Eimerado, 26th of 6th, 1392 ANS

Mournful tolls rang from the Citadel. A breath after, the Elannean Sanctuary's bells answered, followed by every temple and every civil tower in Eimerado. The tolls would spread like a wave from the capital to the farthest fief of Vernolia, announcing the official end of the mourning for the King's kin fallen in the fire that had ravaged Eimerado on the Darkest Night.

Ended was the hundred-and-fours days of sorrow; the dark days when only the heart-wrenching wails and the monotonous Nenai broke the silence shrouding the land. Ended where the days when only unadorned atra-coloured clothes, ash-dusted hair and unbound tresses could be worn. Ended were the nights spent in sobbing the virtues and exploits of the dead; ended were the meals of dark coarse bread and bitter herbs and watered vinegar.

Life could resume again.

Marriages and births could be celebrated again. Songs and laughter could lighten the heart and brighten the day. The children could ran and play noisily in the streets — the whores could lit once more their red lanterns over their doors and by their windows. Dishes of meat and fish, fine white bread and honeyed pies and candied fruits could fill the tables again. Balls and plays could amuse the living again.

A hundred-and-four nights and days were deemed enough to mourn for a member of the royal family, born from the queen's womb. And yet, the heaviness and the coldness had only settled deeper into Thalbas, as if a hundred-and-four nights and days were not enough to grieve Darina.

At first, Thalbas had been disgusted with himself—he had killed Darina with his own hands—snuffed the light from her lovely brown eyes with his own hands—broken her neck with his own hands, as if she was a harmless rabbit or a quail. He had asked to his own reflection how could he do it—how could he let filial obedience take him so far and so deep into despair.

And then the anger came, deep and ugly.

In those dark days Thalbas had been more of a beast, lashing to anyone who dared to break his solitude, be they servants or his own mother or sisters. Only Shirna, his valet—his milk brother and right-hand man—was tolerated within the privacy of his chambers. Because Shirna had been there, he had seen Thalbas's love for Darina grow and flourish—he had favoured their secret meeting, watched over them—even lied in the face of Adalfeo Gabirai, the Fourth Prince, to protect his young master's secrets. Another had been the traitor, and whoever they had been, they had been fed to the canals' fishes and rats long ago—Shirna still bore the marks of his punishment, but his loyalty had sparred his life.

Because of that, Thalbas had confided in Shirna as the anger dulled into bitter dreams. In those dreams, Thalbas ignored his Lord Father's command and the Queen his Grandmother's wishes—in those dreams, he run away with Darina. 

He would picture her and himself, living and loving in the maze-like enamelled streets of Yireen, under the scorching sun of Madoda, in a Dwerissi palace perfumed with spices, or in the vast steppes of Dalibaï among his maternal grandmother's kin. Thalbas dreamt of children with his eyes and Darina's sweet smile, of laughters under the sun and tender kisses in the light of the moons—of sweet nothings breathed on Darina's skin, and of her warm, soft arms around him.

Yet dreams were dreams. 

They turned the anger and despair inside him into a heavy and icy hollowness—as if in the moment his Lord Father had uncovered Darina's body, he had also torn Thalbas' heart out of his chest. 

Thalbas would lie in his bed, eating a morsel of coarse bread and swallowing a few sip of vinegar and water only because Shirna made him—only because his Lady Mother demanded if. He would spend his night at the windows, staring at the cloudy stars or the golden, silvery and coppery moons rising over the ocean, surviving on few hours of sleep only because his Lord Father's archiater gave him liquor of papanya.

A hundred-and-four nights and days was Thalbas given for his grief, but not out of respect for Darina's death.

The Third Prince, his Lord Uncle Aliareo, and his sons had perished on the Darkest Night as well. Such death required a longer mourning than the few days for a distant relative as Darina and her family had been.

The royal heralds had declaimed their brave attempt to save from the fire the sons of the King's favourite concubine, but had arrived too late.

Lies.

The King's favourite son and his family had been long dead, their throats cut and their hearts pulled out, probably by the same hand of Prince Aliareo—the fire was just a cover.

No, it had been an Purge, as Her Majesty the Queen said. A cleansing of the royal family from anyone who was not born from her womb, as back as the sixth degree of kinship, regardless of sex and age.

