake."
Eavan looks to you, smiling in response to your smile, ignorant of the mirroring and the symmetry. "He is. We are fortunate to have his service. He is a very dear friend of mine. And I think you have already done justice to our confidence, Lys. While ...at first... I was uncertain of the gift," his smile is both wan and wry, "... you've been anything but a prize of consolation. I want you to know that. I appreciate all you have already said and done."
You have reached out to me, despite my solitude. You will not leave me to be alone, even though I am the only one of my kind.
"The principality," he begins again, topic shifting once again, "... was known as Gwynnwy Blodeua, which translates, loosely, to White Flower. The Kingdom of the White Flower. It was named for the white flowers, of course," he smiles as he explains it to you, "...that blossomed upon the trees. A good many of the forests there were white myrtles. That was the only place they grew, so far as anyone knows. The archives will have more information, of course. I suspect you'll want to barricade yourself in the library." Eavan grins. "I'll be sure to send in food. I do hope you'll come out long enough to enjoy the winter festival. Hmmm... it's almost Yule. Already," he exhales. "You will have to tell me what you would like for Yule gifts. Probably a heavy coat. It will be snowy. I suspect we'll have snow for our arrival..."
She listens to you, grave as usual, and she nods, then smiles faintly. Her hands are in her lap, now. "It sounds lovely," Lys remarks, picking up her tea. "And I am looking forward to the archives, yes." She is listening, though; she is straining her ears for every scrap of information that you have to give.
And perhaps not only about herself...
She smiles at you. "I love snow," Lys admits. "I always have. But then, snow and I are on good terms, you realize. I think I will have to make you get off your throne once in a while and play hide-and-seek with me. We will see which of us can hide better and longer in the snow. So, the principality." She commits it to memory. "What else?"
For a moment, such a thing as hide-and-go-seek catches him quite off-guard. And then he laughs. Quietly, as he does most things, but truly. He has likely received many invitations in his day, but hide-and-seek has not been among them. You get an A for creativity and ingenuity. "I'm not sure I'm very adept at hiding. It's rather hard to do with a retinue of trailing court officials. However, I do blend in well. Still... that sounds like a perfect way to spend a snowy afternoon. Do you make snow sculptures? Ice sculptures?"
He smiles then, forgetting for a moment the loss of the previous days. There is a marvelous kind of magic in pretending and imagining. "I should expect so, it being just a stiffer sort of water. I think ice sculptures, even perhaps an ice castle, a small one, that people can actually walk through or climb upon, would make for an amazing highlight to the winter festival. Perhaps, Lys, I should name you head of the winter festivities committee. Would you at least like to serve on the committee?"
He pours another round of tea for himself and for you, so quickly, so enthusiastically that Portnoy doesn't even have a chance to step in to stop him. And in his eyes, the valet holds a smile. He prefers to see his king this way...
"The Principality, yes. The valley is now the lake, or river bay, as it were, where the river that leads from Camelot through to Avalon widens on its way to Silverglen. It is the constant reminder of the floods. And, of course, it changed the landscape tremendously. We will be sailing over it at some point. Fortunately, the only riding that will be necessary will be from township to castle. At any rate, there's that possibility, the merchant family, and then a duke and duchess who were affiliated with the White Myrtle, whose family appears to have originated in Rose. Each perished in the floods. Each reported births approximately a year before the flood. So, I should think that, given where you were found, those are the likeliest families. Since I've placed your dowry at Marquesa, I will, of course, increase it should you turn out to be the Myrtle Princess or the Duchess of Myrtle and Rose."
I do like her kind heart. Kindness.... is a good balm for the ache of a heart. His enthusiasm quiets only slightly, in the recognition for what you have done and are doing. King Eavan smiles knowingly to you, and warmly so. "Thank you, Lys, for distracting me." He grins. "I know Lord Lugh would shudder to think that I could be so easily distracted, or would, shudder to think, invite distraction. Distraction is typically deadly for kings," his mouth slants slightly. "But," green eyes lower to his hands again, "...maybe we should make time for distraction, now and then. The world does not have to be ...so serious all the time."
"Of course I do." Lys smiles at you, and she touches a finger to the water in the bowl. "What's snow and ice, after all, but...?" She turns a bit pink, and lowers her gaze. "Certainly, sometime, if you think people will have me. I do not wish to be too forward."
In more ways than one; although it keeps happening, of its own accord, it seems. She looks up, listening again. The Principality. She nods slowly and thoughtfully. "I can see how that may be. It is - kind of you," she reddens to beet-like shades, "to offer a dowry. I would not have expected such, your majesty. I will do my best to earn it, though; the grace you offer me should be returned in kind, if I am at all able."
She will work hard, for you. Unquestioningly so. And her heart will ache; she feels it already. But she keeps it tucked tidily in her breast, sharply warning it against spilling up into her eyes. "You are welcome. You seemed to need a little bit," Lys tells you with a small, demure smile. She is not going to pretend that she was not. She rises to her feet, and picks up the bowl. She contemplates it, then contemplates you. "So are water fights inflicted upon a king punishable by death, in your kingdom, your majesty?" she inquires, oh so blithely. But she sets the bowl down, and she smiles at you. He is distracted from his grief, and that is good. I do not need to push it further than this. If he is happy, then I will do my best to be glad, whether I am a part of that happiness or no. It is my duty, and my faith.
"If you wish a marriage, I will see to it you are taken care of, Lys. And should that day come, then as your guardian I will see to it that you are well-matched and want for nothing. There is nothing you need do to earn it. You're in my care." He pauses. "I know... what it is like... to be ...singular. So," he smiles, and sets that whole topic aside. "I should talk about something other than marriage, lest I get mopey. Mopiness is very unbecoming in a king."
Sipping his tea, King Eavan settles back with a smile. "Not by death, no. By soaking in a water tank. Unless the infraction occurs in...late autumn... on a ship," he grins, creating the scenario that exists presently. "Then, I fear, it is punishable by the finger-waving of my royal physician. He's ever-vigilant against the royal head cold."
The smile is warm and turns dear. You are most pleasant company. "I should perhaps return to my quarters before supper, to save him the inevitable stroke." He pauses, glancing to Portnoy in thanks, and then to you. Gratitude is evident. "Thank you, Lys. And... I think, yes. I will put in a word to the committee once we arrive and will make introductions. Besides," he notes as he rises, "...it will be valuable cultural experience for you. There's nothing quite like watching beavers stumble about in a mad drunk singing wassails."
"I will keep it in mind." Lys smiles fleetingly at you. "For now, your majesty, do not think about marriage. If you wish, I will pray for you to find what you most desire - but it seems impertinent to pray on another's behalf without the consent of the person being prayed for."
She gives you a small smile, laughter and mischief dancing in her eyes. She dips her fingers in the bowl and then flicks them at you, leaning towards you. "I fear no physician, your majesty," Lys tells you lightly, "fie upon him. I shall go to my studies, and look forward to the festival... and the wassails. Good evening to you, King Eavan." She sinks into a graceful curtsey, and turns to go.
As she goes, you will find that the splashed droplets of water have taken on the shape and consistency of flower petals...
Posted by rowan at June 06, 2010 11:30 PM
