a heart of pansies

upon the prince’s
arrival,
he is met by a
grand procession,
as we humble
servants are
stationed at the
citadel gates to
greet him.
a feast is held in
his honor,
assembled by
the lady elvy,
though the house
is stricken with
grief—
for the health
of the king
is failing.

the prince is garbed
in the mask of Syld,
framed by antlers
rising above his crown
of Lesif leaves.
his robes are long
and trailing,
falling like a river of
green and gold
behind him.
his air is haughty,
as though he knew
he would accomplish
his task.

as he bows before her,
he watches with
the hunger of
a stalking owl,
desire flickering
behind his shaded eyes.
i loathe the way he stares—
yet it is not…
mine to mind…

he offers his respects
to our failing king,
after being escorted in
by a chamberlain.
he bears a gift of a
prayer book,
and something
within me recoils.

the lady elvy exchanges
a few words with him,
keeping her hands
clasped together.
to all appearances
she is composed
and cordial—
yet i know she is
struggling to keep
her hands from trembling
as she holds them to her
breast.

i receive the prince’s
gift,
offering him a quiet
word of blessing
for his honor,
and i shift to the
lady’s side,
as he presents the lady
with a silver brooch,
then turns to address the
weakened king.
there was something
about his manner,
as he bows before the
bedside of the king
that set my
stomach sour—
and as he turns to
withdraw from
the chambers,
his hand trails unseen
along the hem
of the lady’s dress.
unnoticed—
by all but me.
and i force the
lump in my throat
to subside—
yet once more,
it is not mine to mind.

the king is dead…
long live the queen.

months passed
of this cruel lingering,
as the king struggled
between life and death,
until his soul surrendered,
and his body that was once
strong and wilful,
is now limp and lifeless.

i remained by his side,
through the night i prayed
for his Ascendancy—
listening to his shallow
breathing rattling
in his chest.

candles waned at the bedside,
smoke curling to the awning above.

the lady elvy was beside me,
dewy tears falling down
her cheeks—
clasping the gaunt hand
of her beloved father,
who had once cradled
his infant daughter
all those years ago.

attendants gathered closely,
to bear witness to his
final moments.

the prayers i uttered
were muttered in a
voice low and strained,
for my heart was weak—
and my chest was heavy.



the citadel is once more
draped in the cloths of
mourning,
ebony sheets of silk
that fail to
express the grief of
the household.

i attempt to offer
whatever comfort i can
to the lady elvy,
yet my tender words seem
to further grieve her,
so i merely gift her my
presence,
as she did all those
years ago.

the prince has frequent
audiences with her,
having grown closer
to her affections,
and at times find
him departing from
her chamber as i
arrive for her studies—
only to find a
pleasant smile
playing upon her features.
in these moments
i must gather myself
recalling the king’s
oath that the princess
kept as a cruel
reminder of my place.

this is how life will remain.
i shall stay by her side,
witness as she raises
her children
in the shade of the citadel,
lingering—a fragment
of her past,
and what she left behind.

if this is so…why am i
still grieved?
how long until
this desire abandons me?
can i not be content
with this?


i am not worthy of her,
for i am not as
honorable as the prince may be.

countless peasants
who mourn
the loss of our king
gather for his burial,
tear-stained and sobbing
of the absence of a
great man.

the lady stands alone,
the last of the Ash Divine,
cold and collected,
yet she lacks a shoulder
to weep upon,
and a hand to hold
her steady.
the prince does not,
for how is he to know
the depth of her anguish?
he glides upon the surface
of her emotions,
only present when the
waters are calm—
retreating when a grey
cloud appears on the
horizon.
he is not here for her,
but here for what
she offers.

he stands distant of her,
hands folded behind
his back,
eyes dry of any tears.
this does not grieve him.


when the prayers
have been completed,
and the gathering of souls
has begun to thin,
i offer the lady my
handkerchief to dry
her dampened face.
her hand is trembling
as she takes the cloth,
fixing me with a look
i cannot decipher.
i turn away
before my thoughts
can dwell where
they should not,
hardly noticing the
prince’s eyes upon me.