Thalbas could have understood the threat that a prince of the blood could pose to the queenly offsprings. But not Darina and her family. They were so down the succession line that only a catastrophe could have brought them on the throne.

In those hundred-and-four days and nights, Thalbas had pondered on Darina's sins, but her father's ambitions were not big enough to be a threat. They had only come from the wrong side of the royal bed—they had only chosen to support the losing side. They could have been sent away, exiled—Thalbas could have joined Darina wherever she was sent, and they would have been together and happy.

A hundred-and-four days.

Sense told Thalbas that he should stop mourning; that his Lord Father would not accept such a show of weakness. Thalbas not even had the excuse of a deep affection for his uncle and cousins to justify his prolonged sadness. Neither the Third Prince nor his sons would be missed. Many had welcomed the news of Prince Aliareo's death with whispered praises to the Holy Twins and prayed Januos to justly punish him for his sins and crimes.

So, Thalbas was left with nothing else but live his grief in the privacy of his chambers, and to wear a merry smile on his face as soon as he stepped through his door, starting on the morrow.

So Thalbas was left with no other choice but put aside the mourning atra-coloured clothes to wear the Gabirai's dark myrtle green. He did not oppose when the servants changed his clothes for the memorial banquet—he didn't make their job any easier either. Their hands as they peeled off and added layers of linen, velvet and brocade, left trails of warmth that faded away too soon—their touch made the chill more intense rather than dispel it.

When would the chill leave him? Would it ever? How could it, with his hands stained with Darina's unjust death?

"Your Lord Father shan't be glad to see you thus."

His Lady Mother, Princess Roheline Carmillana, appeared in the mirror, right behind him. And once more, Thalbas could not dismiss how alike they looked. The same slanted eyes, of a blue so deep it could be purple that the Carmillana brought from the Kalaphian Highlands; the same heroic nose marking their ascendance to the Commander Consort. Their proportion leaned more toward the Dalibaïan steppes than the Vernolian hills.

His Lady Mother stroked his face with her fingertips and tenderly pushed up the corner of his brooding mouth.

"No matter how hard it is, do not show the grief in your heart. Especially not in front of the King your Grandfather and the Princes your Uncles." Her tone was tender, motherly and concerned—so unlike the harsh one that would come from his Lord Father. "The Gabirais abhor such weakness."

Thalbas took his Lady Mother's hands and pressed his forehead on her knuckles. "Then I shall be weak."

"A fate worse than death would await you!"

"And I justly deserve it."

"Do you want to break my heart?" his Lady Mother insisted. "Make me taste the bitterness of losing my child? You are cruel, Thalbas."

The words stung him more bitterly than Thalbas expected. Darina had loved him dearly and he failed her—should he fail his Lady Mother, who loved him first? 

Indeed, he was cruel to her, who was still alive.

"I am sorry, Mother, I didn't—"

"You are hurting, and grief is not something that can fade at will. However, there is no choice but to hide it under an impassive mask. Even more when the name is Gabirai." She kissed his forehead, a gesture she allowed herself only in the privacy of his chambers. "Take a breath and dry your eyes. Give no satisfaction to those who look down on you."

Thalbas nodded and complied, gulping air as if it was wine. 

It took him a while before the expression of his face showed no emotion, and only then his Lady Mother allowed him to escort her to the Citadel's Great Hall.

* * *

The covered passage way leading from the dock to the Citadel was narrow and tall, so shrouded in darkness that the torches on the humid walls lighted only a few leighs at a time. The wind sneaking in through the embrasures moaned like a plaintive ghost. In Thalbas' ears it sounded like Darina's voice, asking him with a pleading voice why she had to die—accusing him of betraying her and their love—blaming him to be still alive when she was a handful of ash lost in the wind and the seafoam.

A patch of light appeared at the end of the passage, opening on the terraced gardens. 

The royal mages waved their hands to the trees and bushes, the flowers and the statues—blackened and enchanted to look withered and sorrowful throughout the royal mourning, they were given back their original colour and lively appearance of summer. Here, the musicians rehearsed a dance; there, the royal acting company was busy with the last preparation for a play. The evening was balmy, perfumed with ocean and flowers and the most luxurious dishes the royal kitchen could prepare.

