2D for real

“Did you hear? Prince Clavis returned tonight, just before the dawn,” a maid chirped, vigorously polishing one of the tall windows lining the hallways in the residential wing of the palace. Not quite ladylike, she stuck out her tongue and stood on her very tiptoes, the cloth in her hand coming just short of reaching the upper end of the frame. She put her knee up on the windowsill.

“Truly? No, no, I wasn’t aware, no. And…?” her companion mused. “This is rather disgraceful, dear.”

“It is not like anybody is going to see.” The girl pushed herself further up, to eventually stand rather steadily, one pristine hand pressed against the wall for stability. A single stray strand sneaked out of her updo and fell over her forehead, perhaps challenging her to blow it back into place. “Besides, that’s not important.”

“That is youngster’s naivete,” the other sighed. “Well, what was it that you heard then?”

Hooks were undone and knobs were turned. The white apron billowed on the wind as a handful of rowdy gusts rushed inside, more than ready to rummage through the princely chambers and other kingly dwellings. “So you are curious!” She winked. “Apparently he was beaten all black and blue, so he won’t make any appearances for a while… And the word has it that his first knight, Sir Rose —”

The clacking of high heels called order in the halls. The maid leaped off the sill and onto the floor, hands smoothing out any real and imaginary creases present over her uniform. Mildly embarrassed, she lowered her head.

“Do you know where Cyran is?” Emma asked.

“The word has it that Sir Rose has not returned.”

***

Sir Rose has not returned, Emma was told by what felt like a hundred of mouths.

He hasn’t made it home.

He had to stay back.

They were supposed to meet up at an inn, but…

… but there was nothing following that “but”. Angered or desperate, or perhaps both, so thoroughly dissolved in each other that they ceased being either, she stood before Clavis’ room. The oaken door stared her down, old dark knots furrowing their grain-brow. A guest uninvited, Emma turned and pressed and pulled and pushed at the brass knob – and although it replied each time, be it with a bzzzt or a whoop or a snap, the door did not budge.

“Prince Clavis?” She knocked. Emma took a step back, anticipating some sort of explosion, or a contraption, concoction, trap… Something, anything, to befall her.

Nothing had.

“Prince Clavis?!”

Nothing.

“Clavis, goddammit!”

Not a thing, regardless of how hard her fist struck. Thinking it was just a cruel joke, a tactless prank, Emma let her feelings pound away at the wood, impact shaking her down to her very bone marrow. Hinges rattle-cackled, laughing only louder the longer she fought. As futile as it was, Emma did not lack in persistence. No, far from it – her will was a rock, only solidified by the gossip still churning in her mind.

It was only when the afternoon sun tinted the corridors in vibrant vermillion, so very familiar, that Emma regained some of her reason. She hid her bruised hand in her skirt, head hanging low.

“Clavis?” she called one last time, her voice rasp. To no answer, of course. Defeated and deflated, Emma turned away from the door, dreading being swallowed and digested by the ever-present silence.

***

Follow me —

Emma burst out of her room, carried forth and entrapped by the winds still lingering in the halls, little different from a gale herself. A force petrified with uncertainty, she clutched the letter to her chest. Her body did not hurt; it was the motion that found her, pulled her through the gaps between the hastily jotted down lines, made unstoppable by the sliver of hope setting her thoughts ablaze. She didn’t want to oppose it. Not when the singed paper fit in her palm so warmly, so crumbled and mistreated it could easily fall to dust. The previously dreadful corridors, overly long staircases, the dewy gravel and the shivering afternoon – it sped by her. Emma simply ran.

Follow me where red roses bloom under the cold skies.

The message was unnecessary; it had branded her mind the moment she’d first read it. A fresh burn, it sizzled and it howled, each of its whines revealing a fragment of the path. Like through a haze, Emma ran, faster than her legs could carry her. She skipped over the road leading to the town in a flash, the wicked buildings and their convoluted streets sprouting seemingly straight from the depths of the ground to entrap her. Not a single familiar path remained in place, trade signs playing the game of tag and rearranging themselves. The capital drowned in a mist conjured by the voice of a siren-heart, the cafes, restaurants, stores, all somehow bearing the familiar flickers of red hair, phantom figures moving behind the glass displays, playing out stories of days long lived through. Echoes of laughter coiled around her legs, the sweetest doubts weighing down her heart.

Emma ran.

Follow me where red roses bloom under the cold skies. I will —

He would.

So she had to meet him there.

Emma tore away old nostalgia strings. She averted her eyes from the coffee shops, forgot about the happy pair that once sat by the door and drank tea as golden as her eyes. She let go of the memory of the dark cherries, of her love’s delight, of the feeling of his hand over hers, of his lips and their timid caress. Cast away, they shattered under the heels of her shoes, the shards being swept under the hem of her skirt. She could collect them later, put them back together, smelt them anew if time allowed…

… if there was still time.

Emma ran.

Follow me where red roses bloom under the cold skies. I will meet you there after midnight strikes.

The town ceased, plains opening to greet her to then turn into hills. Completely in their domain, winds broke off the leash, trickster gusts pushing at her back while gales took her hands and pulled her onwards. Through the sea of swaying grass, past thorny blackberries, prickly thistles with their purple crowns and grooves and rivulets and other scrubs – Emma ran, out of breath despite having become the air personified. Stumbling as she did, she reached the clearing. Their clearing, although then it was already occupied, an all too familiar sword protruding from the ground. Scarlet blade stared at her, basked in the last of bloody sunlight.

Follow me where red roses bloom under the cold skies. I will meet you there after midnight strikes. I promise.

Red roses reeked of sweet decay as Emma took a shaky step. Abandoned by the strength of elements, she could all but crumble on the spot – yet even in that, she chose to crumble onwards, dragging her pained feet until she faced the dearly beloved sword properly. She set her hands on the hilt and sat on the ground. Accompanied only by the hooting of the owls, Emma closed her eyes, waves of desperation that led her thus far easing into a state of calm.

He promised, she repeated to herself. He promised, so he will come.

***

Brilliant sunlight had begun to flicker over the horizon line by the time Cyran made it back to the hill. Beaten and battered, still encased in the constraint of his military garb, he dragged himself through the winding path hidden among scrubs. A broken branch there, an odd clearing here – he did not notice anything. Not until he saw the carmine hue of Emma’s skirt, a rough scrap hanging off the raspberry branch, hardly different from the ripe fruit surrounding it.

Cyran run.

Metallic thudding banished exhaustion from his limbs, thunderbolts lending him their speed. The world ceased in a blur, light tore its way into the diminishing dark – and it was only after he entered the clearing that he was robbed of his might. Cyran forced his body to oblige to his demands, the woman he longed to see sleeping while sitting upright, hands propped on the hilt of his sword.

“Emma?” he whispered, not believing his eyes. She must have been soundly locked in her dreams, however, for she did not reply. As if cocooned in the fabric of the night, Emma swayed lightly, perfectly in sync with the crimson roses blooming around. Petals fluttered, few discarded ones lifting off the ground, huddling towards her to settle in her hair. Still just as surprised, Cyran sat down behind Emma, pulled her frame into his arms. She was a feather when she fell against his chest, so very light he feared his hands may be too rough to handle her. Nevertheless, he found his courage again and swept her hair aside, his fingers brushing against her cheek in reverence as he unveiled her visage. His touch descending to her neck, his arm reached to free her from her duty at the hilt —

“Cyran?”

He kissed her nape. “I’m back.”

His forehead pressed against her shoulder, Cyran prayed to always find her safely there, enchanted where the crimson roses bloomed under the clear skies.

--

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