i wander once again,
amongst the crumbling
gravestones,
bearing blooming
chrysanthemums
as i did all those years ago.
it is not my place to
comfort her.
it is not my place to
comfort her—

as i drift along the pathway,
the steady tread of
another follows close
behind me,
and i turn—
only to find the prince
shadowed by a
silent knight,
approaching me.

i bow low with
half a heart,
“how may i
serve my lord?”


he does not grace me
with a reply,
but allows his gloved
hand to rest upon
the face of a grave.

i linger patiently,
as my gut recoils
once more.

after a brief moment,
he says,
“pray, enlighten
me…what do
you think of the
lady elvy?”

my stomach twists,
and i press the
flowers to my chest—
“she is tender
to the lowly…
and i am honored
to serve her as i do.”

“indeed.”
he says,
with a tone
of mockery,
“she gives her
kindness too freely.
it gives way for
poor souls to become…
confused as to her
intentions.”

“my lord?”

“you understand.
it would be a pity
if one were to
mistake her kindness
for invitation.”

i bow my head
as the prince
turns away
without another
word,
as he leaves me
to stand alone
amongst the dead,
i whisper
“i do not—
i cannot tell—”

during the morning
studies,
our sovereign lady
is drawn away by
one of her maids
for a private matter,
leaving me to wait
in her chambers
for her return.
i begin to examine
the text before me,
when something
purple pressed between
the pages of one of
her books
catches my eye.
curiosity gained the
better of me, and
i stretch across
and retrieve the book,
unfurling its
cream-colored pages.

lying upon the sheet,
is a browned hellebore,
its petals stained
with age.
my hands begin to shake,
and i am compelled to
place the book back down.

she kept it…
after all these passings…
she still has the flower…
i—



the day passes as
though it were only
a waking fantasy,
for my mind is
otherwise distracted
with the reflections
of my actions—
and the thought of her.

i kneel before
the altar,
muttering soft,
half-hearted prayers,
when i hear a
wavering step
from the hall behind me.

assured it is only a
servant passing to
complete their duties,
i resume my own,
only to be disrupted
by the sound of
uneasy breathing
some paces from
my shoulder.

straightening, i turn,
to address a
grave-faced steward,
whose hands clasped
a letter half burned.

“how may i assist you?”
i ask, smoothing out
my wrinkled cope.

he moistens his lips
before speaking,
stepping towards me.
“father…i…
i have a confession…
or rather—
ah—”

“what is it that
you must confess?”

“no, forgive me, father—
i respect the
queen, and—
i fear—”

lines of worry
are drawn upon
his features,
and his eyes
downcast,
as he extends the
crumpled letter
to me.

the only thing that
breaks the pressing silence—
wrinkling paper
in my hands,
and perspiration
builds upon my
temple as i examine
the broken seal.

the sheet is ashy
and the bottom
half is missing from
having been cast into
a fire,
and at the top—
a name,
seared into the page.

Elomhar…
the fingers of sin…

i nearly drop this
letter of evil
as my hands
begin to tremble,
for it weighs heavier
than the flower i once
gifted—
and it takes all my
effort to read
the first lines.

no—this cannot be—

“where…where did
you find this?”
i ask,
voice hoarse
with dread.

the steward wrings
his livery,
before replying
in a tone hardly above
a whisper,
“the…prince’s
chambers…cast
into the hearth—
i am uncertain…
what i am to do—”

Wrefeal, shelter us!