Nothing had been spared for the memorial banquet of the Third Prince and his sons. 

It was like being punched again and again in the stomach, or having a cruel hand tear Thalbas' heart from his chest.

Thalbas did his best to comply with his Lord Father's wishes—to avoid anything that could cause hurt to his Lady Mother who loved him the most.

He greeted the royal couple, his uncles and older cousins; offered the conventional words of comfort to the widows—wishing the consolation of a son to his expecting cousin-in-law. He laughed at the japing, although his laugh rang bitter and fake in his ears.

He really did his best to act as a Gabirai.

However, when the Fifth Prince, Akamareo Gabirai, who was only a few years his senior, asked him with a sneer when he planned to take his first concubine and who would be the young lady warming his bed, Thalbas could no longer keep up the charade.

The question not even had the pretence of concern—some said that Prince Akamareo was just as bad as the Third Prince, who had reared and given him a taste for others' pain and tears. 

That was the question's true intention, Thalbas knew too well—to hurt him, to remind him of his sins—to deepen the chill left by Darina's death that not even his Lady Mother's affection could dispell.

Thalbas did his best not to run, despite the sniggers of his Lord Father's younger brother and his followers goaded him to escape to the lower, more private part of the terraced garden.

Thalbas reached a balcony hanging over the ocean. The first quarters of Maintar and Uaitar casted their coppery and golden glow in the twilight sky, and turned the ocean surface in rippling metal. The bushes and the growing shadows gave a little privacy—one had to actually lean out and look down to spot him. 

He leant over the battlement, staring at the soft waves crushing on the foot of the cliff, perhaps thirty leighs below, maybe more.

A fall from such height would be fatal, although a swift death was not guaranteed. 

Not that he deserved it.

Should he be a cruel son? And yet his Lady Mother had two more to give her comfort; she had daughters and grandchildren to apease her grief. 

He, on the other hand, had none.

The waves sang softly in the twilight, like a siren calling out to him.

He only had to lean over the balustrade enough to lose his balance—he would fall. To his death—back into Darina's arms. He only had to lean a little more—

"Are the sirens calling out to you with the voice of she who you lost, Nephew dear?"

It was the Second Prince, resembling his twin the First Prince like a drop of water—if not for the scar from a head inquiry suffered in his youth. They said that the wound had turned Azimeo Gabirai into the merry man with the easy laugh and the soft heart that he was.

Azimeo the Fool, Azimeo the Unfit, such his family mocked him because he let the motions of his heart bloom on his face, be they joy or sorrow.

"They are calling me too," Uncle Azimeo whispered with tears sneaking in his voice. "They call me with the voice of my dearest brother Mahinar."

Blood Prince Mahinar Gabirai was the main reason for the Darkest Night Purge.

There had been a rumour about how the King planned to declare that his dim-wit son was actually the eldest, only to name Lord Regent the son born from his favourite concubine. 

It was the rumour that had prompted the Queen to urge her mind-able sons to take action—the Third Prince had grasped the opportunity to suggest of getting rid of anyone who could pose a threat. Like Darina's father, who was so down the succession line that only a tragedy would have put him on the throne, was seen as a threat.

"We... are not allowed to speak his name, Uncle dearest." 

Thalbas allowed himself a sob, because his companion was Uncle Azimeo who wouldn't mock or tease him. 

"I-I am not allowed to speak Darina's name..."

Uncle Azimeo rubbed his shaking back in comfort, as he used to do when Thalbas was a child.

"Indeed, the only name we are allowed to praise and remember aloud tonight is that of the Third Prince, who filled the sacred halls with widows and orphans! Any other name has to be locked in the deepest of our souls. And yet, those names shall reach the Saint Elanne nonetheless, and Januos shall grant their souls justice: the voice of the heart sounds strongest and truer in the gods' ears."

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Song: "Chiasm", from "Gris" OST by Berliner

I must admit that it is a little strange to post this chapter right now. Just like I had the sudden realisation that something from "Gris" OST would fit the Stage of Grief Thalbas is going through—depression—which also made me realise that, at least for his POV in the first half of the story, this is his journey.

And with exception of Mama Roheline and Best Uncle Azimeo, his family is not understanding or of any support.

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