“do not speak of it—
lest you wish
to be parted with
your head…
we must remain
silent,
until the truth may
be spoken safely.”
i carefully fold the letter,
and conceal it
beneath my cope.
“do not disclose
this to anyone
for now…
i shall attend to
this myself…”

“are you certain…?”

i hesitate for a
brief moment,
“perhaps…may
Wrefeal guide us…”
turning away,
i hasten to the
queen’s chambers,
as a heavy weight
tightened around
my chest.

i cannot…i cannot
allow her to fall
into his hands…

my steps echo
through the halls
of Cinder Seyn,
as the letter pressed
to my chest,
burns as though
it were seething metal
searing into
naked flesh.

my heart pulsates,
as i approach
the queen’s chambers,
and the
lady-in-waiting
holds a hand for
my halting.

“i…i must speak
to el—her majesty.”
my breath is hoarse—
every inhale stings
my lungs.

“her majesty is not here.”
the lady tells me,
smoothing out the
folds of her smock.

“where is she?”

“the queen is riding
with the prince
elsewhere.”

my temple is damp,
and i am forced to
brush it with my sleeve.
“ah—i see…
perhaps can you
deliver a message
for me?
tell—tell her
whence she returns,
to pray where
her parents lie…
quam primum—
yes…speak to
no one…”

“i shall…”
the lady says,
watching me with
a furrowed brow.

“good, good—”
i hasten now,
to retrieve
my fur cloak,
then to stables.
i call for the stableboy
to prepare my horse,
as i stand rubbing
my chilled fingers.
he hurries to obey
my request,
inquiring if all was well.
i am unforthcoming,
running my fingers
along the torn edges
of the concealed letter.

i am a fool!
what am i doing—

he saddles my steed,
and thanking him,
i mount quickly,
riding with dismay
tearing at my throat—
the fingers of sin shall
curl around our kingdom,
if the prince prevails.

the Cathedral of Wrefeal
rises above the treetops,
as curling ash falls
betwixt the steeples.
the ache within me
pitilessly twists my gut.

Father guide me—
oh, Father guide me—
please—

i leap from
my saddle,
roughly landing in
a pile of
frigid snow,
and stumble beneath
the lychgates.

oh—
i shall be stripped
of my honor—
shamed…
executed—
i must not
falter!

snowdrops grow
in little patches,
blanketed with snow,
but i do not allow
myself to reflect
upon what was past.
i stagger through the empty yard,
as if i am to find
someone lurking inside the
withered bushes
to slaughter me
for what i know.

help me—
Father help me—

i pace for hours
on end,
often pausing
to press my warm brow,
or steady my frame
against a stone.

after a while,
whilst i rest
upon a bench,
i hear the steady
tread of horse hooves,
beating upon the road.
i fumble to my feet,
and clasp my hands
to pray.

“father eldir?”
i hear a voice
far more lovely
than the starling’s call,
shout from beyond
the rising walls.

i am too frightened
to answer,
for the chance the prince
may accompany the queen
tightens my throat—
and the priest within
strikes the desperate man,
clawing for the courage
to face her.

oh, i must not…let
her fall—

but…
i could lose her
all the same—

“father? where are you?”
the cry comes again,
closer now as
she approaches.

my heart writhes
between my ribs
as the queen steps
out from the lychgates,
followed close
by a looming knight,
whose sword is drawn
and ready.

“your majesty…”
i croak,
craning my neck
to see if anyone
else still followed.
“forgive me…”

“dear me, you
are underdressed
for this weather!
is there something
on your mind?”
she draws near
with a troubled stare.

“i have—that is—
there is something
that you must know—”

“what?”

with shaking hands
i pull the letter from
my cope,
and extend it to her
with my breath
coming out in wheezes.
her knight retrieves
the note and
examines it before
handing it to her.

she holds it for a moment,
before unfurling
its crumpled page.
her grasp begins to
tighten as her eyes
follow the scrawl.
“how came you by this?”

“one of the prince’s
stewards…
he—he found it
flung into his hearth…”

she presses her
curled fingers
to her lips,
and for some time
does not utter a word.

i lean against the wall
as my frame begins to sway,
witnessing the queen with a
hope that fools cling to.

she shakes her head,
and her voice begins to crack,
“we were preparing
to form a marriage
contract…
all the while…
he crafts alliances with
the devils of our world…?
i cannot—
i—”
she exhales,
and then continues,
“you brought this to me,
though such an
accusation could
find you dead…
…why?”

“forgive me…
i know my duty…
but i could not—
i could not bear
for you to fall into his grasp…
whilst his intentions
were impure…
your majesty.”

“...and that is all?”
she presses,
almost hesitant
for the reply.

i glance to the heavens,
as if i could find a sign,
that all within me
could reveal itself
to her.

she kept my flower—
she asked me—
…what am i doing?
shall it all matter
when this lifetime
has passed?

she is worth…it all…

i fall to my knees before her,
and her lips part slightly.
such as i have done
countless times beside
the altar—
yet now i bow
to the woman i have
so long beloved…

i am frightened, Father…

“my queen…
not once since i
have met you,
has there been a prayer
that you were absent…
my nights have been
ceaseless—
fumbling upon my
hands and knees…
and you…you
alone were my
guiding flame—”

ah—!
what am i saying?

she remains silent,
and i hasten to atone.

“i beg you…
to forgive me
for speaking thus—
i am not worth
the least of your
affections—
i—i am a fool…”

the queen sinks in
front of me,
and oh, how gently
she places her hand
upon my own,
features unwavering,
“dear father,
you of all know
what price our affections
would carry.
the ruin of what we know,
what you are bound by—
all of this.”

i shamefully nod,
warmth creeping
up my prickling spine.
“yes—i understand…
it…was foolish of me
to mistake your
intentions—”

“have you?”

“i—i—
not once have
you wrongly encouraged
my feelings…”

she offers me a
dampened smile,
and fixes me
with her stare.
“eldir—
of all the priests
in our good kingdom,
how do you believe
my father chose you
to be my guide?
of them all—
could he have
remembered your
name?”

“i do not know…”
the mere sound of
my name warms
the chill gnawing
on my bones.

“i once asked for
your company—
you turned away
for you believed
you were unworthy
of me—
that we are forbidden.
do you still hold
these words to be
true?”

“i…i am left unmade
by you—
yet i fear the pain
that i would cause,
and the price of
which you would
sacrifice.
for i bear thorns—
and shall surely
pierce you.”

“we both wield thorns,
but beneath we shelter
withered flowers—
if you pierce,
then i shall,
and we will
bleed together…

i choose you—
though we shall
be the utter ruin
of ourselves.”

my elvy halts the
marriage contract
with the prince—
and though he is
composed,
a wicked gleam
flashes behind the
cover of his mask.

regardless of the risk,
with the aid of her
officials, she begins a
quiet inquiry
to uncover the real
truth behind the
letter.


during the silent hours
when the cathedral
is empty and void,
we slip inside,
accompanied only
by her faithful knight.

we stand before the altar,
browned flowers clasped
between our hands—
hellebore and snowdrop,
pressing petal caressing.

her elegance as she
stands afore me,
sable locks tumbling
down flushing cheek—
is enough to draw the
very breath from
my lungs.

with only watchful knight
to witness,
we whisper in a voice
unheard by our world;

“shall Wrefeal permit it,
i will not choose another.”

as these words die upon
our lips,
she raises her fingers
to lift the misty veil
from her face,
causing my heart to
throb within my throat.

her eyes round and
elegant, they
grasp onto my own,
yet i dare not meet
her gaze,
for the shame of
beholding her colors
my pale features,
and i am compelled
to glance away.

“eldir, look at me.”
she breathes,
lifting my chin with
her fingers.

“i…i should not…”

“i have chosen you.”
her words are firm,
and i obey—
haltingly allowing
my gaze to fall
upon her face.

flickering candles
slowly wane around us,
dribbling wax
onto the tile floors.
elvy’s veil weighs
heavily in my hands,
misty fabric curled
around my palm.
we remain in
each other’s arms,
dewy tears budding
in the corners of
our eyes.

i am merely a man,
whose heart is made
of pansies.